_Tomi Luvs U

It was early in the morning, if you could call it that. The sun’s everlasting light struggled to pierce the permanent, gloomy, thick smog of Gotham. Instead of the bright blue skies filled with puffy white clouds, like the citizens of Metropolis get to enjoy, you get mute, gray skies and light that casts long, winding shadows on the concrete canyons of Gotham. You got the pleasure of enjoying a dull yellow or orange hue in the morning hours. It wasn’t idle, along with the high crime rate, corruption, and pollution—at least the rent was cheap.

But at least it was morning. The once-sparsely populated streets, walkways, and subways were beginning to fill with frantic crowds. Thousands of workers emerged from their homes and poured out onto the streets. You could hear the city's ambiance below: cars honking and revving—plus the typical sound of police cruisers' sirens wailing in the distance. You assumed they were responding to one of many murders that had happened during the night, or someone had discovered one of Jason’s unique ways of dealing with criminals.

Maybe that explains why the vigilante came to you worn out and tired beyond belief. He nearly gave you a heart attack when you entered your apartment. He was just standing in the darkness, leaning against the kitchen counter with his iconic red metallic helmet in his hands. The lighting didn’t help, as it cast his large, imposing silhouette like a child standing over their sleeping mother. You thought your time was up and validly let out a screech, only to hear a laugh slice through it.

Realizing who it was, you sighed in relief; your fight-or-flight instincts diminished as Jason pulled you into one of his hugs. You should’ve expected who it was by now. Your apartment was practically Jason’s home, an upgrade from the various safehouses scattered across Gotham—though he was careful not to draw attention to you unless he wanted one of his enemies to target you.

But you didn’t have any worries, believing fully in Jason’s abilities—especially his stealth, which made you wonder about the safety of your home if the vigilante could easily break in undetected. Nobody was gonna touch a single hair on your body without feeling his wrath, and because only he can touch your body.

Your tense, aching bodies relaxed and melted into each other. You could feel the vigilante’s warm, heavily muscled body molding against yours, defined and sculpted by years of grueling training and resurrection that brought him back. He pressed kisses on your forehead before moving down to your lips, pulling you into a heated dance as your lips moved with rhythm and intent. You could feel Jason’s calloused hands running underneath your shirt, pulling and squeezing your skin as he grinds his crotch—rubbing his tight, clothed bulge on yours.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Jason said, pulling back with a teasing smirk plastered on his face. You frown, whining under your breath as you wanted to go further, but that quickly vanished when Jason stripped himself of his clothing, leaving nothing but his underwear on. You unconsciously licked your lips, not shying away from ogling the manly tank in front of you. He gestured for you to follow his lead—you did so without hesitation.

That was last night, your naked bodies snuggled underneath the thick, cozy blankets. You switched between being the big and small spoon. Jason’s large arms wrapped around you, encircling you as he pulled you closer whenever he felt you were too far. You felt his soft breathing blowing on your nape, and his forehead pressed against your shoulders. That didn’t last forever.

The blare of your alarm woke you up. The annoying, piercing sound assaults your ears as it tells its time to get up. You groaned and begrudgingly dragged yourself out of bed, which was a hefty task with your body tangled with Jason in an amalgamation of limbs. The vigilante held onto you like a koala with a death grip. After some twisting and turning, you were freed from the man’s grasp.

Jason groaned in his sleep, turning over onto his backside, the sheets sliding off to reveal his chiseled, muscular body—one arm over his head and the other resting on his stomach. Even in his sleep, he was effortlessly stunning. He looked like one of those men’s magazine models you’d find at the store and bring home to masturbate to when the internet was still newly available to the public. And he was all yours.

You groaned as you arched your back, stretching the muscles as you propped your hands behind your head, rolling your shoulders backwards. You could hear stiff bones popping and cracking from the pressure. Once the stiffness and tension in your body were alleviated, you planned to make a hearty breakfast for you and Jason to enjoy before his usual routine during the daylight hours—a breakfast burger sounded perfect.

But something caught your attention. You didn’t notice beforehand, but it couldn’t be ignored once you made eye contact. The thick blankets covering Jason’s body slipped below his waistline, revealing his basic underwear and his massive dick resting on his thick, meaty thighs. Your jaw dropped. The massive thing must have slipped through the fly while he slept—it was lying flaccid on his right thigh. How did you not feel that pressing against your ass? You would’ve noticed immediately.

But it was there: Jason’s massive dick in all its glory. As if it couldn’t get any better, the massive thing was gradually lengthening. You watched as the flaccid cock rose to prominence, throbbing and jumping against the vigilante’s clean-cut abdomen. That’s when you heard choked grunts and moans, Jason thrusting his hips into the air—he was having a wet dream. The hand resting on his stomach moved to grip the sheets, his brows twitching as he gritted his teeth.

A burning sensation rushed across your face as you idly stood on the side of the bed, watching Jason have a vivid dream—most likely about you. The more you watched, the more you wanted that massive thing filling your mouth—feeling the heavyweight on your tongue and the thickness filling every inch as you try to take as much as you can. Your dick was tenting in your underwear at the mere thought of giving the vigilante head while he slept, and he continued having his wet dream.

Surely he wouldn’t mind? You remembered a while back, he brought up the idea of sucking him while he slept—it was random, something you weren’t expecting from him. It was after a particularly stressful patrol that left Jason irritated and on the verge of killing someone or breaking the nearest object within reach. He was still irritated, but it somewhat dissipated by the time he broke into your apartment. He came behind you and started peppering kisses on your nape while he kneaded your body with his rough hands, grabbing your hips and grinding them against his crotch.

After the deed was done, Jason lay back with you nuzzled into his body—panting and sweating. That was when he randomly brought up a proposal and gave you his full consent to use his dick while he slept. You never thought of or had the chance, but you couldn’t pass up this opportunity—given to you on a silver platter. He wouldn’t mind you messing with his morning wood.

You climbed onto the bed and crawled to Jason’s side—getting between his legs. You took a deep breath and wrapped your hands around it—it felt warm and heavy in your palm, and you barely managed to fit the thick shaft in your grip. You could feel the veins and ridges pressing against your tight grasp. Jason’s dick still manages to be impressive in length and girth despite sucking and holding it multiple times. There was something about it that made you immediately fall to your knees and beg the vigilante to give it to you.

“Ngh…” Jason’s breath hitched as he let out a soft moan, his body shuddering from your cold hand touching his dick. You smiled, slowly started to pump it up and down—you could feel it expanding in your hand, if that was even possible. As you stroked the massive thing, your warm breathing brushed against it, causing Jason to grunt and shudder.

The vigilante unconsciously started rolling his hips, aggressively thrusting into your hands—he was dreaming about fucking you on a rooftop during patrol, not caring who witnessed the love between two men. To Jason, this dream felt oddly realistic, given how warm and tight the sensation was, but he wasn’t protesting—not at all.

You gave a couple of long, shallow strokes before delivering a deep—Jason responding well to the technique. You wanted more, though. You were particularly salivating, mouth wide open, as you intended to take it. You started kissing the massive pole all the way to the spongy cockhead, licking and swirling your tongue around it before devouring the head, locking your lips around the thickness. You hear Jason sigh with relief, and peering up, you see his pectorals moving.

Smiling with a dick in your mouth, you went to town and started slurping—focusing on the cockhead by flicking the tip of your tongue into the slit, tasting the first beads of precum. You weren’t paying attention anymore as you were completely hypnotized—noises muffled except for Jason’s grunts and you slobbering on the man’s dick. Lust had a tight, restrictive control over your being. You moved to take more, swallowing as much as you can, inch by inch.

“Mmmm…” you whined, struggling to take the remaining inches, so you opted to use your hands. You bobbed your head and stroked the rest, slowly taking more as you relaxed your throat and ignored the gag reflex. You huffed and puffed through your nostrils until a hand rested on your head. You froze and pulled back, Jason’s dick plopping out of your mouth with a wet pop.

