Synopsis: Theo sneaks into your dorm late at night, only to find you asleep. When he finally wakes you up, he eats you up for his troubles.
warnings: smut, oral fem receiving, carnal implications
You were deep, subterraneanly deep, in a sleep that felt earned, your limbs feeling weighed down by anvils after a grueling week of double Potions and night after night studying seshes. You’d collapsed into bed with your sweet vanilla oil still potent on your pulse points, the scent intertwining with the faint herbal notes of the lavender sachets tucked under your pillow. You were completely, utterly, blissfully out.
So, imagine your lover’s dismay as he finally completes the death-defying journey to your dorm, dodging prowling Prefects and the jagged sensors of the castle wards, only to find his prize knocked out. He stands in the threshold, expression mixed with adoration and genuine offense that you aren’t already awake and waiting to devour him.
There’s a faint shift in the room, like the air itself has changed, warmer somehow, closer. You’re wrapped in blankets and half-buried in a dream purely psychedelic, when something nudges at the edges of your awareness. It’s not loud, nor urgent, not a bit. It’s just...there, a presence that definitely wasn’t there when you closed your eyes.
From a distance, the voice is even more shushed, dragging you upward through the layers of sleep. It’s familiar, so so familiar. The voice that lived in the margins of your mind all damn day.
Your brows twitch slightly, a reflex you can't quite kill, but you don't wake. Your eyes are almost anchored shut in your rest.
A brief moment passes. You can hear him breathing, smelling faintly of the peppermint tea he always drinks to settle his restless mind. His eyes scan your form once over.
“…you’re kidding me,” he mutters under his breath, softer now, like he’s talking more to himself than to you.
There’s a quiet click of the door latch behind him. He has spent his entire life navigating the shadows of a house that didn't want him heard, and now, ultimately, a boarding school with the same desire. He’s done this before.
You’re still asleep. Well, you’re supposed to be.
A hand brushes your shoulder, initially light as a feather, testing the waters. His fingers are cool yet his palm remains warm; the heat seeps through the fabric of your sleep shirt.
“Hey,” he tries again, a little firmer this time, his fingers giving you a gentle shake that makes your head roll lazily on the pillow. “Wake up.”
You don’t. Not really. But your body reacts just enough. With just a shallow hitch in your chest and your breathing changing for half a second you slip right back into the slumber you’ve maintained for some forty-five minutes now.
He sucks his teeth in a tsk, letting his stocky shoulders slump just a taste. Too bad you’re asleep, you miss the way his eyes sexily roll to the ceiling in his light frustration.
“Unbelievable,” he murmurs, and you can hear the weary tilt in his voice. “I risk my damn life sneaking into your dorm and you’re dead asleep?” He lets a hand push his tousled waves off his forehead, an act of habit, only for them to fall back to nearly the same spot. “‘Dodged like three wards.”
There’s a faint rustle of fabric as he takes a moment to glance around your room. His eyes scan your mahogany desk, parchment messily strewn about, three wide spined books dog eared in a makeshift bookmark. He can get an idea of what you were up to before you dozed.
Darling, you should probably wake up. Definitely should sit up and ask him what the hell he's doing in your room at three in the morning.
He hovers over your form, so close you can smell the sandalwood and the wintry bite of the outdoors clinging to his robes.
“…guess you really are asleep.” he says it halfway disappointed and halfway fond.
The quiet, heavy thud of his dragon-hide boots hit the rug. One, then the other, tossed shoddily in the doorway. Moments after there’s a faint drag of fabric when his charcoal cloak slides off his shoulder, probably slung unceremoniously over the chair where your desk is still disheveled. He’s making himself quite at home.
The mattress groans under his weight, a compression that pulls the silk sheets taut across your hips and rolls your body just a fraction of an inch toward the center of the bed. That sudden dip is what cracks the heavy shell of your slumber, finally. Your survival instincts could use some work.
Your consciousness wades to life, but your eyelids feel like they’ve been sealed shut with lead in your exhaustion. You know damn well you’re not alone. But you also know it’s undoubtedly Theo based on his weight alone. You’ve sat with him so many times, you could probably pinpoint his exact mass in less than three tries.
You obviously wonder why in the world he’s in your room at this hour, and silently thank yourself for not being a mouth breather tonight. Truly, a win is a win. Yet, a flicker of pure perversity infiltrates your otherwise pristine superego. You’ll make him work to see your irises.
