SUMMARY: An unexpected group of outcasts and nerds must come together to solve their small town’s mysteries, learning what it means to become found family and heroes.
PAIRING: Stranger Things x Fem!Adopted!Henderson!Reader
INTERACTIVE: This story is completely interactive! Place votes at the end of each chapter to dictate what decisions are made, romantic relationships (within the older teen group), friendships, and more! Every decision matters!!
A/N: Dates on chapters are subject to change, coming earlier if votes lean heavily one way, and chapters coming later if votes are tight.
WC: 262.8K (so far)
♫ We can be heroes, just for one day ♫
Suggestions/Ideas!
Dump all of your suggestions or ideas here! This story is interactive after all!!
Extra!
Find any extra posts I’ve made for Heroes here!
Trailer!
Characters and their respective D&D roles
Fates of Characters as Song Quotes pt.1
Fates of Characters as Song Quotes pt. 2
Chapter 18 Dialogue Breakdown: Parallels
For the girl I love mixtape
You’re Running Out of Time, Reader
SEASON 1
Chapter 1 - The Demogorgon
Chapter 2 - Skater
Chapter 2.5 - What If…
Chapter 3 - Monster Hunting
Chapter 3.5 - What If…
Chapter 4 - 16 Candles
Chapter 4.5 - What If…
SEASON 2
Chapter 5 - Hot Shit Hargrove
Chapter 6 - D’Artagnan
Chapter 6.5 - What If…
Chapter 7 - Electricity
Chapter 7.5 - What If…
Chapter 8 - You’re Pretty Metal
Chapter 8.5 - What If…
Chapter 9 - Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
Chapter 10 - Who’s Gonna Drive You Home Tonight?
Chapter 10.5 - What If…
SEASON 3
Chapter 11 - Bummer Summer
Chapter 11.5 - What If…
Chapter 12 - The Wrong Soul Answered
Chapter 13 - Beginning of the Irreversible
Chapter 13.5 - What If…
Chapter 14 - Be My Lifeline
Chapter 14.5 - What If…
Chapter 15 - That Wasn’t Your Line
Chapter 15.5 - What If…
Chapter 16 - Fate Waits Patiently in the Dark
Chapter 16.5 - What If…
Chapter 17 - Illusion of Choice
Chapter 17.5 - What If…
Chapter 18 - This is All so Paradoxical
Chapter 18.5 - What If…
Chapter 19 - That’s Not Power, It’s Control
Chapter 20 - They. Want. You. He. Wants. You.
Chapter 21 - It is Not in the Stars to Hold Our Destiny but in Ourselves
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in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) series
pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader
summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be nextand you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved—
until you wake up from your dream, gasping.why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?
warnings ⸺eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied
masterlist
01 ⸺ What a Weird Fucking Dream
the first day of your semester is precendeted by a very odd dream involving sorcerers and a hot ass husband. which you then see in lecture (3.7k)
02 ⸺ Note to Self: Don't Call Random Guys your Husband (soon!)
Reader that stuck in a timeloop for hundreds or thousands times..
Every time you die, the world resets, and you awaken again at the beginning of the same life, as if nothing had ever happened. Every life was different, yet every ending led you back to the same beginning. Lived and death.
After a while, the memories became too much.
Too many voices, too many faces, too many endings layered on top of each other. It became exhausting to carry them all, to remember every mistake, every death, every life that had never truly lasted, suffocating in a way you couldn’t escape.
Letting them blur into something distant and meaningless.
It was easier that way, easier to move forward if you simply left everything behind and treated each new life like a blank page. Cause remembering everything would have driven anyone mad.
The first time it happened, you didn’t realize anything was wrong.
It felt like waking up in your room just like any other day. You got up, ate breakfast, saw your family, went through the usual routines, and eventually went back to sleep. Life simply continued without any strange premonition. A few moments felt oddly familiar, like you had already seen them before, but you brushed the feeling aside—it didn’t make sense, so it couldn’t be real.
And then you died.
End...
The second and third times left behind something stranger: a lingering sense of familiarity you couldn’t quite explain. Certain moments made you pause, confusion settling in your chest as if something was trying to surface from your mind but never fully did. You frowned slightly, whispering to yourself,
“Hasn’t this already happened…? Or am I just imagining things?”
You wake again, stiff and disoriented, lying in your room with eyes slowly opening, trying to take in your surroundings. The ceiling comes into focus first, then the familiar creak from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.
Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds. Gotham looks exactly the same as it always does.
By the sixth time, the feeling became impossible to ignore.
Something about the world felt too rehearsed, too familiar—like a story repeating itself while pretending it was new. Confusion slowly crept in as you began to notice things unfolding exactly the way you expected, even though you had no memory of learning them. The words slipped out before you could stop them.
“What… is happening right now?”
Things that 'should not exist' appeared again. A fallen tree you had watched collapse days before now stood tall and unmoving, as if it had never touched the ground. Graves you were certain had been there, names carved into cold stone, dirt still fresh—were suddenly gone, leaving nothing but smooth earth behind.
And the people…
The ones you knew had died were suddenly standing in front of you again.
The ones who had died.
The ones you had watched die.
The ones you had killed.
They stood there like nothing had ever happened, speaking, breathing, living their lives as if the world had never broken in the first place.
Every life was different, yet every ending led you back to the same beginning. Again, again, and again..
________________________________________
Life kept repeating itself, 'again'.
It had happened so many times that eventually, you started to do things differently. Small changes at first, then bigger, more reckless ones.
In the haze of confusion, you chose different paths, made different decisions, disobeyed orders you had never dared to question before. Sometimes you left without explanation, disappearing for hours or days, only to return with no clear reason even you could understand.
And each time, the world felt the same… yet somehow, nothing was ever quite the same.
Sometimes, your family noticed.
More than once, they stopped you with worried expressions, their voices edged with confusion—sometimes even frustration. You would act strangely without explanation, leaving and returning at odd times, making choices that didn’t make sense to anyone but you.
Dick was usually the first to approach you, his brows drawn together in concern. “Hey… what’s going on with you lately?” he would ask, clearly trying to keep his voice gentle, like he was hoping you’d open up if he didn’t push too hard.
But it was obvious that your behavior was starting to trouble him too. The careful tone didn’t quite hide the tension in his expression, the way his eyes searched your face a little too closely, like he was trying to read something you refused to say out loud.
Other times, the concern turned sharper.
Jason would cross his arms, irritation clear in his voice. “You’re acting weird,” he’d say bluntly. “You gonna explain, or are we just supposed to guess what your problem is?”
Even Bruce had stopped you more than once, his voice low but firm.
“What’s going on?”
But every time they asked, you found yourself hesitating.
Because the truth was… you weren’t sure what was happening either.
'Were you just exhausted ? Had all of this finally caught up to you? Or were you slowly losing your mind?'
You had asked yourself that question more times than you could count. Was this some kind of curse, karma for something you didn’t remember doing or was it meant to be a gift? An opportunity. A second chance (??) repeated endlessly.
At some point, the answer stopped mattering.
________________________________________
More than once, in those countless lives, you tried to end it yourself.
Sometimes it came from frustration an unbearable weight pressing against your chest after realizing the cycle would not stop, no matter what.
You wake with a jolt, sitting up immediately and ignoring the sharp headache pounding behind your temples.
'No… not again… please…',
The thought rushes through your mind as panic claws its way up your chest, your eyes darting quickly around the room as if searching for something. Anything. Different.
Then you hear it. Creeeak… creak.
The familiar sound of the window frame shifting in the wind. Your gaze slowly drifts toward it, dread already settling heavily in your stomach.
Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds, exactly the same as it always is. Just like every other time.
A humorless laugh escapes you as your shoulders sag slightly, frustration twisting in your chest. “Of course,” you mutter bitterly under your breath, staring at the window with growing disgust. “Of course it’s the same again.”
Your hand reaches toward the nightstand without hesitation, fingers already curling around the handle of your weapon. The motion feels automatic now, almost routine.
You don’t even sit up.
The gun lifts slightly.
A breath. A pause.
And then, Dark.
...>>>
Other times it happened randomly, like a quiet experiment you carried out just to see if anything would finally change.
You experimented with things you normally wouldn’t touch—mixing strange compounds together, studying poisons, even testing venom from creatures that should have never been near your hands.
More often than not, you became your own test subject.
Stupidly… you didn’t stop there.
There were lives where you invited others—family, guests, friends, anyone who had simply happened to be there that day. The dining table would be set like any other evening, plates neatly arranged, glasses filled, conversation drifting casually through the room.
And somewhere in the meal… the poison would be waiting.
The endings were never quite the same.
Sometimes everyone drank. Sometimes someone arrived late.
They would stood frozen in the doorway of the dining room, watching in silent horror as bodies slowly collapsed around the table, one after another—until the room fell into a terrible stillness.
And in the middle of it all, you would still be sitting there.
Watching them.
Waiting.
Your eyes would lift toward the lone figure in the doorway as you raised the final glass to your lips, the same quiet mixture already swirling inside.
A small, tired breath leaving your chest.
Then you drank.
And followed the others into the dark.
...>>>
There was lives where you stood on a rooftop with Dick, watching the city lights scattered beneath you like distant stars.
The night had been calm for once, patrol already finished, the air cool against your skin. Dick was leaning against the ledge beside you, talking about something trivial—maybe a mission, maybe something Jason had said earlier that day.
You barely remember.
What you do remember was laughing.
“See? That’s what I’ve been saying,” Dick said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You worry too much sometimes.”
“Maybe,” you replied, smiling faintly.
For a moment, everything felt nice..
Then you leaned back.
Dick blinked. “—Hey, wait, what are you—”
Your body tipped over the edge before he could finish.
The last thing you saw was the shock on his face as the distance between you and the rooftop widened, Gotham’s wind rushing past your ears as gravity pulled you down.
And then— You woke up again. yayyy!!!
.....
In some of them, you tried to be good, to be better.
You trained harder. Memorized the patterns of crime across Gotham City. Tried to prevent disasters before they could happen.
Sometimes you succeeded.
Sometimes you didn’t.
Because every change, even the smallest one—seemed to create a different kind of disaster somewhere else.
Saving one person meant losing another.
Stopping one tragedy caused a new one to appear somewhere you hadn’t predicted.
.....
You have saved the city.
You have also destroyed it.
You have rebuilt entire parts of Gotham’s criminal network just to understand how it functioned from the inside.
You have dismantled those same networks piece by piece in other lives.
You have been someone your family trusted.
And someone they hunted.
.....
There were loops where Jason killed you.
Loops where you killed him first.
There were countless lives where you and Damian fought until only one of you walked away. Most of the time, he won. A few times, you were the one left standing, and in some of those lives… neither of you won.
Loops where Tim holding your hand while your breathing slowly faded.
His fingers were always warm, gripping yours a little too tightly, like if he held on hard enough he could keep you here. In those moments he rarely spoke, only watching you with tired, frantic eyes, as if searching for something he could fix.
And in more than one life, those memories stayed vivid.
There were lives where Bruce had carried you through the night.
His arms were locked tightly around you as he ran across Gotham’s rooftops, cape snapping violently behind him. His grip was desperate, almost painful, as he kept telling you to stay awake, to keep your eyes open, his voice low and rough in a way you had rarely heard before.
Pressed against his chest, you could hear it clearly—the rapid pounding of his heartbeat, racing in frantic rhythm, as if sheer will alone could keep you alive.
“Please… just stay with me.”
Your vision blurred, the lights of Gotham smearing into soft streaks of color as the pain in your chest grew heavier with every breath.
“Dad…” your voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper. It hurt to speak. “I can’t do this anymore.”
And every time, the darkness came anyway.
________________________________________
The first breath
always feels like drowning in reverse, lungs that were flat forced to expand, a heart that had gone cold suddenly forced to beat again, a world that had gone dark flooding back with color.
It leaves you disoriented for a moment, eyes searching your surroundings while the memory of your last death still lingers vividly in your mind. 'Was it just a nightmare… or had you died again?'
Every time.
The same sharp inhale, the same moment of confusion before awareness slowly settles in.
Until you recognize the pattern.
Until you realize, You’re alive again.
The ceiling of your room comes into focus first, followed by the familiar creaking from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.
'Wait… the creaking?'
You freeze, trying to catch it again. Nothing. Silence. In every life, every loop, that faint squeak always welcomed you awake, a small but stubborn proof that the world hadn’t yet fully reset. And now… nothing.
Outside, the sky hangs low and gray with clouds. Wayne Manor looks exactly the same as it always does. The corridors stretch in their familiar way, the portraits lining the halls staring down at you with that same quiet judgment.
Everything is exactly as it should be—and yet something is off.
You start the day as usual, walking down the halls of the manor. The clock shows it’s already past noon. Gray clouds hang low over the estate, casting familiar comfort, in a strange way.
Heading toward the dining room, you see Tim sitting in the same position he always does in every life you’ve lived.
Though… somehow, he seems different. Something in the way he holds himself, the tension in his shoulders, makes him feel more… unsettled than usual.
Your eyes drift to the table. Some utensils and tools are scattered there. 'Wait, this shouldn’t be here. It’s usually just Tim alone.'
Tim catches your gaze and his eyes flick to the tools, then back to you. “Bruce finally fixed your window,” he says briefly.
“Huh… really? Finally, after all this time…” you reply, a little awkwardly. Then you tilt your head toward him, concern rising. “Are you… okay? Was your mission… rough?”