“I… uh,” you didn’t know what to say as another rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

“I didn’t say stop, did I?” Jason spoke, his voice deep and raspy after just waking up. There was a lustful glint in his eyes, something that you were all too familiar with. You felt the grip on your head tighten. The vigilante fixed his position, sitting upright before spearing your mouth back onto his massive dick.

Your eyes widen as the massive shaft abruptly fills your mouth. Jason’s fingers dug into your hair as he was determined to push all of his cock down your throat. Tears pierced your eyes, your lungs were burning from the sudden lack of oxygen, and your jaw ached. It didn’t stop until your nose was buried in Jason’s underwear waistband and your chin was resting on his clothed sack.

“Breath through your nose.” Jason grunts, holding your head in place. You followed the advice, relaxing your throat to accommodate the vigilante’s dick and breathing through your nose so you wouldn’t suffocate. “Yeah… just like that.” Another bellowing grunt and groan left his mouth, his head tilting back onto the headboard as you clenched your throat around him—the cherry on top was you stimulating his sensitive cockhead.

Jason controlled the pace, one hand gripping your head as he moved you up and down on his cock. He bounced you like a basketball, using your warm, velvety, tight throat as a personal fleshlight. There was a combination of Jason’s feral grunts and the sound of you slobbering on him—you imagined his dick being generously coated with saliva.

You had your back arched, your ass perfectly on display. Your hole was twitching, clenching, and begging—it was hungry and needed to be satiated, but you had a feeling you were going to get the proper treatment soon.

“That’s enough,” Jason said, pulling you off his cock. You whined, but that was squashed when Jason got out of bed and slung you onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—effortlessly.

“Where are we going?” you asked, looking back to see where Jason was taking you.

“To the bathroom. Need a shower.” Jason replied, as you could see, the familiar interior design was coming into view. You were then hoisted back onto the floor, Jason holding you with an iron grip. “C’mere.”

Jason tilted your head and locked his lips with yours, pulling you into a rhythmic dance of dominance. Your tongues are tied together as he humps and grinds his massive, saliva-coated dick against your clothed tent—smearing your already precum-stained underwear. You can feel his rough, meaty hands move towards your underwear, groping your cheek through the thin clothing, before you hear the sound of fabric tearing and Jason’s hands touching your skin.

“Hey! You could’ve just slid them down!” You complained, pulling back and huffing as the fabric continued to tear until it was ripped in two. Your throbbing dick popped out, grinding against Jason’s dick.

“I’ll buy more, I just really need you. You have me riled up here.” Jason grumbled, squeezing your ass cheeks before slapping the fat mounds. You yelped, your dick twitching as more beads of precum leaked from the slit. Jason took the opportunity to tangle his tongue with yours, swapping saliva and deepening the makeout session—drool seeped through the tiny cracks in your lips and dribbled down your chin.

A heavy, low whine vibrated in your throat, your eyes rolling back from Jason sucking the living soul out of you, and his rough hands having their way with your cheeks—gripping the mounds and thrusting you against him, your moans drowned out.

While Jason enjoyed and toyed with your ass, kneading it like a baker preparing dough. You indulged in his upper body. You greedily squeezed and groped the vigilante’s pectorals like how he was treating your ass—there were subtle, drowned-out grunts, a taste of his own medicine. You were amazed by the rock-hard firmness, yet how squishy they were in your palms. This was most likely a result of your actions, feeding him too well and stuffing him with any junk food he wanted.

You flicked, pinched, and pulled his nipples, feeling the nubs harden between your fingertips. It seemed his dick approved of your ministrations, throbbing against your dick as more guttural growls were further drawn out by the feral, hungry man.

Jason retaliated, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your puckered entrance like Moses parting the Red Sea. You pulled back, a gasp and moan choked out—thick strings of slobber connecting your mouths as the cold air travelled through the valley between your cheeks, brushing against the tight, warm ring of muscle. Whines and whimpers choked out your throat, your mouth ajar as Jason’s thick finger probed your entrance—circling his fingertip around the small ring.

You were in a haze, but your body moved on its own. As Jason teased your puckered hole, the nerves sent signals through your body—straight to your brain, whatever was salvageable. It sensed something thick and long, and your hips instinctively bucked backwards—desperate rolling movements as it tried to grip and drag the vigilante’s finger into the tight, warm depths of your hot ass.

“You want this, sweetheart?” Jason growled, his jaw locking as he watched how eager and desperate you’ve become. There was nothing behind your eyes except a lustful and needy glint.

“Yes! Please, I need it so badly,” you begged and babbled, rolling and bucking your hips as you held onto Jason’s behemoth body—your fingers digging into his pectorals.

“Get in the shower.” Jason bluntly says, moving to open the walk-in shower’s glass door. He still had a grip on your hips and dragged you into the small, confined space. The door closed and locked. The vigilante turned the knob, and the shower overhead burst to life. Warm water sprinkled from above, enveloping and cascading down your bodies. Jason’s thick, wavy hair matted down on his forehead.

The water flowed through every cove and ridge of Jason’s body, highlighting his defined muscles—watching it flow like a river between his pectorals, as if they were mountains shielding a valley. You were knocked out of your gaze by Jason slamming your body against the slippery, soaked wall with one leg hooked on his broad shoulder. The side of your face and hands pressed against the wet tiled walls.

“Ain’t this a beautiful sight?” Jason purrs, smirking—watching you scramble to hold onto the nearest surface for support, but he has you secure, his beefy arm locked and gripping your knee/leg. What was more eye-catching was the water soaking your already disheveled body, your dick throbbing, and your puckered hole, which was throbbing and trying to buck backwards to capture his dick.

He continued to be amused by your attempts to tempt him or push back. The flowing water couldn’t muffle the sound of your frustrated grunts and whines. Deciding to toy with you, he grabbed and positioned his massive dick against your puckered hole, teasing the tight ring by rubbing circles and almost penetrating—the cockhead pushing past the rim before pulling out. He hears your hitched gasps and cries, your body squirming to take what it wants, but is readily denied.

“Jay, p-please…” You whined.

As much as Jason wanted to continue his teasing rampage, his dick wasn’t going to last; it needed to feel the signature warmth and tightness. Precum drooled from the slit, and his shaft throbbed excessively. Your pathetic whining and cries for him weren’t helping either.

With a savage grunt, he once again positioned his dick against your sphincter and pressed forward. The confined space of the shower was filled with groans. You bit your bottom lip as the pressure grew against your rim. Jason gritted his teeth, and his face tightened.

“Fucking take it.” Jason groans as he plunges his dick completely inside your hole, his heavy balls and abdomen resting on the underside of your cheeks—your thighs. Your ass greedily swallowed every inch, massaging and clenching around the massive thing as your mouth spewed moans and cries of satisfaction.

Your chest tightened and heaved, the new angle was undeniably rearranging your guts—he was so deep inside your stomach that you could practically taste it in the back of your throat.

Just from feeling the tight embrace of your ass, Jason gave up rational thinking and became a hungry, feral man—spurred on by you.

“J-Jay… nghh… s-so… g-good!” you moaned, holding onto the tiled wall. Your breathing was harsh as Jason rammed his massive dick, your puckered hole stretching to its limits. His pace was brutal enough to collapse the tiled wall and push you into the next apartment. You can hear his heavy balls slapping against your thigh and the clapping of your cheeks, and the faint sprinkling of water from above.

“Fucking hell,” Jason growls, his heavy-lidded eyes notice a tummy bulge forming every time he thrusts—the size ranged from a tummy bump to his cockhead sprouting out. He managed to choke out a low chuckle, moving his free hand over the bulge to feel it. With each brutal thrust, he could feel his cockhead through your skin. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s me.”

You slowly and shakily peered down to see what the vigilante was talking about, and there it was; your mind was melting, and your vision was rainbows, but you could see the bulge and the faint outline of Jason’s massive dick thrusting into your body.

“J-Jay… J-Jay… please…” Your brain was scrambled, your speech reduced to incoherent babbling and pleas for Jason. Your hoarse throat is pushing the limits. With some momentum, you reluctantly let one hand from the tiled wall. Jason removed his hand, letting you feel the bulge in your stomach. Your mouth stuttered open, marvelling at the feeling. A tightness starts to knot itself, spreading slowly throughout your lower section.

