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latest: 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 • bruce wayne

This is all just a side hobby and for fun. My inbox is always open for requests

you can fin my posts under the #trowneyy tag

finished the absolute masterpiece today, or it finished me?

• bruce wayne

{summary} Bruce insists he has it handled. You disagree, pull him in, and take the razor from his hand—turning a simple morning routine into something quiet, intimate, and a little too close to ignore.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

“You’re going to cut yourself.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the mirror. “I’ve been shaving longer than you’ve known me.”

“Yeah, and yet,” you say, leaning against the doorway, “you look like you’re negotiating with the razor instead of using it.”

That gets you a glance—brief, unimpressed, but softer than he pretends.

“I have it handled.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flick to the uneven line of shaving cream along his jaw. “Sure you do.”

He turns back to the mirror, clearly intending to ignore you.

You don’t let him.

You step in, then—without warning—hop up onto the counter, settling yourself comfortably. “C’mere.”

Bruce pauses mid-motion.

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

There’s a beat. A quiet standoff.

Then he exhales, sets the razor down, and steps forward.

You nudge him closer with your knee until he’s standing between your legs. The space disappears easily, like it always does with him. Your knees rest against his sides, then pull him just a little closer without thinking.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

“Uncooperative,” you shoot back, picking up the razor. “Tilt your head.”

He does.

No argument. No hesitation.

Your fingers come up to his jaw, guiding him gently as you start, slow and careful. The razor glides along his skin, and he stays still—more still than you’ve ever seen him.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I’m standing still.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m looking at you.”

You glance up for half a second—just enough to confirm it—and immediately regret it.

“Bruce.”

“Hm?”

“Focus.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

His hands settle on your thighs, warm, steady. Not distracting. Just… there.

Grounding.

You shake your head slightly and keep going.

“If you move,” you warn, “I will absolutely ruin your face.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re very confident for someone who could lose half his jaw right now.”

A faint hint of a smile touches his mouth. “I trust you.”

That lands softer than expected.

You don’t comment on it. Just rinse the blade, bring it back up, and continue, a little slower now.

It’s quiet for a moment. Easy. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

“You don’t let people do this for you,” you say after a while.

His grip tightens just slightly against your legs. “I let you.”

You pause—just for a second—then keep going like it didn’t affect you at all.

“Don’t get sentimental,” you murmur. “I’m holding a weapon.”

“Dangerous position.”

“For you.”

“For me,” he agrees quietly.

You finish one side, wiping the remaining foam away with your thumb. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

Neither of you moves.

“Other side,” you say softly.

He tilts his head immediately.

Your knees press in a little as you lean closer, steadying yourself. His hands shift slightly—still respectful, still careful—but there’s something a little more intentional in the way he holds you now.

“Don’t move,” you murmur.

“I’m not moving.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always listen.”

You smile under your breath. “Debatable.”

Still, he stays perfectly still while you finish.

When you’re done, you set the razor aside and grab a towel, gently wiping the last traces of shaving cream from his skin.

“There,” you say, leaning back just enough to look at him. “All clean.”

Bruce doesn’t step away.

If anything, he leans in—just slightly—like the space you’ve created isn’t one he plans on keeping.

Your hands rest on his shoulders now. His stay where they are.

Close.

“Good,” he says. “You’re hired.”

You huff softly. “Pretty sure I didn’t apply.”

“I could convince you.”

“Oh yeah?” Your fingers absentmindedly smooth over his collar. “How?”

His gaze drops for a brief second—then returns to yours. “I’ll think of something.”

You nudge him lightly with your knee. “Careful. You’re getting charming.”

“Only for you.”

That… lands.

Your hand slides from his shoulder to his jaw again, thumb brushing over the freshly shaved skin like you’re checking your work—but slower this time.

“Stay still,” you murmur.

“I thought we were done.”

“We are.”

“Then what—”

You lean in before he can finish, closing the small space between you.

The kiss is soft.

Unhurried.

More warm than anything else—familiar, easy, like it belongs right here between teasing and quiet moments.

Bruce stills for half a heartbeat—just enough to register it—

Then his hand shifts to your waist, steadying you as he leans into it, returning the kiss just as gently. No rush, no pressure—just staying there, like he has nowhere else to be.

When you pull back, it’s slow. Your forehead nearly brushes his.

“…There,” you murmur.

His thumb traces a small, absent circle at your side. “There?”

“Finishing touch,” you say, softer now.

A quiet breath of a laugh leaves him, barely there. “Effective.”

You smile faintly, your hands slipping back to his shoulders.

You start to shift, your legs loosening around him—but before you can move away, his hands slide down to yours, catching them.

“Next time,” he says, voice lower now, “I’m returning the favor.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You shaving me?”

His mouth curves slightly. “We’ll improvise.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway as he helps you slide off the counter.

He doesn’t let go once your feet hit the floor.

• bruce wayne

{summary}You come home with new clothes and decide to give Bruce a private fashion show. He’s tired—at first.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

Wayne Manor is quiet in that heavy, late-night way that settles after everything is done.

Bruce looks like he barely made it through the door before collapsing onto the couch.

Tie gone. Sleeves rolled. Shirt open just enough to show the line of his chest. One arm draped over the backrest, the other covering his eyes like he’s trying to shut the entire world out.

You stand in the doorway with a shopping bag hooked around your wrist, watching him for a second, already smiling.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you say.

“Not sleeping,” he murmurs. “Power conservation.”

“Great,” you hum. “Because I just got back from shopping.”

A pause.

Then his arm slides down just enough for one eye to peek at you.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Now he fully looks at you, interest cutting straight through the exhaustion. “And you went alone?”

“I wanted honest feedback.”

A slow smirk pulls at his mouth. “That sounds like a mistake.”

You shrug. “We’ll see.”

He shifts, sitting up a little more, dragging a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says, voice low, waking up. “Come on then. Impress me.”

You grin. “Oh, I will.”

The first outfit is a dress—and not a shy one.

It fits like it was made to be noticed, hugging your shape, catching the light as you walk in without saying a word.

Bruce straightens.

Actually straightens.

His arm drops from the couch, posture sharpening as his eyes track you in, slow and deliberate like he’s already recalculating something.

You stop in front of him, then—without breaking eye contact—do a slow turn.

“Thoughts?”

He leans forward immediately, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he’s trying to behave.

“That’s…” he exhales, dragging his gaze back up to your face, “…not casual shopping.”

You smile, tilting your head. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then say what you mean.”

His eyes flick down again—this time not subtle, not rushed—then back up, sharper now.

“I think,” he says slowly, “you walked in here knowing exactly what that dress does.”

You take a step closer. “And what does it do?”

He leans back just slightly, like he’s forcing space between you. “Makes me reconsider letting you out of the house alone.”

You laugh. “Possessive already?”

“Observant,” he corrects.

The second outfit hits harder.

A fitted top—soft but cut just low enough—and a skirt that moves with every step, brushing your thighs like it’s part of the act.

This time, you don’t stop far away.

You walk right up to him, then pivot, letting the skirt flare slightly before settling.

Bruce lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “What?”

“That one moves.”

“It’s a skirt, Bruce.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

You grin and do another turn, slower, exaggerating it just enough.

He leans back, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide the reaction—and failing.

“Careful,” he says, voice dropping. “You’re starting to test my patience.”

You step closer, stopping between his knees now. “You said you wanted to be honest.”

“I did.”

“Then be honest.”

His hands come up—not touching you yet, just hovering at your hips like he’s deciding.

Then, lightly, he taps the fabric of the skirt.

“This one’s trouble.”

“Why?”

His gaze lifts, dark and steady. “Because you know I’d follow you anywhere in it.”

