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lov3notts

heyyy!! i just wanted to ask if you could do theodore x reader where theo is like really really jealous because of harry flirting with reader, even when they should be "casual" and one day he kinda snaps and conjures fight with harry..

tea 🤏🏻🤏🏻 we love a jealous theo

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You've been doing this dance with Theodore for four months now.

Four months of stolen kisses in empty corridors. Four months of his hands on your waist, pulling you into alcoves between classes. Four months of late nights in the common room where conversations turn into something more, something heated, something that leaves you breathless and wanting.

Four months of nothing.

No labels. No definitions. No clarity about what you are to each other.

"It's casual," he'd said that first time you'd tried to have the conversation, his dark eyes unreadable. "We're just having fun, yeah? No need to complicate it."

But it doesn't feel casual. Not when he looks at you like that across the Great Hall. Not when his fingers trace patterns on your skin in the darkness. Not when he whispers your name like a prayer against your neck.

You want more. You want to be his girlfriend, want him to be your boyfriend, want everyone to know that there's something real between you. But every time you try to bring it up, he deflects. Changes the subject. Kisses you until you forget why you were talking in the first place.

So you've learned to take what you can get. The stolen moments. The secret smiles. The way his hand finds yours under the table when no one's looking.

It's not enough. But it's something.

At least, it was something. You thought it was enough until a Astronomy class on a cold Tuesday morning changes everything.

Professor Sinistra stands at the front of the classroom, her star-chart robes shimmering in the candlelight. "Your next project will span the remainder of the term," she announces. "You'll be studying a specific constellation in depth—its mythology, its astronomical properties, and its magical significance."

You're only half-listening, too aware of Theo sitting three rows behind you. You can feel his gaze on the back of your neck like a physical touch.

"I've already assigned your partnerships," Sinistra continues, and your attention snaps back to her. "These pairings are final, so please don't ask to switch."

Your stomach drops. Assigned partnerships.

One by one students get paired.

“Hermione Granger and Blaise Zabini”

“Draco Malfoy and Katie Bell”

"Theodore Nott and Lavender Brown."

The quill in your hand stills. You turn slowly in your seat, just enough to see Theo's reaction. He looks unbothered, already glancing over at Lavender, who's practically glowing with excitement.

Lavender Brown. Who's been trying to get Theo's attention since fourth year. Who laughs too loud at his jokes and finds excuses to touch his arm. Who's made it abundantly clear she's interested.

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to breathe through it.

"And our next pair—" Sinistra consults her list. "Harry Potter and...”

"Y/N L/N."

Of course.

You force yourself to look over at Harry, who gives you a small, slightly awkward smile. He's nice enough. You've worked together before. It's fine. It's fine.

Except when you glance back at Theo, his expression has shifted. Something dark flickers across his face before he schools it back to neutrality.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. Sinistra explains the project requirements, but you barely hear her over the rushing in your ears. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped a band around your ribs and is slowly pulling it tighter. When she finally dismisses you, you're out of your seat immediately.

You catch up with Theo in the corridor, grabbing his arm. "We need to talk."

He turns, and for a moment, something vulnerable flashes in his eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by that carefully neutral expression you've come to hate.

"What's up?"

"Switch partners with me."

His eyebrows rise. "What?"

"For the project. Switch with Harry. You work with him, I'll work with Lavender."

"Why would we do that?"

Is he serious? "Because Lavender has been trying to get with you for years, Theo. Everyone knows it."

He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. "So? We're just doing a project."

"She's going to flirt with you the entire time."

"And?" He's looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can't tell if he's genuinely confused or deliberately being obtuse. "I don't see what the problem is."

The problem. The problem is that you're not his girlfriend, so you have no right to be jealous. The problem is that he's made it clear this thing between you doesn't mean anything serious. The problem is that your heart is breaking, and he doesn't even notice.

Your eyes burn. You blink rapidly, refusing to let him see. "Fine," you say, your voice cold despite the way it wants to crack. "Whatever. Have fun with Lavender."

You turn and walk away before he can see the tears threatening to spill. You make it around the corner before the first one falls, hot and angry against your cheek. You swipe it away viciously.

You will not cry over Theodore Nott.

You won't.

The library is quiet the next day, just you and Harry bent over your Astronomy textbooks. He's been explaining the mythology behind Cassiopeia for the past ten minutes, and you've been nodding along, but you haven't absorbed a single word.

Your mind keeps replaying yesterday. Theo's casual dismissal. The way he didn't even care that Lavender would be all over him. The way he looked at you like you were being unreasonable for even asking.

"—and that's why she was chained to her throne in the sky. Are you okay?"

You blink, realizing Harry has stopped talking and is looking at you with concern.

"Sorry," you say, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just... tired."

"You sure?" He shifts closer, and his knee bumps yours under the table. "You seem upset."

The genuine worry in his voice makes your chest ache in a different way. Harry is nice. He's attentive and kind and he actually seems to care about how you're feeling.

Unlike some people.

"I'm okay," you lie. "Really. Cassiopeia sounds great for the project."

Harry smiles, and it's genuine and warm and a little shy. "Cool. Um, I'm really glad we're partners, actually." He ducks his head, a flush creeping up his neck. "I've wanted to get to know you better for a while now."

Oh.

The way he's looking at you—nervous and hopeful and sweet—makes it abundantly clear what he means.

Harry likes you.

You should probably discourage this. Should probably make it clear you're not interested, that your heart belongs to someone else even if that someone refuses to claim it.

But then you think about Theo. About his casual dismissal. About how he won't even acknowledge that what you have is real.

About how much it hurts.

"I'm glad too," you hear yourself say, and Harry's smile widens.

The guilt hits you immediately. You're using him. You know you are. Using his genuine feelings to make yourself feel wanted, to make Theo jealous, to protect your own bruised heart.

But maybe that's what you need right now. Maybe you need someone who isn't afraid to show they care.

Even if it makes you feel sick with yourself.

The next Astronomy class, you arrive early and deliberately sit next to Harry. You're laughing at something he said—you can't even remember what—when Theo walks in.

He stops mid-stride when he sees you. For a moment, something raw crosses his face. Then it's gone, replaced by that infuriating mask of indifference.

You force yourself to keep smiling at Harry. To keep your hand on his arm. To pretend you don't feel Theo's stare burning into the back of your neck.

Your chest feels tight again. Wrong. Everything about this feels wrong.

But you don't move.

"Why aren't you sitting with me?"

The question comes after class, Theo's voice low and tight as he corners you in the corridor. There's something in his eyes you can't quite read—something that looks almost like hurt.

You look at him coolly, even though your heart is racing. "I'm sitting with my partner."

"Your partner." The word sounds bitter in his mouth.

"For the project. You know, the one you didn't want to switch?"

His jaw clenches. "That's what this is about?"

"I don't know what you mean." The lie tastes like ash. "I'm just taking the project seriously."

You step around him, and his hand catches your wrist. Not hard, but enough to stop you.

"Wait—"

"I have to go," you say, pulling free. Your throat is tight again, tears threatening. "Harry's waiting."

You walk away before he can say anything else. Before you can see whatever expression is on his face. Before you can break down and tell him the truth—that every moment away from him feels like drowning, that you hate this game you're playing, that you just want him to care.

In the bathroom, you lock yourself in a stall and let the tears fall silently. Your chest heaves with the effort of keeping quiet, of not sobbing out loud where someone might hear.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? To make him jealous? To make him feel even a fraction of what you've been feeling?

So why does it hurt so much?

Over the next week, you perfect the art of avoidance, and it's killing you.

Every time Theo asks if you want to hang out after dinner, you say you're busy with the project. Every time he tries to catch you in the common room, you're heading to the library. Every time he sends you a note in Potions, you don't respond.

And every time, you feel like you're tearing yourself apart.

You lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, replaying every interaction. The hurt in his eyes when you brush him off. The way his hand had lingered on your wrist. The tightness in his voice when he'd asked why you weren't sitting with him.

Maybe he does care. Maybe this is affecting him too.

But then you remember: ‘It's casual. We're just having fun.‘

And the hope dies.

Harry, meanwhile, is always there. He walks you to class. Saves you a seat at lunch. Brings you coffee when you're studying late.

"You don't have to do all this" you tell him one evening in the library. Your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"I want to" he says, and there's such sincerity in his green eyes that the guilt threatens to choke you.

You're using him. You know you are. Using his attention, his kindness, his genuine feelings—using all of it as a shield against your own pain.

It makes you feel like the worst person in the world.

That night, you cry yourself to sleep.

In Astronomy class, you watch as Lavender leans close to Theo, her hand on his shoulder as she points at something in their notes. She's laughing, tossing her hair, and Theo—

Theo lets her.

He doesn't pull away. Doesn't create distance. He smiles at something she says, and your stomach twists so violently you think you might be sick.

Your hands are shaking. You clench them into fists under the table, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

This is what you wanted. You wanted him to feel what you felt. You wanted him to be jealous.

But watching him smile at her, watching him let her touch him—

It's unbearable.

