g or pizza. mid twenties. reblogging stories I read by talented lovely writers and sharing with everyone! please remember to support creators by being kind, with comments and/or reblogs ⋆˙♡
MAIN BLOG —> @puddlesoffrogs ♡⋆˙ formally pizzaapeteer
catalogue
harry potter ♡⋆˙ mattheo riddle. theodore nott. enzo berkshire. blaise zabini. draco malfoy. pansy parkinson. tom riddle. mattheodore. slytherin boys. james potter. sirius black. remus lupin.
other fandoms ♡⋆˙ toji fushiguro. ryomen sukuna. suguru geto. clark kent. anakin skywalker. steve harrington. ellie williams. jess mariano. rusty ryan. stiles stilinksi. roy kent. dave rygalski. johnny kavangh. gearld gibson. joey lynch.
This blog contains nsfw content, please minors do not interact with anything 18+. Please always read warnings on any content you consume.
Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) pt. 3
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, bad description of bong usage, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, jealousy, not edited, my current brain worm
prev. part | plug! Simon masterlist
──────────────
Simon thinks the worst part of you leaving his house is when he has to watch you bend over his bathroom sink and reapply your strawberry lip gloss.
For several reasons, of course. One of them being that he hates having to watch you leave like he wasn’t just inside you mere minutes ago. The other being that he hates the idea of other men staring at your lips the way he does, with a half chub cock in their jeans because they’re imagining them glistening around their tip instead.
The hardest though? The fact that he’s ready to fuck you again against his bathroom sink every time without fail.
You never seem to notice. You just turn around with a glimmering little smile on your glossed lips, pressing a kiss to his cheek that leaves an iridescent shape of your lips that he doesn’t wipe off or a lingering taste of strawberry on his lips that he tastes for hours.
It’s even worse because he doesn’t know the next time he’ll get a taste.
You send him a picture after a week without contact. A picture of you. The first you’ve sent. The rims of your eyes are red, blunt hanging loosely from your mouth, a lazy smile on your lips.
‘Rolled all by myself!! :)’
He saves it immediately.
‘Never gave you a blunt.’
‘Bought it to practice. Did I do good?’
Simon’s not sure why it matters when he always rolls for you anyway.
‘You bought from someone else?’
‘Not the point.’
‘It’s exactly the point.’
You don’t respond for a while and it makes his temples twitch.
‘Throw that shit away.’
‘HUH’
‘Probably tastes like shit anyway.’
He jerks himself off to the picture later that night.
You come over sometime that next week. You’ve got the skimpiest shirt on he’s ever seen in his life and it takes everything in him to keep his eyes on the bowl he was packing before you walked in.
“Hi, Si.” Si. He’s not sure when he became that.
“Hi, pretty.”
That brings a small smile to your lips.
“Will you teach me?” You ask, pointing to the bong on the table. “Never smoked from a bong before.”
He ushers you over with two fingers, patting the empty spot next to him on his couch. You plop down next to him, legs criss-crossed as you face his side.
“It’s easy enough,” He starts, “Just gotta light the bowl while inhaling, makes the water bubble until the pipe fills with smoke.”
He puts the bong to his lips, lighting the outer edges of the bowl while inhaling lightly before removing the bowl and breathing in sharply to swallow all the smoke. He turns to you when he’s done, blowing the smoke towards you. Your scrunched nose makes him chuckle.
“Then, just take out the bowl and breathe in all your smoke.”
You take it from him with a shrug, “Really? It always looked so much harder than that.”
He watches you start, a huff of a laugh escaping him when you struggle to flick the lighter that earns him a glare, but the caught lip in your teeth tells him everything he needs to know. You inhale for a much longer time than he did, and he watches you with raised brows before removing the bowl himself when your eyes widen. You slam your hand over the rim, puffs of smoke leaving your lungs so abrasively all you can do is cough, tears welling in your lashes.
“Jesus, bird. You’re not supposed to do that much.”
“You didn’t—“ Your sentence is broken up by coughs, “—didn’t tell me that!”
“Didn’t think I had to tell you not to take a giant bong rip!”
He hands you his water from the table.
“Shit fucking hurts.” You say in between gulps.
He laughs loudly that time, big hand coming out to rub your back.
“Wanna try again? I’ll tell you when to stop.”
You chew on your bottom lip, opening your mouth before closing it hesitantly.
“It’ll be smoother, I promise.”
You nod slowly after a few seconds.
“Slowly this time, yeah?” He murmurs, holding the glass to your lips.
You nod again, inhaling for just a few seconds before he removes the bowl. It’s a much smaller hit, but you still cough when you come up for air.
“I don’t think I like it.” You frown, handing it back to him.
He chuckles, “That’s okay, bird. We don’t have to do it again.”
You give him one of your shy smiles, the ones that make him want to dig his teeth into your neck.
He keeps his hands and mouth to himself.
You’re mad at him a few days later and he has no fucking idea why. All he knows is you’re glaring at him from across the room, arms crossed over your chest, and brows furrowed. He can’t help but think you’re cute, all brooding in the corner of the party you invited him to.
‘Come here.’
He watches you read the text, eyes rolling so dramatically it makes him snicker.
‘Why don’t you just keep hanging out with your little girlfriend over there?’
‘I don’t even know who you’re talking about, baby.’
You squint at the screen.
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Pretty instead?’
He watches you fluster.
‘Shut up.’
‘You coming? Or do I need to handle it myself?’
‘Handle what?’
‘You.’
You avoid him the rest of the night. He takes you home anyway and you begrudgingly drag your feet across the sidewalk to his car, huffing under your breath how you had someone else to take you home.
You didn’t, never did.
The drive to your place is silent and there's this ugly knot forming in the middle of his chest that makes him dig his tongue to the inside of his cheek. You look at him in shock when he barges into your house after you tried to close the door on his face.
He’s too damn old for this.
His hand cups the back of your neck, tugging you towards him, so you stumble into him, forearms falling onto his chest. You peer up at him, wide-eyed, but you don’t say anything.
“You done?” He asks plainly.
You gulp, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Your eyes trail to the side, suddenly becoming interested in the color of your wall.
He drags you to your room then, and you follow along, like you hadn’t ignored him all night. He bends you over your bed slowly. He half expects you to kick out in refusal, but you let him, quietly falling and turning your cheek to peer at him over your shoulder.
One hand keeps you firm in place at the low of your spine, the other trails down the back of your legs, hooking a finger in the back of your heels, and tossing them to the side.
“Those were expensive.”
He flicks his eyes to yours, “Buy you a new pair.”
He bunches your dress to your hips, panties joining your shoes soon after that, and you open your mouth to protest despite the way you lifted your hips to help him.
“Didn’t agree to this.”
His fingers halt in their path. “You want me to stop?”
“That’s not what I said.” You mumble quietly, turning your head away from him.
He hums then, “That’s what I thought.”
He stamps a kiss to your shoulder, the bottom of your spine, right on the globe of your ass. His teeth dig into your cheek next because he simply can’t resist taking a bite and you giggle into the sheets.
The corners of his lips twitch because he knows you hadn’t intended to let that slip.
He cups your ass then, spreading you open so that he gets a pretty view of your pussy. His thumb drags from your entrance to your clit and you roll to your tippy toes in shock, fingers tightening in your flowery sheets.
He watches your pussy flutter around nothing when he rubs slow circles around your clit, watches you bury your face into your bed because you don’t want him to see the way your face scrunches up.
He keeps at it, thumb stroking your clit over and over again until it’s swollen, until there's an obscene amount of slick gushing from your pussy and down your clit, until he can see the way your shoulders tense to stifle the quiet noises you press into the blankets.
He slips two fingers in without warning and your head snaps back, a whine slipping past the tight confines of your lips. He finds the spot that makes your lashes flutter and your hips rock back far too quickly for your liking because he shouldn’t already know where it’s at when he’s only fucked you twice.
He strokes you with his thick fingers once, twice, before leaning over you, larger frame pinning you against the bed, and you squirm, whimpering because he’s so fucking heavy above you that it makes you a little lightheaded.
His lips press to your ear, “Been a real brat all night you know that?”
He thrusts his fingers with every word, pussy stretching with each stroke.
“Over somethin’ I can’t even control too.”
You lift your head to look at him and it’s the first time he’s seen you grit your teeth. You part your lips to argue, but he hooks his fingers just right and a strained noise leaves your throat.
“What’s that?” He smirks against your neck.
You don’t even try to say anything after, fucking your hips back onto his fingers until there's a trail of your arousal dripping down his knuckles, and your teeth caught in your sheets as you finish.
Your head falls back against the mattress, legs wobbly under you as he slips his fingers from your cunt. You don’t even have time to mourn the feeling, not when Simon’s cock takes their place so quickly. He doesn’t even have to wait for you to accustom yourself to the shape of him when he sinks to the hilt in one go.
You cry out, rolling to your tippy toes again, thighs already shaking against his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, the other around your hips and arches your back so your head rests against his shoulder and your feet dangle above his.
He fucks into you swiftly, your ass making a loud noise each time his hips meet the fat. Your hands scramble to the one around your hips in a panic because the position has the curve of his cock slamming brutally against your cervix, and all you can to do is clamber for any control.
“For no fucking reason too.” He grunts it against your temple.
“Simon, I— wait, please.”
You find yourself on your back in an instant, your head next to the plushies you have on your bed. Simon’s already between your parted thighs, cock sliding in so easily you have to squeeze your eyes tight.
He turns soft so quickly it practically gives you whiplash, one arm resting beside your head, his lips hovering above your cheek.
“Don’t gotta act like tha’.” He whispers it so softly you feel it in your chest. “You’re all I want, baby.”
His thrusts become sweet, pressing real deep with each draw of his hips, and your toes curl by his thighs.
“Okay?”
When you don’t respond, his thumb finds your cheek, tapping lightly because he wants to hear it.
“Okay?”
You blink at him a little deliriously, “Yeah, okay.”
EEEEEK that was delicio!!! I loved the way the scrne played out 😋 and he’s so down bad nonstop thinking about her and the strawberry lipgloss, like he gets it 💅
Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) pt. 2
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, shotgunning, smut, oral sex, vaginal sex, creampie, jealousy, not edited, my current brain worm
prev. part | plug! Simon masterlist
──────────────
You text Simon a week later.
‘You got anything? Had a long day.’
‘Made some pre-rolls just for you, bird.’
‘Yay!!! Coming!!’
You give him a tight smile when you sit on his couch. It’s not like you. He doesn’t say anything until you take a few puffs and your tense shoulders start to sag.
“What happened?”
“Boss was just being a dick all day.” You turn to give a real smile, eyes crinkling, “Good thing my drug dealers got a soft spot for me though, huh?”
“Who told you that?” He smirks, raising his eyebrows.
Your mouth drops in surprise, smacking his shoulder playfully.
“That’s mean.”
He laughs before continuing softly. “You’re my favorite client, you know that.”
That makes you smile, head rolling onto the back of the couch and he decides he likes making you do that. You close your eyes and when your chest starts to slowly raise with soft breathes, he decides to let you sleep.
The next time he sees you, you’re leaving the club, and when you recognize his car you jog over with an excited smile on your lips. You’ve got this little black dress on that makes it awfully hard to focus on anything else besides the curve of your hips.
“Simon! What are you doing here?”
“Bird? The hell you doing out here?”
“I went out with my friend.” You point to a man standing close by.
His jaw tenses, “Get in.”
“Huh?”
“Get in the car, bird. I’m not arguing.” He’s already climbing out of the driver's seat to open the passenger door for you.
“I’m not gonna just leave him, Simon!” You say, but you let him guide you into the car anyway.
“He’s a big boy. He’ll survive.”
When he gets to your house you turn to him with a mischievous smile, “Were you jealous?”
“Of who?”
“Don’t play dumb!”
“Just making sure you’re safe s’all.” He shrugs casually.
You lean across the center console, “It’s okay. I’m not interested in him.”
“Good.”
That makes you smile bigger, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, “You gonna come in and smoke with me?”
“Course I am.”
You drag him inside giggling, stumbling a little over your high heels. You waste no time changing, pulling the dress over your head as you walk down the hallway, giving him a glimpse of your lacy covered ass before you disappear into your room.
You come back out in an oversized shirt and shorts. “Proper smoking fit now.”
“Could’ve stayed in the dress for me.”
You frown, “Was getting uncomfy.”
“Like you like this more anyways.”
That makes you smile shyly, sitting next to him on your couch. He’s already lit a joint, it’s pink, and the sight of his big hands around it makes you giggle.