So, you do as any other sensible girl would do when there’s a very pretty boy encroaching on your personal space at an ungodly hour. You double down and make him work for you. Sinking down further into the pillows while letting your head laze a little more to the side, you commit to the act. Even let a tiny little sniffle of a snore out.
The sensation of his eyes on you was enough, but when those lanky pianist fingers reach to touch you, you feel yourself folding. They find the shape of your calf through the olive duvet, the warmth of his palm seeping through the layers. His thumb shifts slightly, brushing against the fabric in slow, absent-minded arcs. Or maybe not absent-minded at all. Theo doesn't do anything without intent.
“…yeah,” he murmurs quietly, his accent thick with familiarity. “Out cold.”
He gives your leg a tiny teasing shake, his fingers hooking slightly into the soft muscle of your calf. You don’t budge, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you’re surprised you haven't drawn blood.
His fingers begin to trace the faintest line along the curve of your leg, like he’s mapping the geography of you out, testing boundaries he’d think twice about doing with your eyes open.
The weight on your leg lifts, and for a split second you feel a surge of relief from the retreating warmth. Maybe he’s satisfied. Maybe he’ll just sit there and watch you sleep like a normal creep. Only then, his hand snakes under the covers, his fingers searching blindly until they find the cool, bare skin of your ankle. Your skin warms instantly as his fingers circle the bone, hairs on your legs spiking at the anticipation of the contact.
His hands grow sneakier, letting his grip fall lower, to the arch of your foot. He lets his thumb brush against the sensitive sole. Your lower body tingles at the unexpectedness of it. Biting your cheek turns to catching your tongue between your teeth, trying to suppress the instinctive jerk of your leg. You’re cursing him out in your head, calling him every name in the book, wondering how he always knows exactly how to get under your skin.
Then you make the smallest, most pathetic mistake when your lips twitch nearly imperceptibly. It was really only a hint of a smile at the gall of him. Yet under Theo’s scrutiny, it might as well have been a neon sign. You hold your breath hoping he didn’t see it, but you’d honestly be more surprised if he hadn’t.
He exhales softly, clearly amused. You can feel it in the way his hand stills for half a second before it tightens around your talus. “Mmm,” he hums quietly, “Funny.” From your ankle to your shin he climbs, taking his sweet time.
“You always sleep like this?” he asks casually, as if you were actually in dreamland. You let your smile widen just a teeny bit, and he huffs mirthfully at the sight. There’s a shift in the blankets as he reaches down, his fingers hooking into the edge of the soft duvet, giving it a playful tug. The cool air of the room slides to nip your skin under the blanket, hitting your knees and mid thigh. Only then do you realize the gravity of your predicament.
“Oh… okay,” he murmurs, a light chuckle coming from his chest in response to you. “Good to know.”
The mattress groans a pitch when he shifts his weight again, maneuvering himself tight into the center of your space. His finger slides under the meat of your calf, hooking higher under your knees and lifting you until your legs are draped right over his lap.
And you’re very, very aware of the fact that you’re pantsless. You’d tossed those cotton joggers where only the wizards would know. There was nothing but that scrap of lace between your skin and the rigid fabric of his trousers. You could feel the rough texture of his quads through his pants, the solid muscle of them pressing against your lower legs. It was so masculine, so heavy, and Gods, you’d almost pay to see those thighs bare and flexed right now.
He lets the silence fester for a heartbeat as he looks at the uncovered skin of your shin like a starved, starved man.
“Guess I gotta pull these higher. You should probably stop me.”
He pauses for another short moment, almost expectedly. He’s waiting for you to crack– you can almost see the way he’s likely smirking right now, that stupid sharp self assurity. But bratty, bratty you. You’d never give him the satisfaction so easily.
He huffs, annoyed with an undertone of endearment. The blanket moves again, sliding up until it was bunched at your waist.
“Dio m’aiuti,” he breathes out in a rough exhale that ghosts over your cheek. Lord, help me. “Damn…” he curses under his breath, mumbling your name, the syllables catching in his now dry throat.
You feel his shadow loom larger. He’s looking at you, really looking, in a way he’d never dare if your eyes were open to catch him. He takes his lower lip between his teeth, his intentions with you abundantly clear.
“Those look so good on you,” he whispers, and you can feel the compliment buzzing in your stomach. There's a ghost of a touch at your hip, his thumb hooking into the thin lace of the waistline of your thong. He tugs, lets go.The tension of the elastic snaps softly against your skin.
