summary: mattheo is used to quiet and pliant girls in bed so, imagine his surprise when you talk more than him.
warnings: 18+! mdni, heavy dirty talk, penetration, size kink, dom! mattheo thrown off his game 🤭
2 post in one day? craaaazy
The air in Mattheo's room was thick, heavy with the scent of smoke, cedar, and something darker—something that clung to him like a second skin. The room was all shadows, the flicker of a single torch casting jagged lines across the stone walls, the heavy green curtains drawn tight to shut out the world. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, and you were already stripped bare, sprawled beneath him, heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it. Your clothes were a scattered trail from the door to the bed, ripped off in a frenzy of hands and mouths, the tension that had been building for weeks finally snapping.
Mattheo loomed over you, his broad frame caging you in, all lean muscle and scarred skin, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he stared down at you. Those eyes—black, hungry, dangerous—drank you in like you were prey, and fuck, you felt like it. He was shirtless, trousers barely clinging to his hips, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric. You’d never been with him before, never been this close, and the reality of him—his size, his intensity—made your stomach twist with nerves and want.
“Gonna fucking ruin you,” he growled, his voice low and rough, dripping with that cocky edge that made your thighs clench. His hands gripped your hips, hard enough to bruise, and he pushed your legs wider, his gaze dropping to the slick, aching heat between them. “You ready for me, or you gonna beg me to go slow?”
You swallowed, your throat dry, but you managed a nod, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m ready.” It was a lie, and he knew it—could see it in the way your body trembled, the way your breath hitched when he shoved his trousers down, freeing himself. His cock was thick, veined, heavy, and so fucking big it made your eyes widen, a flicker of panic mixing with the need pooling in your core.
He smirked, catching your reaction, and leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his stubble scraping your skin. “Don’t worry, princess,” he murmured, his voice dark and taunting. “I’ll make it fit.” He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance, glistening with your arousal, and you braced yourself, fingers digging into the sheets.
When he pushed in, it was slow but relentless, the stretch burning, overwhelming, as he filled you inch by agonizing inch. You tensed, a sharp gasp escaping you as your body struggled to adjust to his size, your cunt clenching tight around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion. “Fuck,” you whimpered, your voice shaking, your legs trembling as you arched beneath him, half-pain, half-pleasure. “Matty, you’re—fuck, you’re too big.”
He stilled, his cock buried halfway, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he let out a low, guttural groan. “Relax,” he growled, but his voice was softer than before, a rare hint of concern breaking through his dominance. “You’re takin’ me so well, just—fuck, just breathe.” He leaned down, biting at your neck, his teeth sharp enough to sting, grounding you as you gasped, your body slowly adjusting, the burn giving way to a deep, throbbing fullness that made your head spin.
When he started moving again, pushing deeper, you thought you’d break apart, the stretch so intense it stole your breath. But then he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, his cock filling you so completely you could feel him everywhere—deep, pulsing, claiming. He expected you to go quiet now, to turn into one of those girls he was used to—soft moans, maybe a shy whimper of his name, letting him take over, letting him fuck them into the mattress while they stayed pliant, passive, a perfect little pillow princess. He set a slow, brutal pace, each thrust rocking your body, the wet squelch of your cunt loud in the quiet room, slick dripping down your thighs and soaking his balls.
But you didn’t stay quiet. You couldn’t. The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a fucked-out babble that came from somewhere deep, somewhere desperate. “Fuck, Matty, s-so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling, slurred with pleasure as you clawed at his back. “Your cock’s so fucking big, splitting me open, s–shit—feels like you’re in my stomach.”
His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as your words hit him like a curse. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and dark, a flicker of shock breaking through his usual smug control. “Yeah?” he rasped, his voice rough, almost unsteady, like he couldn’t believe the filth pouring from your mouth. He was used to silence, to gasps and whimpers, not this—not you, babbling like a whore in heat, describing every raw sensation in vivid, desperate detail. It threw him, made his head spin, rutting faster inside you like an amateur, his cock twitching inside you as he tried to hold onto his control.
You didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, the words tumbling out as he fucked you harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts. “God, yes, right there,” you gasped, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him in, your cunt clenching so tight it made him groan. “Filling me so fucking good, Matty, fuck—love how you’re stretching me, so deep, so fucking full.” The sultry tone of your voice against his ear almost had his eyes rolling back, a full body shudder wrecking through him as his grip turned almost brutal against your hips.
His breath hitched, a low, broken sound, and you saw it—the way his control was cracking, the way your words were unraveling him. He was supposed to be the one in charge, the one making you beg, but your voice was a fucking hex, each syllable chipping away at his composure. He slammed into you harder, the headboard smacking the wall, the head of his cock rapidly pistoning into that perfect squishy spot inside you, his fingers digging into your hips so deep you’d feel the bruises for days. “Fuck, you’re—” he started, but cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to shake off the haze your words were casting. “Fuck, keep talking baby.”
You were too far gone to not, too lost in the pleasure, in the way his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, making your body sing. “Don’t stop, Matty,” you whined, your voice a messy, fucked-out slur, your nails raking down his back, leaving red welts. “Fuck me harder, wanna feel every inch of you, wanna come all over this big fucking cock.” Your words were incoherent, a babble of need and praise, and you felt slick gushing around him, coating your thighs, the obscene wet sound of him fucking you filling the room.
He groaned, a raw, desperate sound, his hips snapping faster, rougher, like he was trying to fuck the words out of you, but it only made you louder. “Shit, you’re so good, Matty, ruining me,” you moaned, your head lolling back, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure built, sharp and overwhelming. “Love how you fuck me, so fucking deep, making me yours, fuck—gonna come so hard, please, please.”
He was unraveling, his thrusts erratic, his breath ragged, his usual dominance fraying under the onslaught of your words. He leaned down, biting at your shoulder, hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting as he tried to ground himself, but your babbling was too much. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet,” he growled, his voice breaking, almost pleading. “Gonna make me come if you keep talkin’ like that.”
“Yes, yes, come in me, Matty,” you babbled, your voice a desperate, trembling mess as you clenched around him, your orgasm crashing closer. “Fill me up, want your cum so bad, want you dripping out of me, fuck—” Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body arching, shaking, as you came with a shattered cry of his name, your cunt pulsing around him, cream coating his dick and slick gushing down your thighs, soaking the sheets.
He followed right after, his groan raw and guttural, his cock twitching as he spilled inside you, his thrusts sloppy and desperate as he rode out the pleasure. His body shuddered, collapsing against you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a long moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your panting, the faint creak of the bed settling beneath you. Any thoughts he had of you being a one time thing were out the window now, you weren't getting rid of him if you tried.
Mattheo lifted his head, his eyes still dazed, a faint, disbelieving smirk tugging at his lips. “Fucking hell,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “Didn’t expect that mouth on you. You’re gonna fucking kill me next time.”
You grinned, lazy and fucked-out, your fingers trailing through his damp curls. “Get used to it, Riddle,” you murmured, your voice soft but still carrying that edge. “I’ve got plenty more to say.”
summary: mattheo is used to quiet and pliant girls in bed so, imagine his surprise when you talk more than him.
warnings: 18+! mdni, heavy dirty talk, penetration, size kink, dom! mattheo thrown off his game 🤭
The air in Mattheo's room was thick, heavy with the scent of smoke, cedar, and something darker—something that clung to him like a second skin. The room was all shadows, the flicker of a single torch casting jagged lines across the stone walls, the heavy green curtains drawn tight to shut out the world. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, and you were already stripped bare, sprawled beneath him, heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it. Your clothes were a scattered trail from the door to the bed, ripped off in a frenzy of hands and mouths, the tension that had been building for weeks finally snapping.
Mattheo loomed over you, his broad frame caging you in, all lean muscle and scarred skin, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he stared down at you. Those eyes—black, hungry, dangerous—drank you in like you were prey, and fuck, you felt like it. He was shirtless, trousers barely clinging to his hips, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric. You’d never been with him before, never been this close, and the reality of him—his size, his intensity—made your stomach twist with nerves and want.
“Gonna fucking ruin you,” he growled, his voice low and rough, dripping with that cocky edge that made your thighs clench. His hands gripped your hips, hard enough to bruise, and he pushed your legs wider, his gaze dropping to the slick, aching heat between them. “You ready for me, or you gonna beg me to go slow?”
You swallowed, your throat dry, but you managed a nod, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m ready.” It was a lie, and he knew it—could see it in the way your body trembled, the way your breath hitched when he shoved his trousers down, freeing himself. His cock was thick, veined, heavy, and so fucking big it made your eyes widen, a flicker of panic mixing with the need pooling in your core.
Hesmirked, catching your reaction, and leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his stubble scraping your skin. “Don’t worry, princess,” he murmured, his voice dark and taunting. “I’ll make it fit.” He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance, glistening with your arousal, and you braced yourself, fingers digging into the sheets.
