CozyLittleSin

☕️Welcome to CozyLittleSin 🍂 — your favorite guilty pleasure this fall

[cozylittlesin]

Pages & Raindrops

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader (she/her, y/n sparingly)

Wc: 5,100

Rating: Teen and Up (T) - pure fluff, slow-burn pining, gentle romance, no smut/explicit

Warnings: Mild post-war references (scars/trauma mentioned lightly), rainy weather vibes, cozy isolation, headphone/music elements, very soft yearning.

Summary: Amid the golden haze of Hogwarts' autumn, you—a Ravenclaw who finds solace in forgotten library corners and rain-streaked windows-keep encountering Theodore Nott in the quietest places: between towering bookshelves, under dripping eaves, and in the hush of shared silences. What begins as accidental proximity-leaves in his hair, shared headphones, borrowed novels-slowly unfurls into something tender. In a world still mending, two bookish souls discover that the best stories are the ones written in stolen moments.

---

Rain tapped against the high library windows like impatient fingers. October had arrived in full force: leaves the color of burnt sugar and cinnamon spiraling across the grounds, the air sharp with petrichor and old paper.

You claimed your usual spot in the far alcove—shelves groaning under dusty tomes on ancient runes and forgotten poetry. Headphones over your ears (Muggle contraption smuggled in last year), soft indie folk playing low: acoustic guitar, whispered lyrics about lost summers. A stack of books towered beside you—Persuasion, a worn copy of The Secret History, a journal half-filled with pressed leaves and doodled violins.

You didn't notice him at first.

Theodore Nott moved like smoke: tall, lean, dark curls falling into pale eyes. Slytherin robes impeccable, but sleeves pushed up to reveal faint silver scars from old curses—marks he never hid anymore. He paused at the end of your aisle, scanning spines with quiet intensity.

A maple leaf, caught in his hair from crossing the courtyard, fluttered to the floor when he reached for a volume.

You glanced up. He met your gaze—steady, unreadable.

"Leaf," you said softly, pulling one headphone off.

He touched his hair, found nothing, then looked down at the floor. A small, almost-smile. "Always losing them."

You reached over without thinking, plucked the stray from his collar. Crimson, veined gold. You offered it back.

He took it carefully, fingers brushing yours—cool, deliberate. "Thanks."

Silence settled, comfortable. He didn't leave. Instead, he pulled a chair to the opposite side of the table, opened his book (Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, dog-eared), and read.

You replaced the headphone. The music continued. Rain drummed on.

---

It became a pattern.

Afternoons blurred into evenings in that alcove. You'd arrive first—books, headphones, a thermos of black tea. He'd appear minutes later: coat damp, hair tousled from wind, always with a leaf or two clinging stubbornly.

He never spoke much. But he listened.

One day you caught him watching your fingers trace a passage in Persuasion. Anne Elliot's quiet longing mirrored the rain outside.

"You like Austen?" he asked, voice low enough not to disturb Madam Pince's domain.

"Her restraint," you replied. "She says everything by saying almost nothing."

He nodded. "Like silence."

You tilted your head. "You read her?"

"Last year. Mother left a copy in my trunk." A pause. "She used to read aloud on rainy days."

The admission hung between you—rare vulnerability from someone who guarded words like secrets.

You offered him one earbud. "Try this instead."

He hesitated, then leaned in. The cord stretched across the table like a fragile bridge. Soft guitar filled the space between you. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening.

When the song ended, he didn't pull away. "It's... gentle."

"Like rain on leaves," you said.

He looked at you then—really looked. Gray eyes softer than storm clouds after thunder.

---

The library closed early one Friday for inventory. Rain lashed the castle. You wandered the corridors, restless, headphones on but no music—just the rhythm of water.

You found him in an unused classroom near the Ravenclaw tower—overlooking the Black Lake, windows fogged. He sat on the sill, legs dangling, a book open on his knee but unread. Leaves plastered the glass outside like wet confetti.

You paused in the doorway.

He glanced over. "Escaping?"

"Something like that."

You crossed the room, sat beside him—close enough that your shoulders touched when wind rattled the panes. Headphones shared again: a playlist of lo-fi beats mixed with acoustic covers. Rain provided percussion.

He traced a scar on his wrist absently. "These used to bother me more."

"Now?"

"Now they feel like punctuation. End of one sentence. Start of another."