His eyes lock on yours, unblinking, unnervingly still. “…I… keep having nightmares,” he whispers, the raw, almost pleading weight in his voice catching your attention.
“Nightmares?”
Tim looks away, jaw tight, hesitating as if the words themselves could break something. “…Ah, forget it, Reader,” he murmurs finally, though Tim tries to shake it off, the echoes are already reaching others.
________________________________________
Dick is in Blüdhaven when the dreams begin,
Patrols, late nights, brief pauses of sleep, they blur together, but the dreams keep coming. In them, Gotham is different: quiet, almost hopeful, a city he barely recognizes but wishes could exist. And you are there, standing beside him on rooftops, leaning against the stone like this exact moment has happened a hundred times before.
“You ever think the city might actually stay like this?” he asks lightly in the dream, watching warm sunlight spill across the streets.
You glance down at Gotham, calm as always. “hum.. I am not sure, nothing stays good here. But it’s nice enough for now.”
For a heartbeat, it feels familiar. Comfortable. The two of you have shared years of nights together, moving across rooftops and streets.
Dick remembers laughing at you, remembers the strange certainty of it. And then it shifts.
The light dims.
The wind bites colder.
The edges of the city feel sharper.
You stumble backward, losing your balance.
Your body tips over the edge, falling headfirst.
He lunges forward, hands outstretched, but it’s too late.
Your body hits the ground with a sickening crack.
“Hey—Hey, stay with me", he says, dropping to his knees beside you. Panic coils in his chest, tight and raw. "Reader!”
You try to respond, but no words come. Your body collapses, sound echoing too loudly, impossibly, across the quiet of the night. Every detail is vivid, burning into his memory even as he knows it isn’t real.
Dick jolts awake in his apartment, chest heaving, eyes wide. The ceiling stares back at him, ordinary and unchanging, but his hands tremble as they rest on the sheets. He can still feel the weight of your body against him, hear the echo of your fall.
For a moment, the noise of the city outside fades. He clutches at the fragments of the dream, the feeling of loss, the unnatural perfection of it.
Then reality drags him back, the apartment, the faint hum of traffic, the knowledge that you are far away, somewhere in Gotham, probably still asleep or wandering the halls half-aware.
“A dream,” he mutters, voice rough, running a hand through his hair. “Just a dream.”
But even as he forces himself up, he knows it won’t be the last.
......
Jason’s dreams are harsh.
Gotham burns from end to end, smoke curling between shattered buildings, sirens wailing in the distance like they’re useless echoes. Jason moves through the chaos, weapon drawn, muscles taut, heart pounding. The city feels wrong, alive and heavy, as if it’s breathing fire.
At the center of it all, you stand. Calm, relaxed, looking at him lazily.
“Really?” Jason snaps, irritation slicing through the chaos. “You’re behind this?”
You tilt your head, watching him like this confrontation has already played out a hundred times before. “Depends how you look at it.”
Jason fires first.
The fight is fast, brutal, and precise. Every strike he throws, every step he takes, seems predicted—like you’ve already lived through this moment before. Pain ricochets through him, adrenaline and disbelief mixing in a bitter taste at the back of his throat.
“You’re not walking away from this,” he growls, raising his weapon again.
A faint smile curls at your lips, and then a laugh slips out. It grows—longer, louder, harsher—echoing across the burning streets of the dream. You laugh for so long that you eventually have to pause, drawing a slow breath while your eyes remain fixed on him.
“I know. I fucking know,” you whisper, your voice tight, almost trembling with exhaustion. “You’ve said that before.”
This time the laugh that follows is smaller, quieter, your gaze drifting away from him as if the moment itself has already lost its meaning.
Gunfire cracks through the air. A single shot.
And your voice fades, slowly, until it disappears completely.
Dead silence.
Jason doesn’t see you collapse, he refuse to rise his head.
He’s the one trying to steady his breathing now, chest rising and falling as the gun slips from his hand and clatters against the pavement. Only after a moment does he finally glance down at the body lying in front of him.
The words hang in the smoke-choked air, heavier than any gunfire, heavier than the city collapsing around you. Jason freezes, heart hammering, trapped in the memory of it even as the dream begins to dissolve.
Jason wakes with a start, the dim light of the safehouse sharp in contrast to the heat and smoke still lingering in his chest. He sits up slowly, rubbing his face, trying to shake the echo of the words, the clash, the weight of you in that burning city.
“Yeah, right,” he mutters under his breath, forcing the memory into the corners of his mind.
'You’re probably in the Manor right now', he thinks, trying to push the dream out of his head. 'Wandering through the kitchen, arguing about something stupid, laughing with someone like nothing’s wrong.'
And yet the dream refuses to release him. The idea of that the version of you in his nightmares could never exist. Yeah.. that is impossible.
......
Tim’s dreams come in fragments.
One night he’s in the Batcave, watching you stand before a wall of screens. Data scrolls endlessly—crime reports, patrol routes, surveillance feeds—all moving in precise, chilling coordination under your direction.
“You’ve mapped the whole network?” Tim asks, leaning closer, heart racing despite the calm in the scene.
You don’t look up. “Every supply line, every front business, every backup location. They’ll collapse within a month.”
Tim studies the projections, admiration mixing with unease. “You’re dismantling half the city’s crime in four weeks.”
“Three,” you correct, voice flat, precise, too certain.
Another dream replaces it the following night.
The room is dim and filled with candles, shadows stretching across the walls while people kneel around your silent, faces pale and empty, eyes wide as if carved into devotion.
The air is thick, heavy, scented with wax, iron, something rotting beneath it. Their attention never wavers as you speak softly about cycles and inevitability.
One of them whispers, almost reverently, “What happens after the city falls?”
You look down at them with an unreadable expression.
“We start again.”
Tim wakes from that one with a slight frown, the words lingering in his head longer than they should. Was that.. a cult??
......
Damian is still with the League when his dreams begin.
His dreams are violent, fragmented, and disturbingly familiar.
Over and over, he sees the same ruined courtyard outside the league, broken stone, dust hanging thick in the air, the smell of smoke and iron biting at his nostrils. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the cracked walls, moving like they have minds of their own.
Someone stands across from him, weapon in hand. At first, he thinks it might be a League operative or maybe one of the assassins, the followers, the children of death he once struck down, manifesting here in a shape he cannot fully recognize.
The battles always end the same way. Damian wins.
Sometimes it’s quick—a precise strike, sending them to the ground. Other times, the fight drags on, blows exchanged in brutal rhythm, each movement answered perfectly. Both of them bleed, both exhausted, and still Damian lands the final strike.
Each time, they die.
Again. And again. And again.
Sometimes the dream changes.
The courtyard looks the same—ruined, silent, dust drifting slowly through the air. Both of them are breathing hard now, weapons raised, sweat and blood mixing with the grit beneath their feet.
Damian moves for the finals strike, certain the ending will be the same as always.
But, they slip out of the way with surprising speed, stumbling back a few steps. Their breathing is uneven, almost reckless, and the way they look at him is sharp, angry.
Annoyed.
Their expression twists as they glare at him, at the situation itself, at the endless repetition, the same fight, the same ending played over and over again.
Their hands tremble faintly around the weapon, chest rising and falling too fast, as though they are exhausted by everything that keep repeating.
They drive their own blade straight through their chest.
No hesitation. Just a quick, deliberate motion.
The body drops backward onto the broken stone, the weight of the fall forcing the blade deeper.
Damian takes step back, watching the figure collapse onto the ground. His hands twitch slightly, but he does nothing.
He simply stands there, staring at the body.
For the first time since these dreams began, tthe ending changes.
And then he wakes.
Cold sweat clings to his skin, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Years of League training should have steadied him, should have forced his breathing back into control within seconds—but for a moment, it all feels useless.
He sits up slowly in the darkness, staring into the shadowed corners of his room, listening to the familiar, mundane sounds of the League quarters. Stone walls. Quiet footsteps somewhere in the distance. The faint whisper of wind through the narrow windows.
He exhales sharply and forces the thoughts away.
'They are dreams. Nothing more.'
And soon enough, they stop.
Or at least… he convinces himself they do.
So when Damian finally arrives in Gotham for the first time and steps into Manor, those dreams are already buried somewhere in the back of his mind—filed away and dismissed like irrelevant noise.
The front doors open with a low creak as Bruce leads him inside.
They’ve barely stepped past the threshold when footsteps echo from deeper inside the manor.
Someone is already approaching the entrance.
You appear a moment later, walking toward the door with the casual familiarity of someone who has crossed this hall a thousand times before. Your gaze flicks toward them briefly.
You slow slightly when you notice Bruce and the unfamiliar boy standing beside him, but only for a moment. You make no move to introduce yourself, offering them nothing more than a brief glance before turning back toward the door.
Then you continue walking.
“I’m heading out for a bit, Dad. I’ll be back before dinner.”
You don’t wait for an answer. With an easy motion, you step past them, pushing the door open and slipping outside.
The door closes softly behind you.
For a moment, Damian doesn’t move. His eyes remain fixed on the space where you had just been standing.
Bruce is the first to notice the silence. After a brief pause, he speaks calmly.
“That was Reader,” Bruce says. “Your sibling.”
Oh. So those nightmares he had tried so hard to forget come rushing back all at once.
As Damian’s gaze drifts across the manor, the images from those dreams begin to overlap with reality—the courtyard he remembers seeing stained with your blood more times than he can count.
The dining room further down the hall, where in one of those dreams, he watched you quietly lift a glass to your lips before collapsing moments later, poisoned… or perhaps choosing to drink it yourself. The memories slam back into place with unsettling clarity, and a quiet realization settles in his chest.
Something here is very, very wrong.
________________________________________
“Ayah.. aku capek banget”, Bruce menggenggammu erat, memohon agar kau tetap bersamanya, "Nak.. ya tuhan.."
Summary: You’re determined to get Red Hood to fall for you. However, courting a vigilante proves to be difficult when he won’t look your way! Thankfully, getting into trouble is your specialty.
Tags: Eventual romance, banter, slice of life, fluff, reader gets into trouble for attention, grumpy x sunshine, chaotic reader, no plot just vibes, villains are ooc
series on hold while i do my 1.5k follower event !!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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wet t-shirt contest - there are two things that everyone in the ER knows about you—you're incredible at your job and extremely hot. the thing that they don't know is that you're dating one of their newest residents and have been for years.
WORD COUNT: 3.7k
staring contest - dennis steps in when a drunken patient gets handsy with you.
WORD COUNT: 3.5k
punching above his weight...or is he? - once your relationship is no longer a secret, the emergency department starts to see just how perfect you and dennis are for each other, and they realize that you may not be as far out of his league as they initially thought.
WORD COUNT: 4.2k
cold compress - you and dennis get interrupted while you're...messing around in a call room.
WORD COUNT: 4k
i've got you - you get a concussion while at work, courtesy of a med student panicking over a bit of blood.
WORD COUNT: 4.7k
all things dennis and hot shot (ideas, blurbs, thoughts, moodboards, etc!)
Summary: As Kylo sleeps he finds himself mysteriously transported to your modern world, while you sleep you find yourself following alongside Kylo as he goes about his duties as “supreme leader?” who even was this guy? And why does he keep talking about ‘the force?'
Note! this story does not follow the canon storyline/ character motivations!!
~Story~
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
part 16
....
Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! ~Starry
summary: Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir is a difficult thing, but what happens when you also become one of the Realm's most prized posessions?
pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader, reader x platonic targs/velaryon
click here to join the taglist!
i. the dear daughter (2.8k) — At one-and-twenty and eight-and-ten, barely a year after their marriage, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen welcomed their first child, a daughter, into the world. The girl immediately became dear to the whole court, coddled and spoiled by all, but mostly by her grandsire, King Viserys I. The man saw in his granddaughter her mother, and as the girl grew to look like his late wife, Aemma Arryn, it became even clearer that he doted on her more than he did to his own children or his other grandchildren.
ii. about children and trouble (8.2k) — It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.
iii. little big lady (5.0k) — Court whispers tell us that during her third pregnancy, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was particularly sensitive. She managed to cover it up pretty well, apparently, but she had one weak spot: her daughter, her firstborn and heir, who later on witnessed her little brother Prince Joffrey's birth by request of her mother. Despite openly disliking the experience, it is said that the Realm’s Jewel insisted on being present to future labours in case things went downhill — and she did, attending her mother in giving birth to all her future children.
iv. dragons' scars (6.4k) — And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.
v. you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind) (5.3k) — When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.
vi. but I'll know, I'll know (8.4k) — At the ripe age of ten, the Realm’s Jewel was nominated by her grandsire the King, despite all the protests of the Small Council, the official Royal Ambassador; thus, her voyages throughout the Seven Kingdoms started, and yet another nickname was forged for her by the Smallfolk: the Wandering Princess.