When he pushed in, it was slow but relentless, the stretch burning, overwhelming, as he filled you inch by agonizing inch. You tensed, a sharp gasp escaping you as your body struggled to adjust to his size, your cunt clenching tight around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion. “Fuck,” you whimpered, your voice shaking, your legs trembling as you arched beneath him, half-pain, half-pleasure. “Matty, you’re—fuck, you’re too big.”
He stilled, his cock buried halfway, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he let out a low, guttural groan. “Relax,” he growled, but his voice was softer than before, a rare hint of concern breaking through his dominance. “You’re takin’ me so well, just—fuck, just breathe.” He leaned down, biting at your neck, his teeth sharp enough to sting, grounding you as you gasped, your body slowly adjusting, the burn giving way to a deep, throbbing fullness that made your head spin.
When he started moving again, pushing deeper, you thought you’d break apart, the stretch so intense it stole your breath. But then he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, his cock filling you so completely you could feel him everywhere—deep, pulsing, claiming. He expected you to go quiet now, to turn into one of those girls he was used to—soft moans, maybe a shy whimper of his name, letting him take over, letting him fuck them into the mattress while they stayed pliant, passive, a perfect little pillow princess. He set a slow, brutal pace, each thrust rocking your body, the wet squelch of your cunt loud in the quiet room, slick dripping down your thighs and soaking his balls.
But you didn’t stay quiet. You couldn’t. The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a fucked-out babble that came from somewhere deep, somewhere desperate. “Fuck, Matty, s-so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling, slurred with pleasure as you clawed at his back. “Your cock’s so fucking big, splitting me open, s–shit—feels like you’re in my stomach.”
His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as your words hit him like a curse. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and dark, a flicker of shock breaking through his usual smug control. “Yeah?” he rasped, his voice rough, almost unsteady, like he couldn’t believe the filth pouring from your mouth. He was used to silence, to gasps and whimpers, not this—not you, babbling like a whore in heat, describing every raw sensation in vivid, desperate detail. It threw him, made his head spin, rutting faster inside you like an amateur, his cock twitching inside you as he tried to hold onto his control.
You didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, the words tumbling out as he fucked you harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts. “God, yes, right there,” you gasped, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him in, your cunt clenching so tight it made him groan. “Filling me so fucking good, Matty, fuck—love how you’re stretching me, so deep, so fucking full.” The sultry tone of your voice against his ear almost had his eyes rolling back, a full body shudder wrecking through him as his grip turned almost brutal against your hips.
His breath hitched, a low, broken sound, and you saw it—the way his control was cracking, the way your words were unraveling him. He was supposed to be the one in charge, the one making you beg, but your voice was a fucking hex, each syllable chipping away at his composure. He slammed into you harder, the headboard smacking the wall, the head of his cock rapidly pistoning into that perfect squishy spot inside you, his fingers digging into your hips so deep you’d feel the bruises for days. “Fuck, you’re—” he started, but cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to shake off the haze your words were casting. “Fuck, keep talking baby.”
You were too far gone to not, too lost in the pleasure, in the way his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, making your body sing. “Don’t stop, Matty,” you whined, your voice a messy, fucked-out slur, your nails raking down his back, leaving red welts. “Fuck me harder, wanna feel every inch of you, wanna come all over this big fucking cock.” Your words were incoherent, a babble of need and praise, and you felt slick gushing around him, coating your thighs, the obscene wet sound of him fucking you filling the room.
He groaned, a raw, desperate sound, his hips snapping faster, rougher, like he was trying to fuck the words out of you, but it only made you louder. “Shit, you’re so good, Matty, ruining me,” you moaned, your head lolling back, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure built, sharp and overwhelming. “Love how you fuck me, so fucking deep, making me yours, fuck—gonna come so hard, please, please.”
He was unraveling, his thrusts erratic, his breath ragged, his usual dominance fraying under the onslaught of your words. He leaned down, biting at your shoulder, hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting as he tried to ground himself, but your babbling was too much. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet,” he growled, his voice breaking, almost pleading. “Gonna make me come if you keep talkin’ like that.”
“Yes, yes, come in me, Matty,” you babbled, your voice a desperate, trembling mess as you clenched around him, your orgasm crashing closer. “Fill me up, want your cum so bad, want you dripping out of me, fuck—” Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body arching, shaking, as you came with a shattered cry of his name, your cunt pulsing around him, cream coating his dick and slick gushing down your thighs, soaking the sheets.
He followed right after, his groan raw and guttural, his cock twitching as he spilled inside you, his thrusts sloppy and desperate as he rode out the pleasure. His body shuddered, collapsing against you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a long moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your panting, the faint creak of the bed settling beneath you. Any thoughts he had of you being a one time thing were out the window now, you weren't getting rid of him if you tried.
Mattheo lifted his head, his eyes still dazed, a faint, disbelieving smirk tugging at his lips. “Fucking hell,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “Didn’t expect that mouth on you. You’re gonna fucking kill me next time.”
You grinned, lazy and fucked-out, your fingers trailing through his damp curls. “Get used to it, Riddle,” you murmured, your voice soft but still carrying that edge. “I’ve got plenty more to say.”
english isn’t my first, enemies to lovers, angst, mutual pining
── ✦ ──
The first time Mattheo Riddle said your name, it was to challenge you to a duel.
You, a fiery Gryffindor with a sharp mind and sharper tongue, smiled like someone throwing a match into gasoline knowing damn well you might get burned, but craving the fire anyway. Since then, it became routine.
Fighting him. Arguing with him. Beating him... or letting him win, just to see that cocky smirk he gets when he thinks he’s outsmarted you.
And everyone at Hogwarts thinks you hate each other. That you can’t be in the same hallway without throwing hexes or insults.
But you know better. There’s something else. You don’t know what. But it’s there. Buzzing under your skin. Crackling in the air when he's near. Like static electricity. Like danger. Like... wanting.
Everything shifts the day Professor Binns pairs you up for a research project. "Ancient Magic and Its Connection to Human Emotion," the scroll says.
Mattheo groans.
You cross your arms. Binns floats off like he didn’t just sign both your emotional death sentences. “Perfect,” Mattheo mutters. “Teamed up with a Gryffindor with a savior complex.”
You shoot back, “And you’re a Slytherin with a tragic villain complex. Guess we’re even.”
Days pass. You’re stuck in the library together. Sharing candlelight and dusty pages. You argue, he rolls his eyes, you throw ink, he throws sarcasm.
But then… something starts to change.
The silences stretch out, the stares linger, your fingers brush his when you reach for the same book.
And his breathing gets heavier when you lean in too close. Until, one night, it finally happens.
It’s in the Astronomy Tower. Past midnight. You snuck up there because the library closed early, and you needed to finish translating a spell on soulbonding. “You don’t believe in this, do you?” you ask, pointing to the page.
“In what?”
“In unavoidable connections.”
He laughs, but there's no humor. Just… something bitter. “And you do?”
You nod slowly. “Sometimes I think… we don’t get to choose who we hate. Or who we want.” You words hang between you, thick in the air. And then he steps forward.
Too close.
His eyes are dark, wild, wrecked.
His voice barely a whisper: “I don’t hate you.”
“What…?”
“I don’t hate you, fuck—” His voice shakes. “I hate myself for what I feel for you. For thinking about you all the time. For wanting to kiss you every time we argue. And not knowing how to stop.”
Your heart practically stops. Your breath catches. And then you do the only thing that makes sense in that moment You kiss him first.
The kiss isn’t soft. It’s messy. Angry. Addictive. His hands are desperate. Your fingers tangle in his hair like a lifeline. It’s war turning into surrender. It’s silence turning into truth.
And for that one night, nothing else matters. Not the house rivalry. Not who he is. Not who you are. Just this. Just him. Just... you.
After the kiss… You don’t talk.
He left before the sun came up. And you walked back to Gryffindor Tower with trembling hands and swollen lips and a head full of chaos.
And since then? Mattheo Riddle hasn’t looked at you once.
Three days. Three fucking days. Nothing. No notes. No smirks. Not even a passing glare in class. Just silence.
And not the charged kind. The empty kind. The kind that screams: it meant nothing to him.
“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter to Hermione in the library, practically snapping your quill in half.
“Who?”
“Who do you think?”
Hermione raises an eyebrows “Riddle? Again?”
You lie. Say it’s just the project. Say he’s annoying. Say you wish Binns had paired you with literally anyone else. But that night, alone in the Room of Requirement where you used to work on the project together…
You admit it. It hurts. Not the silence.
But what the silence means. Until one night, you see him. Mattheo. Alone. In the courtyard, smoking. It’s 2 a.m. The moon makes him glow silver. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, hair a mess, like the night sky just tossed him here for you to deal with.
