.✦ ݁˖ legend * indicates smut. All characters are aged up as consenting adults. MDNI 18+ blog, read all warnings and note I am not responsible for your media consumption.
.✦ ݁˖ oneshots
fu in my head, pt 2
bound*
best friend's brother
don't be so underestimating*
watch your mouth*
caught up in relaxation*
sunglasses at night
the hanging fear
ignited reunion*
a clumsy grab
hidden strengths
sucking isn't always bad*
a whole lot of pink
succumb to the lust*
she will be loved, part 2*, epilogue
carousel
the trouble with you
speed dating
midnight dates
.✦ ݁˖ quick reads
ass date hc
gentle lover
lay all your love
fuckin in the bath*
summer's afternoon*
toxic bf hc
sleepy boy
guard dog couple
nightmares
lazy mornings
carnival hc
life with theo hc
worm
precious
.✦ ݁˖ AUs
fast and furious
Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow Hill and now he’s in your home. He’s dangerous, obsessive, and very, very out of control… but maybe you’ve been just as twisted all along.
Word Count: 5005
Warnings: aged up characters. Mild spoilers for season 2A. (This is a fictional continuation to episode 4) Filthy, feral, possessive smut that includes choking, spit play, biting, bruises, degradation, and obsessive “you’re mine” energy. Mentions of bullying. Read at your own risk (or pleasure).
Author's note: This is unhinged. I’ve been reading way too many feral monster romances lately and it shows.
(( Part 2 - Possessive )) - (( Part 3 - If I Catch You )) - (( Part 4 - Reflections )) - (( Part 5 - Unleashed )) - (( Masterlist ))
Nights were always the same in your house.
Books stacked in uneven towers around the living room. Quiet music humming from a scratched record in the corner. Tea cooling too quickly in your chipped mug, forgotten while you read the same page for the third time. Outside, only the occasional hoot of an owl or the low hum of wind pushing through brittle trees...
But something feels off. You hear the crash before you hear the door. Something hits it, hard. Once.
You stand up, mug half-raised, eyes flicking to the dark hallway. Your fingers tighten around the ceramic.
A second crash, louder, like whatever’s out there isn’t just knocking… It’s coming in.
The third hit splits the air with a brutal crack and the door gives out completely, slamming against the inside wall with a violent snap of wood and metal. A burst of cold air rushes in with it, slapping your skin, carrying the scent of wet earth and something... sharp.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re still holding your tea like a shield, your free hand presses instinctively against your chest, like it might hold your heart in place. And then he’s there.
Tyler Galpin.
Soaked by rain, barefoot and shirtless. Blood streaks his skin in clotted half-moons, dirt smudges his collarbones. His chest rises and falls like he’s outrun hell, and maybe he has. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, jaw tight, lips split and bleeding and those eyes, they are haunted, feral, unmistakable... They find you instantly and they don’t let go.
He doesn’t speak, he just leans against the inside of your shattered doorway and turns the lock like he still believes it works, like he’s claimed this space now.
You haven’t seen him in years. Not since you graduated High School, not since he was dragged away, eyes dead and wrists bound, not since the last time he ruined something that mattered to you.
You take a single, cautious step backward.
His body goes taut, something flashes in his expression… Panic? Instinct? It’s gone too fast to catch.
“Don’t,” he growls, his voice low and cracked from disuse — or screaming — you can’t tell. “Just... don’t.”
You want to run. You want to scream until your lungs rip open but you remember how fast he used to be on the field, in the woods, in the halls of Jericho High, where he used to grab your backpack just to unzip it and let the contents spill.
“Oops,” he’d smirk, stepping over your glasses like trash. Once, he crushed a limited edition of Wuthering Heights beneath his boot like it was a joke.
You didn’t know then that he had a monster inside him. You're still not sure of what he is now.
“What… what do you want?” Your voice doesn’t feel like your own.
He licks blood from his lip and gives you a slow, shaky smile, too wide and too familiar. Something twisted and boyish in it, like he’s trying it on after years in storage.
“What do you think, nerd?” The word is a slap, it lands in the hollow of your ribs like it still belongs there. “Let me guess, you still live alone, still read by candlelight, still got all your little rules and rituals…“ he continues, dragging himself away from the door, limping toward your kitchen like he’s done this before.
You don’t answer. Your eyes are locked on the blood painting his side. His skin glows pale in the low light, broken only by bruises and grit and the faintest shimmer of sweat. He smells like pine needles and violence.
You should run, but you stay rooted to the floor like a frightened animal, spine stiff and limbs too slow to matter.
He flings the fridge open like he owns it, snorts at the contents, then yanks out a Tupperware of leftover pizza. He eats it cold, no hesitation, no questions, no shame. Then he drinks your milk straight from the carton.
You wonder how many people are dead.
You wonder if you’re next.
When he turns back to you, something in his face shifts, softens maybe, though it’s impossible to say where Tyler ends and the Hyde begins. His head tilts, wolf-like. He breathes in.
“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a delight.
“I should be,” you murmur.
He shrugs, his hand leaving a red smear on the fridge door as he leans against it.
“Yeah.” he smiles.
And for a second — just a second — you forget how to breathe. Then his legs falter. He catches himself on the counter with a grunt, knuckles white. His ribs seize visibly under the bruises, and suddenly, the shimmer on his skin isn't rain. It’s blood.
“Tyler,” you whisper, your voice thin, too soft, too caring. “You’re…”
“Bleeding?” He huffs, not quite a laugh. “No shit.”
He turns slowly, lifting his arm to inspect the gash across his side. The skin beneath is torn, deep, slick with half-dried blood and something darker.
Then, with unsettling calm, he looks at you. “You're gonna fix it.”
Your stomach knots. “I’m not a nurse.”
“You took a first aid class in High School.”
You hate that he remembers. Your eyes flick toward the bathroom cabinet and he notices. His gaze sharpens, tracking the subtle shift in your body like a predator clocking a twitch in wounded prey.
“You're not gonna make me ask again, are you?” His tone shifts, dangerous and tired all at once. “Because I'm not in the mood to beg, not tonight.”
You nod once, slowly backing toward the hallway. His blood is still wet on the floor, his side is still torn open. He won’t chase you.
He can’t.
You make it halfway to the bathroom before you pivot and run, not toward the cabinet but toward the back door. The deadbolt slams open under your hand but not fast enough… he’s already moving. You hear the hiss of pain in his breath as he lunges, the drag of his foot against the wood. You’re almost through the door when his hand wraps around your arm and yanks.