↳ interlude (tbd) — Blood stained sheets. The first thing that comes up to your mind? Burning them and fleeing, obviously.
vii. legitimacy (4.5k) — “Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense,” it is said that the Wandering Princess reiterated once she heard of her uncle’s accusations. “My late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate.”
viii. the future queen (7.0k) — Sources say that the Wandering Princess was downright brutal to her uncle Vaemond Velaryon during the trial for his petition, despite having shown fondness of him in the years before. When he himself made her notice that, she laughed in his face, "Oh, dear uncle, did you hope to receive a kinder treatment than the others that come in this room and demand some fleeing claim over some land just because I hold your brother dear in my heart? Then you shall know at your own expense that everyone who tries to harm my brothers harms me and, by consequence, the Throne."
ix. primadonna (tbd) — The Realm’s Jewel eighteenth nameday is still speculated to be one of the grandest events ever arranged in the Seven Kingdoms — if not the grandest event ever. Invites were sent with enough notice for all the lords and ladies of the Realm to be able to show up — even if some lords, like Lord Cregan Stark, got some… personal invites, way earlier than the others were sent out.
x. bello sai, solo tu (coi tuoi occhi belli blu) (tbd) — In 133 AC, wildlings began to swarm into Winterfell after a breakthrough on the southern part of the Wall, and waged war against the rangers of the Night’s Watch. Lord Stark, who is said to have left the celebrations for the Realm's Jewel’s nameday earlier than expected to deal with the matter, was apparently saved by the latter and her uncle, who later spent a sennight in Winterfell to help the reconstruction of Queensgate. It is unknown what exactly happened between the Princess and Lord Cregan during that time, but by the time the famous Trials for the Hand took place, the Warden of Winterfell — who, it is speculated, once rejected the Princess — became the fiercest candidate, eventually securing his place in the Royal Family.
more to come!
extras:
pinterest board | spotify playlist | ao3
beautiful fanart | another beautiful fanart (another one by the same artist) | yet another amazing fanart | chibi version of the princess!! | ethereal princess 😭 | she takes from her mama 😞 | princess and baby joff | my design for princess | sketch of the princess!!! | the princess during chap 8 | she looks so soft here 🥹
You’re a big girl now! No more daddy’s little girl
Part one - Part two - Part three - Part four
summary: Your family had never truly seen and appreciated you. Might as well move on and live your life!
pairings: platonic!batfam x neglected!gn!reader
cw: A bit of emotional neglect, though none of it is intentional. Mc’s very smart and cool
word count: 2.1K
a/n: this is my first time posting on tumblr, kinda nervous (read: very nervous). My writing’s very rusty, and I am chronically allergic to rereading anything I ever write, so if there are mistakes, uh, I’m super sorry. Also, this is my first time writing anything DC related! So I hope you enjoy this little creation :] Much love
Bruce Wayne didn’t have time for sentimentality.
Those who truly knew him were deeply aware of this information, aware of how he would never truly be present emotionally in any sort of relationship. This included his own horde of children, who, throughout the years, had learned to live with that weighting absence.
Still, in your childhood, you attempted to cling onto the idea of a fatherly figure with an iron grip that even his coldest silences couldn’t break.
Your arrival was a change in the manor, a breeze in a dry desert, the warm sun in a frigid winter. Young, unmarred by the horrors of Gotham city, your new family felt wary to be the ones to taint your innocence. So, as one does when uncomfortable, they spent time elsewhere.
It wasn’t a collective, malevolent decision. It simply arrived like something unavoidable. They still ate with you at dinner, still asked you about your day occasionally, about school drama, or hobbies, but the conversations never went much further. Your relationship didn’t evolve into something closer to family. Instead, it stagnated at polite acquaintances that happened to be roommates and legally related. Nothing more, nothing less.
In a perhaps cynical way, you had expected not to fit in with your siblings. You arrived in a moment where Dick was elsewhere physically, Tim elsewhere mentally, and Steph often appearing and disappearing at the manor at will. Not to mention Jason, since the topic was taboo around anyone, like a ghost story, a warning.
However, childishly, you at least hoped your father – whom you shared blood with, took you in after tragedy inevitably struck as it does in this godforsaken city – would attempt to create a bond with you. You were realistic bordering pessimistic, yes, but you had naively expected him to try. Not even succeed, just put in some effort.
But that small spark of hope quickly died out when you met and began to understand the man in his essence.
The process was short; you’d recall later on. You remembered arriving at the manor, terrifyingly beautiful, haunted by years of history and secrets. It almost felt like one of those mystery slash romance books your mother would read privately in the safety of your home. And this was your home now.
You were greeted at the door by a man with clever eyes and a polite smile and bow, a relaxing accent you had only ever heard in movies introducing him to you, introducing the manor to you. The police officer – whose name you forgot over the years, who had tried cheering you up in the car – bid you farewell, and that was that. A new beginning. New family, new house, new life. Your mother was dead; you had confirmed it yourself. Nothing would ever go back to how it was. But maybe this change would be good for you.
These thoughts lasted four months.
The first person you met was one of your new brothers, Timothy (“Tim” he insisted you call him, as if he stuck around enough for you to call him anything). He was a few years older than you, and according to Alfred, a genius. To you, he kind of looked like he needed a hug and a good nap less he crashes and burn out, but you kept those thoughts to yourself – like you did most of your thoughts.
You met Dick Grayson, Golden Boy with a bright smile, eyebags, and a distracted gaze. He had things to do, a job in a different city, responsibilities as an adult. You understood, let him rush around with no hard feelings, knowing his energy meter would empty eventually. Maybe you could talk to him then. (Who wanted to talk to some random kid your adopted dad took in anyways? You probably would’ve done the same in his place).
Steph was a pleasant addition to your routine, and probably your favorite (after Alfred, of course) of the manor’s inhabitants, even If she didn’t truly live there. She hung around a lot, livening the gloomy atmosphere of the manor while providing feminine energy; something you discovered to be unfortunately rare in you new place. Nonetheless, she had this look in her eye that sometime stole your breath. A look that sometimes haunted you, as if she was searching and searching for something. After a while, she stopped coming around as much, Alfred explaining that with the age, she had new responsibilities. You felt disappointed and a bit bitter, but who were you to complain? She wasn’t your real sister. You both knew that.
A month passed, you talked to your biological father for the first and probably last time. He was quiet – you noticed silently – but attentive. Bruce Wayne never spoke unless necessary, you had heard, but with you, he was soft words and awkward smiles. You felt endeared by his behavior, despite being only eleven years old, and satisfied by his attention. It was like a flower being watered after weeks of neglect, like finally being fed a warm meal after weeks of starvation. The feeling was euphoric, and you brightened when he offered to go on a father-child date to get to know his new kid better.
And like any drug, the crash was abrupt and harsh. He disappeared into the shadows of the manor once more, and the next time you saw him his eyebags were darker and the lines in his forehead deeper. You couldn’t bear to be the one responsible for adding more onto his already seemingly overflowing plate. So, like your father, you let yourself melt into the shadows.
Throughout the years, your father took in more children with varying personalities. Although the manor was fuller, it still held that characteristic darkness to It, like it was destined to be lonely no matter how many people you put in it. You moved on, how could you not? It does you no good to dwell on what could’ve been had you integrated yourself into their circle. The curiosity and hurt would kill you (Though in the dark of the night, sometimes, you let yourself wonder).
You found out about their identities after two years of living with them. A long time? A bit, but how were you supposed to notice signs when they were never there, and this was the first time you were living and actually interacting (as limited as the interactions were) with rich people. At first you thought all rich people were quirky, but when their conversations went on, unaware of your hidden presence, you began realizing that maybe this wasn’t normal.
Resentment was the first feeling on your mind, though it quickly made way for resignation. The discovery reassured you, albeit disappointingly, because it showed you that no matter what you did, you would’ve never been apart of their world. You mourned a bit, yearning for a family; siblings who hung out with you, teased you, protected you, a dad who cherished you, showed you off. Then you moved on.
In fact, it pushed you to do better. Because if your sort-of family could go out to fight crime at night altruistically, you could do your best to help as well.
You began working harder towards your goal, becoming a doctor. Not to impress anyone, but because you wanted to make a difference in this city. You studied hard, pouring your life and soul into schoolwork, barely taking breaks.
Alfred grew worried, but you were as hardheaded and determined as your father, so his attempts to get through to you and push you to rest were all in vain. He even tried going through your siblings or Bruce, but it all fell through.
Silently, bitterly, during another all nighter, you’d sometimes liken yourself to the distant shadow of Tim in your memories. You wondered if this was why he did it, pushed himself to the brink for something. If this feeling was something he also eventually began clinging onto. But you had no time for such thoughts, so you pushed them away.
It was impressive how long you went on without breaking down and burning out. Yet you were a force of nature, a tree that let the weather mistreat it without letting it interrupt it from growing, water that kept flowing.
When you were fifteen, you told your family you wanted to be a doctor over dinner. It had been during an uncharacteristic lull in conversation, and you took the occasion to reveal it casually, like another piece of information, like it wasn’t your motivation and dream.
“And you think you’ll make it as a doctor?”
Your youngest brother and newest addition to the family sneered, an expression that felt wrong on a face so young. You didn’t rise to the bait.
“I’ve been studying a lot for a couple of years. I was just letting you know” you said, though your gaze remained on Bruce.
And since they were still quiet, you chose to drop the bomb.
“Can I practice by patching you guys up after patrol?”
Your question was polite in an almost indifferent way, though your indifference couldn’t hide your curiosity and eagerness for firsthand experience. A cup fell.
“What do you mean?” Dick asked awkwardly with a tense smile “What patrols?”
You deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
“Do you think I’m dumb? I’ve been living with you guys for four years. I’d have to be stupid not to know your secret identities by now”
Damian seemed satisfied with that answer, crossing his arms proudly and mumbling something about ‘superior Wayne genetics’, while the rest of your family had varied reactions. Dick gaped at you, as if your knowing of their identities was unthinkable, Steph seemed somewhat conflicted but amused, Cass… well, she didn’t seem angry (or anything for that matter?), in fact, she seemed proud, and Jason was cajoling loudly.
Nevertheless, the reaction you were looking at was your father’s. Bruce looked at you with an indecipherable expression. As did Tim. But you didn’t break eye contact, you wouldn’t back down – you wouldn’t be worthy of the Wayne name if you let them intimidate you. A deep, tired sigh.
“I had my doubts,” lies, you haven’t seen him in four months, but you’ll let him have it “but the idea isn’t bad”
The shocked reactions broke into disapproval
“They’re a civilian!” “B, they have zero experience, are you insane?-” “I don’t think that is the best idea, father” “That is the funniest thing you’ve said today, old man-” a guffaw.
“Enough” he interrupted. His voice oozed authority, enough to not need to shout for them to all fall silent again. Your father looked in your eyes, deeply, as if seeing something he hadn’t seen or noticed before, something hiding in plain sight.
A sigh “I agree to let you shadow the med area in the cave-” a chorus of complaints and disagreements suddenly interrupted him, but with a glare, they quieted down again “On one condition” he began ominously.
You raised an unimpressed brow. Did he have to be so dramatic about it? A sigh of your own, perhaps it was contagious “Sure. A condition” you repeated flatly. Your first real impression of your family wasn’t turning out to be exactly positive. The urge to retreat into the safety of your room and focus on your studies once more was heavily tempting.
“You’ll obviously need supervision, ideally from Alfred. You have no prior experience” You hummed in agreement. No, duh, you were fifteen, of course you had zero medical experience “You’ll also be required to shadow Dr Thompkins on the weekends to better your knowledge. If you want to help, you’ll help fully”
Perhaps you were more like your father than you thought, because in that moment, you felt like you were seeing him for the first time as well. A bitter taste coated your tongue as you gave an affirmative answer, then returned to your room, doing your best to ignore the argument that exploded at the dinner table after you left. Some things never changed, it seems. They always say what they truly feel and think when you’re not around.
Either way, you were satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, even though your dad’s utilitarian reasoning left a heavy feeling in your chest and a pain you couldn’t explain in your heart.
Nevertheless, that was the beginning of a new period of your life. The beginning of the end, perhaps. Because you are [Name] Wayne, and you were going to become a doctor and help – with the added valor of proving yourself to your family – if it was the last thing you did.
pairing: ex!dick grayson x afab!reader, endgame!wally west x afab!reader
summary: you knew that moving on from a breakup would hurt, you just didn't expect your ex, dick grayson, to move on so soon and publicly to boot. little did you know that someone was watching out for you and is willing to do anything to make you smile.
content: ex! dick grayson, asshole dick grayson, angst, hurt, wally comforts you, banter and flirtation with wally, pining wally, observant wally, self-deprecation talk, wally fully believes in the power of food being healing, love confession,
wc: 7.1k
heart to heart valentine collection | buy me a coffee | general masterlist
There was a time when Dick Grayson fit into your life as if it had always been waiting for him.
You remembered it in fragments, the way memories tended to surface when you didn’t invite them.
Moonlight through your bedroom window, pale and soft, painting his bare shoulders silver as he lay on his side facing you. The city hummed beneath the tower, distant and alive, while the two of you existed in your own quiet world. His hand rested at your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles as if he had nowhere else he needed to be. As if there wasn’t a city that demanded him, or a symbol stitched into his suit that he carried even when it wasn’t on his chest.
You remembered laughing until it hurt. The kind of laugh that pulled a sound from your chest before you could stop it. Dick always loved that laugh. He used to say it made everything feel lighter, like for a moment the weight of being Nightwing slipped off his shoulders.
You mornings together was your preferred way to start the day. Sharing burnt toast and strong coffee, others were spent with gentle hands and bandages after missions. Conversations whispered into skin, secrets exchanged in the dark that felt safe simply because they were yours.
You remembered thinking, This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
The memory shattered the moment you opened your eyes.
The tower ceiling stared back at you, sterile and unfamiliar. Your room felt too quiet now, too empty. His jacket wasn’t draped over the chair anymore. There was no warmth lingering in the sheets, no sleepy voice teasing you for staying up too late.
That life belonged to another version of you.
And Dick Grayson belonged to someone else.
