#mattheo thoughts

[nottswitch]

theodore ‘i’d let the world burn for you’ nott

mattheo ‘i’ll make the world burn for you’ riddle

i don’t make the rules. case closed.

[nottscherry]

saw that you wanted to write for dealer!mattheo, so here it is. reader is with like mutual friends, aka the gang or whatever, and they give her a cigarette to try, and Mattheo walks in and sees, and he’s all soft with her, saying it isn’t good for her, but is about to kill the others. just want some fluff 😍

“here, you want one?” enzo asks, a cigarette tucked between his lips as he hands you one. you hesitate a moment, thinking about what mattheo said about you smoking. he always made sure you understand the dangers of smoking and that he didn’t want that for you — he refused to let you near one because he wasn’t about to risk your health just because of his lifestyle.

slowly, you pluck the cigarette from between enzo’s fingers, slowly bringing it up to your lips and tucking it between the plump flesh. theo leans forwards in his seat to where you are sitting, the bright orange flame making your eyes widen as he brings his lighter to your cigarette. before you can even suck to light it up, mattheo walks through the patio door, his eyes going straight to the cigarette between your lips. his eyes widen and he practically lunges forward, snatching the cigarette from you. theo jumps back, your eyes wide as you look up at mattheo. you expected him to be upset about you trying to smoke, but his eyes are soft as he squats down to look at you better.

mattheo’s hands cup your face gently, his calloused thumb gently stroking your cheek bone. “hey. remember what i told you about cigarettes?” his voice is soft, matching his eyes. you thought mattheo might get angry considering he’s told you numerous times to not smoke, you’re taken aback by his calm demeanor. slowly, you nod your head, mattheo nodding along with you. “they’re bad for you, angel. i don’t want you smoking them, okay? you are my priority, it’s my job to take care of you. i can’t have you smoking and ruining your pretty lungs, huh? the lungs that give you the breath to tell me you love me.”

a smile curls at your lips, mattheo mirroring your grin as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “you’re too pretty for that, okay? i want what’s best for you, baby.” mattheo says softly, eyes searching yours as he waits for your response. “i know, matty. it won’t happen again, i promise.” you smiled, leaning in and letting your lips brush against his. mattheo grinned, his hand cupping the back of your neck and pressing his lips firmly to yours, fingers threading through your hair.

“since when did he get all sensitive and mushy like that?” enzo asks theo, watching you and mattheo exchange ‘i love you’s’. theo snorts at the disgusted look on enzo’s face. “she’s got him wrapped around her finger.” theo blows out a cloud of smoke, his eyes widening and body tensing as he suddenly notices mattheo glaring at him and enzo. he knows that murderous glare all to well… him and enzo were fucked. they should’ve never given you that cigarette and they were about to learn why.

more dealer!mattheo.

[sabxynsweet]

Mattheo Riddle who…

(for my sweetheart!reader series)

general

★ is much taller than you, though it’s rarely obvious since he’s almost always sitting watching you move around in front of him

★ has a sleeper build

★ is beater in quidditch

★ listens to Cigarettes After Sex, Radiohead, Artic Monkeys, Chase Atlantic and The 1975

★ has been addicted to nicotine since he was 14 (thanks to theo), he’s trying to quit you, very obviously, hate the smell

★ doesn’t speak a lot, unless he’s around his friends, but even then, he’s still on the quiet side

★ seems like he never studies and is just naturally good at all his classes but is actually genuinely interested in some of the subjects and studies in his dorm room on most weekends (#nerd ?) also he has been trained in dark magic for most of life so of course he’s good

★ likes hogwarts because the slytherin common room is the closest thing he’s ever gotten to a home… dreads holidays where he has to go back "home"

★ resents his last name but doesn’t know who he would be without it

friends-ish!mattheo

★ shares only two classes with you: potions and charms. two classes that you always look forward to (you’ve said that aloud multiple times) and that he secretly looks forward to as well

★ is never not amused by your energy and cheerfulness, no matter how early it is

★ studies with you sometimes, you don’t plan it, it’s just a silently agreed upon thing. he meets you at the library and takes the seat you’ve saved for him.

★ genuinely listens when you talk or tell a story, no matter how mundane it is and remembers everything you say

★ you save a seat for him always because he usually shows up after you but on the rare days you’re the late one, he saves a seat for you as well

★ is amused when he catches you staring at him but he only realises because he’s staring at you twice as much

situationship!mattheo

★ has never been more scared in his life then when you’re lying asleep two inches away and he can hear your heart beat, he’s worried to lose you, he’s worried because your heart is real and too beautiful for him to break

★ has a playlist he made for you, though he’d never show you.

★ his body runs hot but he always carries his jacket around when he’s with you because you’re almost always cold

★ likes sad films, it’s something you two have in common. you spend a lot of your “dates” in his/your dorm where he consoles (and teases) you when you cry over these films. (he says he doesn’t have a favourite but you’ve noticed he likes Me Before You, he said once that the main character reminded him of you)

★ has never been good with words, mostly because he was raised in a house that didn’t allow it, so his love language is physical touch. his fingers are always wrapped around yours, his lips are trailing kisses down your neck, he hugs you so tightly it’s as if he wants your hearts to touch without the barrier of skin.

★ melts around you

★ has never loved liked anyone more than he likes you, he wants to tell you so badly but just can’t put it into words

author’s note: will probs update this with every edition of this “series” !

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls 

[enzosbabyangel]

ཐི⋆♱⃓⋆ཋྀ This pic is sooo Mattheo vibes !!

a/n: been a hot minute since i’ve been on this blog due to business but i am back !

The music was loud, but that did little to your ability to sleep as you laid ontop your boyfriend, Mattheo, who was sat with a cup of whatever alcohol in his left hand. Right hand holding your waist. Your friends spread out in the Slytherin dormitories.

Theo chuckled as he took a puff of the blunt him and Pansy was sharing. Sitting on the couch right in front of you guys. “She out cold already?” He hummed.

Mattheo laughed, looking down at your sleeping form against his body. “Yep.” He sighed. Bringing his free hand up quickly to move some of your hair out of your face. Speaking with a softness reserved only for you as he smiled down at you. “My sleepy girl.”

[rafesslxt]

left is mattheo and enzo

right one is theo

can‘t change my mind, argue with the wall.

xoxo sarah <3

[pizzaapeteer]

the guard dog couple M.R

His head cracks like a whip, keen ears alert picking up the smallest mention of your name leaving some unworthy bastards disgusting lips. And he’s on the move without logic, rolling his sleeves up, storming with heighten adrenaline like a ragging bull. His eyes narrowed with dark slits of primal power, “keep my gf’s name out your goddamn mouth-“ but before he can even throw an amped up punch, he’s tugged back by an disciplining force with a strangled grunt, his airway cut off by the strangling tie.

The grip on his tie still tight, that he has to take control of your hand just to get some wiggle room to breathe, and then he’s met with a searing hot kiss, a distraction so good his energy channels. His hands curving around your waist with a tight grip, like he can’t get enough of you, his thoughts of rage evaporating into something more carnal. pulling back you whisper, “why go over there when I’m right here.” With lips so plump and luscious from the onslaught of the assault, and he rolls his eyes but cracks a grin, responding, “god forbid a man defends his women.”

your head whips at the audacity the girl has to try and steal your man; your already on the move walking towards her like an electric live wire. “The fuck-“ before you can even spit out the most venomous curse at her a hand clamps down over your lips and your pulled back agaisnt a hard chest. “Baby hey, relax.” Your eyes stay narrowed, shooting icy glares at the girl, only making Mattheo laugh at your intimidation tactic - though it’s clearly working on the victim as she staggers back. “so feisty when your protective, but let’s put that to better use” he presses a kiss to your temple before he’s sweeping you up over his shoulder and carrying you away, with a playful smack to your ass, as you stubbornly protest how you had it under control.

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ★ ©️pizzaapeteer 2025.

[iniquitousyearning]

quiet reckoning. chapter two

summary: its winter. you begin to accept the solace, until on a random night in january; you dream.

warnings: 18+, smut MDNI, mind manipulation, tom riddle is a fucking god (sorry), oral f!rec, PIV, so much angstttt, tom riddle is broken and he’s tired of fighting, outdoor sex, ooc tom for some but remember there are decades of history between these two.

masterlist and other chapters.

