An Asian Brown Boy

Filipino/🏳️‍🌈/16 I’m here to make hc for the fandom I’m currently obsessed with/Multi fandom 💙💛🤍taking requests💙💛🤍

[amielxxxangel]

(The amazing art in the middle is my oc and was made by @malcom-massacre thank you much for making Damian😊 and go check out their work and @trixyxgurt for helping me out make my stuff look aesthetically nice thank you and check out their work as well!)

Amiel Cornejo

I’m Filipino 16 years old I go by he/they pronouns y’all can call me Amiel, I do headcannons and fanfics for fandoms that I’m in/obsessing over requests are open

What I’ll write

Male/GN reader

Some ships

Oc’s if I’m given enough characteristics on them

Anything romantic platonic

What I won’t write

Anything that’s non-con

Pedophilic shit

Smut (the most I’ll make is making out and that’s hardly even gonna happen)

Fandoms I’ll be writing

The black phone

Robin

Finney

Vance

Bruce

Billy

Griffin

Harry Potter

Harry

Cedric

Draco

Final fantasy

Cloud Strife

Zack Fair

Noctis

Prompto

Gladio

Ignis

For now that’s it but I’ll add more in the future😊

My master list for my works

[onesheadintheclouds]

Okay but imagine Avery after everything that's happened. Derek is dead, Avery is sitting at his computer completely motionless. How long does he simply sit there until he gets up to do something?

Who can he even tell? What can he do? How can he move on? Someone that he didn't know for a long time, but he was immensely close to anyway, just sacrificed himself to save the world from an eldritch deity.

New Years passes and things go back to normal for everyone else, but not Avery.

Maybe he's plagued by nightmares, by feelings of hopelessness and sorrow, for who knows how long. Avery will be left to grieve Derek for the rest of his life, and no one to lean on. Imagine the loneliness.

Every now and again something will remind him of Derek, and Avery might break down in tears, leaving those around him to wonder why he's suddenly so despairing. Avery will be left with the memory of D3rlord3/Derek until his dying day.

Really, my mans is just fucked with a different type of forbidden knowledge.

[thisboyiscorrupt]

Stardust and Soul Marks

Theodore Nott x gn!hufflepuff reader; fluff & angst

summary: soulmates. you don’t believe in them for a second. especially once you find out theodore nott of all people is supposed to be yours.

a/n: after an eternity, here it is. hope it was worth the wait. dedicated to @obsessedwithceleste (go read her interpretation here) and all 1k of you who continue to support my work. it means the world ♡

It was almost midnight and you definitely should not have still been in the library. However, there was a History of Magic essay due in a few days and your roommates were, for some reason, not cool with you studying in the dorm at this hour. So here you were.

You had been the only one in the library for the past few hours until one Theodore Nott strolls in like he owns the place and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You’re ready to ignore him, reshuffling your quills and books which causes your parchment to roll off the table with terrible timing. With a groan, you bend over in your seat to pick it up. He apparently had a similar idea and for the briefest of moments, your fingertips touch. Much to your shock and horror, the letters T.N. were now inscribed on your wrist in rather sloppy handwriting. 

“Holy shit,” Theodore’s stunned whisper comes out before you properly get a chance to process what just happened. “You’re my soulmate?”

You catch a glimpse of your initials etched into his wrist. Your eyes travel up further to meet his shockingly blue ones and all you can think is you need to get out of there. Now.

In record time, you’ve packed your things and you’re slipping out of the library, leaving behind a stunned Theodore. The castle is empty as you hurry back to the Hufflepuff common room, wishing desperately that this could all just be some horrific nightmare.

As you leave the library in a hurry, Theo sets down his books and without thinking about it, runs after you.

You hear him shouting your name as he books it through the empty corridor. You ignore him. Just before he can reach you, you’re slipping through the common room door, letting it shut in his face. You don’t hear the thud of his forehead hitting the wood with a groan.

