Tags: Muggle AU. Literature professor!Theodore Nott x History professor!reader
Word count: 2.9k
A/N: This is the longest thing I’ve ever written, extremely self indulgent with the Trojan war refs, sorry not sorry. I love a good rain confession now don’t I? :)
Synopsis: the one where a competition about who can teach the fall of Troy better, leads to a rainy confession
Header by me!
Oxford was the same as you remembered. The walls were still covered with ivy, the students still ran in the halls with their cloaks billowing behind them for class and you still felt the giddy anticipation in your stomach as you walked inside your alma matar. It had been a dream to return here one day, as a teacher, not a student. And after years of hard work and being the top of your class in not only history but your teaching degree you’d managed to bag the job of Oxford university’s history professor, on the recommendation of the old, retiring professor wourbough who’d taught you at your time here.
You had a lot to prove here, and you wanted your first day to be absolutely perfect. But of course, the universe had it out for you.
“Oh dear–?” A rich, heavily accented voice yelps as you collide with a wall, which is a man on closer inspection. Your books scatter out of your hands and onto the tiles, and you would’ve joined the tomes if your perpetrator hadn’t grabbed your elbow.
You glance up, and truly, from that instant you are an absolute goner. He was tall, enough that you had to crane your neck up to meet his devilishly handsome face, all sharp features and watercolor eyes.
“Are you alright?” His eyebrows furrow in concern and he leaves your elbow, stepping back to survey you.
“Im okay,” you say with much effort swallowing the lump in your throat. Your gaze falls to your poor, fallen books.
“Oh,” he breathes, dropping to a crouch beside you when he catches your form bent over your books.
“I’m so sorry, let me.” He’s quicker than you, easily grabbing your books and handing them back to you in a neat stack. He seems sheepish as he does, another apology leaving him.
“No it’s alright. My fault just as much as yours,” you smile, hoping and praying it’s polite and not the awkward quirk of your lips that drives him away. It’s received well, because he huffs out a laugh and adjusts his grip on his briefcase.
“Professor Nott, I teach literature.” He says with a half smile, offering you his hand.
You do not, under any circumstance, adore the calluses on his palms that you assume must be born from his pen. You shake it like the decent, well mannered woman you are, nodding your head as you introduced yourself.
“I teach history. Well, starting today,” you add with a little laugh that seems to break the ice. His handsome face splits into a bright grin as he drops your hand and nods.
“Oh, today is it? Good start to your day then, Professor?” He says, with a cheeky smile that has you biting your tongue.
“Different than I expected,” you admit, juggling your books in your arms.
He looks like he wants to say more, like ask you something, but the bell rings above you both, the signal for class and he shakes his head.
“Goodluck professor L/N. Oxford’s students tend to eat a teacher alive,” he says with a wink, and then he’s gone.
That was extremely reassuring now wasn’t it?
It is an absolute miracle you find the class, a greater one when your students don’t instantly write you off the second you walk in. You’re a good professor, and a lover of history first. So when you humour the students with obscure history facts, like how ‘Dracula’ was a real man from the Ottoman Empire, or that the city of Troy burned for ten years…you have the history majors eating out the palm of your hand.
The staff room is abuzz when you enter, and you could handle talkative children in class, but coworkers and socialising? That made you get cold feet.
Luckily, professor Nott seemed to spot you, and for the second time that day, he stood before you.
“We keep finding each other,” he said pleasantly, his briefcase gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. You felt like a Victorian woman as you ogled his arms.
“Oh, is it? I could’ve sworn it was you who found me now,” you grin and his smile brightens, like the challenge in your tone is riveting.
“Very well professor. You’ve uncovered my scheme,” he says dramatically, crossing his arms. “Survived the ravenous children?”
“Barely,” you chuckle, setting your books and purse down on the desk that had your name tag. “But I think I got through to atleast a few of them.”
“On your first day?” He leans against your desk languidly, no shame in imposing on your space. “What a talent, my dear.”
“I’ve been told I have a rather charming personality,” you say, lips quirking. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
“Now now, you must tell me the name of who led you to believe this instantly. Can’t have liars like that running around,” he smirks and you roll your eyes at the sass this man was giving you.
“Such a comedian, professor Nott. Are you sure teaching literature is your only calling?”
“I’m a man of many talents, Bella,” he says, aggravatingly suave.
“Italian?” You raise a brow.
“Caught me,” he chuckles, raising his hands up in surrender.
“A language connoisseur now too?”’you tease and he leans into the back handed praise, his eyes flashing with amusement.
“What can I say?” He chuckles, and you pretend like the banter doesn’t make your cheeks heat, nor does it make your stomach flip.
You’d just met the man. You were not attracted to a fellow professor, this was just plain intellectual banter. Nothing more.
You were a god damn liar.
Professor Nott seemed to be becoming a constant in your journey at Oxford, and you would find it aggravating if you didn’t enjoy teasing him back just as much.
You both fought over the coffee machine in the staff room, traded inside jokes between meetings, graded papers together, shipped your students and everything else that made students and professors alike suspicious of your involvement in each other, few months into your joining.
“Professor L/N, a minute?” Theo said, knocking on your classroom door twenty minutes into your lecture. You nodded, ignored the snickers from your children as he ducked into class.
You two were a hot topic for the students of Oxford, and you had no clue just how invested the history and literature majors were in the relationship of their professors. They’d always ask you about Theo between class, and you’d laugh and wave them off. But your students were smart, and today was a golden opportunity for them to do something.
“What are you teaching?” Theo whispered, glancing at your textbook as you rummaged in your purse. He’d lost his pen, and had come to you to borrow a spare. It was a sore excuse to see you, and he hoped you wouldn’t catch on.
“Trojan war,” you explained, fishing the pen out of your purse and brandishing it to him with a winning smile.
“Oh?” His lips quirked as his fingers closed around the pen, “I’d say The Illiad is a better way to teach the kids about Troy than history textbooks.”
You raised a brow at his challenge and the students leaned forward to spy on the conversation.
“The Illiad is an epic, professor Nott. It’s not concrete enough, I can’t quote sonnets to my students,” you joked and he shook his head, twisting the pen between his fingers.
“The whole reason we even know of the fall of Troy is because of homer’s recount in The Illaid, professor.” He argued.
“Why don’t you both teach it your way and compete, professors?” Avery, a first row student of yours called out. You and Theo exchanged a look. It wasn’t the worst idea, you both had to teach the fall of Troy in your portions. Theo, through the illaid, and you through the lense of it being a legend on Greek mythology.
“What do you say, professor L/N?” Theo asked, meeting your eye with a competitive look you knew all too well.
“I’d say, prepare to lose, professor Nott,” you leaned forward as you locked gazes. You barely heard your students cheer, or the way most of them texted their shared group chat with the literature students. The group chat’s name was your ship name, created by your doting, incredibly nosy students.
You and Theo had just been played by seventeen year olds and you didn’t even know it.
You both shook on it, Theodore going as far as signing a fake contract with you that made you roll your eyes and your students text the group chat rapidly, but as you signed it you couldn’t help but feel giddy.
“Oh you’re on,” you told him and he tucked your pen behind his ear with a smug grin.
“Don’t be a sore loser, okay?” He teased, and he would’ve gotten a slap to his arm in front of the entire class if he hadn’t ducked his head away and snickered, waving at you smugly as he left your class.
Oh it was so on.
Now you were a highly competitive person by nature. It wasn’t a bad trait, it just tended to overdrive every other winning trait and made you out to be a bit intense.
Nonetheless, you poured over texts the entire week leading to the ridiculous ‘competition’ you had signed up for with Theo. It was stupid, and it was incredibly foolish of the two of you to give into the whims and fancies of your students. But you were weak when it came to challenges, and so was he.
Theo was one smug bastard as he swaggered into class that day, his chocolate brown suit crisp and his hair neatly combed back, with the most distracting delicate golden spectacles on the bridge of his nose. His smile was assured, his fingers busied in an ear marked copy of the Illiad as he waited for you.
Whatever he or your combined class of students had been expecting when you walked in…it hadn’t been this.
Your hair was down, a braided crown the same way it was worn by women in Ancient Greece, but really, it was your dress that sold it.
In the famous painting of the spartan princess, Helen was clad in a beautiful pink silk dress, and of course you’d gone the extra mile and worn a similar dress from your own wardrobe, a smug little smirk on your face when you entered.
Theo was a weak, weak man for a smart woman, weaker for one so beautiful. His knees nearly buckled at the sight of you and he cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up his nose as a sign of false composure.
“Ah,” he told you with a half smirk. “The face that launched a thousand ships.”
“You’ve done your homework,” you grinned back, because the reference didn’t go past you. Nothing relating to history ever did.
Let today be a day marked in Oxford history, because the literature professor and history professor were flirting through teaching, and it was a sight to behold.
Theo was a meticulous bastard, and he’d led the class by quoting the Illiad, going as far as citing a few lines in Greek that had the girls fanning themselves. He spoke of Troy like it was a romantic setting, like war was poetry.
You disagreed. You spoke of Helen of Sparta, her abduction, the wrongness of Paris and Cassandra’s prophecy about the Trojan horse. The class had ended to thunderous applause, and students unable to decide who deserved the better teacher mantle.
You would never admit it, but you thought he deserved it. Theo would rather eat sand than tell you, but he believed you should’ve won it.
“You were good out there,” Theo bumped your shoulder after class, as you both walked side by side back to the staff room.
“You too, professor.” A teasing smile pulled on your lips, pleased at his compliment. He hummed, shifting his briefcase, a nervous habit of his you’d picked up in the past few months. But, why on earth would he be nervous?
“All good? Are you feeling threatened by my amazing teaching?” You joke, glancing at him. He chuckled, shaking his head.
“I just might be Y/n, you’re a fabulous professor.”
You hadn’t expected that. Something so earnest and sudden, it caught you off guard. Your cheeks colored and you brushed your fingers down your dress.
“Thank you,” you cleared your throat. “Professor Nott.”
“Theo,” he corrected, eyes crinkling with his smile.
“Pardon?”
“Call me Theo.”
You paused, then allowed yourself to smile too, “Theo.”
His smile was worth everything.
It didn’t matter who had won, who’d taught Troy better, whose perspective on the war mattered. All that mattered to you right now, was that Theo kept looking at you like that.
Your gaze shifted to the downpour outside and your eyebrows furrowed. You didn’t carry an umbrella, and you usually walked home.
“Ah,” Theo said, his gaze following yours. He seemed unbothered by the rain, or maybe used to it. “Forgot an umbrella?”
“It was sunny in the morning!” You insisted, like the rain gods should’ve thought twice before making it rain.
“It’s London, bella.” He reminded, an amused smile quirking on his lips that made you feel dizzy and stupid. Like you should pull his lips to yours.
“My bad,” you said dryly, glaring at the sky like you could will the rain to retreat.
“Not a fan?” He teased, arms crossing across his chest as he watched your irritation.
“Not when I have to walk home,” you sighed. He got that look in his eye then, the stubborn determination you’d seen when a student challenged him.
“I’ll come with.” He said, already walking into the rain leaving no room for argument. Your mouth opened to protest, but he was pulling your arm out and despite your best efforts at resistance, he’d pulled you into the downpour. You would’ve let this man pull you to the depths of Tartarus if he kept his hand in yours.
“It’s not that bad!” He yelled over the downpour, his glasses fogged, his perfect hair dripping water and his pristine suit darkening.
“It isn’t,” you breathed. You weren’t, in any way, referring to the rain clinging to your skin, the drops trailing from your lashes to your lips. Not when he looked liked a tragic romance hero, not when his hand was still in yours.
You were not a quiet person. You were loud, opinionated but today, you’d traded your spitfire for walking beside him, hands still held as you both trudged through foggy roads and weeping skies. You’d never hated reaching home as much as you hated it today. You almost invited him in, almost told him to come up, almost pulled him by the front lapels of his coat and mess his hair and kissed him.
“Thanks Theo,” you said instead. “Reach home safe.”
“I will.” He grinned, but when he dropped your hand it looked like he didn’t want to.
It was inappropriate to catch feelings for your colleague. It could lead to suspension, it could lead to breaking up and working with him for years later, it could lead to so much more than what you had the courage for, so you smiled, and you turned away from him.
“Wait.”
You turned so fast you almost fell over.
“Yes?” You breathed, eyes on him automatically. He looked devastating like this. His fingers fidgeted with his briefcase, his tall stature blocking the flickering lamplight that radiated from the end of the street. His gaze was unblinking, fixed on you.
“I have something to say.” He said then, stepping forward. You didn’t dare move, didn’t even speak. You nodded, because if you spoke you’d crumble.
“I’m glad we did this today,” he ran a hand through his hair. “The competition was stupid, but seeing you teach like that, looking like Helen incarnate it..it was worth it.”
His eyes flicked to your lips for a moment, he stepped closer. The rain beat down harder. You didn’t care.
“I am a man of many words, professor. I’ve learnt the right words to say, how to make everything sound poetic and devastating. But you…mio dio, you render me speechless. Words fail me when I look at you. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t breathe without your presence. You have bewitched me, captured my heart and made it your own, and I cannot ask for it back, so please, give me yours in return.”
You were not a woman of beautiful words like him. But you knew actions very well, so you laughed, and then you closed the gap, yanking him down by his tie and pressing your lips to his.
“The words you’re looking for, professor Nott,” you whispered against his lips. “Is, I love you.”
His hands reached for your waist, and he offered you a sheepish smile that had you pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“For the record,” you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip. “I love you too.”
It really didn’t matter who the students chose as their favorite teacher, if the rain lessened or if Troy had ever really been better taught from the illaid rather than historical records from various experts. Because Theo’s lips fit quite well against yours, and really, what was literature or history when you had your movie romance with your present and future?
enemies to lovers! (size kink warning) this one is loooong
Very few things managed to truly burrow under your skin.
A Gryffindor celebrating a win like they’d personally invented victory. Someone leaving their disgusting mess for house-elves to deal with. And, most infuriating of all, Theodore Nott.
He was a constant, walking irritation. The crude, suggestive jokes he lobbed specifically to make your cheeks burn, the dark, rolling timbre of his laugh that reached you no matter how loud the room or how hard you tried to ignore it, and those damn storm-grey eyes that always , always, found you like they were hunting.
Tonight, though, he wasn’t just looking.
He was staring.
You’d pushed far beyond your usual boundaries for this last-minute Ravenclaw party. The black dress you’d chosen clung to every dangerous curve you normally kept hidden beneath tailored robes. Low-cut enough to feel sinful, short enough that every step reminded you how exposed you were. The firewhisky your dance partner kept tipping into your mouth had set your blood alight. Your skin tingling, cheeks flushed, the room pulsing in time with your heartbeat.
You didn’t even know his name properly. Jake? Jacob? Something forgettable. What you did notice was the clean, cedar-and-citrus scent of his cologne, the confident way his hands settled on your waist, the warm drag of his palms as they slid lower, guiding your hips to the heavy bass. For once you let yourself sink into it, let your body roll against his, let your fingers trail up the back of his neck. A small rebellion. A reminder that you didn’t need anyone’s permission to feel good.
But Theodore Nott's stupidly handsome face was ruining it.
He hadn’t moved from his spot against the far wall. His long legs crossed at the ankle, cigarette hanging loosely between two long fingers, smoke curling lazily upward. His eyes were locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach clench. The easy smirk he usually wore was gone. In its place was something darker. Jaw tight, pupils blown, a muscle ticking beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone.
You should have looked away.
Instead you arched your back a little more dramatically, pressed your ass back against your partner’s hips, let your head tip back onto his shoulder so your throat was bared. If Theo wanted to glare, let him choke on the sight.
Theo wished he was choking.
It would be a cleaner explanation for the vise tightening around his throat every time that Hufflepuff prick’s hands wandered a fraction too low, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your hip like he had any claim to you. Choking would be easier than admitting to Enzo, to Blaise, to fucking anyone that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, of all people. The same sharp-tongued Slytherin who’d spent years trading venom with him like it was fucking foreplay.
He hated almost everything about you.
The way your smart-ass mouth could cut deeper than any hex, quick and precise, always aimed right at his ego. The infuriating kindness you showed everyone else. Your dumb soft smiles for first-years, easy laughs with the girls in the common room, even a patient ear for that whiny Ravenclaw prefect who wouldn’t shut up about N.E.W.T.s. Everyone but him. To Theo, you were ice and barbs, and he reveled in melting that frost just to watch you flush crimson and spit fire back.
He loved to fluster you. Loved the way your eyes would narrow, lips parting in outrage before you snarled something cutting. Loved pushing until your composure cracked and you shoved him against a wall or stormed off with that delicious sway in your hips.
What he did not love—what was currently carving a hole through his chest—was that fucking dress. Black fabric so tight it looked painted on, clinging to every dip and swell like it was daring him to peel it off. The neckline plunged low, silver snake pendant glinting between the soft swell of your breasts with every breath. The hem skimmed scandalously high, flashing perfect thigh with each sway to the music. Why did you even own something so offending? And that Hufflepuff nerd was treating your waist like his personal playground.
Theo’s cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling to the floor as he watched the boy’s palm slide lower, cupping the underside of your ass for one brazen second. Your head tipped back on a laugh all light and tipsy and fucking irritating. Something in Theo’s gut twisted viciously at just the idea of you leaving with him.
Before the thought could even solidify fully in his mind and before he could talk himself out of it with another drag of smoke or a muttered curse. Theo crushed the cigarette under the heel of his boot, the ember hissing out against the sticky floor like a warning he ignored.
Ruining your little dance was better than letting you slip away into some dimly lit corridor with that spineless Hufflepuff, letting him fumble through disappointing, half-hearted sex that would leave you unsatisfied and scowling tomorrow. Really, if you thought about it, he was doing you a favor. Protecting you from mediocrity.
He cut through the crowd like a shadow given purpose, long strides eating distance until he was right behind your date. You didn’t startle when his presence registered—didn’t flinch at the sudden wall of heat and cedar-and-smoke cologne that enveloped you both. Your partner, though? He stiffened instantly, shoulders hunching as if he’d felt the blade before it even touched skin.
Theo’s eyes were cold steel, lips curved in that dark, amused tilt that promised violence wrapped in velvet. The Hufflepuff spun, took one look at the towering Slytherin looming over him with broad shoulders blocking the light, jaw clenched, grey eyes promising something psychotic. The color drained from his face before you even made eye contact.
“S-sorry, I—uh—getting a drink,” he stammered, tail tucked so fast it was almost comical. Then he was gone, melting into the throng like he’d never existed.
You feigned disappointment beautifully, eyes narrowing into slits as you turned to face the culprit. Chin high, lips pursed in that way that always made Theo want to bite them until they bled. “Do you need something, Nott? Think scaring my date off is going to finally get me to fuck you?”
Theo closed his eyes for one single, measured second, inhaling through his nose, forcing the red haze of rage and raw want back behind his teeth. He wanted to bend you over the nearest table right then, yank that sinful dress up around your waist, and spank your ass raw until it glowed crimson, until tears streaked your cheeks and you sobbed apologies between broken moans. The fantasy alone made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his trousers, thickening further at the memory of how you’d looked strutting past him earlier in this horrible dress.
He didn’t think twice.
One hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against him hard enough that your breasts crushed to his chest, hips slotting together with brutal precision. His erection dug shamelessly into your lower belly, thick and insistent through the fabric, letting you feel exactly what your little show had done to him.
His breath was hot against the shell of your ear, voice a low growl that vibrated straight down your spine. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
A shiver ripped through you traitorous and immediate. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, slick heat blooming between them at the dark promise in his tone. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathy, cheeks burning despite yourself. “Yeah? Or what?”
Theo’s free hand slid up, cupping the back of your neck, his thumb pressing just under your jaw, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to meet his molten gaze. His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, not quite a kiss, more a threat.
“Or I’ll fuck it,” he whispered, each word deliberate, filthy. “Right here. Shove you to your knees in front of every single person in this room, pull that smart mouth open, and stuff my cock down your throat until you’re choking on me. Until the only thing you can say is my name around my dick.”
Your breath hitched audibly, nipples hardening against the thin fabric of your dress, core clenching around nothing at the vivid image. You hated how wet the threat made you, hated how your body responded to his violence like it was praise.
Theo felt the subtle tremor in your frame, the way your hips shifted forward just enough to grind against the hard length pressing into you. His grip tightened, possessive, bruising.
“You think that little Hufflepuff could ever make you this worked up?” he murmured, lips grazing your pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to sting. “He’d fumble, come too fast, leave you aching and unsatisfied. Me? I’d ruin you. Split you open on my cock until you’re sobbing, begging, coming so hard you forget how to hate me.”
Your hands fisted in his shirt, whether to shove him away or pull him closer, you aren't sure. “You’re delusional.”
“Liar.” His thigh wedged between yours without warning, pressing up against the damp heat soaking through your lace. The friction sent sparks shooting up your spine; a soft, involuntary whimper escaped before you could swallow it.
Theo’s eyes darkened to near-black. “Doesn't feel like I'm delusional sweetheart. Now tell me again how much you hate me while you’re dripping down my thigh.”
You opened your mouth but he swallowed any sound you could make with a bruising kiss. All teeth and fury and years of tension snapping like a curse finally cast. You bit back just as hard, nails raking down his back, tasting smoke and whisky and the sharp edge of everything you’d both pretended not to want.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together.
“Upstairs,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Now. Or I make good on that promise right here.”
You didn’t argue.
You let him haul you through the crowd with his hand possessive on the small of your back, erection still evident, pulse roaring between your legs, knowing the night was about to burn everything you’d built between you to ash.
