Pairing: Remus Lupin x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You wake up in pain. Remus already knows.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, joint stiffness, soft remus morning care, established relationship, hurt/comfort, gentle hands and sleepy light, the balm is a love language, no use of y/n, fluff, slow quiet morning, remus knows your pain better than you do sometimes, comforting touch, reader trying to pretend they're fine, mutual care and tenderness, soft fic of sorts
Word count: 1.5k words.
The morning light is gentle—muffled by grey clouds that hang low and heavy, like the hush that fills a room before a secret is spoken. It leaks through the thin curtains in your shared bedroom, smudging soft amber across the walls, spilling over the duvet in ribbons. The air is still. Cool. Too quiet.
Remus is already awake. Has been for some time, watching the slow rise and fall of your breath beneath the covers, memorising the slope of your spine where it curls slightly away from him, the way the sheet clings to the curve of your shoulder. It's in these moments—stolen, sleepy seconds before the world fully intrudes—that he notices the quiet truths you try to tuck away.
You shift, just barely. A breath catches.
His eyes flick down. Your hands are cradled close to your chest, half-hidden beneath the sleeve of an old jumper you nicked from him months ago. The cuff is pulled over your knuckles, but not enough to mask the way your fingers curl inwards, stiff and slow. Like they're shrinking from touch. From light. From use.
You don't need to say it. Remus doesn't need to ask.
He sees it in the tiny wince you try to disguise as a yawn. The brief twitch of your jaw. The way your shoulders tense, just slightly, as if bracing for a pain you've grown far too used to. It's familiar now. This quiet, understated ache you carry like a secret. The way you pretend you're fine, hoping it might become true if you say it often enough.
Still, you smile at him when you feel his gaze. That gentle, weary sort of smile you give when you're trying to pretend it isn't as bad as it is. Your eyes flick away, feigning brightness.
"Morning," you mumble, voice rough with sleep. Your fingers barely move.
"Morning," he replies, voice low and warm. He brushes a kiss to your temple, his thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye. "Rough one?"
You shrug a shoulder, a soft, defeated motion. "Slept funny, I think. Woke up stiff. It'll pass."
"You always say that," he says quietly, brushing his fingers down your arm.
"Because it's usually true. Eventually."
"Still," he murmurs, "you shouldn't have to bear it alone."
He doesn't wait for an answer. Just rises from the bed with that quiet way of his, always like he's trying not to wake something delicate. He pads barefoot across the room, ruffling his hair with one hand. He moves like he's still half-dreaming—all soft edges and slow limbs, the way he always is in the mornings. But there's purpose to him now, too. A quiet urgency.
The bedside drawer opens with a low wooden creak. He pulls out the small jar—its label smudged from frequent use, the lid warm from always being held in his hands. Your balm. Not the fancy kind. Just something that smells faintly of lavender and mint and relief. It's nestled beside a clutter of receipts, mismatched socks, a forgotten notebook. Familiar chaos.
He sits on the edge of the bed, legs warm against yours beneath the blankets. He holds out his palms, a silent offering.
You hesitate.
Only for a second.
Then, slowly, you let him take one hand, then the other, and place them in his lap. Like they belong there. Like they were always meant to rest safely in his keeping.
"You don't have to do this every time," you say softly, eyes cast down.
"I know," he answers, already uncapping the jar. "I want to."
He warms the balm between his fingers first, rubbing it slowly until it loses its chill. And then he begins.
Thumbs pressing gently, carefully, into each joint. Circles of pressure and care. Not too hard, never too light. He knows the rhythm now. Has learned the shape of your pain like one might learn the grooves of a beloved book—finger by finger, joint by joint. Tender, steady. Reverent.
You let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding.
"That alright?" he murmurs.
"Yeah," you breathe. "Feels good."
"You always say that too," he teases gently, but there's no humour in his eyes. Just concern. Familiar and fierce.
The only sounds are the soft sigh of the sheets as you shift, the faint pop of your knuckles, the quiet exhale you let out when the worst of the ache begins to lift under his touch. The occasional rustle of his sleeve brushing yours as he moves from one finger to the next.
He watches your face the whole time. For signs. For softness. For the way your shoulders start to drop. The way your fingers slowly uncurl like flowers in weak morning light, reluctant but willing. There's patience in his movements. No rush. No pressure to perform wellness for him.
"Let me know if I press too hard," he says, eyes never leaving your hands.
"You won't," you whisper. "You never do."
His thumbs work into your knuckles, slow and firm. The balm leaves a faint sheen, catching the morning light in soft glints. The scent of lavender wraps around you both like a comfort, a quiet ward against the world. It is ritual, now. Sacred in its simplicity.
"You did this for your mum, didn't you?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He nods, not looking up. "When it got worse, yeah. Dad couldn't always be there. I was young, but she showed me what helped. I never forgot."
"You were a good son," you murmur.
"I tried to be. She was... strong. Too strong, really. Wouldn't admit when it hurt until it was obvious."
You're quiet for a moment. "She was lucky."
Remus smiles faintly, though his hands don't stop moving. "I think she would've said the same about me."
You nod, letting his words settle like warmth in your chest. The balm has loosened the tension. Your fingers don't feel quite so heavy now.
He shifts slightly to reach your other hand more comfortably. The mattress dips with the motion, and he steadies your wrist gently.
"Sometimes," you whisper, barely audible, "I hate this."
He pauses, not out of shock, but respect. "I know."
"It feels like I'm trapped in my own body. Some mornings I wake up and already wish the day was over."
He doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't offer empty promises. Just squeezes your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. "I hate it for you, too. But I'm here. For as long as you want me."
When he's done—when the balm has sunk into skin and pain, when his fingers have traced every line of effort and resistance—he lifts your hands to his mouth.
Kisses every knuckle.
One. By one. By one.
As if to say: I see you.
As if to say: You don't have to carry this alone.
As if to say: I'm here.
Your forehead touches his shoulder before you even realise you've moved. Your breath is warm against his skin.
"Thank you," you murmur, not quite looking at him.
Remus doesn't answer straightaway. He just brushes his lips across the crown of your head, lets his thumb linger on the back of your palm, and says quietly, almost absentmindedly, "Always."
A silence stretches between you, comfortable and complete. You shift a little closer, tucked beneath his arm now, head against his chest.
Then, after a beat, you add, "You didn't have to get up. I could've managed."
"Maybe," he says softly, squeezing your hand. "But you don't have to. Not when I'm here."
"You're too good to me," you murmur, voice thick with sleep and something else.
He hums. "You make it easy."
A small laugh bubbles up in your chest. Tired, but genuine. "Liar."
He grins into your hair. "Alright. A little bit. But I meant it."
You settle back into him, the morning slow and forgiving. You listen to the soft hum of the kettle from the kitchen—the old one that always clicks twice before it boils. Birds call faintly from somewhere beyond the window, and the radiator ticks as it warms. The world is waking.
"What do you fancy for breakfast?" he asks, after a while.
You blink slowly, your cheek pressed against his shirt. "Mm. Something easy. Toast, maybe."
"Jam or honey?"
"Honey. And tea."
"Good. I'll make it. Stay here."
"You really are a saint."
"Don't tell Sirius," he says with a wry smile. "He'll never let me live it down."
The room is still again. The air holds steady. And the morning, fragile and tender as it is, finally begins. The world will come knocking soon enough. But for now, there is this: warmth, and balm, and the quiet weight of love held between two pairs of hands, and the promise of tea in the next room.
Pairing: Barty Crouch x Disabled!Reader
Summary: It always hurts more when it rains. Barty can't fix that. But he can stay.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, barometric pressure flare, hurt/comfort, fluff in the aftermath, barty crouch jr being in love with you in a way he doesn't know how to say, bath as sacred ritual, no use of y/n, soft kisses and shaky hands, chronic pain storm response, reader doesn't cry but barty almost does, thunderstorm intimacy, tenderness in the chaos, you're everything
Word count: 1.7k words
The rain falls in a sudden rush, the first heavy drops slamming against the windows like small fists demanding entry. You hear it before you see it—the wind's insistent howl, the thunder's distant rumble growing louder with each passing second.
The chill is quick to follow, seeping through the cracks and crevices of the old building, wrapping around you like a spectral shroud. Your fingers twitch, the first sign of the storm brewing within your own body. It's a familiar sensation, one that sends a shiver down your spine even before the pain fully registers in your mind.
You exhale slowly, deliberately, using the breath as an anchor against the rising tide of agony. But it's no use. The pain is there, waiting, patient as a predator stalking its prey. And when it strikes, it comes not as a sharp jab but as a deep, gnawing ache that feels as though it's alive, burrowing under your skin, settling into your bones.
Your joints flare up, one by one, as if ignited by some unseen spark. Your hips, your shoulders—they burn with an intensity that rivals the lightning splitting the ink-black sky outside. It's not just pain; it's a flare-up, a surge of disease activity, a rebellion taking place within the very nerves that are supposed to serve you.