It's winter. The first of the season is a soft, unassuming thing, nothing like the hard decay of fall. Snow blankets life and covers old memories of summer fading to fallen leaves—and you've always marvelled at it, the way frost clings to the pines—how the crystals dance in sunlight like they're celebrating.

Warmth lies dormant, hidden under the cold, yet nature still finds a way to make the quiet beautiful.

This, you think, reminds you of Tom.

In the early days of winter you spend as much time outside as you can manage, but the cold seeps in eventually—a bitter thing with the edges of frozen steel—so you give yourself grace for the rest. There's a satisfaction in the easy routine you fall into—no garden, no yard work, just stoking the fire and chopping wood, eating and reading and going down to the market when you decide an apple pie sounds nice.

Sometimes, late at night, you sit by the fire and think about all the things that have changed—sometimes, you sit by the fire and think about the things that haven't.

You try not to hate yourself for how small the latter list seems to be.

Mattheo doesn't come in December. He writes only twice—once to tell you about his wedding, and again to say he won't be able to visit after all. You try to ignore the hollow feeling in your gut as you read that last letter, but when he sends you your favourite sweets for Christmas, you decide to forgive him.

You begin to accept the solace. The kind of quiet that fills the cracks of a life left behind.

Until, on a random night in January, you dream.

It's one of those dreams that feels hyper-real—you're outside, somewhere that feels both unfamiliar and inescapably known. It's dark and snowing, your breath leaving plumes in the air, and everything—the scenery, the chill, the silence—washes over you like something you feel more than witness.

You turn slowly, looking around—your senses stretching to the stillness of the trees, the soft fall of snowflakes, the ring of silence pressing in on your ears. Then you start walking, guided by something you can't name but instinctively trust. It doesn't take long before you hear it—the steady flow of water—so you push through a stand of snow-covered trees and find a narrow creek, its edges crusted with ice that glints under the moonlight.

The feeling of familiarity hits harder, and when you look up, that's when you see it—like a ghost that is your memories—the orphanage, sitting in the distance, rising from the shadows of the night.

This is your childhood. And for a strange, suffocating moment—you feel like you're home.

But there's hardly any time to process any of this before you're moving again and find yourself kneeling at the waters edge—snow sticking to your jeans, peering down through the frozen surface into its depths. You think of Tom. You think of Mattheo. You think of the memories rippling past.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer magnitude of your longing, Tom is beside you.

"Cold, isn't it?" His voice is soft, low, as if the silence around you demands reverence.

You don't startle; you know this is a dream. You're half-aware of it even as he settles by your side, his knees brushing snow like yours, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Instead, you exhale slowly, your breath turning to mist in the night.

Dreams don't need logic, and this one would never work if it made sense. So you give in to it, the way you'd always given in to his whims when you were children.

"It always is." Your voice echoes like a memory.

He hums in acknowledgment.

You don't look at him, not yet, but you feel him lean back—palms pressed into the snow, long legs stretched out in front of him and his head tilted up towards the sky. For a moment, you're both quiet, watching the frost turn the trees around you into statues of silver and ice.

It's then that you realize you're not cold. You're not anything, in fact. There's no ache, no heaviness, only the soft stillness of a moment suspended outside of time.

That's how you know it's a dream—because if it were real, you'd feel everything.

"You always loved the cold." He tells you quietly. You don't take your eyes off the trees. "I've yet to decipher why that is."

"It's the constant that life has never been." There's a quiet honesty in the words, the kind you'd never have dared to say when awake. But here, like this, you think you're allowed to speak the truths you bury. "Winter has never been anything but what it promised to be."

You hear him make another sound of agreement. You want to look at him, to see what might rest in the hollow of his cheek and the curve of his jaw, but something stops you.

Some instinct warns that if you do, you'll lose him.

"Winter reminds me of you." He whispers. You close your eyes at the need the words stir. "You've always been my constant."

In the silence following that, a part of you whispers; I wish you'd never said that. But this is a dream, and for a time you give in to the part of you that says; I wish you said that more.

"You've always been mine."

It feels like a memory that was never real. Like a lie. He's never been yours in the way you wished he was, but he has definitely been a constant.

Either way, you don't elaborate, regardless of how much you want to—this just makes sense to you in ways you're sure he already knows. Tom has always been your winter—soft like snow but not quite as pure. Cold like frost, the type that burns. He's the still in the chill that wraps around you, that sticks to your skin long after the warmth has crept back in. He's the devastation, the beauty. He's always been your winter.

He doesn't respond to that, and for a time, silence is the companion of the night. You wonder, faintly, if this is all dreams ever are—fragments of memory, shards of longing, the reflection of your heart's deepest corners.

You wonder, faintly, why you're dreaming of him now.

"Are you really here, Tom?" You ask without thinking, without knowing. It’s the part of you that knows he’s capable of anything. “Is this your way of visiting me without the commitment?"

From the corner of your eye, you see him smile. It's sad without being entirely tragic, somehow. "Have you dreamt of me before?"

What a question, you think. When haven't I?

"In pieces, in fragments. I dream of youth. Of memory. I feel you in every dream." You answer, thinking of the times you'd wake and feel him from your childhood. But you haven't felt him like this. Alive and real and lucid. "Never like this."

He's silent for a long time. You know without looking that his eyes are still turned to the sky. That's when you realize the truth of it: you've answered your own question.

If this were only a dream, if this were merely a version of him conjured by your mind, he wouldn't be so quiet. He'd be saying all the things you've always wanted him to say. This is a visitation.

After a moment, you feel him look at you, and that's when you cave—something desperate in you seeking his eyes, those onyx fucking eyes you've missed so much—and once you find them, you see the stars and snow reflected in the glass of them and your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your heart.

He's beautiful like this—older, aged, weathered—he's so fucking beautiful it hurts.

"This might be the most transparent you've ever been with me," you choke out, attempting to lighten the moment, to push down the ache that's rising in your chest. But your voice wavers, betraying you. You've loved this man for so long, you've forgotten how to pretend you don't. "You look like you've seen all the things I've been too afraid to say."

He studies you then, his face bathed in moonlight that paints his skin in shades of frost and shadow. He looks like something out of a dream, like an angel of winter under the guise of a devil.

He's always been both, you think, in a way only Tom could accomplish.

"You make a habit of not saying the things you want to," he says quietly, as soft as the falling snow. You look back at the creek, trying not to get lost in this feeling that's almost like the first time he'd kissed you. "I thought coming to you like this would help you break it."

You know this isn't real, not in the way you wish it was. This is manipulation—a spell, a trick of his mind and yours, something he's managed to do through magic that's lost on you and a dream you can't control. But your mind isn't the master here, not in this realm—so when Tom puts a hand on your cheek that is as warm as summer in the dead of winter itself and turns your face to look at him, all you can think—all you can want—is to lean into the touch.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you want everything. "Tom—"

His knuckles brush your cheek and you lose your tongue. The feeling of it, real and fucking steady, makes your skin burn where he's touching you, clawing its way back into your chest like it never left.

He says, softly, "say the things you've been afraid to say."

You exhale slowly, like the words stuck in your throat are too hot to hold. Your mind is racing, a million moments in memory where you wished you would have said what you felt. His eyes are searching yours, and you're half-terrified of what he'll find in them—

"I'm in love with you." You whisper, before you have the sense to stop yourself. "I've been in love with you, for as long as I can remember."

You watch his eyes and the way his jaw works when he hesitates. You'll remember this moment forever, you think, even if the things before and after it are lost to time.

"Keep going," he finally says, running the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere."

You close your eyes against his touch, trying to hold onto the sound of his voice. You've fought so fucking hard, for years, to ignore it but fuck—you've missed him—you've missed the way he makes you feel. You've missed this, even the ache it makes between your heart and your throat.

"I think of you all the time," you say, timidly, opening your eyes again. "There hasn't been a moment since I left where I wasn't missing you. I dream of you—of us—I dream of your voice and your hands and the things you've done to me." You see him breathe out, very slightly, and it makes you feel braver. "I dream of the way you used to kiss me. I dream of who you were, who you could have been. I dream of the way you looked at me in final year before you broke my heart. I hate you for it still."

He's still watching you, and his eyes seem even darker and more intense in the shadow. His hand drops from your face, landing on your knee because you're practically in his lap—you hadn't realized you'd been leaning into him, seeking out the warmth of his skin like you'd been starved for it.