You rested your head on his shoulder—tentative. He stiffened, then relaxed. His hand found yours, fingers lacing slowly.

The song shifted to something slower, wistful. You closed your eyes.

"I come here when the noise gets too loud," he murmured. "Inside my head."

"Me too." Your thumb brushed his knuckles. "But it's quieter with you."

He turned his face, breath warm against your temple. "Good."

---

Weeks passed in golden fragments.

Shared walks under dripping oaks—leaves crunching, your scarf (cream lace-trimmed, soft) looped around both necks when wind picked up.

Late-night alcove sessions: you'd sketch while he read aloud—low voice turning Latin phrases into music.

One evening he brought coffee—black for you, with a dash of cinnamon for him. "Thought it might replace tea."

You sipped. "Better."

He watched your lips on the rim, then looked away—cheeks faintly flushed.

You nudged him. "You're staring."

"Am not."

"Are too."

A beat. Then, softly: "You're beautiful when you read."

Heat bloomed in your chest. You set the cup down. "Theo..."

He met your eyes—open, unguarded. "I mean it."

You leaned in first—slow, giving him time to pull back.

He didn't.

The kiss was careful: lips cool from the corridor chill, tasting like coffee and cinnamon and unspoken things. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. Gentle. Reverent.

When you parted, foreheads touching: "I've wanted to do that since the first leaf."

You smiled against his mouth. "Took you long enough."

---

Autumn deepened. Leaves turned deeper crimson, then began to fall in earnest.

One Sunday you convinced him to skip studying. You snuck to the edge of the Forbidden Forest—not deep, just where the trees thinned and rain pooled in hollows.

You spread a blanket (pilfered from the common room), headphones between you. Leaves rained down softly.

He lay back, head in your lap. You carded fingers through his curls—dark silk against your thighs.

"Read to me?" he asked.

You opened Persuasion. Voice soft over the patter of rain.

He listened with eyes closed, hand resting on your knee.

When the chapter ended, he opened his eyes. "Stay like this forever?"

You bent, kissed his forehead. "As long as autumn lasts."

He pulled you down beside him. Arms around you, chin tucked over your head.

Leaves drifted onto your shoulders like confetti.

The world outside could wait.

In the quiet rustle of pages and rain, two hearts found their quiet place.

[cozylittlesin]

Ink & Ember

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Word Count:5,200 (long oneshot)

Rating:*Teen and Up (T) – fluff, slow-burn pining, light angst from past, no explicit content

Warnings:Mild language, references to war aftermath/trauma (kept very light), high school boarding school dynamics, scar mentions (Draco's arm), cozy/romantic yearning.

Summary:In the crisp autumn haze of Hogwarts' final year, you—a quiet Ravenclaw with a penchant for hidden corners and violin melodies—keep crossing paths with Draco Malfoy in the least expected places: foggy Hogsmeade streets, empty library alcoves, and the Slytherin common room's edge. What starts as reluctant tolerance amid shared silences blooms into something warmer—stolen glances over coffee, shared scarves against the chill, and quiet confessions under falling leaves. Even serpents can learn to seek sunlight.

---

The first time you truly saw Draco Malfoy that year wasn’t in the Great Hall or during Potions. It was late October, rain misting the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade like silver veils. You’d ducked into The Three Broomsticks to escape the damp, your scarf—deep burgundy with faint silver threads—damp at the ends.

He was already there, alone at a corner table near the fire, black coat draped over the chair back, sleeves rolled to reveal the faint pink scar tissue on his left forearm. No Dark Mark anymore; the healers had done their work. He stared into his untouched butterbeer like it owed him answers.

You didn’t mean to sit nearby. The pub was crowded with chattering third-years. But the only open stool was two away from him.

He glanced up. Gray eyes narrowed, then softened—just a fraction.

“Malfoy,” you said neutrally, sliding onto the stool.

“Ravenclaw,” he returned, voice low. No sneer. Progress.

You ordered coffee—black, strong. The barman slid it over with a knowing look. You pulled out your notebook, sketched absentmindedly: the curve of a violin neck, ink bleeding like spilled secrets.

He watched without comment. Minutes passed. The fire crackled.

“You still play?” he asked suddenly.

You paused mid-stroke. “How do you know I play?”

“Saw you in the Astronomy Tower last spring. Moonlight on strings. Thought it was a ghost at first.”