Your knuckles feel brittle, on the verge of splintering. Your spine, usually so straight and strong, now feels like a line of fire running down your back. Your knees throb, tender as bruises, while your ribs tighten, constricting around your lungs until each breath becomes a battle won by sheer force of will.
But you don't cry out. There's no need. Barty knows. He's always known.
He's in the middle of telling a story—a ridiculous tale about a Ministry worker who tried to curse his own coffee machine—when he stops. Mid-sentence. As though he senses it: the shift in your breathing, the slight change in your posture. The small twitch of your fingers that speaks volumes.
"Oh. Fuck."
The thunder rolls once more, closer this time. You close your eyes, biting down on the inside of your cheek as the bed shifts slightly beneath you. Barty is a bundle of nervous energy at the foot of your bed, watching your face like it's a puzzle he can't quite solve. He's never been good at dealing with helplessness, especially when it pertains to you. His hands twitch at his sides, his lips press into a tight line only to twist into a worried, uneven smile.
"Is it... bad?" The question hangs in the air.
You don't answer.
You never do when it's like this. But your silence is a response all its own—loud, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Barty paces, the soft shuffle of his socks against the floor marking time with your breaths. He retraces his steps, back and forth, the same worn path that has seen countless hours of worry and waiting. His mutters fill the space between you, half-formed thoughts that echo the anxiety gnawing at his gut.
"Your meds, should I grab them? Or tea? There's that heated pillow thing, too... Do you want to move? You shouldn't move, but if we could just get you—maybe if I—why does it always happen when it bloody rains—"
His words stumble over one another, tripping on their own urgency. It's a futile dance, this scramble for control when none can be found. But still, he tries. He has to try.
A flicker of movement from the corner of his eye draws his attention. You've opened your eyes slightly, enough to level a look at him. Not a glare, not quite, but something sharper than the usual softness that lingers there.
You don't need words to communicate the message: Enough.
Barty's movements halt as if he's been petrified, but then his body loosens and he nods. "All right, all right. I've got it. I'll prepare the bath."
He bustles away, muttering to himself about the proper temperature and which oils to use. You hear the rush of water, the pop of jars being unsealed, and the clink of glass bottles. He sings a Weird Sisters song—it's off-key, grating, yet strangely comforting in its familiarity. The air grows heavy with the scent of lavender and mint, undercut by something sharper that Barty adds without consulting you. But you trust him. Besides, the pain throbbing through your body is too distracting to protest.
"Almost ready," he calls out, even though you're in no state to rush him.
You stay still, letting the pain in your body anchor you to reality while his voice, low and steady, fills the silence. He narrates what he's doing, not for your benefit but perhaps for his own reassurance. There's the splash of water, followed by more incoherent mutterings. A sudden squeak of the floorboards suggests he's slipped on something, but it's quickly followed by an assertive grunt—Barty regaining control.
When Barty returns, his hair is slicked back from water splashes, and his shirt clings to him in places where droplets have soaked through.
"It's ready for you," he announces, voice softer than before. "And I've only used half a bottle of mint this time. Perhaps."
He extends a hand, helping you up with surprising tenderness. The arrogance that usually clings to him like a second skin seems to have melted away, replaced by a gentle care that feels alien yet comforting. You lean on him more than you'd like, but he doesn't seem to mind. A kiss brushes your forehead, light as a lover's touch, as he guides you to the bathroom.
Once you're settled into the warm cocoon of the bath, muscles sighing in relief as the heat seeps into them, Barty retreats—but not far.
He parks himself just outside the door, long legs stretched out across the hallway like a teenager staking claim to his favourite spot. His singing grows louder, punctuated by off-key whistles that echo down the corridor.
"You know," his voice carries through the door, muffled but unmistakable, "if I don't get some recognition for these vocal talents of mine, I'm running away to join the circus. Then you'll miss me. And my singing."
Your lips twitch into a smile, a hint of amusement breaking through your careful reserve. You don't reply, but you don't have to—he hears the change in your breath, the soft exhale that might be a suppressed laugh.
And so, he continues, the topics jumping sporadically like a child trying to postpone bedtime. His complaints about the lack of biscuits in the pantry are followed by a jest about challenging Regulus to a duel over a broken wand and then a declaration that your bathtub is now a sacred space. Each comment, each absurdity is designed to keep you listening, to keep you engaged. He doesn't stop until he hears the sound of water splashing, signalling that you're done.
The bath helps, although not as much as you'd like. It doesn't erase the pain or fatigue—you know better than to expect miracles—but it soothes your frayed nerves and softens the aching in your muscles. When you finally emerge from the steam-filled room, you dry off slowly, each movement careful and deliberate, the towel rough against your skin.
You glance at your reflection in the mirror, eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion etched into your features, but you don't linger there. The sight of yourself is too stark, too real, a reminder of everything that's led you here.
When you open the door, Barty is stretched out on the floor of the hallway, skinny limbs splayed out as if he's playing dead. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, the only indication that he's still very much alive.
"Thought you might have drowned," he says without opening his eyes. "I'd already planned your funeral—very tasteful. I gave a lovely eulogy. There were doves."
A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite everything, and you step over him, careful not to jostle his lanky form.
You slide back into bed, your body aching but feeling marginally better. Barty follows you, his movements subtler than usual, as if he too senses the gravity of this moment. He lies still next to you, an unfamiliar quietness enveloping him.
His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close until your back rests against his chest. His fingers trace patterns on your skin, light as a feather yet carrying a promise of something more.
"You should rest," he murmurs, but his lips find your neck, trailing kisses that spark a warmth within you. It's slow and patient, a contrast to the urgency that often defines him.
He shifts slightly, his mouth seeking out the places where pain has made its home—the jagged edges of scars, the tender hollows of joints. He kisses each one with reverence, a silent vow etched into every touch. His lips brush over your shoulder, your wrist, the bend of your knee, each kiss a balm for wounds seen and unseen.
"Better?" he whispers against your skin, words carried on a breath that sends shivers down your spine. You nod, unable to trust your voice. His hand settles on your stomach, a steady presence anchoring you to the here and now.
"Good." The word is a mere exhale, a ghost of a promise that lingers in the air between you.
You glance towards him, your eyes meeting his. There's no smirk now, no playful glint to lighten the weight of this moment. It's just Barty—stoic and steady, yet somehow, his gaze seems darker than you remember.
"You're everything," he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath.
There's a tremor in his voice, a fragile note that betrays the gravity of what he feels. His hand hovers over yours, fingers trembling until they finally rest against your skin. He gives a gentle squeeze, as if grounding himself to the reality of you.
You lean into him, your body still aching but feeling somehow safer, cherished even. His arms encircle you, wrapping you in their warmth, shielding you from the world outside. And despite the pain, there's a sense of rightness in being held by him, nurtured by the one person who has always been your sanctuary amid chaos.
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : mattheo comes home after a long day of work, seeking comfort from his wife
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
the townhouse was quiet when the clock in the hall chimed half-past eleven. you sat curled into the corner of the velvet sofa, legs tucked beneath you, a cup of chamomile tea lukewarm in your hands. your book had fallen shut on your lap nearly an hour ago, but you hadn’t moved. not really. not since you realized mattheo wouldn’t be home for dinner. again.
this wasn’t uncommon. not exactly. As CEO of one of the most elite magical innovation firms in the wizarding world, mattheo’s days were long and his meetings were endless. investors, press, R&D teams with volatile spelltech prototypes… all of it demanded his sharp mind and sharper tongue. but lately, it had felt different. he hadn’t just been busy. he’d been… distant. not cold, just tired. stretched thin.
you never doubted he loved you. not even for a second. still, you missed him.
the townhouse felt bigger without him in it. too quiet. roo still.
you were half-asleep, head resting on your fist, when the soft click of the front door broke the silence. the lock shifted. boots landed on the hardwood. a coat rustled.
you didn’t move.
“love?” his low voice, rough with exhaustion curled through the hallway before he stepped into view.
mattheo looked wrecked.
his suit jacket was slung over one arm, tie loose around his neck, hair a tousled mess like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times today. his eyes, sharp and storm-dark but usually so composed, softened the second they met yours.
he blinked, like maybe he wasn’t sure you were still awake.
“hi,” you said quietly.
he exhaled a breath he’d been holding since noon, maybe longer. “you’re still up.”
“I waited.”
he dropped his jacket over the arm of the chair and crossed the room in a few strides, crouching down in front of you, his knees brushing the rug. he didn’t say anything at first, just rested his head on your knee like he’d done a hundred times before, his hands wrapping gently around your calves.
you ran your fingers through his hair, slow and soft, and he sighed. the kind of sigh that let go of everything.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the fabric of your lounge pants. “I didn’t mean to stay this late again. I swear I meant to come home hours ago.”
“I figured,” you said, trying to keep it light, but there was a hitch in your voice you couldn’t quite hide.
he looked up at you, guilt written all over him. “I missed you all day.”
“you always say that,” you whispered, smiling just a little.