The ache in your chest is so strong it makes you dizzy and you're half-terrified that he won't say anything to that.

Until finally, he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

There’s a pause. It's perplexing that somehow he looks both like the eighteen-year-old you've loved all your life, and the twenty-five-year-old stranger he's become in that time. You think, faintly, that it's not fair.

You exhale, and the sound of it hurts. "You say that like you don't exactly know what you did wrong."

You can feel the heat from his skin through your jeans—he's too close yet too far away, and the part of you that loves him and the part of you that hates him seem to be tangled tightly in the space between.

"I never knew how to love you," it’s an admission, and his voice is soft and broken enough to make the pain in your chest subside. "I never gave you the chance to teach me."

There's a million things you could say to that, a million ways you could react to those words. You don't really have the strength to say all of it, and you certainly don't have the mental to service all the grief that comes along with it.

"You did." You whisper, trying to hide the crack in your voice. "You've known."

You shift, angling your body closer to him. He's still watching you, and for the first time since that final night at his manor, you sense that familiar trace of softness in his eyes—that part of him that's been gentle for you since you were children.

"Not the way you deserved."

You take his hand, trying to ignore the way your fingers fit against his like they were carved from the same tree; his skin is rough, scarred and calloused, but it still feels like it always had, despite the years.

Safe.

"You've seen my life now." You look at his fingers as you say it, "do you think that is what I deserve?"

There's a moment of stillness between you—in which you wonder if this is the part where he wakes up out of guilt—but then you feel his fingers press harder against yours, like confirmation.

"You deserve to be happy." He says.

You're so hot you're not sure how the snow isn't melting beneath you. You're sure that's something in his control.

"And what do you know about being happy?" You say, looking up.

The moonlight is catching in his eyes and they're soft in the corners just as they were when you were young. So much has changed and so much hasn't. Part of you feels like crying, but instead you shiver when his hand runs up your arm, following the shape of your shoulder and the side of your neck, and you feel all the nerve endings in your body light up like a matchstick against the friction.

You think, faintly, that you'd forgotten this—how he could touch you without ever really touching you.

He exhales. "Only what I learned from you."

There's a part of you that wants to scream at that, at the way he can say those things and look at you and make you believe it, even if just for a moment.

"I haven't been happy in years, Tom," you say quietly. "Have you?"

His eyes flick to yours, and for a long while, the only sound you can hear is the cracking of the ice filled creek, and both of your exhales.

"No," he finally whispers, and you feel his thumb brush against the skin of your cheek. "I haven't."

You turn, angling your face into his palm. There's something heartbreakingly honest in his voice—something in the way he says it that makes you question the years you've spent wondering if he'd felt anything about you leaving, about the way he made you go.

Your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat. It's easier to imagine it's real like this, like everything else.

And then, when you decide to open them again, the scenery around you has changed—it's bright, it's summer—there's fireflies and warmth and whitetails running through the field past the creek toward the orphanage. Tom's hand falls to rest in the grass, and you turn to look at him—

He's watching the fireflies with a look on his face, soft and wistful like he's never quite managed to be before in his life. You watch the insects hover around his hair and for just a second, you think he looks more alive than any version of him you've seen before.

"Tom." You whisper, your own voice scaring you.

He turns to look at you when you say his name, and the expression in his eyes is something completely foreign to you. You've seen him hungry, and arrogant, selfish and even angry—but here, awake in a summer childhood memory dreamworld of his own making—he looks fucking vulnerable.

"Hm?" He raises an eyebrow.

Your breath catches before you can answer, like the feeling of seeing him like this—unguarded and unburdened—is catching up to you. He's beautiful under the moon and snow and he's beautiful under the sun and summer grass. It's unfair, you think, just how fucking beautiful he is.

"Will you ever come see me?" You force the words out before you choke on them. "For real, I mean."

He's silent, but you feel the air around you go incredibly still when you say it—like those few syllables had just caused the whole world to go quiet. Tom blinks, and for a moment you're afraid he'll say no.

Actually, a part of you is praying he'll say no—while the other part of you is praying he'll say yes.

Finally, he shakes his head. "If I did, I'd never leave."

You suppose he might not have realized what he's said, that it's just something that had come out of his mouth without thought. But somehow, it sounds more like the truth than anything he's ever said to you in a very long time. You're lost, suddenly, in the fantasy of him staying with you, of having him by your side to watch the summer nights and the winter mornings and anything and everything in between.

A part of you wants to break down at the thought. A part of you wants to yell at him, to make him see how selfish it is to offer you that.

You open your mouth to say something, but before you can find words for anything, you feel his hand on your cheek again, and your brain suddenly goes incredibly blank. He's leaning in closer to you—close enough that you can feel the heat from his lips and you're aware of how your own heart is racing—

"The next time I come to you," he murmurs, eyes on your mouth. "I'm never leaving you again."

The words make you almost dizzy, but before you can react to them, his mouth is on yours, and fireworks go off behind your eyes. He fits against you like he always has, like the two of you had been built to always have your bodies slot into eachother. You bring your arms up, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him selfishly closer.

He inhales against your mouth and his fingers grip harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip with a bite that makes your whole body shudder. He kisses you like he's afraid you're going to disappear, his tongue hot against yours, his hand twisting into the hair at the base of your neck, pulling your head back until he can kiss your throat in the way he used to when he was aiming to leave you mindless.

His touch makes you feel like you're burning. You're so fucking disarmed from his lips on your neck and his skin on yours that you can't think—can't speak when he urges you back in the grass and moves between your thighs—one warm hand snaking up under your shirt, leaning slightly to watch the way your chest heaves with each ragged breath; and when his fingers skim your breasts you let out an involuntary gasp, arching into his touch.

"God, you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmurs drawing down to drag his mouth over your collarbone. "Time has been so good to you."

He keeps your body trapped against the grass beneath you, the sky going dark overhead. He's taking his time, you realize, with his lips on the hollow of your collarbone and his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, taking his time to worship you in the way he'd done hundreds of other nights before all this time between.

"Tom," you manage when he moves to run his tongue along your lower stomach. "You—" you can't even say it, not like this, not with his lips warm against your flesh. "This isn't real—"

He looks up from where he's working to mark a bruise at the edge of your jeans—something dangerous and dark lighting up his eyes in the moonlight.

"Does it feel real?" He rasps. "Can you feel this?" His tongue skims your belly again before he sinks his teeth in, and you gasp. "Can you feel me, sweetheart?"

Your mind can't find any words. You'd forgotten how he'd reduced you like this, how he makes it feel like you can't fucking think.

"Yes," you gasp, but the word is mostly air. "Fuck—god, Tom—"

You can't say more than that, not with his mouth where it is, so close to where you're aching for him. He huffs against your skin, not mocking, but low and satisfied and smug like it's always been.

You're going to die like this—you think faintly, when his fingers finally undo the buttons of your jeans and the summer air hits the skin of your thighs.

"Do you want me to stop?"

What a terrible, devastating question.

"I—" you gasp, arching off the grass as he tugs your jeans off your legs. "No. Please—"

He laughs, and when he does it makes your whole body shiver.

"That's my girl," the words muttered into your inner thigh. "I've missed you like this."

His tongue skims over the edge of your underwear and you're lost at the feel of it—vaguely aware of the fact that you're making far too many noises and you think you look obscene—half-undone and writhing beneath his touch, but you don’t fucking care, not even slightly.

"Please," you gasp again when his tongue dips further down, a word you're half-sure you've been saying for ages. "Please, please—"

He's torturously slow with every single little movement, kissing over your pelvis and between the creases of your thighs, taking his time to taste every inch of you like he's savouring it. You're shivering and shuddering and begging for him, you're so out of your mind you're half-sure you're going to cry.

Until finally—finally, he brings his mouth to the place where you'd wanted it to be, tugging your panties to the side and lapping up your slit—and you let out a sound that's barely even human.

"I've missed you like this," he repeats against your swollen clit. "Fuck, how I missed this."

You're half-aware that you're probably pulling his hair and making noises that aren't fit to be spoken, but god fucking dammit—you're burning up with every touch, and every movement of his tongue sends sparks to your eyes. You think you're delirious, half-sure that you've been reduced to gasps and whimpers and "please, please, please—" but it's all you can do to keep his name in your mouth, the way you're sure he'd always wanted it.