That lands.

By the third outfit, the game has changed.

You walk in like you own the room—jeans fitted perfectly, top just cropped enough to show a hint of skin when you move.

Bruce doesn’t even pretend to relax this time.

He’s watching you before you fully step into the light.

You stop in the middle of the room.

Wait.

“…Well?” you prompt.

He studies you for a second, then gestures lazily with two fingers.

“Come here.”

You raise a brow—but you do it, slow steps, deliberate.

You stop just in front of him.

His gaze drags over you again, slower this time, heavier.

Then—

“Turn around.”

There’s no hesitation in his tone.

You smile a little, but you obey—turning slowly, knowing he’s watching every second of it.

The jeans fit perfectly.

And this time, he doesn’t hide it at all.

“Yeah,” he says, low, almost to himself.

You glance over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

His hand comes up, not grabbing—just resting briefly at your hip, grounding you there as his eyes stay exactly where they are.

“That’s my favorite,” he says.

You turn back, crossing your arms. “You’ve said that twice now.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Oh, so the others didn’t count?”

“They did,” he says, standing now—finally closing the distance, “but this one—”

His hand brushes lightly along your side as he steps past you, close enough that you feel it.

“—this one you wore for me.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover fast. “You’re very confident.”

“I’m usually right.”

ou disappear again, and this time it’s quiet for just a little too long.

Bruce doesn’t sit.

He tried—briefly—but that lasted all of ten seconds before he pushed up from the couch, pacing once, then stopping, then dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to get a grip.

“You’re taking your time,” he calls out.

“Good things take time,” you call back.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

He huffs a quiet laugh—but there’s no real patience left in it now.

By the time you come back, he’s already halfway across the room.

You don’t walk in right away.

You lean against the doorway, one shoulder pressed to the frame, the shopping bag dangling from your fingers like it weighs nothing.

But your expression?

That gives you away.

Bruce slows.

His eyes flick to the bag—then back to your face—and whatever he was about to say dies instantly.

“…What is that look?” he asks.

You shrug lightly, pushing off the frame and stepping toward him. “Final piece.”

“Another outfit?”

“Oh, it’s an outfit,” you say, voice softer now, just a little more deliberate.

That’s enough to shift something in him.

He stops a step in front of you, close enough that the air feels different.

“You’re not wearing it,” he points out.

“Not yet.”

Your fingers hook into the edge of the bag, opening it just slightly—but not enough for him to fully see.

Just enough.

Just a hint.

His gaze drops—and catches.

That’s all it takes.

His breath stills.

“…You’re serious,” he says.

You bite back a smile. “I usually am.”

He looks at you again, slower this time, like he’s recalibrating.

“You walked in here,” he says quietly, “and decided to do all of that first.”

You nod once. “Build-up matters.”

A short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “You’ve been setting me up?”

“Mm. Pretty much.”

There’s a pause.

Then he reaches for the bag.

You pull it back just slightly.

“Ah,” you say. “Careful.”

His eyes narrow—not annoyed, just… focused now.

“You’re really going to make me work for it?”

You tilt your head. “You’ve been enjoying the show.”

“I have,” he admits. “But I think I’m done watching.”

You take a slow step back.

“Shame,” you murmur. “The best part’s next.”

That’s when you finally let him take it.

He doesn’t even fully pull it out—just enough to confirm what he already knows.

And the shift is instant.

Whatever restraint he had left? Gone.

His grip tightens around the fabric still half-hidden in the bag, jaw setting as his eyes lift back to you—darker now, locked in.

“…You planned this,” he says.

You smile, backing up another step. “Of course I did.”

“For tonight.”

“For you.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You turn before he can answer.

Not fast.

Not rushed.

Just confident.

“I can go try it on,” you say over your shoulder, voice light again—but there’s something underneath it now. “If you want a better look.”

You hear the shift behind you before you even reach the hallway.

The quick step.

The change in his breathing.

You make it exactly two steps past the doorway before his hand closes around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to stop you.

“You don’t get to walk away after that,” he says.

You glance back, feigning innocence. “After what?”

“That.”

You smile slowly. “You seemed interested.”

His other hand comes to your waist, pulling you back just enough to erase the space you created.

“Interested?” he repeats, low. “That’s one way to put it.”

You lean back just slightly into his hold. “Then what would you call it?”

A pause.

Then, closer—“Done waiting.”

Your breath catches—but your smile doesn’t fade.

“Bedroom’s still that way,” you remind him softly.

“Yeah,” he says.

And this time he doesn’t hesitate.

The bag is still in his hand, but it’s barely relevant now as he turns you with him, guiding—no, steering—you down the hallway with steady intent.

Your laugh slips out, quieter now, cut short as the bedroom door opens—

• bruce wayne

{summary} Bruce tries to cook. You try to behave. Neither of you succeeds.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

The kitchen smells like something expensive and probably unnecessary.

Not in a bad way—just… very Bruce. Rich, warm spices curling through the air, something sizzling in a pan like it has a personal vendetta, and soft jazz playing low enough that it feels more like a suggestion than actual music. The windows are cracked open, letting in a thin stream of evening air that brushes the curtains just enough to make them sway.

And then there’s Bruce.

Shirtless.

Of course he is.

He stands at the stove like he was born there, broad shoulders relaxed, muscles shifting subtly with every small movement as he stirs whatever he’s making. There’s a dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s pretending to be casual about the whole thing, but there’s nothing casual about the way he looks—like a magazine cover accidentally wandered into your kitchen and decided to start cooking.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him for a long moment.

“…You know,” you say finally, voice slow and thoughtful, “most people wear clothes while committing crimes.”

He doesn’t turn around immediately. Just huffs out a quiet laugh, like he knew you were there the entire time—which, knowing him, he probably did.

“What crime am I committing?” he asks, calm and amused, still stirring.

You push off the doorframe and wander in like you own the place. Which, at this point, you kind of do.

“This,” you gesture vaguely at him. “Public indecency. Emotional manipulation. Being unfairly attractive while sautéing… whatever that is.”

He glances over his shoulder now, one brow lifting.

“Risotto,” he says, like that somehow proves your point wrong.

“Oh, of course. Shirtless risotto. Classic.”

There’s the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth now, subtle but very much there.

You circle behind him, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging over his back in a way that is not subtle. He goes back to stirring, but his shoulders tense just slightly—just enough that you know he’s aware of every step you take.

“Is there a reason you’re lurking?” he asks.

“Observing,” you correct. “Judging, mostly.”

“Mm. And what’s the verdict?”

You step closer. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the clean soap mixed with whatever he’s cooking.

“Still pretty,” you say casually.

He snorts—actually snorts—and shakes his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you hum, leaning in just slightly, “you keep me around.”

Before he can respond—

Smack.

Your hand lands squarely on his ass.

It’s not subtle. It’s not gentle. It’s very intentional.

Bruce freezes mid-stir.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, slowly, he sets the spoon down.

“…You know,” he says, voice lower now, “most people don’t assault the person cooking their dinner.”

You grin, completely unrepentant. “Most people don’t look like that while cooking dinner.”

He turns then, fully, and there’s that look in his eyes—the one that means you’ve started something.

“Oh, I see,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “So this is about my behavior.”

“Entirely,” you nod, backing up half a step… which he immediately closes.

“You walk in,” he continues, voice smooth, “distract me, insult me—”

“I complimented you.”

“—and then you hit me.”

“Affectionately.”

His lips twitch.

“Affectionately,” he repeats.

You tilt your head, innocent. “You liked it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it either.”

That earns you a proper smile—small, sharp, and a little dangerous.

“Oh, you’re feeling bold today.”

“Always,” you say.