“Couldn’t even wait for me to start?”
“C’mere.” He grunts, pulling you on to his lap.
It’s the first time you’ve been there since you begged to ride him. The memory makes him chub in his jeans.
He takes a big inhale before gripping your chin, dragging you to his lips, and exhales the smoke into your mouth. You squirm in his lap in surprise, fingers fisting his shirt with wide eyes, but you inhale as much as you can manage. You cough when he leans back casually, licking your lips like you were trying to chase the taste of him.
“Let me try.” You murmur.
He places the joint in your lips. You inhale before leaning forward nervously and blow the smoke into his mouth. It’s not as big as his hit and he swallows it easier than you had. Theres a long pause, the both of you staring at each other, your fingers smoothing the edges of his shirt you had bunched, before he puts the joint back in his mouth.
The two of you eventually take turns shotgunning the smoke into each other’s mouth. The pause between each inhale gets longer and longer, agonizingly so. Even more so when you keep your lips close, not kissing, just there. Breathes fanning over each other’s faces, your body becoming heavier and heavier on his thighs with each puff, the weed pulsing in your veins making you more lax than before.
The space between the two of you has gone a little hazy and you’re not entirely sure if it’s because of the joint or the smoke filling the room, but all the two of you can focus on is the other. You smell like tequila, and there’s a part of him who knows he shouldn’t be doing this when you’re drunk, but you’re so fucking pretty in his lap, eyes lidded and edges stained red, lips parted to take shaky breaths.
“‘s all gone.” He says, holding the tip.
“Yeah.” You whisper, but your eyes stay focused on his lips.
The corner of his mouth twitches, “That’s not a good idea. You’re drunk.”
“But you’re high now too, aren’t you? Evens it out.”
He chuckles, “I need more than just one j to be high, pretty.”
You frown.
“You were on a date anyway. Don’t think you want this.”
Your frown deepens, “Wasn’t a date. He’s just a friend.”
He hums, ignoring the irritation pulsing at his temples, fingers smoothing along your hips instead.
“Just a kiss?” You murmur, “Hold me over til I’m sober.”
He tuts his tongue, but he pulls you down anyway because he’s a man after all, he can only resist so much when you ask so sweetly. You smile against his lips, eyes fluttering shut and tugging him closer to you.
It’s slow, the both of your lips are a little numb from smoking, and the taste of the strawberry paper he buys for you has left a fruity taste in your mouths. His fingers tingle where they’re at your hips and there’s a pressure in his head from smoking. He can’t stop himself from deepening the kiss when you taste like that and sound so sweet against him, maybe it’s the weed in system that makes it harder to resist.
You let him lick into your mouth then, and your hips start to grind along his hardened length in his jeans when his tongue meets yours. You gasp against his lips every so often like you can’t seem to fill your lungs with enough air before diving back in impatiently because it’s such an inconvenience that you have to part in order to breathe.
He’s strong, god he’s strong because he manages to pull away, your lips stained a darker color, and you blink at him sadly when he stops your hips. All he can think about is how wet you probably are, just ruining your lacy panties, but he slides you off him anyway.
“Should drink some water and go to bed.” He says.
Your brows crease, pout on your lips, but you nod anyway.
You text him in the middle of the night two weeks later.
‘You up?’
‘For you.’
‘I think I’m greening out andd I’m rlly scared can you pls come pick me up?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I don’t knowww.’
‘Send me your location.’
You’re at some random party, and you give him a wobbly smile when you see him. That same friend at your side.
“Hi.”
“Hi, bird. Let’s go.”
You nod, your hands shaking when you lace your fingers with his and he drags you through the crowd. He takes you to his, helps you change into some of his clothes, and presses a glass of water to your lips. You chug it like you’re parched, barely saving any room to breathe.
“You’re gonna stress me out.”
You laugh quietly, “Sorry.”
“Gotta be careful smoking too much when you’re not somewhere you’re familiar with.” He sits you down on his bed.
“I know. It just kinda happened.”
“How you feeling?”
“Better with you.”
That makes his teeth show.
“You want me to put music on?”
You shake your head, “Just want to lay with you.”
He invites you over for a smoke session a few days later. You roll the joint between your thumbs nervously like theres something heavy on your mind.
“If you don’t wanna smoke we don’t have to. Just thought since it’s kinda our thing now.”
You smile big, “Our thing?”
“Mmhh.” He hums with a nod.
“That’s not what I was thinking about.” You murmur quietly.
“What’s it then?”
“You sleep with a lot of your clients?”
He chokes on the smoke he’s inhaled, coughing so much that tears well in his eyes.
“What?”
“Um, well. Have you fucked any of your other clients?” You bite at your bottom lip.
“Jesus, bird. No.” He coughs.
“Are you lying?” You squint.
“Never lie to you.”
“Okay.”
You smoke in silence after that. Your feet rest on his lap the entire time as you lean against the armrest. He runs his fingers along your ankles and up your calves to distract himself from the way your lips wrap around the joint. It’s innocent at first, he was being innocent at least, but then you nudge your toes on the bulge in his sweats and he raises his brows at you.
You shrug, a devilish smirk on your lips.
“Accident.”
But then your legs fall open a little, your pretty thighs parting slightly for him. It’s an invitation, an awfully tempting one and it all happens so fast, he almost doesn’t even realize he’s nosing along the wet patch of your underwear and placing your legs on his shoulders until you squeak in surprise. Foreplays not needed this time around, not when your drunken makeout session has weighed heavy at the recesses of your minds ever since.
Your panties come off easy enough and he beelines straight to the source. He kisses along your thighs once, twice, a third time and your breath gets faster with each approaching stamp of his lips. Except, his thumb finds your clit first, just soft strokes while his breath fans over your embarrassingly wet cunt.
When he does lick one flat swipe along your clit your back arches around the couch armrest. And then he dips lower and fucking groans into your pussy when he gets a real taste of you, eyes closed like he’s got sugar melting between his teeth and not you filling his senses. He indulges himself, just a little, slipping his tongue into your pussy, so he can lick the taste from the tap.
When he returns to your clit, your toes curl against his back, and your head slumps into the couch. You’ve got one hand stifling your moans and he’d make you take it off and sing for him, but he’s more concerned with laving at your swollen clit than anything else. He keeps his tongue gentle, each lick broad, to make sure he’s really smothering every inch of you.
You cry out when he takes the bead between his lips and sucks softly. Your mouth forms an o and the look you give him is so cute that he can’t help but smile into your pussy. Furrowed brows and big beady eyes, lashes wet at the edges like the stimulation was becoming too much.
You don’t try to pull away though, instead, you arch deeper into him, hand curling around the back of his head and pushing him closer to your clit. His big hands find your hips when you start to grind on his face messily, and it takes everything in him not to buck his own into his couch because he’s sure you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever fucked.
His nose bumps along your clit with each slow drag of your hips, and his face is drenched in juices down to his chin. He hopes the smell fucking sticks, hopes he can taste you on his tongue later tonight when you’re not there and he’s missing you.
You finish with his name on your lips and your thighs squeeze around his head tight. He licks it all up, lapping eagerly at your walls while your legs slowly relax, falling open onto his shoulders, and twitching with each followed lick in overstimulation.
When he comes up, your chest is heaving, like you were the one down there suffocated by your thighs and pussy. There’s this dopey smile on your lips and he can’t help but smile back, leaning down to kiss you with your arousal all over his face.
You don’t even scrunch your nose, you lick right into his mouth hungrily like he hadn’t just been feasting between your thighs.
“You’re fucking perfect.” He grunts between sloppy kisses, hands fumbling with his sweats.
He feels you smile, “You’re the one who just ate me out.”
You make a surprised noise when the fat of his head slips into your entrance unexpectedly, hands clambering to his shoulders to find purchase on anything. He slides right in, your pussy nice and lax from your orgasm or maybe its from the joint the two of your shared. He rests his forehead against yours when he bottoms out, eyes trained on your face. Your nails dig into his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut, and mouth popped open in pleasure.
“Fuckkk,” He drawls, “She feels so good.”
You whine, nodding against his forehead.
He starts with shallow thrusts, fucking into you just deep enough for you to get used to the stretch. When you start to impatiently arch into him for more, he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and pushes forward.
The new angle makes you moan loudly and the pace Simon sets is brutal. He’s got your knee to your shoulder and theres this ugly feeling swirling in his chest from your antics all fucking month.
“Been fucking stressing me out all month, you know that?” He grits his teeth.
You shake your head, but he wasn’t really looking for a response.
“Can’t just fucking stay home, can you? Always gotta get yourself into some trouble, don’t you?” His fingers dig into the flesh of your thigh.
You whimper at his tone, “It’s not on purpose.”
“Asking if I sleep with other girls, like you aren’t smoking with other men.”
His hips slam into you hard at the end of his sentence, like he’s emphasizing his words.
“They fuck you like this? Huh?”
You shake your head again, “No! No, just you Simon.”
He’s not even sure where that came from when you guys have only fucked once, you’re not his, but you’re wrapped around him, pressing kisses against his neck because you think he’s mad and how can he not be jealous?
“You all mine?” He whispers, hips stuttering with his strength to not finish.
“Yes, yes, god, yes.”
You finish around him again, pussy just gushing, and compressing tight. The way your pussy flutters around him helps assuage the feeling, your fingers gentle on his collarbone definitely helps. He buries himself deep and joins you then, pumping you full of the past month of blue balls you’ve given him and the horribly ugly tensions he’s been carrying ever since your little date.
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, vaginal fingering, riding, creampie, not edited, brain worm I had
next part | plug! Simon masterlist
──────────────
The first time you ever bought from Ghost you were wearing a skirt way too short to be socially acceptable, stumbling to his beat-up car with a drunk smile plastered on your face. He remembers it all a little too clearly, the way you leaned into the passenger window, smelling like tequila and the minty mouthwash you used to try and cover the smell up.
“Hi.” You giggled.
“Hi.” He responded, raising his eyebrow at you.
“Um, my friends over there,” You pointed to a group of girls across the street, “Dared me to come buy some off you.”
He stared at you without responding, and there was a long pause of silence before your smile dropped into something smaller.
“Wait? Do you not sell?” You covered your mouth, “Oh my gosh that’s so embarrassing, they told me they bought from you before!”
“Relax, bird. I do.”
“Oh! Great, that’s great. Um, how much for an eighth?”
“On the house.” He smirked, digging through the back of his car.
“What?”
“First time buyer, gotta guarantee you like it.”
You caught the bag he tossed you with a shy smile on your face, humming. “Okay, thank you!”
Ghost watched you jog to your friends after that, holding the bag out to them with a proud smirk.
The next time you bought from him, you were all by yourself, jean shorts showing off your pretty legs.
“Hi.”
He chuckled, “You’re back.”
You leaned into the window, low-cut shirt clinging to the swell of your breasts.
“I am.” You smiled, “How much for an eighth this time, for real?’
“Already have some pre-rolls, you can just have ‘em.”
“Huh? No, I didn’t pay you last time!”
“No one ever wants the pre-rolls anyway,” He shrugs, he lies. “They’re cherry flavored.”
That sparks your interest, “Really? I didn’t know they did that.”
You hand him your phone then, “Put your number in, yeah? So, I don’t have to hope to randomly run into you to buy more.”
When he hands the phone back you laugh after reading the contact name, “Ghost? That’s your drug dealer name? Really?”
“Do you want free weed or not?”
You laugh louder this time, “Yes! Yes! I was just teasing. Thank you!”
You text him two weeks later, a stupid meme at that with beady eyes, ‘more, please sir?’
He hates the way it makes the corners of his lips twitch.
He’s mobile that day, and you send him your address with one too many exclamation marks tagged on the end. You run out in leggings and slippers, a giddy smile on your lips.
“Hi.”
He laughs, “Hi, bird.”
“I liked the pre-rolls!” You say excitedly, leaning into the window, “Never had those before.”
“Yeah? What you need today?”
“You have any more?”
He frowns a little, “Get in with me, I’ll roll you some.”
You open his passenger side door too willingly, “Oh good. I don’t know how to roll,” You confess, “My friends usually do it for me.”
His mouth dips into a smirk, “Yeah? ‘Ts not that hard, watch.”
You lean closer, eyes wide like he’s actually teaching you valuable information and not how to roll a joint.
“Gotta make sure to take out all the seeds and stems before you grind it.” You watch him grind it enraptured. “Gotta roll up the tip first, then, wrap the paper tight.”
You nod eagerly.