“You had to have worn this for me,” he says, his smile wryly returning, though it’s strained now. “No way you floss your ass every night with these. You’re too practical for that.”
He lets out a shaky breath that hits the bare skin of your stomach. His hands, usually so careful with his books and his potions, grow even more sure. He slides his palms down, settling them firmly on your inner thighs. The heat of his skin is a shock against the cool expanse of yours, almost a searing brand that makes your muscles tingle and jump.
“So, so sleepy…” he coos, very obviously mocking you.
He begins to rub you, his thumbs tracing spirals against the sensitive skin of your thighs, moving higher and higher with every stroke. They rest at the hem of your thong, tracing the fabric as if it were a riverbank. You definitely have a river going on in near proximity, and you feel your facade blend from cheeky fun to a genuine struggle to stay still. He’s waking up the familiar ache between your thighs, drawing all your blood to your throbbing center.
“E se…” What if…he murmurs, trailing off into a contemplative hum. He nudges your thighs apart just the slightest bit. Even in this state, he’s careful, wanting you comfortable as he settles his weight.
From his vantage, he can see how the thin scrap of lace barely contains you—the soft puffiness of your lips spilling out from the sides.You can audibly hear the way sighs, and at that point you give in, discreetly giving your own lip a bite. The way he’s reacting to you makes you feel a dizzying rush of giddiness, like an actual visceral thrill in knowing your body is reducing him to this.
“Oh, man,” he whispers, gravelly and overwhelmed.
He sits back for a second, dragging a hand roughly down his face, his fingers dragging over his features the way someone does when they’re trying to snap themselves out of a fever dream. What am I going to do with you? the thought is written in every sharp line of his jaw. He leans back in, his gaze fixed between your legs. “You’re so puffy here, pretty girl.” his voice nearly cracks.
His thumb migrates, sliding over the lace to run directly along the length of your lip. The feel makes your hips stutter upward, your body asking for what your mouth is too stubborn to formulate. He reaches down and takes the thin triangle of your undies, hooking his finger under the lace and tugging it upward.
A flash of pure perversion dances in his eyes. He watches, transfixed, like a lad playing with his favorite toy, seeing how your pussy swallows up the thread of the thong as he pulls it taut. He tilts his head to the side, tracking the way your wetness starts to seep out from the sides, glistening against the dark fabric.
You’re practically dying. For you, it feels like heaven, and he absolutely knows it. The tight friction of the lace slides up against your clit, right where you need it most. The texture of it is just rough enough to catch on all that sensitivity, soothing just enough of the ache he’s been building up.
His eyes are fixed on the way the lace is buried deep between your lips, lost in the heat he’s stoked.
“Look at you. Sopping wet for a piece of string.”
He chuckles a frustrated laugh, his gaze dropping to the wet, dark line of the thong and then drifting lower to where his own trousers are straining. He shakes his head, his jaw tight. “My cock would fit better there,” he muses. “But whatever. If you want to keep playing pretend, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with this.” The mental image of that makes you throb in a brand-new way, imaging him nestled in your crevice.
He leans down, his lips brushing the very top of your thigh, right where the skin is the softest. His thumb found the center of that drenched undergarment and ground into it with a heavy circle. You can feel the moisture spreading, the silk now completely saturated and acting like a conduit for every bit of friction he’s generating.
“Poor thing,” he coos, the mockery in his voice thick and honeyed. “Tossing and turning in your sleep because you’re so needy. I suppose I’ve gotta play with your pussy just to get her to calm down, haven’t I?”
His finger trails up, sliding until he finds where you ache. He takes your clit between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a hard squeeze that’s almost a demand for a reaction.
Alright, everyone has limits. That was yours, the sound escaping you before you can choke it back, a sweet, quiet moan. The irony of it was you sounded exactly like you were answering his question.
“Oh, mhmm?” he asks, mirroring the sound back to you with a low hum. He knows he won, the smugness practically radiating off him.
“Did you say something, stellina?” he whispers, his voice dripping with honeyed mock-innocence. “I could’ve sworn I heard a sound. But... no. Not from someone so deeply, deeply asleep.”
"Such a shame," he muttered, his voice thick with teasing lust, his thumb circling you once more. "I wish you were awake right now so I could actually taste you. I’ve been thinking about it since the Great Hall."