The last mission had been brutal — not the worst you’d ever faced, but draining in a way that left exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. You worked well with the team, always had, but something felt… off.
It took you longer than you cared to admit to realize why.
Dick was there, and fought and covered civilians. He moved with the same precision he always did. He checked in over comms, just like he did with everyone else.
But he wasn’t fighting with you.
There was no familiar pressure at your back, no instinctive trust that someone was watching your blind spots because you watched theirs. No silent coordination born from knowing how the other person moved, thought, or reacted. You didn’t realize how much you’d relied on that unspoken connection until it was gone.
He hadn’t abandoned you. You knew that. He still cared — as a teammate. As a friend?
But the space between you felt cavernous. And fighting alone, even in a crowd, felt lonelier than you expected.
You stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound against your shoulders, hoping it would wash the memory of the mission, and the announcement that came after, from your mind.
Everyone had been so happy for them, Dick and Kori. Official. Public, almost aggressively so.
The way she glowed at his side, radiant and unapologetic in her affection. The way his smile came easy around her, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time. They looked good together, like couple that belonged on the front page of a magazine or whispered about in awe.
It shouldn’t have hurt. You were broken up, and this was inevitable.
But your heart didn’t seem to care about logic.
You shut off the water, wrapped yourself in a towel, and stared at your reflection until the redness around your eyes faded enough to pass as exhaustion instead of heartbreak. You dressed quickly, deliberately. If you stayed in your room too long, you’d think too much.
You just needed food. Something solid, something normal.
The common room lights were dimmed when you stepped inside. Late evening, the tower winding down, and for one fleeting moment, you thought you might be safe.
Then you saw them. Kori sat curled against Dick on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her laugh bright and unrestrained as he murmured something into her ear. His arm was slung easily around her shoulders, fingers resting at her waist like they’d memorized the shape of her already.
Arms that had once held you. Something in your chest twisted painfully.
Dick’s eyes lifted instinctively, catching yours across the room. For a split second, something flickered there — surprise, maybe guilt — but you didn’t give him the chance to figure it out.
You turned on your heel and headed back the way you came. You didn’t hear him call your name. You didn’t want to.
“Hey— wait up.”
Wally’s voice cut through your thoughts like a jolt of electricity, familiar and grounding. You slowed but didn’t stop, side-eying him as he fell into step beside you.
“You wanna hang out?” he asked lightly. “Maybe grab a snack? Get outta the tower for a bit?”
You huffed out a breath, arms crossing instinctively as you kept walking. “This isn’t because you feel bad, right?” you said. “I know this has got to be awkward for you.”
While Dick had insisted on keeping it quiet about any kind of relationship the two of you had, Wally was the exception to the rule. So while the rest of the team had no clue about any history between you and Dick, Wally has insider information. It wouldn’t be a far guess to say that he might just actually pity you, which is why you couldn’t help but ask. Not that you were really in a position to refuse a friend anyway.
Wally stopped short enough that you were forced to glance back at him.
“No,” he said immediately, cutting you off before the words could sink too deep. His tone was gentle, but firm. “It’s not about that.”
He jogged a step forward, falling back into stride beside you. “I can’t get a late-night treat with my friend and teammate now? And if it coincidentally means we leave the tower for a bit,” he added with a shrug, “well… who cares?”
He nudged your shoulder with his own, just enough that you stumbled slightly before catching yourself.
A small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You sighed, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Fine,” you said quietly. “But you’re buying.”
Wally grinned, flashing you a wink as he turned toward the exit. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you pay.”
And for the first time that night, as the tower doors slid open and the cool air brushed against your skin, it felt like you might be able to breathe again.
⚡︎𓅩
You noticed it without meaning to. You’ve been trying to give the happy couple their space, but it seems like the universe is determined to keep shoving them into your face. So, of course, you notice Kori’s new fashion accessory.
Dick’s jacket was draped over Kori’s shoulders. It sat heavily on Kori’s shoulders, the fabric too large for her frame, sleeves hanging past her wrists as she laughed at something Dick murmured under his breath. The emblem on the back curved with her movement, catching the light as she shifted closer to him. Dick didn’t even look down when she tugged it tighter around herself — his arm came up automatically, settling at her waist like the two gestures belonged together.
Like this was normal, like it had always been allowed. Your fingers tightened around your cup.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a jacket. A piece of fabric. Something practical, something replaceable.
But it wasn’t. Not to you.
The memory came without warning.
You were still flushed from the mission, sweat cooling too quickly against your skin as you stepped into the hallway outside the lockers. Your hands trembled faintly as adrenaline bled off, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Dick stood beside you, already half out of his suit, laughter soft as he recounted something stupid Roy had said over comms.
You’d been cold.
You remembered hesitating before reaching for his jacket, fingers brushing the sleeve tentatively. “Hey,” you’d said lightly, trying to keep it casual. “Can I—?”
He’d looked down, surprised. Not upset, not angry, just…caught off guard.
“Oh,” he’d said, gently pulling it back before you could fully shrug it on. “Careful.”
You’d laughed, embarrassed. “What?”
“I just—” he’d smiled apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to accidentally rip it or stain it or something. You know how that suit fabric is.”
You remembered nodding immediately. Too quickly.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” you’d said. “That makes sense.”
He’d kissed your temple instead, warm and familiar, arm sliding around your shoulders like that was supposed to make up for it.
At the time, you’d believed him.
You’d told yourself he was being practical. Protective or possessive even. That it didn’t mean anything deeper than caution and habit. You’d told yourself love didn’t need symbols, that the way he held you when no one was watching mattered more.
Now, watching Kori wear it openly and proudly, you understand. It had never been about stains, or rips, or carelessness.
It had been about visibility. He hadn’t wanted the team to know.
Not fully, not unmistakably. Not in a way that couldn’t be explained away as a coincidence or convenience. Loving you had lived in private spaces, in shadows, in rooms with doors closed and lights low.
Kori wore his jacket in the middle of the room. No hesitation or apology.
Dick didn’t flinch or glance around. He didn’t look uncomfortable. He just let it happen.
Something inside you sank quietly. It wasn’t jealousy — not really. None of this was Kori’s fault. It was clarity. The kind that arrived too late to change anything, but early enough to hurt.
You’d spent so long being careful with him. Making yourself smaller. Accepting less because you thought that was the price of loving someone who carried so much weight.
And now you saw it plainly.
He hadn’t been protecting the jacket.
He’d been protecting the story he told everyone else.
You took a slow sip of your drink, gaze drifting away before the ache could sharpen further. Across the room, Dick laughed at something Kori said, his hand resting on her back without thought.
You didn’t look again.
Because you didn’t need to.
You finally understood what you’d lost — and what you’d never really had.
But now there’s Kori tugging the jacket tighter around herself, smiling up at him. Dick’s hand rested at her waist without hesitation, easy and familiar.
You swallowed and turned away.
“Hey.”
Wally’s voice cut in gently, and you startled just enough to feel silly about it.
“Sorry,” you said automatically.
“For what?” he asked, already grabbing a drink from the fridge and sliding it toward you. “Existing in the same room as… people?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”
He followed your gaze, took in the scene, and then looked back at you — really looked. The slight tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders had drawn in on themselves.
He didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned against the counter beside you. “You eat yet?”
“No.”
“Cool,” he said, nodding once. “Same. Tragic, honestly.”
You smirked. “You say that every time.”
“And every time it’s true.”
The banter was familiar and easy. It helped more than you wanted to admit.
⚡︎𓅩
It happened again a few nights later.
You were on patrol, moving across rooftops, when a familiar neon glow caught your eye. A café window, warm and inviting, steam fogging the glass.
Dick sat inside, with Kori across from him, chin propped in her hand as he spoke, eyes bright with attention. He smiled in that open, unguarded way — the one he used to reserve for late nights with you, when the world felt smaller.
Your feet slowed before you could stop them.
“Don’t,” you muttered to yourself.
Wally, your new patrol partner, ran back towards you when you saw you were stuck, having noticed immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing your pace to pick up again.
He glanced through the window, understanding dawning. The rest of the patrol passed in near silence.
Not the uncomfortable kind. Just… quiet. The city stretched out beneath you in a scatter of lights and distant sirens, wind rushing past as you and Wally moved from rooftop to rooftop. Normally, he filled the air with commentary, bad jokes, half-finished thoughts that tumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.
Tonight, he didn’t. He stayed close, matching your pace, eyes scanning the streets while occasionally flicking sideways to check on you. You appreciated the lack of pressure more than you could say.
By the last stretch of your route, your feet were aching, and your shoulders felt heavier than they should have.
Wally let out an exaggerated groan.
You blinked, glancing over. “Are you dying?”
“Slowly,” he said, hand dramatically over his heart. “Tragically. From starvation.”
“You ate before patrol.”
“And, why are you keeping track of that? Who are you, my doctor?”
You snorted softly. “I feel like that’s more like a dietician.”
“Come on,” he said, nudging closer. “There’s this place I love. Best late-night snacks. Open all hours. We could swing by?”
Spend the night replaying the scene you saw, or hang out with Wally? An easy choice. You shrugged, the effort minimal. “Sure. Why not?”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“It’s food,” you said. “You don’t need to sell it.”
“Excellent.” He paused. “Can I carry you?”
You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Just for speed,” he clarified quickly. “We’ll get there faster. Less walking. You look, don’t take this the wrong way, tired.”
You hesitated — then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… fine.”
He grinned. “Great.”
He barely gave you time to brace before he scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other steady at your back. The city blurred into streaks of color and light, the wind cool against your face, his grip solid and careful.
When he slowed, you felt the shift immediately.
You glanced around — and frowned.
“This is the tower.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You looked up at him. “Wally.”
“Yes?”
“This is your room.”
“Correct again.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “You said favorite snack spot.”
He opened the door and gestured grandly inside. “Yes. My favorite late-night snack spot. It has everything I love and is open at all hours.”
He stepped inside, smug as anything, heading straight for the kitchenette.
You stood in the doorway for a beat, then followed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Effective, I’d argue,” he countered, rummaging through a cabinet. “There’s a difference.”
He tossed you a packet of something chocolate-coated, a bag of chips, and a water bottle. “Here.”
You caught it. “What is this?”
“Protein bar, allegedly. I have to be a good influence and provide something nutritious.”
You squinted at the label. “This is barely food.”
“Manners, that is no way to treat a gracious host.”
You laughed despite yourself and wandered closer as he grabbed a couple more things.
“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Why do you get a whole suite with a kitchenette, anyway?”
He puffed up slightly, raising three fingers. “Seniority. Pension. Hero benefits.”
You give him a deadpan stare. “You’re in your twenties.”
“Mentally? I’m at least seventy.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
He shrugged, more genuine now. “Actually, it’s the speed thing. Easier to have my own stuff than accidentally blow up the communal kitchen at three in the morning. Trust me.”
“That makes sense,” you admitted.
He nodded. “See? Practical.”
He turned and promptly fumbled the protein bar, dropping it against his chest where it smeared something sticky and dark across the front of his suit.
“Oh— come on,” he groaned. “Rude.”
He peeled the top half of the suit down in one smooth motion.
Your brain…just kinda…stopped.
His skin was warm gold under the lights, muscles defined in a way that made no effort to be subtle about the work they did. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a chest that made your thoughts go pleasantly blank.
You were aware, distantly, that you were staring.
You were also aware, slightly less distantly, that you had stopped breathing.
“Uh.”
His eyes flicked up and caught yours.
Something shifted between you, like the air before a storm breaks. The room seemed to shrink, narrowing to just the space you both occupied. Your skin prickled with awareness, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.
His eyes darkened slightly, pupils expanding as they held yours, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady something inside himself. Neither of you moved, caught in that fragile moment where possibility hung suspended, electric and dangerous.
Then there was a knock, and the door slid open before either of you could react.
Roy leaned in, eyes immediately taking in the scene: you standing far too close, Wally shirtless, snacks scattered, the air very clearly Not Normal.
“Well,” Roy drawled, leaning against the doorframe, grin slow and wicked. “What’s happening here?”
You and Wally looked at each other.
Whatever had been building between you snapped — not gone, just… scattered.
You both started talking at once.
“It’s not—”
“He just—”
“We were just—”
“He spilled something—”
“She was tired—”
You stopped and blinked before closing your eyes and taking a step back.
“Goodnight,” you said flatly, and turned and walked out.
Behind you, you heard Roy’s laugh and Wally’s very distressed, “Roy—!”
You didn’t stop walking until you were back in your own room.
And only then did you sit on your bed, heart racing, face warm, and whisper quietly to yourself:
“Oh no.”
⚡︎𓅩
It wasn’t just that Dick was affectionate. It was that he was affectionate everywhere.
The tower’s common spaces had always been neutral ground — places where masks slipped just enough to breathe, but not enough to expose anything fragile. Or at least, they used to be. Now, it felt like every room carried the echo of something you no longer belonged to.
You saw it in passing moments first.
Dick’s hand was resting at the small of Kori’s back as they walked down the hall, guiding without thinking. Fingers brushing her wrist when he laughed, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way he leaned into her space openly, shoulder pressed to hers, head tipped close as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.
You tried not to stare.
You tried not to remember how many times you’d reached for him like that and felt him subtly shift away. How often he’d murmured, “Later,” or “Not here,” as if affection were something private, something that needed to be rationed carefully.
You had told yourself it wasn’t rejection.
You had told yourself he was just cautious. Guarded. That loving him meant understanding the weight he carried.