Heat crept up your neck. “It was just scales.”

“It was beautiful.” The admission sounded dragged from him. He looked away. “Forget I said that.”

You didn’t.

---

Over the next weeks, autumn deepened. Leaves turned molten gold and crimson, carpeting the grounds like spilled treasure. Hogwarts felt smaller somehow—everyone healing in quiet ways.

You started noticing him more. In the library, he claimed the alcove by the restricted section, books on advanced Occlumency stacked like shields. You took the opposite table, violin case at your feet.

Once, you caught him staring at your open page: a quick sketch of the Black Lake under fog, a serpent curling through reeds.

He didn’t deny it when you raised a brow. “Your lines are… precise.”

“Yours are sharper,” you replied, nodding to his own parchment—tight, angular script.

He huffed what might’ve been a laugh.

---

The turning point came on a Saturday when rain turned to sleet. You’d forgotten your cloak in the rush to Hogsmeade. By the time you reached the village, you were shivering, teeth chattering.

The Shrieking Shack loomed ahead—abandoned, but the path cut through it. You ducked under the low branch that served as a natural arch, leaves catching in your hair.

Footsteps behind you.

Malfoy appeared, coat open, scarf loose. Without a word, he unwound the silver-green one from his neck and draped it over your shoulders.

It smelled like cedar, ink, and something faintly metallic—him.

“Keep it,” he muttered. “You look half-drowned.”

You clutched it tighter. “Thanks.”

He fell into step beside you. No questions. No barbs.

The branch overhead dripped. Maple leaves spiraled down, catching in his pale hair like tiny flames.

At the village edge, he stopped. “Why do you keep ending up where I am?”

You met his eyes. “Maybe I’m following the warmth.”

He blinked. Then, softly: “I’m not warm.”

“You are to me.”

Silence. Wind rattled shop signs—Cask Ales, The George—old wizarding haunts glowing amber.

He reached out, brushed a leaf from your cheek. His fingers lingered.

“Come to the dungeons tonight,” he said. “After curfew. Password’s ‘aspire.’”

Your heart stuttered. “Why?”

“Because I want to hear you play. Properly.”

---

The Slytherin common room at midnight was green-lit and quiet, lake water shifting overhead like living glass. You slipped in—scarf still around your shoulders.

Draco waited by the fire, sleeves rolled again, a small table set with two mugs of something steaming.

“Hot chocolate,” he said. “With cinnamon. Mother used to make it.”

You sat across from him. Violin case open. You tuned slowly, strings humming under your fingers.

He watched like you were unraveling a spell.

You played—a slow, melancholy piece, autumn in notes: falling leaves, crackling fires, unspoken longing. The fire painted gold across his face, softening sharp angles.

When you finished, the room held its breath.

He exhaled. “That… makes the silence bearable.”

You set the violin down. “What silence?”

“The one inside.” He tapped his temple. “After everything.”

You moved closer. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

His hand found yours—cold, hesitant. Then warmer.

“I know.”

---

From then on, it became routine.

Study sessions in hidden alcoves: your sketches next to his potions notes. Coffee in the mornings, shared under the Great Hall table when no one looked. Walks through the Forbidden Forest edge—never deep, just far enough for quiet.

One evening, frost on the windows, you sat by the common room fire again. Your head on his shoulder, his arm around you—tentative, like he feared breaking something fragile.

“You’re different this year,” you whispered.

“So are you.” His thumb traced circles on your wrist. “Softer. Braver.”

You tilted your face up. “Kiss me?”

He did—slow, careful. Lips cool at first, then warming like embers catching. Tasted like chocolate and secrets.

When he pulled back, forehead to yours: “I don’t deserve this.”

“You do.” You kissed the scar on his arm. “We all do.”

---

Winter crept closer, but autumn lingered in small ways: leaves pressed in books, your scarf permanently his (and vice versa), violin melodies drifting through corridors.

One night under harvest moon, by the lake: leaves floating like tiny boats.

He took your hand. “Stay after graduation?”

“With you?”

“With me.”

You smiled. “Always.”

The serpent in him uncoiled, just a little, seeking light.

And in the quiet rustle of falling leaves, two unlikely hearts found their way home.

[cozylittlesin]

Leaves and Silent Promises

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Fem!Reader (she/ her, y/n used sparingly)

Word Count:4,800

Rating: Teen and Up (T) - pure fluff, light romance, no smut/explicit content

Warnings: None major. Mild language, references to Wednesday's morbid personality, very soft/ romantic pining, high school setting with some teen awkwardness.