The door clicked shut with a finality that echoed in the sudden quiet, the muffled bass from the party downstairs now just a distant throb, like a second heartbeat.
Theo didn’t give you time to breathe.
He spun you, shoved your back against the wood so hard the breath punched out of your lungs in a soft gasp. The impact rattled your spine, but the sting was nothing compared to the heat of him crowding in immediately after. His broad chest pinning you, hips grinding forward so you felt every thick, insistent inch of his cock straining against his trousers.
One large hand roamed greedily, shamelessly. Palm sliding up your dress to cup the heavy swell of your breast, thumb dragging rough circles over your nipple until it peaked hard beneath the thin fabric. The other hand yanked his shirt over his head in one impatient motion, muscles flexing and rippling under pale skin dusted with dark hair. He tossed the shirt somewhere behind him without looking, but your mouth runs dry at the sight.
Merlin, he was devastating.
Every line of him carved like he’d been sculpted to ruin you. Sharp collarbones, defined pecs that shifted with each ragged breath, the deep cut of his V disappearing into low-slung trousers, abs tightening as he pressed closer. A faint scar curved along his left ribcage as if proof he wasn’t just pretty but also dangerous made your core clench around nothing.
You hated how perfect he was. Hated how it made the ache between your thighs sharpen into something painful.
No time to dwell on your hatred. Theo’s fingers hook into the fragile lace of your soaked panties that cling obscenely to your folds and shoves them down your thighs in one brutal tug. The fabric caught briefly on the swell of your ass before sliding to pool at your ankles. He stepped back half a pace, just enough to rake his gaze over you like he was memorizing every filthy detail.
Your dress was rucked up around your hips, silk bunched and wrinkled. Thighs slick with your own arousal, glistening in the low lamplight filtering through the cracked window. Hair a wild tangle from his earlier grip, lips swollen and red from biting back moans, cheeks flushed a deep, guilty crimson. Eyes glassy, pupils blown wide with want and fury in equal measure.
He stared like you were art he’d waited years to defile.
A masterpiece, he thought. Every forbidden fantasy he’d buried under layers of spite and cigarettes finally breathing in front of him. Wet. Trembling. His to take.
You reached for the hem of your dress, fingers trembling as you started to drag it over your head, needing to feel skin on skin, needing more.
Theo’s hand snapped around your wrist like iron. Hard and unyielding. He pinned it above your head against the door, the wood cool against your knuckles.
“The dress stays on,” he rasped, voice wrecked, thick with Italian gravel and something darker. His thumb pressed into the racing pulse at your inner wrist, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird. “I’ve spent all night imagining bending you over in this fucking thing. Watching it ride up while I fuck you stupid. You don’t get to take it off until I’ve ruined it.”
Your breath hitched in half protest, half plea. The silk was already clinging damply to your skin where you’d leaked onto it, the fabric suddenly too tight and imposing.
Theo released your wrist only to slide both hands under the hem, palming your bare ass and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into the small of his back as he ground his clothed cock against your dripping center. The rough drag of his zipper and the hard heat beneath it made you whimper loud, broken, embarrassing.
“Feel that?” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you open that smart fucking mouth. Every time you glare at me like you want to hex me into next week.” He rocked forward again, deliberate, letting the ridge of him catch against your swollen clit. “And now you’re going to take every inch while this dress is still on you. So when you walk out of here later with your legs shaking and cunt still dripping. You'll feel me with every fucking step and remember exactly who ruined this sinful dress.”
You tried to snap something back, some cutting retort or some kind of denial, but it dissolved into a moan when his fingers found your entrance, two sliding in without preamble. Deep. Rough. Curling immediately against a deep spot that made your vision blur around the edges.
“Fuck—Theo-”
“There it is,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice low and filthy. Deep rooted satisfaction bloomed behind his chest, the nickname slipping out so easily when you've refused to use anything but his full name in years. “My name on that pretty mouth. Say it again while I stretch you open. Tell me how much you hate me while your pussy sucks my fingers like it’s starving.”
He pumped harder, scissoring, thumb finding your clit and rubbing merciless circles. Your hips bucked, chasing, thighs trembling around his waist. The door rattled hard with every thrust of his hand and even you, miss perfect, couldn't seem to care about the prospect of anyone hearing you.
“You’re going to come like this first,” he ordered, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to mark. “Gonna soak my hand, then I’m flipping you around, bending you over and fucking you until you can’t remember why you ever hated me in the first place.”
Your nails scored down his bare back, leaving red trails he’d happily wear like badges tomorrow.
“Promise?” you gasped, pleasure taking over every rationale part of your brain.
Theo’s laugh was dark, dangerous “Trust me, sweetheart,” he breathed, curling his fingers harder, faster, “I promise.”
Your orgasm hit like an explosion. Shattering, violent, thighs locking around him as you pulsed and clenched, slick coating his wrist, dripping down to stain the silk bunched at your hips. You cried out his name unabashed and he swallowed the sound with a bruising kiss, drinking every tremor, every broken whimper.
The tremors still rippled through your thighs in aftershocks that made your knees threaten to buckle when Theo flipped you with brutal economy.
One hand fisted the silk bunched at your waist, the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, and he spun you so your front slammed back against the door. The wood was cool and unyielding against your overheated skin; your cheek pressed flat to it, breasts crushed to the panels, nipples scraping painfully sensitive through the thin fabric with every heaving breath. The latch rattled faintly from the force.
He wished, fiercely and uncharacteristically irrationally, that he’d dragged you all the way down twisting corridors to the Slytherin dungeons. To his own four-poster, heavy drapes drawn, sheets already carrying his scent. Somewhere he could chain this moment, repeat it until sunrise, mark you so thoroughly that even if this was the only night he ever got inside you, you’d wake up tomorrow feeling him in every bruised inch of your body. Just in case you never let him again.
But patience had died somewhere between the wall downstairs and the first landing. This anonymous room above Ravenclaw Tower with it's bare stone, single narrow window letting in pale moonlight and faint smell of dust and old books, would have to be enough. The door would have to be enough.
Your back arched immediately, involuntarily, spine curving like it had been trained to seek him out. Your cunt throbbed in vicious, oversensitive pulses, still swollen, still leaking from your release. Every tiny shift of your hips made the ruined silk drag across your folds, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly he’d already wrecked you.
Theo stepped in close. His bare chest pressed to your back, skin fever-hot, heart slamming against your shoulder blades. One long arm snaked around your front; calloused fingers wrapped around the slim column of your throat, not squeezing just yet. Possessive. Just like all the times he'd thought of this in his head, he almost moaned at just the idea he was choking slytherin's only good girl. His thumb stroked once along the frantic flutter of your pulse while his other hand shoved between your bodies, guiding himself.
He kicked his trousers and boxers aside in one impatient motion. The heavy length of him sprang free thick, flushed dark, veins standing out under pale skin, the blunt head already glistening with pre-cum. It slapped wetly against the curve of your ass before he angled it down.
No warning.
The fat head shoved against your soaked entrance, parting slick folds with inexorable pressure. Your whole body locked up. Muscles seizing, breath snagging sharp in your chest as the sheer size registered all over again. He was impossibly thick, stretching you open inch by burning inch even before he’d pushed inside properly. The stretch was obscene: a deep, aching burn that bordered on too much, the kind that made your eyes water and your thighs tremble harder.
There was no possible way you could take all of him.
No fucking way.
And there was absolutely zero chance in hell you’d ever admit it out loud.
Theo felt it instantly—the sudden, involuntary clench of your walls, the way your whole body locked up the second he tried to push an inch deeper.
He really should have known.
Some smug, rational corner of his mind had always known.
He was big. Thick. Unapologetically so. He’d never had to wonder whether a girl could take him; most of them either begged for it or tapped out early with wide eyes and shaky apologies. But you? Your perfect, dripping cunt had never been properly stretched, never been forced to make room for someone like him. Of course it hadn’t. Look at the boys you let touch you. Look at the soft-handed loser you danced with downstairs, the ones who probably came in their trousers before they even got your dress off. They’d never come close to filling you the way he was about to.
Your body knew it too, even if your mouth would never admit it.
The tension snapped through you like a taut wire, your spine stiffening against his chest, thighs quivering, breath catching in sharp, shallow hitches. Your walls fluttered wildly around the blunt head of him, clenching in reflexive panic, trying to push him out even as your traitorous body betrayed you in the most humiliating way possible. Another hot, slippery rush of slick coating his cock, dripping down the seam of your folds and onto the floorboards beneath you.
He could feel every pulse of resistance, every helpless spasm as your cunt fought to accommodate him.
And fuck if that didn’t make him harder.
Theo’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding for a second as he forced himself to hold still barely an inch deeper than before, letting you feel the impossible stretch, letting you feel exactly how much of him was still waiting. His hand on your throat flexed once, thumb stroking the frantic flutter of your pulse like he was soothing a wild animal.
His grip on your throat tightened just enough. Not cruel, but deliberate. Commanding. The pressure curled your spine further back against his chest, forcing your head to tip, neck arching in a long, vulnerable line so you had no choice but to look at him over your shoulder.
Storm-grey eyes met yours and held. Dark. Molten. Pupils blown so wide the silver was nothing but thin, razor-sharp rings around endless black. He looked wrecked already. Sweat beading at his temples, dark curls clinging damply to his forehead, lips parted on shallow, ragged breaths, and still somehow in complete control. Like he could unravel you with nothing more than that stare.
“Relax,” he rasped, voice pure gravel and smoke, fraying at the edges with the effort it took not to just snap his hips forward and bury himself to the hilt. His lips brushed the shell of your ear soft, almost tender, before his teeth grazed the sensitive skin there. A slow, deliberate scrape that sent fresh heat flooding between your thighs.
“Finally figured out how to get you to shut the fuck up.” The words were low, mocking, laced with dark satisfaction. He rocked forward another torturously shallow inch, barely anything, but enough to make your walls flutter and burn, enough to drag a choked whimper from your throat that you couldn’t swallow back.
“You took my fingers, baby,” he murmured, lips curving against your ear in something too feral to be called a smile. “Two of them. Deep. Stretching you open while you soaked my hand and begged with those pretty little gasps. You can take my cock.”
Another slow, relentless push. The thick ridge of him dragged against every swollen, oversensitive inch inside you. Your cunt spasmed, clenching hard in reflexive protest even as more slick leaked out around him, dripping obscenely down the seam of your folds, coating his balls, trickling warm and sticky onto the floorboards beneath you both.
Theo groaned low, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back where he pressed against you. His free hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough with something dangerously close to awe. “Trying so fucking hard to keep that smart mouth closed now. But your pussy’s telling the truth, isn’t it? Clenching around me like it’s scared I’ll pull out. Dripping like you’ve been waiting as long as I have for this.”
The stretch was vicious. A deep, searing burn that radiated outward from where he was splitting you open, every ridge and vein dragging against your swollen, oversensitive walls like he was carving his claim into you one brutal centimeter at a time. Tears pooled hot and immediate in the corners of your eyes, not from pain alone but from the overwhelming collision of too much and not enough. Your body screaming it couldn’t possibly take more while your cunt clenched greedily around him, betraying every hateful word you’d ever spat in his direction.
He still held your head angled back by the throat, fingers firm around your pulse, forcing you to keep looking at him over your shoulder. No escape. No hiding the way your lips trembled, the way your pupils were blown wide with a mix of fury and want, the way tears clung to your lashes before one finally slipped free and tracked down your cheek.
Your thighs shook violently, muscles quivering so hard they threatened to give out. Your nails scraped uselessly at the wood above your head, leaving faint, desperate gouges in the ancient oak as if you could claw your way out of this moment, out of him. A broken sound tore from your throat before you could clamp your teeth down on it. The satisfied look on his face was enough to piss you off.
“Fuck. You.”
The words came out wrecked, breathy, more plea than insult. Your voice cracked on the last syllable, raw from screaming his name earlier, from biting back every whimper he’d already dragged out of you tonight.
Theo’s thumb stroked once along the frantic hammer of your pulse, the barest whisper of tenderness in the middle of all this violence. His lips curved against the shell of your ear, dark and dangerous.
“Oh trust me,” he rasped, voice low and frayed, thick with the same barely-leashed rage that had simmered between you for years. “I plan to, all night long.”
He punctuated the words with another slow, punishing roll of his hips and burying that last thick inch until he was seated so deep you felt him in your fucking throat. The blunt head kissed your cervix with brutal precision; your whole body locked up in a full shudder, walls spasming wildly around the impossible girth of him. Slick gushed out around where you were joined. Hot, obscene, dripping steadily down your thighs, coating his balls, pooling on the floorboards beneath you both with soft, wet patters that echoed in the quiet room.
You hate him.
Hate how perfectly he fills you.
Hate how your body arches back into him like it had been waiting for this exact moment for years.
Hate the way fresh tears slip free even as your hips tilted higher, silently begging for more.
Theo felt every tremor, every flutter, every helpless clench. His free hand slid from your hip to palm the curve of your ass. Fingers digging in hard enough to leave crescent bruises before he cracked his palm down once, sharp and stinging. The slap rang out; your cunt clamped down so hard around him he groaned low in his throat, hips stuttering for the first time.
“Still hate me?” he growled, lips brushing the tear track on your cheek, tasting salt. “Still want to pretend this isn’t exactly what you’ve been dripping for every time you glared at me across the common room? Every time you shoved past me in the corridor and your breath hitched?”
Another thrust harder this time. The door rattled violently behind you. Your breasts dragged against the wood through the silk, nipples scraping painfully into sensitive peaks that sent sparks straight to your core.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice fraying into something darker, more desperate. “Tell me to fuck off while your pussy milks me like it’s terrified I’ll stop. Tell me you hate me while you’re crying on my cock.”
Every thrust he gave you made your stomach warm, low molten heat spreading outward like liquid fire, coiling tighter with each brutal snap of his hips. The door at your back rattled in time with the rhythm he set: deep, punishing, unhurried enough to make you feel every single inch dragging out before slamming back in. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, still hypersensitive from the last orgasm he’d ripped out of you, every ridge and vein stroking places you didn’t even know could ache like this.
His hand on your throat flexed, squeezing just enough to make stars flicker at the edges of your vision while his other palm slid down to grip the front of your hip, holding you hard against him. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed obscenely in the small room, mingling with the slick sounds of your arousal coating him, dripping down your thighs in steady, shameful rivulets.
“You can spit venom at me tomorrow,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges with his own building need. “You can glare across the common room and pretend this never happened. But we both know the truth.”
He pulled back almost all the way leaving you empty, aching, walls fluttering around nothing, then slammed home again, burying himself so deep your toes curled against the floorboards.
“You’ll always want more after tonight.”
The words land like a hex so quiet, certain, devastating. Because he was right. You hated that he was right. Hated how your body arched back into him, hips tilting higher despite yourself, chasing the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness only he's ever given you. Hated how fresh tears slipped down your cheeks even as your cunt spasmed around him again, milking him like it never wanted to let him go.
Theo’s forehead dropped to the curve of your shoulder for a heartbeat, breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“Fuck—Theo—”
“Look at me,” he growled, fingers flexing tighter around your throat enough pressure to make your head spin sweetly, enough to remind you who owned this moment. “Watch my face while I fill this greedy little cunt.”
You obeyed with glassy eyes, lips parted on shallow pants, staring back at him as he sank impossibly deeper.
“So fucking tight,” Theo growled against the shell of your ear, voice raw and frayed, each word punched out in time with the brutal snap of his hips. “You can hate me forever. But I’m the only one who gets to fuck this pussy.”
Your head was spinning with pleasure crashing into the sweet, dizzy pressure around your throat, blurring the line between oxygen deprivation and the white-hot ecstasy building low in your belly. His fingers flexed once, loosening just a fraction, just enough for you to drag in a ragged, desperate breath—before he slammed back into you, hard and deep, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls like a curse being cast over and over.
“Fucking say it,” he snarled, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. His hand on your throat tightened again, rhythmic, possessive, making stars burst behind your closed lids. “Say who this cunt belongs to now.”
Your voice came out wrecked, high and broken, trembling on the edge of another shattering orgasm.
“You, Theo, please.”
The words slipped out soft, broken, desperate and the second they hit the air, something in Theo snapped.
There was a time, not long ago, when he was certain hell would freeze over before you ever begged him for anything. Before you’d ever let that pretty mouth form his name like a plea instead of a curse. He’d spent years imagining it in the dark corners of his mind. Your voice cracking, your pride crumbling, you finally admitting what he already knew: that beneath all the venom and glares, you wanted him just as badly as he wanted to ruin you.
And now here you were.
Begging.
For him.
Gods, he had a sickening feeling he'd do whatever you asked if you just tacked the word please on the end.
His pace turned feral.
He slammed into you faster, each thrust a punishing claim that rattled the door on its hinges and knocked the breath from your lungs in sharp, staccato gasps. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin filled the room, louder than the distant party thump, louder than your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. His cock drove deep, relentless, the thick head kissing your cervix with every brutal snap of his hips until stars burst behind your closed lids.
Your eyes rolled back, whites flashing, head thunking against the wood as pleasure overloaded every nerve. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but feel him: the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness that made your toes curl against the floorboards and your thighs quake uncontrollably.
“Again,” he growled, voice wrecked and commanding, lips pressed to the sweat-slick curve of your neck. His hand on your throat sliding up to fist your hair instead, yanking your head back so he could see your face. “Say it again. Beg me like you fucking mean it.”
“T-Theo—ah!—fuck—please!”
His name fell from your lips like a chant, broken and breathless, each syllable punched out by the next punishing thrust. Tears streamed freely now with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, dripping down your cheeks to mix with the sweat and the faint smear of mascara.
“That’s it,” he rasped, teeth grazing your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave another blooming mark. “My name. Only my fucking name. No one else gets to hear you like this. No one else gets to feel this perfect little pussy.”
He angled his hips, shifting just enough, and the ridge of him dragged over a swollen, sensitive spot inside you with devastating accuracy. Once. Twice. Relentless.
“Come,” he ordered, voice fraying. “Come on my cock right here, milk me while you scream my name into this fucking door.”
Your whole body seized.
The orgasm built so fast it stole your breath, coiling vicious and tight before exploding outward in a blinding rush. You screamed his name raw, echoing, shattering off stone walls, cunt clamping down so hard around him his rhythm stuttered, hips slamming forward one last time as he groaned low and guttural against your ear.
"Theo- I can't take-"
“You can take it, baby,” he snarled against your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin just below your ear. “Let the whole tower hear how good you cum when I fuck you stupid against a door. You'll take every fucking drop, gonna fill you up just to watch it drip down these pretty legs while you try to walk back like nothing happened.”
His orgasm stole his breath only seconds later. Hips slamming deep, burying himself to the root as he came with a broken groan. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, spilling out around his cock, dripping down your thighs to join the mess already on the floor.
Theo’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing the bite mark he’d left there, soft now, almost reverent.
“Say it one more time,” he murmured, voice hoarse, stripped raw. “Just once more.”
You swallowed, throat dry, voice wrecked, but the words came anyway, quiet and honest in the aftermath.
“Theo… please.”
His low, breathless laugh vibrated against your skin. “Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the nape of your neck. “That’s my girl.”
He didn’t pull out yet.
He stayed buried deep. Still half-hard inside you, arms banding around your waist to keep you upright as your legs threatened to give out completely.
“We’re not leaving this room until I hear it a hundred more times,” he promised, lips curving against your ear. “And maybe not even then.”
The door stayed locked.
Your dress stayed on ruined, clinging, soaked.
And the line between hate and something far more dangerous had finally, irrevocably blurred.
Mattheo Riddle could have anyone. Literally anyone.
Girls practically throw themselves at his feet in the corridors with whispering giggles, batting lashes, slipping notes into his robe pockets like they’re being coy. He shuts them down with the same bored flick of his wrist every time. Low, clipped “Not interested” or the sharper “Spoken for” that makes them scatter like startled pixies. He’s attractive in that dangerous, unfair way. Sharp jaw, dark curls that fall just right, eyes that promise trouble and deliver it, and he’s cocky enough to know it. Mean enough to enjoy watching them squirm.
Yet somehow, against every law of logic and self-preservation, he chose you.
And Merlin’s sodding beard, you are infuriating.
Case in point: right now.
He’s trying—actually trying—to do something uncharacteristically romantic. A little midnight detour through the damp, torch-lit underground tunnels beneath the castle, leading to that forgotten alcove with the glowing moonlit vines he discovered last term. He even pocketed a small velvet box earlier and he's paying for even mentioning a surprise. The plan was simple: quiet walk, your hand in his, maybe a smirk and a murmured “shut up for once, yeah?” before he pulls you close against the stone wall and kisses you stupid.
With a low, long-suffering groan that echoes off the damp stone walls, Mattheo throws his head back and stops dead in his tracks. The sudden halt sends you careening straight into his broad back like a poorly aimed Bludger—oof—your face planting right between his shoulder blades with all the grace of a startled Pygmy Puff.
You don't even pause for breath.
“—and then Lavender was like, ‘Oh my Merlin, his hair is so shiny,’ and I was like, ‘Girl, it’s literally just Sleekeazy’s, calm down,’ but honestly if I had hair that behaved I’d be insufferable too—wait, are we lost? This tunnel looks exactly like the last one. Did you Apparate us in circles just to mess with me? Because if so, rude, but also kind of—”
Mattheo spins on his heel so fast his dark curls whip across his forehead. He pins you with the stare—the one that could make sixth-years wet themselves and seventh-years reconsider their life choices. Torchlight flickered across his sharp features, carving shadows under those dangerously hooded eyes, making him look every inch the brooding heir people whispered about in the common room.