“because it’s always true.” he leaned up, cupping your face in one hand, thumb brushing your cheek. “you’re the only thing I look forward to anymore.”
you stared at him for a moment, then moved aside the book and patted the couch.
“come here, then.”
he didn’t hesitate. just climbed onto the sofa and pulled you into his arms like it was the only place he belonged. his body molded against yours, long legs tangled with yours beneath the throw blanket, his head resting against your shoulder. you held him like you were trying to wrap around all the parts of him the world had scraped raw.
“tell me about your day,” you whispered into his hair.
“only if you promise to wake me up if I fall asleep in the middle of it,” he mumbled, already melting against you.
you smiled, tracing lazy circles on his back. “deal.”
mattheo didn’t start talking right away. he just hummed low in his throat and burrowed further into you, one hand slipping under the blanket to rest on your waist. his fingertips were cold, but his touch was careful. familiar.
a moment passed before he spoke. his voice was softer now, quiet in the way people talk when they’re barely holding their eyes open.
“it was long,” he murmured.
you nodded, brushing your hand through his hair. “I figured.”
he let out a slow breath against your neck, and it hit you how heavy he felt tonight. not just physically… though his full weight was half-draped over you. but emotionally too. like something in him had given out the moment he walked through the door.
“meetings ran late,” he said. “someone from the office kept pushing numbers that didn’t add up, and no one wanted to say anything, so I had to be the asshole again.”
your hand stilled in his hair.
“you’re not an asshole.”
he let out a tired little sound, not quite a laugh. “I am, actually. to most people. not to you.”
you kissed the top of his head. “not even close.”
he went quiet for a bit after that. just breathing. one of his hands moved slowly under your shirt, resting flat and warm against the curve of your back. he just needed to feel your skin, like it reminded him what was real.
“you ever think,” he mumbled, eyes closed now, “that we’re too young to be living like this?”
you blinked, surprised by the question.
“like what?”
he shifted a little, tightening his hold on you. “townhouse. marriage. me running a company that scares half the room when I walk in. you waiting up for me like some 1950s housewife with better hair.”
you snorted. “I didn’t wait up. I fell asleep here. accidentally.”
he huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been a smile. “right.”
then he went quiet again. you could tell he was getting sleepy because the pauses between his thoughts were getting longer, his grip looser but still there. like muscle memory.
“but yeah,” he murmured eventually. “sometimes I think it’s all too much.”
you leaned your cheek against his forehead. “and other times?”
he didn’t respond right away.
“sometimes I come home, and you’re here. and I think… I’d do all of it again. just to get this part.”
your throat tightened but you didn’t say anything. you didn’t have to.
the fire crackled softly in the background. rain tapped at the window.
mattheo let out another long breath and pressed a soft kiss to your collarbone. barely there, just a brush of warmth.
“I hate missing things with you,” he whispered, eyes still closed. “dinner. the dumb show you like. just... existing near you.”
you curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “you’re here now.”
“yeah,” he said. “and I’m not going anywhere.”
and he didn’t.
he just held you. let his day fall off his shoulders and into your hands. let the quiet settle between you like a blanket heavier than the one draped over your legs. no more work talk. no more weight. just two people on a couch, late at night, tangled together in a kind of love no one else ever got to see.
eventually, his breathing slowed again. you could feel the moment he fell asleep, his hand going still on your waist, the little twitch in his brow fading.
and you stayed like that until the fire burned low. until the rain stopped. until the world felt very far away and wonderfully small, just the two of you curled into each other in the living room of your shared home.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
a/n : hey pookies, hope everyone is doing well ! one thing about me is that i’ll always be a sucker for domestic fluff. hope you like it xx
a little angsty - a little sweet - a little riddle. enjoy xo
“Has anyone tried talking to him?”
“What - and enter the dorm room of that volatile little shit? No fucking way!”
This is where you came in. The friend turned lover turned ex. Your presence hadn’t exactly been a common request when it came to Mattheo Riddle since the rather explosive and episodic breakup you’d had; rumour around the castle being you broke his heart first before the poor boy even stood a chance. However, his mates were well aware of the influence that you once had on him - that you now still, had over him. As such you had been summoned by requests, pleas, and near-begging to try and talk some sense into someone you had once loved who was so far removed from reality and lost in his own thoughts that you could only describe him as emotionally erratic.
Tomes, scrolls, notepads, furniture, curtains, clothing, shoes, a trunk, bedsheets, quills - all tossed around the dorm as if a ventus charm had been cast and let loose to cause havoc within the confines of the room. Mattheo wasn’t usually violent - or well towards you at least. In the years that you’d known him; an intimidating threat or smartass comment were his more popular choices of menacing actions than a raised wand or fist; but this - the state of everything; discarded like trash made you thankful you nor anyone else was in his firing line.
The sound of running water from the ensuite he shared with the other 7th-years had you curious. Before you knew it; you found yourself still clothed beneath a heavy cascade of warm running water; steam challenging your breath as you pried the steel scourer out of Mattheo’s hand he had swiped from the kitchens and was using vexatiously upon his skin to try and rid himself of a mark he knew all too well was permanent.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
Any attempt to turn the shower off was blocked. His eyes were as red as his skin. His cheeks flushed, lips swollen from how harshly his teeth had taken to them. There was no use trying to argue with him. Trying to talk sense into him. Trying to reason with him. Trying to use logic. The boy was blighted, busted, broken. A rare sight; one that your memory wouldn’t miss. Deprived of all sense and sensibility - too messed up, too tortured, too destroyed; your arms snaked a little too comfortably around him; Mattheo closed his eyes immediately, his body betraying him as he sunk into the comfort of your embrace. The tender ministrations of your fingertips gliding through his hair calmed the turmoil within him suddenly. When you told him that everything was okay - that everything would be alright; it was like your words were a balm to his wounds, his soul. Mattheo’s arms around your waist tightened. His grip was firm yet so, so far from bruising. It almost felt like he feared that if he let you go, you would disappear from him like the end of a dream.
“I know you said you never wanted this - but it’s just a mark. It doesn’t change you.”
Oh, how he so desperately wanted those words to be true. Burying his face into the crook of your neck, you felt his breath hotter than the shower’s steam burning across your sensitive skin. You began to hum his favourite song; something you’d learned a long time ago would calm his nerves and that along with the feeling of your fingers still running through his hair managed to lull him into a sense of composure, of peace, that Mattheo had almost forgotten he was capable of feeling. His hands still resting at your waist moved unconsciously; almost habitually having his fingers curl into the dampened fabric of your shirt, acting almost like an anchor on you - like a sailor would to find refuse amidst a storm.
How long the two of you stood there for? You weren’t sure. The seconds turned to minutes turned to hours and his ragged breaths and half-choked, incoherent words indicated not so subtly that in and at this moment, Mattheo needed you. His once light, once angel, once love - and little did you know with everything going in the world outside of this shower, that you, undoubtedly would need him to.
Summary: You insist on spending the night at the library even though you just got done with the O.W.Ls, with a promise to your boyfriend to join him in a couple of hours. However, when you don't show up, Theodore makes a trip to the library, and what he finds makes him fall to his knees.
Warnings: The Italian here was written from Google Translate, so I'm so sorry if it's wrong. If you speak Italian, feel free to correct me in the comments, and I will fix it. FLUFF! Theo is smitten with the reader! slight ooc Theo, but in a good way.
a/n: IK i promised an az x reader smut, but this idea js wouldn't leave my brain so I had to make it happen.
divider by @uzmacchiato
The common room is mostly empty except for you, Theo, Mattheo, and Daphne sitting around the fire. Lorenzo, Blaise, Pansy, and Astoria had bid farewell a couple of hours ago for bed, while the remainder of you stayed downstairs for a quick natter.
Theo listened while Mattheo droned on about Slughorn for the thousandth time, while one of his hands played with your hair. The two of you sat on the couch directly in front of the fireplace under a blanket, while Mattheo and Daphne took the armchairs to one side of the couch.
“I swear this old man has it out for me!” Mattheo complained exasperatedly.
Daphne snorted. “You think everyone has it out for you, Mattheo.”
You chuckled in response, and Daphne donned a proud smile when Mattheo gaped in offence.
“If he doesn’t have it out for me, then tell me why he would give me a 0 on my O.W.Ls when I said you stir the potion for three and a half turns after adding monkwood powder to the Alihosty draught!” he retorted, crossing his arms defiantly. “I was off by half a turn!”
“Maybe because after adding the Sopophorous bean, you’d make the cauldron explode. You need the monkwood to be fully dissolved to neutralise the bean a bit,” Theo responded coolly.
Mattheo huffed. “He could have just rounded up,” he grumbled. “I failed the test because of that.”
Daphne chuckled but rubbed his arm affectionately, trying to console him as best as she could since he was genuinely very upset about the situation. While the two of them got busy talking amongst themselves about the topic, Theo turned his attention to you.
“So…my dorm tonight?” Theo murmured seductively in your ear.