You weren’t going to stop. You were going to keep walking, pretend you didn’t see him. Pretend you don’t care. But then, he speaks. Without looking at you. “You gonna ignore me too?”
Your whole body freezes. You turn. “Excuse me? I’m ignoring you?”
Now he looks at you. And God, you hate how pretty he is. “I don’t know what you expected,” you snap. “You kiss me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive, and then you vanish. Like I was some mistake.”
His expression changes. Quiet. Wrecked. “You’re not a mistake,” he says. “I am.” You stand still. The wind cuts through the air. So do his words. “You know what’s worse than hating you?” he murmurs. “Liking you. Wanting you. Knowing I can’t have you without ruining you.”
“You’re not ruining me, Mattheo,” you whisper. “You ruin me by leaving.” He steps forward. And again. And again.
“I’m not scared of anyone,” he says. “But you? You fucking terrify me.”
“Why?”
“Because when I’m with you… I feel real.”
And then the silence returns. But it doesn’t hurt this time. Now it means something. Now it’s not avoidance. It’s a promise.
That no matter how much you try to fight it, you’ll always crash back into each other. Because this didn’t start with hate. It started with fire.
And fire always comes back.
“He’s not your enemy. He never was. He was just the perfect distraction to hide the fact that you felt too much for him to admit.”
You don’t kiss again. Not for a while, but ever since that night in the courtyard, everything changes. No more insults. No more sarcastic jabs. Something worse.
Stolen glances. Silent tension. Close proximity that feels like drowning. Professor McGonagall calls you two the most “efficient pair” in class.
If only she knew you spent 45 minutes in front of a book without reading a single word. You, pretending to take notes. Him, drawing random shapes in the corner of the parchment, right next to your hand.
And once, just once. When everyone left the classroom… he touched your wrist. His thumb brushed your skin. And you didn’t breathe for seven seconds.
The Room of Requirement becomes your secret routine. You never arrive together. But he’s always there first. Sitting in the same chair. One candle lit. A book open he never reads, because he’s too busy watching you.
Like you’re the only spell he can’t figure out. And you? You let him.
Then one night, it happens again. You’re pissed. You saw him with Pansy Parkinson all day. Laughing. Standing too close.
“What is your deal?” you ask the moment you step into the room.
He doesn’t even look up. “What now?”
“Are you messing with me?”
He raises a brow. “Does it bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me! I’m not some game to you, Mattheo.”
He stands up, slow and steady. “You think you’re a game to me? After everything?”
“Then what am I?”
Silence.
But not the kind you run from. This one hurts. He breathes out.
“You’re my fucking weakness. That’s what you are.”
You freeze. He steps closer. Closer. Closer. “Everyone sees me as the threat. The son of the monster. And I became that. It was easier. Being feared. Untouchable.” His voice cracks barely.
“Then you came along. And you didn’t fear me. You saw me. And now I don’t know how to protect myself from you.”
So you kiss him. But this time, not out of impulse. Out of choice. Out of need. Out of something you’re both too scared to name.
And this time, he kisses you like he finally gets it. Like he wants to stay.
That night, for the first time, you fall asleep in the Room of Requirement. Together. Nothing else happens. Just you. His breath against your neck. His fingers laced with yours. There’s still a war waiting outside those walls.
But for tonight? There are no sides.
Just the two of you. On the edge of something beautiful. And terrifying.
You’ve recently started seeing a new guy… but this incubus isn’t happy about that.
MDNI!! an incubus is a demon, sex dreams, slight coercion, creampie, unprotected piv, blood, biting, fingering, possessiveness, jealousy, incubus!mattheo x fem!reader, I am not responsible for your media consumption.
w/c: 1.7k
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a/n: my very late contribution to week 2 of @acourtofchaos's au event!
The dreams started the night you kissed that gryffindor boy. Alex and you weren’t exclusive, never have been. You’d been going on dates, and he seemed to like you, but you two never agreed to anything official. He was kind, there was no doubt about that. Safe, too. He was the kind of boy who asked to kiss you, who would never go farther than holding your hand.
But you two never shared that spark, that fire, that aching intensity that’s been haunting you ever since you slept with the boy everyone steered away from – Mattheo Riddle. But unfortunately for you – and your pussy – that was just a fling; a one time occurrence. You were over it, over him. Or so you thought.
Because when you went to bed after that first kiss, sweet, chaste, forgettable, you dreamt of sex. Of teeth scraping against your neck. Of a hand wrapping around your throat. Of someone pushing you down onto your mattress, forcing your thighs apart with a noise that said he’d needed this. Needed you.
The first time it happened, you attributed it to stress. Maybe it could’ve been your lack of recent sex. But the second night, you dreamt of his mouth. Wet kisses trailing down your throat. His mouth nipping at your thighs. You could practically feel his breath blowing gently against your ear as he whispered, “You think he can fuck you like this?” And, “Is this how you moan for him?”
By the fifth night, you were trembling when you woke up. Your skin was slick with sweat, your panties ruined by your arousal, and an unbearable ache between your thighs. And worst of all? You felt like you were being watched, like someone was drinking up all your pent up need and savoring it like the finest wine.
By the second week, you knew this couldn’t possibly be a coincidence anymore. Every erotic dream you had, every lustful image you thought of, was centered around him – Mattheo Riddle. Touching yourself at night didn’t help. Instead, it only made things worse. Not only that, but you kept seeing him around the castle. His gaze was always on you, dilated eyes never failing to meet yours. The expression on his face was always one of hunger. These dreams were meant as punishment. Torture. A warning.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Mattheo’s hands are everywhere. He’s trailing his hands down your body, then grips your thighs, forcing them apart. He loops his fingers in the waistband of your panties, pulls them down without a second thought.
For some reason, you’re begging. Not softly, not sweetly. You’re begging desperately, your body writhing under him.
“Please,” you gasp, his name like a prayer on your tongue. “Fuck. Mattheo, I need you.”
The bastard only chuckles that rich, dark laugh that makes your stomach flutter. You groan, annoyed.
“Please what, sweetheart?” He purred against your inner thigh, sucking marks into the sensitive flesh. “Tell me what you want. I may be a demon, but I can’t read thoughts.”
Your whole body tensed. “Please. I want you. I need you to-”
You woke with a gasp, body jolting to a sitting position. Heart pounding, sweat clung to your skin. And then you realized you weren’t alone. Mattheo was sitting at the edge of your bed, watching you.
“Miss me?” He asked, voice low and rough, curls shadowing his face. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, those perfect eyes trained solely on you as you jerked back against the pillows. He could practically hear your heart slamming against your chest.
“What the fuck?”
“Shh. You were moaning my name, sweetheart. Loud enough for the whole castle to hear. Poor little Alex is going to be crushed, won’t he?” He mused with mock sympathy, watching your face flush. “Quite the dream you were having, huh?”
“How’d you get in here?” You questioned, attempting to change the subject.
He smirked. “You invited me, love. Every moan. Every dream. Every fucking time you touched yourself at night, imagining my hands instead of that grimy gryffindor’s. You opened the door – gave me the opportunity.”
“I didn’t mean to-”
He shushed you before you could finish, voice low like a purr, “Shh… But you did.” His hand crept under your blanket, finding your thigh, touch so warm it was inhuman. You should’ve pushed him away. You didn’t.
Your thighs clenched together, and he felt it. He inhaled deeply, groaning. “So wet already, fuck. Your desire is so sweet. Been feeding off this for weeks, sending you all these dreams. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.”
“That was you?” You asked, incredulous. “You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be able to be here,” you panted, trying to make him leave.
“What, you want me gone?” He asked, dark eyes locked on yours. There was a knowing smirk on his lips, like he knew you wouldn’t object. But he still wanted to give you a chance to say no, wanting you to fully want this.
You didn’t answer, silence filling the void between you.
He moved to hover over you, forcing you to lay back down, his arms caging you in. “Tell me to stop.”
But again, there was silence.
Mattheo’s mouth crashed onto yours, his kiss feral, hungry, demanding. His hand slid between your legs and you gasped as his fingers ran over your soaked panties.
“Look at you… fucking dripping. And that's all for me. No one else,” he rasped. In one swift movement, he hooked his fingers in your panties, pulling them right off you. Just like in your dream.
“You fucked me once, and now nothing else will do. Nobody else will do,” he rasped, shoving two fingers into you without warning. “So fucking tight.”
A whimper escaped your lips when he curled his fingers just right, and he smirked as he left kisses down your neck.
“You’re going to come for me,” he hissed, pumping his fingers at a rapid pace. “You’re going to come on my fingers and then beg me to fuck you properly. You hear that, love?”
All you could do was moan loudly as your hips bucked, rocking against his hand. That’s when he bit you, teeth sinking into the skin of your shoulder. “Fucking answer me,” he barked, but the pain only doubled your pleasure.