It hits you that it definitely wasn’t some horrific nightmare when you immediately notice Theodore leaning against a wall outside the common room the next morning. For a second you contemplate turning right back around and skipping classes for the day. You aren’t quite quick enough deciding, with Theodore’s predatory gaze falling on you where you stand in the doorway. He raises an eyebrow and damn it, you won’t be able to easily get past him. Nonetheless, you make an attempt. 

As you try to casually slide past him, he steps in front of you, effectively blocking your path. Prick.

“What do you want, Nott?” Your arms come up to cross over your chest as you meet his eye with a glare. He’s a bit taller than you, so you have to look up. For some reason, it’s incredibly frustrating.

“I want to talk about last night.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you quickly respond, side stepping to get around him. He immediately blocks you again with an incredulous look.  

“What do you mean nothing to talk about? We touched fingertips and now your initials are carved into my skin. We’re soulmates.” He seems genuinely a little shocked you’re putting up a fight with him. 

“No, we’re not. Get out of my way.”

“Then explain this,” he holds up his wrist where, yes, your initials are written in black ink. He was being dramatic about it being carved. You scoff. 

“I don’t care. Now move.” You manage to slip past him this time and continue down the corridor. 

His eyebrows raise in surprise that quickly morphs into that signature smugness that nearly makes your eye twitch. “You’re actually going to class?” There’s an almost taunting tone to his voice and maybe your eye does twitch. Maybe.

“Must be surprising since your lot typically skips, but it is something that people do,” you give a nonchalant shrug.

Theo’s smirk drops off his face, “my lot?”

You bite your lip to hold off a smug grin, “yeah, that group of delinquents you skip class to smoke with all the time.”

“It’s not like we need to go to class anyway, we do just fine. It’s more productive to have a break.”

“More productive in what? Giving you lung cancer? Sure thing, Nott.” Without another word, you exit the corridor.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for him to catch up to you. He gets entirely too close for your liking, you can practically feel him behind you. “You know, out of all the people that could possibly have been my soulmate, I never expected a Hufflepuff.” 

You don’t acknowledge the soulmates comment, instead asking, “What’s wrong with Hufflepuffs, Nott?” 

“Just surprised is all, as they produce some of the dullest people I’ve ever met. You’re rather feisty though,” you can practically hear the smirk in his voice and the heat radiating off his skin—

You come to an abrupt halt, causing Theodore to slam into your back from walking too close. He makes a startled noise as he stumbles before covering it up with a scoff. Before he can regain his footing, you start walking again. 

“What was the sudden stop for? Couldn’t handle the Slytherin heat?” He quickly regains his smirk and catches up, this time by your side, walking in time with your footsteps. 

“Thought snakes were supposed to be cold-blooded.” You take a sharp corner on your way to the Charms classroom, yet you’re unable to shake him off. “Badgers would be the warm ones.”

Theodore seems to think over your words for a moment before letting out an almost inaudible chuckle, “alright, fine. You got me on that one.”

You walk together in a surprisingly comfortable silence the rest of the way to the classroom. As you make your way across the castle, you sneak a glance or two at the taller boy, trying in vain to figure out what the hell is making him do this. Theodore Nott has always been one of the biggest pains in the ass you’ve ever met, yet in this moment, his company was at the very least tolerable. Which is more than you could say for all the years you’d known him. 

You enter the relatively empty classroom and find your usual spot. Theodore, not missing a beat, swoops into the chair beside yours. “I thought you had better things to do than class, Nott?”

“I can make exceptions. The guys will be fine without me for one morning.”

“You sure about that? You seem attached at the hip to—what’re their names? Riddle and Berkshire?”

Theo has a look of genuine surprise on his face that shifts into a subtle smile when you mention his friends’ names. “How did you know that?” 

“It’s not like it’s some secret,” you deadpan.

Cold blue eyes study your face for a moment, seemingly scrutinizing every detail they run across, trying to figure you out. You don’t give him much of an opportunity, turning your head to slam your textbook onto the desk. You see Theodore jump at the thud out the corner of your eye. 

Before either of you can say more, two of your housemates, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott, are approaching. You can tell by the looks on their faces they’re intrigued to see you sitting with Theodore, and there’s no way they’re going to miss the opportunity to give you a bit of hell over it. 