He hums, considering you for a moment, then reaches past you—close enough that his arm brushes yours—to grab the spoon again.

But instead of turning back immediately, he leans down just slightly, voice dropping near your ear.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “I might start returning the favor.”

You grin. “Promise?”

That does it.

He laughs—soft, genuine—and finally turns back to the stove, but now there’s a shift in the air. Lighter. Warmer. Like the teasing has settled into something familiar and easy.

You hop up onto the counter beside him, legs swinging idly.

“What are you even making?” you ask, peering into the pan like you understand anything happening in there.

“Risotto,” he repeats patiently.

“That tells me nothing.”

“It’s rice.”

“Wow. Groundbreaking. Shirtless man invents rice.”

He shoots you a look. “I regret cooking for you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…No,” he admits after a second, “I don’t.”

You watch him for a bit, quieter now, but still smiling. He moves with this effortless confidence, like everything he does has intention—even something as simple as cooking.

“…You’re enjoying this way too much,” you say.

“Cooking?”

“Showing off.”

He glances at you again, amused. “You think this is for you?”

You scoff. “Please. Who else is it for? Alfred’s seen you shirtless before, I assume.”

Bruce pauses.

“…That’s a deeply upsetting sentence.”

You laugh, delighted. “Oh, come on, don’t pretend you’re shy now.”

“I’m not shy.”

“Mmhm.”

“You’re the one sitting on my counter critiquing my cooking.”

“And your face,” you add.

“My face?”

“Very pretty. Distracting.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but there’s no hiding the faint flush creeping up his neck now.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you slide off the counter, stepping closer again, “you’re still here.”

You reach out, this time not smacking him, just letting your fingers brush lightly along his side, softer now. The teasing doesn’t disappear—it just shifts, settles into something a little warmer.

Bruce’s hand catches your wrist gently before you can pull away.

There’s a pause.

Then he lifts your hand just slightly—and presses a quick, absent-minded kiss to your knuckles before letting go.

“Stay out of trouble,” he says, turning back to the stove like he didn’t just do that.

You blink.

“…You literally fight crime.”

“Not the point.”

You smile, leaning back against the counter, watching him again.

“…Hey, Bruce?”

“Mm?”

You consider for a second.

Then, very deliberately—

Smack.

Again.

He stops.

Slowly turns his head.

“…I warned you.”

You grin, already backing away. “Worth it.”

He sets the spoon down again.

“…Come here.”

“Oh, absolutely not—”

Too late.

He catches you easily, pulling you back with a quiet laugh, and whatever happens next is less about revenge and more about the two of you dissolving into that easy, familiar chaos—half teasing, half affection, entirely yours.

The risotto, inevitably, gets slightly overcooked.

Neither of you really cares.

“Hey—!”

Your protest dissolves into laughter as he spins you, quick and controlled, until your back bumps lightly against the counter again. He doesn’t trap you there, not really—just stands close enough that escape would require actual effort.

And you’re not that committed to escaping.

“You’re very brave,” he says, folding his arms, looking down at you with that same almost-smile, “for someone with absolutely no exit strategy.”

You tilt your chin up, unimpressed. “Bold of you to assume I need one.”

“Oh?” His brow lifts. “So this was your plan?”

“Obviously.”

“Enlighten me.”

You gesture between the two of you. “Step one: provoke you.”

“That part’s going well.”

“Step two…” You pause, considering. “Still working on that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, and for a second the whole dangerous billionaire thing drops completely, replaced by something softer—something that’s just him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

He doesn’t answer that. Which, honestly, is an answer.

Instead, he reaches past you again to check the pan, like he hasn’t just cornered you in his kitchen. Like this is all completely normal. But there’s a faint smirk lingering now, something amused and knowing, like he’s waiting for your next move.

Which, of course, is a mistake.

Because now you have to do something.

“You’re distracted,” you say suddenly.

“I’m cooking.”

“Poorly.”

He gives you a look. “I was doing fine until you started assaulting me.”

“Excuses.”

“Sabotage.”

You lean in just slightly, lowering your voice. “Admit it. You like the attention.”

He glances at you sideways. “I tolerate it.”

“You thrive on it.”

“Careful,” he murmurs, “you’re projecting.”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “I would never.”

He finally turns fully toward you again, closer this time, expression softer but still edged with humor.

“No?”

“No,” you repeat, quieter now—but still smiling.

There’s a beat.

The kitchen hums around you—the low music, the soft bubbling of the pan, the faint rustle of curtains. It all fades just slightly, like it’s stepping back to make room for the moment.

Bruce studies you for a second longer than necessary.

Then—quick as anything—his hand lands lightly against your side.

Not a smack. Not quite.

But definitely payback.

You jolt, laughing. “Hey—!”

“Affectionately,” he echoes, completely straight-faced.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I learned from the best.”

“You’re literally the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, mirroring you from earlier, “you’re still here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just that familiar spark, the easy back-and-forth that never quite turns serious, never quite fades either.

“…You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” he admits.

“Just a little?”

“A lot,” he corrects, after a beat.

You grin.

“Thought so.”

He shakes his head again, softer this time, and turns back to the stove—but not before nudging your knee aside so he can stand closer without bumping into you.

You stay where you are, perched against the counter, watching him like before. But now there’s a quiet kind of rhythm to it—your teasing, his responses, the way neither of you really tries to stop the other.

After a moment, you lean over slightly, peering into the pan again.

“…Is it supposed to look like that?”

“Yes.”

“It looks suspicious.”

“It’s risotto.”

“It looks like expensive glue.”

He exhales a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You are banned from the kitchen.”

“You brought me here.”

“I didn’t bring you—”

“You exist here,” you interrupt. “Same thing.”

He gives up arguing, which is rare enough that it makes you smile.

“…Taste it,” he says instead, scooping a small bit onto the spoon and holding it out toward you.

You eye it skeptically. “If I die—”

“You won’t.”

“—I’m haunting you.”

“You already do.”

You grin, then lean forward and take the bite.

There’s a pause as you consider it, deliberately dramatic.

Bruce watches you, unimpressed. “Well?”

You hum, dragging it out.

“…Okay,” you admit eventually. “That’s actually really good.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

You nudge his arm lightly with your shoulder. “Still looks like glue.”

“And yet, you liked it.”

You open your mouth to argue—then stop.

“…Don’t use my own logic against me.”

“It’s effective.”

“Rude.”

He just smiles to himself, turning back to finish up, but there’s something lighter in the way he moves now. Less focused on the task, more on the moment.

You watch him a little longer.

Then—

because you absolutely cannot help yourself—

you lean in, quick as anything, and press a fleeting kiss to his shoulder before pulling back like nothing happened.

Bruce pauses.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

“…You’re inconsistent,” he says after a second.

“How so?”

“One minute you’re hitting me—”

“Affectionately.”

“—the next you’re doing that.”

You shrug, entirely unbothered. “Range.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh.

“…Stay,” he says, softer now, not looking at you this time.

You don’t make a joke out of it.

Just settle back against the counter, close enough that your knee brushes his when he shifts.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “I was planning on it.”

The teasing doesn’t stop—not really. It never does. It just weaves itself into everything else, into the quiet, the warmth, the way the two of you exist in the same space without ever quite settling into silence.

By the time the food is done, you’ve both lost track of how many times you’ve laughed, how many little jabs turned into something softer before they could land properly.

And when Bruce finally plates the risotto, handing it to you with a raised brow like he’s expecting another comment—

You just smile.

“…Still pretty,” you say.

He rolls his eyes.

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡!