You just beam up at him. Full wattage. Eyes sparkling like you’d personally invented joy and decided to share it exclusively with him. Completely oblivious, or pretending to be, that you’d been monologuing nonstop since he dragged you out of the dormitory twenty minutes ago.
“Princess,” he says, voice low and gravelly, the word dripping with equal parts exasperation and something dangerously close to fondness. “Please. This is supposed to be relaxing. Nice. Quiet. Romantic, even—if you can manage five bloody seconds without turning my skull into a beehive.”
Your bottom lip wobbles immediately. Just a fraction. Eyes going suspiciously glassy in the dim light.
Mattheo’s jaw clenches so hard you can practically hear the teeth grind.
This. This was exactly what he means.
Annoying as hell.
One second you’re chattering like a caffeinated house-elf, the next you’re pulling the wounded-puppy eyes that make something in his chest twist painfully. He hates it. Hates how it works every single time.
He drags both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots like maybe pain will restore his sanity. “Merlin’s saggy left—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Don’t. Do not start crying. I swear to Salazar, if you cry right now because I told you to shut up for once—”
Your eyes well up faster. One fat tear slinging to your lower lashes like it's auditioning for a tragic romance novel.
He stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the tear, like maybe glaring will make it evaporate.
You sniffles. Tiny. Pathetic. Devastating.
“Fuck,” he muttersunder his breath. In one fluid motion he closes the distance, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other thumbs away the traitor tear before it can fall. His touch was rough-edged but careful—always careful with you, even when he pretended otherwise.
“Why are you being mean to me?” Your voice comes out smaller than usual, barely above a whisper. All the bubbly chatter stripped away until it’s just this fragile little thing. “I’m just excited to spend time with you.”
Mattheo’s chest physically aches at the sound of it. His loud, unstoppable, never-shuts-up girl reduced to a quiet mumble. Your wide eyes lift to his all trusting and glassy, still somehow hopeful even after he’s just spent the last five minutes trying (and failing) to shush you. Like you genuinely believe he might say something that finally snaps the thread and makes you stop talking forever.
He hates that look. Hates that he put it there.
“Baby—” The word slips out softer than he means it to, rough edges sanded down by guilt. He exhales hard through his nose, then reaches for you before he can overthink it. One hand cups the back of your head, guiding you gently forward until your cheek presses against the warm crook of his neck. Your hair smells like vanilla and whatever stupid floral shampoo you insist on using, and it hits him like a hex straight to the sternum.
“I know,” he murmurs into the top of your head, voice low, almost wrecked. “I know. You’re right.”
Your arms come around his waist automatically, clinging like you’re afraid he’ll push you away again. He feels the tiny shudder in your shoulders, the one you always get right before you start apologizing for existing too loudly, and it makes something ugly twist behind his ribs.
He pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes again. Those stupid, trusting eyes that look at him like he’s the sun instead of the walking disaster everyone else sees.
“I just—” He drags his thumb along your jaw, slow, deliberate. “I want to get us to where we’re going without tripping over a root because I’m too busy listening to you explain why Luna Lovegood’s conspiracy theories are actually canon. I can’t focus when you’re being… you.”
Your lip wobbles again, but you try to hide it with a tiny, watery smile. “I can be quiet. Promise. I’ll zip it. No more talking. Silent as a grave. You’ll forget I’m even here—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than he intends. He softens it immediately, cupping your face in both hands now, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he’s trying to erase the dampness there. “No. Never be quiet.”
You blink up at him, confused.
He lets out a short, helpless laugh and rests his forehead against yours again.
“Merlin, you’re killing me here.” His voice drops, rough and honest in a way he usually only lets out when it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world is asleep. “You’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met. You talk too much, you walk into walls when you’re excited, you narrate your entire life like it’s a bloody radio play, and half the time I don’t even know what you’re on about.”
Your brows pinch together, waiting for the but.
“But,” he says, quieter now, almost reverent, “you’re my favorite person on the entire fucking planet.” The tunnel goes so still you can hear the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the stone.
He brushes his nose against yours once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
“So don’t you dare go quiet on me,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours without quite kissing you yet. “Not even for a second. I need the noise. I need you being loud and ridiculous and impossible to ignore. It’s the only thing that keeps the rest of the world from feeling like static.”
A fresh tear slips free anyway. He catches it with his mouth this time—soft, barely there, tasting salt and you.
Then he pulls back just enough to smirk, that familiar wicked edge creeping back in because if he doesn’t tease you soon he’s going to do something embarrassingly soft like drop to his knees and beg.
“Besides,” he adds, voice dipping into that low, suggestive drawl he knows drives you mental, “if you’re quiet, how am I supposed to hear all the filthy little things you say when I finally get you alone in that alcove? Can’t have that, can we, princess?”
Your mouth parts on a tiny, shocked laugh and just like that, the spark flickers back into your eyes.
“There she is,” he mutters, satisfied, pressing one last slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty little menace.”
He laces your fingers together again, tighter this time, and starts walking once more, slower now, like he’s in no real hurry.
“Keep talking,” he says over his shoulder, smirk audible even in the dark. “Tell me why Nargles are definitely real and why I should care. Loud as you want. I’m listening.”
You hesitate for half a heartbeat.
Then you squeeze his hand, take a shaky breath, and launch right back into it. Your voice still a little wobbly, but gaining strength with every word.
“—okay so first of all, the mistletoe thing is NOT just decorative, it’s literally a Nargle repellent, and if you think about it—”
Mattheo rolls his eyes so hard the torchlight flashes across them. But his thumb keeps stroking over your knuckles in slow, steady circles.
humans are so lucky and privileged to be able to have creativity and create art. a shame more and more people are choosing to let ai/robot rob them the joy of creating
Hi gorgeous! I love your new theme and all your writing!! ♡
I came to ask for something from Regulus, he being very protective, IMAGINE in the time of the Death Eaters and someone insults reader for being half-blood 🫣
And he's so scary when he's angry, how I love him <333
Blood On Silk
regulus black x fem!reader
synopsis: you attend a ball hosted by the House of Black, an unwelcome presence marked by your bloodline. when an act of cruelty leaves you injured, in response, regulus rises fiercely to defend what he loves.
warnings: violence, physical assault, humiliation, family conflict, psychological trauma, halfblood!reader, manipulation, power imbalances, prejudice based on blood status, making out, suggestive comments, slight mentions of sex, social exclusion, vivid depictions of blood and injury, happy ending. i listened to the rains of castamere while writing this? tw: this was written in an airport lounge…not proofread!!!
w/c: 4.3k masterlist
You are standing in front of the tall mirror, the pale silk of your dress catching the candlelight in a way that makes it look like you’re wearing moonlight.
The fabric falls soft against your skin, elegant and seductive all at once, the kind of dress that feels like it doesn’t belong on someone like you.
Regulus would disagree.
He approaches without a sound, all warmth and certainty cloaked in silence. You see his reflection before you feel him—the flicker of his dark eyes, the slow lift of his hands.
From a velvet box, he retrieves a necklace: silver, fine as a thread, strung with a single obsidian star.
The charm glimmers with something ancient, a pulse of enchantment just beyond recognition. You don’t recognize the symbol at first, not until the pendant brushes your collarbone and you feel the enchantment hum gently against your skin.
The chill of the metal is brief, and then there is the heat of his fingers, brushing the back of your neck. He lingers there and when he leans in he presses his lips to your skin, right where your pulse flutters.
“I still can’t believe you’re making me wear this,” you whisper, trying to steady your breath and failing.
Your voice trembles at the edges, not because of fear, not entirely, but because you know where you’re going.
Because you know who will be there.
“Your mother is going to behead me with her eyes. And your cousins, I don’t think they even bother hiding their hatred anymore. Not that they ever did. I mean, do you remember last time? Narcissa told me I looked like a swan drowning. I don’t even know what that means.”
Regulus doesn’t interrupt, he never does.
“I just don’t want to embarrass you,” you admit softly, your hands wringing themselves in your lap now, fingers tangled in nervous threads. “They’re going to look at me and see someone who doesn’t belong, someone who shouldn’t be there, someone who—”
“You belong to me.”
You freeze. His hands are still resting on your shoulders, thumbs tracing tiny circles that you didn’t even realize had soothed you into silence. You look up at him in the mirror, and his gaze is already waiting.
“They can say whatever they want, amour,” he murmurs, eyes dark and steady, “and they will. They always do, but I stopped caring about their opinions the moment I realized they couldn’t love anything without destroying it.”
Your heart folds at the edges, soft and aching. He has always been like this—quiet, composed, never loud with his affections, but devastating with them all the same.
He doesn’t promise things with grand declarations or raise his voice to drown out the noise. He simply stands with you, day after day, word after word, until his loyalty becomes the one thing you don’t question.
He leans forward again, arms wrapping around your waist now, and rests his chin lightly against your shoulder.
“You walk into that ballroom,” he says, barely more than a whisper against your skin, “and you hold your head higher than any of them. Not because of them, because of you, because you are more than they will ever understand.”
“I still think I’m going to throw up,” you murmur, half-laughing.
“You won’t,” he says, kissing your jaw. “But if you do, you’ll do it gracefully. And I’ll hex anyone who dares to comment.”
That makes you laugh, properly this time, and he smiles against your skin.
You glance sideways at him, take in the sharp lines of his profile, the way his hair falls loose at his collar, the curve of his mouth set somewhere between solemnity and affection.
“I know I’m overthinking it,” you murmur, the silence too loud around your thoughts.
“But sometimes I feel like walking into these places is like being willingly set on fire, just to see how long I can smile through it.”
He looks at you then—fully—and stops walking. “Don’t do that,” he says gently, tugging your hand until you turn toward him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“So am I,” he says, and then, without giving you time to step back or brace for it, he spins you softly in place, pulling you into him so that the fullness of your dress sways around your ankles.
You land against his chest, your breath catching in your throat as his arm slides around your waist. The other lifts to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek, his gaze fixed on you like you are the only thing he’s ever seen that made him question the world he was raised in.
“Do you know what I see?” he whispers, voice dipping lower with each word.
“I see grace in motion, I see strength wrapped in beauty, I see someone who stands in rooms full of cruelty and still holds onto softness, and I see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever touched and I still can’t believe she lets me touch her at all.”
Your breath stumbles out of you in a small, startled laugh, but he’s already leaning in, lips grazing your neck where your pulse beats so clearly beneath your skin.
The kiss is feather-light, almost reverent, and then another follows, just below your ear, then lower still, and your hands curl in the lapels of his suit to steady yourself as your knees begin to forget how to hold you up.
“Regulus—” you breathe, but it comes out as more of a sigh.
“You wear white like it was spun for you,” he murmurs into your skin.
“You speak and my world quiets. You worry and I want to carry every weight until you forget how to frown. You reach for me and I forget everything I was ever taught to want, because none of it ever came close to you.”
Your fingers climb to his shoulders, clutching tighter now, your body drawn to his like a tide pulled toward gravity. The silk of your dress rustles as you shift against him, and the scent of him makes your head spin.
You tilt your face, brush your lips against his jaw, a silent invitation that speaks louder than anything you've said aloud.
He chuckles softly, not unkind, but with that aching kind of fondness that wraps around you like warmth in winter.
“No, amour,” he murmurs, voice threaded with restraint that costs him something. He presses one last kiss to your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before pulling back just enough to look at you. “We have to go.”
Your groan is dramatic and half-playful, your fingers still tangled in the folds of his robes. “You’re cruel.”
He smiles. It’s crooked this time, boyish in the way it rarely is, and entirely undone by you. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all,” he admits, brushing your hair back from your cheek with gentleness.
“And if I give in, we’ll be late, and I won’t be able to stop. And tonight, of all nights, I need them to see you. I need them to see what I chose instead of them.”
Your throat tightens.
Regulus leans in again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear now, velvet and promise and flame. “But when we’re back—” his voice dips, warm and low, “—I’m going to spend the entire night showing you how much I love you. Every minute of it, slowly.”
You shiver. Your heartbeat is a hymn in your chest.
“And if you still think you don’t belong,” he adds, kissing your temple, “I’ll remind you again, and again, until you forget they ever made you doubt.”
You close your eyes and breathe him in. And for the first time since the invitation arrived, you begin to believe you might survive this night—because you are not walking into it alone.
The air outside the dressing room clings with a kind of hush, broken only by the gentle click of your heels and the rustle of silk with every step.
Regulus walks beside you, silent as always, but present in a way that steadies the tremor in your chest. His hand rests over yours, fingers tangled just tightly enough to keep you tethered.\
The carriage waits outside, polished black and moonlit, drawn by a pair of thestrals that flick their heads but make no sound. He helps you in with the ease of habit, and when you settle into the dark leather seats, you realize he hasn’t let go of your hand.
You ride in near silence, the quiet between you made of shared thought rather than absence. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as though he’s memorizing you again, dress and necklace and all, but says nothing.
You glance out the window as the manor comes into view—Grimmauld Place transformed. The windows shimmer with charmed frost, and light pours from within like liquid gold.
A quartet plays softly somewhere inside, and you can already see the silhouettes of guests drifting past tall arched windows. You swallow.
“I still think your mother is going to hex me on sight,” you murmur.
“She won’t,” Regulus replies, calm and certain.
“No offense, but I don’t think certainty applies to Walburga Black.”
He smiles faintly. “If she does, she’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”
You glance at him—at the quiet promise in his voice, the way it’s laced not with arrogance, but loyalty. He isn’t loud in his defiance. He never has been.
When you enter the ballroom, it feels like walking into a relic—heavy with history, thick with enchantments that tangle around your ankles like smoke.
The chandeliers float above like frozen constellations, dripping crystal and silver, casting fractured light across the black marble floors.
The entire space glows in cold elegance: long tables draped in obsidian silk, wine dark as garnet glinting in goblets, every movement reflected in the polished floor beneath your feet.
Regulus doesn’t loosen his grip on you.
You feel the eyes before you see them.
“She looks odd,” someone murmurs behind a fan.
“Is that silk? Bold choice,” says another, sharper voice.
“Didn’t know half-bloods came in white,” someone else laughs, too quiet for most ears.
Regulus hears. Of course he does. His jaw tightens, but he keeps walking, his hand warm and steady against your spine. You press a little closer to him.
“Don’t give them the reaction they want,” he murmurs without looking down. “They’re only brave in groups.”
You exhale slowly, nodding.
He leads you into the middle of the floor, and everything else fades into hush. The world narrows to the soft glide of his steps, the rhythm of the dance between you, the heat of his palm against yours.
“You’re holding your breath,” he says softly.
“I’m trying not to look like I want to flee.”
He turns you in one fluid motion, your skirts sweeping the floor like mist. “You don’t look like that,” he says. “You look like you know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’re very convincing.”
You smile despite yourself. “You’re surprisingly charming tonight.”
“I’m always charming,” he replies, with the barest edge of amusement.
You laugh, and the weight in your chest lightens.
Later, you slip away for a moment of air, ducking near the arched corridor that leads to the gallery.
That’s where you find Andromeda, standing with a glass of wine, her posture regal without effort. Her dress is pale silver, understated but elegant, her hair pinned into a low twist that speaks of old money and quiet rebellion.
She turns when she sees you.
“My, you clean up well,” she says, voice smooth and laced with fondness. “Though I must admit, I was beginning to wonder if you’d survived the entrance.”
“Barely,” you murmur. “I think someone tried to curse my hem with a trip-jinx disguised as a compliment.”
“Ah,” she says lightly, sipping her wine. “Welcome to the House of Black.”
You laugh.
Andromeda tilts her head slightly, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “You look lovely,” she adds, more sincerely. “That colour suits you.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”
“No,” she says. “It’s exactly enough.”
You glance away. “I feel like I’m trying not to unravel.”
“Then you’re doing a fine job of it. I learned long ago that here, grace is a kind of armor. Wear it until they tire of throwing stones.”
You nod. “How did you survive this world?”
“I didn’t,” she says simply. “I left it. But Regulus—” her voice softens slightly, “—he’s not like the rest of them. He’s quieter about it, but the break is there. You’ve helped him make it real.”
You’re not sure what to say to that. So you say nothing, but your heart feels steadier.
Before long, Regulus finds you again. You don’t see him approach, but you feel him—his presence brushing close. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing effortlessly.
“Stealing you for a moment,” he says, glancing at Andromeda.
She nods. “Only a moment. I’ll keep your absence noticed.”
He leads you down a side corridor, then through another, past heavy curtains and walls lined with bookshelves. You don’t speak until the noise of the ballroom has faded to a distant hum.
“Where are we going?” you whisper.
“Here,” he says simply.
It’s a small study—dark and quiet, firelit. The door closes behind you with a soft click.
Before you can ask, he’s already pulling you to him, hands at your waist, mouth finding yours with the same quiet hunger he’s been holding in all night.
You melt into him, your fingers sliding up into his hair, your body arching with practiced ease into his hold. The kiss deepens, slow and warm, and you moan into it, the tension slipping from your shoulders like silk sliding from skin.
His hands travel gently, possessively, over the curves of your back, his lips brushing your jaw, your throat, the dip beneath your ear.
“You’re driving me mad,” he murmurs, barely a breath. “Do you know that?”
You smile against his mouth. “I was starting to suspect.”
He laughs, a soft, breathy sound against your skin. “You look so beautiful, amour, Tu es la plus jolie fille que j'ai jamais vue, mon amour.”
“You keep talking like that and I’ll never make it through the rest of the evening.”
He leans back just enough to meet your eyes, still breathless. “Then we’d better go back now,” he says, though he makes no move to release you.
You blink at him. “You’re stopping this?”
He smiles, warm and wicked. “We have hours yet,and I plan to spend all of them after this reminding you why I’m worth enduring these evenings for.”
You breathe out a slow, dazed laugh.
“Now come,” he adds, brushing a final kiss across your cheek. “They’ll miss us, and you still haven’t danced with me twice.”
You straighten the bodice of your dress, fingers brushing over the silk as if smoothing fabric could ease the tremble beginning in your ribs.
The heat of Regulus’s kisses still lingers against your throat, and though your mouth tastes like wine and him, there’s something else now pressing in at the edges—responsibility, decorum, the weight of being seen.
“I think I’ll stay here for a minute,” you murmur, adjusting your neckline with a soft sigh. “Freshen up. Fix this hem before it unravels completely.”
Regulus’s brows draw together. “You sure?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something firm beneath it, like the idea of leaving you alone, even in his own home, puts him on edge.
You smile up at him, brushing your fingers over his chest as if to reassure him. “Yes. I’ll only be a moment. And besides—Andromeda’s probably still near the gallery. I’ll find her.”
He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes flick over your face, searching for something you’re not sure he names. Then murmurs, “I don’t like the idea of you wandering this house alone.”
“I’m not a child,” you reply, gently but amused. “And you promised your mother you’d speak to the guests from St. Petersburg. You’ve spent nearly the whole night glued to my side.”
His mouth twitches, but not in disagreement.
“I won’t be long,” you add, smoothing the lapel of his robe. “You’ll find me before the next dance?”
“Always,” he says.
He kisses your cheek before he leaves, his hand lingering just a second too long on your waist. And then he's gone—swallowed into the golden thrum of the evening, back into the tangle of names and obligations that the House of Black never stops demanding from its heirs.
You stand still for a moment in the quiet room, letting your breath settle.
The mirror is old, etched with ivy vines in its silver frame. You lean toward it, dabbing at the corner of your lip with a lace handkerchief, checking that your necklace hasn’t shifted, that the pale silk still sits smooth against your skin.
You murmur a quick cooling charm, press a softening spell to your lips, and slip out the side door—intent on finding Andromeda.
But the house is a maze. Somewhere between the east corridor and the gallery, you miss a turn. The halls here twist in silent curves, lined with portraits whose eyes follow you like questions, and the flickering sconces seem too dim, too far apart.
Your heels click softly against the floor, and the further you walk, the more you start to feel the chill seeping back in. .
Eventually, you spot the entrance to the ballroom again—the carved double doors wide open, music swelling gently beyond. You exhale in relief and head toward the sound, hoping to find Andromeda or Regulus again before anyone notices your brief absence.
You step just inside, and the shift is immediate.
They’re gathered near the wine table—half a dozen purebloods, all in deep jewel-toned robes, laughing softly over the rims of their glasses.
You recognize some of them. Mulciber, Selwyn, Avery, and Rosier, with his ever-present smirk. A few you don’t know by name, but you’ve seen them enough to recognize the tilt of their mouths when they look at you.
Their eyes find you the moment you enter.
The laughter dies down, not all the way, but just enough to sharpen.
You turn, slow and poised, planning to walk calmly back the way you came and find Regulus or Andromeda.
But you only take two steps before three of them peel away from the others, stepping into your path like they were waiting for this exact moment.
The room does not stop, the music doesn’t falter, the wine still pours. But for you, the air sharpens.
The one who approaches first is tall, pale, with an expression carved from disdain. His robes are midnight blue, his ring heavy with a Black family crest, though you don’t think he belongs directly to it.
“Well, well,” he says, sipping from his glass and letting his eyes drag slowly down your form. “I thought the help wasn’t allowed to mingle with the guests.”
Your fingers tighten around your clutch. You take a small step to the side.
He mirrors it.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, head tilting. “Lost your pureblood escort?”
Behind him, another smirks. “Careful,” he drawls. “They say she's clever. You might get hexed.”
“Not by her,” the first replies. “She wouldn't dare.”
You draw a breath and lift your chin, spine lengthening with practiced grace. “Excuse me,” you say, voice cool but steady. “I was just leaving.”
But he steps closer.
And the exit feels farther than it did a moment ago.
It happens too fast to stop but slow enough that you remember every detail.