Your last name rings out in the slowly filling classroom and you have to suppress a long suffering sigh.

“Fancy seeing you sitting with a Slytherin,” Justin’s voice hits your ears with a sneer. “Figured you had better sense than to sit with one of those types, aren’t you worried what people might think?”

“Especially Nott. Hanging out with the son of a…Death Eater, not exactly a good look,” Hannah’s eyes flick between you two. “Only person worse would be Riddle.” You don’t miss the way Theodore’s eyes narrow at her jab at his friend.

Seemingly unable to hold himself back from mocking you further, Justin adds, “didn’t realize you were taking charity cases. Though, with how you are I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You look up at them with a borderline bored expression, hoping they’ll give up and leave you alone.

“Oh…nothing,” Hannah gives a faux innocent smile. 

Before they can continue to berate either of you, you interject, “I don’t recall asking for input, anyway—” you tug Theo closer by his tie to make a point, “I’m fine where I am, so you can piss off with evil snake talk.”

With a huff, Hannah is grabbing Justin’s arm and pulling him away. 

You release the hand on the green tie, barely noticing how Theo quickly attempts to fix it back into his jumper, cheeks slightly flushed. “I can see why you prefer to skip,” you grumble under your breath once they’re gone, eyes returning to your textbook and missing Theodore’s stunned expression beside you.

“Why did you—” he clears his throat in an attempt to regain his aloof demeanor, “why’d you do that?”

“Didn’t like the way they were talking about you,” you shrug, nonchalant like you were speaking about something mundane as the weather. Theo feels his brain malfunction for a moment, just staring at you like he can’t figure you out. Soon more students are filing in, then the lecture is starting, response dying on his tongue.

The moment Flitwick dismisses you, you’re shoving the textbook back in your bag and making your way to the door. Theo starts to complain about your habit of disappearing until his eyes trail up to you waiting at the door for him. He’s stunned for the second time that day.

He scrambles to grab his things and follow you. You walk together through the corridors in silence until you’re pushing open the door to the North Exit Courtyard. Theo’s brain finally catches up with them and he pulls his smirk back onto his face, following too close behind you yet again. He continues a half step behind you the entire way to the Cares of Magical Creatures classroom.

“You’ve got quite a bit of sass for a Hufflepuff.”

“And you’re quite clingy for a Slytherin. Do you have to stand so close?” 

“Yes.” He somehow walks even closer, “still no clue why we’re coming over here when the lesson isn’t for another three hours.”

You drop your things onto one of the tables before picking up a small bag of treats. Theo continues to trail behind you like a lost puppy as you make your way to the pens behind the classroom. You stop at the second to last enclosure, where a group of kneazles are lounging in the sun. Carefully opening the gate, a couple of the cat-like beasts quickly pad over, clearly familiar with you. While one hand gently pets the head of one, you offer a treat to the other as Theo watches on in fascination from the other side of the fence.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for an animal lover.” It draws your attention back over to the Italian boy, unimpressed look on your face, “yeah? Why's that?” He just shrugs, intense eyes staring you down.

“Thought Herbology was more of a Hufflepuff thing, I suppose.”

“Oh Merlin, no. Almost got attacked by a Venomous Tentacula last term, so no green thumb here,” you give a gentle scratch under the chin of the purring kneazle. “Funny enough it was that mate of yours, Berkshire, that yanked me out of the way before I could become plant food or something.”

Theo’s eyes narrow briefly as one of his eyebrows quirks up, “You’ve met Lorenzo? And he saved you from a plant?” He almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it.

“Well, it was really the only time we’ve spoken. I guess you snakes aren’t all bad,” there’s a teasing grin on your face as your fingers absentmindedly run through soft fur. 

“You continue to surprise me, badger.” He’s staring you down again with those, slowly but surely less, intimidating blue eyes. “You didn’t seem friends with those other Hufflepuffs and here you are defending not one, but two Slytherins…why?”

You think it over for a moment before shrugging casually, “loyalty and respect are earned. Just because you ought to bond with certain people doesn’t mean you do. They think I’m quite odd, I’m pretty sure.”