"Tom," you gasp, as he laps up your slit until his tongue swirls over your clit again, as he seals his lips around it. "Fuck! Oh—"

A part of you thinks that you would like to stay like this forever—half-undone and out of your mind in some weird dream-like state of his creation with him between your thighs and his hands holding you as his, surrounded by the fireflies and the summer in the grass where you first kissed as kids.

"You taste so good," he growls against you. "I never stopped wanting this—"

You're close now. So close you think you'll burn up in a fire and engulf the grass and the trees and the fucking air itself—but Tom seems to be able to sense that, too. He presses a hand on your pelvis, holding you steady, reminding you that he's catching you as you fall.

"So good—so, so good—" he murmurs, lapping up your slick. "Let go for me.”

You think you would have, either way—but when he tells you in that voice, when he's looking at you like that in this state of his making—you let go for him without a shred of hesitation, because you'd always known, if nothing else, that you don't own this.

The summer, the grass on the hill, the pleasure coursing through you—it's all his. It's always all been his.

You come back to yourself in pieces—first, the sound of his voice, dangerously rough, then the feeling of him pulling away and shifting until he's hovering above you again—your vision clears enough to take him in, and you think he's impossibly holy like this—with the fireflies lighting up behind his hair, with the look in his eyes and the taste of your need for him on his mouth.

"I love you," he murmurs, running a hand over your jaw. "More than what's in this heart."

He leans down, kissing you again, and you have never been so out of breath in your life. You don't have air in you to kiss him back, nor have you even the strength to try—you can't believe what he just said—this can't be—

"I love you." He repeats it, as if he heard your doubts. You know he did. "Hand to a god you know I don't believe in. I'll die trying to prove it to you."

Something breaks apart in your chest. You raise a trembling hand to his face, trying to take him in— his eyes, his jaw and his mouth, his body tense between your thighs. You want very badly to be sure this is real—that he means what he's saying, even if it's only for tonight, even if he'll forget it as soon as it's over.

"You'll remember this when you wake up?" You don’t know what to say first. "You'll still—"

The look in his eyes goes sharper, his own hand coming up to take yours and press it against his chest—right above where his heart is. You can feel it beating, impossibly fast, like he'd just run a whole marathon.

"Does it feel like I'd forget?" He asks. "Does it feel like this is not real?"

God, it's so close to real—him on top of you and his heart beating against your hand and the feel of his skin against yours and even the taste of yourself on his mouth—it's so fucking real—real enough to make you half-sure you're going to burst into tears.

"Tell me you mean it," you whisper, voice broken into fractions. "Please, please—just say—"

"I'll remember it when I wake up," he cuts you off, leaning down to kiss the skin below your ear. "There are very few things in this world I forget." He drags his mouth down to your neck, his teeth leaving a bruise you're sure will be there in the light of morning, his hands finding the sides of your hips again. "I forget even fewer of the things involving you."

You gasp out a sound that's half a sob, half a whimper because you cannot believe him and you want to believe him so badly you don't know what to do with yourself.

"Why now?" You manage when you've found your voice again. "Why now—why couldn't you have said this before—"

He lets out a dry, broken laugh against your skin, and you can feel it when his chest shudders against you.

That's when you realize he's afraid, too.

"I was a coward with all the wrong aspirations," he admits, pressing the words into your collarbone, your jaw, as if he's trying to get as close to you as humanly possible. You're still acutely aware of the fact your lower half is bare against his. "And every time I've come to realize that I'm still in love with you, I've always run away from it."

You're still trying to remember how to breathe when he moves, shifting his weight and rolling over so that you're on top of him, straddling his hips. It takes you a moment to process it—you're suddenly so dizzy again now that you can feel him, hard and solid beneath you.

Every inch of your body suddenly feels like it's aching for more of him.

"Tom—" you gasp, the words sticking somewhere in your throat. "I—"

"You're too good for me," he murmurs, his long fingers skirting over the hollow of your spine, making your whole body tremble. "You've never been anything but the only good thing in my life." He rolls his hips up against yours, his eyes fluttering when you moan. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm yours if you'll have me. I'm yours if you won't."

You think this is the most he's ever spoken. You think back to when he told you to say all the things you've always been afraid of saying.

You wonder if he's doing that now.

"You're an idiot," you manage to say, finding your voice again, the breathless words coming out as a half-sob. "You really are an idiot—"

You gasp when he jerks his hips up against you again, and you can feel how much he wants you in the grunt that slips out of his mouth.

"I know I am," he says through grit teeth. "I'm cowardly and foolish and idiotic all because I'm in love with you." Another jerk of his hips, harder this time, pulling you closer. "And I cannot, for the love of god, figure out why you don't hate me more for it."

You gasp out a broken sound that's half a laugh, half a whimper, arching involuntarily against his touch in a way that makes you sound unhinged.

"Does it ever occur to you," you manage through the aching need for him, "that I fucking love you despite it all?"

He makes a sound against your skin that's so rough and broken and aching that you'd think you're killing him—

"Perhaps I did," he grunts, shifting as you finally decide you've had enough of this and move to undo his trousers, tugging them down and freeing him. You fucking sob at how real he is—how real he feels in your hand. "I just—mmf—assumed you'd realize better one day."

Your brain feels very much like it's short-circuiting now as you wrap your fingers around his dick and give him a light squeeze, trying to get used to the feeling of him again and the way he twitches against your palm. He lets out a strangled sound as you do, one hand coming up to bite his knuckles to drown it out, and you can't believe you have that kind of power over him.

It's a thought you'll need to consider later.

"Looks like we're both idiots, then," you murmur, and you're not sure you have the strength to form any other words as crawl back up, guiding him to your greedy aching cunt, and sink down.

You think he'd probably let you drown him right here and now without even blinking, with the way he lets out a sound that's almost animal, his breath coming out in shuddering gasps against your shoulder as you take him in. It takes you a moment to adjust to him, his ego made flesh—and as you start to slowly ride you realize you'd half forgotten that anything in this world could feel so fucking good.

"Fuck—" he gasps, and you think he's never sounded like that before. "That's it. That's good—"

You've never seen him look this way—not like a man hiding oceans behind his eyes or a god about to smite his creation—but an entirely mortal man falling to pieces beneath you. Everything about the way he touches you screams I need this, I need you—and he's always been the better one at speaking through his body.

You find your pace after a moment, slow and steady, trying to give yourself time to adjust to him while also trying to find that angle that makes you go just a little out of your mind.

"Tom—" you moan, head falling back as you bounce—looking up at the night sky. "Fuck—make it winter—"

You've forgotten how it feels to be so full. Your eyes are half-open to the night sky, where Tom's magic had crafted the summer around you—and you're not sure where the words came from, but they're half-sobbed and a thought you're not sure you should've said out loud—you wonder for a moment if he'd even heard you over his own moans and the feeling of you around him—

But then you feel it.

The first snow. A light fluttering of white snowflakes, falling from some place you can't see or find. The fireflies fade out with the falling flakes that cover the sky and you can see your breath but you don't feel the cold. You just see the beauty of it. You'd be stunned if you weren't so sure that this looks like what you've always known him to be—winter made flesh.

"You'll have everything," he grits out, jutting his hips up to slam into you deeper. "Anything you want—"

You're not sure you can put together the words to say anything in return to that—everything and anything, he'd give you, and you'd like to know when exactly he broke that carefully crafted part of himself that's supposed to not love—or when you broke that part of yourself that tried to stop loving too much.

You're not quite sure how you can say this will be enough when you're already so sure you'll never get enough of this, of the way it feels when he's this deep.

But amidst all of this, your brain has gone blissfully, blissfully silent—the only thing that's going through your head is his name. Every thought you've ever had, you're sure, is just a synonym of his name—every letter that's ever been made, somehow leading back to his name—every word and every story and every language and every poem somehow all trying to say; Tom, Tom, Tom. I am fucking in love with him.

"Harder," you gasp, and he complies like he'd die if he didn't—flipping you over so you're on your back beneath him.

You're a broken, moaning mess in the snow as his dick splits you open—half-dazed by the way he's looking at you now, as if he's still somehow in disbelief that you're in this position—that you're under him and you can still love him, that you've seen every side of him and you want more.