The man with the wine doesn’t speak. He simply steps closer with a kind of ease that drips arrogance, his expression coiled into something that resembles amusement but hums with quiet malice.
The crystal goblet in his hand tilts ever so slightly. For a heartbeat, you think—perhaps hope—it’s an accident.
But it isn’t.
The red spills like venom across your bodice.
It pours over the neckline of your white silk gown, blooming across the fabric in heavy, blood-colored streaks. It splashes onto your stomach, your waist, your arms. The silk darkens instantly, clinging to your skin, seeping into the stitching, crawling over the satin like rot.
You gasp, staggering back a step, hand flying to your chest, trying uselessly to stop the stain from spreading.
The man smiles as he lowers the now-empty glass.2
“Well look at that! It seems blood always stains,” he says loudly, clearly, deliberately.
It lands with the weight of a curse.
The surrounding crowd is silent for a moment, and then soft laughter rises like smoke, too smooth, too rehearsed, too cruel to be anything but intentional. No one steps forward. No one scolds. No one so much as flinches.
You’re frozen in place. The wine is cold, as it seeps through the fine fabric and chills your skin beneath. But it’s not the temperature that has your chest tightening—it’s the way they’re watching. Like your pain was planned, like this was a performance and they’ve all just taken their seats.
You turn to leave. Your steps are stiff, your throat burning. You want to find Regulus. You want to find Andromeda. You want to wake up from this, tear the ruined dress from your body and disappear into a night where you never came at all.
You take only a few steps before a hand closes gently but firmly around your wrist, halting you. You do not see the owner of the hand—only feel the sudden restraint. Before you can pull away, a deliberate push unsettles your balance, sending you off course.
A sharp scrape runs across your upper arm. It burns briefly, then stings.
Looking down, you notice the fabric of your dress torn where a ring snagged the seam. Blood wells slowly through the satin, vivid against the pale silk. It mingles with spilled wine, staining the fabric as though it were always meant to be.
The laughter around you does not cease. If anything, it deepens, curling around your ears like a thick velvet thread.
You do not cry, not now, but your breath begins to catch, trembling slightly.
Then a hand rests lightly on your shoulder. It is neither harsh nor unkind, but sudden enough to startle you. Turning, you find yourself no longer alone.
Regulus stands before you, a calm yet resolute presence separating you from the others. The atmosphere shifts subtly but unmistakably.
His gaze does not seek yours. Instead, it settles on the man who still clutches the empty glass—the same one who shoved you moments before.
Regulus’s eyes snapped to your arm where the blood welled beneath the torn silk, dark and vivid against the delicate fabric.
It wasn’t just a wound—it was an insult writ in crimson, a raw mark of the contempt you had endured. The mingled wine stain and blood on your dress screamed humiliation, and it shattered something deep inside him.
His breath hitched, trembling with something fierce and uncontrolled. The laughter—low, cruel, mocking—wrapped around you like suffocating chains, each chuckle a slap against his heart.
Without thinking, he seized the empty wine goblet from the man who stood too close, the one who had shoved you, whose laughter still echoed like a blade in the heavy air.
The glass was cold, fragile in his hand, but Regulus held it like a weapon.
His voice broke free in a savage roar that shattered the fragile veneer of the ballroom’s polished grace. “Do you think blood stains?” His words sliced the silence, jagged and merciless.
“Do you think that because she bleeds, because her blood mixes with your filth, she is anything less than any of you!”
He thrust the glass forward, eyes blazing. “I’ll show you how Black blood stains.”
With a brutal shove, he slammed the man backward against the carved stone pillar. The goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered, shards scattering like the shattered pride of those around him.
In an instant, the room erupted. Wands whipped up, light flashing like blades drawn in panic and outrage. The air thickened with magic and tension.
But Regulus was unshaken. His own wand sprang from his sleeve with a flick of his wrist, a dark, lethal promise gleaming in his hand.
“I will not hesitate,” he growled, voice low and charged with wrath, “to tear apart anyone who harms her again! I don’t fucking care who any of you are!”
The crowd held its breath, caught between fear and fascination.
Then Walburga’s voice, sharp as a whip, cut through the chaos. “Enough, Regulus!”
Her presence was cold command. Her eyes flickered with disdain as she stepped forward, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.
He spun toward her, every muscle coiled in fury. “You will not silence me, Mother!” he spat, voice ragged and fierce. “Not after what you’ve done.”
“You disgrace this family with this girl,” Walburga said icily. “Lower your wand and leave this hall.”
Regulus’s hands clenched the wand so tightly his knuckles whitened. His breath came ragged, voice rising in a crescendo of unrestrained anger.
“Disgrace? She is the only thing here worthy of honor. The only blood that matters, and you—you are poison!”
Without warning, he shattered the empty goblet in his fist, the crack of breaking glass echoing like thunder. The jagged shard flew through the air, catching Walburga’s cheek with a sickening cut.
Gasps tore through the stunned crowd.
Regulus’s voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss, thick with contempt. “Even your blood stains, Mother. Filthy red, just like the rest of this rotten house.”
Regulus turns.
And the moment he sees you, really sees you, his fury falters.
Because you’re shaking. Your hand is clutched at your side, trying to hide the blood, the silk soaked with wine and something far more human.
Your lip trembles, and your eyes shimmer, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it now. The humiliation. The fear. The way they all watched.
Tears pour from your eyes before you realize it, the sob catching at your throat like it’s been waiting all night to be let out. You try to step away, try to hide—but Regulus is already at your side, his arms pulling you in like the world is ending.
“No,” he breathes, over and over again, kissing the crown of your head, holding you like you’re made of glass and flame all at once. “No, no—I'm here, you're safe now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You bury your face into his chest, sobbing harder than you have in years, your fists clutching at his blouse, smearing blood and wine into velvet.
He doesn’t care. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped fully around your waist, rocking you just slightly as if trying to comfort the storm out of your bones.
“I’m so sorry, amour, ” he whispers, voice raw and low, “I should’ve stayed. I never should’ve let you out of my sight. I knew they’d try something—I knew—”
“Regulus,” you choke.
“I’m here, ma belle.” His jaw tightens again, but his voice stays gentle.
You cling to him like you’ll fall if you don’t. He lifts you gently, one arm under your knees, carrying you through the parted crowd. No one dares speak, not even Walburga, not even Bellatrix. The room has gone quiet as stone.
Only the fury in Regulus Black’s eyes dares meet theirs.
He doesn’t stop until you’re upstairs. He finds the guest room furthest from the ballroom and kicks the door shut behind him.
He sets you down softly on the velvet chaise, then drops to his knees in front of you. His hands tremble as they brush over your stained dress, searching for the cut.
“Let me see it,” he murmurs. “Please.”
You nod, breath catching. The torn silk peels away, and he sees it—a shallow slash, bright red and angry.
His face crumples.“I’ll fix it,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I’ll fix it all.”
“Come on,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “Let me take you away from here.”
And this time, when he carries you through the hall, no one dares look him in the eye. Not even the portraits.
They all turn their faces away.
Because Regulus Black has chosen.
And he chose you.
You knew it before he spoke, before his fingers found yours with a reverence that felt like a vow—he had chosen you, not just in that moment, but in every quiet glance, every defiance that led him here.
He would never return to this house, and you would never need him to.
As for Regulus, nothing he left behind could measure against what he held in his arms. In his eyes, you were purity uncorrupted, something sacred they could never touch.
He would tear down bloodlines, unmake legacies, dismantle every stone of the house that made him, if it meant being loved by you. And as always, he would take you home—carry you from cruelty, dress your wounds with devotion, and leave you blanketed in a love that demanded nothing and gave everything.
And in the end, he understood: just as their cruelty stained silk with blood, your love had stained him with something far deeper, something no name or legacy could ever wash clean.
Regulus’s voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss, thick with contempt. “Even your blood stains, Mother. Filthy red, just like the rest of this rotten house.”
As a POC I think this cuts even deeper, being hated and looked down upon for something you’re born with. Being filthy, being dirty just because you don’t fit a certain skin color. Lovely work 🫶🏼
Theo is not the type to roll over and doze after his fill. He’s meticulous in everything he does, and he prides himself in not ever leaving things unfinished, you being one of them. The moment your tremors subside and your breathing levels to soft gulps instead of pants, his demeanor shifts from longing to almost obsessively attentive. He’ll hold you for extended moments, and he definitely makes an effort to stay in you as long as he can if you had allowed him to fill you up. He doesn't like the feeling of being sticky or cold, and he definitely doesn't want you feeling that way either. He’ll rush to the bathroom for a wet cloth. He made the mistake once of wiping your face with a warm one, and after your pouty expression, he vowed to never let that happen again. So he comes with two- one cold for your face, and one warm for the rest of you.
He is incredibly thorough with it. He’ll start with your face, gently wiping away any stray sweat or hair stuck to your forehead, before grabbing the other to move down to your chest and thighs. He cleans every trace of himself and the mess you made together with a steady hand. Partly it’s about hygiene but it’s a way also for him to keep touching you, to keep his hands on your skin while the adrenaline is still fading. He wants to make sure you’re comfortable at the most forefront.
Once you’re clean, he pulls you into him. He’ll hook an arm around your waist and drag you back against his chest, his chin resting right in the crook of your neck. He likes the feeling of your back against his front, your heartbeats eventually syncing up in the quiet. He’ll wrap his legs with yours, pinning you into his space so there’s no gap between your bodies.
While he’s holding you, he’ll start whispering, right in your ear. It’s a mix of genuine sweet nothings. Murmurs about how good you felt or how much he likes the way you smell. And a streak of teasing that he uses to break the tension. Theo is usually a very serious, blunt person, but in the afterglow, he gets a bit more playful. He might imitate one of the more embarrassing sounds you made when he was between your legs, or he’ll mention exactly how loud you were when he hit a specific spot.
“That one right at the end,” he’ll mutter into your hair, a low laugh hitting your ear. “I didn’t know you could hit that note. You should really think about going pro. Opera’s a lost art.”
He does it specifically to get a rise out of you, to see that flush creep back onto your cheeks even though you’re exhausted. It lightens the mood, taking the edge off how intense things just were. He’ll keep talking. About you, your love, the heavy and the mundane. He won't let you go until he’s certain you’re warm and relaxed. Although, even in your sleep, he keeps an arm draped possessively around your waist.
B —Body Part
His Favorite (Yours): It’s your inner thighs. He is obsessed with the skin there because it’s the softest part of you and the most reactive. He loves how they twitch when he just brushes his knuckles against them, and he loves the way they feel when they’re locked tight against his waist, your surprisingly strong muscles caging him right where he wants to be. He’ll spend a long time just leaving little souvenirs. Using his teeth to leave small, fading bruises or using his lips to paint you purple with hickeys. To him, your thighs are the frame for everything he wants in your sultriest moments, and he adores the sight of them shaking when he’s deep inside you.
His Favorite (His): His hands. Theo knows exactly what he can do with them. He likes that they’re big enough to wrap all the way around your throat without squeezing, or to pin both of your wrists above your head with just one palm. He’s proud of the calluses on his fingers from his quill and his wand because they add a rough texture when he’s rubbing your clit or sliding inside you. He likes the control his hands give him. Loves the way he can guide your hips exactly where he wants them or hold you still when you’re trying to squirm away from his rough thrusts. He’ll catch you watching them, a lot. Watching the way his veins stand out when he’s gripping the headboard or the way his rings catch the light. And he’ll give you a slow, knowing smirk. He knows they’re his best tools, and he loves the fact that you know it too.
C — Cum
Theo’s absolute preference is coming inside you. He is possessive by nature, and there is nothing that strokes his ego more than the feeling of his own seed painting your walls while he’s buried as deep as he can go. He loves the way he can feel you pulse around him in a desperate attempt to catch every drop, and the fact that he’s leaving a part of himself deep where no one else can see. He’ll usually stay buried in you for a long time afterward, pinning your hips down to the mattress so he can feel every last drop settle. He likes the idea that you’ll be walking around the rest of the day feeling him still inside you, that you’ll never ever ever be apart.
Buuuuut however, if he can’t have that, his second favorite is coming on your face. It’s something you’ve only let him do once, and the memory of it is permanently burned into his brain. Seeing those doe eyes of yours look up at him while he releases on your face is his equivalent of being on top of the world. He loved the way you stayed perfectly still for him, so submissive and quiet while he defiled you in the best way.
He made you stay like that for a minute with his hand tangled in your hair to keep your head tilted back, purely so he could admire you. When a drop threatened to fall from your face, you used your tongue to swipe a stray, sticky drop from your lip.
“Tastes good, hm?” he asked, breath still ragged from his orgasm. He reached out with his thumb, smearing the rest of the moisture across your bottom lip, his eyes tracking the movement careful as can be. He especially loved the way you didn't look away, even though internally, your face was burning at the vulnerability of it all- having to look at up at him with his cock all in your face. Seeing you lick him up so willingly with that trusting expression turned him on like a switch.
D — Dirty Secret
Yeah, he’s taking this one to the grave. Like, there’s genuinely no way he’ll ever mutter a word about this to anyone, especially especially ESPECIALLY not you. When he first met you, he was completely enthralled by your face, fixating on the sharp slope of your nose and the way your eyes seemed to challenge him, the same way they did the camera in your school portrait. One afternoon, while walking to Ancient Runes on a day where his testosterone was particularly at a high, he saw that very picture pinned to a notice board in a crowded corridor.
Without breaking his stride or checking for witnesses, he reached out and snagged the parchment off the wall like it was natural, crumpling the edges into his palm as he veered off into the nearest deserted washroom. He locked the stall door, his breath already heaving from his quick motions as he leaned his forehead against the cold stone wall. He smoothed the paper out just enough to see your eyes, his thumb smearing the ink of your cheek as he unzipped his trousers with a clumsiness.
The image was literally crumbling in his hand, the parchment damp with his sweat and ridged at the friction of his grip. He began to stroke himself to the sight of your face. He’d hardly even spoken to you recently, yet he was imagining the exact breathy sound you’d make if he were doing this to the real thing instead of a stolen scrap of paper. His jaw was tight and knuckles white as he roughly toyed with himself, your photo being his muse.
When he finally finished, his chest heaving and his heart thumping against his ribs, he looked down at the ruined, wrinkled portrait in his hand—your face distorted by his grip. He smoothed the edges almost like new and folded it to tuck it into the inner pocket of his robes, right against his chest, his heart. He still keeps that photo hidden in the bottom of his trunk, even after he got the real thing, after he got you. It’s almost like a trophy for how far the two of you have come.
E — Experience
Theo is far more experienced than he lets on, but it’s not because he’s slept with half the school. In truth, the amount of people he’s slept with can be counted on one hand. He simply the type of person who approaches everything, including sex, with a need to be the absolute best at it. Even his first time, he didn’t at all wing it. He actually had her begging for more even after a third round. Let’s face it. He’s well-read, having spent his time in the Restricted Section or his father’s private library finding texts that most people his age wouldn't even know existed. He understands the mechanics of pleasure with the utmost detail.
He knows exactly where the most sensitive nerve endings are, how much pressure to apply to your inner thigh to make you feel a tickle down to your toes. Knows how to stretch you enough to ready you without overdoing it. He isn't clumsy, and he never fumbles. Every move he makes is deliberate and calculated. If he’s using his tongue a certain way, it’s because he knows it’s going to produce a specific squeal from you. He takes pride in the fact that he’s never left a lover unsatisfied.
F — Favourite Position
Theo’s absolute favorite is having you ride him, and he’ll tell you it’s because he’s being "lazy," but you both know that’s a lie. He wants you on top because you go fucking crazy on him. He’ll lean back against the headboard, his long, heavy legs framing your hips, just so he can get the perfect angle to watch your face change when you slide down the full length of him. There’s something so raw and beautiful about it to him. He loves seeing how desperate you get to have every inch, watching your eyes roll back and your mouth hang open while you bounce up and down, your fingers clawing at his chest or his shoulders just trying to find any kind of leverage. He especially loves tugging you down with a supportive hand behind your neck to pull you into a kiss. He loves the way his pretty pink lips feel against yours while your hips are grinding down on him. Sometimes when he’s really worked up and sitting up to meet you, he’ll just hold your face in his palms, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones while he peppers your mouth with short, needy kisses. He’ll whisper between them, telling you how much he loves the way you’re taking him.
He loves the power exchange.He’ll sit there with his hazy eyes, his hands resting loosely on your waist at first, just watching you struggle to maintain your own pace. He loves the fact that since he’s usually so much taller than you,always the one looking down,he finally gets to look up at you for once. Having your body right there in his face, seeing the light catch the sweat on your skin and the way your chest heaves is his version of heaven. He finds it so incredibly hot to see and feel you making a genuine effort to take him, watching the concentration on your face as you try to handle all of him.
But Theo isn't just going to let you do all the work. He loves catching you by surprise right when you think you’ve found a steady pace. Suddenly, he’ll sit up with this sort of burst of energy, his strong arms winding around you in a crushing bear hug that pins your chest right against his. He’ll lock his hands behind your lower back, pulling your hips down with a firm force while he simultaneously thrusts upward with everything he’s got. He gets so deep and heavy that the breath is knocked out of you in a gasp. He never ever lets up, keeping up the same amount of momentum until you’re satisfied, his balls slapping against your ass with a sound that adds volume to the room.
There was one night in the dorms when there was a little more risk than normal. You were straddling him, bouncing in shallow, tentative movements because you could hear the muffled sound of voices and laughter echoing from the hallway just outside the door. You were trying to be quiet, your movements stiff and careful, and it was clearly grating on his nerves.
Theo was propped up on his elbows, his jaw tight and his eyes tracking your every flinch. He looked almost insulted by your restraint, but still had to place his hand over his mouth, stifling a groan when you finally bottomed out. By the way your thighs were shaking, he could obviously tell you were tired of holding back too.
"What's the matter?" he mumbled, sliding his hand down to scratch at his arm noncommittally."Don't tell me you don't have your heart in it today. You're being far too polite."
You were in the middle of your retort when he sat up, arms hooking around your waist to pull you in. He buried his face deep into the softness of your tits, muffling his own groan against your skin as he began to thrust up into you, bottoming out inside you every time. The friction burned in the best way, and by the time he finally let you collapse onto him, spent, the skin between your cheek was flushed angry red at his exertion.
G — Goofy
He’s not the type to make sex a comedy show, that’s for sure. He’s serious about you, the feelings the two of you share, and sees intimacy as a way to demonstrate it. However, Theo possesses a very specific, dry brand of humor that comes out every so often. It’s not really goofy in the traditional sense, more snarky and designed to provoke a reaction. He loves to get under your skin just to see those pretty eyes roll in more ways than one.
If you’re struggling to unbutton his shirt because your hands are shaking too hard, helping you will be one of the last things he does. He’s more likely to just lean against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, watching you fumble with a tilt of his head.
“Take your time,” he’ll drawl, “I didn’t realize the buttons were more interesting than what’s underneath them. Should I leave you two alone for a moment?”
That’s pretty tame for him, though. He can say the most lewd, humiliating things with a completely straight face, watching the way you flush deep red from your chest up to your ears.
He finds your embarrassment deeply entertaining. If you trip over your own feet while trying to get out of your robes, he’ll catch you by the waist, pull you flush against his body, and whisper something like, “Falling for me already? I haven't even taken my shoes off.”
He uses his wit to poke at your weaknesses and your desires, turning every encounter into a battle of wills. He wants to see if he can make you laugh and moan at the same time.
H — Hair
The rumors floating around the common room about those genes are entirely true, but it was something you just had to find out for yourself. You’d be lying if you said you hadn't noticed it early on; the first time you saw how thick and dark his eyebrows were, or the way the hair on his forearms curled around his wrists when he rolled up his sleeves in Potions, your mind was already going to some very dark, very specific places.
There was one afternoon after a grueling Quidditch practice where you "accidentally" caught a glimpse of him peeling off his sweat-soaked jersey. You technically weren’t spying, your eyes were just lingering is all. At first, you felt a tiny flicker of disappointment; the hair on his chest was actually pretty sparse, just a few dark, fine curls near the center of his sternum.
Then your eyes traveled lower.
The disappointment vanished instantly when you saw the thick, dark dusting of a happy trail. It started just below his navel and widened into a dense path that disappeared straight into the waistband of his riding leathers. It was so prominent and so dark against his pale skin that you practically drooled right there in the corridor.
So, yeah. He’s naturally pretty hairy. Because of how quickly it grows, he’s forced to groom himself accordingly. He trims short enough to be neat and out of the way, every so often, but long enough that you can feel the slight friction of it against your thighs when he’s inside you. He knows you have a thing for it. Cause you maybe told him. He makes it hard to keep things hidden from him!
When it comes to your hair, however, Theo couldn’t care less.You used to think guys only said they didn't care about a girl being shaved just to get in their pants, but with Theo, the lack of judgement is genuine.It came to a head one night when you were play-fighting on his bed. The kind of wrestling that starts with laughter and quickly goes south within a few minutes. In the middle of the scuffle, he accidentally-on-purpose hooked his thumbs into the lace of your panties and yanked them down to your knees.
Your heart stopped. Instantly your hands clamped down to cup your sex, shielding yourself from his eyes. You hadn't shaved for nearly a week. You did not expect to get lucky that night, and the prickles of the new growth made you feel exposed.
“Why so shy all of a sudden?” he murmured, trying to pry your hands away with a little grin. He didn’t see the problem, he’s seen you many times before.
“I’m not shaved, Theo,” you confessed, your voice small and embarrassed while you tried to pull your thighs together.“I didn’t think... I’m a mess down there.”