You crash backward into his chest with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the doorframe. He shoves it closed with the flat of his palm and you jolt at the sound. The lock clicks. He doesn’t let go of your arm.
You twist. “Let me go…”
“I said don’t,” he snaps, dragging you back into the hallway.
You struggle against him, wild, stupid, panicked.
“You’re hurt…” you gasp. “You’re bleeding…”
“Not enough to stop me from breaking every door in this place,” he growls, slamming your back against the wall. His forearm braces your shoulder, not crushing but strong enough that you feel how easy it would be for him to really hurt you. He doesn’t but his face is inches from yours now. His voice is ragged. “You really think you’re gonna outrun me? After everything?”
“I had to try,” you reply.
His lips curl. “Yeah, you always run when it gets real.”
You open your mouth to spit back something, anything, but the way he’s looking at you makes the words choke in your throat. He’s staring through you like he knows every version of you you’ve tried to build since high school and doesn’t buy a single one.
His hand slides up the door beside your head, not touching you, but blocking any chance you have of slipping past.
“I’m bleeding all over your floor,” he snaps, stepping even closer, his breath grazing your cheek. So you’re gonna patch me up, and you’re gonna do it now.”
You flinch at his tone, but something in your body responds to the command before your mind catches up.
He pulls back a little, just enough to look down at himself and at the red streaks drying over his ribs. You stare at him for a beat too long. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, so you nod. You push past him stiffly, heart still racing, and disappear into the hallway. He doesn’t follow but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way.
You grab the first aid box from beneath the sink with trembling hands and return, half-expecting him to be gone.
He isn’t.
He’s sitting on a chair in the kitchen, slouched but alert, blood still painting his skin in angry smears. Still shirtless, still terrifying… And still waiting for you.
You kneel beside him. He doesn’t speak but watches you unsnap the kit. Your hands still shaking. You reach for the antiseptic, the gauze, the tweezers… the routine familiar and comforting in the worst possible way.
When you press the gauze against the deep slash just under his ribs, he hisses so you pause.
“Keep going,” he demands.
You clean the wound in silence, your breath shallow, his eyes pinned to your face. Not your hands, not the blood, but your face. It makes your skin prickle.
“You always flinched when I touched you,” he says suddenly. You freeze and his voice lowers, almost curious. “Still do.”
You don’t look up. “I was scared of you.”
He leans forward just slightly, voice dark and unreadable. “You still are.”
You tape the bandage down, too rough on purpose. He doesn’t even wince.
“You’re not going to say thank you, are you?”
His smile is slow, crooked and dangerous.
“No,” he replies. “But I’ll let you live.” And that, apparently, is enough.
Your knees are still weak when you rise, your hands stained with blood — his blood — the sticky warmth drying in smudges across your palms. You don’t look at him when you speak. You can’t.
“I’ll… I’ll get you something to wear,” you say, barely louder than your pulse. “It’s cold.”
You can feel his gaze on your back, heavy and unrelenting, but he says nothing, just lets you walk away.
You move like a sleepwalker down the hall, past the broken front door and the dark smear on the wall where he caught you mid-escape. Up the stairs. Each step is deliberate, slow and quiet, as if noise might remind him to follow.
You shut your bedroom door behind you with a soft click, not quite a lock — you wouldn’t dare — but a boundary... Fragile and pointless. Your back hits the door as you exhale for the first time in what feels like hours. And then you see it. Your phone is right where you left it, on the nightstand. It’s a lifeline, a chance.
You cross the room fast, heartbeat stuttering in your throat as your fingers close around it. The screen lights up instantly, casting your pale face in cold blue. No signal, of course, but maybe a text could send when the bars flicker back. You don’t need much, just one word. You start to type.
HELP.
The bedroom door creaks open behind you. You freeze. Not because of the sound — soft and slow, not violent — but because you didn’t hear him coming up the stairs. He’s just there. You turn, breath caught halfway in your chest.
Tyler stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, not angry, just calm... Too calm. He looks at your hand, at the phone glowing in your grip and then, finally, his eyes meet yours.
Your throat goes dry. He takes one step into the room. You don’t move. He takes another. Your spine finds the dresser behind you. You feel the edge of the wood bite into your back.
“Give it to me,” he says, extending his hand like he’s asking for something harmless like a book or a pen.
You hesitate and that’s all it takes. He’s on you before you can blink, not violent but inevitable. He moves with eerie precision, stepping into your space like it belongs to him, like you belong to him. His body presses close, not touching but looming, a solid wall of heat and blood and sweat-slick skin. His hand slides between you and the dresser, his fingers curl around your phone.
You don’t resist. He lifts it between you both, studying it, then, without a word, without effort, he snaps it clean in half. The sound is sharp, a vicious crack of plastic and glass that echoes off the walls.
You flinch. He lets the pieces fall to the floor in a final, careless gesture. Then he looks at you and you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you start to feel lightheaded.
He doesn’t step back, doesn’t ease the pressure. He just watches you, his eyes dragging over your face, down your throat, to the frantic rise and fall of your chest. He’s drinking in your fear, your submission, your fury. It makes something in him relax, not soften, just… settle, like now, finally, things are exactly how they’re supposed to be.
“Where are the clothes ?” he asks, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
He smiles, darkly. “You came up here to dress me, remember?”
You swallow. Your hand brushes the closet door as if by instinct. You open it and pull a folded hoodie from the shelf. You don’t even look at him when you toss it his way.
He catches it one-handed, lifts it to his face, sniffs and smirks.
“Smells like that asshole who took you to prom and that you let kiss you under the bleachers.”
Your cheeks go hot. “He’s not…”
“You’re still seeing him?”
“No.”
He stares at you a long moment, then pulls the hoodie on slowly, wincing as it stretches over his shoulder. He exhales through his nose, then mutters, low, disgusted: “It reeks like cheap cologne and insecurity”
Your chest is tight. You don’t want to hear him anymore, not his voice, not the memories, not how easily he slips back into your life like a nightmare on repeat. Without a word, you walk across the room, past the bookshelf, straight to your desk.
You grab your perfume from the top shelf and spin around, sharp and quick, before he can get another word out. He raises an eyebrow just as you lift the bottle.
Pshht.
You spray him once, directly across his chest. A quick burst, meant to shut him up. The scent blooms instantly in the warm air, floral, amber and something darker underneath. It’s yours and it’s so familiar that it makes your throat catch.
He inhales, startled and then stills. You turn away without meeting his eyes… But you brought his attention to this side of your room. You see it happen in the mirror, the moment he notices what’s pinned to the wall.
