Routine.

She let herself in, her shoes dangling precariously from her fingertips as she snuck past his flatmate, passed-out in front of their two-channel-receiving telly. She fumbled around as the moonlight in the sitting room gave way to the darkness of their corridor and tripped over a Quaffle, letting out a low curse as she felt the hot pain roll up from her kneecap.

The tears sprang easily to her eyes.

She gritted her teeth, angry at herself for starting again. When did she become a faucet?

His bedroom door was ajar, kept open by a dirty shirt, tossed carelessly on the floor. His entire room was a compilation of carelessly arranged items, ranging from soiled laundry to the single mattress on his floor, covered with only two, frayed sheets and his sleeping form.

She sunk onto his mattress, knowing all-too-well the familiar smell of fire whiskey that greeted her. She ran her hand, gently but greedily, across the bare planes of his chest and up to curve it around his throat, her thumb stroking his cheek. She felt his throat constrict as he swallowed before waking.

Silently, instinctively, his left hand came to rest on the small of her back as he considered her hot tears on his chest. He felt her, rubbing circles on her hip before his hand disappeared into the thick blonde hair he ached for. He pressed a hasty kiss to her forehead, thanking her.

He had spent his night with firewhiskey. She had spent hers crying. Worse, she came back without invitation, willing him to fix it, make it better.

"Teddy." She pleaded, pulling his head down to hers before crushing her mouth to his.

His hand tightened in her hair, pulling her head back so he could plunge his tongue further, taking more. She moaned against him, her teeth coming down to pull at his bottom lip as she shifted away from him, taking the opportunity to pull the khakis he passed out in from his muscled hips.

A gritty smell, like ash, filled her, and she wondered if he had been playing with fire at some time during the night.

He ran his hand down her soft cheek, rubbing his thumb roughly across her swollen lips then crashed his lips back to hers, consuming her, possessing her. Meanwhile, his hands greedily pulled her closer to him, lifting his hips in unison with hers so that she straddled him, her panties the only barrier between her and his hardened need for her. She groaned, arching against him, then trembled as he clenched her breasts in his hands under her nightgown, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses across her neck and down to her collarbone.

They moved in sync, practiced, understanding. She was no longer sure where he began and she ended. Was that her breath? Was that her leg or his?

"Vee," he growled when she pulled back, sitting on her haunches, grinding her hips back and forth. It was a challenge, he realized, and he pulled a strong arm around her hips, gathering her to him as he too sat up, using his other hand to push down her hips and into her panties.

She gasped as he grunted at the feel of her wet insides, already fully aroused and ready. Blinding need consumed him, and he ripped her panties at the sides, pulling the scraps from her body.

He hesitated for just an instant, that brief moment of understanding that made her come crawling back to his bed, letting his eyes drink in her aroused state, ready to let him take her. She blinked, giving him a crooked smile, and despite themselves, they let both let out a detersive laugh that they swallowed with a numbing kiss, just as he thrust into her.

Later, she straightened her nightgown, pulled on a pair of his underpants from the chest of drawers that was only opened when she opened it, and sent him a last, watery look. He reached for her, but she dodged it.

"Guess that's a see-you-next-month?" He sighed, rubbing his hand over his bloodshot eyes.

Back in the corridor, she kicked at the offending Quaffle and then crept back out of the door and down onto the streets of London, lit up by the full moon.

Routine.