You couldn’t give Jason a warning before your body spasmed and your asshole clenched around the man’s dick with a vice-like grip. Your ear picked up the guttural groans from the vigilante—feeling his dick being suffocated or being snapped off. Your dick throbbed and spurted thick ropes of hot cum, your moans bounced off the walls—the water washing your load down the drain.

“Fuck, sweetheart… s-squeezing my dick. Y-you feel so fucking good. So tight when you cum for me.” Jason moans, his muscular body shuddering, almost pained. He couldn’t move his dick; it was lodged completely inside you, and your greedy ass refused to let go. It wasn’t long before he reached his climax.

Garnering his strength, he pulled out slowly, dragging his massive shaft against your walls before slamming back—all you can do is whimper and drool as he fucked you past your orgasm and into overstimulation.

He didn’t last long. He let out a bellowing groan and growl, giving one more thrust to the hilt—his dick and balls twitched before unloading deep inside your ass, filling you to the brim with his hot, thick seed. Your fleshy insides were painted white; you felt the massive shaft throbbing, followed by a flood.

The shower fell silent apart from the labored panting and desperate intake of air, and the water cascading down your bodies. Every part of your being trembled from the intense orgasm; everything was foggy and blurry, and your gaze travelled to the bump in your stomach—you looked pregnant… did Jason really cum that much? It's been a week since you both had sex…

Your mind continued to reel and repair the damage until Jason spoke.

“We should do that again!”

The end

Author’s note — Hello, my strawberries! I hope this was good! I’m popping these fics out like Queen Anne. More food is coming.

Special thanks to my proofreader — @sagethegaywitch

Three fuckin' years since that motel, hoodie of his around your frame and his hand on the wheel ending with you crawling over the gearstick to sit in his lap.

A lot had happened in those three years but Cook hadn't changed all that much, still that crooked grin and pale blue eyes that went mean quick, couldn't sit through a film without commentary and grabbed your arse in shop queues at any given chance.

But you'd changed, no longer the same one who'd stood barefoot in a kitchen reading six words on the back of a cig packet was long gone and what remained was something Cook had built without quite meaning to and he quite frankly loved it.

You wanted him constantly, not just in the way of being in love with someone, you'd been in love with him in that way years ago in his bedroom when he'd kissed your knuckles after a fight he'd had on your behalf.

This was different.

Your hand drifting to his thigh under tables in shitty cafés, fingers walking up the inseam of his jeans till his eyes flicked sideways.

Waking him up at three in the morning with your mouth already ‘round him because you couldn't sleep otherwise.

He definitely began noticing those changes.

Small gestures at first like him taking hold of your hand to place on top of his clothed cock in the back row of a near-empty cinema, pretending to watch some Bond rerun and totally expecting you to smack his hand away like usual.

It went with him hissing your name and trying to keep his hips still.

By the end of the film he had you bent over the seats two rows down, hand clapped over your mouth, joggers shoved to your knees, sliding into you slowly and purposely deep while the credits rolled.

"Cook—someone'll come in—"

"Yeah?" he'd breathed against your ear, all teeth. "An' who gives a shite."

The library next, the usual tiny one you'd go in to recover lost time in studying. He tagged along ‘cause he didn’t like the thought of you alone but boredom had soon build up

It was more of a joke when he asked, while you were still deep into reading the book in front of you, if ye were up t’ do somethin’ in here.

To his surprise, you'd led him into a stack of the history section nobody ever bothered with and undone his belt with your eyes locked to his, gone down on your knees on the carpet and taken him in your mouth right there between the shelves.

He'd had to bite down on his own forearm to keep quiet, fist tight in your hair, hips juddering forward into your throat and when he'd come, you'd swallowed every drop, loudly licking your lips before standing up, smiling sweet as anything and asked him if he was ready to go.

"Tha's me good lad, eh? Where the fuck did ye go?" He’d mutter, looking properly stunned, dragging a thumb across your bottom lip.

"Right here," you'd said.

The balcony was his favourite though since the flat had a tiny iron balcony off the bedroom enough for two people to stand on and look out over the back of the chippy and across the rooftops to that grey strip of sea.

One night, summer, you'd gone out there in nothing but a pair of his boxers and leaned over the railing on your forearms and called his name through the bedroom door softly.

"Cook. C'mere."

He'd come out with a cigarette in his teeth and joggers low along a beer can in his hand.

Took one look at you bent over the railing in his boxers with your back arched on purpose and the cigarette had nearly fallen out his mouth.

"Oh ye dirty fuckin' thing," he'd murmured, beer set down on the windowsill, smoking cig stubbed out in the ashtray. "Out here?"

"Why not?"

He'd come up behind you and dragged the boxers down your thighs before kicking your feet apart with the side of his boot. Two slick fingers from the lube he kept on the sill (because of course he kept lube on the sill now, that was the kind of household you ran) and then he'd been pushing in, palms flat over yours on the railing, mouth on the back of your neck and hips pistoning while you bit your lip to the point of tasting blood to keep from screaming.

Somewhere down on the street a bloke was shouting at his dog, gulls were going mental while you were getting fucked stupid above all of it, looking out at the sea.

When you'd come you'd seen white at the edges, knees gone as he'd held you up by the hips and kept fucking you through it.

"Tha's me good fuckin' boy, every fuckin' bastard down there could look up an' see ye gettin' it, see who ye belong to, yeah? Yeah? Bet ye'd let 'em an' all, dirty fuckin' little—"

"Yours," you'd choked, "yours, yours, only yours—"

"Damn fuckin' right."

You'd both laughed about it after, sitting on the bedroom floor with your back against the bed and his arm round your shoulders, sharing a bottle of warm beer and a cigarette he was rolling clumsy with one hand while joking together of the pair of degenerates you’ve become.

There were weeks where you couldn't keep your hands off each other and the flat smelled of sex morning till night, sheets getting changed twice in three days.

But your favourite game, the one you'd grown into proper, was getting Cook wound up on purpose.

The best kind of fuck you only got out of him were when he’s pissed off.

It was a hot Sunday, Cook had said in passing on Tuesday that there was a do at a pub his mate Tony was throwing for his birthday, nothing fancy, just drinks at the Anchor down the front along with music and food. “Would ye come along?”

You agreed and already started thinking by the time he'd kissed your forehead and gone back to his crossword.

When you both walked into the Anchor with your hand on his arm at half seven, Tony had already three pints in and shouting your names from the bar.

Cook got pulled into a one-armed hug and steered into a round before he could protest while you slipped sideways out from under his arm and went to get yourself a drink at the bar.

You could feel his eyes on you from across the room considering the attire you’ve chosen for tonight you knew he loved a lot with the way it clung to your frame perfectly.

The barman was a young lad you hadn't seen before, twenty maybe, broad shoulders, soft jaw, eyes that flicked up and stuck when you leaned an elbow on the bar.

"What can I get ye?"

"Pint of the cider, love."

"Comin' up." Eyes flicked again. "Haven't seen you in here before."

"My fella's mate's birthday."

"Ah." A little pause. "Lucky fella."

Smiling small at the wood of the bar while feeling a particular weight settling on the back of your neck.

"Cheers."

"On the house, that one."

"Yeah?"

"Tony said anyone here for him drinks free first round." A beat. "Or maybe it's just for you."

"Aw."

You took the pint and turned ‘round to spot Cook who hadn't moved from the group at the other end of the bar but he was watching, pint in his hand, expression that informed you of his back teeth grinding.

Raising the pint at him in a small toast, his mouth twitched in acknowledgement.

Through those hours he endured you standing too close to the new barman when you went up for refills, laughing too much at something Tony's brother said.

Suddenly you had gotten very close and touched Cook on the small of the back while talking to someone else before drifting your hand down to give the cheek of his arse a squeeze hidden by the press of bodies before slipping your hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Having fun?" you asked all innocence.

Ocean eyes fully on yours, half-lidded, mouth in a flat line.

"Loads."

"You don't look it."