You try to move, to step between him and the view but he’s already stepping closer.
“Wait,” you say, too late.
He limps forward, shoulder brushing past you. You grab the bottle tighter, knuckles white. Your shame, your obsession was there, exposed in cheap printer ink and curling edges. Articles, clippings and handwritten notes, circles around words like “Hyde” and “Willow Hill“ and his mugshot, front and center.
He doesn’t move for a long time but his eyes trail over your shoulder, scanning the fragmented headlines like he’s reading his own eulogy.
“Local Sheriff’s Son Declared Unfit.”
“Victim Identified in Woods Near Jericho.”
When he finally turns, his eyes rake over you. You wish he looked angry but he doesn’t. He looks... satisfied.
“It’s not what it looks like, it’s research.” you start, voice thin.
He laughs, not amused, just sharp. “You think this is research? You think cutting out articles about the guy who made your life hell qualifies as some kind of academic project?”
“I needed answers,” you snap.
His voice drops. “No. You needed me. You thought about me every night, didn’t you?” His voice is quiet, but mocking and dangerous. “You looked me up, imagined how I looked locked in that place, wondered if I’d come back for you.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.” He steps toward you. You don’t move. “You probably sat on this floor reading articles about me, while your sweet little boyfriend thought you were reading some harmless books.”
His gaze drops to his mugshot, lingers there before he looks back at you.
“Do you get off looking at that photo?” Your breath catches… not because it’s true, but because it isn’t a no either. He smiles and there’s no warmth in it. “You were always into those dark romance paperbacks in high school… What was it? Brooding vampires? Abusive fae? Criminals who couldn’t be tamed?”
“Tyler…”
“You spent your nights with your thighs squeezed tight, reading about dangerous monsters and wishing they’d pick you?” He moves again, closer, each step pushes the air from your lungs. “And now, you have me.”
You stumble backward — only one step — and hit the edge of your desk. Your hands land behind you, fingers gripping the wood, grounding yourself in anything that’s not him.
He follows, doesn’t touch you but just looms, close enough that your perfume clings to the space between your bodies.
He nods toward the wall of printouts.
“You made a shrine.” You open your mouth — to deny it, to lie, to scream, you don’t know — but no words come. “Why? Why would you care like this? After everything I did to you? All the names I called you? The pranks I pulled? I ruined your books, your grades, your life…”
You make a sound, wounded, half a sob, half a moan. His hand lifts. He presses two fingers under your chin, tilts your face to his. His eyes are fire. Your breath stutters. The words hit low and they burn.
You should push him away, you should scream, you should run… But instead you rise on your toes and surge forward, your mouth colliding with his, not soft, not tentative, but furious. A slap disguised as a kiss. You pour every unsaid thing into it: the years of confusion, the nightmares, the twisted ache he left behind.
You’re the one who closes the space. You’re the one who grips the front of the hoodie and pulls. You’re the one who opens your mouth first.
For a breath, he doesn’t move. Then his hand fists in your hair and he devours you in return, he growls, low and guttural, and the kiss deepens like something snapping inside him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there, while the other finds your waist, fingers digging in, claiming, demanding.
“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth. “You have no idea what you just started.”
You break the kiss, panting. “Then shut up and show me.”
Your breath mingles with his, trembling, not with fear anymore, but with something far more dangerous. His thumb brushes your cheek, rough and reverent all at once. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding something back.
The scent of him hits you again, earthy, wild, tinged with sweat and blood and the ghost of your perfume.
His mouth crashes on yours again, no hesitation this time, all teeth and heat and years of tension snapping like a live wire between you. He lifts you easily, your ass hitting the desk with a dull thud, sending papers fluttering to the floor. You gasp into his mouth, but it’s not from pain. It’s the shock of him — all of him — so real, so solid, after years of being nothing but a nightmare in your mind.
He pulls back just enough to drag his gaze down your body, eyes dark with something primal. He groans low in his throat — a sound like fury and hunger and disbelief all at once — and then his hands are on you again, sliding up beneath the fabric, finding skin, heat, need, his mouth open and ravenous, kissing like it’s not just lust but hunger, like he wants to devour you.
Then his hand slides to your jaw, rough and controlling, and suddenly his fingers are pushing into your mouth, two, maybe three, thick and deep. He watches your eyes blow wide as you gag a little, lashes fluttering, and he groans.You whimper around his fingers, spit already dripping from the corner of your mouth, and he grins, wide and sharp and absolutely unhinged. His thumb drags your jaw open wider, forcing your head back to expose your throat, and he leans in like a predator. His eyes flare dark with something that’s not human.
Then it’s a blur; your clothes being ripped, teeth against skin, your name hissed through clenched teeth as he shoves your legs apart with bruising force.
“You wanted a monster? You fucking got him.”
He fumbles with your pants, desperate and impatient, until you lift your hips to help him, and then they’re gone, kicked away and forgotten, and his hand is right there, sliding between your thighs without hesitation, without apology. His fingers find how ready you are for him and he lets out a vicious little laugh.
“Wet for me already?” he remarks, middle finger sliding through the slick heat. “Didn’t take much, did it?”
His finger thrusts deep, then another, stretching you, and it’s not gentle, it’s frantic, punishing and filthy. You rock against his hand, chasing the friction, and he watches you unravel with something close to awe... Or madness.
He doesn’t finger you gently. He fucks you with his hand, two fingers deep and pumping rough, thumb grinding your clit while his other hand clamps around your throat. He watches you choke on a moan and he smiles before biting your neck hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. Then your shoulder. Your chest. Anywhere he can reach. And every sound you make, every gasped whimper, every shattered plea, feeds him.
“You're shaking already?” he sneers, dragging his slick fingers down to slap your pussy once, twice, the sound obscene. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
He undoes his pants with one hand, the other still gripping your throat like a leash. And when he finally lines himself up, it’s with a dark look that dares you to tell him no but you won’t. You can’t. You want him to ruin you.
He pushes in with a groan so deep it vibrates in your chest, slow just for the stretch, then he slams the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. Your cry echoes off the walls, not of pain but relief.
He doesn’t stop. The desk creaks beneath you, the rhythm brutal and raw and perfect. His mouth is on your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips, biting, bruising, like he needs to mark you everywhere, prove you’re real, that this isn’t just another dream that will vanish when the cell door slams shut. You can feel him everywhere. Thick and unrelenting, every inch of him dragging against your walls, pushing you open, fucking you like he doesn’t care who hears or how much the desk rocks beneath you.