"Hey," Harry says softly beside you. "You okay?"

You realize you've been staring. You tear your gaze away, blinking rapidly against the burning in your eyes.

"Fine," you manage. "I'm fine."

But you're not fine. You're so far from fine you can't even see it anymore.

Harry is quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly you almost miss it: "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

He's fidgeting with his quill, not looking at you. His ears are red. "I was wondering if maybe—I mean, if you're not busy—" He takes a breath. "Would you want to go to Hogsmeade with me? This weekend?"

Your heart stops.

"Like..." You trail off, not sure how to finish the question.

"Like a date," Harry says, finally meeting your eyes. He looks terrified and hopeful all at once. "If you want. No pressure. I just—I really like you, and I thought maybe—"

Behind you, there's a sudden crash.

You whip around to see Theo's ink bottle overturned, black liquid spreading across his parchment and dripping onto the floor. His hands are shaking—actually shaking—as he tries to hold the bottle. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping.

Lavender is fussing over the mess, but Theo isn't looking at her. He's looking at you, and the expression on his face—

Raw. Desperate.

For a moment, you can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare back at him.

Then Harry touches your arm gently. "So... what do you think?"

You tear your gaze away from Theo. Look at Harry's hopeful face. Think about all the times Theo has dismissed you, pushed you away, refused to give you what you need.

Think about how much it hurts.

"Yes," you hear yourself say. "I'd love to."

Harry's face lights up. "Really? That's—that's great!"

You force yourself to smile. To ignore the sound of Theo's chair scraping back. To ignore the way your chest feels like it's caving in.

You don't look at Theo again for the rest of class.

But you can feel him staring.

That evening, you're heading back to the common room when a hand catches your wrist.

"Can we talk?"

Theo. Of course.

You don't turn around. Can't. If you look at him, you'll break. "I'm actually pretty tired—"

"Please." His voice cracks on the word, and it sends a knife through your chest. "Just... come to my room? We can hang out. Like we used to."

You know what ‘hang out’ means. It means his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and forgetting everything except the way he makes you feel. It means falling back into the pattern, into the casual undefined thing that's been slowly destroying you.

It would be so easy to say yes. To let him pull you close. To pretend everything is fine.

But it's not fine. Nothing is fine.

"I can't," you say quietly, still not looking at him. Your eyes are burning again. "I'm busy."

"With Potter." It's not a question. His grip on your wrist tightens slightly—not painful, but desperate. "That's all he is, right? Your project partner?"

You finally turn to face him, and the look in his eyes nearly breaks you. He looks wrecked. Vulnerable in a way you've never seen him.

But it's not enough. It's never enough.

"What does it matter to you, Theo?" Your voice is shaking now, tears threatening. "We're just casual, remember? Just having fun. No need to complicate it."

You throw his own words back at him, and you watch them land like blows. He flinches.

"That's not—"

"I have to go," you say, pulling your hand free. A tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. You swipe at it angrily. "Harry's waiting."

You walk away, and this time, you do let yourself look back.

Theo is standing in the middle of the corridor, looking lost and broken and so unlike himself that it makes your chest ache.

But you keep walking.

You're walking back from the library two days later, your eyes tired and puffy from staying up late thinking about your last conversation with Theo, when you hear it.

Raised voices. The sound of a scuffle. You round the corner and freeze.

Theo has Harry pinned against the wall, his fist drawn back. Harry's nose is already bleeding, his glasses out of place.

"Theo!" you scream.

He doesn't stop. His fist connects with Harry's jaw with a sickening crack, and Harry crumples. Theo follows him down, and it takes two seventh-years to pull him off.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" one of them shouts, struggling to hold Theo back.

Theo's chest is heaving, his knuckles bloody. His eyes are wild, unfocused—and then they land on you.

The look on his face—rage and desperation and something that looks like anguish—makes you take a step back.

"Get Potter to the hospital wing," you say to the seventh-years, your voice shaking. You can't look at Harry's crumpled form. Can't think about the fact that this is your fault. "Now."

They half-carry Harry away, and you're left alone with Theo in the corridor.

"You," you say, your voice deadly quiet. "Come with me. Now."

You drag him to an empty classroom, slamming the door behind you. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking.

"What is your problem?" you demand, whirling on him. "You could have seriously hurt him!"

"Good." Theo's voice is rough, dangerous. There's blood on his knuckles, and he doesn't seem to care. "He deserves it."

"For what? For being my partner? For being nice to me?"

"For touching you!" The words explode out of him. "For making you laugh. For—for asking you to Hogsmeade like he has any right—"

"He has every right!" You're shouting now too, tears streaming down your face. "Because you know what, Theo? He actually wants me. He's not afraid to show it. He's not keeping me a secret or pretending this doesn't mean anything!"

"That's not—"

"You said this was casual!" Your voice breaks completely. "You're the one who wanted no labels, no commitment, nothing. So why the hell do you care if I go to Hogsmeade with Harry? Why do you care if he flirts with me? You don't get to have it both ways!"

"Because I lied!"

The words ring out in the sudden silence.

Theo's chest is heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"I lied. It was never casual. Not for me. Not once."

Your heart stops. The tears are still falling, but you can't move. Can't breathe.

"What?"

"I lied," he repeats, and now he won't look at you. His voice is raw, broken. "I thought—I thought if I kept it casual, if I didn't put a name to it, then I couldn't..." He breaks off, switching to Italian under his breath. "Cazzo. I couldn't lose you."

"Theo—"

"And then Potter." His voice roughens, and when he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed. "Harry fucking Potter with his perfect smile and his Hogsmeade invitation, and you said yes, and I—" He stops, swallows hard. "I couldn't breathe. All I could see was you with him. Laughing with him. Choosing him."

You're frozen, unable to process what you're hearing. Three months of pain and confusion and heartbreak, and now—

"You want to know why I care?" He takes a step toward you, and you can see he's trembling. "Because you're mine. You've been mine since the first time you looked at me like I was something worth having. And I've been yours this whole time, and I was too scared to admit it."

"You hurt me," you whisper, your voice breaking. Fresh tears spill over. "You made me feel like I wasn't enough. Like I was asking for too much. Like I was crazy for wanting more."

"I know." He takes another step, and you can see the desperation in every line of his body. "I know, and I'm sorry. Amore, I'm so sorry. You were always enough. You were everything. I was just—" His voice cracks. "fuck, I was just too much of a coward to say it."

"How do I know you mean it?" Your whole body is shaking now, sobs threatening to tear out of your chest. "How do I know this isn't just because you're jealous? That you won't go back to 'casual' the moment I forgive you?"

"Because I'm telling you now." Another step closer. He's right in front of you now, close enough to touch. "I'm telling you that I want you. Only you. Not casual, not undefined. I want all of it. Labels, commitment, everything I was too scared to give you before."

"Theo—"

"Per favore" The Italian falls from his lips like a prayer, and his hands come up like he wants to reach for you but doesn't dare. "Please. I can't lose you. I won't—I can't survive it."

You can see him trembling, this boy who's always so controlled, so carefully composed, falling apart in front of you. There are tears on his face now too.

"I love you," he says, and the words sound like they've been torn from somewhere deep inside him. "Ti amo. I should have said it weeks ago. Months ago. I love you."

Your breath catches. You've imagined him saying those words so many times, but hearing them now—

It's everything you wanted.

And it's not enough.

"You're an idiot," you breathe, your voice thick with tears.

"I know." He takes it like absolution.

"And an asshole."

"I know."

"And you—" Your voice breaks. "You broke my heart, Theo. You made me feel worthless. You made me cry myself to sleep. You made me hate myself for wanting you."

"I know." His voice is wrecked. "I know, and I—cazzo, I would take it all back if I could. Every moment I made you doubt yourself. Every time I pushed you away. I would take it all back."

"But you can't." The words come out as a sob. "You can't take it back."

"I know." He's crying openly now. "But I can—I can try to make it right. I can be what you deserve. I can—please , just give me a chance. Let me prove it to you."

He reaches for you, his hands coming up to cup your face, and you can see the moment he's going to kiss you. The moment he thinks this is over, that you're going to forgive him, that everything is going to be okay.

You step back.

His hands fall to his sides, and the look on his face—devastation, confusion, desperation—nearly breaks you all over again.

"I can't," you whisper. "I can't do this right now."

"What?" His voice is small, broken. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold yourself together. "I mean I've spent four months feeling like I wasn't enough for you. Four months wondering what was wrong with me. Four months breaking myself trying to be okay with casual when I wanted so much more."

"I know, and I'm—"

"And now you're sorry." Your voice is bitter. "Now that you think you might lose me, now you want to make it real. But where were you when I was crying in my dormitory? Where were you when I was tearing myself apart trying to understand why you wouldn't just choose me?"

"I was scared—"

"So was I!" The words come out as a shout. "I was terrified! But I was willing to risk it. I was willing to put myself out there and ask for what I wanted. And you—you just kept pushing me away."

"Please—" He reaches for you again, and you step back again.