Now he laughed freely, loud and unrestrained, pressing a kiss to Kori’s temple without hesitation as she teased him about something trivial. The room reacted; smiles and easy acceptance, and something inside your chest tightened painfully.
You looked away, but reflections betrayed you.
In the glass of a display case, you caught the way his arm curved around her waist, familiar and intimate. You saw the way she leaned into him, trusting and unafraid, his hand settling there as it had always belonged.
You felt… smaller.
Not jealous — not exactly. Just painfully aware of how much you’d minimized yourself to fit beside him. How gently you’d loved him, careful not to ask for too much, careful not to make him uncomfortable.
Careful not to be a burden.
It hurt in a way that was dull and sharp all at once, like pressing on a bruise you hadn’t realized was there.
You busied yourself with gear checks, adjusting straps that didn’t need adjusting, focusing on routine. Anything to avoid watching the way he touched her so easily.
When the mission call came through, you welcomed it with something like relief.
Action was easier than feeling.
—
The mission was chaotic from the start.
Smoke and shouting as more concrete collapses.
You moved without thinking, instincts honed from countless hours in the field. When the opening appeared, you took it — pivoting, feinting, striking with precise timing.
Dick, however, followed through perfectly.
Your move.
The mission ended successfully. The team gathered for a quick debrief, adrenaline still buzzing.
“Nice work, Nightwing,” Roy said. “That move saved our asses.”
Dick smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Figured I’d try something new.”
Your stomach dropped. You stared at the floor, jaw tight, pulse roaring in your ears.
Wally looked at you, really looked, and saw it. The stiffness in your posture. The way you folded inward.
He remembered Dick talking about that move months ago. How impressed he’d been, how proud.
“Hey,” Wally said softly, stepping closer. “You wanna grab food? Before Roy demolishes everything edible in a five-mile radius?”
You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “What?”
He hooked an arm around your shoulders, not tight, not claiming — just there. “Come on. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a break.”
You hesitated, eyes flicking toward Dick without meaning to. He was already being pulled into conversation, attention elsewhere.
Wally noticed, he always did.
“Hey,” he murmured, nudging you gently. “I got you.”
You exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough to let you move.
“Fine,” you said. “But if you eat my fries—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he laughed. “I’m not a monster.”
As you walked away together, Dick glanced up, catching sight of you leaving — Wally’s arm around your shoulders, your head tilted toward him as he animatedly complained about Barry.
Something twisted in his chest that he steadfastly ignored. For the first time since he could remember, you didn’t look back.
⚡︎𓅩
The tower’s living room was loud in a comfortable way.
Soft music hummed from speakers tucked somewhere out of sight, low enough to blend into the background rather than demand attention. Someone had stretched out across the couch like they planned to stay there all night, boots kicked off without ceremony. Laughter drifted freely, unguarded, the kind that only existed on nights when no alarms screamed, and no one was counting down the minutes until the next emergency.
It should have felt safe.
You stood near the edge of the room, a warm mug cradled between your hands, letting the noise pass through you instead of into you. You nodded when someone glanced your way. Smiled when it was expected. You were present in the way one learned to be present when absence would be noticed.
Dick stood across the room, Kori sat beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his, his jacket draped over her shoulders like a promise.
“Dick,” Kori said brightly, nudging his arm. “Tell them the joke you said the other night.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from focusing on the conversation, despite knowing that it would most likely lead to your heartbreak again.
Dick blinked, looking slightly confused. “What—?”
“The one about the—” she laughed, waving her hand vaguely as she was unable to continue the background details. “The story. It was funny.”
The room leaned in, anticipation flickering easily from face to face.
Dick’s eyes flicked toward you.
Just for a second.
Your breath catches, afraid of what that look might mean. You didn’t move, you didn’t react. You simply lifted your mug and took a slow sip, gaze unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.
“Oh,” Dick said, a chuckle slipping out as understanding clicked into place. “That one.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
And then he told it. Your story.
Your voice, stripped of its softness. Your timing sharpened for laughs instead of honesty. A moment that had once lived quietly between you and a close friend — something vulnerable, something shared late at night when trust sat heavy and real between you — reduced to a punchline.
You remembered that night with startling clarity.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, lights low, the two of you laughing so hard you’d cried, a mixture of grief and laughter. How you’d confessed something small but meaningful about a close friend long since gone.
A moment you shared because you had felt safe only because of who you were telling it to. How you’d smiled afterward, warmed by the certainty that it mattered, comforted by your companion, and wanting them to carry this treasured memory with them too.
Now it was just… content.
A story told without context. Without care. Dick told it well; he’s a great storyteller.
The room erupted in laughter.
Someone wiped tears from their eyes. Someone else shook their head, already repeating the best part under their breath.
You stood perfectly still.
You felt it happen inside you, the moment something disconnected.
It was subtle, like a wire loosening, like a door closing softly instead of slamming. The ache didn’t spike. It emptied. The warmth drained out, leaving behind a numb, hollow space where feeling had once lived.
You didn’t laugh or flinch. You didn’t even look at him. You simply… stopped being there.
And it was almost as if Dick felt it.
Not immediately, but as the laughter stretched on, something in his chest began to tighten, an unease threading through the easy moment. His eyes found you again, instinctively searching for the familiar reaction he’d always been able to count on.
A smile or an eye-roll.
That look you used to give him; fond, conspiratorial, like the two of you shared something just beneath the surface.
Instead, he found nothing. Your eyes were distant, polite. Empty in a way that felt wrong and hurt.
Gone.
The laughter faded unevenly, as if people sensed the shift without understanding it. Dick’s voice trailed off at the end of the story, landing awkwardly in the space that followed. He shifted, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands.
His gaze locked with yours.
For half a second, memory surged: moonlight through your bedroom window, your laughter muffled against his neck, the way you used to look at him like he was home.
Then he saw it. The absence.
Whatever fragile thread still connected you, whatever hope he’d held that you could exist in each other’s lives without pain, disintegrated in that instant. Like paper catching flame, burning faster than he could reach for it.
Your eyes slid away.
You turned your body slightly, a subtle motion that somehow landed heavier than any argument ever had.
Dick’s heart stuttered.
“Hey—” he said suddenly, pushing himself upright, already stepping toward you. “Wait—”
He didn’t get the chance, because Wally was already there.
Not rushing or dramatic, despite the way Dick was experiencing it. He didn’t insert himself into the moment or raise his voice. He simply appeared at your side, like he’d been standing just outside the edge of your world, waiting for the exact second you needed a way out more than you needed answers.
Dick saw him before he registered anything else.
Saw the way Wally angled his body slightly toward you, shielding you from the rest of the room without making a show of it. Saw the way his expression softened when he looked at you; not concern exactly, but familiarity. Understanding.
Wally didn’t touch you right away; instead, he held out his hand.
Open and patient, a clear invitation, not a demand.
“Come on,” Wally said quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. His voice didn’t carry—it wasn’t meant to. “You promised me a rematch.”
You blinked, eyes unfocused at first, like you were surfacing from somewhere far away.
“I did?” you asked, voice faint but steady.
He smiled, small and easy, the kind of smile that came from shared moments instead of charm. “Mm-hmm. Loser buys snacks.”
Dick took a step forward, his mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Because you were looking at Wally now.
And then — without hesitation — you reached for him.
Your fingers slid into his hand naturally, like muscle memory. Like this was something you’d done before, something your body recognized even if your heart hadn’t fully caught up yet. Wally’s hand closed around yours with quiet certainty, thumb brushing your knuckles once in a way that was achingly gentle.
Dick’s breath caught hard in his chest.
That wasn’t a first touch. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was familiar. It was the kind of intimacy that came from repetition — from trust built slowly, from presence earned over time.
And suddenly, Dick understood.
This hadn’t started tonight. This hadn’t even started recently.
While he’d been absent in all the ways that mattered, someone else had been showing up. Someone else had been learning the shape of your silences, the weight of your tiredness, the moments when you needed to leave before something broke.
Wally turned slightly, guiding you with him. You followed without looking back. The room seemed to tilt.
Dick stood frozen, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walked away — not hurried, not dramatic — just decided.
You weren’t running from him. You were choosing something else.
The doors slid shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing the sound of laughter and music inside.
Dick remained where he was.
For the first time, it wasn’t heartbreak that settled into his chest.
It was understanding.
He hadn’t just lost you romantically. He had lost access to you; to your touch, your reactions, your presence in his life. The loss wasn’t theoretical anymore.
It was real and it was final.
⚡︎𓅩
The hallway was quiet, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss that felt louder than it should have.
You walked a few steps before realizing your hand was still in Wally’s.
The warmth of it grounded you. Steady and real, pulling you back from the numbness that had settled over you moments before. Your fingers tightened briefly before you let go, clearing your throat as you slowed to a stop.
“Sorry,” you murmured. “I think I spaced out back there.”
Wally stopped immediately. “No worries,” he said easily. “Happens.”
You leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as the adrenaline — emotional, not physical — began to ebb. The quiet wrapped around you, gentle and forgiving.
“Hey,” you said after a moment, trying for lightness. “You know you don’t have to… rescue me every time, right?”
He tilted his head. “Rescue?”
You gestured vaguely behind you. “You know. The dramatic exits. The timely distractions. You going full hero mode around me all the time must be exhausting.”
You smiled, small and self-deprecating, like it was a joke you’d rehearsed enough times to make it sound casual.
Wally didn’t smile back.
Instead, his expression softened into something serious and intent in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer just enough to keep your attention, not that he didn’t have it already.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about yourself like you’re a problem I have to manage.”
You blinked.
“I don’t mind,” he continued, voice quiet but steady. “Not for a second. I’m not tired, I’m not obligated. I’m here because I want to be.”
His gaze held yours, unflinching.
“I care about you,” he said simply.
The words landed softly, but they knocked the breath from your lungs all the same.
Something shifted in your chest. Warmth bloomed where there had only been emptiness before. Gratitude, yes — but something else too. Something that made your pulse stutter, that made you see him differently all at once.
You looked at him, really looked, and felt it. Wally, who was looking at you intensely, saw it the second it reached your eyes.
His breath hitched, just barely. A slow smile spread across his face; not triumphant or smug, simply tender. Like he’d been hoping for that look without expecting it.
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then Wally straightened slightly, clearing his throat.
“So,” he said, voice deliberately lighter. “Snacks?”
You laughed, the sound real and surprised, and nodded. “Yeah, snacks.”
“Good,” he said, already turning. “Because I’m starving, and I refuse to have this moment derail my nutritional needs.”
You fell into step beside him, the silence between you no longer empty; just full of things neither of you were quite ready to name yet.
And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like something you had to carry alone.
⚡︎𓅩
The debrief room was louder than usual.
People talked over one another, adrenaline still buzzing from a mission that had gone better than expected. Roy leaned back in their chair, boots propped on the table. Garth was already arguing over credit for a distraction that hadn’t actually been planned.
You sat near the end of the table, tablet balanced against your knee, half-listening while scrolling through post-mission data. This part always felt strange—being surrounded by people dissecting a fight that already felt distant, like it belonged to another version of you.
“…and honestly,” Wally said suddenly, voice cutting through the noise, “the whole thing only worked because she spotted the second location before anyone else did.”
The room quieted. You looked up, startled.
“Wait,” Donna said. “You found it?”
You opened your mouth to clarify, but Wally, already committed, kept going.
“Yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “She basically mapped the entire pattern on the fly. I mean, she could probably predict weather systems if she wanted to.”
You stared at him.
“No, I can’t,” you said quickly, cutting in before the attention could crystallize into something heavier. “Obviously, the weather’s gotten to Wally.”
A few chuckles rang out through the room before the looks shifted back to Dick and Cyborg for finishing details. The room relaxed again, conversation sliding easily back into overlapping voices and half-formed jokes. Someone changed the subject. Someone else complained about paperwork.
Wally blinked, realization dawning, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay, yeah, that was—”
“—dramatic,” you finished dryly, smiling as you shrugged. “I just noticed something off in the data. Anyone could’ve.”
Crisis averted. Or so you thought.
You leaned slightly toward Wally and mouthed, What the fuck?
He winced, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured back, lowering his voice and leaning into your space. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
You raised a brow as if to say ‘oh really?’
“But,” he added quickly, earnest now, “you were great. If you hadn’t caught that second location, we would’ve screwed the whole mission.”
You laughed quietly, the sound warm and genuine, and reached out without thinking—your fingers brushing his knee in an easy, familiar gesture.
“Next time,” you said softly, “try not to make me sound like a wizard.”
“No promises, Dumbledore,” he replied, grinning.
The exchange was small, casual, and comfortable.
It didn’t slip past Dick.
He watched it from across the table—the way you leaned toward Wally without hesitation, the way you touched him like it was nothing, the way Wally’s attention never wavered from you. There was no tension or uncertainty in it.
Just ease.
The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later, chairs scraping as people stood and filtered out in loose groups. You gathered your things and fell into step beside Wally, already mid-conversation about something inconsequential.
“Hey.”
Dick’s voice made both of you stop. Wally turned, surprised but not uncomfortable. “What’s up?”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” you murmur to him, touching his arm to grab his attention. You could think of 50 other locations you’d rather be than in the same conversation with just Dick and Wally.
He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Definitely.”
You smiled at him, soft and unguarded, before heading off down the corridor.
Wally watched you the entire time, only turning away once you disappeared around the corner.
“Feels like it’s been a while since we’ve hung out,” Dick said, attempting casual. “Just us. You know?”