Your body convulsed, walls clenching around his fingers as you came with a broken cry. The orgasm hit hard and fast, making your vision blur at the edges as your nails clawed at his back. You could feel his tongue lapping at your wound, drinking up not only your blood but also your pleasure. When he pulled back, lips stained crimson, he looked like sin itself.
“You taste so fucking good,” he murmured, hands moving to drag your shirt over your head. He landed kisses on every inch of newly exposed skin, nipping at your chest until your breasts were littered with marks.
“You want me to be gentle?” He asked, voice soft. His face was level with yours now, arms caging you in as he hovered over you. “Last chance, sweetheart.”
You looked into his eyes, and whispered, “No. Prove to me that this isn’t just another fling.”
He looked startled at that, but the next thing you knew, his belt was clanging to the floor, cock pressing against your entrance.
“You’re mine. Say it. Say it and ask me to give you what you want” he panted, voice trembling with restraint.
“I’m yours,” you breathed, your expression full of longing. “Please. Please, I need you, Mattheo.”
You barely got to finish your sentence before he slammed into you, bottoming out in one brutal thrust. A moan left your lips, and he didn’t move for a long moment, letting you adjust. Then, his hips started to move, slow at first, then faster. The bed creaked beneath you both as his thrusts grew deeper, harsher. You were absolutely soaked – the obscene sounds of sex filling the room.
“Fuck,” he murmured, head falling to rest in the crook of your neck, “you were made for me.”
His hand reached between you to rub your clit, moving his fingers in fast, rapid circles.
“Does he fuck you like this?” Mattheo demanded. “Does he make you moan like this? Like the pathetic slut you are?”
You couldn’t speak. All you could do was mewl and squirm, which did not help his temper.
“Fucking answer me.”
“No,” you sobbed. “Only you, Mattheo.”
He laughed, dark and cruel, before gripping your throat with just enough pressure to make your eyes flutter. He sucked a mark into the flesh just above your breast before biting down, and blood welled up immediately. “You’re mine now,” he rasped against your chest. “Mine to fuck. Mine to make bleed.”
He licked up your blood with a low groan, his cock twitching inside you from the taste.
“You have no idea what you do to me. I’d kill him – that gryffindor bastard. Tear him apart for touching you,” he muttered, now littering kisses over your fresh wound.
“Then do it,” you gasped. “Prove it.”
Something snapped in him then, and his pace turned pushishing. You couldn't think, couldn’t breathe. Every one of his thrusts sent sparks through your body. Every bite, every filthy praise he muttered into your ear pushed you closer to your next climax.
“Mattheo… I’m gonna come,” you sobbed. “Please. Don’t stop!”
“Come on my cock,” he snarled. “You can do it. Let me have you.”
Your orgasm hit like fire. Vision going white, your body trembled as you clenched around him, and he came next with a low moan. Hot, thick, he spilled deep inside you, never bothering to pull out. Instead, he rocked into you slowly, letting you feel all of him in your overly sensitive state. He grinned, his teeth still stained red with your blood.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him. “Forever.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
When you woke up the next morning, he was still there. Lying beside you, arms wrapped around your waist, he had a hand splayed possessively over your stomach, the other buried in your hair, as if he was playing with it as he fell asleep.
You ached everywhere, yet you’d never felt so satisfied. The bite marks on your skin were still fresh, still stinging. Your thighs were sticky with the mix of both your cum. You should’ve been embarrassed, ashamed. But all you felt was his. His, and absolutely adored.
He opened his eyes, gaze tired but loving. “Morning, angel.”
You didn’t speak, just pressed a soft kiss to his lips and settled back into his embrace.
hope you enjoyed!! reblogs and comments are VERY appreciated and motivate me lots! <3
tag list: @mattyriddlesbitch @sturniolover13 @thereeallink @voidangxls @viperify @winnie1emon @catching-fire-in-the-wind
Mattheo had you folded in half, knees hooked over his elbows, hips pistoning with the kind of brutal rhythm that made the headboard slam the wall in a steady, filthy beat. The jersey you’d worn to greet him was bunched under your chin, sweat-slick skin sliding against his. Every thrust drove the air from your lungs in sharp, broken gasps; your cunt fluttered around the thick drag of his cock, slick dripping down your ass to pool beneath you.
His arms caged you in—biceps flexed and bulging with the effort of holding your thighs spread wide, veins standing out like cords under flushed skin. You were lost in it: the size of him, the way those muscles bunched and released with every snap of his hips, dwarfing your smaller frame. Your hands scrabbled for purchase, nails raking over the hard curve of his left bicep, and then—pure instinct—you twisted your head and bit down.
Hard.
Teeth sank into the swollen peak of muscle, the salt of his sweat exploding across your tongue. Mattheo’s rhythm stuttered; a raw, shocked sound tore from his throat, half-groan, half-roar. His cock jerked inside you, impossibly thicker, and he slammed in to the root with a force that shoved you up the mattress.
“Fuck—” The word cracked like a whip. His grip spasmed, fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he hauled you back down, impaling you again. “Do that again.”
You did. Another savage bite, right beside the first, and he lost it completely. The careful control he’d been clinging to snapped; he manhandled you like a ragdoll, flipping you onto your stomach mid-thrust, yanking your hips up until your knees barely touched the sheets. One massive hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat; the other clamped your waist, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal stroke.
“Bite,” he snarled, voice ragged, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your spine. He shifted his arm—deliberately—until the bitten bicep hovered beside your face, flexing hard enough that the muscle jumped under the fresh teeth marks. “Fucking mark me while I split you open.”
You lunged. Teeth clamped down again, harder, and he roared—hips snapping forward so viciously your vision blurred. The angle was deeper now, cockhead grinding over that spot that made your toes curl, and you came with a muffled scream into his arm. Your cunt spasmed, gushing around him, slick squirting down your thighs in messy pulses.
Mattheo didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He fucked you through it, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. Another bite—your jaw aching, his bicep a constellation of purple crescents—and he shattered. Cock swelling, pulsing, he buried himself deep and spilled in thick, hot ropes, flooding your cunt until it leaked out around his base with every shallow thrust he couldn’t resist.
Your cunt was still pulsing, slick dripping like a faucet, pooling on the soaked sheets beneath you, the obscene squelch of his cock lingering in the air as he finally stilled, chest heaving against your back. He didn’t pull out. Just pressed his forehead to your shoulder blade, breath ragged, and flexed the bitten arm experimentally.
A low, wondering laugh rumbled out of him. “Didn’t know I’d like that,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Next set, you’re my spotter—and I'll be your fucking chew toy.”
kind of angst/smut/fluff ?? ex bf mattheo who is still in love, rough sex happy ending!
God, you were livid.
More than livid—seething, a live wire under your skin. You’d done it again: let yourself believe another man’s hands could ever feel like his. That someone else’s mouth could make you forget. And where had that blind optimism landed you?
Right here, heels stabbing the stone floor outside his door like you were trying to drill straight through the castle. Breath fogging in the cold corridor, cheeks burning from cheap Firewhisky and the sharper sting of failure. Sexually frustrated didn’t begin to cover it; you were aching, hollowed-out, furious at your own body for its stubborn loyalty.
You knew exactly what you were missing: those stupid, endless brown eyes that always looked half-drunk on you; the low rasp of his voice when he said your name like a prayer and a curse at once; the way his fingers mapped you like he’d memorized every sensitive inch years ago and was only too happy to prove it.
The problem—the infuriating, unsolvable problem—was that you’d walked away. Well. Bolted.
Mattheo Riddle had been in love with you. Not the pretty, polite kind of love, either; the messy, obsessive, can’t-breathe-without-you kind. He would’ve burned the world down if you asked him to, and then handed you the ashes with ghat stupid crooked smile of his. And one night, curled against his chest with his heartbeat thundering under your ear, he’d said it. Three syllables, casual as commenting on the rain against the windowpane. I love you. Like it was nothing. Like he couldn't hold it back anymore.
You’d panicked. Bolted down the corridor so fast your lungs burned. Three months of convincing yourself freedom tasted better than safety, three months of swallowing the loneliness because commitment felt like drowning.
Your body, apparently, had not received the bloody memo.
That poor Ravenclaw was still back in the broom closet, confused and aching, trousers half-down, wondering what he’d done wrong when all he’d done was not be him.
Before your fist could even connect with the wood, the door swung open.
You dragged your gaze up—slow, mortified—and there they were: those ridiculous, warm-brown eyes, molten in the dim light, and a smirk that said he’d been expecting you for hours.
“Starting to think you like the chase more than the finish, baby,” he drawled, voice rolling over you like whiskey and smoke, sinking straight into your bloodstream. The sound alone sent heat licking low in your belly.
He leaned against the doorframe, all lazy confidence, grey sweatpants slung criminal-low on his hips, the faint outline beneath them making your mouth go dry. His hair was a riot of dark curls, like he’d been dragging his hands through it—or waiting for someone else to. The faint scent of cedar, cigarette smoke, and him curled into the air between you, familiar enough to make your knees traitorous.