- HARRY POTTER -

- 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐖 • theodore nott

- 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓 • theodore nott

- 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 • theodore nott

- 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 • draco malfoy

- 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 • draco malfoy

- 𝐃𝐎 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍 • fred weasley

- 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐊! • fred weasley

-DCU -

-𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄 • bruce wayne

-𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 • bruce wayne

-𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐍 • bruce wayne

• bruce wayne

{summary}He doesn’t fall asleep easily. Not like this. Not without pulling away.But today, he doesn’t.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

Sunlight spills across the living room in long, lazy streaks, cutting through the tall windows of Wayne Manor and settling over the couch like it belongs there. It’s quiet, but not in the heavy, late-night way—this is softer, easier, the kind of quiet that comes from a rare, unplanned break in the day.

You’re stretched out along the couch, half on your side, half on your back, one arm tucked under your head while the other lazily scrolls through your phone. There’s a faint hum of something playing on the TV, more background noise than anything else, and for once, you’re not waiting for anything.

Which is exactly why it surprises you when Bruce Wayne walks in.

Not in a rush. Not mid-call. Not already halfway distracted.

Just… there.

You glance up, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “You’re home.”

“I live here,” he replies, but there’s a quieter edge to it than usual, like even he knows that’s not really what you meant.

“You know what I mean,” you say, shifting a little to make space without thinking about it. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“I’m aware.”

You watch him for a second as he loosens his cufflinks, setting them down absentmindedly on the table before glancing around the room like he’s deciding what to do with himself now that he’s here.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once. “Just… needed a break.”

That’s rare enough on its own that you don’t question it too much.

“Come sit, then,” you say, nudging the cushion lightly with your foot. “You look like you’re about to keep standing there and pretend that counts as resting.”

That earns you the faintest shift in his expression—something almost like amusement—but he doesn’t argue. He moves toward the couch, slower than usual, like he’s actually letting himself follow through on the idea of stopping.

When he sits, the cushion dips beside you, warm and familiar.

For a moment, he just leans back, exhaling quietly, his head tipping slightly against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded like he’s trying to let the tension go piece by piece.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure,” you hum. “That’s why you came home in the middle of the day to ‘take a break.’”

He doesn’t respond to that.

Which is answer enough.

You shift a little, turning more toward him, your knee brushing lightly against his leg. “Lie down for a second.”

“I don’t need to—”

“Bruce.”

It’s not pushy. Not insistent.

Just… simple.

He pauses, glancing at you, weighing it in that quiet way he does—and then, without making a big deal out of it, he gives in.

“Just for a minute,” he says.

“Sure,” you reply easily.

He shifts then, turning slightly toward you as he stretches out along the couch, one arm sliding around your waist without much thought. Before you can even comment on it, he settles closer, his head lowering—

—and then it rests against your chest.

You still for a second.

Because that’s… not subtle.

Not careful. Not measured.

It’s instinctive.

Unthinking.

“…comfortable?” you ask softly, your hand hovering for just a moment before coming to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice already quieter, rougher at the edges. “Stay.”

You huff a small breath through your nose, something warm settling in your chest as your fingers move gently through his hair, slow and absent.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

The sunlight shifts slightly across the room, warming the space around you, and for a moment, everything feels… still.

Not tense. Not waiting.

Just calm.

You feel it happen before you fully register it—the change in his breathing, the way it slows, evens out, the subtle weight of him settling more heavily against you.

“…Bruce?” you murmur, just to check.

Nothing.

You glance down slightly, just enough to confirm it—and there it is.

He’s asleep.

Just like that.

No warning, no catching himself halfway through.

Gone.

A quiet smile pulls at your lips, your hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow movement through his hair. “You didn’t even try to fight it,” you murmur under your breath.

He doesn’t move.

If anything, he shifts closer, like his body’s leaning into the contact without thinking about it.

And that—

That gets to you more than you expect.

Because this isn’t how he usually is. There’s no control in it, no distance, no awareness of how close he is or how much he’s letting go.

It’s just trust.

You adjust slightly, careful not to wake him, one hand resting against his back now, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The TV keeps playing quietly in the background, but you barely notice it anymore.

You don’t check your phone.

You don’t move away.

You just stay there, letting the moment stretch, memorizing the quiet of it.

Because you know how rare this is.

Eventually, though, he stirs.

It’s small at first—a shift of his head, a deeper inhale, his hand tightening slightly at your side before relaxing again. Your fingers pause in his hair as you glance down at him.

He exhales slowly, then lifts his head just enough to pull back, blinking against the light like he’s trying to figure out where he is.

“…I fell asleep,” he says, voice low, still rough with it.

You raise an eyebrow slightly. “Yeah. You did.”

He sits up a little more, dragging a hand over his face, then glances back at you, something more aware settling in his expression now.

“…sorry,” he says.

You shake your head immediately. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Apologize for falling asleep,” you reply. “You clearly needed it.”

He exhales through his nose, something almost like a quiet laugh slipping through. “Apparently.”

A brief pause settles between you, softer than before.

“…how long?” he asks.

“Not that long,” you shrug. “Long enough.”

He nods once, glancing at you again like he’s replaying it in his head.

“…I was on you,” he says.

“Very much,” you reply, a small hint of teasing in your voice.

That earns you the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth, something subtle but real.

“You should’ve moved me.”

“I could’ve,” you say. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Another pause.

He looks at you a second longer this time, something quieter settling into his expression—not guarded, not distant, just… there.

“…thanks,” he says finally.

You shrug lightly, leaning back into the couch. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not.”

A beat.

“…just noting it.”

You nod once, glancing back at the TV. “You can fall asleep again, you know.”

He huffs a quieter laugh this time, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.”

But he doesn’t move away.

Instead, after a second, he shifts just a little closer again—subtle enough that you don’t comment on it, but noticeable all the same.

And this time—

• fred weasley

{summary} It starts with a look across the dinner table—the kind that lingers too long to be innocent. By the time Fred gets you alone, the teasing is gone, replaced by something quieter, closer, and far more dangerous… until a very unfortunate interruption ruins the moment.

{content} fred weasley x reader, established relationship, warm to heated transition, soft tension, kissing, slow undressing (non-explicit), emotional closeness, almost-smut

Dinner at the Burrow has that restless kind of warmth that never quite settles. The table is crowded, plates half-cleared, voices overlapping in a constant stream that makes it impossible to follow any one conversation for too long. Laughter comes in bursts, chairs scrape against the floor, and somewhere at the far end Molly is insisting someone takes more food they’ve already refused twice. The windows are open, letting in the soft evening air, but it does very little to cut through the heat gathered inside.

You try to pay attention.

You really do.

But it becomes increasingly difficult when you can feel it—that steady, familiar pull of attention that doesn’t let up.

When you glance up, it’s exactly where you expect it to be. Fred Weasley is already looking at you, elbow propped lazily against the table, his focus nowhere near the conversation happening around him. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you catch him. Instead, his mouth tilts slightly, something knowing in it, like he’s been waiting for you to notice.

You drop your gaze back to your plate, but it doesn’t help.

It never does.

A few minutes pass like that—half-listening, half-aware—until you feel movement beside you. Not obvious enough to draw attention, just enough that you notice him shifting, leaning slightly closer.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past you.

“I’m listening,” you reply, though your attention is already slipping.

“To what?” he murmurs, glancing briefly around the table before looking back at you again. “None of them are making any sense.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That’s not new.”

“No,” he agrees, and there’s something softer in the way he says it now, something that settles between you instead of being thrown out like a joke. His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts again, just slightly, like he’s testing the space.

You don’t move away.

There’s a pause.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

But long enough.

“Come on,” he says quietly.

You don’t ask where.

You don’t ask why.

You just push your chair back a little, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and stand. No one stops you. No one really notices—everyone is still too caught up in their own conversations.