"This—fuck," he moans, his snow covered lashes flutter. "This never left my mind. You—never—"

You think you're drowning in him. You're certain you're drowning. He’s everywhere—the snowfall and the trees and the sky—surrounding you in an a world carved out of himself and you're met by the thought of how much it doesn't surprise you.

"Tom, oh, god, I don't—I need—"

"I know," he gasps. "I know, I know, I know—"

You moan and clench and think again how he's never sounded this broken. He's never sound this desperate. He's always been so stoic in every single god damn way and you think now, as he's buried in you and over you and all around you within the winter dreamland of his fucking creation—you think you finally understand that he knows he's broken.

"You have me." He says.

You think it's a promise, and you think it's a declaration. One he's never made with as much conviction behind his eyes as he had right then. You think you've never been this certain of anything in your entire life—that there's snowflakes on your lashes and clinging to your hair and he's never looked this beautiful and you've never been this sure of it when he says he's yours.

"I love you," your words broken on a moan as he slams deep, teeth digging into your shoulder. "I need to cum—Tom—fuck—"

"Say it again," he gasps, his voice rough and raw and guttural as he slips his hand down to your clit, fingers swirling over it. "Say it again, I need to hear you say it—"

Your hands grab at the snow and at his shoulders—you're not sure you're ever going to remember how to say anything else ever again—

"Tom—Tom, I love you, I love you, I love you—"

You can see the moment you say it that he breaks, and you love it—you love being the reason why, having some of the power over him for this one single second, seeing the look in his eyes that tells you he'll give you anything you ask for, no matter how much he's ever tried to deny it before, how much he's ever tried to be anything else to you but someone to love you back.

You say it again—I love you, I love you—and it's the only spell that's ever broken him.

He cums with your name in his mouth and you marvel at it because fucking hell he's different—like a man falling apart, like a man who's been holding back for so long it aches—you think this is the only piece of him that no one else in the whole world has ever seen or gotten to touch, and it's yours, all yours—so with that, you're cumming too, climax shattering the both of you at the same time, and it's a long moment before either of you move or breathe or blink. You just lay there connected until the clarity starts creeping in, and you realize this place is crafted by his subconscious.

"You can control your dreams," you finally whisper, after a long moment of nothing but the distant sound of snowfall and the occasional night creature. You're still breathless, still dizzy, your eyes still half-opened and unseeing as he's still buried inside of you, his hair tousled and still sticking with snowflakes.

He makes a sound that's half a laugh and half a gasp at that. Probably because he can’t believe, after everything that just happened, that that is the first thing you choose to say.

"I can." He says, slowly pulling out of you.

Now it's your turn to laugh. "And do you always lure girls to your dreams to have sex with them?"

"No," he murmurs, and you think it's a simple enough answer, before it's followed by a pause. "Just you, I suppose," he adds a beat later, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

You try and shove him off of you, but it's half-hearted—you've forgotten how to move your arms.

"Prat," you murmur, no real venom behind it, because you like his smirk, and you like the way he laughs. "So this is all...a product of your subconscious, then? You conjured me into it?”

"Yes and no." He says, and you feel him pull you closer to him, your body half draped over his as he stares up at the sky above you. "I'll explain when I come to you."

"And when will that be?" You ask, your head dropping against his shoulder, your eyes already fluttering in exhaustion.

"Soon," his lips find the top of your head. "As soon as I can."

You're drifting to sleep—you can feel it in the edges of your mind, but everything is blissfully quiet there, and you like the feel of his fingers in your hair.

"When you come, bring me a plant.”

He makes another sound that's half a laugh and half a chuckle at that, as if he's more fascinated by your request than anything.

"Any plant will do?" He asks.

"Preferably a flower." You manage to murmur as your eyes slip closed. "Something that can withstand winter. That will revive come spring."

You can hear the smile in his voice before you completely surrender to the sleep that overtakes you.

"You'll have it."

And you know, in between the edges of consciousness and sleep—that no one else has ever seen him this way, and no one else ever will. And that's the thought that you wake with, even when you find yourself alone, in your cabin, snow falling outside your window.

[nottsnymph]

Led by the Leash (Mattheo Riddle x Female!Reader)

summary: your dog was definitely up to something when he dragged you towards Mattheo at the dog park

warnings: fluff, smoking

Mattheo is DEFINITELY a dog person, also I came up with this idea at 5am so if my sleep deprived brain has made any mistakes, please look past them💕

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It was one of those honey-dipped summer nights, where the sun had finally surrendered and the moon rose bold and silver, suspended like a secret in the indigo sky. The heat had softened into something bearable, something that clung to the skin like a memory rather than a weight. The park still hummed with life—couples brushing too close, laughter trailing behind bicycles, children reluctant to go home—but your little corner of it felt suspended, quieter somehow.

You liked walking like this: wordless, the leash loosely wrapped around your fingers, your dog padding ahead with the proud strut of someone who knows they’re loved. The grass whispered beneath his paws, and every now and then he’d look back at you as if to say, Isn’t this perfect? You smiled without meaning to, the kind of smile that belongs more to the moment than to you.

But then he tugged—insistently, gleefully—and you followed his pull across the lawn, half-laughing, half-chasing, breath catching in your throat just as you caught sight of another dog, another leash, another tether being tested.

And then him. A man stood there, all warm earth and quiet invitation, his brown eyes wide with something unspoken, the edges of a smirk curling like the start of trouble. A few strands of dark hair fell into his gaze and he made no move to fix them, as though he’d forgotten he was being watched—though clearly, he hadn’t.

“Hi,” he said, and it wasn’t the word that made your stomach tilt—it was the way he said it, like it had more syllables than it should.

You answered, your voice a little softer than intended. “Hi.” And though you smiled, you couldn’t quite hold his gaze—too warm, too direct, too much. Your eyes dropped to the dogs who were already nosing at each other like old friends, tails high and tongues lolling in delight. Still, you could feel it—his gaze. The weight of it. Not heavy, just… aware. Like a hand hovering just above your skin.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your stance, as if posture alone could scatter the flutter beneath your ribs. It didn’t work.

The dogs were in full play now—bounding, darting, circling each other in dizzy joy—and so, with a flick of your wrist, you let yours off the leash. He did the same, and for a heartbeat, you both stood there, untethered too.

“I’m impressed,” he said, teasing, his voice thick with warmth, brows arched in exaggerated admiration. It pulled your attention back to him like a thread.

“She’s not usually eager to play with boys,” he added, letting his head dip with a grin that lingered longer than it should have.

Something in the air felt charged—not electric, exactly, but magnetic. Like everything was leaning in. Like the night was holding its breath.

You let out a soft chuckle, your gaze drifting to his dog—a sleek little thing with curious eyes and a proudly tilted head.

“Oh? So she’s picky,” you murmured, the smile on your lips tugging just slightly.

“She has standards,” he replied, his voice edged with warmth and something quieter, deeper. His mouth curved into a half-smile that wasn’t in any rush to prove itself. “Clearly takes after me.”

You turned your head to him, feigning a slow, thoughtful appraisal. Let your eyes trace the line of his jaw before you offered a small, solemn nod.

“Hmm. That explains a lot.”

His smile deepened, just barely—like he didn’t want to give too much away too fast. He didn’t respond right away either, letting the pause stretch, just long enough for the silence to settle between you. Not empty, but full. Full of what hadn’t been said yet.

“She likes confident energy,” he said at last, his gaze steady. “Not too loud, not too shy.”

You tilted your head, your voice soft but sharpened with curiosity. “Is that her reading,” you asked, “or yours?”

He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Bit of both, maybe.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just hummed, low in your throat, letting the quiet settle again like dust in golden light. Around you, the world kept spinning—dogs leaping through moonlit grass, their joyful barks ringing like bells through the summer dark. But in that bubble of space between you and him, the air felt still. Held.

“You come here often?” he asked then, voice carefully casual—but his eyes gave him away, lingering on you like he didn’t quite want to look anywhere else.

“Every now and then,” you said, eyes still on the dogs, though your lips curved with suggestion. “We like the quiet.”

Then, after a beat—just enough to draw him in— “But apparently that’s not guaranteed anymore.”

That earned a soft laugh from him, low and easy. “I can take a hint,” he said, though there was no retreat in his tone. If anything, it sounded like a promise he didn’t plan to keep.