"Mm." His free hand came up and curled round the back of your neck not exactly gentle.

"Ye keep this up," he murmured lowly, lips not quite at your ear, "an' I'm gonna stop bein' polite, pretty thing. Ye know tha'."

His thumb dragged slow up the side of your throat.

"Ye promise?" Smiling up at him, all teeth and his jaw worked before he let go and turned back to Tony, outside for a smoke.

You’ve stayed at the bar and the new barman was leaning on his elbows opposite you, having conversations while answering and laughing.

Cook just so happened to come back in through the side door at exactly that moment where your hand was on the barman’s biceps to test the size of them when he proudly told you that he went to the gym regularly.

A hand clamped on the back of your neck the very next moment.

"Babe," he said, calm in the way you knew meant the very opposite. "Word."

"I'm getting a drink."

"Yeah ye already had enough. Come on." His grip tightened and the barman's eyes flicked up and went a bit too fast down to the glass he was suddenly very busy polishing from sudden fear.

"Now, pretty thing."

You let yourself be turned and walked.

Lord only knows Cook wanted to smack that man’s face on the counter for the way his eyes scanned avidly every detail of your face just like how He did the first time you visited him in jail.

He didn't make a scene, though, because Cook had learned not to do such things in places like this anymore, he'd had three years of practice.

The hand that took your wrist didn't loosen all the way down the front to where the car sat at the kerb.

Tony shouted something cheerful after you two and Cook lifted his free hand in a wave without looking back.

He opened the passenger door and nudged you in with the flat of his hand on the small of your back, closed the door and walked round to get in the driver's side.

He sat there with both hands on the wheel and looked dead ahead at the chip wrappers blowing across the front, breathing in through his nose.

Two in and out.

The way he'd been working on when his temper rose while you observed his profile.

"Cook."

"Don't."

"I didn't do—"

"Don't, babe. Givvus a minute."

You leaned back in the seat, chewed the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

He'd see it in the dim from the streetlight if you let it slip and that was an escalation you didn't need yet.

Once he finally turned the key, the engine caught and he pulled away from the kerb smoothly, driving the seafront road, eyes ahead.

"Y' know," he said eventually, a muscle in his jaw going, "I were havin' a nice time… then me lad decides he's gonna be a cunt about it all night."

"I was being polite."

"Polite, aye," he repeated. "That what ye call it. Pretty thing."

You tucked one knee up on the seat, turned half toward him. "Don't be cross."

"Oh I'm a long way past cross, me. Crossed the line of cross hours ago ‘round about when y' let me see what clothes ye were comin’ with."

"You don’t like them?"

"Aye, I like ’em on ye in the bedroom or the sofa. I do not like ‘em on ye smilin' at some fuckin' barman like yer not mine."

"Are you jealous, Cook?" Flutter mode on, wide eyes and innocent look.

He scoffed, short and hard, knuckles on the wheel tightening. "Don't try tha' one."

"What?"

"I taught ye tha' one, mate, ye can't pull it on me."

"You did not teach me—"

"I absolutely taught ye tha'. Last winter wi’ tha' bloke at the post office I were tryin' to talk down."

You snorted before you could stop yourself but there was not even a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He pulled the car off the seafront, up the back road that ran behind the chippy and parked in the alley.

"Out the car."

He came round and didn't take your arm this time, just walked behind you with one hand low on the small of your back, propelling you up the iron staircase at the back of the building to the flat door.

Keys out, door open and shut with his heel the second you both walked it and threw the keys in the bowl.

"Strip."

A small warm jolt went through you.

"Cook—"

"Don't fuckin' Cook me now. Reckon ye got off on every fuckin' second of those long hours in there, di'n't ye." His eyes dragged down you slowly. "Bet ye're hard right now."

You were and he saw it.

"Tha's wha' I thought. Off." His mouth moved into something that wasn't a smile.

You reached for the hem of the t-shirt slow.

"Faster."

Pulling it over your head and dropping it on the floor.

"Jeans."

Button and zip, pushing them down with the boxers and stepping out.

He came over slowly, one hand came up and trailed one knuckle from your collarbone down the centre of your chest, walking completely behind you then grabbing a cigarette from a pack on the table and lighting it up while you stayed pit with your back on him.

Smoke curled from behind you as the unbuckling of a belt came and a very pressure came from behind right on your arse, very heavy bulge right through his jeans throbbing into your naked arse and your own cock jumped in excitement as he gave small thrust forward and a low grunt rumbled from his chest.

Tentatively, one of your hand moved backward and landed on the muscular front of his right thigh still covered by his jeans while your other hand wrapped slowly around your dick, definitely expecting him to fuck you from behind at any moment.

Your wrists were lashed up suddenly, belt previously around his jeans now doubled and looped clever over them.

“Cook—“ a gasp of surprise from the sudden cold material that kept your hands above your head and locked, body getting pulled by him.

“Bedroom.” It was all he said while pulling your form and, by the time you were on the foot of it, he got in front and pushed you down on it, walking over to the side and knotting the belt with your hand to the slat of the headboard so neat you couldn't get a finger under it without skinning yourself.

Your ankles were the same, one to each corner of the bedframe, legs spread embarrassingly wide, no slack to close them.

He crawled over your frame and the heavy smell of tobacco and that shit body spray washed over you as he tied over your eyes one of his t-shirts, the grey frayed-collar one, folded thick and tied off at the back of your skull.

Every breath you pulled in through your nose, you breathed him.

"Comfy, pretty thing?"

Warm breath heavy with nicotine and alcohol washing over your face from above.

You tried to answer and what came out was a wet noise ‘round the thing he'd put in your mouth, two of his fingers earlier had pressed a folded bit of fabric in past your teeth, “keep tha' there fer me 'less I take it out an' if I take it out it's 'cause I wanna hear ye, not 'cause ye're done.”

The fucker.

"Mm?" You tried again in a whine this time.

"Aye, I bet ye are.” He sounded amused and the mattress dipped.

He was kneeling somewhere down between your spread thighs.

"Christ, babe." Quietly said. "Look at the fuckin' state of ye."

You whined again, low.

"Nah, nah. Not yet. Three hours ye gave me out there. We're a long way off three hours in 'ere yet."

A finger touched your knee and you jerked.

"Easy."

The finger trailed down the inside of your thigh.

He had three fricking years of inventory of your body, knew the path that turned the lights up as his finger reached the crease of your thigh and stopped.

You made an embarrassing noise as his digit went away but you didn't care.

"Shh."

His weight shifted, both hands on you now, palms flat on either side of your hips and his hot wet mouth settled on the dip between your hip and your stomach.

Your cock was already up against your stomach and had been up there since he'd tied the second knot at your ankle, leaking onto your skin in a slow steady drool and getting ignored entirely.

He moved his mouth a fraction to the side, hot breath on the same dead area and you made a sound that was meant to be his name.

"Wha' were tha', babe? Use yer words. Oh wait." A small low laugh. "Tha's right, ye can't."

Then his hands were on your inner thighs, callused and large palms sliding up slowly over the dip of your hipbones, up the sides of your ribs and over your chest, thumbs catching your nipples in passing and rubbing once and your back came up off the bed with a strangled noise.

"Oh." His thumbs went back, pressed and rolled.

The dark pink flesh had gone tight and erected.

His mouth closed over one and his teeth grazed, tongue flicking as he sucked and the noise you made ‘round the gag was muffled and broken.

Switching prey, he stayed there a long time on the other one and your stomach was juddering, cock hard enough to hurt, slapping flat to your abdomen, leaking steadily.

By the time he lifted his head off your chest you were already shaking.

"Aw, pretty thing." Soft, thumb tracing a line of spit off your nipple. "Ye're havin' a nice time so far?"

You nodded furious and his mouth was on your throat to take a bite right where he liked and making you wail into the gag as he sucked the bite.

He worked down your throat on both sides, across your collarbones and down the centre of your chest, in the line of dark hair he'd been growing out and trimming, his stubble dragging.

By the time his mouth reached your sternum your whole front half was a map of fresh hot bruises.