He follows a second later.

Not rushed.

Not obvious.

But close.

The moment you step into the hallway, the difference is immediate. The noise fades into something distant, muffled behind walls and floors, replaced by quiet that feels almost too still after everything downstairs. The air is cooler here, moving slowly through the open windows, carrying the faint scent of summer with it.

You walk side by side at first.

Then not quite.

Because he drifts closer without thinking about it, until your arms brush, until there’s barely any space between you at all.

“You didn’t even argue,” he says, his voice softer now, more private in the quiet.

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s new.”

You glance at him briefly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” he says, but there’s something in his tone that makes it sound like he doesn’t mind either way.

You reach the stairs, moving up them slowly, the wood creaking faintly under your steps. He’s right behind you now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching, close enough that every movement feels more noticeable.

“You were staring,” you say, not turning.

“So were you.”

“I was not.”

“You were,” he replies easily. “You’re just worse at hiding it.”

You huff quietly. “You weren’t hiding it at all.”

“Didn’t see the point.”

That sits with you.

Longer than it should.

By the time you reach his room, the tension is already there, stretched thin and waiting.

You step inside first, the room dim in the soft gold of evening, the open window letting in a slow breeze that shifts the curtains just enough to make the space feel alive. It smells faintly like him—clean, familiar, something that settles into you before you can think about it.

He steps in after you.

Closes the door.

Not locked.

Just shut.

And for a second—

nothing happens.

You turn slightly, meaning to say something, to break the quiet before it becomes too much—

But you don’t get the chance.

Because he’s already there.

Close enough that the space disappears in a single step, his hand finding your wrist first, then your waist, pulling you toward him with an ease that makes it feel like this was always going to happen.

“Couldn’t wait?” you murmur, but it comes out softer than you meant it to.

“You came with me,” he replies, just as quiet.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is tonight.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t have time to.

Because he kisses you.

It’s immediate—not rushed, not messy, but certain. Like he’s been holding it back just enough to make it matter now. His hand settles at your waist, steady, grounding, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

You lean into it without thinking.

Of course you do.

“Thought about this all evening,” he murmurs against your lips, barely pulling away.

You let out a soft breath that fades when he kisses you again, deeper this time, more intentional, like he’s not holding back anymore.

Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately, the shift subtle but there—his hand tightening slightly, his body pressing closer.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

“You like trouble.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “when it’s you.”

That’s what tips it.

The movement to the bed happens without either of you really deciding it. The back of your legs meets the mattress and you let out a soft breath as you fall back slightly, his hand steadying you, guiding more than pushing. The sheets are warm, faintly rumpled, the room suddenly feeling smaller, closer, like everything outside it has disappeared completely.

He follows you down, not breaking the moment, the kiss shifting again—slower now, deeper, more deliberate. His hand moves along your side, not rushed, just there, like he’s paying attention to every reaction, every breath.

His hand travel under you shirt, his finger tips cold agains your skin as he pushes the shirt over your head breaking the kiss for a moment. He throws the shirt somewhere on the ground, before pressing his lips against your neck, leaving soft kisses.

Your hands travel to his sweater too pulling at it a bit before speaking. “Fred...“ you mumble into his hair, he pulls away from your neck, straightening up to take off his sweater, revealing his bare skin.

“You are so hot,“ he says, looking down at you, eight there in front of him, laying on his bed only in your pants and bra.

You chuckle quietly, “come here“ you mutter to him, pulling him down and pressing your lips against his, the kiss being hotter now.

Fred ’s lips travel from your lips to your jaw, to your neck, to your collarbone and to in between your breasts. Leaving wet marks behind.

His fingers brush against the waistaband of your pants, looking up at you for approval. You nod, hands in his hair.

He softly undoes the button and zip, when suddenly...

The door opens.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Fred stills first, his head lifting slowly, like he already knows this is going to be bad.

“…you’re joking.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Oh—bloody hell—”

Ron Weasley stands frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, like he’s just walked into something he absolutely did not want to see.

For a second, no one moves.

Then Fred exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, irritation cutting through everything else.

“Ever heard of knocking?” he says flatly.

Ron blinks. “I didn’t— I thought—”

“You didn’t think,” Fred cuts in, sharper now, already shifting slightly, instinctively blocking you from view even if it’s far too late. “Door was closed. That’s usually a clue.”

“You didn’t lock it!”

“Because normal people knock!”

You turn your face away, heat rushing up, grabbing whatever you can just to have something to do.

“Ron,” you manage, “out.”

“I am leaving,” he says immediately, backing away fast. “I’m gone—this didn’t happen—I didn’t see anything—”

He disappears down the hallway.

Fred watches the doorway for a second longer, jaw tight.

Then, louder—

“Next time—”

A pause outside.

His voice sharpens, deliberate.

“KNOCK.”

The door shuts.

Silence settles again.

Thick.

Shifted.

Fred exhales slowly, then looks back at you, something softer slipping back into place like nothing just happened.

“…where were we?”

And somehow—

• fred weasley

{summary} You and Fred Weasley have always been easy-laughing, talking, never quite questioning it. Until one quiet afternoon in the meadow, you do something you can’t take back.

{content} no smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, impulsive kiss, fluff, fem!reader, no-war universe

The meadow isn’t really a secret spot. People pass through it all the time—between classes, on their way back from the lake—but at this hour it’s quiet enough to feel like it belongs to you.

You’re stretched out in the grass, shoes kicked off somewhere behind you, the sun warm against your face. The sky is too bright to look at for long, so you turn your head instead.

Fred’s already looking at you.

He doesn’t look away when you catch him.

“Careful,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’ll start thinking I’m interesting if you keep staring like that.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I was thinking the opposite, actually.”

“Tragic,” he murmurs. “I’ll have to work harder, then.”

He says it lightly, like everything else—like he always does. It’s easy with him. It’s always been easy. Since first year, since before either of you really knew what anything meant, it’s just been this—talking, laughing, filling space without trying.

You shift onto your side, facing him properly. “You’ve had years to impress me. I think we both know how that’s gone.”

“Unfair,” Fred says, though he’s smiling. “I’ve impressed loads of people.”

“Name one.”

“George.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts,” he argues. “He’s very hard to impress.”

“Bare minimum, really.”

Fred grins at that, wider now, eyes bright in a way that makes your chest feel a little too tight for no reason you can explain. He drops back onto the grass again, folding his arms behind his head.

“You wound me,” he says. “All this time, I thought I was your favorite.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because you could say it—could brush it off, make it a joke like he did—but the words feel different when they sit at the front of your throat.

He tilts his head slightly, glancing at you again. “What, no denial?”

You swallow, then shrug, trying to keep your tone light. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

That gets his attention.

There’s a small pause—barely anything—but it’s there. His gaze lingers a second longer than usual, like he’s deciding whether to push it or not.

“Good,” he says finally, softer than before. “I’d hate to lose my spot.”

You smile, but it feels quieter now. The kind of quiet that settles in without asking.

The wind shifts, brushing through the grass around you. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear faint voices—other students, far enough away not to matter.

It’s just you and him.

It always is.

Fred says something else—something about a prank he and George are planning, something ridiculous—and you try to focus on it, you do, but you’re only half listening.

Because you’re looking at him.

At the way his hair falls into his eyes, the way he keeps brushing it back without thinking. The way he talks with his hands, like the story needs it. The way he keeps glancing at you, like he’s checking you’re still there.

And suddenly—

it feels obvious.

So obvious it almost makes you laugh.

You don’t think about it.

You don’t plan it.

You just lean in.

And kiss him.

It’s quick—barely more than a press of your lips to his—but it’s enough to stop everything.

