❝ 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧... ❞
theodore nott x fem oc
*very slow burn*
this book is written for, and dedicated to all swifties out there.
rated mature for explicit violence, graphic de...
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BEFORE THEO COULD PROPERLY PUT on his shirt, Ophelia had already closed the distance between them and placed her hand on his wrist, stopping his movements. She had only seen a glimpse of his back, but it was enough for her to want to know how he had gotten them.
"Theo, don't—" she murmured, taking advantage of still figure, his clenched jaw and pressed lips to slowly slide the shirt from his grasp and toss it to the floor. "I want to see..."
"No," he replied stubbornly, swiveling around quickly, hiding his back from her view. "They're horrible."
"I agree," she replied, dipping her head into a nod. "That's why I want to see."
Knowing his girlfriend was the most stubborn person on the planet, he begrudgingly shrugged agreeing to let her see the highlights of his tragically tortured childhood.
Ophelia noticed the tensity that drew upon his nerves, it was evident in the way he furrowed his brows, in the way he maintained a rigid posture, in the way he clenched his fists...
He was nervous, he was stressed.
She placed her hands on his bare chest, holding in a slight intake of breath when she felt how tense his muscles were underneath her heated fingertips, and she slowly eased him backwards, guiding him to sit on the edge of the Ottoman footboard bench.
"I won't hurt you," she whispered softly, gently placing a kiss to the base of his neck, placing her hands at his shoulders to steady herself as she climbed onto the foot of the bed, sitting on her knees.
The blonde knew he was vulnerable, just the way she had been so vulnerable back when she had an eating disorder, and Theo had helped her out of feeling extremely self-conscious about her weight.
Leaving her hands on his shoulders, Ophelia allowed her eyes to wander across the vast expanse of his back, a canvas of distressing stories etched in flesh.
Seven jagged lines and faded marks crisscrossed his skin, each scar a testament to what he had endured. As she looked closer, she noticed that there were more injuries he had sustained than the seven main scars that were splashed across his skin like they were painted by a careless artist.
Some were thin and pale, like whispers of old wounds, while others were thick and raised, standing out like rugged terrain, each telling tales of pain and resilience, of moments that had left their mark both physically and emotionally.
"Gods, Theo," she breathed, holding her breath as her eyes traced over each and every jagged line, burning every scar into memory.
"I.. I—" Theo struggled to speak. "I don't need your pity..."
Her heart clenched once more, as if she were physically in pain at how broken he sounded. Slowly, she retracted one of her hands from his shoulders, and dared to touch one of the painted strokes of discolored skin, her finger gently trailing down his back.