He let out a sharp, incredulous huff, something that sounded like a "Dio mio" under his breath. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression surprisingly tender.
"Oh Merlin." he groaned, half-laughing but entirely serious. "Seriously, baby? You think I give a damn about that? Do you really think I'm looking at your hair when I have you in front of me?"
He was incredibly reassuring, his voice softening as he told you that you were beautiful regardless of a little stubble. He gently but firmly peeled your hands away from your lap, pinning your wrists to the mattress so he could look at you. He didn’t recoil or make a joke while leaning closer to you. He reached, grazing the dark hair you were so worried about. He playfully took a strand to twirl between his thumb and forefinger.
“Theo!” you squeaked, your face heating in all kinds of ways.
“Shh,” he hushed, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, right next to the hair he’d just been admiring. “It’s cute…and it’s not going to stop me from doing exactly what I planned to do to you for the rest of the night.”
I — Intimacy
Intimacy with Theo is centered around one thing that used to terrify you: eye contact. Something that many spend their whole lives avoiding, especially during moments like this. In the beginning, it was a struggle. Most guys look away or close their eyes when things get heavy, but Theo’s of course the polar opposite. He wants to see every single expression that crosses your face, in every moment. It was a massive adjustment for you because eye contact that intense feels almost more private than the sex itself.
At first, you were so self-conscious about it. When you realized he wasn’t going to close his eyes or look at the headboard, you basically transformed into Adriana Lima. You’d act like a model, trying to keep your face pretty, even when he was driving you into the mattress. You’d try to keep your chin at a flattering angle, biting your lip just so. You were performing for him, terrified that if you let your guard down, you’d look ugly in the heat of things. That he’d see something he didn’t like.
But as your comfort with him grew outside the bedroom,as you realized he loved your snark and your messy morning hair just as much as your uniform, you started saying goodbye to the acting, the model in you alllll gone.
You’ll have your mouth stretched wide in gasps, your head thumping back against the pillow while you kept your eyes locked on his. Instead of trying to look good, you focus purely on looking at him.And instead of being turned off, he just stares back with the same level of devotion. In those moments, when you’re at your most "un-pretty" and vulnerable, he looks at you like you’re a literal angel.
Theo doesn't care about looking gorgeous either, though he manages it effortlessly. His jaw will be clenched so tight the muscle pulses in his cheek, or he’ll be biting his own wet lip until it’s nearly white, his forehead beaded with sweat and his dark curls plastered to his skin.
When you’re at your most vulnerable, he’ll lean down to kiss the corner of your open mouth, making it clear that the messier you get for him, the more he worships the ground you walk on. He wouldn’t change the raw honesty of eye contact for any posed perfection in the world.
J — Jack Off
Theo is a high-frequency guy, but he’s incredibly private about it, usually settling into a rhythm of three times a week when he isn’t with you. He’s a master of silence, easily getting himself entirely to the brink without making a sound, but of course when he thinks about how much he’d prefer you to his hand, he can’t help the low moans that slip through his gritted teeth.
The most vulnerable moment you ever shared didn’t involve skin-on-skin contact at all. You were both too paranoid about getting caught to actually have sex, but were both horny out of your minds. So, you sat face to face on his bed, stripped down but not touching. Well, not each other. You were definitely touching yourselves. And definitely watching each other do so.
It was raw in a way that made your skin sting. Seeing his fingers wrapped around his own length, his knuckles white and veins standing out on his forearms, was almost more than you could take. He was watching you just as intently as you were him, tracking the way your own hand moved against yourself.
"Hey..." you whispered, your voice a shaky breath. "Can you... can you hold your hand still? And just, you know... fuck it? Like move your hips into your hand instead?"
Theo stopped for a split second, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. He looked at you like you’d lost your mind. "What are you even talking about?" he asked in the middle of a laugh, fueled from his disbelief."Move my... you're being a fucking pervert."
But even as he called you out, he did it. He braced his hand firmly, locking his wrist in place, hand wrapped around tight. He began to drive his hips forward into his palm, mimicking the exact thrusting motion he used when he was inside you. Seeing the way his muscles bunched in his thighs and the way his lower back arched as he hammered himself into his own palm made you want him so much more than if he had just been stroking normally. Hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
At first, he was hesitant, his movements stiff. “Vuoi che faccia così?" he muttered, his brow furrowing. You want me to do it like this?
You watched with your mouth agape, feeling yourself grow slicker. “Pleasepleaseplease.” you begged in a burst of breath.
"This is so weird baby, I feel like an idiot."
But then he looked over and saw you. You had started pounding your own fingers into yourself much harder, your head fallen back and your mouth wide open in those jagged gasps he loves. Seeing how much the sight was turning you on made him lose all his hesitation. He grew much more enthusiastic, his thrusts becoming hard and fast. He was watching you the entire time, head thumping back against the headboard as he came.
Now, he’s added that move to his private rotation. On those one-off days when he misses you extra—when the scent of your shampoo is still on his pillow but you’re stuck in the library—he’ll lay back in the dark and do exactly what you asked. He’ll hold his hand perfectly still, close his eyes, and drive his hips up, imagining the exact weight of your body against his and the way your pretty face looks when you’re watching him do it. It’s his secret way of feeling close to you when you aren't there to watch, and it always gets him off faster than anything else.
K — Kink:
Theo has this deeply buried, obscure fascination with the way you look when you’re completely defenseless,specifically that hazy, vulnerable state where you’re drifting between heavy sleep and actual consciousness. It’s a total power trip for him, born from his need to observe everything and that voyeuristic streak that runs through his blood. To Theo, there is nothing more captivating than the version of you that isn't trying to keep up your usual snarky, composed front. He’s a natural insomniac, so he’s spent countless hours propped up on one elbow in the middle of the night, just staring at you. He finds the rise and fall of your chest and the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks more addictive than any cig.
His favorite way to indulge this is by waking you, but in the most lewd way possible. He’ll wait until the early hours of the morning, when the dungeons are freezing and you’re buried deep under his silk duvet, and he’ll start to touch you while you’re still technically dead to the world. He’ll use his steady fingers to trace the shell of your ear or ghost his lips over your pulse point, watching how your body reacts before your brain even catches up. He is obsessed with the way you’ll instinctively arch into his hand or let out a soft, subconscious whimper without even opening your eyes.
Imagine waking up to the sensation of him already between your thighs. He isn’t being fast or rough at all, he’s moving with this slow pace, his hands tucked under your lower back to tilt your pelvis up toward him. You’re still half-lost in a dream, your eyes barely cracked open, and the first thing you see is Theo looking down at you with those hazy eyes.
He loves that he’s the one controlling your very first sensations of the day,that he can make you come before you’ve even had a chance to say a single word.
L — Location
Theo is a total sucker for the thrill of being caught.While those emerald silk sheets in the dungeons are great for your usual encounters, he has this massive need for the adrenaline that comes with a high risk of discovery. He’s usually so composed, but that control just melts when he’s got you somewhere you shouldn't be.
The Restricted Section of the library is basically his playground. There’s something about the smell of old parchment and ancient magic that excites him, knowing the two of you should definitely not be there, doing this.. He’ll find a corner where the bookshelves are so tall and cramped that the moonlight barely hits the floor, and he’ll pin you right against a shelf of centuries-old scrolls. He’ll bracket his large hands on either side of your head, watching you with this hungry stare while Madam Pince’s footsteps echo just a few aisles away.
The best part for him is the forced silence. He’ll hike your skirt up or thumb your waistband while staring you directly in the eyes, a playful dare etched into his jaw. He knows that if you make even a tiny sound, it’s wraps. He’ll lean in to whisper the dirtiest things in your ear.
He also has a huge thing for the Astronomy Tower in the dead of winter. He doesn't care about the cold; he actually loves the way the freezing air makes your skin more sensitive and your breath comes out in those pretty white clouds. He’ll pull you into a dark alcove behind a telescope, the cold stone biting into your back while he provides the only source of heat you have. He loves the contrast of the huge, open sky above and how tiny and hidden your world is in that moment.
Because he’s so tall and lean, he can easily shield you from view with his heavy winter cloak, creating this private, dark tent where the only things that exist is him and what he’s doing to you. He’ll make you look up at the stars while he’s bottoming out inside you, his chest heaving against yours, forcing you to stay with him during your misbehavior. He loves the fact that you can never again go to these places without thinking of him, and the way the two of you defiled them.
M — Marks
He’s not interested in the kind of marks the whole school can see,he’s way too private for that, but he loves the ones he hides beneath your uniform. His absolute favorite spots are your neck, tucked right under your hairline where your collar can hide it, and the soft expanse of your chest. He loves your breasts because they take color so easily; he’ll spend so long painting you with his teeth and his lips, leaving these dark, blooming bruises that look like connectable constellations against your skin.
While you’re getting dressed later, he’ll so tease you about it.
"Look at you, you’ve got the spots of a cow. It’s kind of decorative, actually." He’ll reach out and poke one of the darker marks with his finger, watching the blood rush back into the skin with a proud glint in his eyes.
But the most consistent mark he leaves is the one on your ass. SOMETIMES he gets carried away when he’s behind you. He’s not shy about using his palms in soft slaps to get you to arch for him just the way he likes. By the time he’s done, your backside is usually a soft flushed red.
There was this one afternoon where you were laid flat on your belly after. The both of you had gotten pretty rough, your face buried in the pillows while you tried to get your breathing under control. Theo had slipped out to get some water, and when he walked back into the room, he stopped at the edge of the bed, just staring down at the mess he made of you.
He sat down beside you and started lazily rubbing your ass, his palm feeling amazing and soothing against your overheated skin.
"Aww... did I do all this?" he murmured, his voice sounding entirely too innocent. "You're so sensitive, baby. It looks like you had a run-in with a Bludger."
You shifted, groaning as you twisted your head around to cut your eyes at him, looking totally unamused. "Are you serious, Theo? Do you honestly not remember spanking the hell out of me for twenty minutes straight?"
He tilted his head to the side, waves falling over his forehead while a maddeningly handsome grin spread on his features.
"Did I?" he mused, his tone perfectly innocent. "I have a very poor memory for these things, I’m afraid. I don't recollect that at all... but if you're so sure, maybe we should do it again. Just so I can be certain I've got the technique right."
N — No
When it comes to his hard lines, Theo is a brick wall. One biggest boundaries is definitely pain for the sake of pain. Sure, sometimes he loves teaching you a good lesson. Might nip you a little more, hold you a little tighter, but he’s not necessarily a sadist.. He has zero interest in being cruel to you or making you feel genuine distress. To him, there’s a massive difference between a sharp slap that makes your back arch and your breath hitch, and something that actually makes you suffer.
If you start to wince in a way that isn't about pleasure, he’ll immediately shift his grip. He’ll get all quiet and focused, his eyes searching yours to make sure you’re still with him and that you're okay. He’d honestly rather spend the rest of the night just holding you and being sweet than ever be the reason you flinch away from him. Your trust is crucial to him, in all aspects of your relationship, and that’s one thing he’s not willing to gamble with.
His other non negotiable is coercion. Even though there's hardly ever a time you don't want him, he is hyper-aware of your energy. If he feels even a hint of hesitance from you, if you seem you’re just going along with it because you think you should, he redirects immediately. He never wants you to sleep with him if you aren't 100% there.
If you aren't reaching for him with that same desperate energy he's giving you, he’ll just kiss your forehead. Cuddle you close, talk about the mundane, and call it a night. Your genuine yes is the only thing that actually matters. He'd rather wait a week than have one night where you weren't entirely his.
O — Oral
He’s a total giver at heart, and he’ll stay down there until his jaw is literally aching and his neck is stiff, just to prove he can make you come two or three times before he even thinks about himself. He gets this look in his eyes like he’s trying to memorize every single part of you. He’s addicted to your taste and the way your pheromones hit him; it’s a level of closeness he doesn't really let himself have with anyone else.
You already know he’s a good ass kisser when he’s got you pinned against a wall, but he’s even better between your legs. He knows just what he’s doing, trailing slow, wet laps across your skin until you’re literally begging him to just finish the job. He treats it like an art form tbh.
Sometimes he’ll playfully bite you. It’s never enough to actually hurt at all, just a tiny nip on the soft skin of your inner thigh or right where you're most sensitive. He really just does it for the love of the game, to see you jump or giggle.
And if you try to pull him up because it’s too much or you’re getting close, he just won't have it. He’ll wrap his hands firmly around your legs, anchoring you in place so you can't move an inch, and mutter a muffled, "Not yet," against your skin. He doesn't stop until you’re a shaking mess. Only then, once he’s satisfied that he fed his appetite, will he finally pull himself up, looking smug as hell because he knows exactly what he just did to you.
O — Oral (Receiving)
Theo likes to think he’s untouchable, especially when he’s tucked into those emerald sheets with the firelight casting sharp shadows across his collarbones. When you first move between his legs, he’ll lean back against the headboard with a maddeningly calm expression, like he’s just waiting to see what you’ve got. He might even let out a dry, teasing hum when you first touch him, really making you work for it.
But, his composure has a very short shelf life.The second you actually start, you can see the cracks form. His jaw locks so tight you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. He becomes incredibly needy, though he’d never use that word himself. Sometimes, he’ll reach down and just cradle your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone or your lip with sweet tenderness. He’ll look down at you and mutter about how gorgeous you look on your knees for him.
Then there are the moments where the tenderness fades into something more desperate. He’ll weave his fingers gently into your hair, starting to guide you, his hips lifting off the mattress in short, desperate thrusts as he pushes himself deeper into your mouth.
Your favorite part is looking up at him when he’s right about to come.His head will be thrown back against the dark wood of the bedpost, his eyes squeezed shut, and the veins in his neck will bulge and throb with every breath he takes. His throat works as he swallows a groan that’s too loud for the quiet of the dorms.
When he finally comes, his fingers clench in your hair as he gives one last, needy push. He’ll stay like that for a long time, his chest heaving, before he finally slumps back. When he looks down at you again, his eyes an honest sort of worship. He’ll reach out to wipe a stray tear from your eye or a drop from your lip, his hand still trembling. He’ll breathlessly tell you what a good girl you are for him, what a good job you did. He’ll pull you up onto the bed and hold you against his heart until it finally slows.
P — Pace
Personally, he prefers a slow to mid pace. He wants to make love to you in the truest, most visceral sense of the word. He wants to cherish the way your body feels wrapped around his, and he takes a quiet pride in the perfection of his movements. He wants to memorize the exact physical sensation of being welcomed by you.
However, he’s an excellent reader of people, and he doesn't need you to tell him what you need. He feels it in the way your breathing hitches or the way your fingernails start digging into the skin of his back, leaving thin, red crescents in his shoulders. He’ll notice too the way your hips start to buck up to meet him, begging for more friction.
“Faster?” he’ll mumble against your lips.
When you nod or whimper a please, he’ll oblige instantly. He’ll speed up until the impact makes a wet sound in the quiet of the room, and he’ll be forced to bury his face in the crook of your neck just to keep his own moans muffled.
“Feels so good, mamma,” he’ll hiss into your skin, losing himself in the pace you demanded. “Like this? Is this what you wanted?”
Then there are the nights when the roles are reversed. You’ve had a long day of classes, your eyes are heavy, and you’re ready to just collapse into the emerald sheets and play pillow princess. But Theo is wired, his skin humming with a restless energy that he can only settle by being inside you. He’ll start pulling your clothes off with an uncoordinated speed that’s so unlike him and start at a pace that is far more urgent than usual, his movements jagged and hungry.
"Theo!" you’ll squeak, half-laughing and half-protesting as you try to keep up with the sudden intensity, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. "Slow down, we just started..."
He doesn't stop. He’ll collapse his weight onto you, burying his face in the crook of your neck while his hips continue that relentless motion. "Please," he’ll whisper, his voice a jagged rasp you rarely hear. "I need you right now. Just... let me have this."
He’ll pull back just enough to look at you, eyes turning soft and almost glassy with desperation, looking at you like you’re the only source of oxygen in the room. He looks so completely undone by his need for you, that your heart melts instantly.
It’s impossible to say no to him when he’s like that. He’ll press his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a desperate eskimo kiss while he continues that fast pace, his movements becoming a plea rather than a command. He needs the warmth of your body around him, and he’ll look at you with such puppy-dog longing that you find yourself wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him down for a kiss that tells him he can have whatever he wants.
Seeing him like that, stripped of his pride, just a boy who needs his girl, is the most addictive thing in the world. He’ll reward your surrender by picking up the speed even more, his forehead pressed against yours as he mutters, "Grazie, amore" over and over again until he finally comes, his entire body shuddering as he pours all that restless energy and love into you. He’ll stay like that for a long time afterward, his heart hammering, nudging against your own,refusing to let you go nor pull out even after you’ve both fallen asleep.
Q — Quickie
This dude HATES being rushed. Absolutely loathes it. Buuuut, he is also a creature of sudden, high-testosterone impulses. There are moments, usually after a particularly tense Slughorn lecture or a close Quidditch match, where he needs you now.
A quickie with Theo usually happens in the most inconvenient places: a broom cupboard in the Charms corridor, the shadows of the Owlery, or pinned against the cold stone wall of his study nook in the dorm. He doesn't bother with the bed or even taking off his robes. He’ll just hike your skirt up, his large hands diving under the fabric with an urgency that leaves your skin tingling.
In these moments, he is literally feral. It's all friction and desperate shallow breaths. He’ll bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his low groans, his fingers trembling slightly as he tries to find his rhythm in the cramped space. He loves the adrenaline of hearing footsteps in the distance. It makes him move faster, his hips jutting forward in a way that leaves you gasping into his shoulder.
Because he’s so tall, he often has to lift you up, your legs wrapping around his waist while he anchors you against the wall. He’ll whisper praises and pleads for you to keep quiet, and your needy mewls have him finishing quick. By the time he lets you down, your hair is a mess, his tie is askew, and he’s already adjusting your clothes and grabbing a hankie from his pocket to clean the cum from your thighs. You used to make fun of him for always carrying one, holding it up to his nose and asking him to blow it in a baby voice. After getting with him, you learned quickly that it truly is a necessity.
R — Risk
He loves to play a game of "How far will you go?" during the most inappropriate times. He’ll find ways to touch you under the table during a formal dinner in the Great Hall, his fingers inching dangerously high up your inner thigh while he carries on a perfectly calm, intellectual conversation with Blaise or Mattheo across from him. He’ll watch your face pale while he waits to see if you’ll bolt or if you’ll lean into the feeling.
To Theo, you are his most precious research project. Every once in a while he’ll have you try a new position that shouldn’t work but does so well.
S — Stamina
He def isn't a one and done kind of guy; he's far too greedy for that. Usually, he’s good for at least three rounds before he even considers letting you sleep, and even then, he’ll probably have a hand possessively hooked over your hip, just waiting for you to stir so he can start again.
The first round is almost all about cherishing you and making sure you feel absolutely ravished. By the time he’s dragging you back for more at 2:00 AM, the gloves are off. He gets more impatient, and significantly more vocal. He has the focus to keep track of exactly which spots he’s already hit and which ones need more attention, ensuring that each round feels different from the last.
T — Toys
Theo is a bit of a snob when it comes to equipment. He has no interest in anything plastic or mass-produced; he thinks his own hands are more than enough to handle you. But he does have a science of the senses streak that he indulges using the apothecary jars he sneaks out of the lab. He likes taking aphrodisiacs with you, not because he needs the help, but because he loves when you’re more outward about how much you want him.
He’ll produce a small, crystalline vial of something that smells like crushed violets and. He’ll press you back against the pillows, hover over you and drop the liquid onto your tongue, watching your throat work as you swallow. Then, he’ll take the rest himself, his eyes locking onto yours almost like he’s picking a fight with you.
The effects hit almost immediately, and he loves the way it strips away all your modesty. It turns your usual defiance into all the neediness you usually keep locked in your mind.He’ll watch your skin flush a deep rose from your chest up to your ears and your hands start reaching for him with a desperation you usually try to hide.
He’ll tease you about how greedy you look as the potion hits his own system. He loves seeing you so hungry for him, stripped of your usual composure.
He’ll stay perfectly sober himself sometimes, just to be the one in control while you’re climbing him like you’re starving. He’ll lean back, letting you do the work, his large hands anchoring your hips as you buck against him with a speed that would normally make him tell you to slow down.
But if he takes it with you, you’re not gonna be able to walk straight for a few hours after.
U — Unfair
Theo is a total prick when he wants to be, and he knows exactly how much power he has over you in that bed. He’s the king of the almost. He’ll get you to that point where your vision is going blurry and you’re literally shaking under him, clutching the silk sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you on the planet, and then he’ll just slow down, maybe even stop.
It’s the most frustrating thing in the world. He might even have the nerve to ask you something completely stupid, like if you finished that bio worksheet or if you've seen his favorite silver tie. He does it because he loves getting on your last nerve.He wants to hear you whine and see that pride of yours snap until you're crawling across the mattress just to get to him, grabbing his shirt and dragging him back down. He loves the feeling that he’s the only one who can give you what you’re dying for. He’ll let you beg for a minute, maybe two, watching your chest heave and your lips get all pouty because of how much you want him.
But the thing about Theo is that he’s actually obsessed with you. He can only hold out for so long before his own need to see you happy takes over. He caves because he can’t stand the idea of you being stressed or unsatisfied for more than a second.
V — Volume
It’s actually hilarious when you think about how he acts with his friends. If you’re hanging out with the group, Theo is easily the quietest person there. He’s not the type to just talk to hear his own voice at all. Usually he’ll sit there with a drink, observing everyone, only dropping a comment when it’s actually worth saying. So, imagine your absolute shock the first few times you finally got him into bed and realized he’s actually the loud one. It’s like a total 180. He is the complete yin to your yang when it comes to being vocal. It works out perfectly because you’re not really the type to start talking dirty or being loud without someone else prodding you into it first.