“Fuck, yes…” you gasp, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as your body starts to shatter around him, your first orgasm building fast and vicious, like it’s being ripped from you.
He feels the way you tighten, the way your moans break and he loses what little control he had. One hand fists in your hair, the other still choking you, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough to remind you who owns you now. His rhythm is brutal, savage, the kind of fucking meant to leave bruises on your hips and teeth marks on your collarbone. He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to burn the past from his skin and bury it in you.
He grunts as he slams into you again, harder than before, so deep you swear he hits something that makes your vision spark. One of your hands flies to the edge of the desk, gripping hard, the other tangling in his hair as if you can anchor yourself there, like you can survive this without falling apart… But he’s not going to let you survive this intact. He wants to see you undone.
“That’s it,” he snarls, watching your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open with a silent cry. “Take it.”
Your legs tighten around him as he starts to pound into you, no rhythm, no finesse, just need. The desk slams into the wall with every thrust, papers long forgotten, and somewhere in the chaos you register the sting of his nails digging into your hips, dragging you back onto his cock every time he drives forward.
Your moan is wrecked, desperate, and it only drives him further off the rails. He loves it. Loves how ruined you sound, how you’re already trembling around him, clenching like your body’s trying to drag him deeper as if you’re scared he’ll leave before it’s over. Every brutal thrust drags you closer to that cliff’s edge, the pleasure so violent it borders on pain; the best kind. You’re soaked, dripping, a mess beneath him and he’s relentless, fucking you like he wants to leave his mark inside you.
Then his fingers slide between you again, rough and sure, rubbing tight circles against your clit as he slams up into you. Your body jerks, the cry ripped from your throat not even human anymore. You try to hold it, try to stay in control, but when he slaps your clit once, sharp and filthy, you break.
The orgasm crashes into you like a wave hitting stone. Your body arches off the desk, mouth open in a silent scream, muscles clenching so violently you see white. You don’t know what sounds are coming out of you — gasps, sobs, broken little moans — but he doesn’t stop, he fucks you through it, riding every aftershock, chasing his own release now with brutal, desperate thrusts, biting your lip until it bleeds.
He pulls out just in time to fist himself once, twice and groans deep, head thrown back as he comes all over your stomach, your thighs, marking you like it means something, like it’s a claim. He’s panting, shuddering, leaning over you with his arms braced on either side. His eyes are wild, blown wide, and there’s sweat sliding down his temple.
He brings his mouth on your neck again but this time, it doesn’t bite. It lingers, open-mouthed and hot, breathing against the bruises he just made.
“Still breathing?” he asks, voice wrecked, lips dragging along your jaw. You don’t answer. Your voice is a ruined thing, somewhere between a sob and a moan, your body shaking from aftershocks, from the mess, from the sheer violence of how hard he fucked you but your legs shift just slightly, just enough to show you’re still here and he grins with something possessive and feral burning in his eyes. “Good.”
He bends down and licks a drop of sweat from your neck. It’s not sensual, it’s animal, marking you again in the filthiest way he can, like tasting the salt on your skin is another form of possession. He kisses your bruised shoulder, not gently, but deeply, like an oath.
His other hand drags up your stomach still smeared with his cum and he wipes his fingers across your skin, then shoves two of them into your mouth.
“Suck.”
You do, instinctively. Desperately. His eyes roll back for a second. He breathes like he’s holding something dangerous back and pulls your head back with a fist in your hair, forcing you to look up at him. Your lips are red, your eyes glassy, bite marks blooming across your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders.
“Look at you, so pretty like this, ruined for anyone else.” Then — as if that wasn’t enough — he spits into your open mouth and you swallow it without blinking. “Good girl,” he breathes, eyes full of madness and worship.
He grabs your discarded shirt and uses it to wipe between your thighs, slow and deliberate. You flinch.
“Sensitive?” he asks, smug.
You whimper. It’s the only sound you can make.
He tosses the shirt aside, doesn’t care where it lands. Then, without warning, he pulls you against him, your body still a trembling mess, and wraps his arms around you like a vice. One hand snakes up to grip your jaw again, tilting your head to the side so he can mouth at your throat, tasting skin, sweat, salt and spit.
It’s not a cuddle, it’s a claim.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth down your neck. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
Your voice finally breaks free, hoarse, barely a whisper. “I wasn’t planning to.”
He hums a low, pleased sound and then his hand slides down to your collarbone to touch one of the bite marks he left there.
“You’ll bruise here, and you’ll feel me every time you walk tomorrow.” he says, almost like a promise. Then he kisses that mark slowly, almost reverent.
“You’re mine now,” he murmurs against your lips, quieter than before but just as deadly. “No one else is ever gonna touch you again, I’ll fucking kill them if they try.”
You don’t even question it because you don’t want anyone else to. You swallow hard, still dazed and his grin is slow… And dangerous.
☕ If you enjoyed this, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
Last update: Aug. 2025
All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading.
// Find me on Ao3 // Find me on Wattpad // - Ti
summary: mattheo's celebration is perfect, the only thing missing is his reward— you.
warnings: MDNI, 18+, oral f! receiving, munch! mattheo (my fav), a bit public, language
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆☥⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The party had finally died down. The Slytherin common room was a haze of lingering revelry: the cloying sweetness of butterbeer hung thick in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of spilled Firewhisky and the faint metallic scent of broken corks. The green-and-silver banners, enchanted to ripple even without a breeze, swayed lazily above the emptied tables, catching the flicker of torchlight that danced across the walls.
You curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, feeling the velvet cushion press against your thighs. Every muscle in your body still hummed from the night’s chaos—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the raucous shouts that had celebrated the boys—no, Mattheo’s triumph. You hadn’t come for the party, hadn’t mingled or lifted a glass to anyone else. You were here for him, for the rush of seeing him victorious, the way his smile had lit the room and made every ounce of noise fade into insignificance.
Your fingers absently traced the seam of the couch, grounding yourself against the lingering spin of excitement. The warm glow of the fire painted golden edges across the dark green walls, reflecting in Mattheo’s eyes when he passed by, the victorious gleam in them making your stomach twist. You had been content to watch him, to revel silently in his moment, tucked into your corner like a shadow that belonged entirely to him.
Every cheer, every triumphant laugh that had once filled the air was now reduced to echoes, faint reminders of the chaos from which you’d remained apart. And yet, the ache of anticipation—of what might come once the room emptied—thrummed beneath your skin, a quiet pulse that only his presence could still.