“Fill it with your flower, roll it upwards with your thumb to make your shape. Then,” He licks across the paper, “Seal it with the glued edge, and twist the tip.”
He holds it out to you, “There you go.”
You take it between your fingers with a soft smile, “Thank you.”
You text him three days later, a picture of a lopsided joint that he definitely didn’t sell you.
‘How’d I do?’
‘Looks like shit.’
‘That’s mean :(‘
‘Come over, let me help.’
‘On my way!’
You show up an hour later, the crooked joint in your hands. You sit on his couch with a frown.
“You know, I didn’t think it came out that bad.”
“Give it here.” He laughs, “You packed it up wayyy too much. Got too much at the end here too, didn’t tap it out.”
Still, he lights it, holding it out for you to smoke. You take it between your fingers, inhaling a small amount before coughing slightly. He smirks at your watery eyes, taking the joint from you to smoke it.
“Sorry,” You say, “I got my lip gloss on it.”
He chuckles, the tip glistening with the gloss, placing it in the corner of his lips, “Doesn’t matter.”
It tastes like your lip gloss. Strawberries and weed.
You take turns smoking it. Simon watches you the whole time, with lidded eyes, focused on the way your pretty lips curl around the joint. The way your chest rises with each inhale, your eyes becoming heavier and heavier, a lazy smile smeared across your lips as you lean closer to him on his old couch.
All he can think about is those lips wrapped around his cock and not the tip of the joint. And he’s definitely rock hard in his sweats, but he doesn’t care if you notice, not when you keep giggling at every bad joke he cracks.
He jerks himself off when you leave, promising you’ll be safe and text him when you get home. He finishes when your message pops at the top of his screen ‘made it safe :)’
He invites you over himself a week later because he’s got random inventory, he ordered them himself, of strawberry wraps and he’s certain you’ll like them.
You do like them. You’re melted into his couch, blinking lazily at him.
“How come you never charge me?” It’s a whisper.
He looks at you, the room dizzy with smoke and your pretty gaze.
“Never make pretty girls pay.”
“Oh?” You sound disappointed, “So, you give it free to other girls?”
He shakes his head, “Just you.”
You squint, “Are you only giving me free weed so you can get a lay?”
He smirks, “Is it working?”
You scoff, smacking him in the shoulder, “Unbelievable.”
He catches your wrist.
“You giving it to my friends for free too?”
“Careful,” He smirks, “You’re starting to sound jealous.”
You roll your eyes, trying to pull away from him. He keeps you close, tugging you into his lap so fast you have no choice but to slip onto his thighs. You don’t look at him, eyes focused to the side.
“Just you.”
You peer down at him then, “Huh?”
His fingers find your cheek, still burning from the embers of the joint, “You’re the only one I don’t charge.”
“Yeah?” You whisper.
“C’mere already.” He murmurs, pulling you down to kiss him.
You make a noise of surprise, like you hadn’t expected your smoke sessions to lead to this, with his cock pressed between your thighs eagerly, grip on your chin and hip to keep you close to him.
You kiss him back earnestly, smaller hands finding his shoulders. He loves it, fuck he loves the way your hands shake against his skin, the vibrations that leave your chest and fill his. He’s been dreaming about this since the moment you walked over in your tiny skirt.
Your bottom lip pops away from his, glistening with his saliva and not the lip gloss you insist on wearing.
“Wanted you to do that for ages.”
He chuckles against your lips, “Yeah?”
Your hips grind against his then, “Only reason my friends made me go was because I wouldn’t shut up about how hot you were.”
He presses his teeth against your neck, fingers making quick work of your belt and pants. “Came over with your ass and tits out, been jerking off to the memory ever since.”
You inhale sharply, “Fuck.”
Your eyes flutter when his fingers find your cunt, squelching with the sound of your arousal. He dips one finger in, drawing a whimper from you, and god you’re so fucking warm. The weeds got you nice and lax, a small grin on your lips as he coaxes you with one thick finger and he's sure he's never wanted to fuck someone more.
Your grin turns into a broken cry when he adds another, lips quivering around the shape of his name. Ghost. Ghost?
His thumbs already on your lips, gaze strong on you, “Simon.”
You nod in quiet understanding, “Simon.”
There’s a sticky strip of arousal that clings to your panties when he slides them off your thighs and it takes everything in him not to bury his face below and smell.
You scramble to his sweats, tugging them down impatiently. He lifts his hips willingly, lets his strained cock smack against his abdomen angrily. You lick your lips when you see it, eyes wide at the sight.
He grips it by the base, thumb coming up to wipe at the precum spilling from the tip.
“Oh my god.” You groan, “Let me ride you, please.”
He slides lower on the couch, tapping your hips casually in agreement like he hadn’t been picturing you on top of him for weeks, “Go on.”
You rise to your knees above him, shaking hand grabbing his cock so lightly it makes his eyes flutter. You glide his tip along your seams until it snags at your entrance, and you make a soft noise when he pops through. You slide down eagerly as much as he holds your hips and grits through his teeth to take it slow.
Your head falls to his shoulder when you sink to the base, his head rolling to the back of the couch because you’re so fucking warm and tight, and the weed definitely isn’t helping because he’s feeling everything ten times worse.
And when you lift your hips, he swears he sees heaven between your thighs when you drop back down and your pussy makes an obscene squelch.
You bury your face in his neck, arms around his shoulders and just fucking go at it. Ass slamming against his so fast the room echoes with each slap. You whine high-pitched with each thrust like you aren’t the one setting the pace, like you aren’t the fucking yourself raw around his cock.
“Jesus, bird, slow down.” He grunts, fingers dimpling your skin.
He says it because your legs are shaking and there’s sweat beading on your chest, whimpers falling from your lips endlessly, but more so because he doesn’t want it to end this soon. When he hasn’t even laid you back properly to fuck you the way he had hoped.
You don’t listen well.
You just keep sloppily fucking yourself onto his cock because you’ve found the sweet spot, the one that has you on the brink of an orgasm.
His lips on your neck do it for you, your toes curling into his shitty ass couch when you break. You soak his balls then, pussy clenching so tight around him he has to bite down on his cheek so he doesn’t bust.
He’s already moving you to your back, finding a home between your thighs when you come back down. You don’t even argue, like the perfect thing you are, folding your own legs to his shoulders, and arching into the couch.
He slides in slow, and your pussy spreads for him so prettily.
“Fuck,” he drawls, “Listen to her, just fuckin dying for me to fuck her.”
You whine loud at that, hips bucking to get him to move. He doesn’t wait a second longer, thrusts so hard into you, you feel it in your toes and your legs straighten out in utter shock.
He fucks you slow and hard, pace languid from the weed pulsing in his veins. You like it, at least he thinks you do from the way you keep writhing under him, the beginning syllables of his name broken on your lips between every thrust.
When he leans forward, pressing your knees to your shoulders, you gasp in shock from the stretch, but then his tip snags against that spot in your cunt that melts your brain into mush, synapses fried on Simon, and your eyes just roll into the back of your head.
He smirks proudly, bullying his length against that spot until you’re pushing at hips, murmuring something along the lines that it’s too much.
He doesn’t stop.
You pulse around him when you cum a second time, sweet voice ripped from your throat, and turned into blinded pleasure when he stamps his thumb against your swollen clit. Your feet tense at his shoulders, fingers tight against the cushions.
He finishes inside of you then, head falling to your shoulder with a deep groan, hips fucking into you with each pump.
obsessedddd with this!!! I’ve never even read for this character before but you’ve described him so insanely hot and with the best situation IM SATTTTT
[!] warnings: mattheo x toddler!fem!reader, mattheo being a softie, toddler falls down the stairs lmfao, mentions of blood (she scraped her knee), SFW. not proofread. | fluff ☏ | WC: +1.2K | AN: ENJOY! <3
[!] summary: After an unknown reason, mattheo finds himself taking care of a younger version of you, who has fallen nastily down the stairs. However after denying going to the hospital wing, he decides to wait with you until madam Pomfrey comes to you instead.
[!] masterlist:
Sunday mornings at Hogwarts belong to the Black Lake.
It isn’t an official arrangement. Nobody remembers suggesting it, and there has certainly never been enough organisation amongst any of you to call it a tradition, but somewhere along the way it simply became law that Sundays, provided Scotland wasn’t attempting to drown the castle beneath sheets of rain, were spent by the water with blankets, books nobody intended to read, and enough food stolen from breakfast to feed considerably more people than were actually invited.
At eleven thirty-four, however, nobody has made it anywhere.
Mattheo has been occupying the same corner of the sofa for long enough that the book open across his lap has become purely decorative. Theo is stretched across an armchair opposite him, Draco has already complained twice that by the time they leave there will be nowhere decent left to sit, and Enzo is slowly eating the picnic despite repeated assurances that he is merely checking whether everything tastes alright.
The girls are late. This, by itself, is hardly remarkable. Mattheo learned a long time ago that expecting any of you downstairs at the agreed time is an excellent way to spend fifteen minutes being disappointed. What is remarkable is that, so far, only Pansy has appeared, and even she seems incapable of remaining in the common room for longer than five minutes at a time.
She comes down the staircase again now, closing the door behind herself with a little too much care.
Mattheo looks up. He sighs.
She’s alone. Again.
Pansy crosses the room as though there is absolutely nothing peculiar about this and reaches for the basket on the table. Enzo moves it away before her hand gets there.
“Are they coming or not?” Draco asks, his patience having expired somewhere around eleven twenty.
“They’re coming,” Pansy assures him, settling onto the arm of the sofa.
Mattheo glances toward the staircase. “What’s taking so long?”
She rolls her yes before answering “getting ready.” She doesn’t explain further.
“All three of them?”
Pansy gives him a look. “Have you met us?”
Fair enough.
Mattheo returns his attention to the book.
Or attempts to.
The trouble is that Pansy is being strange.
Not obviously strange. She isn’t pacing around the common room or wringing her hands together like somebody in a bad play. She’s simply checking the staircase too often. Every few minutes her attention drifts upward before snapping back to whatever conversation is happening, and when the clock above the fireplace reaches quarter to twelve, she excuses herself again without explanation.
Mattheo watches her disappear.
“Where’s she going now?” Enzo asks around a mouthful of pastry.
Time passes by and around eleven fifty-two, Mattheo has had enough.
Pansy’s explanations have somehow progressed from she’s getting dressed to she’s washing her hair and, following several minutes in which Mattheo made the mistake of asking why Daphne and Astoria were both required for either of those activities, to the considerably more alarming claim that you aren’t feeling well. She refuses to elaborate on what exactly that means. Every attempt to do so only makes her look more cornered, until Mattheo finally closes the book that has been sitting unread in his lap for the better part of an hour and gets to his feet.
Pansy immediately notices.
“No.”
Mattheo looks at her. “No what?”
“Whatever you’re about to do.”
He lifts his left eyebrow, signaling with his eyes “I’m going upstairs.”
“I gathered that.”
“Then move.”
She doesn’t.
Mattheo’s patience, already hanging by something considerably thinner than a thread, finally snaps. Pansy assures him you’re fine before he can ask, which would be significantly more convincing if she weren’t physically standing between him and the staircase.
He tells her as much. She insists there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything, refuses to provide said explanation, and by the time Mattheo steps around her she has resorted to catching the sleeve of his jumper like that might realistically stop him.
“Pansy, please get off.”
“Just give me uhh… five minutes.”
“Uhh…” He mocks her. “You’ve had nearly an hour.”
“I need five more.”
“For what?”
She opens her mouth. Nothing.
Mattheo gently pulls his sleeve free. “Exactly.”
He has barely reached the bottom step when the door at the top of the staircase opens.
Both of them look up.
For one strange moment, Mattheo doesn’t understand what he is seeing.
There is a little girl standing at the top.
Tiny. Four or five at most, one hand wrapped around the stone archway as though she needs it to keep herself upright. An enormous jumper hangs almost to her knees, sleeves rolled several times around her wrists, and somebody has managed to put socks on her but apparently given up before reaching shoes. Her hair is a soft mess around her face, half brushed and sticking up slightly at the back as though she has only recently woken.
Mattheo stares and so does everyone else.
The common room seems to empty itself of sound.
The little girl looks down the staircase.
Then she looks directly at Mattheo.
And his stomach drops.
He knows that face.
Before the thought can properly form, you take a step.
Your knee buckles.
Pansy gasps your name.
Everything happens horribly fast after that.