While you were nowhere close to new at what Theo was insinuating, having spent countless nights tangled under the sheets as he moved in and out of you and having seen each other in every state of undress possible, the implication makes a flush rise to your cheeks regardless.
You lightly swat his chest. “Theodore,” you reprimand gently.
Theo chuckles as his hand comes up to hold yours that just swatted his chest and brings it to his lips. Mattheo pauses his whining and smirks in your direction, eyes full of fondness at seeing his best friends so smitten with each other.
“Is that a yes, amorina?” he kisses your temple.
You hesitate, looking down at your hands. “I can’t tonight.”
Theo furrows his brows, pulling back a little to look at you properly. “Why not?”
“I want to go to the library,” you excuse.
He looks at you, confused. “The library? Why?”
You scramble to think of a response. “I have some...studying to catch up on.”
“What studying? We just got done with the O.W.Ls,” Theo responds, eyeing you suspiciously. “What’s going on, amorina?” he softens his voice, petting your hair. “I won’t get upset if that’s what you’re worried about.”
You intertwine your fingers with his other hand and bring it up to your lips. “That’s not what I’m worried about, Theo. I just wanna go to the library tonight, read for a couple of hours. That’s all,” you say as convinvigly as possible.
Theo still looks suspicious but nods. “Alright,” he murmurs with a tinge of sadness in his voice.
You look at him sympathetically. “How about this-” you squeeze his hand comfortingly. “I go to the library for a couple of hours and then come to your dorm?” you offer as a compromise.
His face immediately lights up, and he nods. “Yes! That works.”
You press a kiss to his cheek, and he reciprocates.
Later, when Mattheo, Daphne, and Theo head to bed, you sneak out of the dorms to the library. It is dark and quiet when you arrive, and you have to use your wand to navigate in there. You head to the back of the languages section, pulling out the Italian to English dictionary you had shoved in the back of the books just in case someone else tried to take it. You took a seat at one of the tables and pulled out your notebook with notes you had been taking.
So far, you have taught yourself to count to one hundred in Italian and are now working on sentence structures and grammar, as you pick up more words on the way. Since you planned to reveal this surprise to Theo on his birthday on May 16, you focus on what you plan to say to him, for now.
For the next few hours, you lose yourself in constructing your little monologue about how much you love and appreciate Theo and how grateful you are that you get to share your life with him. Without realising, you lose track of time.
Theo’s POV
It is 4 AM, and you promised Theo that you’d be back from the library in a couple of hours. That was nearly 5 hours ago, and still, there was no sign of you. He knows you haven’t come back for sure because he has been lying awake, anticipating your quiet, graceful footsteps to dawn on his doorstep and your arms wrapping around him from behind. When none of that happened, Theo got concerned and got out of bed.
You were likely still at the library, and he knew your tendency to lose track of time when you were immersed in a book.
Quietly, he pads out of bed, puts on his robe, then sneaks out of the dorms and towards the library, narrowly avoiding Mrs Norris prowling near the potions classroom in the dungeons. Using Lumos, Theo navigates the library in search of you and finds you seated in the back. There are multiple books sprawled in front of you, and you are scribbling away in a little notebook before you.
Theo hides behind a shelf and watches for a minute to figure out what you are doing, since this most definitely does not look like reading. He watches as you continue to write for a few more seconds and almost approaches you before your voice stops him.
It's faint, and it's broken, but it's undeniably there.
“S-Sono grato…di poter con…con-dividere la mia vita…” You speak to yourself in broken Italian.
Theo’s eyes widen as his heart stutters in his chest, eyes immediately welling with tears as realisation dawns on him of what you are doing. You were teaching yourself Italian for him. Because you know he misses speaking his mother tongue. His heart couldn’t possibly get more full as he continues to listen to you speak in Italian. It's very broken, and the pronunciation is way off, but you’re trying, oh, you’re so determinedly trying, and he wants to sob his heart out and hug you and kiss you and marry you and never let you go. His sweet, beautiful girl is going through all this effort just for him.
Without realising, the tears slide down his cheeks. He quickly wipes them away and walks towards you slowly to avoid startling you. However, you are so focused that you don’t realise he’s walking your way, still trying to complete the sentence.
“Y/n…” Theo whispers your name.
You gasp and look up with wide eyes, immediately covering the books with your hands.
“Theo! What are you doing here?” you question. “I told you I’d be back in a couple of hours.”
“That was 5 hours ago, amore,” he whispers, unable to keep the love out of his voice, the devotion out of his eyes, and the affection out of his touch as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Oh,” your face falls. “I-I didn’t realise it had been that long.”
“You’re teaching yourself Italian,” Theo blurts.
“W-what?” you sputter, standing up and closing the notebook you were scribbling in. “No, I’m not.”
Theo rounds the table and comes to stand at your side. “I heard you.”
You look at him in surprise, and immediately, a sheepish and embarrassed expression overtakes your face as you sigh in defeat. “I wanted to surprise you for your birthday,” you explain quietly while looking at the notebook in your hand.
Theo looks at you in disbelief before he falls to his knees in front of you, and your eyes widen. His hands settle on your hips as he looks up at you like a devotee. His eyes are welled with tears, his grip slightly shaky, but nothing short of reverence in either.
“Ti amo tanto, amore mio,” he whispers shakily. “I don’t deserve you and everything that you are, my beautiful girl. I can’t begin to explain how grateful I am to have you in my life and how much I appreciate that you’re putting in all this work for me.”
You set the notebook aside, taking his hands in yours as you kneel in front of him, now at eye level with him.
“Ti amo, tantissimo, anch’io, Theo,” you reply, resting your forehead against his and gently wiping away the fallen tears. “This isn’t even the tip of the iceberg of all the things I’d do for you,” you smile softly.
Theo sniffles, cupping your face and pressing soft kisses all over: your forehead, chin, nose, cheeks, eyelids, brows, anywhere and everywhere. “I promise to make you so happy, amore. I promise to do as much for you as you do for me. I promise I will always cherish you.”
You smile, closing your eyes as you allow him to continue pressing kisses all over your face. “You already make me the happiest, darling,” you respond softly.
Theo stops pressing kisses and rests his forehead against yours, still holding your face, and stays that way for a minute before pulling back slightly to look at you. He presses a soft kiss to your lips before murmuring, “Can I see?”
You hesitate for a second but nod, sliding the notebook off the table and handing it to him.
You stand beside him nervously while Theo flips through the pages filled with notes. Pages and pages of you trying to construct sentences, trying to write out long numbers, trying to get the spellings right, and you keeping a tab of all the new words you’ve learned. Some of the words are marked with a star and brackets: ‘Theo used this’.
Eventually, he gets to the page with the mini monologue, and your nervousness spikes, not only because it was supposed to be a surprise but also because it was quite advanced compared to your level, so you knew you had messed up multiple times.
“I was working on fixing that,” you say quietly before Theo can remark.
He gets overwhelmed with emotion once again and can’t help but pull you in for a long, desperate, loving kiss. “It's beautiful, cara mia. And for the record, I am also grateful to share my life with you,” he kisses your forehead.
Since that night, you have been practising Italian with Theo every day. Your accent is still off, and you still make some grammatical errors, but Theo can see you’re trying incredibly hard, and he’s still struggling to perceive how someone would be willing to go through all this effort for him. Also, you sound incredibly hot while speaking Italian, and he can barely keep his hands off you while practising, constantly reaching out to kiss you, touch you in some way, and rewarding you later in the night for doing so well.
HOW HARRY POTTER CHARACTERS ACT WHEN THEY’RE DRUNK
CHARACTERS: theodore/ draco/ cedric x f! reader
CONTENT WARNING: drinking
A/N: if you have any hc suggestions, send them in my ask box. uh. also. if you have sent in a request for my celebration event, i’m working on your trust. school’s just been a howler and my plate’s quite full at the moment.
read cedric/ theodore/ draco fics here
return to the headcanon masterlist here
THEODORE
- drunk off smirnoff because he kept getting iced
- malfoy would be an absolutely dickhead and keep having theodore look behind things
- “oi nott, look behind the sofa”
- “theo, baby, no, he’s trying to get you to drink. you’ve fallen for it ten times,” you would try to stop it
- of course your already waved boyfriend would hop onto the sofa and look behind it
- “god, what am i going to do with you,” you would sigh when theodore’s sprawled in your sitting room, passed out
- you would kneel down by him and rid him of his clothes so he was just in his pants
- you’d wipe him down with a warm towel and change him into his spongebob pyjamas (which you had to swear you would never tell anyone about)
- before you could stand back up to toss his dirty clothes in the laundry basket, theodore would grip onto your wrist lazily
- “hm, you’re the bestest girlfriend ever. always taking care ‘f me”
- stupidly sheepish grin and hooded eyes and all
- “bestest, you say?” you’d tease
- “yeap, i have the bestest goodest girlfriend in the whole wide world, and she’s mine. i love you”
- he’d jut his lips out in a cute pout, “kith?”
- and how could you say no to that?