Wally considered that for a moment. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “It has, sorry about that.”
Dick’s shoulders loosened slightly. “It’s fine, I’ve been busy too. I was thinking maybe we could—”
Wally grinned, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, with her. Don’t really wanna disappoint her, so I gotta head out now. But we’ll definitely hang out soon! Maybe we’ll do a boys’ night!?”
Before Dick could respond, Wally was gone—a red blur vanishing down the hall in the direction you’d gone.
The room didn’t stay quiet. Someone snorted. “Wow.”
Roy leaned back against the table. “You guys notice how often those two hang out now?”
“On missions, too,” Donna added thoughtfully. “They’re always paired.”
Cyborg chimed in, teasing. “Guess Dick and Kori really inspired love to bloom around here.”
Laughter followed, but Dick didn’t laugh.
Something twisted sharply in his stomach, nausea creeping in slowly and unwelcome. The room felt too warm, too loud. He stared at the doorway where you both had disappeared, chest tight with a realization he hadn’t wanted to make.
Whatever was happening between you and Wally had been growing quietly—right under his nose—while he’d been elsewhere, assuming you’d still be there when he looked back.
He swallowed hard. For the first time, the loss didn’t feel only like heartbreak.
It felt like a consequence.
⚡︎𓅩
Another month passed.
It wasn’t marked by anything dramatic; no declarations, no lines crossed, no moments that demanded names. Just time, shared and unspoken and steadily meaningful.
You and Wally fell into a rhythm without ever acknowledging it as one.
Late-night patrols that stretched longer than necessary. Coffee runs that turned into conversations about childhood, fears, and things neither of you talked about easily. Sitting side by side on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city breathe while the world felt smaller and calmer than it had in a long time.
You learned how he liked his coffee — sweet enough to be suspicious. He learned the exact way you went quiet when you were thinking too hard. You learned that he always ran faster when you were tired, and that he always positioned himself just slightly closer when you looked overwhelmed.
He learned when to joke, and more importantly, when not to. Somewhere along the way, you realized you felt… safe again.
Not the fragile kind. The steady kind. The night it finally happened was unremarkable in the best way.
Patrol ended early. The city was quiet, streets slick from earlier rain, lights reflecting like constellations below. You sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots resting against concrete, the cool air settling comfortably against your skin.
Wally stood nearby, stretching, then dropped down beside you with an exaggerated sigh.
“Wow,” he said. “Peaceful. Suspiciously so.”
You smiled. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Right. Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.
Silence settled — not awkward, not empty, just unsure as to how to start.
You glanced at him without thinking and caught the way he was already
looking at you.
Wally gave no indication he was startled; he just kept looking, something you couldn’t believe was obvious in his eyes. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
Wally noticed. Something in his expression shifted. It softened, deepened, like he’d been holding something back and finally decided to stop.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You turned fully toward him, giving him a small smile. “Hey.”
He rubbed his palms together once, nervous energy bleeding through despite his usual ease. “Can I… say something?”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “You just did.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying.
The look Wally gives you makes you laugh and helps break the uncomfortable tension that was in the air. “I think this is one of those moments you told me about that isn’t right to joke.” He teases you, throwing back your argument you told him.
“Yeah,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile and a shrug. “Sorry, I was nervous.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He murmurs back to you. The nervous energy is gone, and instead, a tension lingers in the air. He looks you in the eyes, then awa,y before looking back and slowly leaning in. His arm reaches out and grabs your hand, holding it gently in his grasp, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles.
He took a breath before letting it out slowly starting.
“I’ve been trying not to,” he admitted with a small, self-aware smile.
“Because I didn’t want to mess anything up. Or rush you, or make things weird.”
Your chest tightened.
“But,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “somewhere between the third late-night snack run and the fifth time you fell asleep during movie night… I realized I was already way past that point.”
You laughed softly, more breath than sound.
“Wally—”
“I care about you,” he said, gently cutting in. “Not in a teammate way. Not in a ‘I’ll always have your back’ way — although, yeah, that too.” He swallowed. “I mean… I like you. A lot. And it’s more than friendship, and I didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t.”
The words settled between you, warm and terrifying and real. You stared at him for a long moment.
Then you exhaled, shoulders relaxing as if something you’d been carrying finally found a place to rest.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” you admitted quietly.
His eyes widened. “You were?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Because I’ve been trying to tell myself it was just comfort. Or gratitude. Or… anything but this.” You smiled faintly. “But it’s not, and it hasn’t been for a while.”
You looked at him fully now, letting him see it.
“It’s more than friendship for me, too, Wally.”
The relief on his face was immediate — bright and unguarded, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. He laughed, soft and incredulous.
“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Wow.”
You laughed too, the sound lighter than it had been in months.
He hesitated, just for a second, then asked quietly, “Can I…?”
You nodded before he finished.
He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. As he hesitated, breath hitching in the space between you, the air thickened with unspoken words. Then, with a soft determination, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss was tentative at first, a sweet brush that ignited a spark, before deepening into something more, a shared promise that lingered in the cool night air.
Neither of you rushed it because neither of you needed to.
The city hummed below, indifferent and vast, while something small and meaningful settled into place between you.
And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to brace for.
It felt like something you were allowed to want.
⚡︎𓅩
a/n: everyone say thank you to olivia rodrigo for inspiring this! this was originally 3k and was like a little drabble, but then? i just? couldn't stop? and now we have this pretty little baby.
this fic could also be named "wally showing he cares by making sure you eat",
as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋
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Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.
A/N: this is NOT a pregnancy fic you guys i promise also i didn't want to split this into two parts but tumblr deemed it too long so um two parts ig
credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider
Part 2
Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.
The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.
He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.
But that was the thing.
Nothing felt wrong about today.
Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.
And now he was stuck in Charms.
Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.
Then another.
Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.
Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”
The room cracked.
Not shattered. Not exploded.
Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.
There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—
Silence.
Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.
She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.
For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.
Then her lip trembled.
“—Papà?”
Her voice broke.
And then she started crying.
Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.
“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)
The classroom froze.
“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.
Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”
A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”
The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)
She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.
“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)
Theo stared at her from his seat.
He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.
Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”
He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.
“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”
Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.
She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.
“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)
Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.
“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.
“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”
The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.
“Papà…” She whimpered.
Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.
“Cazzo.” (fuck)
He pushed his chair back and stood.
The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.
Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.
“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)
The girl barely registered him.
She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)
“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)
He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.
“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)
She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)
Theo swallowed.
“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)
That was when she opened her eyes.
Really looked at him.
Her crying hitched mid-sob.
For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Then—
“Papà!”
She surged forward.
Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.
“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)
Theo froze.
Completely. Utterly.
His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.
The room was dead silent.
Theo’s eyes flicked up.
Every single person was staring.
Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.
Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.
No one moved.
The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.
Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.
“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”
She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.
Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.
Once.
Twice.
And then she was gone.
Fast asleep.
Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.
Theo swallowed hard.
The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.
Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.
“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.
Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”
“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”
All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.
“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”
He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.
He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.
“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”
Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.
“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.
Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”
McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."
Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”
Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”
Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”
“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."
Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."
Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.
Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.
"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"
“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”
“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”
McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”
Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”
The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.
The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.
“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)
She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.
“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)
Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.
She was shaking.
“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”
Everyone froze.
Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)
Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.
Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.
“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.
She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.
McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.
“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”
Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”
Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”
The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.
Theo stiffened, then sighed.
“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”
The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.
Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.
He ignored the stares.
The whispers.
The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.
Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.
“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”
Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”
Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”
Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”
Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.
Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.
He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was wrong.
Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.
Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.
Theo just stood there.
Staring.
This was real. This was happening.
He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.
His stomach twisted.
This hardly seemed responsible.
Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.
Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.
He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.
He hesitated.
Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.
He stepped back.
She looked… peaceful.
Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.
Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.
He needed a cigarette. Immediately.
Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.
“Papà…”
It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.
Theo froze.
“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.
“Merda.” He muttered.
If he left and she woke up—
He glanced at the chair beside the bed.
Then back at her.
“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.
Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.
Just for tonight.
That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.
Just until she woke up.
Theo woke to pins and needles.
A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.
There was weight on him.
Warm. Solid.
Theo froze.
Slowly, carefully, he looked down.
She was asleep in his lap.
At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.
Theo stared.
His mind helpfully offered no explanation.
He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.
Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.
He didn’t move.
Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.
Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.
“This is a disaster.” He whispered.
She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.
He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.
For a long second, they just looked at each other.
Then her face brightened.
“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)
After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.
Because Merlin help him, she was competent.
She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.
The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.
She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.
Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.
“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)
He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.
Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was going to be a long day.
By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.
Theo was still in his pajamas.
He didn’t care.
The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.
He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.
He turned toward the common room—
And she bolted.
“—Oi, wait—!”
Too late.
She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”
She did not fall.
Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.
Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”
“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.
The room went dead silent.
Draco stared.
Lorenzo choked.
Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.
Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.
“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”
Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.
“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”
Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”
He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.
“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.
Mattheo snorted despite himself.
Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”
Mattheo blinked. Once.
Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.
Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.
“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”
Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.
Theo moved instantly.
“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”
Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”
Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”
Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."
“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.
The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)
Theo opened his mouth on instinct.
“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)
He stopped.
Because she wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t reaching for him.
She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.
She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.
Theo’s brain stalled.
Then—click.
The realization hit him like divine intervention.
An hour.
A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.
The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.
He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.
“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”
“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”
Theo was already turning away.
“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."
Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.
“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”
The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”
Mattheo looked down at her.
Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.
"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.
Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.
He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.
He shouldn’t feel guilty for this.
Dammit.
It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.
He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.
And yet.
She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.
Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.
The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.
He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?
How would he keep her safe?
Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.
Merlin, he needed that.
When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.
She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.
Theo stepped closer.
Her face lit up the moment she saw him.
“Papà!”
Something eased in his chest.
At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.
Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.
And immediately—
“—achoo!”
She blinked. Sniffed.
Then again.
“Ach—ah—choo!”
Theo froze.
Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”
Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.
Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—
Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.
“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”
Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”
“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”
Theo swallowed.
“…Right.” He muttered.
He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.
“Papà?” She asked softly.
Theo stopped.
“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)
Her shoulders relaxed instantly.
Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.
Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.
Theo caught her automatically.
She settled against him, warm and content.
And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.
It felt a lot like guilt.
And something dangerously close to resolve.
Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.
He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.
Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.
Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.
“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)
“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)
Theo froze.
Mom? She has a mom?
The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.
She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.
“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)
Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.
“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)
“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.
“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”
Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.
“You… you don’t know her name?”
The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.
The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.
“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)
“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.
“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."
Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.
“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)
“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)
Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.
He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”
Theo froze mid-lunge.
“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”
Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.
He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.
He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.
And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.
Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.
Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.
Still. He felt wrecked.
He promised he’d come back.
Repeated it, even.
Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.
It didn’t help.
She cried anyway.
Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.
Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.
So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.
Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.
The child sang.
Loudly.
Badly.
And every time Theo stopped responding—
“Papà?”
—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.
“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)
She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.
Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.
My God, was she clingy.
Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.
If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.
Clinging to the only constant she recognized.
Him.
The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.
He resisted.
Inside the stall, the singing faltered.
“Papà!” She called, sharper now.
“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)
The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.
Theo closed his eyes.
Unbelievable.
Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.
They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—
—and promptly ran straight into you.
You froze.
You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.
You firmly belonged to the former camp.
This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.
You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—
“Mama!”
The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.
Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.
“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.
“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.
You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.
Bianca frowned.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.
You spared Theo a glance.
He hadn’t moved.
Not an inch.
He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.
Bianca’s smile faltered.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.
“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.
Theo swallowed.
She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—
“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)
“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”
Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.
Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.
Flitwick blinked.
McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.
Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.
It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.
Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.
Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.
The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.
“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”
Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.
“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”
Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.
Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”
You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”
McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”
“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”
Theo’s jaw tightened.
He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.
But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.
He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.
Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.
And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.
But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.
Theodore Nott was not a single father.
Absolutely not.
He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.
And yet.
If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.
It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.
So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.
He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.
You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”
“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”
“We can’t even speak the same language.”
“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”
“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”
The words hit harder than he expected.
“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”
The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.
You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”
Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.
“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”
His mouth opened—closed again.
“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”
The anger he’d carried with him faltered.
He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”
“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.
You hesitated. Took a breath.
“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”
Theo’s chest went cold.
“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”
You looked at him, eyes searching his face.
“Like what?” You asked.
He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”
Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”
His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”
“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”
He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.
Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."
"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"
"Fuck this." He said harshly.
You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”
He turned away before you could finish.
He needed a fucking cigarette.
Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.
“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.
He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.
He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.
The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.
But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.
You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.
“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”
Theo’s fingers stilled.
Truthfully, he wasn’t.
Not in the way you meant.
It wasn’t you he was grieving.
It was the future he thought he was building.
He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.
Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.
A home that wasn’t cold.
A father who didn’t disappear into silence.
A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.
He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.
Breaking the curse.
And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.
Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.
She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.
Would he turn into him?
Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?
Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?
Would his hands—
Theo’s breath hitched.
He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.
But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.
Perhaps he was driven to it.
He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.
He never got the chance to light it.
Your hand closed around his wrist.
Firm. Steady.
He stilled.
Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.
For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.
And there it was.
Your eyes.
Or rather—
Bianca’s.
His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.
"Achoo!"
Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.
“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”
The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.
Theo swallowed.
“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”
Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.
Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.
“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)
She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.
“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)
Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.
But experience had already taught him better.
If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.
He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.
Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.
Theo froze.
His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.
Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.
Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.
Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.
Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.
But it was you.
You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.
Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.
“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”
You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.
“I brought breakfast.”