You turned to look at him again, and there it was—that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the almost-smile he was trying not to let win. You noticed. Of course you did. There was something careful in the way he looked at you, as if the whole moment were made of glass and he didn’t dare move too fast, let it slip between his fingers before it had the chance to become real.

“But I’m guessing you’re not the type to walk away just because someone likes their space,” you said, voice soft, the kind that invites someone in without ever quite saying please. The words lingered between you, light but loaded—like the breath before a kiss that doesn’t happen.

He glanced down, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound as he shifted his weight. “Guilty,” he murmured, his tone warm, smooth around the edges. “But I promise I’m more charming than I am intrusive.”

You tilted your head, a slow smirk tugging at your mouth. “That sounds suspiciously like something someone intrusive would say.”

That made him laugh—quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb the spell around you both. Then he leaned back against the park bench, arms folding easily across his chest, as though this was the most natural place in the world to be. As though he’d always been here, waiting.

“I talk too much when I’m nervous,” he admitted, eyes now on the dogs darting through the moonlight. “Overcompensating. It’s a problem.”

You stole a glance at him, your brow arching just slightly. “Are you nervous now?”

The question hung there, suspended. He didn’t rush to fill the silence—he let it breathe. Let it grow thick with meaning.

“Should I be?”

Your breath caught—only a little, just enough for you to notice. Like a skipped step.

“Depends on your intentions,” you said, the softness in your voice brushed with something heavier, deeper. Not quite flirtation. But not far from it, either.

He was watching you again, more closely this time—the way your fingers absentmindedly twisted the leash, how the breeze teased a strand of hair against your cheek.

“What if I haven’t decided yet?” he asked.

You gave a slow shrug, eyes drifting back to the dogs tumbling in the grass, bathed in silver. “Then I guess we’ll just… wait and see.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It thrummed gently, like something alive. Possibility settled between you, quiet and glowing.

His dog let out a bark and lunged forward again, tail wagging, limbs all joy. Yours followed instantly, and together they darted across the grass, soft paws padding against the earth like a heartbeat you could feel in your chest. You both watched in silence. The kind of silence you don’t interrupt—not out of fear, but reverence.

“They really like each other,” he said eventually.

You smiled, eyes still on them. “They’re uncomplicated.”

“Must be nice,” he said, and there was something weighted there. A quiet confession shaped into four easy words.

You turned slightly, the wind brushing your skin like a whisper. “You don’t strike me as someone complicated.”

He let out a low laugh, not loud but full of something self-aware. “That’s the best lie I’ve told all year,” he said, half-smiling. “I’m awful at it, but somehow it still works.”

You laughed, the sound curling in the air like smoke. “Well, I like honesty more than charm anyway.”

He clutched his chest in mock panic. “Oh no. Then I’m screwed.”

You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh—and let the moment stretch again, velvet and full of almosts. Neither of you moved closer. But somehow, it felt like you had.

A mosquito brushed against your arm and you flicked it away lazily, your skin still humming faintly with his nearness. Or maybe just the idea of it.

The dogs collapsed beside you, panting in sync, their bodies soft and heavy against the grass. His dog laid her head gently on yours. Something in your chest pulled a little at the sight—unexpected and tender.

“I think they’re in love,” you jokingly said, voice low, careful not to disturb whatever fragile thing this was.

He glanced down, then back at you, raising one brow. “Bold of you to assume they’re not just using each other for attention.”

You laughed under your breath. “Wow. That’s a very modern interpretation.”

“I’m just being realistic,” he said dryly, but the smile he gave you was anything but bitter. It was soft. Curious. Still unfolding.

The breeze shifted—cooler now, gentler. Night had finally settled in, fully, wrapping the world in indigo hush. You glanced up at the moon, bright and suspended in a sky that suddenly felt endless.

“I like this time of night,” you said, almost dreamily. “Everything slows down. The world feels a little less sharp.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you slow down too?”

You let the question sit, like something delicate in the palm of your hand. You looked at your dog sleeping beside you, heart steady beneath soft fur. Then your eyes drifted back to his.

“Sometimes,” you said, your voice barely more than a breath. “But only when it feels right.”

He nodded, slowly. “Does this feel right?”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t look away either.

But as his gaze lingered—just a moment too long, just enough to be felt—you suddenly grew aware of yourself in a way that made your skin feel too tight. You looked down, lashes sweeping over your cheeks as your attention dropped to your feet, as if they’d somehow offer you shelter from the weight of his eyes.

Without saying a word, you reached for your small shoulder bag, fingers slipping inside with practiced ease. You pulled out a pack of cigarettes and your lighter, movements unhurried, almost elegant. One cigarette between your fingers, then the flare of a flame, the familiar burn curling into your lungs like relief and rebellion all at once.

You caught the slight tilt of his mouth out of the corner of your eye—a smirk half-born and rising slow.

“You smoke?” he asked, not disapproving, just… surprised. Amused, maybe.

You exhaled a stream of smoke, your eyes finding his again, steady now. “Yeah.”

He opened his mouth, just barely—but before he could get a single word out, you cut in, lips tugging into something wry.

“Please don’t give me the speech,” you said, voice light but edged with warning. “Spare me the talk about lungs and consequences and how I’m single-handedly shaving years off my life.”

He laughed, warm and hushed, like the night itself.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, lifting his hands in mock innocence. But then his smile twisted slightly, teasing, deliberate. “But now that you mention it…”

You groaned softly as he leaned just a little closer, voice dipping into exaggerated drama.

“Do you know how dangerous this is? These are literal death sticks,” he whispered, eyes wide like a storyteller around a campfire. “One puff closer to the end. You’re practically writing your will.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your grin. “Oh no. A sarcastic PSA. That’s so much better.”

He laughed again, this time fuller, the sound catching between you like shared mischief. “Actually,” he said, patting his jacket as he spoke, “what I was going to say…”

His fingers slipped into his pocket, drawing out his own pack of cigarettes. He held it up between you with a sheepish kind of pride, then glanced at you through thick lashes.

“I forgot my lighter. Can I borrow yours?”

You blinked—then laughed. Really laughed. The kind that started low in your chest and softened all the edges around you.

“Oh my God,” you said, shaking your head as you handed him the lighter. “So much for that compelling anti-smoking campaign.”

He took it with a grin, flicking the flame to life, the glow briefly illuminating his face in amber light. “What can I say?” he murmured, taking a slow drag. “Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Mm.” You leaned back slightly, cigarette held loosely between your fingers. “You’re full of contradictions.”

He looked at you over the smoke, eyes glinting. “And you’re still here.”

You didn’t respond—just smiled, lips parted around the filter, the silence crackling quietly between you.

It tasted like smoke and possibility. Like trouble you hadn’t decided whether or not to avoid.

“I’m Mattheo by the way” he said taking another drag, “Y/N” you responded smirking, “pleasure meeting you Y/N” Mattheo said in a flirtatious tone.

You both smoked in silence for a while after that. Not awkward. Not rushed. The kind of quiet that made you more aware of your own breathing. Of how close his knee was to yours. Of how neither of you had made a move to end this—whatever this was—despite how late it was getting.

Finally, he stubbed out his cigarette against the bench with slow deliberation. “So, Y/N…”

You looked at him, eyelids low, tone casual but laced with quiet tension. “Yeah?”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees now, voice just above a whisper. “What happens if I want to see you again?”

The question hung there. Open. Unforced. But charged.

You didn’t move. You didn’t smile. You just looked at him, the faintest flicker of a smirk tugging at your lips.

“I guess you’ll have to try.”

And you let that answer stay between you like smoke in the air.

You flicked ash from your cigarette, watching the tiny red ember fall and vanish in the grass, just as your dog—panting, grass-stained, and entirely too pleased with himself—trotted back toward you with the expectant energy of a child who refused to go home.

You whistled at your dog and signalled him to approach you, “Come on, buddy.”

Nothing.

He blinked at you, ears twitching, tail swaying lazily. Then, with what could only be described as deliberate defiance, he plopped down in the grass and let out a deep, melodramatic sigh. Mattheo’s dog followed suit, mirroring the protest with a stubborn flop, her face burying into the ground with a huff.

You both looked at the dogs. Then at each other.

Mattheo chuckled. “Wow. United front.”

You gave your own defeated laugh, crouching down for a moment, fingers brushing through your dog’s fur. “He’s never this dramatic. He usually drags me out of the park.”