Your hand slips from the wall. One little socked foot misses the edge of the next stair and suddenly you are falling, your body pitching forward before anyone can reach you. You tumble once, then again, hitting stone with a series of sickening little thuds that tear through the common room.
Mattheo is moving before he knows he has moved.
He reaches the staircase just as you come to a stop several steps from the bottom, crumpled awkwardly on your side.
For half a second, you don’t make a sound.
That half second is the worst of Mattheo’s life.
Then your face crumples.
The scream that leaves you is enormous.
It is the horrible, breathless cry of a child who has been frightened before she has even understood how badly something hurts, and Mattheo is on his knees beside you almost immediately. You try to move, only to cry harder, little hands reaching blindly for anything nearby while tears spill down your cheeks.
“Hey, hey…. don’t move.”
Mattheo’s voice comes out softer than he expects and considerably less steady.
His hands hover uselessly for a moment because you’ve just fallen down a fucking stone staircase and suddenly every part of you looks impossibly fragile. There is already a red mark blooming across your forehead, your little knees are scraped beneath the hem of the jumper, and you’re crying so hard that every breath catches painfully in your chest.
Pansy drops beside him, white-faced. “Oh my God, babygirl —”
You recoil from her hand.
That makes everyone freeze.
You don’t know her.
Mattheo understands it then, or some part of it anyway. Whatever the fuck has happened, you don’t recognise Pansy. You don’t recognise the room. You probably don’t recognise any of them.
You’re five years old and you’ve just fallen down a staircase surrounded by strangers.
Your sobs become frantic.
“I want my mum.”
Oh.
Mattheo feels something crack directly through the centre of his chest.
You try to push yourself upright, calling for her again through your tears, but your arms shake beneath you and Mattheo catches you instinctively before you can collapse.
The moment his hands touch you, your frightened eyes find his.
For a second you simply stare at one another.
Mattheo has no idea what you see.
Some unfamiliar boy kneeling on the floor. Wearing dark clothes, messy curls and scarred knuckles. A face you’ve never seen before.
Your lower lip trembles.
Mattheo softens immediately.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, keeping his hands loose around your sides so you can pull away if you want. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
You aren’t convinced.
Not remotely.
Another sob tears out of you and your face screws up again, tears dripping from your chin. “It hurts.”
“I know.”
“My knee hurts.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
The endearment escapes without permission.
Mattheo doesn’t even notice.
He looks down carefully and finds the problem almost immediately. One knee has taken most of the fall, skin scraped raw enough to sting terribly but, thankfully, without anything that looks broken. Relief hits him so hard it nearly makes him dizzy.
“You’ve scraped it.” He keeps his voice quiet, because somehow that seems important. “That’s all. It looks worse than it is.”
You look down.
This is a mistake.
The sight of your own scraped knee produces a fresh wave of horror.
“It’s bleeding!”
Barely.
Mattheo wisely does not mention that.
“I know. We’ll fix it.”
“I’m bleeding!”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He deadpans.
“I don’t want it!”
Despite everything, something almost like a laugh catches in his chest.
“Fair enough.”
“I want it off!”
“The blood?”
You nod desperately.
Mattheo has faced people trying to curse him unconscious with less pressure than he currently feels being placed under by a crying five-year-old demanding that he remove blood from existence.
“Alright. We’ll get it off.”
Your breathing is still coming in broken little gasps, but at least you’re listening to him now. Mattheo wipes one tear from beneath your eye with his thumb before he even realises he’s doing it.
You don’t pull away.
Instead, your attention catches on his hand. His rings.
For the briefest second, the crying quiets.
Mattheo notices, so he carefully asks, “you like those?”
Your eyes remain fixed on them as you sniff miserably. A tiny nod.
He turns his hand so you can see them better.
“This one’s my favourite.”
You reach for it tentatively.
Mattheo lets you.
Your fingers barely fit around one of his.
Something about that stirs something warm within him.
Then you sniff again, face crumpling as another tear rolls down your cheek, and Mattheo makes the decision before he has time to think about whether he should.
“Can I pick you up?”
You look at him. Those big, teary eyes capturing his attention like anything else.
He waits.
Behind him, nobody speaks.
Eventually, your little arms lift. “Up!”
That’s all it takes.
Mattheo slides one arm carefully beneath your knees, avoiding the scrape, and the other around your back. He lifts you from the stairs so gently that you barely leave the stone before you’re curling instinctively toward the warmth of him.
Your arms go around his neck.
Mattheo goes still.
You bury your wet face into his shoulder and cry. Not loudly anymore tough, thank Merlin.
Those little exhausted sobs that come after the worst of it, your entire body shuddering against his chest while your fingers twist into the back of his jumper.
Mattheo’s hold changes.
One hand spreads protectively across your back. The other supports you beneath your legs, keeping the injured knee from touching anything. He rises slowly, and when your face presses further into his neck he lowers his cheek briefly against the top of your head without thinking.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs again. “Cry if you need to.”
Pansy is staring incredulous at him. So are Theo, Enzo and Draco.
Mattheo couldn’t care less.
You hiccup against his shoulder. “My mum doesn’t know where I am.”
There it is again.
That awful little pull in his chest.
Mattheo rubs his hand slowly over your back.
“We’ll tell her.”
You lift your face enough to look at him. Your eyelashes are stuck together with tears, cheeks blotchy and wet.
“Promise?”
Mattheo doesn’t hesitate.
“Promise.”
You study him for another moment, deciding whether his word is worth anything.
Apparently it is.
Your head drops back onto his shoulder.
Only then does Mattheo look at Pansy.
She has gone strangely quiet.
He doesn’t ask her what happened. He doesn’t need the explanation right now. Whatever magic did this can wait another five minutes. There is a small, trembling version of you clinging to his neck with a bleeding knee, and as far as Mattheo is concerned, that has become the only problem in the castle worth solving.
Daphne and Astoria have finally appeared at the top of the staircase, both of them pale from having watched you disappear down it before they could catch you. Daphne is still holding the shoes she’d apparently been trying to wrestle onto your feet, one in either hand, though Mattheo barely gives them a glance before deciding that whatever explanation they owe him can wait. The scrape on your knee is still bleeding against his arm, and the angry red mark beginning to colour your forehead has already made the decision for him. You need Pomfrey.
He has barely mentioned the Hospital Wing when you lift your head from his shoulder. The reaction is immediate. Your arms tighten around his neck, little fingers knotting into his jumper as you shake your head so fiercely that your cheek catches against his. “No. I don’t want to go.”
Mattheo had been halfway toward the door. He stops. There is enough genuine fear in your voice that any thought of simply carrying you there disappears, and when he looks down, your eyes are already shining again. Apparently the Hospital Wing means something far more terrible when you’re five and stranded in a castle you shouldn’t even be old enough to attend.
“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting you carefully when your injured knee bumps his arm. “No one’s taking you anywhere you don’t want to go.”
This earns him a suspicious little look. “Promise?”
“Promise.” Mattheo wipes the last damp track from your cheek with his thumb, considering the problem while you watch him. He could probably get Pomfrey to come here instead. Or perhaps, once you’ve calmed down properly, convince you to walk there with him. Anything seems preferable to making you cry like that again. “But we do have to fix your knee, yeah?”
You look reluctantly at the scrape, immediately regret it, and hide your face back in his neck. “I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.” His hand settles over the back of your head, keeping you tucked against him while he looks over your shoulder at Pansy. “Can you get Pomfrey?”
Pansy nods and is gone almost immediately.
That should be the end of it, except a few seconds later you lift your head again, apparently having considered his proposed arrangement very carefully. “Is she scary?”
Mattheo looks down at you. There are a great many words he might personally use to describe Madam Pomfrey, particularly after being threatened with restraints the last time he attempted to leave her care with three cracked ribs, but he suspects none of them would be especially useful now.
“No,” he says.
Your eyes narrow. “Promise?”
Mattheo hesitates just long enough for your suspicion to deepen.
“She’s… very nice when you’re five.”
You accept this with surprising ease, laying your head back against his shoulder. Mattheo, meanwhile, decides that if Pomfrey so much as raises her voice when she gets here, he is prepared to discover whether being banned from the Hospital Wing is technically possible.
Pansy disappears through the enormous black doors in search of Madam Pomfrey, leaving Mattheo with the considerably more delicate task of keeping you from remembering that your knee hurts.
It proves easier than expected.
The worst of your crying has exhausted itself into the occasional shaky breath, though you remain firmly attached to him, little arms looped around his neck and cheek resting heavily against his shoulder. Mattheo has made his way to the sofa with you without any objection on your part, lowering himself carefully into the corner and arranging you across his lap so that your injured leg rests over his arm rather than against anything that might sting. You watch all of this through swollen eyes, solemn and unusually quiet, following his hands whenever they move as though you’ve decided, for reasons Mattheo cannot begin to understand, that he is now responsible for knowing what to do.
He doesn’t particularly mind.
“There,” he murmurs once he’s satisfied your knee isn’t touching anything. His thumb brushes a damp strand of hair away from your cheek. “Better, sweetheart?”
You nod, although your mouth remains turned unhappily downward. “It still hurts.”
“I know, darling. Pomfrey’ll fix it when she gets here.”
The name makes you tense again, and Mattheo feels the little hand resting against his chest close around a fistful of his jumper. He doesn’t even have time to think before his palm settles against your back, rubbing slowly between your shoulders until the frightened crease above your nose begins to disappear.
“Hey. None of that.” His voice drops, meant only for you despite the others scattered around the common room. “You remember what I promised you?”
Your eyes lift to his.
“You won’t make me go.”
“Exactly.” Mattheo taps the end of your nose lightly with one finger. “Clever girl.”
You blink.
The tiniest smile appears.
Mattheo notices immediately.
“There she is.”
Your smile grows.
It changes your entire little face, and Mattheo has the completely absurd urge to make it happen again just to see it properly. So when you tuck your face shyly against his chest, he catches gently beneath your chin and peers down at you.
“Oi. Where’d you go?”
A giggle slips out.
Mattheo smiles despite himself. “There you are.”
You hide again.
This time he lets you, resting his cheek briefly against the top of your head while his hand continues its slow path up and down your back. Your hair smells like your usual shampoo, which is strange enough to make his chest ache a little; everything about you has changed except these tiny familiar things. The same hair. The same little freckle near your temple. The same stubborn way you insist you’re fine until someone actually offers you comfort, at which point you seem perfectly happy to melt into it.
A minute passes before your voice comes muffled through his jumper.
“Teo?”
Mattheo ignores the new nickname that you’ve given him, “hm?”
“Am I in trouble?”
Mattheo looks down.
You haven’t lifted your head.
“For falling?”
A small nod presses against his chest.
The question is so earnest that something in him softens all over again. “No, baby. Course you’re not.”
“But I wasn’t supposed to go on the stairs.”
Ah.
He glances toward the staircase, where Daphne had apparently told you to wait while she found your shoes. Mattheo can imagine the rest easily enough. Five-year-old you has precisely as much patience as the version he knows now, which is to say absolutely none.
His fingers comb gently through the ends of your hair. “Well, maybe you should’ve waited.”
“But,” he adds, brushing his knuckle over your cheek before another catastrophe can begin, “I think falling down half of them was punishment enough, don’t you?”
You consider this very carefully.
“Yes.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Your little hand emerges between you, and Mattheo feels your fingers tracing absent little shapes over one of the veins on the back of his hand. You’ve been fascinated by his rings since he picked you up, turning his hand this way and that whenever you think he isn’t paying attention, and eventually you hook your finger around his smallest one.
“Are you my friend?”
Mattheo stills.
Of all the questions you could have asked, somehow that one gets him.
He looks at your tiny finger curled around his and then at you, finding those enormous eyes waiting patiently for an answer.
“Yeah, angel.” His thumb closes carefully over your hand. “I’m your friend.”
“Best friend?”
Mattheo’s mouth twitches.
There is absolutely no way he is answering that while Pansy isn’t here to defend her title.
“Obviously.”
You beam.
Worth the consequences he thinks.
“And Pansy?”
“She’s your friend too.”
“And Daphne?”
“Yeah.”
“‘Toria?”
“All of them.”
You think for a moment longer. “The blond boy?”
Mattheo glances across the room toward Draco, who very deliberately does not react.
“Debatable.”
You giggle again, and Mattheo has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his own smile under control.
Then your eyes begin to droop.
He notices before you do.
The adrenaline has worn off, leaving you warm and heavy against him, blinking slower each time while your little fingers remain loosely curled around his. Mattheo shifts you closer, carefully drawing the edge of the blanket from the back of the sofa over your legs.
