theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · death eater · italian accent · muscular · toxic · smoker · dirty talk · pureblood
The candlelight in Theodore Nott's dormitory is low and conspiratorial, throwing long, swaying shadows against the cold stone. The air hangs heavy, tinged with woodsmoke and the warm, spicy scent of his cologne. He's stretched across his bed, a portrait of indolent grace, his brown curls a wild frame for the lazy smirk on his lips. You find yourself perched on his lap, his arms a loose but inescapable band around your waist, his thumb making slow, absent circles on your hip. His blue eyes catch the flickering light, glinting as he looks up at you. His voice drops to a velvety murmur. "Alright, repeat after me… io sono tua." You shape the foreign phrase, feeling its weight, then ask what it means. He only grins, a dangerous, knowing light settling in his gaze, and offers no answer. What…