"No." Your voice is firm despite the tears. "No, you don't get to touch me right now. You don't get to kiss me and make this okay. You don't get to fix four months of pain with one confession.

"Then what do I do?" He sounds desperate, broken. "Dimmi, Tell me what to do. I'll do anything."

"I don't know." You're crying so hard you can barely see him. "I don't know, Theo. I just—I need time. I need to think."

"Time." He says it like the word is foreign. "How much time?"

"I don't know!" You're shouting again. "I don't know, okay? I don't know if I can trust you. I don't know if this is real or if you're just scared of losing. I don't know anything anymore!"

"It's real." His voice is fierce. "I swear to you, it's real. I love you. I— I love you so much it terrifies me."

"Then you should have said so." Your voice breaks. "You should have said so before I had to break myself trying to make you jealous. Before I had to use Harry. Before you put him in the hospital wing."

He flinches like you've struck him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." You wipe at your face, but the tears keep coming. "I know you are. But sorry isn't enough right now."

"Then what is?" He's begging now, openly begging. "What do you need from me? I'll do anything. Anything."

"I need—" You stop, trying to find the words through the tears. "I need you to let me go. Right now. I need you to let me walk out of here and figure out what I want."

"And if—" His voice breaks. "If you decide you don't want me?"

The question hangs in the air between you. You can see the fear in his eyes, the desperation, the love he's finally admitting to.

And you can't answer him.

"I don't know," you whisper finally. "I don't know, Theo."

You turn toward the door, and his voice stops you.

"I'll wait." It's barely audible. "However long it takes. I'll wait for you."

You don't turn around. Can't. If you look at him—broken and desperate and finally, finally giving you everything you wanted—you'll cave. You'll forgive him before you're ready. You'll let him kiss you and touch you and make promises you're not sure he can keep.

"Don't," you say quietly. "Don't wait for me. I can't—I can't promise you anything right now."

"I don't care." His voice is fierce again. "I'll wait anyway. Forever, if that's what it takes."

A sob tears out of your chest. You wrench open the door and run.

You run through the corridors, tears blurring your vision, your chest heaving with sobs you can't contain anymore. You run until you reach your dormitory, until you can throw yourself onto your bed and bury your face in your pillow and finally let yourself break completely.

He loves you.

Theodore Nott loves you.

And you don't know if it's enough.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

did i say jealous Theo? I meant begging :)

#to be read #theodore nott

lov3notts

hiii ik you haven’t posted in so long but can you write a theo fic where he finds out the new hufflepuff student speaks italian😛

tyyy for this request i’ve been having a slump

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Potions class was always the more interesting class out of Theo’s schedule.

Cauldrons bubbling in steady rhythm, knives tapping against wood, quiet instructions from Slughorn drifting through the room without much urgency. Theo Nott is already bored halfway through the lesson.

Not because it’s difficult.

Because it isn’t.

Everything he’s doing is automatic. Familiar. The kind of work that doesn’t ask anything from him at all.

He’s barely paying attention, wand rolling lazily between his fingers, when he hears it.

A voice.

Not loud. Not aimed at anyone.

His hand stills slightly.

Then he hears it again.

And his eyes move before he decides they should.

Across the room.

One table down.

You’re there.

Focused on your ingredients, knife in hand, and then your body jolts slightly like you’ve cut too deep. He sees it immediately—the small flash of red, the way your fingers pull back instinctively.

And you curse.

Quiet.

Almost under your breath.

“Ma che cazzo…”

Theo doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving entirely until his wand stops turning between his fingers.

Because that shouldn’t be possible.

Not here. Not from anyone.

He’s staring now. He knows he is.

He just doesn’t stop.

Blaise notices first, glancing sideways at him with mild curiosity. “Why are you staring at her?”

Theo doesn’t answer.

Mattheo follows his gaze. “You alright there, mate? That doesn’t look like potion concentration.”

Draco laughs somewhere down the table. “Ouu, someone’s got a crush.”

Theo exhales once through his nose, still not looking away from you.

“Why doesn’t she look familiar?” he says, like he’s thinking out loud more than speaking.

Mattheo barely glances over. “Oh her? She’s new I think. Transferred in last week. Why?”

Theo doesn’t answer.

Because you’ve just done it again.

Another whisper under your breath.

Italian.

And he feels something shift in him that he doesn’t have a name for yet.

So he just keeps watching.

The rest of the lesson doesn’t matter anymore.

He moves through it out of habit. Steps, instructions, ingredients. All of it background noise. Every so often, his eyes drift back to you without permission.

You don’t notice.

That’s the part that keeps bothering him.

When class ends, everyone scrapes chairs back, gathers things, starts talking again like nothing happened.

Theo leaves with them.

Except he ends up behind you without planning it.

Not close enough to be obvious.

Just there.

Following the same movement of the crowd out of the dungeon.

You’re talking to your friends, completely unaware, your voice blending into everything else.

Theo almost speaks.

Doesn’t.

The hallway gets too crowded, too fast, and you’re gone into it before anything can happen.

And he tells himself that should be the end of it.

It isn’t.

After that, you’re everywhere.

Library.

Courtyard.

Hallways between classes.

Not obvious. Never obvious.

Just enough that he sees you before he means to, and then realizes he’s already looking for you the next time without meaning to.

You never notice.

That’s what drove him crazy.

The library is where it finally stops being accidental.

You’re sitting near the back, reading, completely unaware of anything around you.

Theo enters and doesn’t go straight to a table.

He moves through shelves instead, picking up a random book, then another, pretending it matters which one he chooses except it doesn’t.

Because he keeps drifting closer to your table without fully committing to it.

He’s halfway between shelves when your voice cuts through the quiet.

Still not looking up from your book.

“Why have you been following me?”

Theo stops so fast the book in his hand almost slips.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all.

Because he didn’t think you noticed.

That was the entire point of how he was doing it.

Slowly, he turns his head.

You still haven’t looked at him.

Still reading.

Like you’re not even surprised.

Like you already knew he’d be there.

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out cleanly.

So he tries again, shifting the book in his hand like it will help him reset himself.

“I wasn’t—”

He stops.

That sounds worse.

You finally look up at him.

And everything in him tightens slightly because now there’s no buffer anymore.

Just you and him and the fact that you just called him out without even looking away from your book.

Then you speak again.

In Italian.

“Perché mi stai seguendo?”

Theo’s brain short-circuits for half a second.

Because that isn’t supposed to be possible.

Not from you.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

His expression changes before he can stop it.

Something sharper. More awake.

He steps closer without realizing it.

“Parli italiano?” “You speak Italian?” he says immediately, in Italian without meaning to switch languages.

You tilt your head slightly. “Sì, e quindi? C'è qualche problema?” “Yeah and? Is there a problem?” you say in Italian, still calm, still reading him like this is nothing.

Theo shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to get control back.

“No, no, I’m just surprised,” he says quickly. “It’s been a while since someone other than my father spoke Italian to me.”

That lands differently in the silence.

You pause.

Just slightly.

“Oh.”

Nothing else.

Just that.

And Theo realizes, standing there with a book he doesn’t remember picking up properly, that this is no longer about coincidence.

Because whatever this is—you didn’t just speak his language.

You interrupted something he thought was only his.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

#to be read #theodore nott

lov3notts

bf’s enemy!theo picks a fight with cedric

finally got around to editing this, it came out longer than it organically was but not complaining, couldn’t find aesthetic pics for the life of me

warnings : blood, fighting

word count: 2.7k

Navigation; m.list; r.r; bf's enemy!theo au; more

Cedric loses the match before he ever steps onto the pitch.

Not because Ravenclaw played better.Not because Hufflepuff was off their game.

Because for the first time in years, Cedric Diggory cannot focus. And it starts with something stupid.

A scarf.

A stupid scarf.

#theodore nott

colouredbyd

all that matters

steve harrington x reader

summary: when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that destroys his darling car, you’re left shaken and terrified of his reaction. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the car.

word count: 2.1k

warnings: car accident, totaled car, panicked sobbing, slight bleeding minor injuries, blood on face/hair, guilt, hurt/comfort, comfort, reassurance, overthinking.

“He’s going to kill me.”

The words spill out of you before you can stop them, thin and shaking, ripped straight from your chest.

You barely recognize your own voice. You’re staring ahead, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing and everything at once. Not the spiderwebbed windshield. Not the hood crumpled inward, steam ghosting up into the air.

All you can see is Steve’s face when he finds out. When he sees the car. His precious car.

#to be read #steve harrington

prettyglad

calculated — bodyguard!steve harrington x reader

summary — the first time you go out with steve as your bodyguard, you realise how serious your situation is. how intruding it feels.

contains bodyguard steve harrington au, famous reader, fem!reader, no pronouns

The first time you leave the house with Steve officially assigned to you, it feels like stepping into a version of your life that has been subtly rewritten.

Nothing looks different on the surface. The sky is still pale and golden as late afternoon slips toward evening. The driveway still curves elegantly past manicured hedges and up toward the iron gates. The air still carries that faint sweetness from the jasmine planted along the property line.