DRACO
- he’d nick the finest scotch off his father’s liquor selection and bring it back to your flat
- “that’s enough, don’t you think?” you would asked when draco’s on his fourth pour
- “i don’t get drunk,” the cocky asshole would scoff
- sure enough, after downing the glass, draco was hunched on the glass dining table, leaning his head and arms against it
- “y/n…?” he’d drag your name out, “baby…?”
- you’d push the duvet off your lap with a sigh and walk into the front room to your very much drunk boyfriend
- “yes, draco?”
- “my head hurts, and the light’s too bright, make it go away” he’d wave his arm in the air to signal at the windows
- “that’s the sun, draco, i don’t think i can just ‘make it go away’”
- ‘ugh’ he’d cover his face in his hands
- you’d force him to down a glass of water and drag him into your bedroom to rest
- “where are you going?” draco would quickly sit up and look at you with puppy dog eyes when you would leave the room
- “to get you more water”
- “nuh uh, stay here,” he would pat your side of the bed
- drunk draco was a clingy draco
- “what’s the magic word draco?”
- “pleaseeeee”
- “the magic word was hippopotamus, but i’ll give in just because you’re so adorable”
- “‘m not adorable,” he’d cross his arms and frown
- “whatever you say little love”
CEDRIC
- it was christmas dinner and you and cedric were hosting
- cedric and your family came over for a roast dinner and some puddings
- you exchanged presents, hugs, and kisses and the guests had left
- you had never seen anyone gotten drunk off mulled wine, but you guess your cedric was just special that way
- he was a lightweight since he did not drink often
- “baby!” cedric would yell for you from the front room
- “huh? yea?” you’d run from the kitchen, where you had been cleaning up, and to where cedric was, worried he had gotten his drunk self hurt
- “c’mere,” he would beckon you over
- “gimme your hands,” he’d reach for your wrists which you would willingly let him have
- he would hold you wrist in one hand
- “you’re under arresht,” his drunken-lisp making you giggle
- “for what, officer?” you’d play along
- “for shtealing my heart,” cedric tried his best to put on a stern face
- “oh dear, and what is my sentence?”
- “you hav’ to giv’ me a hundred kisses right now”
- “right now?” you’d try to pull your hands away but his grip would not relent
- “yeth, or you cannot leave”
- of course you had to serve your sentence, and so you would place a peck on cedric’s lips
- “you’ve gots to count ‘em,” cedric whined
- “two,” you lean down to place a second kiss on his lips
- and so, that was how your christmas night was spent. counting the one hundred kisses you had to give your dear old boyfriend
Summary: what I think dating theo nott would be like :-)
AN: sorry this took so long, thank you for the request!! I really wanna get into theo, his fancast is very handsome and he seems like a cool guy,, let me know how I did!
☆
When he loves, he loves HARD
But he doesnt always show it
Hes most def a strong silent type
But he shows his love in how HANDSY he is
Like his hand will always be in yours or on your hips or on your thigh
His facial expressions are very hard to read but as his partner you can easily tell his moods
He gets jealous VERY easily
He tends to unconsciously hold you harder when hes jealous
Hes an observer and he knows you so well, he watches everything you do and takes note
He can almost predict your every mood
He def treats you like a princess because of course he does
You spend literally all of your time together
He doesnt care for his friends as much as he cares for you
Hes VERY protective of you
He doesnt like conflict but when it's for you it's in sight
In classes he likes to whisper in your ear in his sultry voice hehhrhrh
If he were to give you any pet name itd be dove
Imagine him calling u that. I would let him ********** ** *** *** ** ** *** !!!!@?,#,
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.
theo x reader, but it’s him discovering that she’s tattooed? i imagine flowers tattooed across her back and maybe he discovers it during a makeout or something and he’s obsessed
⋆·˚ ༘ * Thirteen lilies ⋆·˚ ༘ *
Masterlist
Author's note: your wish is my command :) also I just really love this ask. the flowers are lilies, just because I love lilies and I feel like the slight melancholic nature of them fits theodore nott (or the version I have of him in my mind, at least.)
warnings: it's just fluff, maybe a little on body issues + not proofread
hope this is what you imagined, anon!!
Pairing: theodore nott x fem!tattooed reader
You're in Theo's dormitory. Yesterday night was a rare, quiet evening when his roommates were gone- he'd been tense all week, something weighing on him he won't name, and you've been trying to coax him out of his own head while his friends scattered away to their own multitudes of activities, unsure of how their presence in the room with the two of you would be greeted.
You really had tried everything to cheer him up, and nothing seemed to be working. But he didn't push you away, and in your books that was always a win. It helped calm your nervousness, the anxiety pulsating through your blood at his closed- off expression, when his arms had wrapped around you and he had buried his face into your neck, silently burrowing. It was the first time he had seeked comfort like this, and you were more than willing to give it freely until he opened up.
He hadn't opened up. He'd instead collapsed on the bed, pulling you on top of him. Not a single word exchanged and yet you still knew exactly what it was he wanted. His face may not have revealed anything but his eyes- those dark eyes always revealed his thoughts. And right now those same hooded eyes were begging you to stay the night for the first time.
You'd fallen asleep on his chest eventually, the two of you tangled in his silky emerald sheets. You hadn't slept. Just held your breath, waiting for his body to slump, waiting for his breath to even out so you could stop worrying (you'd never stop worrying) He had stirred, shifting and had kissed your forehead sometime around 2 am, mumbled something you couldn't quite catch, pulling the blanket higher over your bare shoulders.
Bare, because theodore ran cold and the room was somehow hot- or was that just you?-and your t shirt soaked through with sweat sometime around midnight.
You were nervous. Beyond nervous, really. Sleeping over for the first time. The soft curve of your stomach pressed against his side, and you had caught yourself trying to angle away, trying to suck in, stay tense and awake, but he'd just hooked an arm around your waist and dragged you closer.
"Stop that," he murmured, barely awake and brow furrowed. "You're warm. Stay."
So you did.
(The insecurities didn't come from comments from others, nor from some horrible ex. It was a lot deeper and a lot less complicated than that. The thoughts were entirely your own. Perhaps that's why it seemed so strange to confess to Theodore that you hated the body he seemed to love so much, that you lived for the moments he said 'you're perfect, baby' because it soothed jagged pieces of yourself and temporarily buried the spiky thoughts.)
You woke up first.
The green light of the early morning light filtered through the lake in the gaps of his curtains slipped through, burning your tired eyes. Theodore's dead to the world, dark lashes against pale cheeks. Lips slightly parted, one arm thrown over his head like he had collapsed mid thought.
The other arm is outstretched to you on the bed, as though reaching for you in his sleep, distressed by the lack of touch. He looks peaceful, nothing like the darkness that had taken over him last night.
You slip out of bed carefully, bare feet on his cold floor. The Slytherin dorms always run cold, the Black Lake hiding them from the sun like a secret hidden in it's depths.
His t- shirt is probably somewhere on the floor, and it would help the gooseflesh erupting across your arms and stomach, with just the sweatpants and bra, but the dorm is mostly dark and you don't want him to wake to you rummaging around in his room while he was asleep.
So just the bra. Just the sweatpants. Your soft middle on display, and for once- just for him- you try to not hate it.
You pad to the bathroom, pressing your teeth together to stop the chattering as a full body shiver runs through you.
The bathroom is small, tiled in pale green like all the other dorms, smelling like his soap and something woodsy that you breathe in. It's gratefully warm in the bathroom. You don't turn on the light- just crack the door enough to see by the dim hallway glow. He needs the rest. His toothbrush sits in a cup, and right beside it is a new one, nestled perfectly. He's had it for ages, probably, waiting for the day you agree to finally sleep over. Patient, like Theodore has always been for you.
You grab it without thinking, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles, and start brushing.
You're hunched over the sink a little, squinting at your reflection in the dim mirror. Your hair is a mess that you pull into a horrendous bun on the top of your head, tired eyes, and pudge soft above your waistband.
He saw all of this, you think to yourself. And he still pulled me closer.
The thought makes you smile around the toothbrush, when suddenly there's arms snaking around your waist lazily, feeling every inch of the bare skin.
Warm, bare arms sliding around your waist from behind. A chest pressing against your back. A nose buried in the curve of your neck.
You jump, nearly choking on toothpaste foam, cheeks immediately flushing and heart hammering like it wants to break free from your chest.
"Theodore-"
"Mm." His voice is gravel and sleep, rumbling against your skin. He's a draping weight over you, and you feel your resistance crumble as your body leans into his touch. His mouth is pressed to your collarbone, head bowed, soft curls against your cheek, and you close your eyes for a moment as his rough voice comes as a vibration against the delicate skin of your collarbone. "You left." He mumbles, like it's a crime in it's own right to leave a bed in the morning to brush your teeth.
You try to turn, but he holds you there- not tight. His arms like a loose band across your middle, his smell engulfing you until you want to disappear into him, crawl into his skin and live in it with him, inhale him until all that's in your lungs is the smell of him and all that you feel is his bare chest against your back.