Behind him, there was sudden movement.
Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.
She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.
“Mama!”
Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.
“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”
Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.
Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.
Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.
“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.
Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”
You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”
"Oh." He muttered.
“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”
You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.
Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”
You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”
Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.
“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)
Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)
Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)
Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.
You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"
The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.
Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.
Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.
Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.
A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.
You sat on his other side.
Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.
“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”
Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.
“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”
You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”
You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.
“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.
You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.
It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.
You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”
Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.
You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”
He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
You froze.
Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.
“Wow." He said simply.
You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”
Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.
Not really.
But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.
“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."
Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.
So he went.
There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.
Theo stared at it.
Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.
He handed it back.
“No?” Mattheo blinked.
“No.” Theo said flatly.
He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.
And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.
The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.
When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.
Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.
The second thing—
You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.
Fast asleep.
Theo stopped just inside the doorway.
Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.
You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.
Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He studied your face.
A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.
He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.
Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.
You stirred.
Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.
Theo froze.
Bianca was going to lose this one day.
She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.
He was going to lose this someday.
He didn't want to lose you.
He wanted you for the rest of his life.
The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.
He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.
Then you shifted again.
This time more sharply.
Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.
You stiffened.
“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.
You blinked.
You slowly sank back down, mortified.
Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.
Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.
“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”
Theo raised a brow.
You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”
He stayed silent, letting you dig.
“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”
Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.
You shot him a look, “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”
Theo didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.
“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”
You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.
“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.
He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”
You hesitated.
Then nodded, “Okay.”
Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.
A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.
The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.
You weren’t doing much better.
The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.
The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.
It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.
So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.
You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.
Apparently, it was a thing.
A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.
Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.
So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.
“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”
“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”
Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.
“…You’re a genius.”
So there you were.
The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.
Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.
Who cared about Bianca?
You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.
Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.
She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.
“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)
Theo obliged.
He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.
You watched from the blanket.
At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.
Then your gaze shifted.
Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.
And something in your chest shifted.
Warm.
Tight.
Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.
He stole your breath.
You stared at him.
At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.
Not your ending.
And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.
Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.
And now?
You got it.
You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.
You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.
A man you could build a life with.
But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.
And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.
It felt inevitable.
You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”
You bent to lift Bianca—
“No!” She protested instantly.
She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.
Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.
“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”
You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.
Theo noticed.
He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.
“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)
The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.
You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.
Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.
“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)
Theo froze.
The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.
Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.
You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
A/N: happy birthday to us TEEHEE 🤭 also if this looks familiar its bc i recycled lines from something i shared and then never continued writing so just ignore that iykyk....
Thinking about Best Friend!Satoru x Reader..
Best Friend!Satoru who you’ve known since diapers. Whose baby photos are so intertwined with yours that your parents have to squint to remember which toddler was the menace that bit the neighbor’s kid (he insists it was you – it was most certainly not).
Best Friend!Satoru who grows into himself obnoxiously fast. Limbs too long and voice too loud and smile too sharp, looking at you like nothing has changed. Like you’re still the girl two inches taller who used to steal his snacks at recess and boss him around with a gap for two front teeth.
Best Friend!Satoru who grimaces when Suguru asks if you’re dating. Makes a whole show of gagging, dramatically collapsing onto the nearest surface like the idea alone has physically wounded him. “Me? With that hag? If I was attracted to her, I’d cut off my left ball–”
Your brow twitches, and you stomp on his foot. Hard. “Fuck you. Suguru, if I was attracted to him, I’d go bald.”
“Fine, fuck! Both balls then.”
Best Friend!Satoru who just doesn’t see the appeal. When guys go to him asking for advice – what you like, how to impress you – he shrugs them off with a languid flick of the wrist. “Dunno, man. Ask her. She bites.”
(he chooses to ignore the way something curdles in his stomach every time some hopeful idiot says he wants to “shoot his shot.”)
Best Friend!Satoru who claims he’s just being logical. Practical. Helpful, surely. But he always fucks it up somehow.
“No, don’t take her out there. She’s scared of truffles.”
“Sorry?”
“Yeah. Reminds her too much of her feet, I guess.”
“Oh.”
Best Friend!Satoru who acts horribly offended when you confront him the next day. You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed as he games with Suguru on call, your arms folded across your body and voice shrill. “What the fuck happened yesterday, Satoru?”
“Why’re you asking me? I don’t keep track of your love life.”
“You ruined my date.”
“You lie.”
“You told him I had foot fungus.”
Satoru pauses the game. Turns. Glances down at your socks, then back up at you with a scrunch of his nose.
“He looked like the kind of guy who sucked toes, so I had to warn him.”
“I don’t have foot fungus, Satoru.”
“You could. Someday.”
Best Friend!Satoru who tells himself he’s the same old him. You’re the same old you. Except he keeps catching himself staring at your mouth when you talk and your throat when you swallow and your pretty eyes and your pretty smile and your pretty tits (fuck, when did you get those?).
Like, objectively, they’ve always been there.
But now they’re just.. there.
Sitting on your chest like a fucking invitation.
Best Friend!Satoru who finds himself wondering how soft they’d feel, how your nipples would look hard and wet from his tongue. How your neck would look with his marks painting your skin.
Then he blinks, realizes he’s half-hard in his sweats, and immediately starts complaining about being hungry again to distract everyone (mostly himself, and god, he’s hungry for so much more).
Best Friend!Satoru who – when you crash at his place after movie night and fall asleep on his couch with one leg thrown over the backrest and your shorts riding up so high he can see the little dimple where ass meets thigh – has to take the longest, coldest shower of his life.
Best Friend!Satoru who jerks off so hard he sees stars, biting down on his bottom lip so you don’t hear the way he whimpers your name like a pervert.
Fuck.
You.
He cums embarrassingly fast when he remembers you’re in the next room over. Spilling hot into his hand, groaning at the sheer amount. He then emerges half an hour later like nothing happened and tosses a blanket over you while muttering “slutty sleeping positions, jeez” under his breath.
Best Friend!Satoru who keeps telling Suguru “no, dude, she’s not my type”. To which Suguru raises a brow – because he sees the way Satoru smiles when you laugh.
He hums. Watches Satoru stare at you for a full ninety seconds longer – then raises his brow higher.
"Your balls are on the line, Satoru."
"Fuck."
Best Friend!Satoru who knows that you know that he likes your tits. Nothing really ever gets past either of you when it comes to each other. You call him a boob-obsessed pervert. He doesn’t argue, for once – because there’s nothing false about that statement.
Best Friend!Satoru who ends up drunk at your place one night. His head’s in your lap and you’re playing with his hair and his filter just.. evaporates, because he’s in your bed, and god, you’re pretty, and your tits are staring right at him, and fuck, he likes your tits, and he likes you.
“If I motorboated you right now, would you kick me out or moan?”
“Excuse me?”
He repeats the question, and you stare at him before laughing. So hard you snort, which makes him groan and hide his face between your thighs (out of embarrassment, and not for any other reason. no, no alternative motives at all).
“What would you even do if you saw bare boobs, Satoru?”
He gives you an incredulous look. Like it’s obvious.
“Uh.. duh. Squeeze ‘em. Bounce ‘em. Stick my face between ‘em and go brrr.”
He pauses. Looks at you as if waiting for approval. Then raises a hand and makes a little grabby motion mid-air.
“Honk honk.”
You blink, slow.
And maybe because you’re tipsy, maybe because his cheesy grin makes your stomach flutter, maybe because of some dumb concoction of the two – you tug your shirt up. Letting your tits spill free. “Okay.”
And for once in his life, Gojo Satoru is speechless.
No way.
There’s no way you– you, his dumb, stupid, gorgeous, absolutely-nothing-more-than-friends best friend – are in front of him right now. With your tits out. He’s gotta be delusional. Maybe this is one of those dreams he gets where you lean forward and kiss him and he wakes up with a wet spot in his boxers and the afterglow ringing in his ears.
Your shirt’s bunched just beneath your collarbones, tits sitting pretty like it’s nothing. And you’re perfect, just like you always are, and they’re perfect, just like he thought they’d be, and a flush is spreading across his face, and his dick is twitching so hard it hurts.
“Satoru.”
“Mm..?”
“You’re staring.”
“Whoops.”
You raise a brow. “You begged to motorboat me. So do it, loser.”
He answers with a wrecked noise wrangled from the throat – half-laugh, half-groan. Ridiculously long fingers landing on your bare waist as he surges up.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Mouth dry, hands clammy, eyes blown wide as his gaze snaps from your face to your tits to your face to your tits and then all the way down to your sleep shorts before back up. “You’re serious? You’re letting me–?”
“You’ve got about ten seconds before I change my mind, Satoru.”
And oh, that does it.
Best Friend!Satoru who lunges.
Zero hesitation and zero finesse and pure, greedy desperation. His face buries itself between your breasts with a muffled, ridiculous brrrrrrr that vibrates straight through your skin. Nose dragging along the inner curve of one, lips brushing the other, cheeks hollowing as he shakes his head side to side like he’s trying to drown himself in your cleavage. The vibration makes you squeak, before the sound dissolves into breathless laughter.
“You absolute fucking dork–”
He pulls back just far enough for you to see his face – flushed crimson from the tips of his ears to the hollow of his throat, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Lashes fluttering as he stares up at you in open awe.
“They’re perfect,” he whispers, voice cracking, “so fucking soft, holy shit– fuuuck, I might die. Am I dead? Oh, if I am, I’m so, so happy about it.”
Then he dives back in.
His lips are soft and his mouth is hot and he’s relentless – tongue laving open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin, swirling slow, filthy circles around one nipple until it stiffens into a tight, aching peak. When he closes his lips and sucks – hard – your back arches off the bed. Fingers twisting viciously in his hair.
He groans at the pull, hips jerking forward. Grinding against the sheets.
“Look at these,” he murmurs, hoarse. Hands sliding up to cup your breasts, long fingers splaying wide as his thumbs brush over your split-slick nipples. “Been thinking ‘bout them for years, y’know? Every time you wore those stupid tops and leaned over to steal my fries and hugged me and they pressed against my body– shiiiiit, had to count backwards from a hundred. Didn’t wanna pop a boner in public like a perv.”
And oh, you see it. His hard-on, all warm and thick and pulsing with every heartbeat.
He’s so hard it has to hurt.
“Perv.”
He freezes. A full-body shudder rips through him.
“Don’t,” Satoru whispers. “Don’t– hah– or I’ll cum in my pants right now. I’m not joking.”
You giggle. Fingers running through his hair, cradling his head to your chest.
“Peeeeervert.”
“You’re evil,” he whispers, nuzzling closer. “You’ve always been evil. I hate you so much.”
“You’re literally suffocating yourself between my tits right now.”
“I take it all back. I love you. Never change. Marry me. Have my babies. Name them all after me–”
Best Friend!Satoru who thinks that taking off clothes is suuuuch an inconvenience. He does it because he has to, but really – you’re best friends. You shouldn’t need to wear clothes around each other. If you’re naked in his room all the damn time, then hey, that’s just what best friends are for. And honestly, while he’s at it, what’s a little cock, too? What are best friends for if not fucking?
Best Friend!Satoru who’s on his knees between your thighs before you can even catch your breath, long fingers spreading you wide, eyes glittering in the low light.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. Voice wrecked, thumb sliding through your slick folds just to watch you twitch. “Soaked, huh? Hiii, pretty girl. I know. ‘Toru’s here, baby.”
You barely manage a snarky shut up before he spits – deliberate, filthy – right on your clit. Watches it drip slow and nasty down to your entrance, then drags two long fingers through the mess, mixing it all together before pushing inside without warning.
The stretch makes you gasp – and then he curls his fingers just right, and you swear you see stars.
Best Friend!Satoru who lets out a murmured “attagirl” while he pumps his fingers into your pussy. You’re unsure as to whether he’s speaking to you or your cunt – scissoring you open as his tongue flicks out to swirl ‘round your clit.
“Mmm. Been dreaming ‘bout this pussy, y’know? Used to jerk off in the shower imagining your taste and then– fuuuck, yeah, post-nut clarity would hit so fucking hard. Felt like shit. This feels like heaven.”
Best Friend!Satoru who seals his mouth over your clit and sucks. The way he sucked on your nipples earlier, only harder, and filthier. Tongue flicking fast and then slow and then spelling his own name out against your cunt because of course he does.
“Satoru– fuck! Slow down–”
Best Friend!Satoru who does not slow down. Instead, he pulls off just long enough to grin up at you, lips shiny, chin dripping – “No.”
Then he’s hauling you up by the thighs, lying back against the sheets and dragging you over his face.
“Sit,” he grins. “Sit. Want your thighs around my head when I make you cum.”
Best Friend!Satoru who frowns when you hover just above. Who yanks you down until you’re smothering him, nose buried against your clit, tongue swirling inside you alongside two of his fingers, knuckle-deep. He’s moaning like he’s the one getting eaten, hips grinding uselessly against the air, a pretty bead of pre-cum dribbling down his cock.
And every time you try to lift up to give him air, he pulls you back down harder.
“No, no, use me, baby. Use me. Ride my face. Want you to drown me.”
Your thighs shake.
You’re close, so close, grinding down shamelessly now, chasing it – and he knows. He always knows. Just like he knows the sky is blue and the grass is green and he loves his best friend’s pussy so, so much.
Best Friend!Satoru who sucks your clit into his mouth one last time. Crooks his fingers just right. And then you’re crashing into your high, cumming with his name all sweet on your tongue, gushing while he drinks you down like he needs your arousal to stay alive.