He places a chaste kiss on your belly, minty breath fanning over your skin. "But I suppose I can’t exactly get your consent while you’re off in dreamland, can I? Much too bad.” You feel the coolness of his breath retreating. “I guess I’ll just have to wait…or leave."
He stays perfectly still, his hand just resting there, depriving you of the friction he’s been teasing you with for the last ten minutes. The sudden lack of movement is agonizing.
No way in hell you’re letting that happen. Your eyes flutter open, blinking against the dim light of the dorm. Putting on your best ‘I just woke up’ face, a tiny, stupidly smitten smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him.
"Wh-what'd you say?" you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with fake sleepiness.
Theo didn't buy it for a second. He stared down at you, not even trying to hide the way his eyes wandered all along your body.
Now that your eyes were finally open, you feasted on the sight of him. He wasn’t in his usual, stiffly tailored school robes. He’d clearly snuck out of his own dormitory in a state of undress, his only outer garment tossed carelessly into the shadows of your room. He was wearing a pair of dark, silk pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips, the fabric thin enough to hint at the hard, lean muscle of his quads underneath. He might as well not have bothered to put on a shirt, the dark fabric of his shortsleeve doing little to hide the shape of his pecs and biceps.
He looked uncharacteristically undone. His mousy hair, usually swept off his forehead, fell over it instead, messily, tips touching his eyebrows and framing those eyes you came to love. There was a smudged shadow of fatigue beneath them. You’d always scold him for drinking coffee late, yet you watched as he gulped down a mug at dinner, hours earlier. No wonder he couldn’t sleep.
You loved seeing him like this. So handsome in a way that felt private, like you were seeing a version of him the rest of the world was never allowed to touch.
"Sei una furbetta," he mumbled, the Italian sounding like an approval. "Must’ve been the wind, darling, ‘didn’t say a thing. Since you’re so, so asleep, I was just heading out."
He made a show of shifting, the silk of his trousers tickling against your bare skin as he started to lift his weight. The movement was tauntingly slow,giving you every second to realize exactly what you were about to lose.
"Theo, stay," you gasped out, your pride officially dead and buried. You reached up, your fingers snagging the hem of his silk pants to anchor him to the mattress. Your knuckles grazed the warm skin of his hip.
He stilled instantly, his eyes tracking the way your hand was nearly trembling against him. He sighed theatrically, starting. "Oh... I guess I can stay for a bit," he murmured, his voice dropping a few notches. He settled back over you, his weight a grounding comfort. His hands made sure to stay where you can see them. He looked down at you as if he were a saint. "But what do you want to do, bella? You look so tired. Perhaps we should just talk?"
He was being an absolute asshole, and he knew it. He acted as if he hadn't spent the last ten minutes between your legs.
"I want you to taste me," you whispered, painfully needily. "Like you said you wanted to."
He wet his lips with his rosy tongue as if on instinct. He really is like a puppy for you. Yeah, he may have the upper hand many, many times, including now. But truly he is at your beck and call. So of course he didn’t waste a minute of time, positioning himself over you, his knees framing your hips. "Merlin, you’re so bossy when you're awake," he muttered, trying to convince himself that he’s the one with all the control here.
“And asleep too. You did exactly what I wanted.” you look up at him, batting those lashes triumphantly.
He groans, shaking his head, hair messily falling into his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah, well, you were faking it,” he countered without any bite. “Brilliant performance by the way, truly.”
“Not the whole time I wasn’t.” you defend, weakly.
He just clicks his tongue at you, his eyes growing a little softer at the edges. He slid his large hand underneath your head, his fingers tangling in your hair to cradle your skull against the pillow. He leaned closer to you until his forehead was resting against yours, nose just barely brushing your own.
“I missed you, mamma.” he admits, almost as if it were a secret.
Goshhh. That nickname. You feel like literal putty, your face parting in a toothy smile.”Theo, I just saw you like, nine hours ago.”
He humphs. “Sì, certo, pero. I was tossing and turning. Without you. Nine hours is a small eternity when my bed feels that empty.”
Your smile impossibly widens. You know exactly the kind of charmer he is, and yet he woos you every single time. You lean up, closing the tiny space between you to kiss him. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, he meets you halfway, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that’s sweet and filthy all at once. He adds his tongue almost instantly, already knowing the shape and taste of your mouth so well that it feels like coming home.