“Then who has earned your loyalty, badger? Other than the school creatures,” he gestures to where the beasts are nuzzling against your robes and nearly purring. 

You just shrug cryptically again, frustrating Theo more than he anticipated. 

He groans as he leans his forearms on the gate. You were completely unlike any Hufflepuff he’d ever met, but it intrigued him. Maybe he’d spent the last few years being a dick to you, mostly on principle; his group of friends were very aware of how they were perceived and it was often wise to get ahead of the insults by spewing them at others first. But you’d stuck up for him. You had something nice to say about his friend without the expectation to get something out of it. At least as far as he knew you weren’t trying to hook up with any of them, which is why most people decided to play nice with them usually. So why were you letting him follow you around? Was it because of the soulmate connection? You seemed hellbent on denying even the idea of it. He feels like his head is spinning.

Then like a life raft in a maelstrom, he’s pulled out of his thoughts by your soft voice.

“C’mere,” you gesture for Theo to join you in the enclosure, expectant look on your face. He hesitates for a moment before obliging you. The gate creaks as he pushes it open and warily steps inside, eyeing the kneazles like they’re about to take his face off. You have to hold back a laugh at the normally stoic boy obviously scared of what might as well be oversized house cats.

Once he’s close enough you reach out for his hand. It takes a moment of him looking between you and the kneazles before he puts his palm in yours, his touch surprisingly gentle and warm. You carefully tug him closer, positioning his hand in front of the kneazle for it to take a sniff at him. 

Whiskers tickle his palm as he curiously looks over to you for an explanation, but all he gets is you watching the interaction intently, like you’re waiting for something. The kneazle apparently deems him suitable for pets as the furry head bumps his hand in a silent request for attention. You nod before standing up and straightening out your robes.

Theo gently starts petting the beast’s fluffy head as he watches you. “I think it likes me.”

“Looks like it.”

“You knew it would,” his tone is teasingly accusatory, like he thinks you’re testing him.

“Oh. I had no idea. Could’ve bitten your fingers right off for all I knew,” you once again shrug nonchalantly, opening the gate to the kneazle pen and softly closing it behind you. Theodore looks at you in alarm, eyes wide as they flick down to the creature nuzzling at his palm like an overgrown kitten. He quickly pulls away from the beast. “You were going to just let it bite me?!”

“You’re much more talkative than you look, anyone ever told you that?”

“You’re dodging my question…again.”

“And you’re dodging mine!” There’s a new air of playfulness in your voice, gone is the irritation you had directed at him most of the day and the entire time you’ve known each other.

He rolls his eyes, almost affectionately as he follows your lead out of the enclosure and back toward the classroom. He shouldn’t have been so surprised when he rams straight into you for a second time today. This time there’s a lack of teasing on your face, instead replaced by surprise that mirrors his own.

“Oh! Almost forgot,” you redirect to one of the first enclosures in the lineup, where there’s a pile of gold and gems and various other shiny objects spilling out of a den. A little blue niffler, smaller than the other ones lounging on and around the pile, scampers up to the fence when you approach. 

“Hello Trinket,” you dig in the pocket of your robes for a moment before producing a shiny galleon. Your voice is softer than Theo had ever heard from you as you speak to the little creature, your tone taking on what he can only describe as a parental adoration. You carefully hold out the coin for greedy little niffler hands to quickly snatch up and shove into the pocket on its tummy. It gives you a pleased noise and lets you gently scratch the top of its head.

“Don’t tell the others, but this one’s my favorite.”

Theo has a stupid, lovestruck grin on his face when he responds, “wouldn’t dream of it, vita mia.”

As you both walk back towards the castle, something compels Theodore to ask, “so…what do you like so much about Nifflers? And why the little runt in particular?” And by the way your entire being seems to perk up and you animatedly launch into a ramble about what’s obviously a passion for you, Theo’s heart thuds hard in his chest. Deep down he knows he’s already a goner for you.

You don’t share the next class, but he always seems to find his way back to you. Waiting by the door the moment you’re dismissed, and bewildered, you think he must have either left early from his class or booked it through the corridors (or both) to be there in time. But the little smile on his face is unwavering. 