Theo, on the other hand, is a huge groaner. He’s not at all shy about it once the door is locked either. He gets right up against your ear and he lets out these deep, gravelly sounds that you know for a fact you’ve earned. He has this specific, sexy "ugh" that he lets out when you’re doing exactly what he needs.
“Agh, Baby, keep going."
And in those moments, when it’s just the two of you and he’s completely vulnerable, his Italian starts slipping out more and more. It’s his mother tongue, his first language, but he’s so guarded that he never has much desire to use it around anyone else. It’s not something he just throws around for show. It’s private. It’s for vulnerable moments where he’s too far gone to worry about translating his thoughts. When it’s just the two of you, it comes to him like second nature.
Half the time, you have no idea what the hell he’s actually saying, but you can definitely connect the dots by the tone of his voice and the way his hands tighten on your waist. Whether he’s whispering something sweet or playfully telling you how much you get under his skin, it all sounds gorgeous. It makes you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. You get the version of him that only belongs to those close to him.
W — Wild Card
Theo is genuinely evil with his hands, mostly because he’s figured out exactly how to catch you off guard. Usually, he’s like a human radiator, always warm to the touch. But then there are those off times. Maybe he just finished scrubbing his hands after a messy Potions double-block, or he’s just stepped out of a drafty dungeon classroom that stays freezing even in May. He’ll walk into the room looking all stoic, but he’s already plotting on you.
It’s basically become your thing now. He loves to catch you when you’re at your most affectionate,like when you’re relaxing on the sofa in the common room or curled up in his bed. You’ll be so happy to see him, literally beaming as you run up to him, peppering his face with kisses and telling him about your day because you actually missed him. He’ll play along, wrapping those long arms around you in what feels like a sweet wholesome hug.
He’ll slyly slide those ice-cold hands right down the back of your pants, grabbing two full handfuls of your ass before you even realize what’s happening. The shock of that freezing skin hitting your warm, bare skin is so sharp you literally always squeal, jumping in his arms and trying to scramble away while you curse him into next week. He’ll bark out a genuine, loud laugh, one that only you ever get to hear. He thinks your outrage is the funniest thing in the world, and he’ll stand there like a tree looking all tall and smug while you’re shivering and promising him a slow, painful death.
There was this one time, though, where the joke took a turn. As do all things with Theo.You were in a particularly good mood, already giggling and playfully swatting at him because he’d grabbed your face a few seconds before to hold you still for a kiss, so you already knew his fingers were like ice cubes. When you felt his hands start that familiar sneaky trail down your spine, you were already protesting, expecting the usual shock. He gave you a cheshire smile, and you could tell he was already particularly worked up as well.
He did the usual one two, sliding his hands into your pants, but this time he didn't stop at your ass. One of his hands kept going, sliding lower and cupping you firmly, and he slid one of his cool fingers right into your warm opening, already slick just from being in his presence again. That biting chill meeting your own heat hit you so hard your knees literally buckled. Opposed to laughing he leaned into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he mumbled a praise, something about how you’re always so warm for him.
It turned a stupid prank into something freaking dirty.
X — X-Ray
Theo’s body is a total contradiction. When he’s walking through the corridors in those stupid shady school robes, he looks lean and, like he spends all spare time doing something nerdy instead of working out.But the second those layers are gone, you realize exactly what he’s been hiding. He isn't bulky per se, but he’s definitely all muscle. The area at his hips jut out, creating deep, shadowed v lines that lead straight into his waistband. When he’s over you, he feels surprisingly solid like a sheet of marble pressing you into the mattress. He uses that weight to anchor you while his long limbs wrap around you like a cage you have no interest in escaping.
Everything changes once you look below the belt. He’s not the type to brag about what he’s packing, but he is fully aware that he’s blessed. He’s well above average and can be smug about it when you finally find that part out. He is uncut, which gives him this super smooth, gliding texture that makes every movement feel like it's happening in slow motion. He’s significantly long, taking up every bit of available space inside you, and his dick has this slight upward curve that is absolute heaven. It hits exactly where it needs to every single time.
You felt like a total pervert the first time you really got a good look at him, but you couldn't help it. You were like a kid in a candy store when you realized the tip is this perfect pretty shade that matches his soft pink lips exactly. He even has a tiny, perfect beauty mark right on the shaft that you’ve become completely obsessed with; it’s so pretty against his pale skin that you find yourself tracing it with your tongue just to see him shiver.
And gosh, those veins. When he’s all needy, they look absolutely mad at you, pulsing and prominent under his skin, basically begging for you to wrap your hand around them and squeeze. He knows that no matter how much the two of you bicker during the day, you’re enthralled with every single inch of him at night.
Y — Yearning
When his mind isn't buried in a textbook, it’s constantly drifting straight back to you. It’s actually kind of ridiculous. You’ll be sitting across the room in a lecture, and he’ll catch himself staring at the back of your head, his brain immediately playing back a loop of how pretty you looked under him the night before. He’ll find himself smiling like an actual idiot in a way that usually makes Blaise or Draco look at him like he’s lost his mind.
In the classes you actually have together, he’s even worse. He’s like a wimpy schoolboy trying to get your attention because he literally can’t handle not being the center of your universe for an hour. He’ll tear corners off his parchment to flick at the back of your head or pass you messy, handwritten notes with inside jokes or drawings just to see you turn around and scowl at him, sometimes smiling.
The second the bell rings and it’s time to pack up, he’s not waiting around for anyone else. He’ll rush to catch up with you in the crowded hallway, not giving a single damn who’s watching, and drape his heavy arms around your midsection from behind. He’ll tuck his face into the crook of your neck right there in the middle of the stone corridor, breathing you in like you’re his personal supply of oxygen. He’ll whisper right against your skin about how much he missed you over the last hour and how he’s already counting down the seconds until you’re behind a locked door again.
It kind of scares him a little bit how much he depends on you. For someone who prides himself on being so independent and above it all, the way he needs you just to stay sane is a massive reality check. He’s told you before, late at night when he’s feeling particularly vulnerable, that he feels like a slave to you but in the best way possible. He’s captivated with the way you fit into his life and is completely addicted to the way you make him feel. He’d happily let you lead him around by a leash if it meant he never had to spend a day without you.
Z — ZZZ
Theo is a chronic night owl, but it has nothing to do with insomnia and everything to do with his preoccupation with you. Long after the two of you are through, he remains wide awake, propped up on one elbow in the dark.
Only when he’s 100% satisfied that you’re tucked perfectly against his side and that you aren't going anywhere, will he finally let himself drift off. There’s something about seeing you so vulnerable and safe in his space that acts like a literal sedative for his overactive brain. He needs to know that he’s the last thing you saw before you closed your eyes and that he’ll be the first thing you see when you wake up. He'll pull you back against his chest, burying his face in the back of your neck so your hair is the last thing he smells. His last conscious thought is always some version of a prayer or a curse, marveling at the fact that a girl like you actually chose a guy like him to wake up to. He falls asleep with his arm draped over your waist like a weight, making sure that even in his dreams, he’s still holding onto you.
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i love you everyone i know its not necessarily a fic but i hope you liked it :-)
Synopsis: Mattheo hates his dark mark, even years after the war. You know exactly how to paint it in a different light.
Info: Post war, established relationship.
War left scars, not only physically, but the mental ones that nobody escaped from. Mattheo felt like his whole life had been a war, a battle that he’d never really learned how to stop running from.
So he raised his walls. He pushed people away and kept his knuckles split, like the pain conditioned him to feel alive. Because Mattheo had only known how to fight.
He didn’t feel half as bad as he should’ve when his father died at the hand of Harry Potter. He was his son, he was on his side; he bore the dark mark on his arm, then why didn’t he cry? Mattheo didn’t think he had it in him to cry. Or to feel anything, definitely not for the man he’d suffered at the hands of all his life.
It took time, but bit by bit he’d learned to live with the scars—both mental and physical. But night always had a strange way of putting things into perspective, and the pale moonlight on his arm that he seldom left uncovered, it highlighted the ugly black skull with the snake coming out of its mouth, like a cursed tattoo he could never burn off. Trust him, he’d tried.
“Mattheo?”
He looks up at your murmur, your voice laced with sleep as you push yourself on your elbows, exhaustion painting your face as you catch his clenched fingers over the dark mark that had made home on his skin, all those years ago.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough, with the sleep that never quite came when he’d laid down beside you earlier that night.
You reach for him, blanket unwinding from your waist as you catch his fingers in yours. “You okay?” You whisper, your gaze searching.
Mattheo could lie. He was a great liar, he’d done it enough to be known as ‘silver tongued’ but the lie always felt like lead when you looked at him like that. So he didn’t, he just shook his head.
“It’s bothering you?” You asked, knowing it was. But you never assumed, you always let him spell his feelings out.
“When does it not?” He said, and he regretted how sharp it sounded when it came out. You didn’t mind, you never did. He hated how forgiving you were. He didn’t deserve it.
You reach over to your shared bedside and the faint, warm glow of the night lamp stifles the moonlight. He’s sure he knows what you’re going to do, you’ll kiss his arm like you always do, like the mark doesn’t disgust you even though it should.
“I’ve always thought it lacked color. Too grey, too depressing,” you say quietly, and Mattheo does a double take when you grab your pen from the table. It’s pink. Your favorite pen, the one you’d highlight your notes with all throughout Hogwarts, the one he’d flick off you every time in charms.
Mattheo doesn’t speak, his eyes are wide as he watches you shade in the snake in his dark mark with your ridiculous pink glitter pink. Your hold is careful on his arm, like it always is.
“I’m sorry?” He says roughly, like he just found his voice again. “Lacks..color?” The poor man sounds dumbfounded.
“Terrible tattoo,” you grin, your eyes flicking up to his, your pen scribbling against his arm. It isn’t an uneasy feeling, the scratch of the nib against his skin.
And despite all logic, and every ounce of sensibility Mattheo laughs, because you really were something weren’t you?
“Terrible,” he agrees then, lips quirking, features softened by the yellow lamp light as he watches the love of his life color in his dark mark like it’s a sketch on a canvas.
“Pink’s your colour,” you tease, awfully pleased by his compliance. But maybe it wasn’t so shocking, he always put up with you, with your too loud laughter and your crazy ideas.
“Yeah I’m starting to think so, too.” He murmured, eyes following the movement of your pen. How you’d managed to turn the part of himself he’d hated the most into…this? He’ll never know. But it seemed to be your skill, fixing parts of him with just a little bit of kindness.
You did kiss the mark, but now his skin wasn’t marred with it, and for the first time in years when Mattheo stepped out of their house the next day, he didn’t cover his arm.
And when Theodore poked fun at the pink in his battle scar, he grinned like an idiot.
“Pink’s my color, nott.” He said, in far too much self assuredness than usual. “Don’t be jealous.”
Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.
A/N: This is the second part and since you waited so patiently i included 3 bonus scenes teehee posting it early for my babies
Special mention to @for-the-love-of-puppies and @luffysprincess who predicted this turnout lol our brains are in sync
Credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider
Part 1
Bianca was a blur of movement by the Great Lake.
She darted along the grassy bank, boots thudding softly against the earth as she zig-zagged around rocks and half-buried roots, stopping every few seconds to crouch down and inspect something with intense focus before bolting off again. A stick became a wand, a pebble became treasure, and the reeds at the water’s edge were clearly hiding something very important.
You watched her with a fond smile, arms folded loosely as you leaned back against the cool stone.
“She has too much energy.” You said, though there was no real complaint in your voice—only wonder.
Theo huffed a quiet laugh beside you, eyes never leaving her, “She’s a firecracker.”
Bianca shrieked with laughter as she nearly tripped over her own feet, caught herself at the last second, and then stood very still—carefully regaining her balance before continuing on her way.
Theo tilted his head slightly, watching her, “She takes after you.”
You laughed, startled, “Are you crazy?”
He glanced at you, amused, “What?”
You nodded toward Bianca. “Look at her. She’s observant. Thoughtful. She watches everything. She’s lively, yeah—but she hardly ever leaps without looking first.” You smiled softly, “That’s all you.”
Theo went quiet at that, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.
He watched Bianca sprint past a patch of wildflowers, slow just enough to avoid stepping on them, then take off again.
“…Maybe.” He conceded.
A moment later, he added, half-thoughtful, half-teasing, “She’d be a good Chaser.”
You snorted, “Of course you’d say that.”
“Did you see that turn?” He said, nodding toward her as she swerved sharply to avoid the water’s edge, “She'll be a star quidditch player.”
You hummed, considering it. “I don’t know,” You said slowly, “I kind of see her as a Magizoologist.”
Theo glanced at you, “Yeah?”
“She’s gentle,” You said, “Curious. She doesn’t just want to look—she wants to understand.” You smiled as Bianca crouched again, whispering something to a very unimpressed-looking duck, “I think she’d love creatures.”
Theo’s expression softened.
“Whatever she chooses,” He said quietly, “she’ll be brilliant.”
The words lingered between you.
The lake rippled softly. The breeze carried the scent of water and grass. Bianca’s laughter echoed across the shore, bright and unburdened.
And then—slowly, inevitably—the conversation faded.
Neither of you spoke.
Because the truth settled in like a weight neither of you wanted to name.
There were futures you were imagining that you wouldn’t get to see. First matches. First discoveries. First failures. First triumphs.
Theo swallowed.
You hugged your arms closer to yourself, eyes fixed on Bianca as if memorizing the way the sunlight caught in her curls.
For a moment, it was almost peaceful.
And for a moment, that made it hurt so much more.
Bedtime was always a gamble.
There were nights when Bianca conked out long before she was meant to, curled boneless and warm in Theo’s arms, and you and him would exchange a silent look before jointly deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. No pajamas. No teeth brushed. Not if it meant waking her. You’d just lay her down as she was and hope she didn't wake up.
Some nights, she went down like a dream—padding excitedly toward bed because she was looking forward to the story that Theo read to her. When it was your turn, Bianca would read to you instead, you'd study the pictures with exaggerated seriousness, and make enthusiastic oohs and ahhs at all the right moments while Bianca beamed in pride at her reading skills.
And then there were the nights she refused.
It would almost be easier if she weren’t tired—at least then you could burn the energy off. A walk around the castle usually did the trick. More often than not, she’d be asleep in Theo’s arms before you even turned back toward the common room, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing slow and even.
But the worst nights were when she was exhausted and still couldn’t sleep.
Overtired, overstimulated, and furious about it.
The crying cut through you in a way nothing else did—sharp and relentless, scraping along your nerves until you felt hollowed out. Theo held on as long as he could. When it became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself.
"Ten minutes." He promised, "I'll be back."
But when fifteen passed and he still hadn’t returned, you didn’t go looking for him. You knew where he was—the common room, breathing, grounding himself. You let him have those extra minutes.
You held Bianca instead, her small body tense in your arms, her face damp with tears. You hugged her close and rocked back and forth, humming softly at first, then singing—a lullaby from a film you used to love as a child.
Gradually, the sobs quieted.
Her breathing evened out.
And when you were absolutely certain she was gone—truly asleep—you tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets, lingering just long enough to make sure she didn’t stir.
Only then did you leave.
You closed the door quietly behind you and let out a long breath.
“She’s finally down.” You murmured, collapsing onto the couch beside Theo like your bones had simply decided they were finished.
He looked up from the parchment spread across the coffee table. His hair was mussed, sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back up.” He said quietly.
Your head tipped against his shoulder without thinking. “It’s okay, Theo,” You replied softly, “You deserved the break after the fight to get her into pajamas.”
He exhaled—a deep, exhausted sigh—and let his head fall forward for a moment. The common room was dim, fire crackling low, everything wrapped in that hazy, end-of-day quiet where the world felt temporarily paused.
After a beat, Theo straightened slightly, shaking his head like he could physically shake himself awake. “Okay,” He said, gesturing to the parchment with his chin, “Do you want to start writing the Charms essay?”
You nodded, eyes already heavy. “In a second,” You murmured, “Just… give me a second.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
The fire crackled. The room softened. The parchment remained untouched.
And sometime in the night, Theo’s head tipped gently against yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him too—the two of you tangled together on the couch like you belonged there.
Morning crept into the Slytherin common room slowly.
Pale light filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint shapes across the stone floor and catching on the dying embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet in that in-between way—too early for students rushing to class, too late for true solitude.
Sometime during the night, the distance between you and Theo had disappeared entirely.
Your head was tucked beneath his chin now, his arm slung loosely—but securely—around your waist. One of your legs had somehow ended up tangled with his, your body curved into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His cheek rested against the crown of your head, breath warm and steady, fingers curled faintly into the fabric of your sleeve.
You looked… settled.
Theo hadn’t slept that deeply in weeks.
The first voices shattered the quiet.
“Oi—what the hell?”
Blaise stopped short just inside the common room, halfway through a yawn. Mattheo, behind him, followed his line of sight—and froze. Then a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.
“Mama y papà.” He said cheerfully.
Theo stirred at the sound, brows knitting together. You shifted too, burrowing closer on instinct, your face scrunching in your sleep in that exact way Bianca did when she didn’t want to wake up yet.
Theo’s eyes fluttered open.
It took him a moment to piece things together.
The couch. The dying fire. The weight against his chest.
You.
His arm tightened before he could stop himself.
Draco let out a low whistle. “Merlin,” He drawled, “You leave one kid with him for a week and suddenly he’s playing house.”
Theo’s eyes snapped fully open, “Shut up.”
Lorenzo folded his arms, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained, “Are we interrupting something?”
You shifted again, mumbling something soft and unintelligible into Theo’s chest. Your hand slid up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.
Theo held his breath.
For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling—at the stone arches, at the faint greenish light—fully aware of his friends staring like the two of you were a particularly scandalous exhibit in a zoo.
And still, despite himself, his eyelids felt heavy again.
“Bianca?” He murmured, voice barely there.
“Still fast asleep.” Mattheo supplied easily.
Theo didn’t even fight it.
His eyes slid shut again, arm tightening just a fraction more around you as his head tipped back against the couch.
Out cold.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
“Oh my God,” Blaise whispered, “He’s actually asleep."
Lorenzo stared, "My old man used to do the same too. Fell asleep through a whole movie once."
The Slytherin common room was almost unnervingly quiet at that hour.
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green flames reflecting in the tall windows like something alive beneath the lake outside. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, leaving only a soft pool of light near the couches where you and Theo sat—books spread open, parchment littered with notes, ink smudges marking the evidence of three solid feet of Transfiguration essays each.
You were officially on a break.
You shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders just as Theo stood, rolling his neck once before moving toward the small table where he’d set up the kettle. You watched him quietly as he brewed tea—precise, unhurried, like the ritual itself grounded him.
When he returned and placed a cup in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.
The teabag was still steeping.
You took a careful sip. It was perfect. Strong, but not bitter. Exactly how you liked it.
A soft chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Theo glanced up, “What?”
You shook your head, lifting the cup slightly, “Nothing. Just—thank you.”
He nodded once, but his mouth twitched like he knew there was more to it.
Then, almost without thinking, you said, “You know… before meeting her, I didn’t think I’d ever even look twice at you.”
Theo’s quill froze mid-scratch.
Slowly, he turned to face you, one brow lifting. “Wow,” He drawled, “I feel incredibly flattered.”
You winced, “No—wait. That came out wrong.”
He studied you now, the teasing edge fading, curiosity sharpening his expression.
“I just mean,” You continued, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, “before Bianca, I honestly thought we’d graduate and pass by each other without ever really being in each other’s lives.” You hesitated, “But now…”
“Now what?” He asked quietly.
You gestured vaguely between the two of you—the firelight, the late hour, the way his knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.
“You know exactly how I like my tea,” You said softly, “And I know how you like yours. I’m allergic to smoke, and you stopped smoking before this even became…” Your voice trailed off as you ducked your head, unsure how to name what sat between you, “Whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” You finished, almost to yourself, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How sometimes things just… happen. Completely out of order.”
Theo leaned back slightly, watching you like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“She changed things.” He said.
“Yes,” You whispered, “She certainly did.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I never thought about it before.” He admitted finally, voice low.
“About what?”
“Any of this,” He said, “A family. A future. I didn’t think I was capable of it, to be honest.” His jaw tightened. “Thought I was too screwed up to deserve one.”
Your chest ached.
“And now?” You asked softly.
“Now,” He said, barely above a breath, “I want it more than anything in the world.” His eyes met yours, “Bianca. And you.”
Your heart stuttered painfully.
“I don’t know when it happened,” He went on, “Or how. I just know that somewhere along the way, I stopped yearning for my past—and started anticipating the future instead.”
The fire popped, sharp in the stillness.
You looked at him—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension he carried like armor. The boy who had let himself love without realizing how deeply it would cut.
“I think,” You said, voice trembling just slightly, “I feel the same way, Theo.” You swallowed, “I want a future with you.”
You reached for him before fear could catch up, your fingers brushing his wrist. He went utterly still at the contact, breath hitching like you’d struck something vital.
You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you lifted your gaze to his—and then your hands began to tremble when you saw it. The want in his eyes. Bare. Unguarded.
Theo leaned in slowly, deliberately—giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His forehead rested against yours first, warm and steady, grounding you both.
“Ti amo.” He whispered.
You didn’t need to understand Italian to know what he was saying.
The kiss started softly, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly. When you responded, just as gently, his breath shuddered, relief and emotion tangling together.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. Like he was learning you. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the moment might fracture.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if anchoring himself. You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, the firelight warming your skin as the world narrowed to this—this quiet, impossible thing that had found you both.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, foreheads still touching.