He skipped your cock entire, mouth brushing past the inside of your thigh and settling on the meat of your thigh to bite down and sucking dark.

"Mm." Pleased noise into your skin. "Tha's a good one. Tha'll be there a fer t’ night."

You were trying to roll your hips up into the drag of the duvet under your arse and you couldn't move much because of the rope.

Every attempted movement just made the rope bite your wrists and ankles.

When he finally touched your cock it was with one fingertip drawn light from base to tip and you came up off the bed as far as the rope let you with a noise meant to be pleased and a muffled scream.

"Easy. Easy, babe. There we go."

The fingertip lifted off.

"Nope, pretty thing. Not yet. Not anywhere near yet." He was almost laughing. "Three fuckin' hours ye made me sit there watchin' some fuckin' barman with 'is tongue out for ye an' ye bein' all sweet. Tha's a long bill, babe."

He lifted off the bed entirely and you heard him moving the drawer of the bedside cabinet, familiar rattle of the lid of that little jar of coconut oil he'd started using because the supermarket lube had given you a rash once and he wouldn't go back.

Lid off and wet sound of his fingers in it.

Two thick and oiled things pushed up into you in one smooth shove and you arched while he made a small dark pleased noise.

"Aye, tha's it. Open up fer me. Tha's me boy."

He worked you with two fingers without urgency at all, slow long strokes curling on the way out.

He knew where it was as he went near it and away repeatedly, finding it on a curl and giving you one perfect drag and your whole body would jerk before he'd pull out and reposition to miss it on purpose for ten strokes in a row.

Properly drooling ‘round the gag at the point three fingers went in and they found your prostate together, pressing and and holding.

White went off behind the blindfold as your cock jumped and a thick spurt of precome splattered onto your abdomen.

He pulled his fingers out right as you were on the verge to come, wailing as he left you empty and cold.

You were crying into the t-shirt over your eyes a bit by then, corners overspilling while he bent and kissed the corner of one closed eye through the fabric.

"Shh. Ye're a'right. Ye're doin' so well."

His mouth stayed there for a second before it went down your body again and he took you in slowly, all the way to the base, throat working ‘round you while there was no way of moving your hands or legs.

All you could do was buck up about an inch into the heat of his mouth before he pulled off, dragging his tongue up the underside to than clamp a hand round the base of your cock hard, thumb and finger ringing tight and squeezing.

The orgasm fizzled out of you in a sad twitch.

Two weak pulses against his fingers and nothing came, the denial of it ripped through your stomach as he held you like that till the urge faded back down.

Counted under his breath to thirty while you twitched and then he let go before his mouth went back on to repeat the process.

By the fourth time you weren't making words anymore but just one continuous broken sound through the gag, drool soaking the fabric in your mouth and the pillow under your head, t-shirt over your eyes a mess.

Your cock was so hard it was purple, swollen up thick and aching and so sensitive that the air on it was almost too much.

He was settled comfortably between your thighs, forearm across your hips to pin you down. The other hand idly stroking the inside of your thigh, knuckles drifting back and forth before he bit the inside of your thigh, making you jerk.

He shifted in his position, mattress shifted as the wet of his mouth left your thigh.

"Reckon ye've earned it."

His cock dragged along the underside of yours, slick and heavy. You hadn't felt him take his joggers off but he had, now bare against you, his thick cock laid along your length and he just rolled his hips lazy, shaft sliding over yours with the oil from his hand, pressing both your cocks together against your abdomen and the friction of it was the most you'd had in two hours yet it was nowhere fucking near enough.

You howled into the gag.

"Mm." He was breathing harder now, finally. "Christ, ye're a state."

The slow grinds kept coming, drag of his cock against yours while leaking too, hot and slippery, both of you smearing against your stomach.

He did it for a long time till you'd stopped making sound and were just breathing, ragged and broken, head turned to one side, jaw slack round the gag.

Then he stopped and sat back, blunt of him suddenly at your entrance.

You were so loose and slick from all the work he'd done with his fingers that he sank in halfway in one push, hot heavy fill as your back came up off the bed and a long broken vowel came out of your mouth.

He pushed the rest all the way to the base, hips flush and heavy balls pressed against your arse, buried to the hilt and held there a long time.

You could feel him pulsing inside you, his breath was uneven against your knee where he'd hooked your leg up over his arm, enjoying the way you fluttered all around him.

He bent forward, damn near folded you in half if the ropes would let him and his hands come up to your face, one thumb hooking the edge of the cloth in your mouth and easing it out, jaw aching open.

"Ye still wi' me, babe?"

You tried.

"…Cook—" Wrecked, voice nothing at this point and tongue clumsy.

"Aye. There 'e is."

His thumb wiped the drool off your chin.

"Tell me wha' ye need."

"Move. Please move. Please move, please, Cook, please—"

"Nice manners."

"Please please please—"

He moved slowly all the way out till just the head was caught, sliding then back in.

You were so sensitive and worked over that you could feel every individual ridge of him going past, the thick swell of the head, heavy length and press of his abs against the back of your thighs when he was into the root.

He did it again and again while you'd been at the brink for so long that even slow thrusts were enough to push you up the cliff, cock twitching against your stomach and sounds rising in your throat as he slowed the second he saw it right down to nothing, hips barely moving.

"No—Cook—no—"

"Shh."

"Please, please please please, Cook please, I can't—"

"Aye ye can. Ye can do it fer me. Ye said ye could do anythin' I asked, years ago in tha' shitty fuckin' room. Ye remember tha'."

"Yes—yes—"

"This is wha' I want ye t’ fuckin' do."

He held himself buried, hips pressed flush, a slow tiny rocking that wasn't enough to push you over but kept you right there at the edge.

"Pretty fuckin' thing." Almost reverent. "Look at ye… made fer this."

He pulled out slow and, as you opened your mouth to beg again, he changed.

Taking your second leg in his other arm and hooking it up too, took your full weight onto the bend of his elbows and his hands at your hips as he started fucking you properly hard.

The thump of his hips against your arse the only sound for a second, followed by a low grunt with every drive in and the broken noises out of the broken mess he had below.

He was hitting your prostate with every stroke dead centre and the cliff you'd been hanging off for two hours rushed up as you came untouched.

You came with hands tied above your head, ankles tied wide and his cock buried to the root inside you cock pulsing thick white over your abdomen in long ropes, splashing up your chest and onto your throat, the rope at your wrists and at your ankles going taut.

He fucked you straight through it, no stopping or slowing down but still hard steady drives and your come painted up your stomach was getting smeared and pushed by the press of his abs against you on every thrust while he was grunting low in your ear after he'd folded down over you again.

"Tha's one," he said into your jaw. "Tha's one fer the three hours."

"Cook, oh god, Cook, please, can't—"

"Aye ye can." He sat up again and never ceased the brutal way he approached to fuck you.

Even worse he took one hand off your hip and wrapped it round your cock.

Right after coming, his hand on you was searing and he didn't go gentle but he stroked you in time with his thrusts, slick from your own come, slow firm pulls and your hips were trying to twist away from him to not avail because of the rope and his cock buried deep and linking you to him.

Cock of your own hardening back up under his hand inside a minute because you were so far gone you didn't know up from down anymore.

"There 'e fuckin' goes."

Pace picked up and the bed was knocking against the wall.

Fella in the chippy downstairs would be definitely staring at his ceiling but none of you cared.

You came again, a weak shuddering pulse over his fist, dribbling down his fingers, cock twitching pathetic in his grip and your whole body going slack and then bowing up, sob that came out of you was completely broken as he kept plugging your hole with his large member.

"One more, pretty thing."

"I can't—"

"Ye can. One more. Ye're gonna come wi' me, I know ye can."

His hand left your cock to pull the t-shirt off your eyes.

The light hit and you blinked stupid into it before your sight focused on the sight above.

Stubble shining with sweat, dark hair stuck flat to his forehead and pale blue eyes black with huge pupils, mouth open and lips swollen pink.

Each layer of muscles he built was moving as his hips drove down into you and his stomach tightened, V of his hipbones cut clean above where his thick cock was disappearing into you over and over and over.