On the way to the Great Hall, he offers a seat with his friends over at the Slytherin table and for a moment you’re so shocked (and secretly touched) that he wants you to properly meet his friends, you’re tempted to say yes. It’d probably beat sitting mostly alone at your house table as usual, but one glance over to the group already looking at you from across the dining hall and you’re making a stupid joke about not wanting to venture into the snake pit and speed walking in the other direction. Not intimidated at all.

Theo seems once again undeterred by you making an escape, appearing by your side the moment the meal time is over. He follows you, too close as you’ve come to expect, all the way to the library; his snide comments all but gone from your interactions. The space is instead filled by what sounds like genuine questions about yourself and stupid stories of situations only a group of teenage boys could get themselves into. You find yourself smiling more than you ever have with him, even more than much of your time with your housemates. 

The more he feels comfortable, the more you get to see a boy that loves summers by the sea and evenings cooking in the kitchen and who’s favorite instrument is the piano. 

You two settle into this routine of him tagging along, right by your side for the next few days. Talking with him is easy and he seems content to just listen to you endlessly ramble about anything. He always has questions relevant to what you’re talking about, sometimes even bringing up things you had mentioned in passing, days prior. 

He had even managed to drag you up to the Astronomy Tower late one night to properly meet his friends. Conversation with them even came easier than amongst your fellow Hufflepuffs. You could joke with them and they would have a witty, often snarky response in return.

Slowly you were finding yourself enjoying having a bit of company most hours of the day. Finding yourself leaving your common room in the mornings to fall in step with Theo, who was always there and waiting for you. 

Eventually he had ended up sneaking you into his dorm one evening to study while his dorm mates were out doing Merlin knows what. After a couple of hours brainstorming over a Potions project, Theo’s eyes flicked up to meet yours. 

“Are you still…vehemently against the whole…soulmate thing? It’s alright if you are and I don’t want to push, it’s just,” he sighs softly as he turns his quill over in his fingers, “it’s been on my mind a bit.”

The sudden topic change has you blinking in surprise, brain blanking as you struggle to even process your own thoughts.

“I just…don’t—I don’t know,” you stumble over your words a bit as you look away from him. You bite your lip for a moment, internally debating whether or not to lay bare this part of you, to let him past the carefully crafted walls that had been there so long you weren’t even sure what was left to guard anymore. But soft ocean eyes that always seem to linger too long, holding depths you could have never anticipated look back at you. And you feel safe.

So you continue, “my, uh parents were soulmates. In name only I suppose. As far as I know, they never loved each other, I don’t think they even liked each other.” You fiddle with the sleeves of your robes. “I didn’t want to let myself fall for you if you were just doing it because you thought we were destined to be together. I wanted you to like me, just…as me.”

“I never wanted a soulmate but here you are, ruining everything. With your stupid charming accent and the way you remember things about me and how you look at me with that stupid lovey look on your face—”

You’re cut off by gentle lips on yours. Expensive cologne and smoke fill your lungs in an intoxicating burn. It steals your breath, leaving only him. 

“I understand the feeling, the doubt about leaving it up to the universe to decide on something so…important.” Theo’s voice is quiet, gentle, when he pulls back from your lips. “My parents weren’t soulmates. It’s archaic, but purebloods have certain expectations and practices, one of them being arranged marriages. That’s what mine were. Mia mamma, she ended up falling in love with my father but him, not so much. Wanted me for an heir.” 

He looks over your face and for once it’s not a look of scrutiny, but something tender. Like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on. 

“She never got to be with her soulmate so she wanted me to get the chance to be with mine. But it’s hard, you know? I don’t know what I’m doing with the whole destined relationship thing, but I want to. I wish you could have met her. She had an eye for good character, I think.”

“Theo…” You’re almost at a loss for words, but you push through. “I—with the kneazles…I didn’t actually think they were going to hurt you. It might sound stupid but they’re particularly good at sensing trustworthiness and I…”

“And you wanted their second opinion?” he cracks a smile.