He tilted his head, smirk deepening. “Come to punish me again for ruining you for everyone else?”
You wanted to roll your eyes, to turn on your heel and let pride win for once, let the ache between your thighs stay a punishment you actually deserved. But God, those eyes, those same reckless, fever-bright eyes that had sent you running three months ago, were still fixed on you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. Dark, endless, a little dangerous. They always stripped you bare long before his hands ever got the chance.
Every single time you came crawling back, pride crumbled somewhere between the corridor and his doorway, crushed beneath the sharper, stupid need to be wanted, truly wanted, by the one person who’d memorised the exact pitch of your gasp when he curled his fingers just right, who knew the filthy little praise that turned your spine to liquid.
He never made you beg. Never made you say the words. He just opened the door wider, let you tumble into the orbit he’d never stopped keeping warm for you.
Your gaze dragged downward, slow, helpless, past the sharp cut of his hipbones, past the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath soft grey cotton that was rapidly losing the fight against what you did to him by just showing up. The thick, growing ridge straining the fabric made your mouth water and your thighs clench involuntarily.
He knew. Of course he knew.
Mattheo’s tongue touched the corner of his smirk, lazy and wicked. “See something you want, baby?” he murmured, voice rough velvet, close enough now that you could taste mint and smoke on every exhaled breath. “Or are you pretending you’re here for any other reason?”
Your voice slipped out soft, airless, almost a whine. “Don’t make me say it, Matty.”
You let your lower lip tremble, just enough, the little pout you knew turned him inside out. A cheap trick, maybe, but it worked every time. His gaze dropped instantly, always such a fool for you, pupils blowing wide like you’d flicked a switch. He didn’t need the reminder. Those lips haunted him every night he shut his eyes he felt them, plush and slick, sliding down his cock while his own hand tried and failed to match the wet heat he still tasted in his sleep.
He was done waiting.
One second the corridor air was cold on your skin, the next his fist was bunched in the front of your jacket, yanking you over the threshold. The door slammed behind you with a thud that echoed down the empty hall. Before you could draw breath he had you pinned, spine meeting the rough stone wall with just enough force to rattle the air from your lungs.
His body crowded yours, solid and burning hot, the sharp scent of cedar and smoke and him flooding your senses until the whole world narrowed to the places you touched. Thigh sliding between yours, pressing up hard enough to make you gasp. Forearm braced beside your head, caging you in. The other hand still twisted in your jacket like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
Mattheo’s mouth lingered a breath away, every rough exhale ghosting over your lips like warm whiskey.
“Show me what he did wrong, baby,” he growled low, never pretending he didn't know about your pathetic mission to replace him, always fully aware you were incapable. The sound of his voice scraping low, lethal, sinking straight into your bones. “Tell me how fucking useless he was.”
His hands shoved under your shirt, palms hot and calloused, branding your ribs. A broken moan spilled out of you raw, filthy, unstoppable and that slow, vicious smile spread across his face because no one else on earth could drag that noise from your throat and he knew it.
You knew you shouldn’t feed him. Knew you should bite your tongue until it bled. But his fingertips were already moving, reverent and ravenous, mapping the body he’d memorized and mourned for ninety-one sleepless nights. He'd counted, of course.
“He kissed like a slob,” you whispered, cheeks on fire. “All spit and clumsy tongue, like he was trying to lick the taste out of me.”
Mattheo laughed, soft and dark, the sound brushing the shell of your ear and shooting liquid heat down your spine. That laugh, so unguarded and gentle, the one he never gave anyone else, always melted you from the inside out. His hands kept roaming: hard squeezes over your hips that made you sway into him, feather-light trails up your stomach that prickled every inch of skin awake, fingers slipping beneath lace to cradle your breasts until your back bowed hard, begging.
His other palm dragged your skirt to your waist, kneading the curve of your arse, spreading you just enough that cool air kissed the wet heat between your thighs and you whimpered.
“He kept asking if it felt good,” you gasped, “kept rubbing the inside of my thigh like a lost bloody tourist, missing the only thing that mattered.”
“Missing what, sweetheart?” His voice was black velvet and sin. You could feel the hunger pulsing off him as his mouth skimmed the swell of your breast, tongue tracing lace, teeth scraping skin. “Say the words and I’ll give you everything, baby. You know I always do.”
His teeth closed in a gentle bite just above your nipple, waiting, breath scorching.
Your brain was already running dumb, the only signals in it were where his hands and mouth were touching. He didn't have to convince you to tell him anything, as long as he just didn't stop.
“He couldn’t find my clit if I’d spotlighted it and drawn arrows.”
A deep, guttural chuckle vibrated against your skin. He ripped your slutty thong aside, two fingers sliding through slick folds to circle that aching, swollen bundle with merciless, perfect precision.
“There she is,” he rasped, pressing hard, slow, devastating circles that buckled your knees and blurred the world at the edges. “There’s my good girl.”
His knees hit the carpet with a soft thud you felt through the soles of your feet. Those warm, wicked brown eyes tilted up, pinning you in place while his tongue dragged slow across his bottom lip, deliberate, like he could already taste you.
He hooked one of your trembling legs over his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft back of your thigh, spreading you open until cool air kissed slick, swollen skin. The heat of his breath ghosted over you first, a teasing promise, then the faint scrape of stubble as he leaned in, nose brushing the crease where thigh meets cunt.
“Twenty-eight days,” he rasped, reminding you of the last time your resolve broke, voice rough with starvation, the words vibrating against your clit. “Twenty-eight fucking nights of my fist and your name and this perfect pussy I could still taste every time I closed my eyes.”
He inhaled, deep and filthy, like a man finally breathing after months underwater, and the low, broken sound that followed made your hips jerk toward his mouth all on their own.
“Yeah?” His voice is pure smoke and gravel, every syllable dragged against your soaked folds so you feel the vibration deep in your belly. “You like hearing how fucking wrecked I was, baby? Knowing you can spread your legs for half the castle and still crawl back here dripping because no one else makes you feel this?”
Heat floods your cheeks, scalding shame and raw want twisted together, but it’s already too late. His tongue flattens, broad and scorching, sliding up the length of your clit in one slow, deliberate lick that rips the air from your lungs. Then his lips seal over you, sucking hard, filthy, the wet sound echoing off stone walls like a claim staked in front of the whole damn castle.
Your knees buckle. Your hands dive into his hair, fingers twisting through thick, unruly curls still damp from an earlier shower, the faint scent of his shampoo rising as you yank him closer. He growls into you, the vibration rolling straight through your clit, and your hips jerk helplessly against his mouth.
He doesn’t ease up. Tongue swirling, flicking, relentless, lapping at you like he’s starving and you’re the first thing he’s tasted in weeks. Every stroke is perfect, merciless, the exact pressure and rhythm that turns your spine molten. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders; your breath comes in sharp, broken sobs.
“Still the sweetest thing I’ve ever had on my tongue,” he rasps between obscene licks, breath blistering hot against swollen flesh. “Your stubborn ass is still all mine.”
“Ah, fuck, Matty—” The words fracture into a sob as his tongue lashes your clit again, ruthless, perfect. “S’too good.”
That’s the sound he lives for: your voice cracking open, raw and wrecked, the moment your brain melts out of your ears and drips down his chin. He groans into you, filthy and reverent, the vibration rolling straight through your core. You taste like warm honey and sin, thick and slick, coating his tongue, his lips, running in glossy rivulets down his jaw to soak the pale skin on his chest. He doesn’t care. He wants to drown in it, wants the mess branded on his skin until the next time you pretend you can live without this.
His arms lock tighter around your hips, fingers bruising, dragging you down harder onto his greedy mouth like he could swallow you whole if he tried. Your thigh trembles against his cheek, stubble scraping raw, and he growls again when you tug his curls hard enough to sting.
One hand slips lower. The pad of his finger circles your clenching entrance once, twice, teasing, collecting the slick that’s already dripping down your legs. Then he sinks two fingers deep in a single, brutal thrust, curling them up into that spongy spot that whites out your vision. Your back bows off the wall, a broken cry tearing loose as pleasure detonates behind your eyes in blinding, glittering stars.
Say whatever you want about the Dark Lord’s son, monster, murderer, nightmare dressed in green, but Merlin, the boy can fuck. He plays your body like he wrote the damn manual, every stroke of his tongue and twist of his fingers designed to ruin you for anyone else forever.
Your stomach clenches, a tight, molten coil snapping loose with humiliating speed, a climax that other boys have chased for hours over the past month, fumbling and useless, now crashing over you in mere minutes under the hands of the one you swore you could leave behind. That devastating smirk curls his lips again, sharp and knowing, because he feels it—every tiny, traitorous twitch of your body betraying you. He’s memorized you inside and out, the frantic flutter of your walls pulsing around his fingers, the way your eyes glaze and your mouth falls open in that perfect, fucked-out haze he’ll carry behind his eyelids forever.