You really did love him.
Theo had been in a mood.
It settled over him the moment the owl arrived—thick parchment, precise handwriting, the professors’ seal pressed into the wax like a finality. You’d read it together at the kitchen table in the common room, Bianca swinging her legs beneath the chair, humming to herself as she colored, blissfully unaware.
We believe we have found a way to reverse the spell.
Preliminary tests indicate a high probability of success.
We are confident we can return the child to her proper time.
Ever since then, something in Theo had gone quiet.
Not angry. Not cruel. Just… withdrawn. As if he’d folded inward, brick by careful brick, building walls he refused to name. He spoke less. Smiled less. When Bianca reached for him, he held her a little tighter, a little longer—like he was memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against his chest.
You told yourself you understood.
Of course he was going to miss her. You were going to miss her too. Somewhere between shared breakfasts and bedtime stories, scraped knees and tangled curls, Bianca had taken root in your heart. The thought of watching her vanish—of returning to your normal lives and pretending these weeks hadn’t rewritten you—made your throat ache in a way you didn’t know how to soothe.
That night, Bianca went to bed easily.
Too easily.
She pressed a sticky kiss to your cheek, murmured something sleepy in Italian, and curled beneath her blankets without protest. No fuss. No tears. Just acceptance.
It felt like a bad omen.
Theo waited until the door clicked shut behind you before he spoke.
“What if we don’t send her back?”
You turned slowly, the words not quite registering, “What?”
“What if we keep her here,” He said, voice low and urgent, like if he spoke too loudly the idea might shatter, “What if we just—don’t go through with it. We have time with her. Real time. Why should we give that up?”
Your stomach dropped.
“Theo,” You said carefully, “What are you talking about?”
“We’re her parents,” He said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious, “And if we send her back, we’re sending her to a life where she doesn’t have a mother. At least this way—” His voice cracked, just slightly, “—at least this way she has both of us.”
“Theo—”
“I know it hasn’t been perfect,” He rushed on, stepping closer, words tumbling over each other, “But we’re learning. We can do this. We already are. You see her—she’s happy here. She’s safe.” His eyes searched yours desperately, “She doesn’t have to lose you.”
Your chest burned.
“I know we could do this,” You whispered, “I know that. But Bianca isn’t our child. Not really. No matter how badly we want her to be.”
His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” He said sharply, “To grow up without a mother. To wake up every day knowing there’s a hole in your life you’ll never fill.” His voice dropped, rough and raw, “If she stays here, she doesn’t have to lose you. Whatever it is—whatever happens to you—we can catch it early. We can fix it.”
Your vision blurred.
“If Bianca stays here,” You said, voice breaking, “the you in the future loses his daughter forever. He’s already lost his wife, Theo. Don’t make him lose his baby girl too.”
Something in him snapped.
“Screw him.” He said hoarsely.
He reached for you suddenly, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he could stop the tears if he tried hard enough. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.
“I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here,” He whispered, “Right now.”
Your sob escaped before you could stop it, fingers clutching at his sleeves like an anchor.
“Theo,” You breathed, “you know as well as I do… she isn’t meant to be here.”
He sucked in a breath—and this time, he couldn’t hold it back.
The sob tore out of his chest, raw and broken, his grip tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“Don’t make me give you up, (Y/N),” He choked, voice collapsing on your name, “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you too.”
His forehead stayed pressed to yours as his shoulders shook, grief and fear and want spilling out all at once. He wasn’t just pleading for Bianca.
He was pleading for you.
For the life he’d tasted and already couldn’t bear to lose.
And you held him there, crying quietly into his collar, knowing that love—no matter how real—was not enough to change fate.
The second Theo entered the hospital wing, every instinct in his body screamed the same reckless, impossible thing.
Grab you. Grab Bianca. Apparate.
Disappear so completely that no one would ever find you again.
His mother had family in Italy—old blood, old names, people who still believed hospitality was sacred. They would open their doors. They would help you. They would protect you.
How hard could it be, really, to end up on their doorstep with a frightened child and a woman he loved?
Too easy.
Too selfish.
You didn’t even look at him when the thought flickered across his face. You simply squeezed Bianca’s hand and guided her forward, gentle but firm. You knew if you looked back at him, you would be all to convinced to leave together.
Theo swallowed hard, the bitterness rising sharp and ugly in his throat.
All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was for the three of you to be happy. Together. Why was that such an impossible thing to ask for? Why did it feel like the universe kept dangling it just close enough for him to taste before ripping it away?
He knew the truth, even if it tore him apart.
Bianca belonged with his older self.
The man who chose to have her.
The man who could protect her.
The man who could stay.
But she was his daughter too—damn it. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. And the thought of letting her go felt like carving something vital out of his chest.
You knelt in front of Bianca, pulling her into a tight embrace. You kissed her forehead, whispered words she couldn’t possibly understand, and said as little as you could. Her fingers were small and warm in yours, but they grew slick with sweat as she glanced around at the unfamiliar adults. She tightened her grip, grounding herself the only way she knew how, holding onto you like she could anchor the moment in place.
Theo watched, throat burning.
Then he knelt too.
He’d done it a thousand times—tying her shoes, wiping tears from her cheeks, crouching to her level when he needed her attention—but this time his knees hit the stone floor harder than usual. Pain flared and vanished, eclipsed by something far worse. His hands trembled as they came up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing over her skin slowly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the exact warmth of her.
“Hey.” He said softly.
His voice cracked immediately.
He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, and tried again, “Bambina.” (Little one)
Her eyes lifted to his.
Just like yours—wide, glassy, endlessly deep. Like looking into a pool of pearlescent ink that reflected too much truth.
“Ti vedrò presto, amore.” He said gently, brushing a curl back from her face. (I’ll see you soon, love.)
“Le cose saranno un po’ diverse…” His breath hitched, “Ma devi avere pazienza, va bene? Andrà tutto bene.” (Things will be a little different… but you need to be patient, okay? Everything will be fine.)
Bianca studied him with grave seriousness, like she was weighing his words carefully.
Then—suddenly—her face lit up.
“Oh!” She said brightly, “Come quella volta.” (Oh! Like that time.)
Theo blinked, “Come quando?” (Like when?)
“Come quando sei andato via con la mamma.” She explained easily. (Like when you went away with Mama.)
His chest tightened, “Quando?” (When?)
“Quando siete andati in ospedale.” She continued, rocking on her feet. (When you went to the hospital.)
"E poi sei tornato a casa felice." (And then you came home with happiness.)
Theo’s breath caught violently.
The room tilted.
"Felice?" He asked quietly, feeling like hell. (Happy?)
The word felt wrong in his mouth.
A cold, sickening thought slithered into his mind.
Was he happy when you passed?
His chest tightened, panic blooming sharp and fast, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Then—
Bianca tilted her head, frowning slightly—confused by his confusion.
“Quando sei tornato con il mio fratellino, Felice.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. (When you came back with my little brother, Felice.)
The world went very, very still.
Blood rushed through Theo’s head so fast he swayed, knees locking as though a feather could knock him over.
“Tuo… fratello?” He repeated hoarsely. (Your… brother?)
She nodded, curls bouncing. “Sì.” (Yes.)
“È piccolo,” She added solemnly, “Piange tanto.” (He’s little. He cries a lot.)
The hospital.
You being sick.
Too sick to carry her.
Too sick to eat breakfast.
The reason Bianca hadn’t seemed sad.
The reason she’d been so independent.
Not because you were going to die.
But because you were making room for someone new.
Felice.
Happiness.
Everything slid into place with sickening, breathtaking clarity.
“Oh." Theo breathed.
Bianca reached up, cupping his cheek with her small, warm hand.
“Non piangere, papà,” She whispered. (Don’t cry, Papa.)
He hadn’t even realized he was crying until that moment.
Salazar—this was mortifying. Breaking down like this. In front of professors. In front of you. In front of a three-year-old.
And yet—he couldn’t stop.
Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrestrained.
Because now he knew.
He would be happy.
He would love you.
And you would love him back.
You would build a life together. Two children. Maybe more. A family so warm and whole that Bianca would speak of it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His children would never have to imagine a future without their mother.
He would never have to watch them grow up with that hollow ache he’d carried his entire life.
He would never have to watch you get sick, watch you leave this world, leaving him alone to raise your daughter, the last remaining memory of you.
Theo pulled Bianca into his chest, holding her like he could imprint the feeling into his bones—her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart.
“Ti amo.” He choked, “Ti amo tantissimo.” (I love you so, so much.)
Her arms wrapped around his neck—fierce and small.
You stared at the pair of them, heart aching, mind reeling. You felt for Theo—deeply—but shock quickly overtook sympathy.
Because between the two of them, you had absolutely not expected him to be the one crying.
“…Wait,” You said slowly. “What’s going on?”
Bianca turned her head as best she could while still buried against Theo’s chest.
“Papa says he loves me, mamma,” She announced cheerfully, “You’re too slow these days.”
Both of you froze.
“…You speak English?” You and Theo said in unison.
bonus:
The room was finally quiet.
Bianca was gone—sent back to a future that suddenly felt more real than the present—and Theo’s bedroom felt too large without her small presence filling it. The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across the sheets in pale silver bands. You lay on your side facing Theo, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm resting loosely around your waist.
Theo was on the cusp of sleep, just as he had been for the past hour, but your incessant thinking refused to let him go.
“But if Bianca hadn’t come back,” You murmured, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, “we would’ve just… gone on with our lives.”
He hummed softly, half-asleep but listening, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes into your side.
“And we wouldn’t have fallen in love,” You continued, the words tumbling out faster now, like if you didn’t say them you’d drown in them, “And if we didn’t fall in love, she wouldn’t exist. Which means she wouldn’t be able to come back and make us fall in love in the first place.”
You turned your face into his chest, your voice muffled, “So at the center of the loop—at the very beginning—there had to be a version of us that fell in love and had Bianca without any intervention at all.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not empty.
Then Theo sighed, fond and exhausted and deeply amused in that way that meant he loved you too much to be irritated.
“(Y/N), my love… amore mio,” He said gently. He had taken to repeating everything in Italian after English so it would help you learn faster. You felt his chest rise as he spoke again, slower and deliberate.
“My future bride… la mia futura sposa. It is four in the morning.”
You groaned softly. “I know,” You sighed, “I just… I miss her.”
His arm tightened around you, grounding and warm, “Me too.”
For a moment, that was all there was—breathing, moonlight, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, the two of you were happy and whole.
Then Theo shifted.
You felt it before you saw it: the subtle slide of his hand, warm fingers sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt like he thought you wouldn’t notice.
“Say the word, dolcezza,” He murmured, his voice dipping into something unmistakably dangerous, “and I’ll bring her back to us.”
You slapped his hand away without even looking.
“It is four in the morning.” You said flatly.
He chuckled, low and unapologetic, eyes still closed like this was all part of his master plan, “Italiano, per favore.”
You hesitated, “Um… sono...sono le… una, due, tre, quattro… quattro del mattino?” (Um...it's....one, two three, four....four in the morning?)
“Perfetta,” He said smugly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Your accent is getting better.”
bonus bonus teehee:
The front door closed with a quiet, final click behind you.
For a moment, you just stood there.
The house felt different somehow—too still, like it had been holding its breath. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The sofa. The stairs. The framed photos waiting to be filled with memories that hadn’t happened yet.
Home.
You looked down at the bundle in your arms, your baby boy wrapped in impossibly soft blankets, his face pink and sleepy and perfect. Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they were coming.
Theo stepped in behind you, arms full—hospital bags slung over his shoulders, a car seat awkwardly balanced against his hip. He froze when he saw your face.
“Hey.” He murmured gently.
You turned, blinking hard, then leaned into him anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—slow, grounding, full of everything you didn’t have words for. Then you kissed Felice’s tiny forehead, breathing him in like you’d been afraid he might disappear.
“Bentornato a casa, piccolo,” You whispered, voice shaking, “This is where you’re going to grow up.” (Welcome home, baby boy)
Theo swallowed, eyes shining. He reached out, brushing one finger over Felice’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.
And then—
“MAMMA!”
Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Bianca came flying into the hallway, curls bouncing wildly, socks half-slipping off her feet. Mattheo, her godfather, was right behind her, laughing and reaching out uselessly like he could actually stop her.
“Bianca—piano, piano!” He called, “Slow down—!”
Theo reacted instantly.
He dropped the bags without a second thought and scooped Bianca up mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground just before she could crash straight into you. She shrieked with laughter as he spun her once, relief spilling out of him in a dozen breathless kisses pressed to her cheeks, her temple, her nose.
You watched them with a soft, aching smile.
Your heart lurched at the sight of your baby girl in his arms—hair wild, eyes bright, whole and glowing with excitement. You had missed her more than you’d allowed yourself to admit during the last few days. Every quiet moment in the hospital had carried the echo of her laughter, the absence of her small weight climbing into your lap.
You had been waiting eagerly to acquaint your children.
Theo had insisted it was better this way. Better for your recovery, better that you didn’t have to juggle between children so soon. He’d been gentle but unmovable about it, the same way he’d been your entire pregnancy—this one and Bianca’s.
At the first sign of discomfort, he’d been apparating you straight to the hospital wing or summoning your healer for a home visit without hesitation. You’d teased him once that your obstetrician must be thoroughly sick of him by now.
But judging by the way Theo paid—promptly, generously, without ever blinking—and by the fine silk scarf and expensive purse he’d gifted the healer who brought both of his children into the world, you suspected annoyance was the last thing they felt.
If anything, they were probably fond of him.
“Hey—hey—hey,” He murmured into her hair, “Careful, amore mio. Papà’s got you.”
Theo finally stopped spinning, still holding Bianca securely against his chest. He pressed one last kiss into her curls and rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.
And you realized, with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness—
And despite the 36 hours of grueling labor, you realized that, for this man, you would do it all again in a heartbeat.
Theo shifted Bianca onto one hip, still holding her tight as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter softened into a happy hum as she curled into him, arms looped around his neck.
Then her eyes finally landed on you.
On the bundle in your arms.
“Mamma?” She whispered, voice suddenly small.
You felt your throat close instantly.
“Vieni qui, amore,” You murmured, smiling through the sting behind your eyes, “Piano, va bene?” (Come here, love. Easy, okay?)
Theo crouched, keeping Bianca safely lifted as he guided her closer, one protective hand braced at her back. Mattheo lingered a few steps behind, unusually quiet, waiting for the family to have their moment.
Bianca leaned forward, peering into the soft folds of the blanket.
The baby stirred, tiny fingers flexing, lips puckering in a half-sleepy frown.
Her gasp was barely a sound.
“È… piccolo,” She breathed, "He's smaller than me."
Theo huffed out a soft laugh, eyes glassy.
You tilted Felice just enough so she could see his face properly. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second—dark, unfocused, brand new.
Bianca’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach out, then froze mid-air.
“Posso?” She asked, glancing up at you for permission. (Can I?)
“Yes,” You whispered, “Gently.”
Felice shifted again, a soft sound leaving him, and Bianca’s eyes went impossibly wide.
"He spoke to me." She gasped.
Theo pressed his lips together hard, eyes shining as he bent to kiss the side of Bianca’s head, then yours. His free hand came up to cradle you, thumb stroking slow, careful circles like he was afraid the moment might shatter.
“This,” he said quietly, voice thick, “is Felice, your little brother.”
Bianca straightened immediately.
“Felice,” She repeated, testing the name. Then she smiled, bright and sure, “Ciao, Felice. Io sono Bianca.”
The baby slept on, oblivious.
Mattheo cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes like something had gotten in them, "Merlin, enough to make a grown man cry."
And standing there in the doorway of your home, with laughter in the air and your children between you, you knew—
This was it.
This was the life Bianca had promised.
Happy.
bonus bonus BONUS scene for my patient babies:
The one thing about living in Italy was that you missed the company.
Not the weather, not the food—certainly not the wine—but them. The loud, sharp-edged comfort of people who knew you before the life you’d built now. The friends who felt less like friends and more like family, forged in dungeons and late nights and shared survival.
The friends you’d left behind at Hogwarts.
You thanked every higher power you could think of that Mattheo had moved here a few years after Bianca was born. It softened the ache. Made the distance feel survivable.
And now—now that it was Bianca’s sixth birthday, the first child in the entire group to hit that milestone—the rest of them had descended to Italy like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Thank goodness Slytherins were rich.
Draco and Blaise were already deep in conversation near the terrace doors, voices low and animated, catching up like no time had passed at all. Lorenzo and Mattheo, meanwhile, had somehow been tricked—lured, really—into assembling Bianca’s princess castle in the middle of the sitting room.
That would teach them to bring gifts that required instructions.
Bianca hovered nearby like a general overseeing her troops, crown slightly askew, offering entirely unhelpful instructions. Felice, on the other hand, had claimed the discarded wrapping paper as his own, even though his uncles had been kind enough to bring presents for him as well.
Instead, he toddled around the sitting room, triumphantly dragging the empty box the princess castle had come in behind him, until Theo scooped him up at the last second—saving him from the scattered screws as Mattheo struggled to put the thing together.
Theo hovered near you like a shadow, as he always did these days. One hand rested habitually—possessively—against the small of your back, grounding, warm. The other balanced Felice on his hip, your son’s face still slightly sticky with cake frosting as he played absently with the little tie you’d put him in today.
Then the front doors flew open.
“MISS ME, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS?”
Pansy Parkinson’s voice sliced clean through the manor.
Theo barely had time to turn before she was already there—flinging her coat into Draco’s arms without looking, heels clicking furiously across the marble floor. Her eyes found you instantly.
Her face lit up.
“Oh my God—” She started, already smiling—
Then she stopped.
Her gaze dropped.
Paused.
Lifted.
Dropped again.
You barely had time to blink before—
SMACK.
Theo yelped, jerking back, hand flying to his arm, “What the hell—?!”
Pansy rounded on him like a woman possessed, “Can you PLEASE stop climbing on top of this poor woman?”
You laughed helplessly, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.
Theo stared at her, scandalized, “Excuse you—”
“Salazar’s balls,” Pansy cut in, eyes wild, “How many children are you planning on having? Fancy your own Quidditch team, do you?!”
“How many children we decide to have is none of you—”
“And she is not an oven to keep popping out your buns,” Pansy said sweetly, patting his shoulder like she was doing him a favor, “Control yourself.”
Theo spluttered, “It’s not like I could carry them myself, now could I?!”
“You’re a wizard,” She snapped back, “I think you could figure it out!”
You tried—tried—to regain control, “Pansy—”
She turned on a dime, expression melting instantly as she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a careful hug.
“Oh, come here,” She murmured, “Look at you. Absolutely glowing.”
You laughed against her shoulder.
“I get it,” She added thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you again, “If I were Theo, I’d be filling you up with kids too.”
Theo opened his mouth.
SMACK.
“Do not.” Pansy warned.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Absolutely breathtakingly beautiful as usual. Oh god all the bonus scenes breathed life into me, I had the theory that reader wasn’t dying and was prego since Bianca said ‘sick’ but I have trust issues. I love you author 🥰😘
♡ SUMMARY: your boyfriend, Tom, can't make you come. good that you know someone who can—and just so happens to be his brother and your ex, Mattheo.
♡ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. cheating. Tom girlies, close your eyes while reading. lack of aftercare, emotional distance, sexual frustration, reader searches for comfort and finds it, nipple play, LOTS of kissing, teasing, dryhumping, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight overstimulation, praise, possessiveness, soft sex turned rough, religious themes hinted (nothing major), creampie, cum play, DISGUSTING bonus ending pls don't judge me.
♡ AUTHOR'S NOTE: what day is today? a good day to post a fic like this. <33
wordcount: 4,0k
Your first knock is quiet, careful, measured. Still, you flinch. In contrast to the eerily silent corridors, it’s a sharp, loud sound, slicing through the night like a deadly curse, sending a shiver down your spine—sealing the fate you’ve chosen for yourself at last.
Your legs tremble—although it’s April and officially spring, a chilly breeze sweeps along the castle’s thick walls, having you shrink into your woolly cardigan and abandon the confident expression you practiced in the mirror just before you left.
Seconds pass, seconds in which your heart hammers wildly against your ribcage, as though attempting to break free—mind like body, you suppose. You listen closely, but no sound comes from behind the thick oak door of his dorm. A weird, silly feeling expands in your chest, clawing its way up your throat.
And silly, it is—seeking out your ex, your boyfriend’s brother—in the middle of the night after Tom fell asleep beside you.
You are well aware that this is wrong. That you shouldn’t do it, should leave your past behind you, once and for all. Should cuddle up to your boyfriend instead and shove these insistent, mourning feelings to the very back of your mind.
Today, though, you couldn’t help yourself. Not any longer—aroused and aching, slick between your thighs. Restless with the need to come, to release your pent-up frustration, which has been building for months now.
In truth, Tom is a good lover—great even. What he does, he does well. He just never does quite enough.
Again, you should not let your thoughts stray this far. Not under any circumstances. But... with Mattheo, it felt different. Intimacy felt like a special connection you shared, both of you at your most vulnerable, and yet you never once felt unsafe in his arms.
You felt cherished and loved, and now—with Tom, it feels distant. It feels as though being intimate with him is a chore, a necessity to keep your relationship above water when otherwise it’s drowning.
Most of the time, he does not even bother kissing you, reassuring you, or encouraging you. It’s so shallow, you have never gotten to experience an orgasm with him. And he does not ask, either. When he is done, you are too. Left wanting as he turns around and dozes off—leaving you to your thoughts. Thoughts, which often include his brother, and, in the end, help you reach your high too—on your own.