One hand kneads into your scalp, massaging the skin soothingly. His other finds your waist. You feel his palm slide upward, slipping under the hem of your sleeping shirt, his skin a welcomed familiarity against yours. His thumb traces the curve of your side, the tingle of it making your breath hitch into his mouth. He groans in response, the sound caught against your teeth. A hand snakes around you, pulling you flush against him.
After a few more moments of those perfectly sloppy, wet kisses, you reluctantly pull back an inch. Your chest rises and falls quicker than it would standardly, lips puffy. “Okay,” you whisper, unable to mask the laugh in your voice. “Now, my other lips.”
Theo pulls back just far enough to look at you, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow, boyish laugh bubbling up from his chest. One of his thick brows shoots upward in genuine surprise.
“Pardon?” he asked in disbelief, not sure he heard you correctly.
“I don’t know...” you tease, your eyes dropping to his mouth and then back to his. “I just think my other lips need some serious attention. They’re feeling a bit neglected.”
Theo lets out a short, incredulous laugh, his chest heaving against yours. “You’re such a... a deviant,” he accuses, shaking his head. He settles back on his haunches, even though he keeps his hand firmly planted on your thigh. “Is that what this is? Are you just using me for my mouth? Is that all I am to you? A tool for your pleasure?”
He places a hand over his heart far too dramatically in a gesture of hurt. He furrows his brows, giving you the most pathetic attempt at puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen. With his sharp corners of his eyes, it looks like he’s trying to use telekinesis to scramble your brain.
“Yes!” you say, your voice dripping with fake seriousness as you reach up to trail a finger along his jawline, feeling the slight prickle of stubble. “Yes, absolutely. It would be a waste not to put your talent to work”
He stares at you for a beat, his jaw tightening as he looks at the flush on your cheeks. He knows damn well it isn’t true. He remembers the months of pining, the way you begged your friends to change their route to class so you could make eye contact with him for 2 seconds. And the way you used to turn scarlet even when he said something as simple as ‘Good morning.’ He knows you’re just as addicted to the soul of him as you are to his hands.
“Wow,” he sighs, a long, exaggerated exhale of breath that he lets fall against the bare skin of your stomach. He looks down at your navel, then slowly trails his gaze back up into your eyes, his expression lascivious. You can’t bear it when he looks at you like that, like you are the only thing in the entire castle worth seeing, like he’s going to take you apart and memorize every piece of you to put you back together. All you can think about is the blue of his eyes.
“I’ll remember that,” he muses against your skin as he begins to trail a line of nipping, open-mouthed kisses down your torso. “Treating a guest like this. After I risked a midnight run-in with Mrs. Norris just to see you. Truly heartless.”
“A guest who happens to be very, very hungry,” he whispers.
You let out a breathy, frantic little laugh, trying to keep your head above water as his hands squeeze your thighs. “You literally finished my plate at dinner, Theo. I watched you eat my last three potatoes.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his messy waves falling over his forehead, “A man can’t want dessert? I’m a growing boy, I have requirements.”
“That is more than okay with me,” you breathe, honestly, some of your confidence crawling back. You place your hands behind your head in a flourish, stretching out like a cat, and then slowly lift your legs, placing your feet firmly on his broad shoulders. The contrast of your soft skin against the hard line of his frame makes you woozy. “So what's the plan? Are you gonna eat me like a cannoli?”
He freezes. Like, actually stops moving, his hands hovering over your thighs as he stares at you in dead silence. “No way,” he says, his voice flat. “No way you just said that. Absolutely not.”
He pulls one hand away to run it through his already messy dark hair, tugging at the ends trying to process what you just said. He’s looking genuinely upset at your choice of pastry, and you could’ve sworn he even scoffed. You can’t help it; a snort escapes you, followed by a fit of giggles because the look of pure offense on his face is far too much to handle.
You catch your breath just long enough to look him in those icy, narrowing eyes, and you can't resist the opening. “Absolutely, Nott!”, you chirp, giving him a cheeky, lopsided grin.
The corner of his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile he’s clearly fighting to suppress. He hates that he finds you funny right now, that your puns actually land. You watch his cheek hollow with a bite, and he furrows those brows again.
“Ugh, baby, no. No, no,” he groans, shaking his head and leaning back over you, his expression suddenly very serious, though his eyes are dancing with tell-tale amusement. “You need to know this. You have to understand the geography of what’s about to happen to you. Cannoli? That’s Sicily, that’s the South.”