His lips find the back of your neck, pressing slow, lazy kisses up to your hairline.
"I was brushing my teeth," you mumble softly around the brush, spitting as quiet as you can in the sink so you can speak clearly. "Go back to sleep."
"No." A soft open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck that makes you gasp and jolt against him. You feel his lips curve upwards against your neck, and your knees nearly buckle. This is how you die. With Theodore Nott mumbling "want to see your face," against your neck at 6:46 am in the morning.
"Theo-"
"Want to see your pretty face," he corrects, amused, kisses trailing to your shoulder. "My pretty girl. Turn around."
You shake your head, cheeks flushing hot as your hands brace yourself against the counter. Breathe, you think. In, out. Come on. Remember how to breathe. "I look like shit." You say breathlessly, and you hear him let out a small laugh behind you and your knees actually buckle this time. His arms tighten and he holds you up, kissing the spot behind your ear until you let out a small whimper, trying to make it through your sentence. "This is the first time I've slept over and I look like-"
His hand finds your free arm that's trying- very pathetically- to push him away. His touch isn't rough. It's firm. He pins it gently to your side, his fingers lacing through yours.
And then his other hand reaches past you and flicks on the light.
You flinch.
The bathroom floods with harsh yellow brightness, and you see everything- your tangled hair scraped into a bun, the sleepy puff under your eyes that shows the fries you had late last night, the sodium causing the swelling, the soft curve of your belly above your sweats. You're about to duck away, hide against his chest, anything-
But Theodore's not looking at your flaws.
He's looking at your mouth, hunger barely hidden in those dark eyes that hide everything, hold the depths of all the oceans in the world and at the same time hide absolutely nothing from you.
He turns you in his arms before you can protest- your back pressing against the cold bathroom counter, body crowding into your space until you feel his chest against yours. His hands cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.
"There you are," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "My girl."
And then he kisses you.
His lips find yours and all your thoughts are scattered. You can't think of anything except his mouth against yours, his lips moving, the way he's still holding your hand, his fingers laced through yours, his other hand shifting from your waist to your head to properly tilt your face back and you can't breathe. You want to kiss him until your lips numb.
It's slow at first- soft, sleepy, his lips barely parted against yours. It's like he's not thinking, just wants to feel your lips against his, the way someone would want to feel a hand against theirs. You taste like toothpaste and morning breath and he does not care. One of his hands slides into your messy hair, undoing the bun before you can realsie what he's doing. The other settles on your hip, thumb stroking the bare skin above your sweatpants and you melt into him, fingers curling into his bare shoulders desperately.
He hums against your mouth, pleased, and the kiss deepens- his tongue sweeping lazily against your lower lip, his fingers tightening in your hair. He tilts his head, changes the angle, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you.
"Theo," you breathe between kisses, desperate for him to pull away, to pull you closer, to give you more, to give you less. You don't know anymore.
"Shh." Another kiss. "Let me."
His lips trail to your neck, then to your collarbone, eyes opening so he can look at you in the mirror behind you. And he just... stops. Freezes.
He's looking at your back.
You realize it a second too late. The bathroom mirror shows him everything, your whole back, every delicately inked flower that you never mentioned once in eight months. His gaze is fixed on the space between your shoulder blades- where the lilies curl up your spine in dark red ink.
Oh.
His fingers- the ones not holding yours- lift from your waist. Slowly. Reverently. He touches the topmost lily, just below your neck, with the barest brush of his thumb, and you feel your whole body shudder. You weren't planning on showing him these any time soon- weren't planning on doing it ever, really. You'd never let yourself think this far into the relationship to plan for this situation.
"What are these?"
His voice has changed, no longer the sleepy grumble. This is something lower. Thicker. Hoarse, as though all his self control is being used to hold off on pouncing on you.
You look away immediately. Your heart is pounding.
"They're- they're just tattoos. I got them two ye- a while ago. I didn't- I- I was going to tell you-"
"Lilies," he whispers, not a question. His finger slides from your waist to your back, tracing the topmost delicate petal. Theodore Nott may not know the name of every flower to exist but he sure as hell knows that his girl's favourite flowers- the one blooming across her back- are star lilies. His thumb traces down your spine, following the stem of the next one. "You have lilies blooming up your back."
You nod, suddenly inexplicably shy, mouth drying. "Do you… hate them?"
He doesn't answer, and your heart hammers harder against your chest- against his chest too.
Instead, he twists you around to face him in the mirror and pulls you back against his chest not hard, but inevitable, like you were always meant to fit there. Like you're always going to fit there. His arms wrap around your middle, fingers splaying across your stomach. He rests his chin on your shoulder and looks at you in the mirror. Really looks, for what he thinks is the first time.
"I've been in love with you for eight months," he says quietly. "And I didn't notice such a big part of you?"
You swallow hard, unable to meet his eyes in the mirror, looking anywhere but him. "I-I was nervous. People don't- they don't like marks on a girl. I thought maybe you'd think they were—"
"Beautiful."
He says it like it's obvious. Like the sky is blue, the morning is grey, and you have lilies blooming up your spine. Like he's never seen anything more devastatingly gorgeous in his life.
His lips find your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the space behind your ear. Like he can't help himself, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses across your skin until you're trembling, hands sliding up his bare chest to hold him closer, to push him away, to stay.
"I'm not letting you go until I know the shape of every one of these under my lips."
Bonus scene:
You're making coffee on his desk, because the tiny little kitchenette that one of his friends had magicked into the room is entirely covered in something sticky and red and you don't want to deal with that, wearing his t-shirt. You think maybe the moment has passed- that he's seen the tattoos, said his piece- or rather, kissed his piece- and moved on.
Then you reach for a mug on a high shelf on his desk and your shirt rides up just enough to show the stem of a lily curling above your waistband.
You hear him inhale sharply behind you and you stifle a laugh- he's been like this since he saw them. Tensing every time a sliver of skin is revealed to him, and you've never felt more confident and cheekier about your own body.
His hands are on your hips a second later, pulling you back against him, lips finding the back of your ear like some sort of homing beacon.
"You're doing that on purpose," he accuses, voice rough.
You laugh softly, leaning back into him. "I'm just making coffee."
"You're torturing me."
He presses hot kisses onto the back of your neck, tugging his t shirt off of you with the patience of a dog with a bone.
He spends the next ten minutes tracing every lily on your back with his mouth while the coffee goes cold.
The day after you kill yourself, things will change. There will be people who will miss you, but you will never know. And maybe you now never have to deal with your guilt, or your torment, or your grief clouding your vision. You will never feel it again, but you will also never have the feeling of it getting better. Maybe it would have taken years, or only a few hours. But you will never be able to find out. Maybe your parents will say that they wished they could have helped, or maybe they will hear of your death in passing and will say good riddance. And maybe that’s why you left. Maybe you have a sibling. Maybe they grieve now, because they’re mad. And sad. And maybe they blame you for not letting them help, or not seeing. Maybe they yell at your grave because they’re terrified of having to deal with the same parents that you killed yourself to escape. Perhaps your friends will sit in silence at the cafeteria table, or in their car. Maybe they will lay awake at night refreshing your instagram page hoping you will say this was all a bad joke, and they can see you again. Maybe they will say to others that they told you to do it. Maybe they will say that they don’t miss you. Maybe they will cry at night, or punch a hole in their wall, wondering how they will be able to get through this life without you. Maybe you had a partner. Maybe they loved you more than you could ever know. Maybe they weren’t good for you. But after you kill yourself, people might say that your death was a tragedy. It was a pity that you died. Maybe parents turned their children’s heads away from the people talking about you afterwards. Maybe your room will stay untouched, or maybe your landlord will sell your things with little remorse. Maybe your tattered sneakers, or your expensive flats will be thrown out. Maybe they will stay where they always were, at the front of your house, or a closet. Maybe your dog will miss you, or your cat will wonder where you went after they are taken to the shelter, or a house. But you will never know these changes. You will never find out who loved you, who will miss you, and those who wished they could have been there for you. You will be mourned, looked down upon, and loved. There will be millions of changes that happen around you, changes trying to fill in the blank gap you left behind. So I implore you all. Maybe no one will see this post, but I shout out to you all. Live. Love, cry, be angry, be happy, be depressed, but live. Live for your family, your friends, your loved ones, your pets, and most importantly, yourself.
You squeeze your eyes shut before opening them again, letting out a sigh of frustration.
It's late into another sleepless night or, rather, far too early in the morning. You've lost track of time at this point.
You're no stranger to nights like these. In fact, they've become normal to you. Perhaps your usual short temper could be attributed to your lack of sleep.
Although you're usually able to sleep in five seconds flat when Mattheo is with you, it's not working tonight for some reason.
You sit up, huffing in frustration. You've long since tossed and turned your way out of Mattheo's grip.
You look down at your side, watching as Mattheo sleeps all too peacefully. The way his eyelashes kiss where his eye bags should be or whatever is so not fair. Beauty like his isn’t fair, you decide.