He looked wrecked but also like the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

His eyes locked onto yours and held.

"There 'e is," he breathed. "There's me lad."

"Cook—"

"Eyes on me, pretty thing. Don't lose me."

"Yours…"

"Aye. Mine. Say it."

"Yours, only yours, Cook—"

His pace went sloppy, control dropping the constant hammering, abs slapping against your spent cock somehow stirring against him a third time because you were that far gone.

"Babe—" wrecked, "babe, gonna— gonna fill ye up, wanna mark ye proper every fuckin' inch of ye."

"Yes—yes—yes, please—"

He pushed in deep and held as he came.

Hot and immense flood of it expanded everywhere as you felt his cock jump inside you and he was groaning long and low with his forehead pressed to your sternum, hands fisted in the duvet either side of your head.

He held himself there for a long time before lifting his head and looking at you before reaching up and undoing the rope at your wrists.

Your arms came down slack as he caught one and kissed the inside of the wrist where the rope had reddened it before freeing the other one.

He undid your ankles next, one by one, kissed and massaged each one a second all while staying seated inside, plug of him keeping his come held in deep as he lowered himself down onto your chest and let his weight settle.

Your arms came up shaking to go ‘round his sturdy back.

Neither of you spoke for a long time as his and your breathing slowed.

"Pretty thing," he muttered, eventually, mouth at your temple. "Did you really plan all tha’ stuff t’ get on me?"

A small huff against your skin. "Yeah"

"Bastard."

"Mm."

You laughed croaked, throat a wreck as he joined in laughter too into your hair.

"Y' alright?"

"…Yeah."

"Good." His thumb stroked your jaw. "'Cause we've got the rest of the night, babe an' I'm not anywhere near done wi' ye."

He doesn’t do asking, in general. He glowers, he broods, he appears silently beside you like a gothic cat in the night and makes dry remarks about the state of your homework or the Gryffindor table’s poor taste in jam.

He doesn’t pursue people.

He prefers if people come to him—quietly, hopefully, and preferably while he’s pretending not to notice them. That’s the arrangement. That’s what he’s used to. It works.

Until you, of course.

You, who somehow slip through the cracks of his calm. Who can talk to portraits like they’re old friends. Who keep forgetting your tie, and lose your quills, and always have ink on your fingers. You who are bright, too bright, and never quite where he expects you to be, and always where he doesn’t realize he’s hoping you are.

He’s ruined.

But even then—especially then—Theodore Nott does not ask people to the Yule Ball.

Which is why he’s sitting across from you in the library, glaring at the blank roll of parchment in front of him like it murdered his ancestors. His jaw is tight, quill clenched in his fist, and his eyes flick up to you every twenty seconds like clockwork.

You, completely oblivious, are humming under your breath as you scribble something in the margin of your Transfiguration book. Your hair keeps falling into your eyes. He wants to tuck it behind your ear and then maybe die from the shame of doing something so cliché.

He’s thinking about that—very inappropriately and not at all helpfully—when Draco Malfoy flops gracelessly into the seat beside him.

Theodore jerks slightly and hunches over his parchment like he’s hiding state secrets.

Draco snorts. “You are so obvious.”

“Am not,” Theodore mutters.

“You’ve written ‘ask them’ and then scribbled it out five times.”

Theodore grits his teeth. “That’s not what I was writing.”

Draco leans in. “It looked like ‘ask them to the—’”

“I said shut up.”

Across the table, you look up from your book, blinking innocently. “Are you two whispering about me again?”

Draco smiles, unbothered. “Absolutely.”

Theodore stiffens.

You squint. “You’re both terrible at whispering.”

“Noted,” Theodore says, voice tighter than his collar.

Draco, far too amused, props his chin in his hand and watches the two of you like it’s theatre. “You’re really not going to ask them?”

“I’m getting there,” Theodore hisses under his breath.

Draco raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You’ve got, what, three days left? They’re going to get snatched up by some Hufflepuff with emotional availability.”

“Six days, actually.”

“Just ask them, Nott. You’re brooding. They like brooding. You’re weird. They like weird. This isn’t complex.”

Theodore stares hard at a nearby bookshelf. “You ask them, then.”

“I would, but Harry might finally strangle me in my sleep.”

“You’d like that.”

“I would.”

You, somehow still not looking up, flip a page and mutter, “You two do realize I’m right here, yes?”

Draco doesn’t blink. “Of course.”

Theodore considers disappearing under the table. Instead, he mutters something about needing to study and tries to focus on the ink bleeding across his notes.

You glance at him, eyes flicking over his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw. “You okay?”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

You lean a little closer. “You sure? You’re gripping your quill like it owes you money.”

Theodore, mortified, releases it instantly and clears his throat.

“Studying,” he says shortly.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than comfortable. “All right then.”

And you go back to your book, your foot swinging idly under the table, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just knocked the breath out of him with a single look.

Draco kicks him under the table.

Later that night in the Slytherin Common Room . .

Mattheo Riddle is sprawled across the emerald green Slytherin common room sofa like he’s auditioning for the cover of Tragic Witches Weekly, one arm draped over his eyes dramatically, the other lazily twirling a Sugar Quill between his fingers. His boots are muddy and kicked off at odd angles, and his half-finished Transfiguration essay flutters sadly beside him as if it too has given up on life.

The fire crackles in the hearth. The lamps are dimmed to a moody golden hue. The vibe is somewhere between a séance and a group therapy session with no actual healing involved.

Mattheo removes the quill from his mouth and props himself up with the enthusiasm of a dying man. “So,” he drawls, eyes glinting with unholy delight. “How’s the ‘Operation Ball Date’ going?”

Theodore slumps into the armchair across from him, every inch of his posture screaming defeat. He looks like he’s aged ten years in three days.

“Don’t start,” Theodore mutters, rubbing his temples like it might erase the memory of every failed attempt.

Pansy, perched like a cat on the armrest beside Mattheo, raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You opened your mouth, forgot how to function, and they walked away wondering if you were cursed.”

“I was close this morning,” Theodore hisses, glaring at the rug like it’s at fault. “I was right there. I was mid-sentence—mid-sentence, Pansy—when the Gryffindor table exploded. Literally. Exploded.”

────────────────

Flashback – That Morning, Great Hall

Theodore had rehearsed it.

Twelve times in his dorm. Five times in the mirror. Once in the corridor—where a first-year saw him muttering to himself and ran.

He spotted you at the far end of the table, hunched over a plate of toast with your head in your hand, eyes still bleary from sleep. You looked vaguely annoyed at the jam as though it had committed a personal offense. Your hair was slightly out of place. Your jumper sleeves were too long.

You looked perfect.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, striding toward you with all the confidence of a man walking to his own execution. “You just say it. Just say it. ‘Do you want to go to the ball with me?’ That’s all. That’s—”

You looked up.

Theodore froze. Then sat beside you and cleared his throat. “Hi.”

You blinked. “You look… tense.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re holding your goblet like it’s trying to escape.”

He placed the goblet down. Too hard. It clinked against the table. “Do you want—”

BOOM.

An eruption of red and gold sparks blasted from the Gryffindor table like a cannon. Plates flipped. Porridge flew. A stack of toast caught fire. A Slytherin screamed.

“MERLIN’S—”

“FRED!”

“GEORGE!”

“I SWEAR TO GODRIC—”

Professor McGonagall sprang to her feet, wand drawn, steam practically pouring from her ears as she bolted toward the cackling twins already making a run for the exit.

Chaos.

Absolute.

FUCKING.

Chaos.

You turned to Theodore, wide-eyed. “What were you saying?”

He stared at the smoking wreckage of the Gryffindor table.

“…Never mind.”

────────────────

Present Time . . .

Mattheo snorts. “Fred and George?”

“Who else?” Theodore grinds out.

Draco glides in like a malicious breeze, robes swishing, hair perfect, expression entirely unimpressed. “You know what your problem is?”

“Do enlighten me,” Theodore snaps.

“You’re passive. Hesitant. A snail on a cold morning.”