If someone were watching from the outside, they would see the same girl heading out for dinner with friends.

But inside your chest, everything feels altered.

You take longer getting ready than you need to. You tell yourself it’s because you want to look good. Because you haven’t seen Ava and the others in a week. Because dinner in West Hollywood always turns into photographs and laughter and someone ordering dessert they don’t need. All of that is true. It just isn’t the whole truth.

The whole truth is that you are aware of him downstairs. Aware in the way someone is aware of a storm that hasn’t started yet but is waiting beyond the horizon.

You smooth a peach blush across your cheekbones, then wipe it off and start again because your hands feel less steady than usual.

You change your top twice before settling on something simple and loose, something that makes you feel like yourself instead of someone under supervision. Dark denim jeans. Kitten heals. A leather jacket that gives you a small sense of armor.

You look at yourself in the mirror and try to identify what feels different.

It isn’t fear. It’s the weight of being accounted for.

When you step into the hallway, Steve is positioned near the landing. He is not planted outside your bedroom door or leaning dramatically against the wall. He stands near enough to intercept movement toward either staircase or balcony corridor, posture balanced and alert in a way that reads as natural rather than forced.

His eyes lift when you appear.

He looks at you the way he looks at rooms — quickly, thoroughly, without lingering inappropriately. The glance takes in your shoes, your jacket, your bag. It lasts less than two seconds.

“You ready?” he asks.

His voice is steady, low, almost neutral.

“Yes.”

He nods once and moves down the stairs ahead of you. You notice that he checks the front windows as he passes them. His attention moves with intention. He doesn’t explain what he’s doing, and you don’t ask.

Outside, the SUV waiting in the driveway is darker than the sedan you normally take. The glass is tinted deeply enough that you can’t see inside.

No Daniel. The driver is someone unfamiliar. He hasn’t had a day off in five years. The stranger offers a brief professional nod when he sees you.

A flicker of discomfort moves through you. Steve picks up on it instantly.

“Different rotation,” he says quietly, before you have to ask. “Same clearance.”

You aren’t entirely sure what clearance entails, but you appreciate that he anticipated the question and answered it without making you feel naive.

He opens the back door for you. The gesture feels formal in a way that makes you suddenly aware of how little control you have over this arrangement.

Inside the car, the leather smells faintly new. The doors shut with a heavier sound than you’re used to. Steve takes the front passenger seat. He doesn’t sit beside you. He doesn’t fill the space with unnecessary conversation.

The drive into the city stretches long and smooth. Traffic is moderate, the usual flow of headlights and crosswalk signals, and pedestrians weaving through intersections. You try to focus on your phone, on the conversation lighting up the screen.

Emily: Is he actually coming inside?

Yes.

Is he scary?

You hesitate.

No.

That isn’t a lie. It just isn’t simple.

Your eyes drift upward toward the rearview mirror.

Steve isn’t watching you. He’s scanning traffic patterns with a concentration that feels almost clinical. His gaze shifts between side mirrors, intersections, vehicles that slow a little too long beside you. His posture remains composed, shoulders squared but not tense. He speaks quietly to the driver once, something about taking Fountain instead of Santa Monica. The driver adjusts without question.

You don’t ask why.

The restaurant glows warmly when you arrive. Strings of patio lights cast soft halos over the outdoor seating. Music hums from inside, blending with laughter and clinking glassware. It is lively in the way you love — chaotic but welcoming.

Steve steps out first. His movements are unhurried but deliberate. He scans the sidewalk, the entrance, the bar through the window. It happens quickly enough that most people would never clock it.

Then he opens your door.

You step out into the noise and warmth of the evening. The shift from the insulated quiet of the SUV to the open air makes your senses feel sharper.

Inside, your friends spot you immediately.

“There she is!” Emily calls, sliding out of the booth.

She hugs you tightly before noticing Steve behind you. Her expression shifts to curiosity, then something slightly amused.

“This is Steve,” you say.

He gives a small nod. “Hi.”

His voice is low and contained. There’s no smile, but there isn’t hostility either. Just restraint.

He doesn’t sit with you. He chooses a table along the perimeter of the room where he can see both the entrance and your booth. The distance is respectful. He isn’t hovering. You can speak freely without feeling like he’s part of the conversation.

And yet you feel him.

Dinner begins easily. Stories overlap. Laughter rises and falls. You relax into familiar rhythms — teasing Emily about her latest situationship, listening to a detailed breakdown of someone’s disastrous work presentation.

But every time the front door opens, your body reacts before your mind does.

You glance. You check. You’re beginning to mirror him.

When the server comes to take drink orders, you consider wine. Just one glass. A symbol of normalcy.

You glance toward Steve.

He isn’t looking at you. He’s observing a group near the bar. Still, you feel the calculation in him. You understand instinctively that alcohol complicates reaction time, even slightly. You understand that he would never forbid you from ordering it.

You also understand that if something happened and you were dulled, he would blame himself.

“Sparkling water,” you say instead.

The words taste heavier than they should.

Halfway through dinner, a man at the bar turns in your direction more than once. You barely notice him. You’re mid-sentence, explaining something about a brand collaboration.

Steve notices.

His posture shifts subtly. Shoulders straighten. His attention sharpens. He waits.

When the man lifts his phone at an angle that suggests it isn’t an innocent text, Steve stands. He walks over with steady, controlled steps. You can’t hear what he says, but the man lowers the phone almost immediately, nodding in apology.

Steve returns to his table. Your friends stare.

“Does that happen a lot?” one of them asks quietly.

“More lately,” you admit.

You don’t look at Steve.

Outside, when dinner ends, the sidewalk is busier. A couple of people recognize you outright. One calls your name brightly.

You lift your hand in a small wave.

Steve doesn’t block you. He shifts slightly closer so there is less open space between you and the crowd. His body placement is subtle but intentional. Anyone approaching would have to pass through him first.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you struggle to articulate. In the car, you finally let the silence stretch.

“Do you ever relax?” you ask after a moment.

He doesn’t bristle. “No.”

The honesty in it lands heavier than defensiveness would have. “Doesn’t that get exhausting?” you press.

“It’s habit.” He says it like that explains everything.

Maybe it does.

When you pull back into your driveway and the gates close behind you, you feel an unexpected wave of relief. The property lights glow softly against the stone facade of the house. The world feels smaller here. Contained.

You step out before he can circle around to your door.

“You don’t have to calculate every second,” you say quietly.

His gaze settles on you fully now.

“I don’t calculate every second,” he replies. “I calculate the ones that matter.”

The statement lingers between you.

You study him under the exterior lights. There is no superiority in his expression. No attempt to intimidate. He isn’t trying to control you. He isn’t trying to assert authority.

He is simply operating within a framework you are only just beginning to understand.

Inside, as the door closes behind you, the noise of the outside world fades.

You feel drained. Not because anything happened. Because everything could have. And for the first time, you understand that what overwhelms you is not his presence.

It’s the awareness he brings with him. You are no longer just a girl going to dinner with friends. You are someone who has to be anticipated.

And Steve anticipates everything.

#to be read #steve harrington

prettyglad

protective order —bodyguard!steve harrington x reader

summary — having a famous family means a lot more attention, especially the older you get, you more independent you get. that’s why your dad give you steve harrington to be with you everywhere you go. you’re not sure how you feel.

note — first part in my multi part bodyguard steve drabble series!!! I’m so excited.

content bodyguard steve harrington au, famous reader, fem!reader, no pronouns, 2.6k words

The house has always felt like a place built to impress rather than to live in. The architecture is clean and deliberate — pale stone floors that hold the day’s coolness long after sunset, towering panes of glass that erase the boundary between inside and out, and carefully curated art pieces positioned exactly where a camera might linger.

From the street below, the house must look invincible, perched high in the hills with the city stretching endlessly beneath it.

You grew up inside spaces like this, learning early how beauty and visibility tend to overlap in ways that are not always comforting.

Lately, the visibility has felt sharper.

You’ve noticed subtle changes over the past month. The security system was upgraded without announcement. The gate at the bottom of the driveway now closes faster and locks more decisively.

There is an additional vehicle that lingers at the edge of the property some evenings, engine running, windows tinted dark enough to discourage curiosity.

None of these changes were explained to you directly. Your father prefers to act first and discuss later, especially when it comes to protection.

When he asks you to come into his study that afternoon, the request carries weight even before he speaks. His study is the only room in the house that feels genuinely personal.

The shelves are lined with books that have been read more than once, their spines slightly worn. Framed records and awards cover one wall, a timeline of success preserved behind glass.

Photographs occupy the remaining space — candid shots from tours, award shows, and a handful from your childhood that feel almost out of place among the professional accolades.

You settle into the leather armchair across from his desk, crossing your legs with an ease that is half habit and half quiet resistance. The air smells faintly of cedar and the expensive candle that has not yet been touched by flame. His phone rests face down on the desk, an unusual choice that immediately signals this conversation will not tolerate interruption.