Summary:In the crisp autumn air of Jericho's quieter streets and Nevermore's shadowed halls, you and Wednesday Addams find yourselves unexpectedly tangled in small, tender moments— shared walks through fallen leaves, late-night study sessions by candlelight, and a black cat that seems determined to bring you closer. What starts as reluctant tolerance blooms into something warm and unspoken, proving even the darkest hearts can soften under October's glow.

---

The first time you noticed Wednesday Addams truly looking at you wasn’t in the echoing halls of Nevermore or during one of Principal Weems’ tedious assemblies. It was on a Thursday afternoon in mid-October, when the sky was the color of weak tea and the leaves had finally surrendered to gravity.

You were sitting on the low stone wall outside the school gates, legs swinging idly, black Converse scuffed from too many restless walks. A stack of dog-eared paperbacks rested beside you—your escape from the constant buzz of outcast drama. The wind carried the sharp scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. You didn’t hear her approach; Wednesday moved like fog.

She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, black braids immaculate despite the breeze. Her uniform was pristine, the only concession to the season a thin charcoal scarf looped once around her neck.

“You’re blocking the path,” she stated flatly.

You glanced up, startled. “There’s literally three feet of empty wall on either side.”

“Precisely. Your presence is an obstruction to symmetry.”

You snorted despite yourself. “That’s the most Wednesday thing you’ve ever said.”

She tilted her head, studying you with those unblinking dark eyes. “And yet you remain seated.”

You patted the stone beside you. “Join me? The view’s decent. Leaves are at peak murder-red.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, with the air of someone humoring a particularly foolish child, she perched on the edge—exactly six inches away, posture rigid.

Silence stretched. Comfortable, strangely. You turned a page in your book. She stared at the opposite sidewalk where a small black cat had appeared, padding deliberately across wet cobblestones, tail high like a question mark.

“It’s following us,” Wednesday observed.

“Or following you. Cats like misery.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead she reached into her pocket and produced a single black ribbon. She tied it loosely around the cat’s neck like a makeshift collar. The cat accepted it without protest, then trotted over and leaped onto the wall between you.

You laughed softly. “Guess it’s ours now.”

“Ours,” Wednesday echoed, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.

---

Over the next weeks, the cat—whom you named Shadow because Wednesday refused anything “cutesy”—became your unofficial chaperone.

You started walking home together after classes. Nevermore’s grounds bled into Jericho’s quieter residential streets, lined with Victorian houses and trees that rained gold and crimson. Shadow led the way, stopping every few yards to look back as if making sure you hadn’t lost each other.

Wednesday rarely spoke during these walks. But she listened. You rambled about books, complained about Enid’s endless positivity, confessed you’d failed a history quiz because you’d spent the night rereading Poe instead of studying. She offered no platitudes, only occasional deadpan commentary.

“Your taste in literature is predictably tragic,” she said once, after you described crying over a character’s death.

“Says the girl who keeps a taxidermied raven in her dorm.”

“Taxidermy is an art form. Tears are weakness.”

Yet when you shivered in the dropping temperature, she wordlessly unwound her scarf and draped it over your shoulders. It smelled faintly of cedar and ink.

You didn’t comment. Neither did she.

---

One Friday evening, rain threatened but never arrived. The sky stayed bruised purple. You convinced Wednesday to detour through the old cemetery on the edge of town—neutral ground, she called it.

Gravel crunched under your sneakers. Shadow wove between headstones like he owned the place.

You stopped at a weathered bench beneath a massive oak, leaves carpeting the ground in soft layers. “Sit with me?”

Wednesday eyed the bench as if it might bite. “It’s damp.”

“I’ll share my jacket.”

She sat—closer this time, knees almost brushing. Shadow curled in her lap immediately, purring like a tiny motor.

You pulled out your phone, showed her a photo you’d taken earlier: the three of you reflected in a puddle—Wednesday staring straight ahead, you smiling softly, Shadow’s tail a black blur.

She studied it for a long moment. “Delete it.”

“No.”

“Why preserve mediocrity?”

“Because it’s us.” You pocketed the phone. “And I like looking at it when you’re not around.”

Her fingers stilled on Shadow’s fur. “Sentimental drivel.”