His fingers pump faster, relentless, knuckles grazing that sweet, spongy spot with every brutal thrust, slick sounds filling the air as his fingers push in and out. His mouth turns ravenous, sloppy, tongue dragging messy and hot across your folds, lips sucking hard enough to bruise. The scrape of his stubble burns your inner thighs, raw and red, and you smell the faint cedar of his skin, taste the salt of yourself on the air as he groans into you, low and animal, like he’s feasting on the last meal he’ll ever have.
“Oh—m’gonna, oh!” Your voice cracks, a desperate, keening sob, hips jerking wild against his face as the world blurs into heat and static and him.
He pulls back just enough for you to feel the sudden loss of heat, then spits, once, deliberate and filthy, right onto your swollen clit. The warm slick lands with a soft sound that punches the air from your lungs; his dark eyes flick up to lock on yours, gleaming with raw possession, daring you to watch what he does to you.
You can’t.
Your head slams back against stone as the orgasm rips through you, violent, blinding waves that start deep in your belly and explode outward. Every muscle seizes, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. His tongue turns soft, languid, lapping slow and gentle through the spasms, coaxing every aftershock until your legs shake like they’ll give out.
He drinks you down like it’s communion. Long, greedy pulls, eyes fluttering shut, lashes casting shadows over sharp cheekbones. Your release slicks his lips, his chin, spills in glistening trails down the column of his throat, catching the low torchlight as it drips over the ridges of his abs and disappears beneath the waistband still clinging low on his hips.
The room smells of sex and expensive perfume and him. Your own heartbeat thunders so loud you barely hear the low, reverent groan he gives when he finally swallows the last of you, like he’s tasting home after months in exile.
You barely have time to suck in a breath before his palm lands in a sharp, wet little smack right against your slick pussy, the sting blooming hot and bright, ripping a breathy, broken yelp from your throat. He’s already rising, towering, mouth crashing over yours in a hungry, claiming kiss that tastes like your own arousal sharp and unmistakable on his tongue. His hands are everywhere at once, frantic, yanking at fabric, buttons popping, zippers rasping down as he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress.
One gentle shove and you’re on your back, air whooshing out of you; then he’s prowling over you like something feral, forearms caging your head, the heat of his skin searing against yours. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time but deeper, tongue stroking in a rhythm that promises ruin, while his rough hands hook behind your knees and fold you open, pressing your thighs to your chest until you’re bent nearly in half and deliciously exposed.
The heavy, velvet weight of his cock drags through your soaked folds, once, twice, painting himself in your wetness. A low, guttural groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your lips. Then he fists himself, thick and throbbing, and slaps the swollen head against your clit, once, sharp and electric, twice, harder, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room, each impact sending a jolt after jolt of raw pleasure spiking straight through your core.
“Fuck… missed you too much to be gentle.”
The words scrape out of him, raw and ragged, right before he drives forward in one brutal thrust, burying every thick, unforgiving inch to the root. The stretch is blinding, white-hot, splitting you open so suddenly your toes curl hard enough to cramp, a broken wail tearing from your throat as your mind whites out. Your nails claw at his shoulders, scrabbling for anything to anchor you while your body tries to remember how to take him, how to breathe around him.
“Ah—Matty, s’too deep—” It’s half sob, half plea, tears already stinging at the corners of your eyes, your walls fluttering in frantic protest around the impossible heat of him.
“You can take it, baby,” he rasps, voice trembling with restraint even as his hips snap forward again, sharp, punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. “This is what you get for always running from me.”
His hands, God, his hands, slide up your throat so tenderly it hurts, thumbs stroking the fragile skin beneath your jaw, tracing the frantic jump of your pulse like he’s memorizing it. The contrast is dizzying: gentle palms cradling your face while his cock carves you open with merciless, grinding strokes that punch the air from your lungs.
“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing the salt of your tears, voice cracking with something raw and possessive. “So fucking scared of staying.”
Your glassy, wrecked eyes meet his, dark, blown wide, glittering with unshed tears and desperate want, and the sight drags a shameless, guttural moan from deep in his chest. He bottoms out again, hips flush to yours, grinding slow and filthy so you feel every throb, every vein.
“But this pussy?” He pulls back just to slam home once more, the head of his cock kissing so deep your vision sparks. “This greedy little thing doesn’t want anyone else, does she?”
He punctuates the question with a roll of his hips that drags over that devastating spot inside you, and your answer is nothing but a broken, wet cry as your walls clamp down around him, fluttering, milking, already begging for everything you swore you’d never give him again.
“Say it, baby,” he coaxes, voice velvet-rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his cock throbs deep inside you, thick and unmoving, keeping you stuffed full. “Tell me no one can fuck you like me.”
Your jaw clenches; pride flares hot behind your ribs once more. You want to bite the words back, want to deny him the satisfaction, but he’s buried so perfectly, stretching you open, pulse hammering against your fluttering walls, and your body is already betraying you.
He drags the pad of his thumb down, finds your clit slick, sensitive and swollen, and starts rubbing slow, cruel, perfect circles. The pleasure is immediate, vicious, a live wire dragged over raw nerves. Your hips jerk without permission; a helpless, wet sound spills from your throat.
“N-no one,” you choke out, hating how wrecked you already sound, “just you, fuck—Mattheo!”
The smirk that carves across his face is pure sin, sharp and filthy and triumphant. He rolls his hips once, deliberate, grinding the thick head of his cock right against that spot that makes your spine bow and your vision spark white. Your breath catches on a silent scream; tears slip hot down your temples into your hair.
“My name again, sweetheart,” he growls, low and dangerous, thumb never stopping its torment, hips starting a slow, grinding rhythm that punches little broken gasps out of you with every drag. “Let me hear how pretty it sounds when you’re falling apart on my cock.”
The instant your walls flutter and clamp down around him, tight and desperate, he knows. Of course he knows—every filthy secret of your body is etched into his muscle memory, every telltale sign branded on his soul. That wicked smirk flashes across his sweat-slick face again, dark eyes gleaming with triumph as he feels you unraveling from the inside out.
His fingers blur over your swollen clit, circling faster, merciless, the rough pads slick with you and pressing just right, every stroke locking in perfect, devastating rhythm with the deep, punishing snap of his hips. The wet sounds of skin on skin fill the room, obscene and echoing, mingling with your broken whimpers and the low, animal grunts rumbling from his chest.
You’re gone—blissfully, utterly fucked stupid. Drool slips from the corner of your parted lips, warm and shameless, trailing down your chin as your head lolls back against the pillow. Your eyes are glassy, heavy-lidded, locked on him. The flex of his abs with every thrust, the sheen of sweat glistening over inked skin, the way his dark curls stick to his forehead, wild and damp. God, he’s beautiful like this—feral, powerful, carved from shadow and sin. Ex or not, the sight of him alone could ruin you all over again.
He leans down, teeth grazing your earlobe, breath scorching hot. “That’s it, baby,” he rasps, voice shredded with restraint. “Come apart on my cock. Show me who you really belong to.”
Your moans shatter into frantic, breathy chants of his name, each syllable spilling from your swollen lips like a plea and a prayer. The sound races down his spine in electric shivers, raw and intoxicating, that pretty voice wrapping around “Matty” until his control frays at the edges.
He’s done being gentle. Your orgasm has barely ebbed when his own hunger surges, brutal and unforgiving. His hips snap faster, harder, pounding into your slick, fluttering heat with a desperation that borders on violence—the slap of skin on skin echoing sharp and wet, the bed creaking under the force. Sweat beads on his throat, trickling down the sharp lines of his chest, the air thick with salt and sex and the faint musk of him.
Beautiful, broken moans tear from his parted lips, ragged and low, as his head falls back. Dark curls cling to his damp forehead; his eyes squeeze shut in ecstasy, biceps bulging and veins corded under inked skin as he chases the edge. He’s lost in it, until the hot rush of your release sprays across his abs, warm and sudden, coating him in glistening proof of how thoroughly he’s wrecked you.
He doesn’t miss a second.
“Good girl—fuck, that’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, bliss carving harsh lines into his face. But his eyes snap open, locking on yours, drinking in the sight of you unraveling beneath him. Your pretty flushed cheeks, glassy stare, body arching in helpless aftershocks. Fuck, he loves you. The words burn in his throat, fierce and unspoken—he’d swallow them forever if it kept you here, kept you safe, kept you from running back only when some idiot leaves you cold and aching.
No time to voice it now, though. His rhythm stutters, body shuddering as he buries himself deep and comes with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes flood you, pulsing against your walls, filling you until the warmth spreads low in your belly and you squirm, oversensitive and overwhelmed.