Theodore squints. “That’s not a real saying.”

“It is now,” Draco replies, flopping onto the opposite chaise. “You can’t just wait for the perfect moment. You have to make the moment. Force fate’s hand. Seduce destiny.”

“I’m going to hex you,” Theodore mumbles.

Mattheo waves a hand. “No hexing until we brainstorm. It’s time for a new strategy.”

“A new strategy?” Theodore asks, exhausted.

“A bolder one,” Pansy adds, twirling her wand.

Mattheo sits up straighter, enthusiasm building like a firework about to blow. “You want theatrics. Drama. They don’t know you’re into them because you’re too busy staring at them like a lovesick ghost. We need impact.”

“I’m not going to throw myself out a window to get their attention.”

“Shame,” Mattheo says without missing a beat. “But fine. Not that. Yet.”

Draco leans forward. “Just ask them. Tomorrow. Before breakfast. While they’re too tired to register what’s happening.”

Pansy nods in agreement. “Sleep-deprived, low blood sugar, emotional vulnerability—it’s the golden window.”

“They’d punch me in the face,” Theodore mutters.

Mattheo claps with genuine excitement. “That’s romance!”

Over the Next Week, The Descent into Chaos

Attempt #1: Help with Potions

The Potions dungeon is dim, as always, filled with the smell of boiling chamomile and something faintly metallic. Professor Slughorn hums happily at the front of the room while everyone else slouches over their cauldrons, silently begging the clock to move faster.

You’re working alone today—not by choice. Your partner caught Spattergroit and is banned from classes until further notice, which left you with a bubbling potion and a half-written instruction sheet. You’re squinting down at your notes, stirring clockwise, trying to remember when to add the powdered fluxweed.

“Clockwise,” comes a soft voice beside you, “but only for six more turns.”

You look up—and there’s Theodore, standing just beside your workstation. He’s watching your cauldron with an unreadable expression, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe like he’s trying to hide them.

“I knew that,” you say, a little defensive.

He shrugs, eyes flicking toward you and then away. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

You glance at your notebook and then back at him. “Are you… offering to help me?”

He looks like he regrets everything immediately. “If you don’t want me to—”

“I didn’t say that,” you interrupt quickly. “Just… surprised.”

Theodore slowly slides onto the stool beside you. He’s already got his gloves on, and his sleeves are neatly rolled up to his forearms. You can’t help noticing his fingers—long, steady, careful—as he picks up your spoon and stirs the potion with practiced ease.

“You forgot to sprinkle the asphodel before the fluxweed,” he murmurs. “Otherwise the potion thickens too quickly and burns.”

You blink at him. “Since when do you know this much about Polyjuice Potion?”

“I read ahead,” he says, not looking at you. “And I… practiced.”

“You practiced Polyjuice? For what? Planning to sneak into the Gryffindor common room?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “Maybe I just wanted to be good at something.”

You go quiet for a moment. The bubbling of the potion fills the space between you.

“That’s kind of sad,” you say gently.

He finally looks at you—and his eyes soften. “It’s kind of true.”

You don’t say anything, just reach out and offer him the jar of powdered fluxweed. He takes it without brushing your fingers, but just barely.

“You’re good at this,” you say after a beat.

“Only because I wanted to impress you.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t look up, just sprinkles the ingredient into the cauldron.

Silence. Then you ask, half-teasing, half-breathless, “What?”

He stirs once, then twice, then says softly, “Nothing.”

You lean in, lips curling upward. “Are you trying to impress me, Nott?”

He still doesn’t meet your eyes. “Maybe.”

“Because it’s working.”

That gets him. He goes stiff for half a second, then glances at you—just a flicker of a look—and it’s the most flustered you’ve ever seen him. A faint pink colors his ears.

You smile into your notes and pretend not to notice.

And for the next half hour, you work side by side, your hands occasionally brushing, his voice low as he guides you through every step like he’s been memorizing it just for this.

Slughorn walks by at one point and raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Nott! Lending a hand, are we?”

Theodore clears his throat. “Just helping.”

Slughorn smiles. “Teamwork makes the potion work!”

You snort, and Theodore mutters, “That was terrible.”

But he doesn’t move away from you. Not even once.

Attempt #2: Study Session Sabotage

The Slytherin common room is quiet, bathed in the soft flicker of emerald-tinted flames and the dim glow of enchanted lanterns floating above. The underwater windows ripple gently with lake shadows, casting moving patterns on the stone walls. It’s peaceful, unusually so—until the subtle sound of slippers on stone breaks the silence.

You’re curled up in your favorite armchair near the fire, oversized jumper hugging your body like a blanket, and a half-done Herbology essay balanced on your lap. Your hair’s a little messy, your notes slightly smudged, and your brow is furrowed in focus.

Across the room, Theodore watches.

He’s holding two steaming mugs—both of which he enchanted himself. His hand tightens around the ceramic as he takes a deep breath, then makes his way across the room before he can lose his nerve.

You look up just as he approaches, blinking slowly.

“Theodore?”

He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. “You looked… cold.”

Your gaze flicks to the mugs. “What’s this?”

He hesitates. “Hot chocolate. One’s for you.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He nods, avoiding your eyes. “I charmed it the way you like. Cinnamon, no whipped cream.”

You blink.

He still doesn’t look at you.

You smile softly, reaching out to accept the mug. Your fingers brush his—warm against warm—and he stiffens like it startled him.

“You remembered that?” you ask.

“I remember a lot of things about you,” Theodore says, almost too quietly.

Your heart skips, but you pretend not to notice. Instead, you gesture to the empty space beside you. “Sit?”

He hesitates.

Then—slowly—he lowers himself beside you, settling into the corner of the sofa, leaving a careful gap between your knees. He holds his mug like it’s an anchor. You catch a quick glance at him, his sharp profile, the way his hair curls a little at the edges when it’s this humid near the fire.

He leans in slightly. “Are you working on Sprout’s quiz?”

You sigh and nod. “I’ve read this same sentence six times.”

He glances at your parchment. “It’s because you wrote it wrong.”

You make a face. “What?”

He scoots just an inch closer, tilting your paper so he can read it better. “Spore release in puffshrooms is triggered by humidity, not heat. That’s why they’re so common in greenhouses.”

“Oh.”

His fingers are still ghosting over your notes.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I just pay attention. When you’re talking about it.”

You freeze for a second, then glance sideways. “You listen to me?”

“I always listen to you.”

Your chest tightens in the quietest, warmest way. “Even when I ramble about magical gardening for twenty minutes?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you look at him like you’ve never quite seen him before.

There’s a pause, and then you laugh, soft and a little shy. “You’re surprisingly gentle when you want to be.”

Theodore’s jaw tenses, like he doesn’t know what to do with that compliment. Then he mutters, “You should see me with kneazles.”

You nearly snort your cocoa.

“Alright then, kneazle whisperer,” you say, tucking your legs closer to him. “You’re stuck with me now. We’re study partners tonight.”

“I could be stuck with worse,” he replies before he can stop himself.

You don’t answer. But you don’t look away, either.

You just smile—and go back to your notes, heart thudding.

And next to you, Theodore sits quietly, his shoulder now almost against yours, pretending to read while he memorizes the shape of your handwriting and wonders if this—this soft, shared quiet—counts as a small kind of magic.

Attempt #3: “Accidental” Hogsmeade Run-In

The sky is pale grey, snow falling in lazy spirals like the world’s slowed down for a moment. You tug your scarf higher and step around a patch of ice on the cobblestone street, your boots crunching with each careful step. You hadn’t told anyone you were heading to Hogsmeade—not even your closest friends. You just… wanted a bit of space.

And maybe some peppermint bark.

Honeydukes glows warmly up ahead, windows fogged from the inside and little charms floating above the display case. You're just about to walk in when—

“Y/N?”

You stop mid-step, looking up.

And there he is.

Theodore Nott, standing beneath a snow-dusted awning like he was planted there by the universe itself. His hair is windswept, a few snowflakes catching in the strands. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and in his gloved hands, he’s holding a small, neatly wrapped package.