Fred freezes.

Completely.

No movement, no reaction—just still, like his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

And the second you realize that—

your stomach drops.

You pull back immediately, heat rushing to your face too fast, too sharp.

“I—” you start, already shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t know why I did that, I just—”

You let out a breath that doesn’t quite land, a small, awkward laugh slipping out with it. “Forget it. Just—forget it, okay?”

He’s still staring at you.

Not angry. Not upset.

Just… stunned.

Which somehow feels worse.

“I shouldn’t have—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head again. “I’ll just— I’ll see you later.”

You don’t wait for him to answer.

You push yourself up too quickly, grabbing your shoes without really looking at them, and turn—already moving, already trying to put distance between you and whatever that just was.

Your heart is pounding too loud, your thoughts tripping over each other.

Stupid. That was stupid. Why would you—

“Hey—”

You don’t stop.

Of course you don’t.

“Wait—”

His voice is closer now.

You pick up your pace anyway.

Until—

his hand catches yours.

It’s not rough, just firm enough to stop you, to pull you back before you can get any further.

You turn, breath uneven, already starting to talk again. “Fred, I said I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird, I just—”

“Will you stop?”

The words aren’t sharp.

Just… certain.

You do.

Because it’s him.

Fred’s still holding your hand. His grip isn’t tight, but he doesn’t let go either. He’s looking at you differently now—not confused, not distant.

Focused.

There’s a beat.

Then, softer—

“Do it again.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“Or don’t,” he adds quickly, like he’s catching himself. “I mean—I can, I just—”

He stops.

For once, Fred Weasley doesn’t have the right words.

And that—

that’s new.

You stare at him for a second, something warm and nervous twisting in your chest.

Then, before you can overthink it—

he closes the distance.

His hand shifts slightly in yours, steadying you as his other comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing just under your cheek.

This time, when he kisses you—

there’s no hesitation.

It’s not rushed, not clumsy—just sure. Like he’s decided, finally, and there’s no going back from it now.

You melt into it before you can stop yourself, your free hand gripping the front of his shirt without thinking.

He pulls you closer, just slightly, like he’s been wanting to do that for longer than either of you realized.

When he pulls back, it’s not far.

His forehead rests briefly against yours, breath uneven but quieter now.

“See,” he murmurs, a hint of his usual grin returning, “that’s more like it.”

You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says easily. Then, after a beat—more genuine, softer— “Don’t run off next time.”

You look at him for a second, something settling into place.

“Don’t freeze next time,” you shoot back.

He grins.

“Deal.”

And this time, when he laces his fingers through yours—

• theodore nott

{summary}You weren’t looking for him—you just knew where he’d be. You just didn’t expect to catch Theodore Nott in something he promised you he’d stopped.

{content}angst, no smut, established relationship, broken promise, trust issues, smoking, confrontation, emotional distance, unresolved ending, no-war universe, fem!reader

the courtyard was quiet in that suffocating, late-night way—dim, biting, with just enough silver light spilling from the castle windows to turn the shadows into jagged glass.

you only came out here because the castle felt too empty without him. You knew his patterns; you knew the way he sought the cold when his thoughts got too loud. So when you pushed the heavy oak door open, you were already bracing for him.

Just not like this.

The smell hit first. Acrid, grey, and unmistakable.

You stopped. Not out of shock, but because the sudden weight in your chest made movement impossible.

Theodore Nott stood a few paces away, his silhouette sharp against the stone wall. He was half-turned toward Blaise Zabini, his posture draped in a casual arrogance that didn't belong. Not with that glowing ember between his fingers. Not after the months of silence.

You didn’t move closer. The cold air felt like a physical barrier.

“You said you stopped.”

The words cut clean through the low murmur of Blaise’s voice.

Theo’s head snapped toward you. For once, the mask didn't slide on fast enough. You saw the flicker—a raw pulse of guilt, maybe even fear—before it was buried under that familiar, cool indifference.

“I did.”

You looked at the cigarette, the smoke curling around his knuckles like a confession. Then you looked back at his eyes.

“Right.”

The air went dead. Blaise stepped back into the shadows; Draco Malfoy, leaning against a pillar nearby, shifted his weight but kept his gaze on the floor.

Theo didn’t blink. “It’s not what you think.”

A ghost of a smile touched your lips. It wasn’t out of humor; it was the realization that even someone as brilliant as Theodore Nott resorted to clichés when backed into a corner.

“Then explain it.”

A beat. He exhaled, the grey plume blooming between you, momentarily obscuring his face. It felt like a deliberate wall.

“It’s not a habit anymore,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s just…”

“Occasional?” you interjected.

His jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. “If you want to call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

He didn't answer. He looked at you with a growing flicker of irritation, as if you were the one being difficult—as if you were dragging a private moment into the light for no reason.

“That’s not the point,” he said shortly.

“No,” you agreed, your voice dropping to a whisper that carried further than a shout. “It’s not.”

That gave him pause. The lack of an argument was a trap he hadn't prepared for.

“The point is,” you continued, “you told me you stopped. You gave me your word.”

“I told you I would.”

“You said you had.”

His expression shifted—a subtle darkening of his gaze. “Same difference.”

“No,” you said, the cold finally reaching your bones. “It’s the only difference.”

Silence settled, thin and sharp as a razor. Theo pushed himself off the wall, taking one slow, deliberate step toward you. Not enough to touch, but enough to try and reclaim the space.

“It didn’t seem worth mentioning,” he said, his tone bordering on dismissive.

That landed like a blow.

“Right,” you nodded, your throat tightening. “Because my knowing wouldn't have changed anything. Because I wouldn't have cared.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Something in him snapped. It wasn't loud or dramatic; it was the sound of a controlled burn getting out of hand.

“I didn’t want to have this conversation,” he snapped, the irritation finally breaking through. “That’s it. That is the whole of it.”

Honesty. Sharp, ugly, and selfish.

You watched him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable for him.

“So you just avoided it.”

“I handled it.”

“You hid it.”

“I didn’t hide anything,” he said, his voice rising.

“You made sure I wouldn’t see it, Theo. In this house, in this life—that’s a lie.”

He went still. Not because he was conceding, but because the word lie was a stain he couldn't easily wipe off.

“Why does it matter so much?” he asked. It wasn't a taunt. It was a genuine, frustrated question from a man who measured the world in logic while you were measuring it in trust.

“Because you promised,” you said.

“That’s it? A broken promise over a bit of tobacco?”

You let out a quiet, shaky breath. “No.”

You took half a step forward, just enough to catch the scent of him—the expensive wool of his coat, the winter air, and that underlying, burnt bitterness.

“You smell like it,” you said softly. “Even when you think you’ve washed it away. Even when you think you’re being careful. It lingers. On your clothes. Your hands.” You paused, your eyes locking onto his. “On your breath when you kiss me.”

That threw him. The shield dropped entirely. He looked down at his hand as if the cigarette were a venomous thing.

“That’s not a reason,” he murmured, though the conviction was gone.

“It is to me. It means every time you were with me, you were keeping a secret.”

The heavy silence returned, but the heat had gone out of it.

“You could’ve told me,” you added.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“That’s the problem, Theo. You decide what matters to me without ever asking.”

You took a step back. It wasn't a theatrical exit; it was a quiet withdrawal of presence.

“I didn’t ask you to quit so you could learn how to lie better,” you said.

“I didn’t lie.”

“You let me believe something that wasn't true. That’s worse.”

He didn’t defend himself. He just watched you, his eyes dark and unreadable, as you turned your back on the courtyard.

The click of the door closing behind you was the loudest sound in the night.

For a long minute, no one spoke. The wind whistled through the stone arches.