You gently lift your finger to his face, tracing from his eyebrows to his cheekbones. You take the rare opportunity that he isn't alert and awake to admire him, no worry of inflating his massive ego.
Mattheo lets out a sigh and your hands still and hover over his face, you relax when you realise he's still asleep.
Your heart swells as you listen to the sound of him breathing and you frown. You love him a lot, you think. You lean down and press a soft kiss on his shoulder before leaving the most featherlight of kisses on his throat.
You'd usually never be caught dead being this soft with your affection but, you're tired and, it's not like he's awake to tease you.
You lay down again with your body half on top of him, trying to settle into his arms; you hope it'll settle your mind as well.
You feel a headache coming on and you wince, you're exhausted but your body won't let you sleep. That alone makes you want to cry or yell at someone.
You sit up decidedly, looking down at him again.
You do feel guilty about waking him but he's your only hope of getting any rest.
You poke his bicep with the tip of your nails, slowly scratching down.
Your brows furrow when his eyes stay shut, you sigh and roll your eyes again.
You shove him hard.
Clearly, you don't feel that guilty waking him...
He doesn’t budge.
“What the fuck." You hiss under your breath, shoving him again.
“Mattheo, wake up!” You whisper-yell, shaking his body back and forth. He groans but his eyes still don’t open.
“You'd better be dead.” You hiss, glaring at his sleeping form. You're about to retreat and give up when you hear him chuckle.
“Careful, princess, that might end up being true and you’ll be very sad.” He mutters, still half asleep.
“You’re awake?” You say, eyes squinting.
His eyes slowly open. “Yeah, somewhere between you shaking me and wishing me death, I had time to regain consciousness.”
He grins at you and you roll your eyes. He sits up slowly to be face to face with you. You don’t meet his eye, suddenly bashful and embarrassed that you woke him up over something so silly. You're not used to needing people and you hate yourself for needing him so much — it's unlike you, you're not one to feel apologetic or even self conscious.
He wraps an arm around you, tugging you so that you're sitting up in between his legs with your back pressed against his chest.
“Why aren’t you asleep, baby, hmm?” He murmurs low in your ear, trailing his hands down your bare arms, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
Mattheo’s looking at you softly, like he was created just to sit here with you, patiently waiting for you to open up. Gone is the lopsided, lovesick, almost obnoxious grin he usually has on around you and in its place — a patient understanding.
His eyes drag over your face, as he tries to study you, and you turn your head away.
You don’t like being perceived when you’re not wearing your makeup and your jewellery and your bling. You feel bare in front of him — not put together — and you hate it.
You huff again, crossing your arms over your butter yellow tank top.
“Talk to me.” He says, with a small lilt of amusement.
Your lower lips juts out, petulantly. “I can’t sleep.”
"Tell me what you need." He murmurs against the skin of the back of your neck, he nips softly at all your sweet spots. Your eyes flutter close and you tilt your head back.
Mattheo disconnects his lips from your neck, using his finger to gently tilt your chin in his direction. Now that you're less resistant and more willing to talk, he waits for you to do so. He raises his eyebrows expectantly, ready to give you whatever it is you need, as long as you ask him for it.
"I need you." You say quietly, his mouth begins to quirk in a lazy smirk at the connotations of the sentence and very different circumstances you'd say that phrase, when he see's your eyes glaze over with tears of frustration.
"Stop it, Mattheo, I just want to sleep." Your voice sounds more like a whine as tears spill out of your eyes. "I'm so tired."
His smile drops instantly and he's instantly tightening his hands around you, doing anything to soothe you.
"You've got me, baby, I'm here." He says, using the back of his hands to wipe your tears away, shushing you.
He brushes your hair with his hands as he slowly shifts with you still in his embrace, until the both of you are lying down in his bed again.
He continues to rake his fingers through your hair.
"Close your eyes, baby." He orders gently.
“This isn’t going to work.” You say stubbornly, though your shoulders relax in his embrace. “I'm not a cat.”
“S’that so?” He murmurs, tone light. “You sure act like one.”
You’re about to bite back with a catty insult (that would most definitely prove his point), but his touch feels too good to move away from.
Before long, you feel your eyelids droop.
“You’re a bitch.” You say, with no real bite to it. You don’t mean it — and you hate that it's your fight of flight response — but you can’t stand to be so vulnerable for too long.
He chuckles, ever so kind to you.
“You’re an angel."
You almost scoff, you're really not. But he’s whispering sweet nothings in your ear and he’s brushing your hair like you are one.
The way he worships the ground you walk on and the venom you spit, you might as well be one.
Maybe you could be soft, just for him, like a real angel.
Your breathing evens out and your eyes stay closed, you slump against his chest a little more.
"Thank you, Matty." You murmur, so quiet he would've missed it had his dorm room not been so quiet.
He smiles and presses the softest of kisses to the top of your head when he's sure you're asleep.
"I love you." He whispers against your hair, before tucking his chin against your head and sleeping in tow with you.
You're really not one to sleep smiling like a loser.
But if you do that night, no one can see it but Mattheo anyway — which you can live with.
You don't mind Mattheo seeing you.
rare glimpse of her being vulnerable lol i hope you like this one <3 mattheo (& bitchy!reader honestly) are supersuper soft in this one !!! #need me a mattheo
my lovely i ran here when i got the notif that requests are open again!! how about poly!jily with vampire!james and vampire!lily? maybe they’ve been together for a few hundred years and reader has just come into the mix? maybe them meeting? totally up to you!! i’ve been craving more vampire au’s lately </3
Thank you for requesting my love!! They would soooooo be an ancient vampire couple I love that for them
cw: somewhat suggestive/mature themes, blood mention, talk of cults/cult activity
vampire!Jily x reporter!reader ♡ 2.5k words
“First time?”
You tear your gaze away from the black and white photos on the wall. It could be a family tree going back centuries, if only the couple featured in most of the frames didn’t look the exact same in each one. “Hm?”
“Is it your first time doing this?” Lily asks you. Her eyes, a striking, almost unnatural green, are surprisingly kind.
You smile, hoping it comes off as nervously excited. “Is it obvious?”
Her lips curve. “A little.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright.” She sits down next to you on the sofa, curling her socked feet underneath her. The sofa seems as vintage as most other things in this house, the velvet worn soft and faded in spots. Lily sinks into its cushions like an old friend. “We can take it as slow as you like. And we have drinks, if you think that might help.”
“I’ve got the drinks.” The emergence of Lily’s husband from the kitchen startles you slightly. You press instinctively back into the sofa, the recording device in your pocket digging into your backside.
Lily sends him an amused look. “I meant something stronger.”
James sets down the tea on an ottoman, smiling good-naturedly. “Well, you should’ve said. What shall we have?”
“Actually, that’s okay,” you butt in. Two sets of eyes turn to you, and despite how nice they both seem it’s difficult not to squirm. Lily and James have to be the most attractive couple you’ve ever seen. “I’d, um. I’d rather keep a clear head.”
Truthfully, you’d rather be three sheets to the wind right now, but it’s never a good idea to drink on the job. It had been hard enough to get your department editor to approve this assignment to begin with; you don’t need to go sullying it with anything that could call your credibility into question.
The story is an unlikely one. Rumors have started swirling of what some are calling a cult, people who claim vampires are real and that they’re devoting themselves as willing sustenance to them so the immortals don’t need to find other victims. The police department was involved briefly, but any investigation fizzled out soon enough; the cult members were clearly fantastical, but so long as they weren’t hurting anybody, it wasn’t really the city’s business. You thought there might be something more there.
Not vampires, obviously. But cults will always be interesting, and you were curious to see what the real blood and guts of this one looked like. Getting your editor to let you investigate took weeks, but finding out how to attend a meeting only took a few covert questions and a taxi ride.
You have to admit, this whole thing has turned out to be more organized than you anticipated. You were expecting a midnight convocation in a cemetery, chanting, maybe some shrines. The reality was a potluck in a rented room of the YMCA, two organized logs for both volunteers and vamps to sign in, and a ride to your chosen sponsees’ home with a promise to check back in with the leadership by nine tomorrow morning.
“See?” James smizes at Lily. “She likes my tea.”
“Don’t get smug, she hasn’t tried it yet.” Lily takes a cup from the tray, passing it to you with a conspiratorial look. “You may want some cream in that, love.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, picking up the pitcher. You watch the cream bloom and swirl, noticing in your periphery the looks James and Lily send each other. They seem at once entirely familiar and playfully coy with one another; it makes it difficult to tell how long they’ve been together, or if they’re only so ridiculously in love that it doesn’t matter. “So.” You clear your throat. “How often do you do this?”
“This?” James tears his gaze from Lily to look at you. “Feeding?”
Your face warms. “Sorry, is it rude to ask?”