“She’s the same,” Mattheo said, lowering to a squat beside his dog. “I swear she knows when I have somewhere to be and makes it her personal mission to ruin the plan.”

You both hovered like that for a moment, hands in fur, shoulders close, smoke drifting lazily into the dark summer air. Then, without a word, you both rose again, and this time—without asking, without even needing to look at each other—you made your way to the nearby bench. The one that looked over the hill, beneath the single tree that always caught the last of the light.

It was quiet now, the families and joggers gone, only the rustle of leaves and the low click of your dog’s tags as he rolled again in the dirt.

You both sat. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

Mattheo reached for his cigarette pack again, offering it toward you in a silent gesture. You took one, and as he leaned in to light it for you, the flame cast a soft, golden glow across both your faces—brief, flickering, warm.

You inhaled slowly, letting it settle before you exhaled with a quiet hum. “Feels like they planned this,” you murmured, watching the dogs roll and wrestle again in the distance. “Like they knew.”

He smiled without looking at you. “Little traitors. Trying to play matchmaker.”

You gave a soft laugh, glancing sideways at him. “Is it working?”

Mattheo’s brow arched, a smile ghosting his lips. “You tell me.”

You didn’t answer. The smoke hung between you like fog, not blocking anything—just softening it all. The park around you felt impossibly still, time folding inward.

He waits, breath steady, as if he’s willing the space between you to shrink on its own. You tilt your head, catching a sliver of moonlight in his dark eyes. The world softens—only the quiet hum of crickets, the slow rise and fall of your dog’s chest at your feet, the faint ember glow at the tip of your cigarette.

He reaches up, fingertip grazing your jaw, tracing the line from ear to chin like he’s committing it to memory. You don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in, letting your hair brush his cheek. The air between your lips collapses, and you taste him: a mixture of tobacco, cedar, and something quietly electric.

The kiss landed like an exhale. Soft. Warm. Careful in the way someone touches something they don’t want to break.

No one moved for a moment. Just lips against lips. No choreography, no practiced tilt of heads. It was raw, still. Tender.

And then, he moved a little deeper—one hand finding your jaw, not gripping, just anchoring. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheekbone, and your lips parted slightly in response. The kiss deepened—not in passion, not yet, but in understanding.

Your heart thuds, not with panic but with an ease you didn’t know you were missing. Time stretches: the cool night air, the distant rustle of leaves, the tilt of his head under your fingertips. When you finally break apart, it’s only by a breath—eyes still closed, foreheads touching, both of you suspended in the space you just created.

He exhales, and you feel the faint tremor in his lips. You smile against him, a soft curve that says more than any words could. In that quiet moment, the kiss lingers—not because it’s epic, but because it’s honest: two people daring to lean in, and finding something unexpectedly right.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

!Likes, Reblogs and Comments are kindly appreciated¡

…until next time lovelies💋

[eternalbuckley]

mattheo being an annoying, teasing asshole — rockstar!au

warnings: mdni 18+, fem!/afab!reader, spanking, teasing, mirror sex, hair pulling, cowgirl and doggy style, praise kink, breeding kink, p in v — if I forgot something, please let me know!

"god, you were so fuckin' hot on stage tonight, pretty girl," mattheo groaned hoarsely into your ear as he pounded into you while you were on top of him. you were gripping down on his shoulders, leaving marks with your fingernails in his skin as he praised you. "was thinking about getting to fuck you senseless while i watched you perform," he kissed your neck and sucked on your skin a few times to leave a few marks on your skin.

he noticed that you were close and right before you were about to come, he pulled out of you and quickly changed your positions. your moans grew louder as mattheo immediately started to pound into you again as soon as you were on your knees and hands. he increased his pace as he fucked into you from behind and watched the reflection of your face in the mirror. his grip on your hips tightened with each moan of you as his thrusts became harder. mattheo watched your ass jiggle with each time your ass and his hips met. the skin clapping and wet noises as his cock slid in and out of your pussy made him even more eager to come deep inside of you, painting your walls with it. he wanted to watch his cum drip out of you — he loved that sight of you. he loved that he was the only person who could get you to such a feeling.

"fuck, baby," your breath hitched as you felt his palm connecting with your ass a few times with esch thrust. you were sure you‘d see the marks of his palm tomorrow morning. "don‘t fucking stop i‘m-"

he leaned down to you, "i know, baby, i can feel it. jus' wait a little more, alright?" he whispered into your ear and watched you nod lightly. but a quiet, annoyed whine left your lips as he slowed down for a moment. "patience, pretty girl. patience is what you need, huh?" he teased.

you rolled your eyes as you looked up into the mirror and noticed his shit eating grin. you hated how easily he could get you on the edge sometimes. "fuck y—" a loud moan left your lips as he suddenly hardly thrusted into you. "you wanna finish tonight or not, baby?" he asked with a smirk — he knew what you were trying to do but he also knew how to handle you.

"i hate you."

he chuckled and pulled you up towards his chest by your hair, the new position making you feel more desperate to come. "if you hate me that much, why are you letting me fuck you stupid almost every night, pretty girl, hm?" he continued to slowly thrust into you, not yet giving you what you desperately wanted. he wanted you to say it out loud

you groaned annoyingly — you wouldn‘t beg for it that easily, even if you needed to come. you wouldn’t beg. it would be a long night for both of you.

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a/n: i wanted to write something quick for my rockstar au and haven't proofread this so ignore possible grammar mistakes or of anything doesn‘t make sense (english is not my first language). i hope you enjoyed the small drabble !! — reblogs, feedback and comments are highly appreciated and welcomed! ♡

disclaimer: please do not repost or try and take ownership of my work or post this anywhere without my consent. i don’t give you my permission to use my writing for any ai related things, don’t do it. do not translate my work and post it anywhere — i give you no permission to do that. i only post my stories here, so if you find my work anywhere else please let me know!

[nottsangel]

I wanna fuck Mattheo and Theo at the same time.Like I wanna be top and make them moan.

wait omg…….. let’s talk about this. forget both of them dominating you. forget you begging for their attention. begging them to make you cum. NUH UH the roles are reversed now. can u imagine how cute they’d look? lying on your bed, cocks painfully hard and leaking at the tip, both of them just so needy for you. you’re relishing the way they’re staring at you with desperate, glassy eyes, biting down on their lower lip so hard from frustration, they’re drawing blood from the delicate skin. it’s probably the best sight you’ve ever seen— mattheo and theo, two men notorious for treating girls like nothing more than objects for them to use, on your bed like pathetic losers? whimpering and pleading for your touch? god, you can’t help but smile darkly at them, thinking hard about who you’ll tease—or torture—first until they’re a crying mess.

[nottswitch]

PLS i need more info on mattheo crying during ykyk i feel like tumblr is so afraid of writing sub men but they r my FAV

why oh why, i’m glad you asked 🤭 god i’ve been dying to talk about this…

why does mattheo cry during an orgasm?

we all know who mattheo is, right? it’s not a secret that the boy is not used to soft and gentle, and that applies to sex too. there’s a whole other can of worms i can get into when it comes to his sexual self-awareness, but in short – he’s used to sex for the sake of sex, to instant gratification. it’s always rough, quick, no real feelings except for momentary lust and a need to let off steam (also a search for approval, but again, another can of worms).

so naturally, when he finds you, the first person he feels for, he’s completely overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. the first time he truly makes love to you, he’s done for – he’s ruined, but not in the way he’s used to ruining others. the moment he experiences the closeness, the tenderness, the way your eyes look into his, half-lidded, filled with pleasure and desire, but so, so gentle and loving, he can’t hold back. his own eyes fill with tears, and he feels so vulnerable at this moment, with your naked bodies pressed against each other, skin-to-skin, while he’s deep inside of you, as close as he could possibly get… when he cums, his emotions take over, because it’s the highest form of physical pleasure, but now it’s also mixed with emotional pleasure too – something he doesn’t remember ever experiencing. he cries and sobs as he spills into you, and at first, he feels so embarrassed, because he’s never come before his partner before, but with you, he just… feels so comfortable, like he can be selfish for once in his life. he slumps on top of you, spent in more ways than one, and he just needs care. head scratches, little kisses all over his face, back rubbing… he dozes off, and it’s the first restful sleep he’s had in years, because he feels safe

[nottscherry]

thinking about dealer!mattheo finally being inside you after being gone for a business trip…

it’s like he has to open you up all over again, like your pussy forgot just how big he was or what it was like to have him inside you. in all honesty, nothing has been up there since he left. no toys or fingers, nothing. it just wasn’t the same and it sure as hell wasn’t nearly as good as matty himself. that familiar burning of him stretching you out all over again had your hands fisting the bedsheets, your back arching and pressing your tits against his chest. “you can do it baby, come on.” mattheo would rasp, his face flickering down to where you’re connected. god, you were squeezing him so fucking tight he was about to bust right there.

mattheo would gently wipe away a tear that slide down your cheek, not even realizing you had been crying. you don’t think it hurt that bad, but the tears rolling down your cheeks told a different story… or you were just being a little dramatic about it. probably the latter. taking a deep breath, you released your manicured nails from the bed, letting yourself melt into the mattress as mattheo pushed all the way inside you. mattheo shudders, taking a deep breath as he feels you finally open up for him. “there you go, angel. just open for me. good girl.”

more dealer!mattheo.