He rolls his eyes, and only then do you realize he’s being partly facetious, playing up his heritage just to tease you back.
“You know I’m from the North. My family is from Venice and Milan. We don't do cannoli like that. We eat tiramisu.”
He leans down and nips, quite firmly, at the soft fat of your belly. You squeal, half-laughing and half-moaning as he begins to trail those kisses lower again, his hands sliding under the crooks of your knees to pull you closer.
“Well,” you start, tiptoeing around your ask. “Could you..could you fill me up like a cannoli? Later?”
The words hang heavy in the air of your dorm, and you can almost see behind his eyes. Clearly his internal monologue’s a mess of good-natured disbelief.’what is this girl’s problem?’But the mental image attached to your phrasing does much to turn him on further.
He clears his throat, yet his voice is still raspier than before. ”For you, I think I can arrange that. Actually, I’m certain of it.”
He can’t even help himself. As he kneels there between your thighs, he lets out a jagged, frustrated breath and slides one hand low, disappearing into the waistband of his silk pajama bottoms.You watch the line of his shoulder flex as he cuffs himself through the fabric, his knuckles grazing the hard, insistent length of him as he tries to process the mental image of finally, finally being inside you. The sight of him touching himself, even for a second, just because of something you said, makes you feel higher than any drug could render you.
He looks down at his own hand, then back up at you, irises darkening in anticipation. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, jaw tightening.
His fingers leap up to hook into the damp lace of your thong, slowly shimmying the fabric down your legs. He watches every inch of skin as it’s revealed, his breath picking up when the lace finally clears your ankles and gets tossed somewhere toward the foot of the bed.
“What a treat,” he sighs in pure adoration.
He moves back in, his chest brushing against your shins as he settles between your knees. He leans down and presses a fervent kiss right to your pubic mound. The heat of his mouth against that sensitive skin is a shock to your senses. He stays there for a moment, breathing you in, his nose brushing against the soft curls as he worships the very sight of you.
He looks up at you through his dark lashes, his chin resting right against your inner thigh.
“You want your pussy eaten?” he asks, uncharacteristically crude for him.
A breathless, shaky laugh bubbles up in your chest, trying to gain some of your footing.“I think,” you pant, your fingers curling into the silk of the duvet, “you mean my tiramisu, Theo.”
He smiles lightly, but doesn’t laugh this time, pressing a slow, soft kiss on the meaty part of your thigh. “Tell me, silly girl,” he murmurs, the words almost commanding.“I don’t joke about consent. I need to hear it. Is that what you want?”
You swallow hard, your voice coming out as a small, desperate thread of a sound. “Please... please can you?”
He nods as if it were a promise. He leans back in, using the tip of his nose to gently nudge your labia apart. The cool air of the dungeon hits your heat for a split second before it’s replaced by the warmth of him. He begins to pepper wet, open-mouthed kisses over your swollen folds, his tongue darting out just enough to tease the edges of your sensitivity without giving you the full contact you’re feining for.
Your leg gives an involuntary shake when he gets closer to where you need, even surprising yourself as your knee knocks against his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks, pulling back just enough to check your face.
Inwardly, he is absolutely stoked. The sight of you already reacting so strongly while he’s hardly even started is a massive stroke to his ego.
“Mhmm,” you manage to whimper, your eyes fluttering shut as you tilt your hips up, wordlessly begging for him to stop the teasing and just finish you.
He hums in response and approval, bringing his hands up to rest comfortably but firmly around your stomach. Grounding, yes, but also practical. He wanted to hold you firmly in place so you couldn’t retreat from what was coming.
His head dipped again, the slickness of his tongue dragging from your perineum all the way up to your tiny, throbbing point. Your chest falls in relief, the first shocks of the contact balming your overcoiled tension. He groans to himself at your taste, the sound muffled by your skin. He began to lick you softly, his tongue fluttering in light strokes over your swollen folds. He was acquainting himself with you, movements curious as he sipped at the moisture you were yielding for him. So gentle, so coaxing.
“Yes, Theo.” you squeak out softly, not really knowing what else to say, yet you wanted to spur him on somehow. It did just enough. His hands gratefully tightened around your waist. He looked up at you, his hooded eyes pulling you right into him. “Like this?” he asked, softly, his breath a minty fog that made your walls flutter. He flattened his tongue, placing a heavy, heavy pressure right at your center. The texture of it is slightly rough, catching against your supersensitive skin. He settles in, stubbly chin rubbing at your entrance as he grows more sure.