#to be read #steve harrington

daystarpoet

time and again ☆ bucky barnes

masterlist - do not copy or translate my work. comment to be added to my taglist

pairings: bucky barnes x reader. husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader. civil war!bucky x reader.

tags: fluff and angst. time jumps. set during civil war with flashbacks to their shared life in their 1940s.

warnings: possible grammar and spelling mistakes. canon inaccuracies for the sake of the plot, i still did my best to follow the storyline. mentions of trauma and abuse (hydra). your honour, they're so in love.

synopsis: you thought all was lost when your husband went missing in the alps. seventy years later, you are reunited in perhaps the worst moment possible. no matter where the accords lead, one thing is clear: you will not leave bucky's side again.

a/n: the biggest fic i've ever written. it took me several months to write this, and i truly do hope that the storyline is comprehensible. mwah mwah, go read my baby.

Longing, rusted.

The effect of the electricity hasn’t worn off by the moment the words start to play. His body is still trembling, and his blood still feels cold. The tiny needles are still piercing every spot in his body. All at once and painfully slow. The muscles on his flesh arm are spasming, contracting and releasing against his will. His fist clenches and unclenches with every breath, taut as he tries to regain control of himself.

The little red book of his demise lies in the hands of the man standing in front of him, who begins to pronounce the words that open the gates of his own personal hell. During these first two words, he is able to hold on. He is able to try to gather whatever mental strength is left in him, whatever instinct he has that tells him to fight.

#to be read #bucky barnes

prettyglad

tilted — steve harrington x jonathan byers x reader

summary — you should definitely eat before drinking. now your boyfriends are looking after you.

content poly steve harrington x jonathan byers x reader, stonathan, ditsy!reader, alcohol consumption, drunk reader, protective steve and jon, no pronouns for reader, reader forgetting to eat, 1.5k words

One of Steve’s friends is hosting a housewarming party.

Low amber lamps instead of overhead lights. Vinyl stacked artfully beside a record player no one is actually using. Bottles of good liquor lined up on the marble island like a still-life painting. Someone decided intimate meant thirty people and a DJ in the living room.

The bass hums through the floorboards. It’s not loud enough to shout over, but it vibrates in your ribs.

You feel good. Loosened. Bright.

You hadn’t meant to skip dinner. Your cab had arrived early, you were halfway through getting ready, Steve was impatient in the hallway pretending he wasn’t impatient, and you told yourself you’d eat when you got there. There’s always food at these things.

There is food at this one too — little plated things circulating on trays. You meant to grab one.

You didn’t.

Instead someone pressed a cold glass into your hand within the first thirty seconds. Vodka and something citrus. It went down easy.

You were already warm from the rush of getting here, from Steve’s hand at the small of your back as you walked in, from Jonathan’s fingers brushing your wrist before he drifted off toward a conversation by the bookshelf.

You don’t realise you’re drinking fast. You’re just drinking when your glass is in your hand. Laughing. Leaning into people. You talk easily tonight. You feel clever. You feel fluid.

Steve watches you from across the kitchen while pretending not to.

He’s good at rooms like this — shoulders relaxed, smile calibrated, handshakes firm but not aggressive. He keeps one eye on the door, one on the bar, and one on you. It’s a talent.

You’re perched on the edge of the kitchen island, one heel hooked against a cabinet, explaining something animatedly to a friend about how you think you’d lose in a fight with a goose. Your hands move when you talk. You almost knock your own drink over twice.

#to be read #steve harrington #jonathan byers

suprclark

꒰ 🔎︎ ꒱ clark kent recommendations !

੭﹕﹒ please make sure to give love + support to all the authors of these fics ! and if you want your fic removed from the list, just dm me and i’ll take it down.

these recs are for superman 2025・・・starring david corenswet

꒰ ⋆ ꒱ personal favourites

— my thoughts

header from pinterest : divider by @nemoresources

suprclark

꒰ 🔎︎ ꒱ steve harrington recommendations !

੭﹕﹒ please make sure to give love + support to all the authors of these fics ! and if you want your fic removed from the list, just dm me and i’ll take it down.

these recs are for stranger things・・・starring joe keery

꒰ ⋆ ꒱ personal favourites - not doing for this list because all of these are super close to my heart & super amazing

— my thoughts

header made by me : divider by @nemoresources

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington angst #steve harrington imagine #steve stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fic recs #steve harrington reader #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble

headkiss

on his willpower

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when visiting your friend robin in hawkins turns into an indefinite stay, you decide to entertain yourself by getting under steve’s skin. it turns out different than you expect. maybe better.

word count: 13k

content: fluff, slight angst, no major st5 spoilers (just settings used), upside down is implied but not explicitly mentioned, prob some inaccurate wsqk descriptions, r is a little delusional, a couple of small time jumps, mentions of blood (nosebleed), and a kiss!!

a/n: hiii guys!! it’s been too long since i’ve written a long steve fic and i had so much fun with this one!! i just had to write steve a little bitchy (but in a yearning way) after ppl accused him of being annoying in s5. that’s my princess!!! thank you to my angel @bruisedboys for looking over bits of this one for me! i hope u all love it <3

(¬`‸´¬)

What was meant to be a quick visit to Hawkins turned into an indefinite stay.

While quarantine wasn’t exactly how you saw your spring break trip going, but it isn’t all bad. Despite it being a small town, you’ve managed to find ways to entertain yourself. One of those being getting on Steve’s nerves, finding your way under his skin.

You’d never actually met him before, only ever heard of him through Robin’s letters and phone calls. First, it was complaining, annoyance at how he waltzed through Hawkins High like nothing affected him. Then a ‘hey, you’re not going to believe this’ and stories about the pair working at Scoops together, a tally board that amused Robin at Steve’s expense.

And, maybe most surprising of all, them becoming partners in crime. Robin’s tone towards Steve turned more familiar, still teasing but far warmer.

#steve harrington

prettyglad

proximity — steve harrington

summary — moving the new york city with steve harrington has you falling into habits you never thought you would. has he always been this touchy? now he’s seeing you in your towel.

steve harrington x reader, no pronouns, friends to accidental lovers, unspoken feelings , 3.3k words

Living with Steve Harrington feels less like sharing an apartment and more like sharing a current — something low and constant that hums beneath everything. Though it never happened all at once.

It started quietly. It accumulated.

It gathered in corners and along baseboards and in the quiet, habitual choreography of two adults sharing space long enough that their movements began to overlap.

Coffee mugs drying side by side. Your jacket draped over the back of his chair because you sat there once and never stopped. Your sheets on his bed, and his on yours. Though you're unsure when the switch happened.

The apartment is small. Not cramped, just close. Close enough that the sound of him turning over in bed reaches your room through the thin walls. Close enough that you can tell which cabinet he’s opening by the hinge’s particular creak.

Close enough that touch becomes easy.

At first, it’s practical. A hand at your back while he squeezes past you in the kitchen. His fingers closing around your wrist when you’re about to walk into traffic because you weren’t looking. Your knee knocking into his beneath the table and staying there, neither of you bothering to move.

#steve harrington

levanswrites

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮

pairing: coach!steve harrington x teacher!reader summary: your extremely professional relationship with coach steve may be under investigation by one (1) very observant six-year-old. warnings: pure fluff, slightly suggestive, steve is just absolutely smitten, secret relationship, children being adorable, mention of marriage, post-s5 (2.3k)

. *　✦　　.　 ˚　✦　 .

Little Eli Parker is zooming down the hallway on a Very, Very Important Mission.

Six years old, sandy curls bouncing wildly with every step, he's panting hard through the wide gap between his two front teeth. One of the Velcro straps on his sneaker has come undone, flapping wildly as he skids to a stop just outside your classroom door.

He doesn’t come all the way in. Just peeks around the frame, fingers gripping the edge as he rocks back and forth on his heels.

You pause mid-sentence, lowering the book you’ve been reading aloud. A few students crane their necks to look.

Eli’s bright blue mesh pinnie hangs crooked over his T-shirt, smudged with chalk dust and tiny white handprints—making it very clear which class he’s just sprinted away from. His cheeks are flushed, chest heaving like he’d forgotten the ‘no running in the halls’ rule until the very last second.

“Hey, Eli,” you call out gently. “You okay, honey?”

He sucks in a much-needed breath, eyes wide. “Um… miss you haveta come with me. Coach Steve says you need to!”

You tilt your head. “Coach Steve?”

He nods solemnly. “He said it’s a ‘mer-gency.’”

#steve harrington

meadowscarlet

Oblivious — S.H.

gif from @rhaenyratargeryen

steve harrington x fem!reader.

summary: steve has been in love with his best friend ever since they met at tina’s halloween party. from that night on, she became the one constant he could hold onto, the bright spot in the middle of hawkins’ endless chaos. every sweet laugh, every word, every small gesture from her felt like a lifeline, something he had quietly cherished for years. he longed for her in ways he couldn’t admit, craving more than just her friendship… unfortunately she’s oblivious as hell.

warnings: steve being a blubbering lovesick fool to the reader & making out (we love you yearning harrington).

author’s notes: i had to.