If anything, though, you feel ashamed. You left Mattheo for Tom for a reason. You sought maturity and responsibility—and found just that with Tom. He’s ambitious, has his goals set, and is hardworking.
You found stability but, in exchange, traded love and affection.
Still, you chose this path for yourself. You are well aware, all things considered, Tom provides the traits you’ve wanted in a partner and has never denied you assistance with school-related work. Has been there for you and been a great companion.
You should’ve never left his dorm tonight.
And for a moment, you consider turning around. You consider returning to your bed, which has most likely cooled out by now, and try to be the girlfriend Tom expects you to be, deserves you to be.
Another moment passes, and you blink the tears that have gathered at your waterline away.
You are so unhappy. So desperate for a gentle touch that finally—
You knock again. Harder. Louder. Please open, you whisper into the darkness of the night, the words forming a misty cloud in the chilly air surrounding you. Please, Mattheo. I need you.
This time, a low groan—unmistakably Mattheo’s—rumbles from inside, and a second later, footsteps near the door.
The lock turns, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
The door opens just wide enough that he can peek outside—and yet, the mere presence of him spreads instant heat throughout your body, warming you from the inside.
His chocolate-brown eyes take no longer than a split moment to recognise your face, prying the door open further.
“What are you—” his eyes rake over your body, not suggestively, but observingly. When he realises you are wearing nothing more than thin satin pyjamas, he takes hold of your wrist and pulls you inside.
Mattheo switches on a small lamp, and it’s then when you are able to see each other properly that worry wipes the soft smile clean from his face.
“Are you all right? Has something happened?” He asks quietly, insinuating—his eyes darting between you and the door.
Even after all this time, he is still more worried about you than his own brother. Mattheo has always prioritised your safety over anything else, and the realisation makes your heart hurt. Tears finally spill, and you sniffle, turning away from him.
Mattheo gathers you in his arms then, wrapping them around you gently, protectively, letting you calm down. His hand smooths over your hair, brushing his fingers along your spine and whispering soothing words near your ear.
As soon as you calm yourself, you reluctantly part from the comforting warmth of his body, his thumb wiping away the moisture that has gathered on your cheek as his brown eyes, full of worry, gaze down at you.
And then, when he sits you down on his bed, you spill your heart out to him.
Everything you’ve been holding in for months leaves your lips, and with every sentence, your soul feels lighter. It feels as though your pain transfers to him—his eyes growing darker as minutes pass, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists beside him.
When you are done, there’s a long, agonising silence. So long and uncomfortable, you question whether it was the right decision to let him in on this.
But Mattheo—Mattheo only pulls you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you just as he did before. No judgement, no questions. Just quiet understanding and comfort.
After his lips brush a kiss on the top of your head, he reluctantly lets go of you. His eyes bore into yours, with an intensity and emotion you aren’t sure you can handle coming from him.
“Why?” he asks, quietly—but there is no trace of malice in his tone. “Why didn’t you come sooner? I could have— maybe I could have done something.”
You shake your head. “Being here right now is a mistake, Mattheo, and you know it. I shouldn’t have shared this with you, let alone come to sit on your bed. Tom is asleep, I should— God, I should leave.”
“Is that what you want?” he asks, curling a finger beneath your chin and tilting your head up, urging you to look at him. God, his eyes. The warmth of a crackling fireplace, intertwined with the sweetness of dark honey, staring down at you.
No, I don’t, you want to reply, but the words do not form on your tongue—still, your lips part, though for a different reason entirely.
The sheer proximity of him wipes reason from your every thought, and when his face inches closer, you don’t dare stop him.
Instead, you allow the relationship with Tom to drown, pulling yourself back above water in the same moment and sucking in the first breath of fresh oxygen in what feels like months.
When his lips brush over yours in a gentle, encouraging motion—as though he’s giving you a trial, a promise of what’s about to come—you don’t pull away. You whimper but reciprocate his invitation, and that is enough for Mattheo to deepen the kiss. He’s holding you close, one hand at the nape of your neck, the other resting just above your jaw, drawing soft patterns on your cheek with his thumb.
When he eases back, he swipes it over your lips, and you whimper again—but Mattheo pulls away, taking a moment to look at you—confirming by your hazed expression that yes, you do want this. That you need this just as badly as he does.
And then, your back hits the mattress, and Mattheo’s mouth is on yours again, more feral and hungry than before, while he’s hovering above you between your spread legs. His hands are on your shoulders this time, and with the tip of his finger, he traces along your collarbone, revealed by the V-cut of your pyjama top. He follows the seam downwards, and you can’t help but offer yourself to him, arching your back to encourage him for more, whimpering into the kiss.
God, how Mattheo has missed this. You, obediently spread out beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, drawing the sweetest sounds from your swollen lips, which send a concerning amount of blood rushing straight to his already semi-hard dick.
All the while, your brain is screaming more, more, more, but all he’s giving you is barely-there touches, kisses that nearly make you beg for more.
In reality, Mattheo wishes to devour you—but after all these months, not knowing whether he’ll ever get another chance—he's savouring you. Slow, deliberate affection, just like you deserve, not rushing you through it.
His hips brush your thigh, and fuck—you nearly forgot what it feels to be desired—genuinely desired. He’s pressed up tight, trailing heated kisses down your neck, slowly undoing the buttons at the front of your shirt—rocking his growing erection against you, subconsciously so.
His fingers carefully peel the satin aside, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple, and you gasp at the sensation. Never in all those months—
“Poor thing. So frustrated, hm?” Mattheo rasps, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “So frustrated, even the smallest touch makes you writhe. God, whatever shall I do with you?”
More. Touch me. Please.
“Mattheo,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his brown curls. “I—”
But he doesn’t let you finish your sentence.
“Let me show you— please, let me show you how you should be loved. Let me make you forget about him, sweetheart. Let me make you mine again.”
His lips trail a path of kisses along your sternum, down your tummy, halting briefly at the hem of your shorts, his eyes longingly gazing up at yours from below, a silent question swirling in the depths of them.
Yes. I need this. I need you.
As if he heard your thoughts, his fingers hook into the material of the only fabric still covering you, gently tugging it down your thighs alongside your panties.
“This is a bad idea,” you try again, huskily, but there is no sincerity behind your words. He merely shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curving into a playful smirk. He knows you are lying. And when his thumb finds your clit—swollen, begging for attention, drawing slow, torturous circles over it—you don’t tell him to stop, no. You chase his touch, angle your hips to offer more of yourself, revealing more of your glistening pussy to his hungry eyes.
Even in the dim light emitted from the lamp in the corner of his dorm, Mattheo can see your arousal—and subsequently can’t help but dip his thumb lower, collecting some of what has gathered at your entrance. He makes you watch when he brings it to his mouth and licks it clean, groans when he tastes you on himself.
As though you were the forbidden fruit no man dares to touch—but if it’s for you, Mattheo doesn’t care. Doesn't care if he fucking burns for it. You will be his damnation, even after all this time.
“Oh— oh God, Mattheo, this is— so perfect, but such a bad idea.”
“Bad idea?” he repeats, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “You know what a bad idea is? Leaving you to yourself like this—soaked and so. fucking. sensitive.”
The worst part is that he is right. And that you have wanted nothing more than for someone to take care of you, to pleasure you as you do them.
Your mind is hazy with lust, with the need to come, and you give yourself the last push, shoving any remaining thoughts of Tom into the take-care-of-it-later folder of your mind.
Then, your lips part, Mattheo studying you intently. “Please, touch me. Make me feel good. Make me yours again.”
Mattheo’s mind efficiently shuts off after he takes in those words and repeats them around five times in his mind to make sure he understood you right.
Hell, he won't let any second go to waste.
He presses one last kiss to the inside of your knee, then grabs your thighs and spreads them apart, far enough for him to fit in between. He’s feral—almost as feral as you are. His head dips, tongue delving between your folds, gathering the moisture seeping from your entrance and bringing it to your clit before his lips wrap around it effortlessly. And God, months without this kind of affection have made you overly sensitive. This feels as close to heaven as a mortal may reach in their lifetime—and you force your eyes open to watch him, watch your ruination.
You study him intently as he pleasures you, as though it’s the very thing he was made for, as though there is not a single thing he’d rather do. And there most likely isn’t.
Seeing him like this—fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, moaning against your pussy, savouring your taste on his tongue—has molten heat form in your lower stomach, and the familiar, yet almost forgotten tingles spread throughout your entire body, having you grab and tug on his curls, press him more firmly against you.
Mattheo licks, sucks, drags his tongue through the mess between your folds, fucks you with his tongue, and is so fucking vocal about it. Praises you, encourages you.
“Good girl. So fucking good for me,” he nearly growls, spreading your legs impossibly wider. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? Just needed me between those pretty fuckin’ thighs, making you remember how good it can feel, hm?”
You don’t answer. Can't answer when he flicks his tongue against your sensitive clit, kisses it, and sucks it between his lips again.
You are about to come. God, you are about to come, and you don’t think you have ever felt this fucking good.
Don't stop, please, don’t stop.
He doesn’t stop. His hands leave your thighs, one of them intertwining with your own, reassuring you that he’s here to catch you when you let go, the other dipping lower, coating two of his fingers in your slick before he presses them against your entrance and pushes inside ever so slowly.
“Come, pretty girl. Come all over my face like I fucking taught you.”
Mattheo curls his fingers right against that sensitive spot inside you, and you don’t have any other choice but to follow his order even if you so wished.
His teeth graze your clit, fingers pumping deep, encouraging you with a low groan—and the vibrations of it finally send you over the edge. A broken moan slips past your lips—swollen from biting into them—and your fingers fist his hair tighter, thighs clamping around his head as stars dance in front of your eyes. You shake, you sob, and as your climax rips through you, so violently you think you may actually skip the dying part and ascend straight to heaven—he is there. He holds you, he praises you, and most importantly, doesn’t stop. Not until he’s drained every last drop of pleasure and you whimper due to the sensitivity.
Brushing one last soft kiss to your clit, he sits up, taking in your spent form with pure satisfaction.
He looks gorgeous like this. Chin soaked with both his spit and your arousal, lips swollen and reddened, hair a mess. In that moment, you realise you’ve missed him more than you thought. Not just because he always puts you first, but because he’s genuine with his feelings, careful with his words, and gentle with his affection.
“Fuck,” Mattheo exhales a long breath, a grin spreading on his face. “You did amazing. So fucking good, just like I remember.”
You whisper something in that sweet, velvety voice, and Mattheo doesn’t quite catch it but leans down to kiss you again anyway. You taste yourself on his lips and can’t help but lose yourself in the feeling of it.
Now, that the bliss of your high is slowly fading, you are feeling courageous. More than.
You reach between the two of you to palm his erection through his underwear, and his lips still against yours for a moment—but then, a wicked grin lets them curve upwards, and he lets them crash against yours again—coaxing you, making you feel bold.
With your hands on his strong shoulders, you finally circle his waist with your legs, and you can’t help but grind against him. Dragging your soaked pussy over his erection, still covered by the annoying piece of fabric he hasn’t bothered taking off yet.
Mattheo growls, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
He is holding back.
Reluctantly, you drop your head on the pillow beneath you, staring up at him, your palm brushing over his cheek affectionately.
“Mattheo, I want you— I want you inside me, please.”
Fuck, he thinks. You don’t know what you are asking from him. Once he feels your warmth around him, there is no fucking way he’ll ever let you leave again. No fucking way. And you are asking so sweetly, having come all this way here to pour your heart out to him—you deserve a reward.
His underwear is discarded somewhere on the floor, and not too long after, his toned body is framing yours, his hard cock dragging over your cunt as he slowly works his hips against your own.
“Please,” you whimper, and he adjusts himself just slightly, allowing his length to slip between your glistening folds. With every oh-so-gentle thrust, his weeping tip bumps against your still overly sensitive clit, and your nails claw at his back, moaning his name. Anything to get him to lose his patience.
You fucking need this.
“Mattheo. Please, I am begging you. You are my only, please let me have this.”
He curses under his breath, and yet, he straightens himself, hand beneath your neck to make you look at just how hard and needy he is for you. You moan at the sight of his soaked cock, caused by both your and his own arousal.
“Watch us when I push inside you. Watch how pretty you look when you take me.”
His hand fists your hair at the back of your head, supporting you—and then, with a throaty groan, the head of his cock slips past your entrance, having you both gasp at the same time. He's going slow—savouring every inch as you both watch him disappear inside your slick walls, pussy clenching tightly around the welcome invasion.
“So— so good, fuck, Mattheo— more, please, more.”
You think you hear something along the lines of “greedy fucking girl" before he lowers your head, braces his arms on either side of your face, and then drives home. All the fucking way, until the head of him nudges against your cervix, and you shriek in both pleasure and pain.
And Merlin help you, you want more. Harder, rougher. Give me all of you, Mattheo, your eyes damn near beg.
But he—he already looks fucking broken. Like the porcelain doll your grandmother displayed on her windowsill, with tiny cracks all over her once perfect exterior. They did not make her any less gorgeous, though—if anything, she looked like someone loved her properly.
And you love Mattheo, too. You’ve left your marks on him, on his soul, having him panting and breathing and moaning above you, thrusting so slowly, so carefully, you might as well tell him to break you too.
Your legs tighten around him. Encouragement. Please, please, don’t hold back.
Mattheo breathes out a pained whimper, meeting your eyes.
“I won’t— sweetheart, I won’t last long like this, fuck. It's been— been a while.”
Oh God.
You shouldn’t ask this. Hell, your mind should stay put for just once. Don't let your thoughts wander. But you ask nonetheless. “How— how long?”
“Nine months.”
You ended things between you nine months ago.
“Oh God, Mattheo. Don’t tell me—”
He nods. He nods, kisses you slowly and desperately, and then looks at you with an expression so close to hurt, you wish you had never asked.
“I want you. I only ever want you. And if I can’t have you, then I—”
“Mattheo— hey, look at me,” you shush him, cradling his face in your hands. “You have me. All of me. I belong to you, just as much as you belong to me. I was stupid not to realise it. I am yours. All yours, from now until the end of time.”
“Hmph—” he whimpers, increasing his pace, hips snapping against yours furiously, knocking the air from your lungs with every harsh thrust.
“Fuck, baby. Don’t say those things when I— when I am so—” he groans, a crease forming between his brows, concentrating. His cock twitches inside you, and it’s the only confirmation you need.
“Give it to me. Please. I need you. All of you. I need this.”
His thrusts grow erratic, deeper and rougher just as he knows you love it, and it takes everything in him to hold back. Hold back just a little longer to get you where he needs you.
He knows. He remembers. After all these months, he remembers, knows your body better than you do. Better than anyone—including Tom—ever could. Because they don’t care. But he does. Mattheo does and always has cared about your pleasure, your safety, your comfort. About you.
“Fuck, you are strangling me, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck—
You only nod, breathing heavily, just like him. And then, his thumb is back on your clit, drawing perfectly tight circles around it, all while locking his eyes with you.
“Tell me,” he rasps, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who does this wet, tight pussy belong to? Hm?”
Lord, you haven’t been to a confessional in ages, but perhaps it’s time to visit one some time soon. Very soon.
“It’s yours, Mattheo— fuck, it’s all yours,” you cry out, scratching his back as he slams into you, growling at your confession. His hips stutter just as you lose yourself in the bliss of a second, even better and more wrecking climax than the first. Only through the thick, hazy clouds enveloping your every sane thought do you feel as he empties himself inside of you, gently letting his body collapse on top of yours afterwards, sucking in deep breaths.
The waves of your pleasure almost drown you, but when you calm down, you reemerge, unharmed, feeling blissfully satisfied—brushing your fingertips along his spine, soothing him the same way he did with you.
What does not reemerge is your relationship with Tom.
And it won’t. Never again. You are home, and you are happy. You are exactly where you want to be.
In your lover's arms—in Mattheo’s arms.
・・・
bonus ending because I’m feeling myself today:
“No. Off. Keep those off,” Mattheo drawls from his side of the bed, arms tucked beneath his head as he watches you get dressed the next morning, nodding towards your panties just as you are about to step into them.
“Mattheo,” you warn him, but he gestures you over with one hand, sitting up on the bed.
You do as he says for once, intrigued by the sudden change in his expression. He gently, carefully kisses you when you stop at the edge of the bed and then smiles at you.
“Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he purrs, and reluctantly, you do.
Mattheo’s fingers dip between your folds, coating them with your combined arousal of the previous night, now beginning to drip out of you. You hiss, sore, but lean into his touch anyway—though he withdraws as quickly as he began, bringing his glistening fingers to your lips.
You open them, but he shakes his head.
Instead, he draws an M on your lips, smirking when he admires his work.
“For when you kiss him good morning. One last time.”
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
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masterlist. | oneshots.
slytherin boys texts! ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 lyrics prank ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 A/N: listened to this song today and remembered how people used to prank their friends with the lyrics so i immediately thought about our boys ☺️☺️
masterlist
i genuinely feel like a toxic ex with all my disappearing and coming back and empty promises… i apologise for the 151625267th time 😔🙏 #runitback
DUDAA HII 😽😽 your latest fic literally gave me such a big brain idea!! imagine if reader had a baby sister or brother and theo was over for the first time☹️ like imagine how cute reader would look just playing or getting food for their sibling and theo’s literally just like “yeah. yeah that confirms that you’re going to have my kids now”
theodore nott's first baby fever.
theodore hadn’t thought about having children until this very moment.
kids were a distant notion for the boy who had watched the life bleed from his mother’s green eyes, her death dealt by his father’s wand. he would forever remember that doomed tuesday—playing with her one last time in the morning, and realizing, by late afternoon, that she would never play with him again. add to that the abusive, suffocating control that christian nott kept over him until the war ended and azkaban turned his new home, and theodore became absolutely certain he would make as despicable of a father as his own had been.
children weren’t his dream. not by a long shot.
however, that changed when he met your parents for the first time, one month after the war ended. he was hesitant—the dark mark still throbbed on his forearm, and he feared what your parents might see when they looked at him—but you insisted he should go. you told him that now that the world stopped burning, you had realized how brief life could be, and you didn’t want to waste any more of it between him and his future in-laws that might someday become his family. with your bright eyes, soft lips, and sweet voice begging him to go, theodore simply couldn’t say no, even if his brain alarmed him not to—terrified your parents would get the wrong impression of him.
or at least, as wrong an impression as his appearance suggested. your parents condemned voldemort's ideals with the same vehemence you did, and, well—having a boyfriend with a bloody dark mark on his arm wasn’t exactly what they had envisioned for you.
but theodore saw you had really told him the truth when you said you had already explained to your parents that he had been a death eater, but one who had been forced into the ranks by his father’s brute cruelty. even so, nothing prepared him for your mother’s warm embrace, nor for the soft confession that she admired his strength, neither for when your father shook his hand in a way that told him everything he needed to know: he did not disapprove him.
not completely, at least.
but none of that came close to preparing him for your sister.
she was small. the little girl—three years old at most—had your eyes and hair, like a pocket-sized version of you, but plump, chubby and soft. from an armchair in your living room, he watched you play with her on the carpeted floor. you kissed her, hugged her, made silly voices that coaxed the toddler to laugh with every bit of air in her tiny lungs, and more than once, theodore caught himself smiling.
you did all of it so effortlessly.
you fed her with a hot-pink spoon, making an annoying airplane noise she adored.
you covered her chubby cheeks with kisses dramatically until she erupted in giggles.
you changed her disgusting diaper without even wrinkling your nose.
you detangled her hair with gentleness.
you crouched down to speak to her at eye level.
he was fascinated.
he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, what things might have been like if circumstances were different—if this child were the fruit of your love. if his hands weren’t so stained with blood to hold a pure little baby. if he didn’t carry a past that clung to him like an obsessing spirit.
maybe he could be a good father. you would certainly be a remarkable mother.
jesus, the thought of seeing your belly swollen with a child who shared your smiles or his light brown curls, hearing a first cry while you lay on a hospital bed, weak from natural labor or asleep beneath C-section anesthesia... even the image of him holding your hair back while you vomited through the nausea of the first trimester felt… strangely sweet.
and that’s the moment theodore knew he wanted it.
he wanted you to be the mother of his child—children, if you wished them. he wanted to teach them all the good things he had learned from phoena—italian, the comfort of his country’s cuisine, special spells hogwarts would never teach—and be the best father those kids could ever dream of. he would protect them and keep them far from grandfather’s reach but close to their grandmother’s memory. he’d tell them how brave their mommy truly was, and recount—softened into fairy-tale versions—all the situations you faced during the wizarding war. he’d kiss you in front of them just to make them jealous; a girl and a boy, perhaps. or two boys. or two girls. it didn’t matter.
he just wanted them. he wanted you, and the life that could bloom from you. once again, without really meaning to, you had revealed a gentler piece of him to himself.
theodore watched you play with your tiny sister, still sitting on the armchair, a wide smile blooming every time he heard her giggles and babbled words. “can i hold her?” he asked, uncertainty glinting beneath his italian accent.
you looked at him with love and a smile as wide as your lips could stretch. you knew theodore held a deep reservation about children, always seeing himself as too brutish, too monstrous to be anywhere near those little angels. you disagreed fiercely.
and when you placed your sister in his arms and she looked at him with curiosity, her doe eyes sparkling at the new human in front of her, you watched another layer of the inner frost inside him crack open, letting through the kindest, warmest heat. his smile when she wrapped her entire little fist around his finger was so wide his cheeks actually seemed to ache.
you watched, live and in color, a new idea of future fatherhood silently take shape in theo; and it was probably the most beautiful sight you had ever witnessed in your entire life.