Your restraint said farewell a long time ago, your moans so lewd and guttural, punctuated by the wet sounds of him making out with your sopping lips. He’s meticulous, moving from side to side, catching the sensitive skin of your labia between his lips and giving a soft, playful tug that makes you gasp his name. “So loud, baby.” he sighs against you, praise disguised as a complaint. “Take what you asked for.” he continues, his thumbs rubbing circles over your waist. He’s enjoying the taste of you, his head tilting to the side so he can get a better angle, his tongue darting deep into your opening before returning to flick against your clit.
A daring hand slides down, reaching to pull your lips open wider, exposing you fully to his gaze and his tongue. He watches the way you pulse for a short moment, leaning back in to soothe exactly that. “Atleast, slow d-..slow down.” you stumble deliriously, the tension in your thighs coiling slink.
“Yes ma’am.” he tells you, almost too easily. He moves lower, nose brushing past your opening as he trails a line of wet, stinging kisses down, down down, toward the sensitive, tight skin below. He presses his mouth firmly against you, sucking a wet kiss directly onto the sensitive skin of your anus. You feel it from your center to your toes, so taboo and uncharted.
“Theo-” you gasp, ripped from your lungs, legs shifting involuntarily against his shoulders.
He pulls back just a fraction, the cool air hitting the wet mark he’s left behind. He looks up at you through the messy locks falling into his eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, a half assed apology. “I missed.”
He migrates back up, his mouth wide and hot as he latches onto your clit with an uncontained hunger. He does the exact same thing, sucking a deep kiss right onto your peak—but he holds it this time. He stays there for twice as long as before, his tongue swirling in tight,damp circles.
With his mouth busy, he brings one of his thumbs down, circling your entrance teasingly, his digit slick with the mess he’s made. He traces the very edge of your opening, pressing just enough to make you feel the hollow ache of your own emptiness. From there, you know you’re a goner. Your legs are shaking violently against his shoulders, your breath coming in short panicked hitches that you can't control.
“Theo—I’m... I’m coming,” you mewl, torso twisting instinctively in an attempt to gather yourself.
He’s not surprised in the slightest, his hand holding you securely against him. He sweetly grunts against you in response, finally slowing down when he feels you trembling. The feeling’s consuming, starting at the base of your spine, wading outward, your whole body like jelly. You can feel the warmth of your spilling out slowly, across the cool skin of his chin and the heat of his tongue.
His fingers shift to the undersides of your thighs to hold you open, keeping you pinned to his mouth. He begins to lick up the small, pearly liquid that leaks out of you, cleaning up the mess he made. He ensured not a single bit of you is wasted. “‘Tastes so good.” he murmurs against your thigh. “You did so well for me.” he tilts his chin down to meet your eyes, a boyish grin on his lips. “Better than any dessert.”
He lets out a long, shaky exhale, resting his forehead against the inside of your knee for a heartbeat as he tries to regulate his own jumping pulse. You swallow hard, your voice coming out small after you finally garner the strength to shift. Your eyes drop from his face, trailing down the lean line of his torso to where… zoo wee mama.
The bulge in his pj’s is impossible to ignore, the insistent line against his pants belying to you just how much he was holding back while focusing only on you. “What about you?” you whisper, your fingers reaching out to ghost over the waistband of his pants.
Theo’s belly lurches, his entire frame going rigid at the suggestion. He looks down at your hand and then back up into your eyes, his features melting into something so much more raw. He sits back on his heels, rising up on his knees until he’s shadowed over you, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his silk bottoms.
It feels like a scene unfolding in slow motion, and all you could do was watch with your lips parted. As he pushes the fabric down, the sharp, sculpted hardness of his obliques melts into the lean muscle of his lower stomach, trailing down to the dark, soft dusting of hair that leads to his manhood. He stops his descent there, a deep smile line forming in his cheek at your needy expression.
“I suppose,” he starts, letting his hand dip in to cup himself, pumping a few times just to push your buttons. “I can cut my losses and make a cannoli for once.”
He doesn't have to clarify. You know damn well he isn't talking about dessert.
hiii my loves i am so so sorry ive been AWOL for a bitttt. finals finals finals ughhhhhh. i have part twos and a full length fic in the works:) this is just a little somethin somethin ive whipped up in between;) huge kisses. soon as i get over this hurdle, so much more to come.
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