“Should we—” Blaise started, glancing toward the door.

“Don’t,” Theo said. His voice was flat, hollow.

He looked down at the cigarette. The ash was long, precarious. He turned it slowly between his fingers, watching the way the orange glow illuminated the tremors he couldn't quite stop.

With a sudden, sharp motion, he flicked it away. It hit the frost-covered grass, a tiny spark that died almost instantly.

• draco malfoy

{summary}Before Draco Malfoy’s Quidditch practice, a quick moment turns into something harder to walk away from-for both of you

{content} suggestive, heavy make-out, established relationship, quidditch player draco, no-war universe, fem!reader, all characters aged up

the corridor is empty. completely empty.

which is the only reason draco has you pressed back against the stone wall like hes forgotten he has somewhere to be.

your hands are already in his hair, pulling him down to you, and he doesnt resist-not even a little. if anything, he leans into it, one hand firm at your waist, the other sliding up your jaw to tilt your face exactly how he wants it.

the kiss isnt soft. it hasnt been from the start.

it messy, heated, the kind that keeps going because neither of you is willing to stop first. your lipstick is definitely ruined, but you dont care-and judging by the way hes still pulling you closer, neither does he.

you barely get a breath before youre kissing him again. and again.

“draco-“ you murmur, but it just turns into another kiss when he doesnt pull away.

his grip tightens slightly at your waist, like hes keeping you exactly where you are, like letting you go isnt even an option hes considering.

you tug his hair again, a little more impatient this time.

“dont go yet,“ you say against his lips, quieter now, but not less insistent.

he exhales softly, forehead brushing yours for a second-but he still doesnt step back.

“i have practice“ he mutters, like the words themselves are annoying.

you dont move. “then be late“

his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you there-not pushing you away, not pulling you closer either. just... keeping you.

“ive already pushed it,“ he says, quieter now. “theyll notice“

“they always notice.“

“thats not the point.

you tilt your head slightly, still too close to him to pretend its over. “then what is?“

“I’m already late,” he says quietly. “If I push it any further, I’ll have to explain it.”

theres something in his tone-controlled, but not detached.

your fingers curl tighter into his shirt anyway. “stay“

you dont say it like a joke. and he knows it.

his gaze drops to your lips for a second- smudged, slightly uneven-and something in his expression shifts. not hesitaton.

temptation

“i want to“ he admits, low enough that it almost doesnt sound like something he meant to say out loud.

thats what does it.

you pull him back in immediately, more insistent this time, like that answer was all you needed.

“one more kiss“

again-not really a request,

he lets out a quiet breath, like hes already lost that argument with himself.

“just one“ he says.

you both know thats not true.

his hand returns to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek once before he kisses you again-slower, deeper, like he’s deliberately taking his time even though he doesn’t have it. like leaving you like this would be worse than being late.

your fingers tighten in his shirt, holding him there, trying to stretch the moment just a little longer.

it almost works.

for a second, it really feels like hes not going anywhere.

like hes decided it doesnt matter.

but then he pulls back-reluctant, controlled, like it takes effort.

his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“...if i stay“ he says quietly “im not going“

you dont answer.

because you know thats the point.

his hand lingers at your waist, thumb pressing lightly like he hasnt fully decided to let go yet.

then-

“after practice, babe“ he says, softer now, like a promise hes making more to himself than to you.

you dont like it.

but you let go.

barely.

he hesitates anyway.

just for a second.

then he steps back-and forces himself to leave.

๑

by the time draco walks into the changing rooms, he looks mostly composed.

mostly,

blaise notices immediately.

“oh, thats embarrasing“

draco doesnt even look at him. “what is?“

from the bench, theodore glances up, eyes flicking over draco once before a smirk forms.

“you didnt check a mirror?“ theo says.

that makes draco pause.

“check what-“

blaise cuts him off, already grinning. “your face, malfoy“

draco frowns slightly, lifting his hand to his mouth-and then stills.

because he feels it.

lipstick.

smudged across his lips, just off to the side.

blaise lets out a short laugh “yeah. that bad“

theo leans back slightly, clearly amused now. “bit obvious, dont you think?“

draco drags his thumb across his mouth, looking at it briefly before grabbing a towel.

“shut up“

“oh, we know exactly who that is,” blaise adds casually. “youre not even trying to hide it.”

draco wipes it off with a little more force than necessary. “im not hiding anything.”

“thats clear.”

theo hums lightly. “she didnt want you to leave, did she?”

draco shoots him a look.

which is answer enough.

blaise grins wider. “right before practice too. thats rough.”

draco tosses the towel aside, already pulling on his gloves. “are you done?”

“not even close,” blaise says, still amused. “but we can be.”

theo just watches him for another second, then looks away, like hes already said enough.

but the smirk stays.

And draco ignores it.

• draco malfoy

{content} draco malfoy blurb, fluff

snow crunches under your shoes as you walk toward hogsmeade, wrapped in your coat, but it’s not enough. the wind bites right through it, and you pull your scarf higher with a small shiver.

“you’re freezing," draco says immediately, like he’s been waiting to say it.

“i’m fine,” you lie, teeth barely hiding the chill in your voice.

he stops walking.

you barely have time to turn before he’s in front of you, tugging your scarf into place. his fingers are cold - but careful. Too careful.

“you’re always ‘fine,’” he mutters.

“i am fine,” you repeat, softer this time, watching him.

he doesn’t answer. just fixes the scarf again. and then again, like it’s not sitting right no matter what he does.

his hand lingers at your neck a second too long.

you notice. of course you do.

“you’re being weirdly domestic right now,” you tease, tilting your head slightly. “should I be concerned?”

his ears go faintly red. “shut up.”

you grin. “make me.”

that gets his attention.

he looks at you properly now - snowflakes catching in your hair, lips slightly red from the cold.

“you’re impossible,” he says, but there’s no bite in it.

before you can respond, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your nose.

just a soft touch. warm. gone almost too fast.

“you’re still cold,” he adds immediately, like that explains everything.

you blink at him, then laugh. “was that your solution?”

he starts walking again, shoving his hands into his pockets. “it worked, didn’t it?”

you catch up to him, slipping your hand into his.

“barely,” you say, squeezing his fingers. “do it again if you’re so confident.”

he doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t let go either.

“…later,” he mutters.

• theodore nott

{summary} After Slughorn pairs you with Theodore Nott for a Potions project, you accidentally find letters he never meant to send, each one about you.

{content} no smut, unspoken feelings, no-war universe, invasion of privacy

It starts because of Slughorn.

more specispecifically, because Horace Slughorn decides that “collaboration builds character” and pairs you - a Hufflepuff - with Theodore Nott.

you don’t question it out loud, but you do notice the way a few slytherins glance over when your names are called together. nott doesn’t react at all. he just nods once, like it’s already been decided and there’s no point arguing.

“amortentia variation,” Slughorn says, beaming. “subtle alterations, personal influence—very delicate work, you’ll need to trust each other.”

you almost laugh at that.

nott doesn’t.

๑

he doesn’t talk much during the first half of the lesson. he works efficiently, measures precisely, and corrects your hand placement once—briefly, without comment—before stepping back again like even that was more interaction than necessary.

when the bell rings, you’re still copying down notes when he speaks.

“i’ll do the base draft,” he says, already packing his things. “you can refine it.”

you look up. “or we could just… work on it together?”

a pause. not long. just enough to feel like he’s considering whether that’s worth the effort.

“the library,” he says finally. “tomorrow.”

then, like it’s an afterthought, he slides his textbook toward you. advanced potion-making, edges worn, pages marked.

“you’ll need it,” he adds. “the annotations are more useful than the printed instructions.”

you hesitate. “are you sure?”