Mattheo dropped heavily beside you, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. Damp curls clung to his forehead from the shower he’d clearly taken in record time, droplets glinting faintly in the torchlight. His Quidditch robes were traded for a loose white shirt that draped perfectly over broad shoulders, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the lean muscle beneath without giving too much away.
He leaned back, one arm stretched across the top of the couch, and let his smirk do the talking—shameless, knowing, and utterly infuriating. Every so often, his gaze flicked to you, dark and assessing, and your stomach fluttered despite yourself.
“Quite the celebration,” you murmured, stretching your legs out, half-expecting him to shove them away. Instead, his hands closed around your ankles with a grip that was firm, decisive, and entirely his. With a low, mocking hum, he tugged them over his lap, pressing your legs against his thighs as though claiming them outright.
You froze for just a heartbeat, caught between surprise and a rush of heat. His smirk deepened, dark and dangerous, dimples flashing as his thumbs traced lazy circles along your shins.
“Mm,” he agreed, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of amusement and hunger. “Though I feel like I didn’t get my real reward yet.”
You arched a brow. “You just had the entire common room chanting your name, Riddle. Isn’t that enough?”
His hands didn’t answer yet. They lingered on your legs, tracing long, lazy lines over the smooth skin of your thighs. At first, it felt like nothing—just a casual touch—but the warmth of his palms, the pressure of his fingers gently kneading as if he were massaging, sent heat pooling low in your stomach. Every subtle movement of his thumbs, the slow slide of his hands over your inner thighs, was perfectly measured—not gentle, not accidental—but undeniably pleasurable.
Your muscles tightened involuntarily, hips tilting forward against him, and a shiver ran down your spine. Even the slight brush of his hand against the soft fabric of your skirt made your pulse spike. It was maddening, the way he could touch you without seeming to intend it, yet every flick of his fingers pressed your body into obedience, reminding you in the most deliciously subtle way whose presence you were completely attuned to.
The quiet of the common room, the lingering glow of the firelight reflecting off the banners, made it feel intimate—like the rest of the world had fallen away and only you and him existed, the heat radiating from his body pressing you into the couch, his hands subconsciously stroking and kneading in a rhythm that made your thoughts falter.
“Not even close.” His hand slid slowly along your calf, fingers deliberate, dragging heat in their wake. The touch was maddening, both possessive and teasing, pressing just enough to make you shiver without fully giving away his intent.
“See,” he continued, voice smooth and cocky, “I worked hard out there. Dodged a Bludger, scored twice… think I deserve something a bit more… personal.”
The words were casual, almost offhand, but the glint in his eye and the devilish tilt of his smirk betrayed every ounce of cheeky calculation behind them. He leaned back slightly, one hand still tracing the line of your leg, letting you squirm under his gaze, daring you to argue.
Before you could retort, he leaned forward, caging you against the back of the couch, mouth brushing the sensitive skin of your ear. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine, and you could feel the deliberate weight of his chest pressing against you.
“Your legs over my shoulders, maybe,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, rough with amusement. “You… moaning loud enough that the whole House knows I won more than just the match tonight.”
You froze, heat pooling impossibly low, fingers clutching at the couch cushions as his words painted a vivid, deliciously filthy picture. The thought of being displayed like that—completely his, trembling and ruined under his hands—made your pulse spike.
His fingers trailed up your thighs slowly, teasing, almost cruelly, dragging fire in their wake. Every brush of skin against his palm, every subtle squeeze, seemed calculated to make you melt, to force your body to respond before your mind could even catch up.
Your breath hitched, but that was all the encouragement he needed. He tugged you down flat against the cushions, fingers dragging along your thighs, spreading them wide like he’d been waiting all night for this. The heat pooling low in your belly threatened to overwhelm you, but his smirk kept your pulse racing.
Then he was there—on his knees on the carpet, hands gripping your thighs possessively, dragging you closer to the edge of the couch until he had you exactly where he wanted you. Every movement was deliberate, controlling, and deliciously dominant.
He paused, one dark brow arched, smirk tugging at his lips. “Permission to…?” His voice was low, teasing, almost mocking, and the tilt of that eyebrow dared you to answer.
You shivered under his gaze, the world narrowing to the curve of his lips, the weight of his hands, the slow press of his hips against yours. “Please,” you whispered, breathless.
When his tongue finally touched you, it was obscene how eager he was—as if devouring you were the only victory that mattered. Every flick, every curl of his tongue was deliberate, hitting the spots that made your back arch and your fingers clutch at the couch. He hummed low, groaning into your heat, the vibrations shooting straight through your core and making your knees tremble.
His hands gripped your thighs possessively, thumbs pressing into your skin as he spread you wider, giving him full access. The way he moved—fast enough to make your head spin, slow enough to savor every whimper and shiver—was pure mastery. You couldn’t hold back your moans, muffled against the cushions, and he only deepened his pressure, nipping lightly, teasingly, before sucking again.
“That’s it, love,” he muttered, voice rough and ragged, dark with hunger. “Give me my reward.”
Every stroke of his tongue, every press of his palm, was precision itself—Mattheo knew exactly how to bring you to the edge, to make your muscles clench around him without mercy. You shuddered, hips tilting helplessly into him, and he groaned, lifting his head just long enough to flash that wicked, triumphant smirk before diving back in, eager and unrelenting.
Even as your world narrowed to heat and sensation, you could feel it: he was completely absorbed in you, every sense, every motion dedicated to making you his, ruining you with skill and eager obsession.
His tongue traced one slow, teasing circle before plunging into you with an eagerness that made your back arch off the couch, every nerve ending screaming in delicious overstimulation. You gasped, muffled against the cushions, heat pooling impossibly low as his movements became more urgent, more precise.
His hands gripped your hips like iron, unyielding and possessive, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Every flick of his tongue, every curl against your walls was perfect, calculated to make you tremble and whimper helplessly. The contrast between his casual smirk and the raw intensity of his mouth drove you wild—expert, merciless, and utterly devoted to your ruin.
“You’re so good for me,” he groaned against you, voice rough, muffled, vibrating through your core. “So wet… so desperate… all mine, baby.”
Your fingers clawed at the couch, hips bucking into him even as he held you firmly, prolonging the delicious torture. Every press of his tongue, every suck and nibble made your back arch higher, your chest heaving, until your breath hitched and your walls clenched desperately around him.
“Fuck,” you gasped, fingers clawing at the cushion beneath you, hips trembling as he groaned deep into your heat. His tongue plunged and licked with a skill that was obscene, deliberate, every flick and curl hitting spots that made your back arch and knees wobble.