STEVE HARRINGTON IS ANNOYINGLY IN LOVE WITH YOU. Everyone with working eyes—hell even a person with one blind eye can tell that he was head over heels for you. From the moment he saw discomfort gracing your pretty face when a guy was touching you like he had the privilege to do so at Tina’s Halloween party and punched him, you with your soft eyes and sweet smile thanking him, Steve knew he was gone for.

Ever since that moment, you and Steve became inseparable. You were there when he got roped into Dustin and his band of nerds’ chaos, watching in barely concealed amusement as Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, was gradually, inevitably, reduced to a glorified babysitter.

And a pathetic yearner.

#steve harrington

ddejavvu

MEIII!!!! Hope you had a good day!!!!

I was thinking 🤔🤔🤔 an ex gf of Hotch comes to work w the BAU & they hadn’t told anyone abt it but the Bau girls help R unpack find photo albums old pictures of her and their boss (hot)

You had intended to be more careful when letting your new teammates dig through boxes in your apartment, but they had each brought over bottles of wine as housewarming gifts, and the first thing you'd come across were your glasses. So now that there's a healthy buzz over your brain, making it just a little bit hard to focus, you don't notice Penelope reaching into the box that says memories.

She squeals at a baby picture of you, an album full of your childhood memories in her hands. You think nothing of it, still slightly intoxicated to where you don't forsee the next album she'll pick up. Emily and JJ flock to her side, crooning and cooing over your past self, but when they shut the album and reach for the next, and your brain finally switches on, you're not fast enough to stop them.

"Woah, that guy- holy shit," Emily laughs, her own mind clouded as she points sloppily at the man kissing your cheek in the first photo, "That guy looks like Hotch."

JJ snorts, but Penelope falls silent.

Of course, you think, of course she's seen pictures of when he was younger. You'd expect nothing less from the BAU's resident snoop.

"That is Hotch," She breathes, alcohol be damned as she puts the puzzle pieces together, "Oh my god, you dated Hotch!"

"Oh," Emily laughs, eyes wide and giddy and dazed, "You dated Hotch!"

"I- I didn't date Hotch," You huff exasperatedly, wine forgotten on the counter, "I dated a man from law school. He was not the same person."

"You mean this was before someone shoved a stick up his ass?" JJ eyes you incredulously, "I thought it was placed there at birth."

"He doesn't have a stick up his ass!" You feel the inexplicable urge to defend your boss, despite him having left you reeling in college, "He's- he's got issues. Stuff you don't even know about. Everyone does, we've all- we've all got issues."

"What happened?" Penelope asks, her voice soft and worried, "He didn't cheat on you, did he?"

"No!" You let out a huffy laugh, "No, he didn't cheat on me. We just parted ways because- well, our schedules were tight. We never saw each other, when I had a day off he was working, and vice versa. He wanted someone with a more adjustable schedule."

"That's not fair," Penelope's eyes glaze over with tears, that you're sure are only partially from the wine she's consumed, "That's not fair, to stop loving someone because they're busy. He was busy too, what- why were you the problem?"

"It wasn't like that," You gush, but it was entirely like that, "Listen, we were both stressed all the time. I don't know if you've ever tried to be lawyers, but it sucks. And- and we never saw each other, and we were young, and stupid, and we hated our jobs but we couldn't quit, and- and it was a mess! And I'm glad," You peter off your emotional speech with a soft whimper, "I'm glad he found someone who had the time to love him. Because both of us deserved that, just-" You sniffle, your eyes stinging with tears, "Only one of us got it."

"Oh, honey," JJ laments, reaching for you with both hands now that her wine glass is set aside. You dodge her hands, though, excusing yourself with a shitty excuse and a hurried walk to the bathroom.

There's no tissues. Of course there's no tissues, you haven't had a moment to live in this apartment since you'd set foot in it. Work was always getting in the way, like it had for your entire life.

You're not angry at Aaron for leaving you. You weren't a good fit for each other, not with your careers taking off as they were. In all honesty, you might have broken up with him yourself if it had gone on any longer. But you're jealous in a way, that he found someone who had the time for him while you didn't. And that's not his fault, you shouldn't be resentful that he found love just because you didn't. Your feelings for him comes from loneliness, not anger. But they read the same, and you're sure your new teammates think you're silently raging at your new unit chief.

After a quick wash of your face in the sink and a makeshift toilet paper tissue, you step back out into the living room, three pairs of eyes trained immediately on you.

"I appreciate that you're taking my side here," You hum, a knot in your throat the size of a fist, "But it's a closed matter. We haven't spoken in years, and I feel like we still haven't. He's different now, he's not the man I dated, and I would like it if you would be able to forget that this happened."

Emily is the first to speak up, "Okay. Okay, honey, we understand. But- but please don't ignore your feelings if they're starting to resurface. At the very least, you deserve closure."

"And hey," JJ smiles, trying to look eager but looking mostly sad, "If you wanna give things another shot, he's single and you work with him. At least all the time you spend working now is with him, too."

"Yeah," You let out a light chuckle, still bogged down by the ghost of the tears you'd wiped away in the bathroom. Penelope can't take it anymore, and rushes in for a squeeze.

"Oh, sweetheart," She gushes, "It'll work out! I bet you're gonna have this crazy-sweet second chance romance kind of thing, and we'll all be at your wedding!"

"Slow down," You laugh, thankful that you have her shoulder to snuggle into, "We haven't even acknowledged that we used to date yet. Let's wait until the proposal to start talking about the wedding."

A good-natured laugh is shared throughout your small apartment, and the photo album is set back in its box for safekeeping. They give you the courtesy of unpacking it yourself, just in case any stray memories come to haunt you. You're grateful for it, and it's easy to slip back into your wine-fueled giggle fest while working on your bookshelf instead.

Mere miles away, Aaron is sitting on the floor of his bedroom. There's a photo album in his lap, one half of a pair, the other half of which he hopes isn't in a landfill somewhere. His eyes are trained on a photo you'd taken on winter break from your sophomore year of school, skis strapped to your feet and poles in your hands as Aaron hugged you from behind. You'd done the Titanic pose on the side of the ski hill, your arms outstretched and Aaron's face twisted over your shoulder to gaze endearingly at you. It's a blurry photo, because your friends had taken it from the bottom of the slope, but the memories of it are crisp in his head.

He hears the patter of little feet down the hallway, and doesn't have the energy to close the book before Jack sees it.

"Daddy?" His son's little voice asks, "Who's that?"

"Do you recognize," He hums, flipping to a clearer picture of the two of you, and pointing to himself, "Him?"

Jack's face scrunches, nose wrinkled and eyes squinted, "Is that you, daddy?"

"It is me," Aaron chuckles, "I looked younger, huh?"

"Yeah," Jack nods emphatically, poking at his dad's cheeks, 'Now you have wrinkles."

Aaron scoffs, "Thanks, bud. What'cha need?"

"I'm just bored," Jack huffs, looking back at the picture displayed in the book, "That's not Mommy. Why are you kissing her?"

"I met her before I met your mommy," Aaron hums, ghosting his pointer finger over the page, "But we broke up. Then your mommy and I got married."

"Why did you break up?" Jack cocks his head to the side, "You didn't love her as much as Mommy?"

"I loved her," Aaron muses, "But we both had really busy jobs. And we never saw each other, so it made us sad. So we broke up so that we wouldn't be so sad anymore."

"Oh." Jack frowns, "Okay. I'm sorry you were sad."

"It's okay, buddy," Aaron slings an arm around Jack's side, kissing his chubby cheek, "I'm not sad anymore. Well- sort of. Do you know why I'm looking at these pictures?"

Jack shakes his head, "Mm-mm. Why?"

"She joined my team," Aaron informs his son, watching the gears in his brain turn. "So I'm a little bit sad now, because seeing her makes me remember how sad I was when we broke up."

"But," Jack drags out the vowel, "If she's on your team now, then you see her all the time! And you were sad because you didn't get to see her, but now you can be happy again!"

"That's- uh, kind of." Aaron shuts the book, turning to face Jack fully, "I think I might be a little bit sad forever about us breaking up."

"Forever," Jack frowns, relying heavily on the fact that he's been told he'll never be sad forever, "Why?"

"Because we can't fix it." Aaron sighs, "We can't go back in time and stay together."

"But you can date her now," Jack prods, and wow, Aaron needs to give him more credit, "Why do you have to be sad forever?"

"You'd be okay with me dating someone else?" Aaron asks carefully, "Someone who isn't your Mommy?"

"It it makes you happy again," Jack nods, "I don't want you to be sad forever, Daddy."

Aaron's struck with tears that he tries to tamp down. His nose runs, and he sniffles shakily, "Thank you, bud. You're sweet, you know that?"

"Mm-hm," Jack nods, "Penny tells me."