Your breaths come ragged, chests heaving in tandem as he collapses onto you, heavy and spent. He eases your trembling legs down, muscles screaming in relief, but he doesn’t pull out. No—he stays buried inside, keeping every drop sealed in, like he could brand you from the inside if he just holds still long enough. His forehead drops to yours, breath mingling, the world narrowing to the thunder of two hearts refusing to slow.
After a long, heavy silence, broken only by the ragged sync of your breathing and the faint crackle of dying embers in the grate, you feel it coming, the question he’s asked a dozen times before, soft and desperate: Stay.
This time, you’re ready to say yes. This time, the word sits warm on your tongue, tasting like surrender.
But that’s not what he says.
“I won’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough from groans and restraint, his forehead still pressed to yours, damp curls tickling your skin. “Won’t say those words ever again if that’s what it takes. Just… stop running. I’m sorry I dropped it on you like that. Sorry I scared you shitless.” His fingers trace your hips, slow and reverent like he’s afraid you’ll run again if he holds too tight. “Give me a chance to fix it. You don’t have to love me back. You just have to stay.”
The plea cracks something open in your chest, a raw ache that spreads like wildfire, squeezing until your ribs feel too small for the heart hammering inside them. Because you do love him. God, you do. It’s why your feet carry you here every time the loneliness bites too deep. Why no other boy’s touch ever gets past your skin before you shut it down, cold and final. Why his gaze across the Great Hall still burns you from the inside out, a constant, bruising reminder that he’s carved himself into places you can’t reach to dig him free.
He loves you, and it’s terrifying. But loving him back—admitting it—feels like standing at the edge of a cliff with no broom beneath you.
“I do love you, Matty,” you whisper, the words scraping out raw, tasting like salt and truth. “I’m just… terrified.”
A shaky breath rushes from his lungs, warm against your lips, relief and something fiercer flooding his eyes. Then that familiar cheeky smile breaks through, crooked and blinding, the one that always undid you long before he ever touched you.
“Terrified,” he echoes, voice low, teasing, but trembling at the edges with wonder. He brushes his nose against yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Yeah… we can work with terrified.”
this one is very long and took me forever to write, i hope it's worth it!
synopsis : mattheo and theo are high off a quidditch win when they decide to make a bet, who can fuck you better?
warnings: 18+, pnv, threesome, dp, fingering, oral m&f receiving, dirty talk, overstimulation (probably a completely unrealistic number of orgasms tbh), mentions of partying, mdni, eiffel tower
✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯
The Slytherin common room was a fever dream of flickering firelight and the sharp tang of firewhisky, the air thick with the buzz of Slytherin’s Quidditch triumph over Ravenclaw. The dungeon’s stone walls pulsed with the aftershocks of celebration—shouts, clinking glasses, the low thrum of victory. You were slumped on a velvet couch, thighs pressed tight under your skirt, the half-empty butterbeer bottle in your hand slick with condensation. Mattheo Riddle and Theo Nott loomed over you, their presence a storm cloud of danger and desire. Mattheo’s eyes, dark as sin, raked over you, his smirk sharp enough to cut. Theo, sprawled in a leather armchair, twirled his wand with a lazy, predatory grace, his gaze sliding down your body like a slow pour of honey, all sly charm and Italian heat.
“Bet I can make her come more times than you,” Mattheo said, voice a low growl, like he was staking a claim. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, reeking of whisky and mint, making your skin prickle. “What do you think, princess? Wanna see who fucks you better?”
Theo’s laugh was a velvet rasp, his legs spread wide, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I’ll have you screaming my name before he even gets you wet. You’ll be begging for my cock, tesoro, trust me.” His accent curled around the words, thick with promise, his fingers flexing like he was already imagining you under him.
Your breath hitched, cunt already throbbing, soaking through your panties at the torment you've already endured from the pair tonight, slow whispers against your ear, calloused hands roaming your thighs. You should’ve backed out, laughed it off, but their eyes—Mattheo’s warmth, Theo’s teasing—had you hooked, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Prove it,” you whispered, voice shaky but defiant, and their grins widened, feral and dangerous.
Mattheo’s hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you up with a possessive tug. Theo was already moving, tossing his wand aside with a clatter, his long strides matching Mattheo’s as they dragged you through the dungeon’s winding corridors. Their hands were everywhere—Mattheo’s gripping your arm, bruising, Theo’s on your lower back, fingers grazing the curve of your ass, sending heat pooling low. The dorm door slammed shut, the heavy oak rattling the stone walls, locked with a wandless spell that echoed like a gunshot. The room was a cave of shadows, green lanterns casting an eerie glow, the air cool and sharp, smelling faintly of old books and their mingled scents, all undercut with the faint metallic tang of post-match adrenaline.
Mattheo didn’t wait. He shoved you against the nearest four-poster, the carved wood biting into your hips, his body pinning you, hard and unyielding. “Having regrets yet?” he growled with no intention of letting you answer, lips crashing into yours, all teeth and desperation, his tongue claiming you, tasting of smoke and sin. His hands tore at your shirt, buttons popping like tiny explosions, scattering across the floor. Theo was behind you, his deft fingers unhooking your bra, letting it fall as his lips grazed your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. “Cazzo, you’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, his breath hot and damp, nipping until you whimpered.
You were caught in their heat, drowning in it—Mattheo’s raw intensity, Theo’s calculated seduction. They stripped you bare in seconds, skirt yanked down, panties ripped off, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip that made you gasp. Your skin was alive with sensation—the cool silk sheets under your knees as they pushed you onto the bed, the rough calluses of Mattheo’s hands, the soft brush of Theo’s fingers. You were trembling, cunt dripping, the air thick with the musky scent of your arousal, mingling with their sweat and cologne.
Mattheo climbed over you, knees spreading your thighs, his eyes locked on your slick folds. “Fuck, look at that, so fucking wet already,” he said, voice hoarse, his fingers sliding through your folds, the wet squelch loud, obscene, filling the room. “You’re dripping for us, barely touched you yet.” Theo knelt beside your head, his cock already out, hard and curving, pre-cum beading at the tip. “Open that pretty mouth, dolcezza,” he purred, voice like silk, “let’s see how much you can take.”
“First one’s mine,” Mattheo snapped, smirking at Theo as he plunged two fingers into your cunt without warning, stretching you so fast you cried out, the burn raw and overwhelming. His knuckles grazed your walls, curling hard against your G-spot, his thumb grinding your clit in brutal circles. The wet slaps of his fingers fucking you echoed, your slick coating his hand, dripping onto the sheets. Theo’s hand tangled in your hair, guiding your lips to his cock, the taste salty, musky, as he pushed past your lips, hitting the back of your throat. “That’s it, baby, let go,” he coaxed, voice low, “choke on me, show us how good you are.”
The first orgasm hit like a tidal wave, your cunt clamping down on Mattheo’s fingers, a scream muffled around Theo’s cock as your body bucked, slick spraying onto Mattheo’s wrist, the sheets. “Fuck, yes, soak my hand,” Mattheo groaned, not slowing, his fingers pumping through your spasms, dragging out every pulse. “One,” he counted, voice smug, his free hand slapping your inner thigh, the sting blooming hot.
Theo didn’t give you a second to breathe. He pulled out, letting you gasp, only to replace his cock with his fingers, forcing you to taste your own slick as he slid them into your mouth. “Suck.” he ordered, his other hand pinching your nipple, twisting until you yelped. Meanwhile, Mattheo’s mouth descended, his tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit, sucking hard, the wet slurping sounds mixing with your choked moans. “So fucking sweet, still pulsing for me,” he muttered against you, the vibrations sending shocks through your core. “Come on, baby, give us another.”
Your body was screaming, nerves frayed, but the pleasure was relentless. Theo’s fingers fucked your mouth, his thumb smearing your spit across your lips, while Mattheo’s tongue flicked mercilessly, his fingers sliding back in, three this time, stretching you to the point of pain. The second orgasm tore through you, your walls spasming, your thighs shaking as you screamed around Theo’s fingers, slick gushing again, pooling under you. “Two,” Theo purred, licking his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving your flushed, tear-streaked face.
They didn’t stop. Mattheo was on you now, flipping you onto your knees, the bed creaking under his weight. “Gonna fuck you till you’re dumb,” he growled, his cock slamming into your sensitive cunt, the stretch burning, his girth filling you so completely your breath caught and your toes curled. His thrusts were brutal, hips slamming into your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin ringing out, your slick coating his thighs. Theo was in front, fisting your hair hard, guiding his cock back to your mouth. “Suck me good, doll, let’s see that throat work,” he said, thrusting deep, your gag reflex kicking in as spit dribbled down your chin.