He loved it—the mess, the taste, the way you squirmed and whined against him. Every time you tried to wriggle away, his fingers dug harder into your thighs, pressing you down, spreading you wider, dragging you closer to the center of his hunger.
Your muffled moans pressed into the back of your palm, hot and shaky, and he hummed low in satisfaction, the vibration driving straight through your core. One thumb brushed over your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate, making your hips jerk involuntarily.
Mattheo pulled back just long enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick. “Don’t you dare run from me. You wanted a celebration too, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for your answer before his tongue flattened against your clit, pressing hard enough to make your vision blur.
He alternated between slow, torturous licks and fast, focused flicks that had your legs trembling against his shoulders. His dark curls brushed your skin, tickling your thighs as he buried his face deeper. Every moan he made sent vibrations straight through your core, and Merlin, he was loud about it — messy, unashamed, groaning like you were his favorite meal.
When you let out a desperate whimper, his laugh was smug, low and dark, vibrating against your slick skin. “That’s it, princess,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let them all hear how good I am at winning.”
Before you could respond, his mouth latched onto your clit with greedy force, tongue flicking and swirling expertly, sucking and teasing in a rhythm that had your hips bucking helplessly against him. The sensation was almost unbearable—sharp, overwhelming, and utterly consuming.
Your cries bounced off the empty common room walls, muffled only slightly by your hand and his hand pressing possessively against your lower back. Every press of his tongue, every deliberate suck, sent shivers racing up your spine, hands clawing at the couch, nails digging into the fabric.
He hummed around you, the vibration through his lips and into your clit making your knees wobble, your walls tighten, every nerve ending firing at once. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you spread and steady, perfectly positioned, while he drove you higher and higher, riding your desperation with masterful, greedy precision.
You fisted a hand in his damp curls, tugging just hard enough to make him groan, the low, vibrating sound pressing straight into you, sending shivers racing through your spine. His tongue plunged deeper, curling expertly, relentless and greedy, and you arched into him, thighs trembling, hips bucking involuntarily.
Every flick, swirl, and press of his mouth was precise, designed to push you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers dug into your thighs possessively, spreading you wider, keeping you perfectly exposed, utterly at his mercy.
“Mattheo—” you choked out, nails raking through his damp curls, desperate and trembling. “I’m gonna—”
He only smirked against you, lips and tongue not letting up for a single second. His hands clamped down harder on your thighs, locking you in place, spreading you wide, holding you as if he’d never let you escape. The pressure of him, the heat of his mouth, the unrelenting rhythm—it built unbearably fast, coiling tight in your stomach until it snapped.
Your whole body jerked violently, hips bucking against his face as you came hard over his eager tongue, walls clenching, trembling, pulsing around air and sensation. A sharp, broken cry tore from your lips, echoing through the empty common room, no longer muffled at all.
Mattheo groaned, low and triumphant, licking his lips with smug satisfaction, savoring the taste, the mess, the absolute ruin of you beneath him. His fingers pressed and kneaded against your thighs, holding you perfectly, guiding you through the quaking waves of your orgasm, making sure you felt every inch of it.
Mattheo didn’t stop. He groaned low and desperate, like he’d been starving for this, letting his tongue trace every curve and sensitive spot with unrelenting precision. Each flick, each press, each greedy swirl of his mouth made your thighs quiver violently, hips bucking involuntarily as he drove you higher and higher.
You were trembling, breathless, nails clawing at the couch, and still he held you firmly in place, fingers gripping your thighs possessively, spreading you wider, making sure every wave of your climax hit its peak.
“Please—Mattheo…” you whimpered, voice cracking, muffled against the cushion you've pressed your face into. “I can’t—please…”
He only hummed, the vibration of his groan rolling straight through you, every motion meticulous and masterful, and then sucked harder, curling his tongue in ways that stole the last of your control.
Your body convulsed again, jerking helplessly against him, walls clenching and fluttering around nothing but air and sensation, gasps and broken cries filling the empty common room. He didn’t relent for a second, keeping you on the edge, pushing you to the brink until every nerve ending burned with overstimulation.
Finally, finally, he pulled back, lips swollen, chin shining with your release. His eyes were dark, gleaming with satisfaction, every inch of him radiating triumph. That smirk—feral, victorious—was enough to make your knees tremble all over again.
“Now that’s the kind of reward I play for,” he murmured, voice low, rough with smug pleasure. The words pressed against your skin, curling around your senses, leaving no doubt who had been in control.
He let his fingers drag lightly over your thighs one last time, teasing the remnants of your slick, before brushing a thumb along the corner of your lips, smearing a bit of yourself against him.
You sank back against the cushions, body trembling, heat still throbbing low, utterly undone, and yet impossibly craving more—even knowing that his victorious smirk meant he could push you further, whenever he chose.
He dragged his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, eyes locked on you like he was already plotting round two, every curve of his smirk radiating wicked anticipation. There was no expectation in his gaze, no hint that he wanted anything back—Mattheo was the definition of a giver, utterly obsessed with seeing you undone, ruined, and trembling under his hands.
“I mean it, love,” he murmured, fingers tracing slow, teasing patterns over your thighs, “thank you… for showing up tonight. I know this isn’t your crowd. All the noise, the cheering, the glory—I didn’t expect you to come, and yet here you are… just for me.”
His gaze softened for the briefest moment, just enough that your pulse fluttered, before dark amusement crept back into his eyes. “That’s why this… this reward,” he added, thumb brushing over the slick between your thighs, “is all mine. I don’t need anything in return. Just seeing you like this, happy, trembling… ruined for me—it’s enough.”
You shivered, heat still pulsing low, chest heaving under his attention. Every flick of his fingers, every teasing swirl of his tongue, was about you, about your pleasure. His hands, his mouth, his gaze—they were entirely devoted, and the thought that he was so thankful you’d braved the party just for him made your knees weak all over again.
“Round two?” he teased, voice low, dangerous, and possessive. “I could do this all night, just for you… my perfect girl.”
"You wanted words? Listen then. You have always been a pain in my ass. You flickered before my eyes every fucking second. You irritated me and though caught my eyes. Until I realized that it was me who was constantly looking for you. That your presence began to seep directly under my skin. It flew through my veins. It became my fucking blood. Tormented me." He looked away for a second and then up at her again: his stare is heavy and burning. "I started to lose my control, love. It frightens me what I would do for you".