“Sleepy, princess?”
You shake your head.
A yawn immediately betrays you.
Mattheo raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“No.”
“Right.”
“I’m awake.”
“Course you are, pretty girl.”
Your eyes close.
Mattheo looks down at you.
“Very convincing.”
“I can hear you,” you mumble.
He laughs quietly, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek. “Go to sleep, trouble.”
Your eyes crack open again. “I’m not Trouble.”
“No?”
You shake your head against him.
“What are you, then?”
This apparently requires thought. Your brows draw together, and Mattheo watches with ridiculous patience while you consider your options.
Finally, you whisper, “Princess.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Mattheo looks away for a second.
He has been called many things in his life. Weak has very rarely been one of them.
Apparently all it takes is you at five years old, curled into his chest and informing him with complete confidence that you are a princess.
“Alright,” he murmurs, adjusting the blanket beneath your chin. “Princess it is.”
this idea is so cute whaaaaa, Mattheo being all soft and comforting 🥺 melting! Id love to know how the hell y/n got turned into her five year old self hahaha
┃your brother would kill you if he knew how dirty you get with his best friend.
──────────────────────────────
"Shut up. It's like you want to get caught."
his mouth is clamped on your face, trying to contain the moans escaping your mouth but his hand could only do so much. You're straddling his giant quads while he thrusts up into you from below.
It's 2am. You're supposed to be sleeping but instead, you're getting fucked by your brother's best friend. Your brother is sleeping a couple rooms down, completely unaware.
"Get off." he demands.
"Wha— why?"
"You don't know how to shut the fuck up."
He's lifting you off, but you clutch on to his shoulders, gluing yourself to him.
"I-I'm sorry, I'll shut up, please don't stop." you're so close to unraveling but it's just so, so hard to keep quiet. He reaches over to the foot of the bed and grab the panties he ripped off of you moments ago.
"Open."
You open your mouth and feel your own panties being shoved in your mouth. You look at him with wide, clueless eyes that ask him, "why?", but he thrusts up into you harshly, telling you to deal with it.
squelch squelch squelch
is all you hear right now, and the occasional groan from Toji. His hands hold your arms behind your back, leaving you helpless.
He's thrusting inside your warm cunt, fast and hard, chasing his own high. His mouth is slightly open, and his breath hits your shoulder blade, making you shiver.
"You're just gonna' let me use you like this? Huh?"
His hands move down to your ass, spreading you wide open so you can take all of him. You want to tell him it's too much, but you don't dare take the cloth out of your mouth; you know how mean he could be.
You resort to slapping him harshly on his chest, but he only slaps you right across the face. You whine loudly, arching your back in pain.
"Too much? Poor baby. Too bad you can't talk, huh?" he coos.
You love it. You love it so, so much. The way he's so much bigger than you made the sex 10x better, and he's so strong, putting you in whatever position he wanted you in.
"Can I fill you up, baby? Make you all mine?" how can you say no when he's asking so nicely?
You bob your head up and down, pleading him with your watery eyes. He comes so hard inside of you that his body is twitching aggressively in pleasure; his groans turned into soft moans, making you come all over him soon after. You both stay there, still dazed.
You take your panties out of your mouth, "Asshole," but you only earn a sharp slap to your ass.
knock knock knock
"Hey, is everything alright in there? Have you seen Toji?"
I guess the panties weren't as effective as Toji thought.
Safe. Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader | angst
One Chance. Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader | *
Distracted. Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader | *
DRABBLES
Stalker!Mattheo headcanons | *
Car Ride. Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader | *
Heart Locket. Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader | fluff
teasing brat | *
enemies before lovers
Mattheo Riddle x You headcanons
helping toji work out always gets a little distracting. . .
“c’mon, you gotta count, doll.”
toji’s lying flat on the floor, hands behind his head as he starts another set of crunches. you’re sitting comfortably on his hips to keep him in place, but you’re clearly not taking your job very seriously.
every time he sits up, instead of calling out the next number, you lean in and give him a quick kiss.
“that was… um…” you mumble, tapping your chin like you’re actually thinking. “three? no… wait— four?”
he comes up again— another kiss.
“you forgot already?” he says, clicking his tongue after.
“…maybe.”
another crunch. another kiss.
he smirks, finally catching on.
“you’re not even trying to help me work out here.”
“i am!”
“nice try.” he raises a brow. “you’ve had me on the same rep for two minutes.”
you try your hardest to look innocent, but the smile on your face gives you away.
“i just keep losing count..”
“mhm.”
he comes up again, stopping just inches from your face before you can steal another kiss.
“if you want a kiss,” he says, that smug grin spreading further across his face, “you just ask, hm?”
“but this is more fun..” you pout.
he sighs, but one hand settles on your waist.
“fine.”
this time, he leans in first, stealing a kiss before dropping back down.
“…now count for real.”
“one..” you start counting again.
he sits up again— you kiss him.
“…one,” you repeat.
toji just looks at you for a second before letting out a laugh.
older bf! toji thinks your ass is the perfect pillow ᶻ𝗓.ᐟ
chubby!reader, fluff/ suggestive ꒱ art by bassmaberryn on ig !!
most boyfriends rest their heads on a pillow, or their girlfriend’s thighs, or even their stomach. but toji? he uses your ass every damn time.
if you’re laid on your back, he effortlessly flips you over, cozying up next to you and laying his head on your supple flesh. "toji! i was comfy," you protest, trying to get comfortable in your new position. "too bad, doll. my turn to be comfy now."
he drapes one heavy arm under you, the other just below your ass, occasionally reaching up to give it a firm squeeze. sometimes, he’ll settle for your hip instead, still just as comfortable.
your boyfriend is heavy, too. sometimes he’s laid on you until you can’t feel that part of your body, stealing all your warmth like a grumpy oversized cat. if you try to move, (which is pretty much impossible given how much toji weighs you down) — he grumbles, moving you right back to where he wants you. "quit movin," he murmurs, holding you tighter.
every time you talk about losing weight, or ‘slimming down a little,’ toji genuinely looks wounded. "glad to hear my girlfriend doesn’t give a damn about my comfort," he huffs. you smile and roll your eyes playfully, feeling toji press his face against your ass again, this time nuzzling his face into the crack like he was trying to live in there.
it’s laughable how fast he falls asleep against your soft body. one minute he’s telling you some story, or about his day, then he’s drifting off, snoring louder than an old man with breathing difficulties.
he lays his head on you regardless of if you’re wearing clothes or not, but if you are, he’s peeling them off you before you can even protest. "are you even listening, toji?" you say, pausing mid sentence. "yeah, keep goin’," toji responds, pulling your jeans down your legs. "clearly not, you’re too busy taking my clothes off."
"they’re in my way."
he throws your jeans to the side, discarding them like they’re offensive before turning you over, burying his face right in your crack, squeezing both cheeks. "what were y’saying, princess?"
you huff, leaving toji to it. "nothing, perv."
of course, you also get more than enough time to lay on toji’s chest, or his meaty biceps, that is, unless he beats you to it — claiming his spot on your ass instead. if it were up to toji, he’d never use a pillow. what’s the point? he has a thick girlfriend with a big, plush ass to lay on whenever he pleases.
"mm," he hums, nuzzling his cheek against your soft, supple skin, stubble grazing you, "love this perfect ass."
"i’m aware, you never leave it alone."
a/n; short lil drabble while i wrote on my break ugh i’m so tired rn anyone have an ass i can sleep on question mark
summary; many people began to search for a new purpose after the war, but mattheo had already found his
content; post-war, sappy mattheo
word count; 0.8k
Mattheo didn’t know much in the years leading up to the war.
He knew violence. He knew bruised skin that stung like a vow and sharp words that darkened the world around him. He knew hatred and he knew pain.
But quietly, secretly, he’d begun to know you.
You were a long intake a breath after being submerged in the deepest of waters. You were the warmth of sun rays on his scarred skin after he’d spent years freezing.
You were everything he wasn’t, gentle and kind, loving even when he made it impossible. Patient when his emotions took over his mind. Your sweet words and gentle touch were unfamiliar in his violent world, but he wanted to know it all. To know you.
But after the Battle of Hogwarts, after watching his father be defeated by his greatest enemy, Mattheo just wanted to know if you were okay.
He didn’t care about the death glares he received as he shoved through the corridors and he ignored the way his forearm burned with the ghost of his father.
All he needed was you.
The Great Hall was overflowing with wounded. People he had sat beside in Charms were being covered by sheets, boys he had once faced in Quidditch matches were hunched over their loved ones.
He tried his best to block it out. He always did.
“Mattheo?”
He turned so fast he got dizzy.
There you were, shaky hands clutching a mug of steaming tea and bundled in a borrowed blanket. Your face was dirty and bloody, your clothes ripped in some places, but you looked more like home than anything Mattheo had ever seen.
The tension fell from your shoulders as quickly as the mug that slipped between your fingers as you rushed into his embrace, disregarding the way the loud crack caused heads to turn.
“Merlin, you’re okay,” his arms immediately went around you, hands gliding over every inch of you, assessing you for injuries. His voice was choked and he was trembling, but at least he had you in his arms.
Your hands found his face and the small smile that broke through your grim expression was a breath a fresh air.
“I’m okay,” you nodded, thumbs rubbing over his cheekbones in that tender way that made him fall for you again and again. “We’re okay.”
He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in. He wanted to breathe your air for the rest of his life, for the feel of your skin against his to be the last feeling he’d ever know.
In that moment, he knew what his gut had been telling him from the first brush of your skin against his own.
“I love you,” Mattheo whispered the three words that always got stuck in his throat whenever he tried to say them to you. His heart knew it was true, but he’d never said the words aloud. Not to anyone or anything. Not when love could be more painful than any mark burned into his skin.
But he was willing to endure that pain a tenfold if it meant enduring it for you.
For your love.
“I love you so much it hurts my chest,” he murmured against your lips as he curled his arms tighter around your waist, pressing your body completely to his.
You choked out a watery laugh and he felt his own eyes burn at the sound.
“I love you, Mattheo,” you hiccuped, brushing your nose against his.
The first time Mattheo ever dreamt about kissing you, he scolded himself for weeks. How could he desire the touch of a soul so pure when his own was tainted by darkness unimaginable to most? How could he ever deem his lips worthy of kissing yours?
Now, there was nothing he’d rather do than feel your grinning lips against his own.
His fingers dug into your sides as he kissed you, long and deep with the passion he’d been holding back for years.
“We can leave, you know,” he sighed, pulling away to peer down at you. “We can go far away, we can build a new life.”
“You want me in your new life?” you questioned, head tilted to the side and eyes wide with sweet innocence.
He laughed at the question.
“You are my new life, my love. You are the very thing that heals and destroys me. I wasn’t even living until I met you, and now I can’t even imagine a day without you to brighten it.”
A tear slid down your cheek before he reached up to swipe it away.
“Then we’ll go,” you said with a finality that didn’t slip past him.
“We’ll go,” he repeated and leaned down to kiss you once more.
The softness of your lips made him forget his fears and your fingers in his hair brushed away his sins.
In this new life, Mattheo could be whatever he wanted to be.
And all he wanted to be was yours, wholly and unconditionally.
first of all, I love ur work sm! it makes me very happy to read and i hope you’re doing well and taking care of yourself <3
second, I read through your sweetheart reader series and Sweetheart + Mattheo reminded me of that Archie pin-up image with the kiss proof lipstick test
if you don’t mind, i’d love to read something like that eventually! I think it’d fit her very well.
LOTS AND LOTS OF LOVE!!!!
sweetheart!reader tests "kiss-proof" lipsticks on mattheo
this is so so so cute !! thank you for requesting lovely <3
Your vanity is a battlefield full of fallen soldiers. The soldiers being lip products, obviously.
All your other makeup has been pushed aside to make space for your twenty-something lip tints, lip glosses and lipsticks.
“Oh my goodness, talk about false marketing!” you complain when you pull away from his face.
You sigh, recapping the very disappointing lip stick. “So much for long lasting, transfer proof.”
You turn back to Mattheo, tilting his head aside to examine the lipstick print you’ve left on his cheek.
“This one’s a pretty colour, though,” you murmur. “Don’t you think?”
Mattheo stares blankly at you, eyes all hazy.
“Mattheo?” you say, tilting your head. He snaps out of his daze.
“Sorry?” he rasps, you pout — this, unfortunately for Mattheo, only brings more attention to your lips.
“I asked if you liked this colour.” You tilt his head to face his reflection in the mirror.