“Who’s fucking you better, baby?” Mattheo taunted, his thrusts punishing, each one driving his cock deeper, hitting your cervix, making your body jolt. “Mmmngh—Matt—fuck!” you babbled, voice breaking, your walls clamping down hard, spasming around his length as another orgasm ripped through you, your nails scrabbling at Theo’s thighs, desperate to hold on. Slick sprayed, soaking the sheets, your body trembling uncontrollably. “Yeaahh, that’s it, makin’ a fucking mess on my cock, aren’t you?” Mattheo groaned, his hips stuttering, your pussy gripping him like a vice. “Three.”
You were a wreck, oversensitive, nerves screaming, but they didn’t care. “Can’t—please, too much,” you sobbed, words slurred, spit pooling on the sheets as Theo pulled out, stroking himself, his eyes dark with lust. “Too much?” Theo mocked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him, his thumb smearing your tears. “We've barely started.” Mattheo spanked you, hard, the sting sharp, blooming across your ass. “Keep coming, baby, let go for us,” he growled, his cock relentless, dragging another orgasm from you, your body convulsing, vision blurring as you screamed, “Four.”
They repositioned you, your limbs like jelly, barely able to hold yourself up. Theo took Mattheo’s place now, pulling you to straddle Mattheo, who lay back, his cock sliding into your dripping cunt with a wet squelch, the burn making you whimper. Theo was behind, lubing himself with a wandless spell, his fingers teasing your ass, cold and slick, before he pushed in, slow but unforgiving. The dual stretch was unbearable—two cocks filling you, splitting you open, the burn, the sensitivity and pleasure blurring into a single, overwhelming pulse. “So fucking tight back here, fuck,” Theo grunted, his voice strained, his hands digging into your hips. “Relax, baby, let us both have you.”
They moved together, Mattheo’s hips snapping up, Theo’s thrusting deep, their cocks dragging against your walls, filling you completely. The room was a symphony of filth: the wet, rhythmic slaps of their thrusts, your broken sobs—“Oh god, can’t, please, fuck, I’m done”—their grunts, Theo’s Italian curses, Mattheo’s filthy encouragements. “Take it, you can take it,” Mattheo murmured, his thumb circling your clit, sparking another orgasm, your body shaking, cunt and ass clenching around them, juices gushing down your thighs. “Five,” they growled together, their voices raw.
You were gone, fucked-out, babbling nonsense—“No more, fuck, can’t take it, please, oh god, can't — again”—your body betraying you, orgasms crashing one after another, six, seven, eight, you couldn’t count, each one tearing through you, leaving you trembling, tears streaming, drool pooling, your mind a haze of pleasure and pain, so close to the edge of blacking out. “Look at her, Mattheo, fucking ruined,” Theo rasped, his cock twitching as your ass clamped down, another climax making you shudder. “Good girl, so fucking tight,” Mattheo groaned, his fingers slick with your release, his hips faltering as your pussy milked him.
They didn’t stop, pushing you past reason, your body a trembling, oversensitive mess. “One more, baby, give us one more,” Theo growled, spanking you again, the sting sharp, your cunt spasming as another orgasm hit, your screams silent now, throat raw. “Nine,” Mattheo counted, his voice breaking as he thrust up, spilling into you, hot and thick. Theo followed, his cum flooding your ass, his groans vibrating through you as your body shook, another climax—ten, maybe more—leaving you limp, barely conscious. Cum and arousal leaked around both of their shafts, both snapping their hips a few more times in a symphony of moans.
They slowed, finally, your body boneless between them, their cum dripping from you, mixing with your slick, soaking the sheets. The air was heavy with sex—sweat, musk, the sharp scent of your release, their cologne. Mattheo pulled out first, his hands gentle now, conjuring a warm, damp cloth to clean you, the softness a stark contrast to his earlier brutality. Theo eased you onto his chest, his lips brushing your forehead, whispering, “Brava, amore, so fucking perfect.” Mattheo tucked a blanket around you, his fingers brushing your hair, murmuring, “Took us like a fucking champ, princess.”
You couldn’t speak, eyes fluttering shut, their warmth anchoring you, the steady thud of Theo’s heartbeat under your cheek pulling you into oblivion. The sheets were ruined, the room echoing with the ghosts of your screams, their grunts, the wet sounds of your body breaking for them. They held you close, their rivalry sated, their touches soft, as you drifted off, utterly spent.
The front door clicked shut, the sound echoing faintly through the cozy warmth of your home. The lingering laughter of Mattheo’s friends—Theo, Draco, and Blaise—faded into the night, leaving behind a quiet that settled like a soft blanket over the living room. The air smelled of cedar logs burning in the fireplace, mingling with the faint citrus tang of the wine glasses scattered on the coffee table. You stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping your hands on a dish towel, your thin cotton tank top clinging softly to your curves, the straps slipping just slightly off one shoulder. It was a simple thing, pale blue and worn-in, but it hugged you in a way that had Mattheo’s dark eyes flickering toward you all evening.
He lounged on the plush velvet armchair by the fire, one leg slung lazily over the armrest, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The glow of the flames danced across his tanned skin, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the messy curls that fell into his eyes. He was watching you now, his gaze intense, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he set his wine glass down with a deliberate clink.
“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and husky, carrying that familiar edge of command that sent a shiver down your spine. He patted his thigh, the motion casual but loaded with intent. “Now, love.”
You smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter, your bare feet padding across the cool hardwood floor. “So demanding,” you teased, but the heat in his gaze pulled you in like gravity. When you reached him, his hands were on you in an instant, strong fingers curling around your hips as he tugged you down onto his lap. You landed with a soft gasp, straddling his thighs, your knees sinking into the chair’s plush cushions. His grip tightened, possessive, grounding you against him as his lips curved into a wicked grin.
“This fucking tank top,” he growled, his voice rough with accusation, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the hem of the fabric. “You’ve been torturing me all night, you know that? Sitting there, looking like this, in front of my mates.” His eyes dropped to your chest, where the thin cotton hugged the swell of your breasts, the faint outline of your nipples just visible in the firelight. His pupils dilated, swallowing the warm brown of his irises.
You laughed, the sound catching in your throat as his hands moved higher, cupping you gently through the fabric, his thumbs grazing with a reverence that made your pulse race. “It’s just a top, Matty,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his curls, soft and slightly damp from the warmth of the room. You gave a gentle tug, and he groaned, his head tipping back slightly, throat bobbing.
“Just a top,” he mocked softly, his smirk devilish. “You’ve no idea the state you’ve put me in.” His hands slipped beneath the tank top, calloused palms warm against your skin as they slid up, lifting the fabric. He didn’t bother pulling it off entirely—just bunched it above your chest, exposing you to his gaze. The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his stare, dark and ravenous.
“Merlin, look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. His hands cupped your breasts, fingers tracing their curves with a tenderness that bordered on worship. “So fucking perfect.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin at the swell of one breast, and then his mouth closed over you, warm and wet, a slow, deliberate lap of his tongue that made you gasp. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt straight to your core, your hips shifting against his lap.
He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your skin as he sucked gently, his tongue swirling over your nipple with a devotion that made your head spin. “I love these,” he mumbled, his words muffled against your flesh, lips moving against the sensitive peak. “So soft… so fucking perfect.” His voice was low, almost incoherent, as he lapped again, slow and teasing, his stubble grazing your skin, adding a delicious friction. He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your damp skin. “Could stay here forever, just like this, tasting you.”
Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging harder, and he moaned, the sound raw and desperate, as he switched to your other breast, his tongue flicking before he sucked again, deeper this time. The wet heat of his mouth, the way his lips closed around you, sent waves of pleasure through you, your body arching into him. “Mattheo,” you whimpered, your voice trembling, and he growled softly, his teeth grazing ever so slightly, just enough to make you squirm.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he rasped, his words slurred around your skin, his lips never fully leaving you. “Love how you feel… love how you taste.” His hands roamed, one staying at your chest, thumb teasing the now-wet peak he’d left behind, while the other slid to your lower back, pressing you closer. You could feel him, hard and straining beneath you, the evidence of his desire only amplifying the heat pooling in your core.
He pulled back for a moment, his lips shiny, eyes hooded as he looked up at you. “You’re my everything,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, rough with need. “I love you so fucking much.” Before you could respond, his mouth was on you again, kissing, lapping, sucking with a fervor that was both tender and insatiable. His hands gripped you tighter, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he wanted to consume you entirely.
You rocked against him, the friction of your hips against his drawing a low groan from his throat, his lips faltering for just a moment before he dove back in, mumbling against your skin, “Can’t get enough… never enough.” The fire crackled behind you, its warmth a faint echo of the heat between you, the air thick with the scent of cedar, wine, and the raw intimacy of the moment.
His love was a storm—fierce, consuming, unwavering—and as his mouth worshipped you, his words tumbling out between kisses, you felt like the only thing anchoring him to the world. “I love you,” he whispered again, his voice breaking with it, his lips brushing your nipple one last time before he pulled you down into a deep, desperate kiss, tasting of you and him and everything you were together.