Mattheo is the friend in the group who literally never answers his texts. 300+ unread messages, phone on do not disturb constantly, cannot be bothered. Eventually the other Slytherin boys discover that if your name is somewhere in the message, though, magically his response time drops to three seconds.
The door shut close behind Professor McGonagall, she's taking away both your wands. So.. as well as your peace of mind. Now you were supposed to clean up an old DADA classroom on the 7th floor, together. After your yesterday's act.
Mattheo leaned casually against one of the desks, his dark eyes fixed on you with that familiar glint—half amused. But now there is a glimpse of something new: something predatory. You took your eyes off of him to look around in case to distract yourself: dust hung in the air, clinging to forgotten stacks of books; scattered parchments; small iron cages swayed gently on their hooks; two large aquariums sat against the far wall with the murky water still inside. You wandered farther in, feeling the weight of his gaze settle on you like a physical touch. Grip. It was suffocating, warm, and almost electric. Your pulse quickened as you got how much you liked it.
"Let’s..—"
"I’d ask you if I’m really a bad kisser," Matteo interrupted, his voice low and edged with a teasing lilt. "But then again, you didn’t even try properly yesterday." Heat rushed to your cheeks, your breath catching in your throat. You met his eyes, they are steady and unflinching despite the storm rising inside yours.
“You aren’t a bad...” you watch as Mattheo grinned and raised his eyebrows. “I guess my hand just slipped and I fell!”.
You turned away. His deep laugh is hugging you from behind. He watched as you began to sort through the parchments and stack the books separately. Then your hand reached across one of the desks, and your lower back arched, allowing your skirt rose even higher. Damn. Mattheo swallowed hard. He brushed his hair back and joined you hoping the task would dull the tension.
Almost twenty minutes passed in work pulling old feathers from the between two aquariums until you bumped shoulders. You instantly blushed and jumped back. Crack. With a precise and strong blow, you hit the aquarium. All what left is to watch how the entire old thing cracked with a loud snap, and a second later a torrent of water crashed down on you, drenching you completely. You stood there, water pooling around feet, your soaked shirt clinging to your body.
Shivers run down your spine.
You felt it before you saw: burning gaze. Gaze, licking you inch by inch. You saw how Mattheo's throat worked as he swallowed, you saw his expression shifting into something far more serious. His eyes darkened, lingering, tracing every line of your body with shameless precision. It took you a few seconds to realise that you like it: so you watched him, devouring his every emotion when you lift the hem of your shirt, exposing your glittering stomach. You lifted the shirt even higher to your chest and slowly squeezed it out. The sound of water drops were the countdown to his patient.
Something feral flickered in his eyes. Moment of magic impulse. Crack. The wave crashed over him, leaving nothing from the second aquarium. The force of the impact sent him to clench his jaw in irritation, because he clearly began to lose control of his restraint.
And you were the reason. Staring at him boldly, greedily.
You weren’t even paying attention to the destruction, the mess, or the way water soaked through both of your clothes. No, all your senses became your eyes. You licked your lips slowly because..
Mattheo's white shirt was utterly ruined, now completely see-through, clinging to every inch of his firm torso. The fabric outlined the sculpted lines of his chest, the firm ridges of his abdomen, and the way his broad shoulders carried every drop of tension. His biceps flexed slightly as he pushed his wet hair back. You watched how drops of water traced slow paths down his jaw and neck.
Your eyes trailed lower, emphasizing every defined muscle, tense forearms, threads of veins. Merlin. Your stomach tightened into a hot knot, sending a dull ache right into the between of your thighs.
Mattheo took a slow step closer, so your back pressed into the nearest desk, pushing forward your breasts. When he growled your name, you finally forced yourself to blink, but your gaze still flickered over his chest, down his arms, before snapping back up to his smoldering eyes.
"Fucking stop it right now."
"I—" you cleared your throat unable to speak: "what..stop..?"
Mattheo clicked his tongue, as if disappointed. Step by step, word by word he approached. "Making.me.fucking.craving.you."
His hands laid on the table on either side of you. His eyes didn't leave you a chance to look away. When he finally spoke, his words touching you, stroking the most sensitive places.
"You wanted words? Listen then. You were always a pain in the ass. You flickered before my eyes every fucking second. Irritating and catching my eyes. Until I realized that it was me myself who was constantly looking for you. That your presence began to seep directly under my skin. Flow through my veins. Became my fucking blood. Torment me." Mattheo's whisper became quieter and hoarser, his lips closer and more enticing. "I started to lose my control, love. It frightens me what I would do for you", he warned you. Your entire body shuddered. Excitingly.
His hands slowly cupped your hips. Like nothing at all he lifted you and sat you on the desk. Your mouth watered watching how his arm muscles flexed when his hands went up your thighs. You gasped when with one sudden motion he spread your legs wide and pulled himself closer stepping between.
He pressed his hard bulge against your crotch and grind. You rolled your eyes in pleasure and almost missed when his voice - almost a plea said: "For Salazar's sake, say one word - and I try to stop. I won't even start if you say so."
Your eyes roamed his face, so sincere in its desire. Your body was shaking: Mattheo Riddle himself between your thighs, growling to you his deepest thoughts. Not even touching but already hard.
So you remained silent. You dare to run your fingers over his hands on your thighs.
A low groan escaped his lips and Mattheo held you even tighter. "For the fuck's sake". He jerked you closer and you moaned: his hot tongue traced a line up your jaw to your ear. "Finally.." he bit the skin under your ear, restraining himself from clenching his teeth harder. You leaned forward colliding your chest with his and earning a low growl.
"Now let me kiss you properly", his hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head as he needed, and he crashed his lips against yours in a hard kiss. You instantly moaned when his tongue delved into your mouth, brushing over yours, licking your teeth and tasting every inch of you that he could reach.
Plundered your mouth with a desperation.
His other hand slid up your thigh, pushing your wet skirt out of the way to expose the smooth skin beneath. His calloused fingers skimmed along your inner thigh, with each stroke diving deeper but never touching the most needed spot. He teased you, ripping from your mouth impatient whimpers.
"Want to touch you but damn 'm gonna ruin you", he whispered when his lips left yours and he tilted your head higher by pulling your hair.
Your eyes closed in pleasure and your body began to tremble. "Mattheo.."
"Shhh...", he dragged his wet tongue up from your collarbone to your jaw. "Don't know what I wanna more: lick your whole body or fuck.." you desperately moaned when his tongue draw a circle over your cheekbone, returned to your neck and licked it all out.
Merlin and Morgana. You were going to shutter.