He freezes for a heartbeat, like he’s not sure he’s real. Or that you’re real.

You blink. “Teds?”

He clears his throat. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Your eyes flick down to the package. “What’s that?”

His fingers twitch slightly. “It’s—uh—peppermint bark. I remembered you said once that Honeydukes only sells the really good kind in December. I was going to get you some.”

Your chest warms, a slow flood of soft affection breaking through the chill. “You remembered that?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking away. “It’s not a big deal.”

You smile, stepping closer. “It is to me.”

Silence settles between you as the snow continues falling, lightly dusting his coat, your shoulders. You take the package gently from his hands and hold it between both of yours.

“It’s warm,” you say quietly. “Did you just buy this?”

He hesitates. “…I’ve been holding it for a while. Just in case I saw you.”

Your heart flips.

“You were hoping to run into me?”

He finally meets your eyes, and his voice is soft. “Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, the tension building gently in the air. Then you open the door to Honeydukes and tilt your head.

“Walk with me, Teds?”

He follows without hesitation.

The inside of the shop is glowing, every shelf crammed with sweet chaos. Colorful wrappers shimmer under the floating lights, and enchanted candy hops around in its jars. You make your way through the aisles, glancing at different sweets while Theodore trails beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing more at you than the shelves.

You hold up a box of Fizzing Whizbees. “Remember when Mattheo dared Draco to eat five of these at once and he threw up in Professor Binns’ ghost?”

Theodore chuckles. “I still have the photo.”

You giggle and grab a few chocolate frogs before pausing at a shelf lined with delicate, pastel-pink candied roses. You hold one out.

“Try it.”

He eyes it warily but accepts, biting off a petal. The moment it hits his tongue, his nose scrunches.

“It’s… floral.”

You burst out laughing, your hand grabbing his sleeve as you double over slightly. “Teds, your face—”

“I’m being poisoned by a bouquet.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person laughing like a maniac in a candy shop.”

You shoot him a grin. “You love it.”

He huffs, but the corners of his mouth curve upward.

You finally step back out into the snow, both of you carrying small bags. It’s a little quieter now, the sky darkening with the promise of evening. The wind is gentle, and your footsteps echo softly.

A flake lands in his hair, and you reach out without thinking—brushing it off.

He stills under your touch.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” you say, quieter now.

“I didn’t expect to actually find you,” he says, not quite meeting your gaze.

You turn slightly to face him, snow swirling around both of you.

“You’re kind of sweet, you know.”

He swallows. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Theodore looks at you like he’s on the verge of saying something else, something big.

But instead, he says your name—softly—and nods toward the castle. “I’ll walk you back.”

You don’t let him walk behind you. Instead, you link your arm through his.

And he doesn’t say a word about it—just holds on like maybe, for the first time, he's exactly where he wants to be.

Three Days Before the Ball. .

You’re curled up in the Slytherin common room with a book, wearing Theodore’s sweater.

You hadn’t exactly planned to keep it.

One chilly evening in the library, you’d complained about the cold, and Theodore—without saying a word—had peeled it off and gently tugged it over your head, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d meant to return it the next day, truly. But then… it smelled like him. Like citrus, clove, and ink. It was warm. It was soft. It was safe.

And Theodore never asked for it back.

So now it’s yours.

The sleeves droop adorably past your fingertips, and the hem hangs lower on you than it ever did on him. You’ve rolled up the cuffs three times, but they still fall when you don’t pay attention. Every time you move, it carries that faint familiar scent, and you feel—just slightly—like you’re wrapped in him.

Across the room, Theodore is watching you.

Or, more accurately, he’s watching you while trying not to watch you. He’s pretending to read, legs crossed tightly, sitting far too stiffly on a velvet chair by the fire. The book in his hands is upside down. He doesn’t notice.

Mattheo notices, though. Of course he does.

“You’re being disgusting,” Mattheo mumbles, lounging beside him.

Theodore doesn’t respond.

“I’m serious. It’s pathetic in a cute way. Like a puppy following someone home from the train.”

From the floor near the hearth, Astoria flips a page of Witch Weekly and hums. “It’s almost romantic.”

Blaise sighs without looking up from his chess game. “It would be, if he’d just ask them already.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for the sweater to propose on his behalf,” Lorenzo adds, rolling a knight across the board. “It’s halfway there.”

Draco, half-draped across an armchair like he owns the castle, lets out a dramatic sigh. “You are actively letting this moment slip away. Look at them. Look.” He points. “They’re curled up in your sweater like they’ve always belonged there. You’re losing your window.”

Theodore bites the inside of his cheek.

He looks over.

You’re nestled on the couch with your legs tucked under you, knees brushing the edge of a plush emerald cushion. Your face is half-lit by the firelight, a book resting gently in your hands. The cocoa beside you has gone lukewarm, untouched for ten minutes. The only thing you’ve moved is your thumb, slowly turning pages—and occasionally tucking the sweater sleeve back up your wrist.

It’s unfair how good you look like that. Effortless. Completely at home.

He swallows.

“Now,” Mattheo whispers.

Theodore stands.

Astoria gasps softly. “Oh, he’s doing it.”

“I’m proud of him,” Pansy murmurs, hand on her chest.

“I’m terrified for him,” Blaise mutters.

“Don’t trip,” Lorenzo calls under his breath.

Theodore doesn’t hear them. Or if he does, he ignores it all, like the world has narrowed to just the space between the fire and the couch.

You notice his approach before he says a word.

Your eyes lift to meet his, brows raised ever so slightly. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I might.”

You smile a little. “Should I get Madam Pomfrey?”

“No.”

You sit up straighter, closing your book around a finger to keep your place.

Theodore stands there like he’s forgotten how to be a person. Then, after a silent internal argument, he lowers himself gently onto the arm of the couch beside you. He doesn’t speak yet. Just watches you for a second, almost like he’s trying to memorize you.

You stare back, curious, the firelight dancing in your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, concern flickering in your voice.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers clench slightly on his knees.

Then: “Yes. I mean—no. Wait. Kind of.”

You blink.

Theodore clears his throat. His voice comes out quieter this time, almost shy. “There’s something I’ve been trying to do. And I’ve been putting it off. Because things keep… getting in the way. And I didn’t want to make it weird. But I’m pretty sure I already have.”

You tilt your head, lips twitching.

He’s blushing now, pink blooming just under his cheekbones. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to the sleeves.

You look down. “I am.”

“It looks… really good on you.”

There’s a pause. Then you smile, warm and full.

“You’re rambling,” you tease.

“I know.” He exhales, standing up again just to walk in a nervous half-circle in front of you, running a hand through his hair before finally turning around and blurting:

“Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

It comes out fast. But there’s more behind it—he’s been carrying it for days.

“I mean—if you’re not going with anyone. I don’t know if you are. I didn’t ask, obviously, because I’m not creepy, I’m just… I thought maybe—because you’re great, and I’m…” He gestures vaguely to himself. “…me.”

He takes a breath.

“Well, I mean, I’m not terrible—okay, maybe I am—but I’ve been trying to do this for days and everything keeps exploding or catching fire or turning into a social disaster and I know this isn’t how normal people ask people out but I’m not normal, clearly, and you’re in my sweater, and that has to mean something—”

His voice pitches higher, rushing now like he’s lost all control:

“—So I’m standing here, asking, loudly, if you—would—please—possibly—want to go to the Yule Ball with me, unless you hate me, which is valid, in which case I’ll just go die now, if you don’t, that’s amazing. I just—thought maybe, you might—because we’re already sort of… close? I mean—if you don’t see it that way, I get it. I do. But I’d really like to go with you. Properly. Like a date. If you want.”

The room falls quiet.

From behind, you hear a hushed, hopeful, “Don’t blow this,” from Mattheo.

Theodore is standing there like he’s balancing on the edge of a rooftop.

Your heart beats a little faster.

You set your book down slowly. Your fingers brush over the hem of the sweater.

And then you look up at him—soft, teasing, but unmistakably moved.

“Well,” you say gently, leaning back into the cushions, “took you long enough.”