[sabxynsweet]

sweetheart!reader head canons / lore 4 the series ! (part 1 probs)

(of course it's a self insert so you can ignore all of this but these are just consistent details/backstory that i have in the back of my mind while writing)

mattheo head canons

❤︎ you're a half-blood, your father was a pure blood wizard and your mother was a muggle, you're an only child and your parents raised you with kindness - hence why you grew up to be such a sweetheart !

❤︎ i've never stated your house but i think it's pretty obvious you're in hufflepuff

❤︎ which begs the question! how did you and pansy become such close friends?

❤︎ well, you met on the train going to hogwarts back in first year and you immediately clicked, though at the time, she pretended to be annoyed by you

❤︎ i think that pansy is very much one of those people who just "adopts" people as her friends

❤︎ immediately, pansy decided you were hers

❤︎ which meant that when you got sorted into hufflepuff, she vowed to defend you against any slythein (or anyone) who was mean to you (first years are very dramatic)

❤︎ has definitely gotten into a cat fight for you (we're talking hair pulling and nail scratching)

❤︎ side note/extra lore: pansy and blaise (who i head canon to be a very chill person) started dating at the end of fifth year - they're so parents

❤︎ you and mattheo met in the second academic term of sixth year

❤︎ however, mattheo has liked you since he sat near you on the train in third year (you didn't notice him at the time because he was quiet and tried to hide from everbody)

❤︎ also! you became friends with theo in fifth year because there was this one time when you both were the only ones in detention (he got caught smoking and you got dress coded, probably) and you had a nice conversation with him where he thought you were the sweetest and most entertaining person he had ever met

❤︎ that was kind of that, though, you never really spoke to him - other than a brief "hello" - after that

❤︎ but becoming closer with mattheo led to you spending more time around theo and he quickly became like a brother to you

❤︎ he thinks you’re like the younger sister he never had (though he’s only a few months older)

❤︎ all of this to say, you're friends with (mostly) everyone because you're kind to everyone

❤︎ and that you're basically an honorary slytherin because they all adore you so much

❤︎ also, i head canon that mattheo is one of the oldest people in his year - meaning he was born in november/december the year before you were born

❤︎ while you were born in spring/summer (again, you could totally ignore this but i think i mention in one of my drafts that he’s the slightest bit older)

❤︎ things you love: deers, lipstick, mirrors, hearts, polka dots (twin!), pink, baby blue, music, arts and crafts (like making friendship bracelets), jewellery, talking & stars

❤︎ things you hate: math, pigeons (you love animals but you’re TERRIFIED of so many), baking (you’ve tried because it would suit you but you’re just too impatient!) & bugs (though you love ladybugs)

❤︎ you're very flirty - not in the way the slytherin boys are - but just in a sweet and charming way, you get anything you want with a bat of your eyelashes and a sweet smile

❤︎ you're horrible at handling your liquor, you don't drink often (#goodgirl) but when you do, you get tipsy after two drinks

❤︎ you love high heels (personal self insert moment - sue me! - because i'm always click-clacking around everywhere)

❤︎ your school has a very strict uniform code (one that mattheo breaks daily with his wrinkled button up shirt and crooked tie) that includes rules regrading shoes: shoes should be appropriate and heels should be 3 centimetres or less.

❤︎ this is one of the only rules you break, as you choose to sport a variety of heels that are - god forbid! - a little higher than 3 centimetres.

❤︎ mattheo had teased you, calling you “such a rebel” and a “bad influence on his innocent soul” when you had told him about you breaking this rule

❤︎ okay so regarding your academics, you're good at humanity subjects (such as history of magic, muggle studies...)

❤︎ but you're oh so horrible at "stem" subjects (like arithmancy and potions) - you're decently good at charms, though, hence why you're in the same class as mattheo!!

❤︎ you listen to clairo, lana del rey, sabrina carpenter, faye webster, the marias, taylor swift and gracie abrams mainly

❤︎ but you like all sorts of music! hence why you can talk about the music mattheo likes (which i mention a little in my head canons for him)

❤︎ i like to think that you have a ton of hobbies, just like super randomly you show up to potions class with a lopsided cup you made for Mattheo in a pottery class you take outside of hogwarts

❤︎ you can come across as (and can be) ditzy but that doesn't mean you're dumb, most people think you are because they mistake kindness for naivety but you're not that at all

❤︎ you're very self aware and actually incredibly emotionally intelligent

❤︎ you are a very emotionally available person and you’re very empathetic

❤︎ you allow yourself to feel deeply

❤︎ i think mattheo adores and sometimes envies that about you

❤︎ in conclusion (for now) you are the sweetest of hearts

❤︎ as well as the most protected person with the three scariest slytherins (mattheo, theo and pansy, of course) looking out for you

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko

[writingsbychlo]

the slytherin boys + barbie

draco: pouts when you say you’ll go with pansy but also refuses to dress up as ken, or dress up in the slightest. would take you both to watch it and surprises you last minute on the day by wearing a pink t-shirt he borrowed from enzo. rolls his eyes when you get excited but is actually very happy with himself for it.

mattheo: would want to do a double feature with oppenheimer too. makes it a whole date scenario. buys all the snacks but makes you carry them in your purse. wants to dress up for oppenheimer (???) so he wears a suit and a fedora and tells you to wear a pink minidress for barbie. highkey the best dressed couple to go see the double feature, everyone comments on it and he never lets it go. (“see!! I told you it would be cool to dress up for both.”)

theo: would say he’s only dressing up if he can wear the shirtless ken in the fur coat outfit. buys the tickets and the snacks and helps you pick your outfit even if he’s still pouting because you won’t let him wear the mink coat. has the “I’m just Ken” song stuck in his head for a week after and sings it non-stop, drives everyone insane. talks in your ear all the way through but in a funny/cute way, with jokes. (I firmly believe he would do this with every movie though). orders a “I am Kenough” replica hoodie and wears it to smoke in the astronomy tower.

enzo: had a google alert set for ticket release day bought them with the intensity one would buy taylor swift concert tickets. does not care in the slightest for oppenheimer. would wear a full pink outfit with you and possibly even let you bleach his hair to be ken as long as you promised to dye it back after. (“look, cousin, now we match!”, draco refuses to speak to him for a whole week.)

tom: agrees to go and will wear one of your pink scrunchies on his wrist as a gesture of love, and it works. does, however, love your barbie outfit and makes sure to whisper some very dirty things to be sure you know. is stoically thrilled when you surprise him with oppenheimer tickets for the same day. holds your hand through barbie and kisses your knuckles occasionally. scoffs when you laugh at all the ‘typical men’ scenes (Zack Snyder cut of Justice League 💀). is deeply concerned when you play “What Was I Made For” on the way home after and immediately switches it to the “Barbie World” credit song

[suugarbabe]

Mattheo who’s never had a proper significant other before but he knows he supposed to give you flowers or something when you’ve had a bad day so he enlists Enzo the herbology nerd to help him build a small bouquet from the greenhouses and borrows a potions beaker from Theo to place them in on your bedside table for you to see after class.

[girllblogging777]

i’m so tired of the slytherin boys and other harry potter characters CONSTANTLY being sexualised in fics. what happened to fluff and angst and tension and basically everything that isn’t pure smut ???