His tongue traced a final line across your chin, then licked your lips, and Mattheo stopped. He leaned his forehead against yours, and so close you could see the sparkle in his eyes. You were both breathing heavily.
You continued to stare into each other's eyes as his fingers slid lower, finaly brushing your clit through the fabric. Rolling it between the pads. You closed your eyes in pleasure, but suddenly his fingers were gone. "I want to see you, love." You opened your eyes slightly, just in time to see his lips whisper something that like... 'evanesco'? You gasped as the cool air brushed over your now exposed folds.
You both were holding the eye contact, barely blinking, as Mattheo's fingers slid between you. The heat washed over you in a thick wave as his pads finally touched you and Mattheo ran them over your wet pussy. Soaked.
"Soaked", echoed he, his eyes still not leaving yours. Mattheo collected your juices and smeared it all over. "Such a nice soaked pussy." He pressed his thumb tightly and pumped a finger into you. "Fucking tight." He did in and out, making you tighten your legs around his waist and even push yourself towards unconsciously.
"I...", Mattheo pumped especially hard, adding the second finger and words bubbled in your throat. You moaned, that made him smirk then kiss you again until you were both breathless, until your lips were swollen and tingling, until the room spun around you. Then, with a low growl, he leaned in to paint blossomings at your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. His teeth grazed your skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you.
You closed your eyes completely drowning in pleasure. When after a while his lips left your skin, you moaned in protest and only managed to open your eyes when without warning, he dove in, his mouth covering your pussy in a greedy, desperate kiss. You cried out imstantly grabbing his curls and rolling your head back. He licked and sucked at your folds, his tongue delving deep to taste your essence.
His focuse on your clit was greedy, sucking and flicking the sensitive peak with the tip of his tongue. Two fingers plunged deep inside you, quickly bringing you to your explosion.
Fucking hell. Mattheo fucking Riddle just let out a muffed moan. Then another. You let go of everything, leaned back on the table, only to mersilessly tighten your thighs to the both sides of his head.
"If I only had knew that you are so..frantic, I wouldn't have wasted time arguing with you.." Mattheo spoke between licking wide stripes.
"O, fuck you", I clung to his curls.
"You will, I promise."
He double his efforts to bring you to the edge of ecstasy. Mattheo was determined to make you cum harder than you ever had before. Your body responded immediately. You could feel the heat building inside you, the pleasure intensifying. You began to move your hips, fucking yourself on Mattheo's mouth. The vibrations of his moaning, the sensation overwhelming. You came widely, your body convulsing uncontrollably. Mattheo groaned pulling his fingers out, and his shoulders tensed as he gripped you tighter sinking his teeth into your folds. It made you cry out and shudder.
"You're killing me", he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. He opened his eyes, his gaze locking with yours. He leaned in over you, his lips brushing against yours. Mattheo's hands brushed up to your shirt making buttons desappear. For a while he admired you laying under him with your open shirt exposing your thin laced bra.
He found the clasp of it, unhooking. He pulled back, his eyes locked on your breasts as he slowly slid all off your shoulders, revealing you bare. He leaned in, his mouth capturing one of your nipples, his tongue teasing it until it was hard and aching. You gasped, your hands tangling in his hair again, your body writhing beneath him. He tortured you again by licking and sucking, step by step replacing his mouth with his fingers.
"Mattheo.." you pleaded. Asked him to do something.
"Hmm?" He straightened between your legs, brushing his fingertips over your breasts and stomach. He admired you, devoured every inch of your body, before his hands finally moved to his belt.
"Yes..yes" you quickly whispered in approval and made Mattheo chuckle.
"Oh, and this is the one who kissed me and ran away in shame.." he slowly unbuckled his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. He pushed his jeans down along with his boxers, freeing his hard length, and your eyes widened in anticipation as you roamed it whole. Mattheo wrapped his hand around it slightly pumping before he finally positioned himself between your legs. He leaned down over you again kissing deeply while rubbing himself against your wetness teasingly.
"Damn it," he growled softly, watching your body move against his tip. Your breasts pushed up, your stomach tight, your thighs spreading wider. He pushed forward slightly, his tip disappearing inside you. You gasped, your hips lifting slightly. He pulled back an inch, watching the action again.
With each thrust deeper and deeper inside you, your breasts bounced slightly, your lips parted with small noises and he realized he didn't want to be gentle at all.
Mattheo grabbed your thighs and pushed them back harshly, opening you up more. You gasped at the new angle, when he started pounding into you aggressively, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. The room filled with the sounds of skin hitting skin and your muffled moans.
He was fucking you like he hated you just like he did before you captured his thoughts and desires. He eyes darkened further, watching you take him so well despite his harsh pace, so he leaned down over you again, biting your lip before kissing you deeply. His tongue invaded your mouth just like his cock was invading your pussy, the sensation throwing you over the edges.
Mattheo broke the kiss suddenly and pulled back when he felt your pussy starting to squeeze him tighter. "Fucking hell..." he hissed as your pussy tightened around him, signaling your orgasm. It only made him fuck you harder and faster, using your body roughly. "There it is..."
"Please.. please.. now.. I'm.." I let out a trembling whine.
"Let's go, love, go" he growled, reaching between your legs and rubbing mercilessly on your clit. You screamed loudly, your pussy clamping around his length as you came even harder that before. Your juices spilled out, dripping down onto the table and his jeans. "Fucking Salazar! You're a little mess!"
His muscles tightened, his jaw ticked. He pounded into you faster, making the table hit others loudly. He was close. His thumb rubbed your oversensitive nub again making you moan loudly his name. He growled, losing his mind. He snapped his hips harder and with one brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and came hard. His hot seed filled you up, overflowing and mixing with your own juices. He held you down by the hips, fucking into you through his own orgasm until every last drop was inside you. Panting heavily..
It took you both long minutes to compose yourselves. Then Mattheo moved and slowly pulled out, his cock still half-hard and covered in both of your releases. He watched as his cum leaked out of you onto the woody table. A satisfied smirk crossed his face before it turned frantic. He grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach suddenly. Your breasts hit the rough table.
"Stay," he commanded roughly.
Mattheo spread your cheeks apart roughly, looking at his cum slowly dripping out of you. He spat on your hole suddenly, watching it mix with his cum. He lifted your hips up even more so your ass was high in the air. "My good girl."
He grabbed his half-hard cock, stroking it slowly at the beautiful view. He gave you some time to catch your breath and then thrusted inside easily thanks to the cum. Now he was moving slowly, using you gently this time as if punishing himself for being so rough earlier. "Fucking good girl I have."
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