Best Friend!Satoru who doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, oversensitive, trying to squirm away – and only then does he let you collapse beside him. He’s panting, face flushed a cherry pink, lips swollen and glossy with you. Sprawled on his back with an arm flung over his eyes, both of your chests heaving in sync.
You nudge his ribs. “You good, weirdo?”
He doesn’t move his arm. Just lets out the most pathetic little whine you’ve ever heard in your life, then curls into a ball.
“..I came.”
.
You prop yourself up on one elbow, peering down at him. “Wait. Like.. just now? Untouched?”
He peeks from under his forearm, mortified. “Don’t laugh. I’ll actually cry.”
You bite your lip so hard it hurts. Shoulders shaking. And he groans, rolling facedown into the pillows.
“I hate you– shit, sorry, not you.. I hate my dick. Why’s it so loyal to you?–”
You poke the small of his back. “Satoru.”
“–betraying me all the time–”
“Satoru.”
He turns his head just enough to halfheartedly glare at you, cheeks flushed. “Yes?”
“Wanna fuck me?”
His whole body jolts up – dick included. The arm flies off his face so fast it’s comical.
“Hell yeah.”
Best Friend!Satoru who lines himself up with trembling hands. Rubbing the fat head of his cock between your slick folds once, twice, swiping up and coating himself in the mess he’s made of you. And he’s big – bigger than you expected – filling you up with a burningly good stretch. He bottoms out with a groan – long and low and wrecked. Forehead dropping to yours.
“Fuck. Fuuuuuck. Holy shit, you’re tight, baby.”
“Shush.”
He blinks. Pulls back. His eyes dart over your face – hesitant.
“Sorry.”
“It's okay, ‘Toru. Just give me a sec.”
“Okay. Okay, yeah– are you okay?”
You nod, slow. Silence fills the room.
And then his dick twitches, and the both of you burst out into laughter.
It’s awkward. In that best-friends-really-shouldn’t-be-having-sex way.
But that’s what makes it fun, no?
And god, Satoru thinks he loves you.
He likes when you smile. He likes when you say his name. You’re really fucking pretty all the fucking time and even more so when you’re giggling – something in the frequency of your laugh making his brain short circuit to a pleasant buzz. And when you give him the green light, the buzz spreads all the way down into his chest, into some funny fuzzy feeling that makes his stomach do flips.
Best Friend!Satoru who fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin and live there forever. Slow, reverent, hips rolling deep and deliberate like he’s trying to mold your walls into the shape of his cock with every inch. His forehead stays pressed to yours, breath hitching every time he bottoms out, those ridiculously blue eyes all wide and adoring and completely fucking gone.
“Shit.. shit, you feel–” he cuts himself off with a shuddering groan, pulling out slow just to watch the way your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate to drag him back in. “You’re sucking me in, baby. Greedy little thing.”
Best Friend!Satoru who can’t decide where to put his hands. They’re everywhere, frantic, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he stops touching. Gentle against your tits, sliding down to frame your hips, then up again to cradle your face while he kisses you all sloppy and open-mouthed, tongue swirling with yours like he’s starving.
And then his eyes flutter open, and he murmurs soft against your mouth – “the clitoris.”
“What?”
He smiles bright, hand drifting down to thumb at your puffy clit. Grinning wider when your head falls back against the pillow and your toes curl and you squeal his name.
“The clitoris.”
Best Friend!Satoru who loses the plot completely when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. The rhythm stutters, turning all messy and desperate, and he pants into your neck, hips snapping hard enough that the headboard smacks the wall with a steady thump-thump. But his hand cradles your head gentle, the other supporting your waist. So, so careful.
“Wait– fu– fuuuckk, m’not gonna last if you keep–”
He chokes on the words when you clench deliberately around him, walls milking his cock.
“Shit, cumming, baby–”
Best Friend!Satoru who tries to pull out. Because he’s a gentleman (allegedly). But you lock your ankles behind his back and your arms wrap around his shoulders as you hold him tight to your body, murmuring a quiet “inside. on the pill” – and he’s gone. Eyes rolling back so hard you’re worried for a second, before he slams back inside with a guttural sound. Hips grinding deep as he spills all hot inside you.
He cums forever. Like, literally. Forever. You didn’t know a guy could cum this much. Pulse after pulse, hips jerking helplessly, face buried in the crook of your neck as he whimpers, muffled against your skin. “Fuck, fuck, take it– take it, baby, shiiiit–”
Best Friend!Satoru who stays buried inside you the whole time. Cock still half-hard and twitching every few seconds like it’s raring to go. Trembling, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, peppering gentle kisses along your collarbone as the silence spills soft between the two of you.
And then he pulls out, slow. Watches his cum drip out of you with a loving sigh. Proceeds to scoop it all up with two fingers and push it back in, smiling when your walls flutter weakly around his knuckles.
“Mine,” he whispers. Rolling your clit beneath the pad of his thumb almost absentmindedly. “All mine.”
Then he flops on top of you like an overgrown cat, face smushing between your tits, arms wrapped tight around your waist.
Best Friend!Satoru who, five minutes later, is hard again. Nudging your thigh with his dick like a golden retriever ready to play.
“Round two?”
You flick his forehead. “You just came inside me like a broken hose, Satoru. Give me five minutes.”
He pouts. Then brightens.
“Cool, I’ll use the five minutes to motorboat you again.”
“Satoru–”
“Brrrrrrbrrbprbrpbrrrrrr.”
Best Friend!Satoru who swears he’s not perving. Surely not.
Best Friend!Satoru who absolutely is.
But he’s doing it respectfully!
Quietly.
Desperately.
In the stupid way stupid guys do when they fall in love with their stupid childhood best friend.
Pairing: Tim Drake x reader (gender not mentioned)
Tim Drake had always been observant. You knew that going in. You liked that about him, the way he noticed when you were tired before you said anything, the way he remembered details you forgot you’d shared, the way he clocked danger before it ever reached you.
What you hadn’t anticipated was that his vigilance did not turn off when the cowl came off. It simply refocused.
The first time you noticed, you were at a café near your place. You were standing at the counter, staring at the menu like it had personally betrayed you, when the barista leaned over with a grin.
“First time here?” he asked. “I promise the cold brew won’t ruin your life.”
You laughed, relieved. “Okay, fine. Surprise me.”
Tim, seated at a corner table with his laptop, looked up.
Just for a second.
Fifteen minutes after you got home, your phone buzzed.
Tim: hey
Tim: quick thing
Tim: you remember the barista?
A link followed. Then another. Then a neat little bullet-point summary.
You stared at your screen. You decided to ignore it. You thought it was ridiculous.
He didn't let up. Brought it up again that night.
“…Tim?”
He leaned over the back of the couch, chin resting on your shoulder, left a lazy kiss on your shoulder. “So he’s twenty-four, transferred here last year, no criminal record, but he did have a messy breakup in college and his ex subtweeted him for months.”
“I did not ask for this.”
“I know,” he said, unbothered. “I’m just saying.”
“Saying what?”
“That he’s probably harmless,” Tim conceded. “But he did flirt.”
“He made a joke about coffee.”
“And you smiled back.”
You turned to look at him. “I smile at dogs, Tim.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I know. Dogs are also statistically more trustworthy.”
You thought it was a one-time thing.
It was not.
A new coworker mentioned you during a meeting? Tim knew his LinkedIn history by dinner. A neighbor waved at you in the hallway? Tim had already checked property records. Someone held the elevator door for you? Tim frowned quietly and went very, very still.
The worst part was how calm he was about it.
He never raised his voice. Never accused you of anything. He just needed to know.
“What if he’s a creep?” he asked one evening, pacing your kitchen while you stirred pasta. “What if he’s normal on the surface but weird underneath? Gotham’s full of those.”
“I don’t care,” you said. “I don’t even remember his name.”
“You smiled,” Tim repeated.
You sighed. “Tim.”
He stopped pacing, turned to you, eyes sharp with concern. “Do you find him funny?”
“What?”
“Or attractive?”
You stared at him for a long second, then burst out laughing.
“The ashy blond one?” you asked. “The guy who looked like an unseasoned boiled potato?”
Tim blinked.
“Come on,” you added. “Be serious.”
Something in his shoulders loosened. Not all the way but enough.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s…helpful.”
He stopped sending you links after that.
He did not stop researching.
You knew because sometimes he’d mutter things under his breath like, “Huh. Of course he owns crypto,” or, “That checks out,” while supposedly watching TV.
At the end of the day, though, he came home to you like nothing in the world had been wrong.
Pajamas. Soft cotton shirt. He looked innocent, wide-eyed, affectionate, like he hadn’t spent the night leaping across rooftops or quietly terrorizing the concept of privacy.
You were in the bathroom, standing at the sink, when his arms slid around your waist.
“Hey,” he murmured, mouth warm against your neck.
“Hey,” you said, smiling despite yourself.
He squeezed you gently. Then again. Then rested his chin on your shoulder, watching your reflection like it was his favorite thing.
“You know,” he said casually, “if anyone ever actually did make you uncomfortable, I’d know before you'd even bring it up to me.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It is to me,” he replied.
His hands drifted, sliding downward. He kissed the spot behind your ear, slow and lingering.
“You’re very smiley,” he added. “I like that. But it’s mine.”
You rolled your eyes. “Tim.”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice low and earnest, “if someone thought they had a chance with you, they’d be working with incomplete information.”
“And what information is that?”
He smiled in the mirror, sweet and terrifying. “That I exist in your life.”
You leaned back into him, shaking your head, and Tim hummed happily, content, making sure everything stayed exactly where it belonged.
a/n: Credit for fanart to @ bonitacita and @ danidoodels on tumblr.
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Dick finds you in his sweatpants and sweater and knows what kind of night it’s going to be.
“Hi, pretty girl.” He coos, coming right up behind you where you’re standing over a tray of cookies.
Your eyes are low and a little red behind your glasses as you look up at Dick, but you’re still gorgeous.
You give him a slow smile, “I made cookies to do asmr.”
He just nods, sitting you up on the counter. “Did you have dinner first?”
You nod, “Damien brought subs that Alfred mae.”
Dick might’ve known. “And is Damien the reason for your hazy eyes, princess?”
You still, a cookie halfway to your lips. “I’m not ratting on anyone.”
Dick laughs, kissing your forehead as you take a bite of your cookie.
The warm chocolate stains your top lip, a puddle of dark chocolate begging to be kissed off.
He doesn’t deny himself for long, his lips coming to yours so quickly your only reaction is to blink. It goes from an innocent peck, to a full blown make out in less than a second; your cookie forgotten when you tangle your fingers in his hair.
“The cookie’s good,” Dick murmurs as he pulls away making you laugh.
“Should I make some bread?” You ask suddenly and he frowns, kissing your cheek and then your neck as a means of distraction when you carry on. “We have enough flour and milk.”
“Or,” Dick starts smoothly, nosing along your collarbone. “We can go lay down and watch a movie so I don’t have to take you to Alfred for burn cream again.”
You whine, a pout making his heart falter.
“No pouting princess,” he kisses you again. “C’mon, we’ll make a snack plate and everything.”
By we, he actually meant himself, because Dick arranges the entire board while you swing your legs on the counter and start and change multiple conversations.
ᡣ𐭩 your very close friendship with roommate!dick grayson ⸝⸝.ᐟ
You and Dick Grayson become roommates because it makes sense on paper.
You’re already always together. You already share groceries. You already sleep in the same space more often than not. Signing a lease just makes it official in a way that doesn’t actually change anything.
Your apartment quickly stops feeling like it belongs to either of you individually. His jackets hang by the door next to yours. Your stuff fills his shelves. The bathroom counter is a blend of both your routines, products you’ve silently agreed you both use. You share sock and underwear drawers.
Mornings are quiet and familiar.
You shuffle into the kitchen half-awake, hair a mess, still blinking sleep from your eyes. Dick is already there, leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone with a mug in his hand. You pass behind him to grab the coffee pot and, without thinking, give his ass a light, absent-minded slap as you go by.
“Hi,” he says easily, not even looking up.
“Hey,” you reply, pouring coffee.
That’s it. That’s the interaction. It doesn’t register as anything worth noting.
Touch just exists between you. You move each other out of the way with hands on hips and shoulders. He rests his chin on your head when he reads over your shoulder. You sit between his knees on the floor while he stretches, leaning back against him like it’s where you’re meant to be.
Sometimes you shower together. Not in a sexy way.
Just practical.
You complain about the water being too hot. He adjusts it. You wash his back when he’s sore. He hands you your towel when you step out first. You talk about assignments, about dinner, about nothing at all, steam curling around you like privacy.
You sleep wherever is closest.
Your bed. His bed. The couch. The floor if you’re both too tired to move after watching something stupid at two in the morning. You wake up with limbs tangled, his arm heavy over your waist, your knee hooked over his thigh. If one of you stirs, the other shifts instinctively to make room.
Dick changes in front of you without hesitation. You do the same. You’ve both seen everything there is to see, scars, bruises, exhaustion written into muscle and posture. It stopped being notable a long time ago.
You share food constantly. He feeds you bites without looking because he knows when you’re about to steal one anyway. You wipe sauce off his mouth with your thumb like it’s a reflex. He kisses your temple when you yawn.
There is no moment where either of you stops and reevaluates.
No dawning realization. No internal oh.
Dick is just your best friend. Your roommate. The person whose presence feels like furniture, always there, always right, never questioned. And you are the same to him.
If this isn’t how everyone lives with their friends, you never notice.