His eyes widen a little at the sight. Kiss marks in about 50 different shades (he’s being dramatic) litter his face, neck and chest. He looks like he’s been mauled by a bear. Well, a very sweet and affectionate bear.
“Fuck, which one?” he asks, still a little distracted by his appearance.
“This one,” you hum, tapping his cheek. He hopes you don’t feel how much his skin is burning up.
“Oh, uh.” He coughs to clear his throat, desperately trying to cover up how hoarse he sounds. “Yeah, it’s pretty, sweetheart.”
“I know right!” you cheer before picking up a red lipstick.
“It is definitely not practical, though,” you say, shaking your head along with your own critique.
You slide the scarlett lipstick over your lips — Mattheo can’t do anything else but stare at your lips hopelessly.
You wince a little at your reflection.
“Too much?” You turn to Mattheo. Yeah, too much for him to handle.
“No, baby, it’s pretty,” he manages to get out as he watches you fan your lips with your hands, letting it dry fully.
You press a kiss to his collarbone this time, frowning when it leaves a very prominent print.
“We haven’t found one lipstick that’s kiss proof!” you pout. God, he hopes the next kiss is on his lips again. “You must be getting awfully bored with this experiment.”
He can’t respond but you don’t really notice. Instead, you sigh and try yet another lip tint.
“I have a good feeling about this one, though.”
When you’re finished, you turn to Mattheo again, smiling as you admire all the pretty marks you’ve left on him. When your eyes meet his, you hum.
“Hey, your pupils are super dilated,” you comment absentmindedly before pressing another kiss to his cheek. Yeah, he wonders why.
omg this is so effing cute !!!! he’s in so much pain being tortured like this 🥺 also this is so reminding me of that pic of Michael grey gubler (is that his name?) with all the lipstick marks and he looks so happy.
Love seeing Mattheo happily in love with his dilated pupils 🙈🤭
summary | You and your boyfriend bet on who depends on more physical attention, so along with that bet, neither of you were allowed to touch the other. Unless you wanted to admit defeat. So, in the spirit of your little game, even Umbridge added a rule to help play along.
word count | 2.8k
yuna's voicemail | So this fic was in my drafts for more than a year and so the writing might sound weird or cringey because that was younger me hahaha. I wrote this after watching Order of the Pheonix for the first time. Don't come after me, i know it's horrible ahhhhh
The 4th year at Hogwarts had ended so abruptly, death eaters had invaded the Triwizard tournament, Cedric Diggory was almost murdered, and apparently you-know-who has returned, at least that was according to Professor Dumbledore and Harry Potter. Ever since the tournament, everything has been up in flames, but you convinced yourself that next year will be much better or at least hoped it would be. After all you were now the girlfriend of the infamous Mattheo Riddle, who decided to confess all of a sudden to you on the first day of 5th year.
OK, maybe not confess, more like an emotionally constipated mess that consisted of him calling you annoying for occupying his head 24/7 and how he liked you since 3rd year—because of that one time you punched Malfoy for calling Luna Lovegood a lunatic. You never knew violence could get the guy, but c’mon we are talking about Mattheo Riddle here, he isn’t a normal person. That goes without saying that you accepted his ‘heartfelt’ confession and begun a new era, dating Mattheo. Which leads us to this point, at the Astronomy Tower, you and your beloved boyfriend quarreling over who was the most dependent on physical touch, while him being very adamant on refusing the title of “Clingy Boyfriend.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mattheo said exasperatedly as he shakes his head chuckling, “Never have I begged for attention in my entire life! If I recall correctly, you were the one insistent on holding my hand everywhere.” You were annoyed at this point, “Never begged for attention my ass!! You interrupted my conversation with Neville just the other day!” “And all because he was what, ‘Breathing at me weirdly,’ what the hell does that even mean?!” you exclaimed while air quoting what he had said just a few days ago.
You honestly thought that Mattheo would have been more of a distant person when it came to dating, at least that is what you assumed when you watched him from the sidelines for 4 years. Oh, you could not have been more wrong, this boy is always within a few inches of you if he can help it, and his issues with being away for more than 5 minutes has been insane. If any other guy that was not him were to take up your time and attention, Mattheo would stare them down as if they had the guts to steal his most prized possession. You had no problem with this at first; on the contrary it was rather amusing. But it started to get annoying when he followed you everywhere, especially when you tried to sneak away to train defense spells with Harry and the others, which you’ve accepted you’d probably would not attend… at all… Love that for you.
Back to the present…
“What about that one time a first year gave me flowers, and you decided it was the perfect moment to snog me right then and there,” you said in an attempt to prove your case, but we all know how stubborn this man is, and no form of proof would work on him.
“I needed to show him that you’re mine. Can’t have other guys thinking you’re single,” he stated dismissively waving his hand back and forth as he adjusted himself against the wall.
You narrowed your eyes and stared at him as though he had grown a pair of heads.
“Mattheo… For the love of- He is 11! What the fuck do you mean?!” You yelled.
“Who am I kidding. I bet you wouldn’t even last a week without touching me,” you declared quite confidently as you crossed your arms. “Actually, scratch that, I’m not that cruel. You wouldn’t last a day.”
There stood Mattheo and his ego, glaring straight at you, pushing himself away from the wall as he strides towards you. “You have quite a mouth, love.” He approached you with only a few inches separating your personal bubble. “I’m up for the challenge,” he says with a lopsided grin, "of course, only on the condition that you admit that you can’t stand being away from me when I win,” he teased with a smile that sang soon-to-be-winner.
Scoffing and lightly shoving him away with one hand, “In your dreams, Riddle.” You turned away as a blush crept across your cheeks, making your way to leave the Astronomy tower.
“Prepare to lose, babe!” He exclaimed loudly from where he stood.
Walking to your common room, there was a couple of students muttering about a new rule. You couldn’t help but feel curios, so you interrupted the conversation, “Hey, what’s going on?” a young 1st year whom you’ve known to be typically quiet answered, “Professor Umbridge made another decree, we are no longer allowed to play music whilst studying.” She looked down fiddling with her sleeves, “it is not fair, I cannot focus without my songs,” she said devastatingly with a sigh.
“I don’t understand why the Ministry sent that old bag, she’s been controlling our lives since they appointed her headmistress,” your roommate standing to your left added quite dejectedly, “bet she’s going to ban the way we sleep next.”
“Y’know that doesn’t sound so bad, maybe then I wouldn’t have to tolerate your loud snoring,” you said with a smirk.
“Oh, sod off, what is it with you and the way I sleep! Honestly-“ she hmphed while crossing her arms, but then a thoughtful look grows on her face, “What if she bans romantic relationships?” she says, “the whole school would have to feel the wrath of Riddle, and that is not a future I’m looking forward to,” she adds scratching her cheek.
“It’s a possibility, I’m just glad she hasn’t enforced any rules that could isolate Mattheo, since with the whole situation and all…” you muttered in remembrance of you-know-who’s last appearance, “anyways, I’ll see you guys later, I need some rest. Matt’s been giving a bloody headache all morning…” you said with a mutter for the last part.
“You two have an intense study session up there or something?” your roommate said with a snicker and raising eyebrows, “Shut up!” you flipped her off . The 1st year stood confused with her head tilted, “how could studying be so intense, and why revise in the astronomy tower? The wind will blow the papers right of the platform, wouldn’t the library be a wiser choice?” she asks in confusion as to why anyone would think to study in such an unconventional area.
Your roommate stared right at her with a blank face, and thought to herself ‘God dammnit, I’m left with a pipsqueak!’ “Why is it desirable to study in the tower,” the child asked once more.
“Because it makes it easier to do multiplication, now get yer ass outta here before my brain combusts,” she answered hurriedly with an annoyed tone and swats her hand towards the door.
The young 1st year retreats to her dorm with a thoughtful expression, ‘The astronomy tower will enhance our ability to perform multiplication? That is immensely helpful magic, Hogwarts is certainly amazing!’
Within the chambers of your dorm house, you laid across your bed with arms sprayed on both sides. Thinking back to your conversation with your lover, the way he smirked like he won your little game, the way he whispered into your ear, the heat of his gaze, the way he-
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” you yelled to yourself as you rolled back and forth across your bed, your cheeks flaring up in a bright pink that resembled peaches. That night you tried not to think about him at all, for the sake of winning this challenge between the two of you. Did you fail, oh yes. Yes, you did. Barely lasted 5 minutes before you started to dream of him by your side. At least you felt calm in your sleep, just until you could see the real him again in the morning.
The sound of obnoxious clapping had woken you from your daydream, you shook your head regaining focus. You had almost forgotten that you were in DADA class, students aligned in their seats, with a look of boredom and dissatisfaction plaguing their faces. A student behind you sighed and whispered to his desk mate, “what’s the point of defense against dark arts, if we won’t even practice the spells.” His desk mate replied, “we’ll just have to bore them to death with the book index,” he snickered.
You smiled about yourself at their conversation, “Speaking without permission is prohibited in class!” Professor Umbridge spat, “Another act like that and you will be sent to detention,” she adds with an eerie smile across her face. The duo sat straight feeling intimidated and apologized, you were sick of how Hogwarts has changed ever since her arrival, it created a pit of needles in your stomach just watching the wretched woman talk.
As you thought to yourself, you felt a hand move atop your thigh as the feeling of a calloused thumb graze across your skin. You look up from your page and see Mattheo with his head leaning in his hand with a disinterested look on his face. He yawns for a moment and gazes to the side, making eye contact with you. He raised an eyebrow with a wolfish grin, the look on his face told you that he was planning to tease you throughout class. You whispered in a very hushed tone, “Focus Mattheo, otherwise you’ll fail the exams,” he stared back unimpressed, “Princess, be serious with me, you’re not actually learning anything from this shit-show,” he replied quietly with his head turned to your ear.
You peeled his hand off your thigh and set it on his lap, “Hands to yourself, Riddle. Unless you want to admit defeat,” you whispered back with your eyelashes waving at him. He grumbled some incoherent words—something about a stupid bet and stubborn girlfriends— as he crossed his arms over the desk and pretended to focus on whatever Professor Umbridge decided to blab about this time.
You weren’t entirely happy with this bet, you enjoyed the physical attention Mattheo gave you, though you were too stubborn to admit it now, and he wasn’t any different. In the hopes of your boyfriend giving up soon, you push on through the day despite the painful absence of his touch.
The time for lunch had finally arrived, hungry students crowding the entrance of the Great Hall. You decided to sit beside Luna that day, due to not fully trusting yourself that you wouldn’t lay a finger on Mattheo. Luna had brought up another discussion of nargles and their love for jellies, you hadn’t been completely focused as your gaze was owned by Mattheo as he lightly shoves the food in his plate. It seemed that Draco was trying to gain his attention on a subject, but Mattheo’s gaze remained downwards with an expression that read bored and uninterested in anything that wasn’t the poor tatters of meat on his plate.
“Are you listening?” Luna asked.
“Huh? Oh, sorry Luna. Guess I lost focus there,” you muttered an apology as you tried to remember whatever Luna had last mentioned about the Nargles.
“It is quite alright. It must be Wrackspurts fogging your mind again, you should get them cleaned,” she said dreamily.
You blinked in slight confusion but chuckled at the thought of what these creatures would like, “I certainly hope there aren’t any Wrackspurts,” you said as you continued with your meal.
“Did you know that Wrackspurts invade the minds of the lovesick,” she said matter-a-fact.
“Is that right? Well,” taking a sip of pumpkin juice before continuing, ”I can assure you, Luna, I am not lovesick,” you said while flattening the fabric on your lap.
“Very well, but if you wish to check for Wrackspurts, you can visit my dorm for a proper cleaning,” she offered, standing from her spot.
You stood from your seat at the table and intertwined your arm with Luna. As you made your way to leave the Great Hall you took one more glance at Mattheo, that was when you saw him stare piercingly, eyes following your every movement since you left from your spot. Before you avoided his gaze, you decided to stick your tongue out at him in a petty attempt to annoy him, then leave the hall.
He groans and lies his head on edge of the table; Theodore takes notice in his friend’s misery. “What’s up with you?” He asked in an uninterested tone as he ate his meal.
“None of your damn business, Nott,” Mattheo says in a begrudged tone.
“Bet it has to do with your little girlfriend. I haven’t seen you snog her once this morning.” Draco adds smugly.
“What part of ‘none of your business’ did you lot not understand?” he says annoyed, lifting his head from the table. Mattheo retreated from the table, not taking another second with a group that would find enjoyment in his touch-less tragedy.