But she didn’t ask you to delete it again.

---

The real shift happened the night of the harvest moon.

Nevermore hosted its annual Autumn Soirée—mandatory, themed “Harvest of Shadows.” Enid had decorated the quad with string lights shaped like tiny pumpkins, fake cobwebs, and fog machines. Wednesday had declared it “an assault on good taste” and planned to hide in her dorm with a book on medieval torture methods.

You showed up at her door in jeans, a soft orange sweater, and your Converse.

“Put on something less… cheerful,” she said upon opening the door.

“I’m not going to the party. I’m kidnapping you for better things.”

She arched a brow. “Elaborate.”

You held up a canvas tote. “Books, hot cider from the Weathervane, my dorm’s fireplace. Shadow’s already waiting. No crowds. No small talk. Just… quiet.”

Wednesday considered. “You’ve bribed me with solitude and arson-adjacent warmth.”

“Exactly.”

She grabbed her coat—black wool, of course—and followed.

---

Your dorm was small but cozy, a converted attic room you’d lucked into as a third-year. The fireplace was real, bricks blackened from years of use. You’d stacked logs earlier; now flames crackled softly.

Shadow claimed the rug immediately.

You poured cider into mismatched mugs—one black, one with little ghost silhouettes. Wednesday took the black one without comment.

You settled on the floor, backs against the bed, books open but unread. The fire painted shifting shadows across her face.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

“You’re beautiful in firelight.”

She finally met your eyes. Something flickered there—surprise, perhaps, or the faintest softening.

“Flattery is beneath you.”

“It’s not flattery. It’s fact.”

Silence again. But different. Heavy with possibility.

You reached over, hesitant, and brushed a stray braid behind her ear. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her hand caught yours—cold fingers curling around yours.

“I don’t do affection,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“Yet here we are.”

“Here we are.”

She leaned in—slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss was careful. Chaste. Her lips cool, tasting faintly of cider and something sharper, like night air. When she drew back, her forehead rested against yours.

“Don’t expect poetry,” she whispered.

“I don’t. I just expect you.”

Shadow meowed indignantly from the rug, as if offended at being ignored.

Wednesday huffed—what might have been a laugh in anyone else. “Even the cat demands attention.”

You smiled. “He’s jealous.”

“Let him be.” Her thumb traced a slow circle on the back of your hand. “This… whatever it is. I don’t hate it.”

High praise.

You tugged her closer until she was half in your lap, her head tucked under your chin. She fit there perfectly—small, fierce, unexpectedly warm.

Outside, wind rattled the window. Leaves skittered across the roof like tiny footsteps.

Inside, the fire popped. Shadow purred. And Wednesday Addams—Wednesday, who feared nothing—let herself be held.

---

The next morning, you woke tangled in blankets on the rug. Wednesday was already awake, staring at the dying embers.

She didn’t pull away when you stirred.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

“Technically afternoon. We slept through breakfast.”

“Worth it.”

She turned, eyes softer than you’d ever seen. “Perhaps.”

You sat up, stretching. Shadow leaped onto her shoulder like it was his throne.

“So… are we doing this?” you asked quietly. “The whole… girlfriends thing?”

Wednesday considered. “Labels are for corpses in morgues.”

“But?”

“But I will not tolerate anyone else attempting to occupy your time in this manner.” She paused. “And I expect reciprocal exclusivity.”

You grinned. “Possessive. I like it.”

“Don’t get used to it.” But her hand found yours again.

---

From then on, fall became yours.

Walks through Jericho became routine—hand in hand now, Shadow trotting ahead. Study sessions by the fire multiplied; Wednesday read aloud from grimoires while you sketched her profile in charcoal. She started leaving small things in your dorm: a pressed black rose, a raven feather, once even a tiny skull charm on a chain.

You wore it every day.

One evening, as October bled into November, you sat on that same cemetery bench. The moon was full again, silvering the gravestones.

Wednesday leaned against you, rare and unguarded.

“I used to think affection was a liability,” she said softly. “A crack in the armor.”

“And now?”

“Now I think… it might be the only worthwhile vulnerability.”

You kissed her temple. “Poetic.”

“Shut up.”

But she smiled—small, secret, real.

Shadow curled between you, purring approval.

And in the quiet rustle of leaves, under a sky heavy with stars, two unlikely hearts beat a little closer.

Fall had never felt warmer.