"Yes she does," Aaron laughs, a watery sound as he pulls Jack in for a hug, "Every time she makes you cookies, she tells you you're sweeter. You should know by now."

"So," Jack gets right to the point, "Are you gonna date her again, Daddy?"

"I don't know," Aaron hums, "Maybe. I have to ask her, first. And I don't think I should ask her right away."

"You should share your lunch with her," Jack instructs, "I gave Ellie one of my oreos at lunch, and now she's my girlfriend."

Aaron's brows raise, "Wow. Do you like having a girlfriend?"

"Yeah." Jack nods simply, "She's nice to me. We take turns pushing each other on the swings."

"Well, maybe we'll both have girlfriends soon," Aaron grins at his son, "Do you think we should go out on a double date? Like, we both take our girlfriends out to eat together?"

"Yeah!" Jack shouts, enthused by the idea, "We should go to get ice cream, though. Ellie really likes chocolate."

"Okay," Aaron chuckles, letting Jack wander off to pick through his toy box, renewed hope in his chest at the thought of sitting side-by-side with you in an ice cream parlor, "Sounds like a plan, bud!"

#aaron hotchner

obsessedwithceleste

Same Time Next Year?

Theodore Nott x reader

Summary: Theodore Nott would NEVER forget to ask you to be his Valentine (he definitely would). Or the time you were officially the last one to know that you were dating Theodore Nott.

word count: 3.8k

The month of February had always struck you as something like winter’s purgatory. By this time each year, all the glitz and glamor of the Christmas season and New Years had faded away, but it was still far too early for the giddy anticipation of summer holiday to properly set in. Still bitterly cold—hard, packed snow and ice replaced the once glittering, fluffy white drifts that made you feel as though you were in a winter wonderland rather than the barren tundra. Most students were just trying to make it through.

At least that’s how it felt as you were being tugged across the grey streets of Hogsmeade, you and your friends pulling your coats close, rushing through the doors of Honeydukes to escape the cold.

“Salazar’s frozen ball sack, if it gets any colder we’ll all be frozen solid before we even get the chance to cast a warming spell,” Mattheo mutters, shaking snow from his dark curls.

“You were the one who decided a couple chocolate cauldrons were worth braving this frozen hellscape,” Pansy retorts with a scowl, though her words lack any real bite.

You’re too cold to even think of a jab to send Mattheo’s way, instead you stand shivering to the side, trying to rub some warmth back into your fingertips.

“Warming charms do exist you know,” a deep voice chuckles beside you as a wand is pressed gently against you.

Instantly you feel a wave of heat ripples over you and your cheeks tinge pink. From the heat. Obviously.

“Come on, if we don’t escape now, we could be standing here for hours listening to those two going at it,” Theo adds, smirking as he takes you by the elbow and leads you through the maze of red hearts and pink glitter that now decorated every possible surface in Honeydukes.

Of course there was one holiday placed smack dab in the middle of the rather monotonous month of February. Wrapped in a permanently pinkish haze and oozing out candy coated hearts, Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts was a minefield for rampant teenage hormones and questionably obtained love potions. Overall it was not exactly your idea of a good time. Usually.

Walking through Honeydukes arm in arm with Theodore as he pulled you close and leaned in closer to talk over all the bustling noise however, well, you were beginning to see the appeal. You and Theodore had been friends since first year which basically felt like forever and you would easily consider him one of your closest friends at Hogwarts. Lately though, you’d felt a slight shift between the two of you. Not in any bad way. But in the sense that you suddenly found yourself caring about how you looked when Theo was around, or how your ears perked up more than usual whenever you heard his name.

“Look, if they’re all out of your cauldron cakes, I’m sure I can have one of the elves mail some in the post,” Theo is saying as the two of you browse the seemingly endless shelves.

Your eyes rake over the various colored candy displays, each advertising a different tooth-rotting treat before you finally spot your prize.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about bothering your elves Theo. It looks like they just repackaged the normal cauldron cakes and made them heart shaped,” you say, reaching out to grab a few boxes off the shelf. You might as well stock up while you’re there.

The shimmering pink boxes barely make it to your arms however before Theo snatches them from your hands, silently insisting he carry them before adding several more boxes to your stack for himself. You hear him mutter something about how ‘no self respecting bloke lets their partner carry boxes around a shop’, but you brush it off without a second thought. Sometimes Theo got caught up in the old traditions his father had drilled into him so you try not to read so much into things.

“Oh look, they’re having a special on chocolates. Do you think we should get some for the others? And speaking of, how long do you think we can avoid them before they notice we’re gone?” You ask as Theo follows you dutifully through the aisles.

“Not sure. But I am glad I get to spend the afternoon with you. You’re the least exhausting out of everyone after all,” Theo teases, grasping your hand in his.

You roll your eyes at the boy’s flirtatious grin.

“Gee thanks, you really know how to lay the charm on thick,” you respond dryly.

“Don’t have to be charming, it’s just you.”

Despite his good natured smile, you can’t help the small clenching you feel in your chest at his words. Just you. When you reach the counter, you don’t bother fighting it when Theo places a small stack of galleons next to the till, too caught up in your thoughts.

“Come on, if we slip out now I bet we can make it to The Three Broomsticks without any of the others noticing,” Theo says, slipping his hand easily into yours once more and pulling you out of the crowded shop as if his words hadn’t just left your mind spinning down an endless rabbit hole.

You don’t know what to make of the truly massive bouquet of peonies that was currently overtaking the small desk that was shoved into the corner of your dormitory. Sweet, sweet Theodore had stopped by after classes were over for the day to hand deliver them to you. Something about how his mum would have had his head if she were alive and knew Theodore wasn’t spoiling you rotten. Whatever that meant.

On one hand, a lot of thought and effort had clearly gone into choosing the expensive blossoms. They’d always been your favorite and he knew that. And they were almost never in season—they certainly weren’t in season in the middle of February—so he’d clearly had them imported which was no small feat. On the other hand, he’d cited his deceased mother as the reason for the unexpected flowers and that didn’t exactly scream romantic gesture.

Trying to read Theodore was about as straightforward as reading a simple instruction manual except the instructions were upside down, a large chunk was randomly missing, and half the words were written in Italian. You did not speak Italian. And to make matters worse, the very subject of all your confusion was sat in front of you innocently thumbing through his potions homework as if his very existence wasn't sending you in a downwards spiral making you question your entire friendship.

Of course you knew your best friend was attractive. You'd always known that. And if you somehow hadn't noticed how prolifically handsome he was in the past six years, then the miles-long list of classmates who had asked you to put in a good word for them, probably would have keyed you in. Those kinds of requests always came around this time of year and heck, every year you obliged them, but now that you were really thinking about it, you couldn't remember a single time Theo had ever acted upon any of your classmates' advances. And furthermore, you hadn't had anyone approach you yet this year asking you to casually bring them up in conversation or help them slip Theo a love potion. You always turned those classmates away anyway though. Usually with a good hex to go along with them.

Yet here you were, walking through Hogsmeade and receiving flowers from Hogwarts' apparent 'most eligible bachelor' and if anyone asked you where the two of you stood, you'd have no clue how to respond.

"Did you finish your essay already, amore?" Theo asks as he continues to scratch away at the parchment in front of him, his eyes never leaving the page in front of him.

Which is lucky for you as you realize you've been staring at your best friend this entire time.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes!" You squeak out, embarrassed to have been so caught up in your thoughts.

Theo doesn't seem to notice your moment of panic though as he closes his book with a snap before gazing over at you with that lazy grin you knew far too well.

"Good. Then we're right on time to meet the others for dinner," he says, checking the time as his texts magically slot themselves back into his book bag.

Extending his hand, Theo pulls you to your feet, intertwining his fingers with yours and shrugging his bag onto his shoulder before leading you down to the Great Hall. On your way there, Theo talks as if nothing is out of the ordinary, commenting on your upcoming charms exam, the likelihood of Slytherin winning another quidditch cup, what time the two of you should meet for your daily study session tomorrow. The same painfully normal things the two of you always talked about. And why should you be surprised? It was just another normal day after all.

Except Valentine's Day was only a few days away and Theo had just shown up at your door with flowers and little to no explanation of where you stood with each other.

Unfortunately for you, you don't get any more time to stress yourself out as you walk into the Great Hall and over to the rather crowded Slytherin table where your friends were already waiting. The benches already seem to be filled far past their intended capacity, but without blinking an eye, Theo just tugs you down with him placing you squarely on his lap. His arms reach around you as he makes himself a plate and you sit frozen in place, feeling as though your brain was short circuiting.

Either Theo was downright daft or you had somehow managed to miss a chapter in the story or your and Theo's relationship.

"You going to eat mi amore?" Theo asks casually—too casually, as he shovels food into his mouth.

"You have to try the meat pies. They're to die for this year," Pansy says, passing you a plate of the savory pastries.

You can't do anything but blink, feeling like you'd entered a completely separate universe. What was going on? Why did absolutely nothing about today feel normal, yet still completely and utterly—ordinary.