“i’ve already memorized what I need.”

there’s no arrogance in it. just fact.

you take the book. “right. thanks.”

he nods once, and that’s the end of it.

๑

you don’t think about him again.

not properly.

not until later that evening, when you’re sitting in the hufflepuff common room with the book open across your lap, skimming through his notes—neat, precise, written in the margins like he couldn’t help improving what was already there.

it’s almost impressive.

you’re halfway through a paragraph when something slips loose from between the pages and falls against your wrist.

a folded piece of parchment.

you frown, picking it up. it’s thicker than a normal note, creased carefully.

your name is written on the outside.

that’s what makes you pause.

there’s no reason your name should be there. not in his handwriting.

you turn it over once in your fingers, like that might change something.

it doesn’t.

you open it.

you answer questions before anyone else has time to think. it’s inefficient.

you blink.

not because you’re wrong. because you don’t hesitate.

your grip tightens slightly on the page.

there’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. the handwriting is unmistakable—controlled, deliberate, almost too precise.

nott.

you should stop there. you don’t.

the next one is tucked further into the book.

you sit near the windows in herbology even when it’s colder. i don’t understand why.

a pause in the writing, like he’d stopped.

you said you like the light.

another line, sharper.

that’s not a sufficient reason.

and then, smaller—

iIt is to you.

something about that one lingers.

you reach for another.

Diggory spoke to you after class today.

the ink presses harder into the parchment.

you laughed. It was louder than usual.

a space. then—

it shouldn’t matter.

another line, written over slightly, like the first version wasn’t enough.

It doesn’t.

and then, almost cramped at the edge—

It does.

you don’t realize how many there are until they’re spread in front of you.

some are short. observational. detached in a way that feels forced.

others-

others aren’t.

one, written more messily than the rest:

I don’t like you.

a line break.

I don’t.

the ink digs into the page.

This is inconvenient.

and then, after a long gap—

You are inconvenient.

you stare at that one longer than you mean to.

๑

the next day, you notice him.

not intentionally. not at first.

but now that you’ve read them, it’s impossible not to see it—the way his gaze lifts when you speak, how it lingers just long enough to be deliberate before dropping again. the way he seems aware of where you are without ever turning fully toward you.

it’s controlled. Subtle.

but it’s there.

and now you know what it means.

๑

by the time you meet in the library the next evening, the letters are folded neatly in your bag.

you tell yourself you’re going to focus on the project.

you don’t.

theodore is already there when you arrive, books arranged in front of him, notes half-written. he glances up briefly as you sit across from him, then back down again like this is nothing more than obligation.

like you didn’t read every word he never meant you to see.

you try, for a few minutes, to pretend the same.

it doesn’t last.

your hand moves before you can overthink it, pulling the folded letters from your bag and placing them between you.

his reaction is immediate—not outwardly dramatic, but precise.

his pen stops.

not mid-word. exactly at the end of the line.

then he sets it down.

carefully.

“you took those,” he says.

not you read them.

not give them back.

just that.

“they fell out of your book,” you reply quietly. “i didn’t know they were there.”

“you do now.”

“yes.”

a pause settles in. he doesn’t reach for them.

that’s what feels strange.

“they’re about me,” you add.

“i know.”

his voice is even, but there’s something underneath it now—tight, restrained.

“you weren’t supposed to read them.”

“i figured that out.”

his gaze lifts to yours then, sharp and direct in a way it hasn’t been before. “then why didn’t you stop?”

the question lands harder than you expect.

you hesitate. “because my name was on them.”

that’s the wrong answer.

you can tell by the way his jaw tightens slightly, the only visible sign that something’s slipped.

“that doesn’t make them yours,” he says.

“i didn’t say it did.”

silence.

you study him for a moment, then push a little further. “you wrote that you don’t like me.”

“i don’t.”

too quick.

too clean.

you shake your head slightly. “that’s not what it sounds like.”

“they weren’t written to sound like anything.”

“they contradict each other.”

“that’s not your concern.”

“it is if they’re about me.”

that lands.

he stills—not completely, but enough that you notice.

“you’ve decided you understand something,” he says, quieter now.

“i think you’re trying very hard not to say something.”

his gaze sharpens. “and what would that be?”

you don’t answer immediately.

because now that you’re here—now that you’ve pushed this far—it feels different. he’s not angry, not really.

he’s… exposed.

and he hates it.

“you notice everything,” you say instead. “where I sit. who I talk to. when I’m not there.”

“that doesn’t mean anything.”

“it does if you keep writing it down.”

his fingers press lightly against the table, controlled but tense. “writing something doesn’t make it important.”

“no,” you say softly. “but keeping it does.”

that’s the moment it shifts.

not loudly. not dramatically.

but something in him gives—just slightly.

his gaze drops, not to the letters this time, but to the space just beside them, like looking directly at them would be worse.

“they weren’t meant to be kept,” he says.

“but you did.”

a pause.

then, quieter—more honest than anything he’s said so far—

“i didn’t throw them away.”

it’s not a confession.

not really.

but it’s close enough.

you feel your chest tighten slightly. “why?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

when he does, his voice is lower.

“because it’s easier to write it,” he says, “than to have to see it happen in real time.”

you frown slightly. “see what happen?”

his gaze lifts to yours again, and this time there’s no distance in it. no careful detachment.

just something unguarded. brief, but real.

“that it doesn’t matter,” he says.

your breath catches.

“that you talk to other people,” he continues, more evenly now, like he’s already trying to pull it back under control. “that it’s irrelevant.”

“and it isn’t?”

a pause.

“no.”

the word is quiet. certain.

you don’t look away. “then why pretend it is?”

“because it should be.”

there it is.

not anger.

not denial.

just… truth, said like it’s a problem he hasn’t found a solution to.

you glance down at the letters, then back at him. “you could’ve just told me.”

“no,” he says again, but softer this time.

“why not?”

his expression shifts slightly—not defensive, not cold.

just tired.

“because then you’d know,” he says.

“i do know.”

“not like this.”

a beat.

“not because you chose to.”

that lands heavier than anything else.

you hadn’t thought of it like that.

you swallow, then gently push the letters a little closer to him. “do you want them back?”

he looks at them for a long moment.

then shakes his head once.

“no.”

you blink. “no?”

“you’ve already read them,” he says. “there’s no point pretending otherwise.”

You hesitate. “do what happens now?”

another pause.

he picks up his pen again, but doesn’t start writing.

“now,” he says, voice steady again, control slipping back into place, “we finish the assignment.”

that almost makes you laugh.

“right,” you murmur.

but neither of you moves.

not immediately.

and when you finally do start working, something has shifted—quietly, subtly, but undeniably.

because now, when you glance up and catch him looking at you—

• theodore nott

{summary} every night after curfew, you meet Theodore Nott in the corridors of Hogwarts. He keeps you a secret, cold in front of others, but alone he’s soft, teasing, and clearly more attached than he lets anyone see.

{content} secret relationship, fluff

the castle changed after curfew.

by day hogwarts was all noise and movement, students rushing to lessons, laughter in stairwells, professors sweeping through corridors like storms in robes.

by night, it was quiet.

the torches along the stone walls burned low, shadows stretching across the corridor.

you pulled your robe tighter around yourself as you slipped through the third-floor corridor, careful to avoid the places where prefects liked to linger.

it was ridiculous.

sneaking around the corridors like a criminal 'cause theodore nott preferred secrecy to common sense.

he was already there.

leaning against the arched window at the far end of the hall, one ankle crossed over the other, tie loosened, sleeves pushed back.

"you're late," he said without looking up.

"im early"

"you're four minutes late"

"you counted?"