“No.” He smiles, brown eyes crinkling sweetly. You take a second to look for fangs—specially sharpened teeth, prosthetics, even the plastic dime store things—but you can’t see any. The only thing supernatural about James’ smile is its disarming handsomeness. “No, sweetheart, you’re alright. We usually try for once a week. We can go longer, if we need to, but it’s not…”
“It gets difficult,” Lily fills in for him. “Feeding once a week keeps you from wanting more when you shouldn’t, does that make sense?”
You nod, though it doesn’t to you, not really.
“Most others find someone to feed from every couple weeks or so.” James has taken a seat on the rug, ignoring the chair nearby. You notice the way he circles a hand around Lily’s ankle to rub his thumb over her skin and wonder if he’d rather sit on the floor than be any farther from her. “We do it more often because there’s two of us and one of you.”
“So you always share?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“Feeding from someone can feel intimate,” says Lily. “We like to do it together, but we don’t have to.” You try to relax your expression when you notice her watching you carefully. “If there being two of us makes you uncomfortable, we can take you back. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
You shake your head, unwilling to be sent away. This may be your only chance to see what has everyone in the cult so enraptured. “I’m fine with it. Just asking.”
“How’d you come to join?” James asks.
“You know.” You shrug. “Friend of a friend. I was curious.”
This last part, at least, is true. James considers you from behind thickly-framed glasses. You wonder how much he really believes all this; if he’s convinced himself the glasses are some human disguise he needs to keep up, or if in his version of the lore even vampires can have imperfect vision.
“Curious about which part?” he asks.
You aren’t sure how to act now. Too eager, and they might see right through you. Too casual, and they could think you don’t want to be involved. You go with the truth. “To see what all the excitement was about, I guess.”
Lily chuckles. “I don’t know if we’ll live up to whatever your friend told you,” she says, “but we can show you what it’s like, if you feel ready.”
You find yourself nodding without any forethought. There’s a spellbinding quality about her, about both of them, when their attention is on you.
Vampire hypnosis, your brain supplies half-humorously.
But there’s not an ounce of dissent in you as Lily lifts herself up from her spot on the sofa, pivoting to set a thigh down on either side of your lap. She settles her weight on top of you.
“This okay?” she asks, arms rising behind her head.
“Yeah,” you manage. Obviously distracted, watching her pull her hair through a hair tie she’s taken from her wrist.
She smiles almost sheepishly. “Keeps it out of the way.”
“Should I do mine, too?”
“No, don’t worry about it.” She moves some hair away from your neck. The brush of her knuckles makes you shiver. “I’ll make sure there’s no mess. I’m going to go first, and then James can join if you’re okay with it after a little while, alright?”
You feel strangely breathless. Probably just an effect of having someone like Lily this close. She smells like almonds. “Sure.”
“Alright. Thank you.” Her bright green eyes skim you over. Every second she waits feels stretched into infinity, your heart thumping against your throat. “If it ever gets to be too much, just say something. We can stop or take a break whenever you like.”
“Okay,” you breathe. Lily nods, bending toward you, and you blurt, “Is it going to hurt?”
You’re not genuinely worried about vampire fangs, but—shit—what are they going to do to you? Does this ritual involve some sort of bloodletting? Is she hiding a pin behind your back that she’s going to prick your neck with?
Lily backs away so you can see her face again. Her expression is gentle, almost unbearably kind. On the floor, James has taken hold of your wrist and is rubbing soothing circles into it with his thumb.
“Just for a second,” Lily tells you. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
It’s not much reassurance, except it is, coming from her. This is the strangest experience you’ve ever had. Your heart thrashes wildly, and still you say, “Okay,” and tip your head to the side.
Lily cups the side of your face as she bends closer again, closing her lips over your skin.
It’s nice. It’s kissing. You almost want to laugh, half delirious from relief and the familiar pleasure of it. Is this what it really is—a whole vampire cult, organized meetings and severely given warnings and we can stop whenever you want—it’s all some sort of sex thing? The first scrape of Lily’s teeth has a smile breaking out over your face, and you hear James chuckle at the sight of it. He must think you’re getting into it. Really, you’re just surprised by the gentleness of it. Lily is an excellent kisser, but you were bracing yourself for pain, not—
Oh.
“Oh,” you say aloud, caught offguard by the dizzy feeling that takes you when Lily’s fangs break your skin. It’s a head rush, but the best head rush you’ve ever felt, glittery and freeing and intoxicating. Everything that binds you together seems to give out, and you’re putty in her hands, but she’s handling you oh so carefully, and it’s just like she said, it hardly hurts, and fuck.
Fuck. This is real. Lily is a vampire. They’re both vampires.
“Doing alright, lovely?” James asks you. His thumb is still rubbing your wrist.
You shouldn’t be doing alright. You should be reeling, and you are, a bit, but it’s like—it’s as if your brain can’t latch onto a whole thought. You’re floating, and every worry you have simply slips away from you as you go further downstream.
Your response to James is little more than a thready hum. You think he responds, but you can’t hold onto it.
You have the sense to swallow a moan when you remember the device in your pocket, still recording, still picking up every sound around you. Lily’s quiet sucking noises, James’ whispered praise, the shushing of the velvet cushion when Lily shifts on top of you, pressing closer. She moans, and the sound makes your blood pound, thinking about your editor listening to it later.
“James.” Her voice rises like a plea. You don’t know what she wants, but you want to give it to her. You’re desperate to be everything she needs.
“What, love?” James asks indulgently.
Lily makes a low sound against your throat. “She tastes so good.”
It sends a rush of pride through you. You’re drunk on it, hot and cold in different places and altogether blissfully overwhelmed.
“I can tell.” He says your name, asking politely for your attention. You didn’t realize he knew it. You’d introduced yourselves earlier, of course, but that feels like a lifetime ago now. You manage to open your eyes, finding James watching you patiently. “Do you feel alright to have me start?”
For a moment, you don’t remember what he means. All you know is you want him—both of them—to do whatever they need to you, so you’re nodding before your brain catches up.
“I’ll start slowly,” he says anyway. “We’ll be able to tell when it’s too much, but if you start to feel nervous, you can still say so and we’ll stop.”
“Okay.” You’re nearly weeping, pain and pleasure a staticy jumble in your head. “Okay, okay, please.”
“We’ve got you,” James promises, and bends his head.
His mouth finds the same spot his thumb has been devoting itself to. He begins as promised, as Lily had, soft, impossibly sweet kisses on the inside of your wrist. You make a truly mortifying sound then, tape recorder forgotten in your anticipation, and Lily hushes you with a touch to your cheek. When James bites you, you go limp against their sofa. Part of the used, spent, beloved fabric of it.
What follows is a blurry dream of skin and teeth and tongues. Your lips parted in reverence, sometimes graced with a passing kiss, your loose limbs maneuvered with heart-throbbing care. At some point Lily and James switch positions. You end up in his lap, her lying stomach-down on the sofa to put her mouth to your wrist. Maybe blood tastes different from different arteries; maybe this is their way of kissing, lapping up each other’s saliva from marks on your body; you don’t care. You make a home for yourself in the smell of James’ hair and the lovely softness of the world around you until it’s over, and both partners are licking your wounds to seal them.
“Sorry.” Lily sounds shyer than she has since you met. There’s a pretty blush in the apples of her cheeks. (Your blood? It suits her better, you think.) “I went a bit too fast at first, got carried away. How are you feeling?”
“Good,” you breathe. You let your head list forward, surprised when you slip a few inches down James’ front.
“Careful, you’re alright.” He pulls you back up. James is so strong. You’d noticed the bulk of his arms before, but—is this a human strength? You feel there’s so much you don’t know. James folds your head into his neck, rubbing your back and kissing your temple with unexpected warmth. “It might take you a few minutes to get your legs back under you. It’s normal, don’t worry.”
“Bet you say that to all your meals,” you say, words smearing together.
The sound of his laughter mingling with Lily’s might be your new favorite. “We do, actually,” Lily admits. “Some parts of this are fairly routine. I’ve never had anyone that tastes like you do, though.”
“Really?” You turn your head to see her, genuinely curious.
Lily doesn’t strike you as someone prone to empty flattery, but if you’d had any doubts about her truthfulness her expression dispels them. She looks blissed out, the green of her irises nearly eclipsed by pupil and lips as red as if she’s been nibbling them raw, but her brows are drawn together in puzzlement.
“Yeah,” she says, as though this is a mystery she too would like to get to the bottom of. “James?”
“For me, too,” he confirms. He’s still running his hand up and down your back, a grounding pressure. “What’s that about, you think?”
“I don’t know,” Lily murmurs. As you come back to grips with yourself, you find yourself watching them again. Maybe it’s your default setting, the journalist in you, but you can’t help taking note of the way they act around each other. The way James constantly has a hand extended toward Lily, untroubled when she doesn’t always take it; the way she seems to solve problems for the both of them; the wordless looks they exchange which you want desperately to be able to decipher.
“How long have you been doing this?” you ask.
“A while,” Lily answers cryptically. Something in her expression makes you wonder if perhaps she’d be willing to tell you more with time. With trust earned. “Do you think you might come back? Will we see you next week?”