The rest of dinner you try your best to act as if eating dinner while sat on Theo's lap was the most natural thing in the world, but you also can't help but notice that to everyone else, it does seem perfectly natural. Mattheo and Lorenzo are still their most obnoxious selves, Draco is still monologuing to the air in front of him as if people are actually listening, Pansy hasn't looked at you twice as she fills you in on the day's gossip, and Theo—Theo is rubbing circles on your thigh as he talks to Blaise across the table.

As soon as you're finished eating, you practically throw yourself off Theo's lap which earns you a worried look from the boy.

"Are you alright, y/n? You've seemed stressed all day," he says, eyebrows furrowing.

His voice is laced with so much concern you feel your stomach twist with guilt.

"No, I'm fine. Just super tired. And my head has been hurting," you reply quickly, satisfied with your response as it technically wasn't a lie.

Theo rises from his seat now too.

“I’ll walk you back to your dorm then,” he says, taking your hand in his once more.

You want to protest, but the look on his face tells you it won’t do much good as his mind is already made up. After saying goodbye to your friends, the two of you head back the same way you came.

“Are you sure you’re alright, mi amore?” Theo asks once more as soon as the two of you turn into a deserted hall. “You seem distant lately.”

“I’m fine. I just have a lot on my mind,” you sigh, wanting nothing more than to be back in your room with your thoughts to yourself.

But Theo keeps pushing. “Like what?”

“Penelope Clearwater wants to know what your plans are for the fourteenth of February,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

It was a lie. Penelope Clearwater had asked nothing of the sort. This year.

But Theo just blinks once before looking at you like you’d grown an extra head.

“Not spending it with her, that’s for sure,” he replies matter of factly. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself. Every year you let people treat you like a carrier pigeon, even though you and I both know I’m not going to give any of them a second glance. You need to stop working yourself up mi amore.”

The two of you walk the rest of the way in silence, though Theo squeezes onto your hand every so often as if to remind you that he’s there.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says when you finally reach your door.

You just nod as he pulls you into a hug, tucking your head under his chin as he holds you. As strange as your day had been, you can't help but melt into him, feeling at home in his arms. You almost want to tell him not to leave. But you don’t. You really needed to figure out where the two of you were at. And if he wasn’t going to tell you, you were going to have to work up the courage to ask.

"Well hello to you too," Pansy says with a huff as you plop down beside her on the sofa, causing several of the photo cards she had spread out to flutter to the floor.

"Whatcha doin?" you ask, intrigued by the little squares that Pansy seemed to have organized meticulously.

"Miss Parkinson is deciding which poor bloke will be her Valentine tomorrow," Lorenzo drawls from the other side of the table.

Pansy glares at the brunette sat across from her before snatching one of the cards and tearing it to shreds.

"Oh no. Don't do that," Enz monotones without an ounce remorse in his voice, his name fluttering to the ground.

"Ignore him," Pansy sniffs. “Look. I have a whole system see? Names, houses, amount of generational wealth, everything important is on these little cards here. Then I sort out the Gryffindors and anyone with a date already and keep filtering them all from there.”

You look at the piles of cards scattered across the table and can’t help but be a bit impressed.

“Can I see who you’ve got left?” You ask, genuinely curious to see who Pansy had whittled her choices down to.

Lorenzo scoffs.

“Why would you want to see what Pansy has cooked up? It’s pure madness I’ll tell you. And it’s not as if you need any of those silly cards yourself.”

Now it’s your turn to glare at the boy. Pansy had clearly been right to shred his card to pieces.

“Well why not?” You retort, sticking your chin out at him stubbornly.

Now though, even Pansy is looking at you confused.

“I mean, probably because you’ve got Nott wrapped around your finger. Any bloke would have to be downright stupid to encroach on his territory. Specially on Valentine’s Day and all that,” Enzo replies, looking rather bored.

“Wha- I’m not his territory!” You scoff belligerently, frown deepening as Enz picks at the sofa cushion.

“I’m quite certain Theodore would disagree.”

“It doesn’t matter if he agrees. He’s not my boyfriend!”

Pansy arches an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” She asks.

“Am I sur- What do you mean am I sure? What kind of question is that? Of course I’m sure! I think I would remember if Theo had ever asked me out, he’s my best friend for Salazar’s sake.”

You watch as Pansy and Lorenzo make knowing eye contact before they both turn back to you.

"Awfully defensive for someone who's so sure-" Lorenzo remarks before Pansy cuts him off.

“You should talk to Theodore,” She states simply before turning back to her cards.

You want to argue more, but Enz turns away as well. Bugger. You let out a loud sigh to make your frustration with the two of them known before standing up and leaving them behind. You knew they were going to tell you to just go talk to Theo, but you had been sort of avoiding him the past few days for exactly this reason.

Maybe avoid was too strong a word. You weren't straight up avoiding the boy, but you definitely weren't as inseparable as you usually were. And if you'd pretended not to see or hear him a few times as he approached, instead opting to dart off down a different corridor, well, no one could prove it.

You just felt so annoyed. Everyone seemed to know more about your relationship with Theo than you did, and while the reasonable, mature part of you knew that you should just talk to him, your more stubborn side wanted to make Theo solve this mess on his own.

As you make your way down a seemingly empty corridor, just thinking about the boy seems to have magically conjured him out of thin air as he appears at the end of the hallway looking lost in thought. As soon as he spots you though, you see him visibly relax. Not having anywhere to run this time, you resign yourself to having this conversation much sooner than you would have preferred.

“There you are, mia bella. Where have you been all night?” He asks, striding towards you and making to pull you into a hug.

You take a step back, feeling rage bubble inside you. All your pent up agitation boiling just under the surface. When you don’t respond, Theo frowns and his eyes turn pleading.

“What’s wrong amore, are you mad at me?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. The tip toeing around one another, the side stepping around the real conversation that needed to be had, it was just too much.

“No! I just—Stop looking at me like that! And stop buying me chocolates and flowers. Stop calling me love, stop calling me beautiful, stop trying to constantly hold my hand. Just stop.” You blurt, words flowing out of your mouth with malice.

You expect Theo to be mad, or maybe hurt, but he just freezes—blinking at you for a moment.

“Why?”

You can’t help but scoff. He asks why?

“Because you’re not my boyfriend. And I don’t need you constantly reminding me of that by doing all the things a boyfriend would do.”

“I could be. Your boyfriend.”

You might hate him. He was your best friend and you loved him, but you might actually hate him. How was he so casual about this? How could he act like this whole conversation didn’t have the potential to ruin your entire friendship.

“No Theodore. You couldn’t be. Because that would require an actual conversation, which is something you seem to have forgotten.”

Theo tilts his head, considering.

“Do you want me to be your boyfriend?”

Your heart can’t help but flutter at Theo’s words, at the idea, but at the same time he was just so damn frustrating.

“Will you stop over-simplifying everything?” You ask, exasperation clear in your voice.

“Will you stop over-complicating everything?” He teases back, having the nerve to look rather pleased with himself.

You hadn’t noticed until now, but he had also gotten significantly closer as the two of you argued, now only inches away as he smiled that stupid, charming grin down at you. The one he used whenever he was in trouble, but knew he would get away with it.

"It's not over complicated to want a little bit of clarity on whatever our relationship is," you grumble, realizing your back was against the wall.

"Well then let me be perfectly clear. I would like to be your boyfriend, and I would also very much like to kiss you now. Any opposition?"

Theo's words send a shiver down your spine. You weren't actually expecting such straightforwardness from him. And you certainly weren't expecting him to be looking down at you like he was ready to devour you. When sound fails to leave your lips, you watch as Theo leans forward ever so slowly as if daring you to pull back. He gets closer and closer until your noses are brushing and then—you had to be dreaming. Your eyes flutter shut and his lips on yours are soft and warm and you feel like you might be melting. It doesn't quite seem real when his hands grab hold of your waist, pulling you into him.

You're not sure how long the two of you would have stayed there, pressed against one another, but a loud, awkward cough pulls you back to reality. Glancing behind you, you see a very red and very scandalized portrait glaring daggers at you.

"Oh. Sorry," you mutter, turning a bit red yourself.

Theo does not look sorry. In fact he looks rather smug as he continues to hold you in his arms.

“Now that this is all sorted, am I allowed to take you out for Valentine’s or do I need your permission for that too?” He asks smugly, ignoring the indignant portrait all together.

You roll your eyes, giving him a light shove off of you, but he’s quick to wrap an arm around your shoulder instead as the two of you make your way back to your common room.

“I’ll see if I can make time for you in my very busy schedule on the condition that you explain to me how I came to be the last person to know that we were apparently in a relationship,” you reply.

Theo now at least has the decency to look a bit embarrassed.

“It may have been a slight oversight on my part,” he mumbles, tugging you closer as you walk.

“A slight oversight?”

“We’ve basically been dating for the past two years amore.”

“That’s simply not true.”

Theo looks down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Who have you spent Valentine’s Day with the past two years again?”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Sure it doesn’t mia bella.”

#to be read #theodore nott

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