The rest of your day went on as expected, class after class, revising in the library, and ending the day off with dinner in the Great Hall. To you displeasure, Mattheo was nowhere to be seen, not with his buddies on the Slytherin’s table nor anywhere near you. It might have just been his way to deal with this entire bet; his annoyance from the lack of you was quite painstakingly obvious, which sent a wave of pride through your heart, only you could have such a hold over Mattheo Riddle.
But to think no more of him, you ate away at your mashers and chicken before heading back to the dorms for rest. Though, you weren’t prepared for what was to be enacted in the morning.
Ruckus and overlapping mutters were what drew you in as the new morning came, another day, another will to live as they say. Well, maybe not for Mattheo anymore. The striking newly created decree on the wall was hung up just to bother Riddle’s existence.
Boys & girls are not permitted to be within six inches of each another.
The big full-stop at the end punctuated that there was certainly no room for discussion on this new rule. Not when Umbridge was here. So, how did Mattheo handle all this, you might ask?
“Fuck my life…” Banging his head against the desk, Draco beside him looking rather unimpressed at how a simple rule could get Mattheo so dejected. It wasn’t very in touch with who he was to let a stupid decree by a lady in clashing pink, but Matt had tried so many times to even lightly caress you, and for every single time, somehow Umbridge was there with a wand in hand ready to sting his touch away.
He hated it. Despised it. And was ready to go to war with that woman if it meant he could hold you again. Mattheo figured Umbridge was targeting him in some way, ever since she started her days at Hogwarts, she had kept Riddle under her radar. In class, during lunch, and even checking the attendance of Gryffindors and Slytherins every night. It was utterly suffocating and he could no longer take another second with her in office.
Therefore, the only possible way for your sneaky lover to ever meet his darling Juliet, he would need to sneak out during unholy hours. Could you believe he’d do something like that? Why yes. Though once you find out about this entire plan, you would feel bad for Theodore and Lorenzo for duping the teachers.
It was one past midnight when you received an owl at your door, a little paper that read ‘meet me at the tower.’ Only Mattheo would dare to break you out of the dorms at this time, you thought to yourself. As he wished, you escaped to the tallest tower in Hogwarts, and as expected a shadow of a lover greeted you. This would have been the best time to rub his little game like salt in his wounds, teasing him about how a rule that practically banned him from touching you must have been absolute hell. You couldn’t wait to hear his defiant excuses. I mean, that was what you imagined would happen.
Before long, Mattheo met you in the center of the tower before you could reach him. Treading towards you in long steps until untimely claiming your lips in a burning seal. His hands wandered without destination on your body, clenching to your beautiful self like it had been months if not years since he last caressed your figure. His bold greeting took an extra few seconds for you to render, by then you joined and played back with your tongue against his. Nothing else could matter more than your being in Mattheo’s grasp. Tonight was a mark to Riddle’s pride; he was not made for days without your warmth and touch. He craved it like a moth to a flame, and he would rather burn than to be void of it for any longer.
For once in his life, he just might help Potter out to drive that pink hag away.
Nothing else could matter more than your being in Mattheo’s grasp. Tonight was a mark to Riddle’s pride; he was not made for days without your warmth and touch. He craved it like a moth to a flame, and he would rather burn than to be void of it for any longer.
OKOKOK THE ENDING IS THE SWEETEST!!!! gushing over him just being an annoyed pouty man all day 🥺🥺🥺 he’s so soft when he’s in love, this was so cute yuni!
Also the little
“Prepare to lose, babe!” He exclaimed loudly from where he stood.
And sticking your tongue out at him pettily I live for hehe
im so sick & my bf is came over to take care of me<33
i’ll update this later, i’m so sleepy & i just wanted to get this out<33 & for my girl @puddlesoffrogs get well soon💗
You've been on the couch all day.
You know because the light has changed — what came through the curtains this morning thin and pale, and now it's the thick amber of late afternoon, going orange at the edges, and you haven't moved. Your whole body aches in that deep, bone-level way that makes even the idea of sitting up feel like too much to ask of yourself.
You hear his key in the door and you don't move. You just close your eyes and listen to the familiar sounds of him coming home — his bag, his keys, his footsteps — and then the footsteps stop.
"Baby."
His voice is soft. You open your eyes and he's crouching down in front of the couch, still in his jacket, looking at you with that expression he saves just for you, the one that has nothing performed about it at all.
"Hi," you say. Your voice comes out rough.
"Hi." He reaches out and touches your face, palm against your cheek, and his hand is cool from outside and it feels so good against your skin that your eyes water a little. "How long have you been like this?"
"Since this morning."
"You should've called me."
"You were at work."
"I don't care." He brushes your hair back from your face slowly, just looking at you. "I would've come home. You know that."
You nod. Your throat feels thick, not just from being sick.
"Are you in pain?" he asks.
"Everything hurts," you admit quietly. "My whole body."
Something moves through his expression. He stands up, shrugging his jacket off, and sits on the edge of the couch beside you. "Okay," he says, gently. "Let's get you feeling better."
He makes you soup first, appearing back from the kitchen with a bowl and a glass of water and some medicine, sitting beside you while you eat, his hand rubbing slow careful circles on your back the whole time. Not talking much. Just there. Present in the way he always is when it matters, this quiet steadiness that you didn't know you needed until you had it.
When you finish he takes the bowl, sets it aside, and looks at you.
"Do you want a bath?" he asks. "It might help with the aching."
You think about it. Think about how much your body hurts, how the idea of hot water sounds like the best thing in the world, and then think about how heavy your limbs feel and how even the walk to the bathroom seems like too much right now.
"I don't think I can," you say honestly.
"You don't have to do anything," he says. "I'll do it. Okay? I'll take care of it."
You look at him for a moment.
"Okay," you say softly.
He runs the bath while you sit on the edge of it, wrapped in your blanket, listening to the water fill. He adds something that smells like eucalyptus, and the steam rises and fills the bathroom with it, warm and clean, and already you feel your chest loosen a little just breathing it in.
He kneels in front of you when it's ready.
"I've got you," he says quietly. "Just lean on me."
He helps you in slowly, carefully, one hand holding yours and one at your back, making sure you're steady, and when you finally sink into the water you feel your whole body exhale at once. The heat wraps around you, and the aching — not gone, but softer, pushed back a little, and you tip your head back and just breathe.
Theo sits on the edge of the tub beside you. He doesn't rush. He just lets you have it for a few minutes, the quiet and the heat and the steam, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder so you know he's there.
Then he says, "Can I wash your hair?"
You look up at him. He's looking back at you, patient, waiting.
"Yeah," you say. "Please."
He reaches for your shampoo. You watch him look at the bottle for a second, reading the back of it with that quiet thoroughness he brings to everything, making sure he's doing it right, and something about that small thing makes your chest ache in the sweetest way.
"Close your eyes," he says.
You close your eyes.
His hands are gentle. That's the thing that gets you — how careful he is, working the shampoo through your hair slowly, fingers moving against your scalp in a way that makes every single muscle in your body go loose. You feel him make sure he reaches everywhere, thorough and unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else he'd rather be doing.
"That feels so good," you murmur.
"Yeah?" His voice is soft.
"Mm." You can barely keep your eyes closed properly, you're so relaxed. "You're really good at that."
He doesn't say anything, but you feel the way his hands go a little gentler, like your saying it did something to him.
He rinses your hair slowly, one hand shielding your face from the water, tilting your head back with the kind of care you'd give something precious. Then conditioner, the same way — working it through, patient, giving it time to sit before he rinses that too.
When he's done he just rests his hands on your shoulders for a moment, and you open your eyes, and he's looking at you with an expression so open and so soft that you have to look away for a second because it's almost too much.
"Better?" he asks.
"So much better," you say. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me."
"Theo—"
"You don't have to thank me for this," he says, quietly but clearly, like it's important to him that you understand it. "Ever. Okay?"
You look at him. "Okay," you say softly.
He helps you out, wraps you in the big towel that's been warming up in the dryer, and steers you gently back to the bedroom. He finds your softest pajamas without having to ask, lays them out while you dry off, and then sits on the edge of the bed while you change, close enough to help if you need it but not hovering.
When you climb into bed he pulls the covers up over you, tucking them around you the way you like, and then he goes around to his side and gets in beside you.
You roll toward him immediately.
He opens his arm without a word and you tuck yourself into his side, your head on his chest, and his arm comes around you and holds you close. His other hand finds your hair and starts moving through it slowly, the same way he did in the bath, and you feel your whole body sink.
"You're so warm," you say quietly.
"Good." His voice rumbles under your ear. "Sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"You're exhausted."
"That's different from tired."
His hand keeps moving through your hair. Slow. Easy.
"Theo," you say.
"Mm."
"I really love you."
His chest rises and falls slowly under your cheek. His arm tightens around you, just slightly, the way it does when something gets to him that he doesn't have words for yet.
"I love you too," he says, quiet and sure. "So much."
You close your eyes.
Outside the window the last of the amber light fades to blue, and the apartment is warm and still around you, and his hand doesn't stop moving through your hair, and you are safe and held and taken care of, completely, by the person who would have left work the second you called.
THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL I LOVE ITTTTT 😭 I also really want a bath right now (but my plug doesn’t work) and soup omg please transport me into this fic it’s so precious and Theo is so good to us 🥺🥺🥺
Present in the way he always is when it matters, this quiet steadiness that you didn't know you needed until you had it.
warnings: mature content. nerd!Tom uses you (and your pussy) as a study reward. no p in v, just some messy grinding, he cums on our pussy, cum play, fingering, LOTS OF PRAISE!
author's note: I intended this to be shorter but ig I have to make up for my absence anyway so...
wordcount: 1,9k
Innocent cuddling with Tom is nearly unheard of. Whenever he has you waiting for him on his bed after a long day of reading and revising for his next presentation or exam, his first instinct is to hold you close, to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and breathe in your scent.
And sometimes, right then, he'd drift off to a peaceful nap. His larger body splayed over yours as his chest rises and falls gently—and you'd join him not too long after, relishing the rare moments you get to have him just for yourself, your fingers tracing the subtle muscles on his back, soothing the strain of supporting his tireless efforts to remain Hogwarts' top student.
However, most of the time, it is not quite that innocent.
Because not only is your boyfriend a nerd who spends nearly every single minute of his free time combing through a massive pile of books and documents, no, he's also a needy freak, contrary to the belief of perhaps… everyone else.
Believe it or not, he enjoys being on top of you more than he enjoys being on top of every class—he said so himself after all, intoxicated by the feeling of your sweet pussy squeezing around him, his mind hazy with lust.
But still, they were his words.
And Tom lives up to them. No matter how tired his eyes are or how much his back aches from being hunched over books all day, he still finds time for you, finds the energy to rut his thick cock into your warm walls, even if gently and awfully slowly so.
Today has been no different. You've been in his dorm for hours while he is preparing for an upcoming Potions project, which he's only aware of because he's Slughorn's favourite student and he let him know. Claiming he needs to be ahead of everyone else if he wanted to score another Outstanding, Tom naturally hasn't rested since.
You do not try to argue with him anymore, try to tell him that even if he started two weeks after everyone else, he'd still receive just the same grade.
Instead, you've been watching him, splayed across his huge bed, which he has the honour of owning as a Prefect and Head Boy, distracting yourself with a novel (non-educational, obviously) until he had enough and joined you. The sun had just started to set at that point, weak rays bathing his dorm in a subtle golden glow. Tom crossed the bed, crawled over you, and fit his body perfectly between your legs, resting his head on your chest.
And now, just a few minutes later—all of his usual innocence has evaporated at last. His hips rut his full-blown erection against your lower tummy, his hot breaths coming fast and laboured as his face stays buried in the crook of your neck.
"So good to me," he whimpers, one of his warm hands on your thigh, holding you open for him, the other interlocked with yours. "So patient."
You hum in agreement, angling your hips upwards so as to encourage him to finally get on with it—and Tom gets the hint, although a little differently than you anticipated.
He flips up your skirt, having it pool around your waist, and then sits back and studies you. His gaze is fixed on the damp spot that has formed on the cotton lining of your panties, swallowing the urge to be inside you.
"So pretty," he murmurs, his thumb brushing along the length of your slick underwear, tracing your slit through the fabric until he reaches what he knows to be your clit—applying gentle pressure, circling slowly with just the tip of his thumb.
Tom observes your every reaction—from the way your lips part for a silent gasp to your hips bucking off the bed, chasing his touch, begging him for more. And if he is being truthful with himself… neither does he have the patience to wait any longer.
He hurriedly tugs his trousers and underwear down his legs, carelessly discarding them somewhere on the floor before he hovers over you again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—but as soon as you hook your fingers into your panties, he grabs your wrist and stops you.
"Don't undress," he whispers, looking down at you with his gentle, brown eyes, placing your hand beside you. "I'd like for you to keep them on for now."
You meet his gaze with a confused expression, but you nod nonetheless—anything if he finally lets you feel him.
His head dips to brush kisses down the side of your neck, and the next moment his body lowers to rest on top of yours—his cock perfectly nestled between your thighs, rubbing against your clothed pussy with every slight twitch of his hips.
"Tom, please, I—" you whine, wrapping your legs around his lower back, pressing yourself up against him. "I've been waiting so long, please don't— oh—"
"Shhh," Tom murmurs with a strained voice, nipping at your throat gently, grinding his length along your soaked panties, the head of his cock brushing over your swollen clit with every tender move of his hips. "Need you like this. It'll feel so good, I promise. You trust me, right?"
You nod eagerly, trying your best to concentrate on the blissful, tingly feeling in your core whenever you feel the slightest friction where you desire it most. "Yes, Tommy. Please, more."
He hums lowly in approval, his hands at the back of your head, tilting your head towards his to kiss you thoroughly this time. "Good girl. So perfect, allowing me to have you like this."
You open your mouth to respond, though the only sound that leaves you is a broken moan, thighs trembling as he sets a cruel pace, making sure to give your clit just enough attention to make you soft and pliant beneath him.
Tom continues with this for what feels like an eternity—rutting his hot, thick erection against your pussy, swollen and dripping with need at a cruel, slow pace. Your arousal has long soaked through the thin cotton fabric and inevitably coated his cock in a glistening layer of your combined arousal, his precum adding to the mess where your bodies are tightly connected.
You're so drunk on the feeling of his cock grinding over your pussy, you at first don't even recognise the warmth of your climax building low in your tummy—but he does.
Because it is not solely you whose senses are screaming for more.
Tom craves the feeling of your slick pussy, of your tight heat embracing him, pulsing around him—and so, he gently tugs your panties to the side, watching as his cock disappears between your glistening folds.
He nearly comes then and there just from the sweet, wet warmth of your skin on his, groaning as he slips upwards with ease, his hips stuttering at the increased sensitivity. "Fuck, darling— what on earth are you doing to me?"
His tip reappears to bump against your sensitive bud, having you moan in pleasure, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, holding his gaze. "Don't— don't stop."
Tom shakes his head, lips parted as his breathing grows heavier with each passing second, and brushes a kiss on your jaw. "I wouldn't dream of it."
And then, a split second later, his pace quickens—he's grinding against you with purpose now, mumbling strings of praises while he makes you watch his swollen cock make a mess of your pussy, gliding between your folds as though it had belonged there all this time.
The room fills with your combined sounds of pleasure, with the slick noises of him gliding between your puffy, sticky folds and his endless praises for you.
When you get too wet, he uses his thumb to keep himself from slipping out, and you nearly lose it at the increased pressure and precision.
If he doesn't stop this soon, you'll lose your damn mind.
"Tom, I need you inside— inside, please," you cry out, your climax approaching fast while you can't do anything but take what he's currently giving you—perfectly angled thrusts right over your clit, which have you seeing stars.
But Tom has different plans.
He sits up just slightly, letting his cock slip free to guide it lower towards your entrance—but instead of pushing inside, he merely lets his tip bump against your drooling hole, with three or four shallow thrusts. Enough to give you an idea of what he'd feel like inside—heavy and leaky, thick veins bulging beneath his skin and stretching across his entire length, yet not to actually push inside.
Damn him.
As hopeful as you were—the feeling is gone as soon as it came.
"I want you to come for me," Tom rasps, grinding against your sloppy folds again. "Just like this. Nothing else—just me, here."
"You're— oh God, you're impossible," you whine, but cannot deny that your orgasm isn't far—and Tom knows it.
With every rough thrust, his hand guides himself to where you need him most, and within minutes he has you right where he wants you—on the very brink of your climax, begging the waves to consume you whole.
Tom too is close, breathlessly whispering praises as his head dips to your neck once more. "So beautiful, sweetheart, so good to me— always so patient and pliant, I— fuck—"
His thrusts falter then, cock twitching between your sticky folds, a throaty groan escaping him when ropes of thick, white cum paint your glistening pussy opaque white. It's so much, you can feel it seeping down the length of your slit, gathering at your neglected hole before it drips onto the silk comforter beneath you.
Tom allows his senses to return to him before he lifts himself off you, appreciating the mess between your thighs—and when you try to close your legs, he stops you.
"Just a little bit longer, darling. Show me how pretty you look," he says, and you obey.
His fingers trace the white residue, smearing it where it belongs—in between your folds and over your clit. You whimper, back arching off the bed at the touch, and just like you've wanted it all along, two of his long, slender fingers gently slip inside your warm walls, using his cum as additional lube—not that you need it, but the mere sight of it has his cock hardening once more.
Tom curls his fingers just right—rubbing over that perfect spot inside you while his other hand takes care of your puffy clit.
"Tommy, mmph— fuck!"
A smirk tugs on his lips at the state of you—all fucked out even though he never let you feel him inside you in the first place, his fingers eliciting the sweetest moans from your bite-swollen lips, teary eyes staring up at him.
Just how he likes you.
"Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how good you can truly be."
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
—
masterlist. | oneshots.
PAIRING: lorenzo berkshire x fem!reader (she's also an implied slytherin but it's never once explixitly said, if I remember correctly)
GENRE: angst
TW: explicit sexual content (brief), maybe cursing?
WORD COUNT: 1.1k
A/N: omfg i haven't written enzo in sooooo long, it healed something in me haha
SONGS: obsessed by Olivia Rodrigo
☆ MASTERLIST TAG LIST PART2
Questions. You hated them these days.
“Oh so you’re dating Enzo now?”
“Wasn’t he with…?”
Questions. And worse, doubts. People were doubting you, and whether or not you really were Enzo’s type. Sure, you hadn’t been exclusive for that long yet, but people, after his last relationship, turned to you with expectations you felt like you couldn’t jump.
You almost wanted to bring this issue to him.
Almost.
But you didn’t, because you were afraid he’d say he loved you more but his eyes would show otherwise. You hated the thought of seeing anything of her lingering on his mind, in his life.
Anyone would have sworn you were in love with her if they’d known how much you’d been thinking of her.
Somehow, this girl did not leave your mind for more than an hour at best, because there was evidence everywhere that this girl had once lived between the walls of the same castle as you. She graduated last year, which made her two years older than you. One year older than Enzo.
It’s not even a big age gap, neither between them, nor between you and her. But it was just perfectly enough to make you feel like a kid. While she was probably already having adult problems, you were still having Quidditch bruises and curfew.
Her name was everywhere — in yearbooks, on goblets and medals in glass cabinets (turned out she had been extraordinary in Potions and Herbology), and in overheard conversations. There was a picture of her you had seen in Slughorn’s office — bright eyes, shiny hair and a proud smile — that made you realise you’d only see this girl a few times while she had been studying at Hogwarts. You couldn’t help but wonder if Enzo had ever stopped by to look at her since they’d broken up.
No wonder she had earned a spot on The Shelf, though. Slughorn still talked about her essays.
Prefect.
Head Girl.
Fuck, you knew she was a Virgo, too. So neat, so detail-oriented, what other sign would achieve so much without breaking in the process?
”Why would he even settle for a Quidditch player when he had her?”
Enzo, in the meanwhile, was clueless. Clueless about how his ex-girlfriend’s passive presence ruled your every day, about how obsessed you were becoming with her and with finding the answer to this one question: what made him choose you after he had someone so close to perfect?
“What’s on your mind, beautiful?” he ran his fingers through your hair as your head rested on his lap. The common room was quiet, only a few students had been out here, the rest were probably in their dormitories. Your notes of Quidditch strategies lay on your chest discarded, though you should have been breezing theough them instead of internally obsessing over a girl you had never spoken to.
“Huh?” you mumbled. “Oh, uh, nothing.”
”’Beautiful’. Did he call her that too?”
He frowned at you — he knew you better than this. “C’mon, Y/N, lying? You know you’re terrible at that,” he teased with a soft smile.
He was crazy about you, but that somehow made it even worse. Because if someone could love a simple girl like you this much, imagine how much he could have loved someone so accomplished. You were so blinded by something that had already passed that you slowly forgot to get out of your own head and live what was yours — his love.
“So, what’s bothering you, baby?” he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.
You almost said it out loud.
Almost asked, ”Did you love her like this?”
But refrained last-minute and sighed, “I’m just stressed about Quidditch.”
His expression softened and he gave you a reassuring look, “You’ll crush Hufflepuff, my love. Don’t you worry a second.”
You tried giving him a grateful smile, but could only stretch your lips as far as am awkward pout.
He smirked nonetheless and leaned closer to whisper, “Let me just take your mind off of it for tonight,” and before you knew it, you were already led by him, hand in hand towards his dorm room.
It didn’t slow your racing thoughts down, though — in fact, it had only made them worse.
”Is she good in bed?”
”Does she give great head…”
”Do you think about her— no, I’m fine, it doesn’t matter.”
You couldn’t stop thinking about her and her and her, even as his fingers worked inside of you, even as your mouth was sliding up and down in sync with your hand on his cock.
You wished to forget about her, for one night at least.
You knew he loved you.
But why was it not enough for you to understand that a sunflower was never supposed to compete with a lily?
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” his voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
You were lying in bed side-by-side, but you rushed to put clothes on, feeling less than anytime before, feeling like he deserved soft, spotless skin over fading scars and blue-green bruises.
“Yeah.”
“Then why do I feel like you’re somewhere else?” he kept running his fingertips up and down your arm soothingly.
You chewed on your lips, helpless, torn between saying it and staying quiet. Because if you said it… there were too many possibilities. He could either blow up on you. Be mad at you. Tell you you were insane. Or worst-case scenario: admit she was still important to him. More important than you, and that you could never take up as much space in his heart as she had.
Or, if you stayed silent, it could open the already existing hole and turn it into a gaping chasm between the two of you.
So you decided to speak a few silent seconds later, “I sometimes wonder if you miss her.”
“Who?”
“Your ex.”
He could tell he frowned, even without looking at him, “Florence?”
“Yeah.”
“You think I do?” he asked, not accusingly, not mad, just surprised.
“Well, I mean…” you sighed, there was no going back now. “She seemed nice.”
Liar.
She seemed everything, effortlessly. She for sure was well-read — she had been a Ravenclaw after all. She was talented at every subject, good with the kids she tutored, and probably was the life of every party. She was it and he was trying to convince you he didn’t miss her?
You felt so young seeing her on every corner you turned.
He sighed, then, and pulled you into his chest. He smelled like cedar and sandalwood, and something so uniquely him. “Yeah, she was nice,” he started. “But there was a reason we broke up. You think I love you because you remind me of her. I love you because you don’t.”
“Really?” your voice sounded almost hopeful.
“Really,” he kissed the top of your head.
The reassurance felt like a hot shower after a long day — nice, easing your mind, but still burning your skin just slightly.
You let out a soft sigh as you felt yourself relax into him, and laughed at something he said.
cherry: anon i hope you see this!! i accidentally deleted the request oopsie…also my first ever request!! eek this makes me so happy you have noo idea, here’s the fic you requested and i hope you love it lots! (its kinda bad im sorryyy) 🩷
mattheo riddle x reader drabble ♡ (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
“so you choped it all off? its gone?” mattheo asks, as he touches your once long locks of hair. it wasn’t exactly the reaction you had wanted from him to say the least.
“yep! its a pixie cut, you see? i was kind of going for the audrey hepburn look!” you say, chipper as ever. you refuse (refuse!) to let your spirits be dampened by a man of all things. mattheo lets out a breath as he stares at your new haircut.
“damn…you look so different…” he breathes. you can feel your heart sink a bit, maybe the cut wasn’t as good an idea as you thought?
“good or bad different?” you poke his chest playfully.
“yea good…very, very good.” he murmurs in complete awe. despite yourself, you smile cheekily at him, pressing a hand against his chest.
“your heart is pounding!”
“it is not!” mattheo resists, rolling his eyes before pulling you in for a kiss. and another. and another. he can’t help himself, you just look so damn attractive in that cut!!