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I’m glad they found me trustworthy.”

His thumb grazes over his initials on your wrist as you hesitantly speak. “Me too. I know it might not be instantaneous, but…I’m willing to—no—I want to give this soulmate thing a shot. I’m just…scared.”

The light graze against the soul mark shifts to gentle, reassuring circles on your skin. “Maybe soulmates are just the pieces of the stars finding each other over and over again after they separate. What makes us up, just returning home. I want to get to know you, over and over again, no matter how much you push me away. No matter how long it’s been since the pieces of us have reunited.”

The pull to be close to him is nearly overwhelming, but this time, you don’t fight it. Instead you throw yourself forward, into his arms, into his trust, into the rest of your lives. And he catches you, holding you tight with the promise of never letting go.

[little-mouse-dennis]

Jack, arriving early for his shift:

Dennis, absolutely covered in blood and gore: Hi Dr Abbot! *smiles like an angel*

Jack: Hi…

Dennis: I’ve gotta go clean up now, Dr Robby is over there *walks away*

Jack, standing next to Robby: Is it weird that seeing him covered in blood is scarily sexy?

Robby: No, I feel the exact same way

Robby: Are we fucked?

Jack: Oh, most definitely

[dreamersworldduh]

FIFTEEN MINUTES

• CLARK KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY —You promised yourself you were done with impossible men—especially the kind already promised to someone else. Especially when that someone else was your sister.

Metropolis makes a habit of testing promises. The night you meet Clark Kent—black hair tamed into obedience, blue eyes that see too much, shoulders filling a navy suit like it was built around him—you feel the rulebook in your chest loosen a stitch.

WARNING! 18+MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Sexual Themes.

WORDS! 13.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! here we are with another Clarkie fic, this idea was stuck in my head and I had to get it out. The excitement of Clark sneaking around with his brother in law was something I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to see.✨🥹

NEXT! — HOURS & HOURS

YOU HIT the revolving door at a jog, breath fogging the glass as you shoulder through into the old Metropolis steakhouse your father loves—dark wood, brass lamps, and the low murmur of a hundred important conversations. The maître d' recognizes the family name and tips his head toward the back. You're late, and you can already hear your father's voice in your head: punctuality is respect.

They're at a corner booth beneath a framed Daily Planet front page. Lois spots you first and lifts a hand, relief and annoyance sharing the same look. Lucy grins over a half-empty champagne flute. Your father checks his watch with the slow, theatrical disapproval he's perfected over decades.

"Nice of you to join us," he says as you slide in, smoothing the front of your spring-break sweater like it's armor. "Punctuality—"

"—is respect," you finish, dropping a kiss on Lois's cheek and tapping Lucy's glass with a knuckle. "Which is why I respectfully fought downtown traffic."

Lois elbows your father under the table. "He's here, Dad. That's what matters."

And then you see him.

Black hair, neatly combed but with a stubborn wave that refuses to obey. Blue eyes behind simple, square frames. He's big—built like a Greek statue in a navy suit that fits like it was tailored yesterday and somehow still looks modest on him. There's a softness to the mouth, a steadiness to the jaw, and something careful in the way he sits—like he's learned to take up less space than his body wants to claim.

He stands as you approach, napkin folded in one hand, the other extended. "Clark Kent," he says, voice warm as the lamplight. Kansas with a polish—farm dirt washed off but never forgotten.

Your palm meets his, and something snaps—a tiny, private current that runs from your hand to your elbow, sparks along your shoulder, and settles somewhere beneath your ribs. His grip is firm without proving anything, but he feels... immovable. Like if you leaned, he would hold.

"Finally," Lois says, bright, almost proud. Her engagement ring winks when she rests her hand on his sleeve. "This is my fiancé, Clark."

"Fiancé," Lucy sings, waggling her brows. "Say it again, I like the sound."

"Fiancé," Lois repeats, laughing as if she can't help it, as if the word tugs a smile out of her every time.

You pull free of Clark's hand slower than you should, your heartbeat a touch out of rhythm. "Good to meet you," you tell him, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "I've heard... a lot."

"All lies, I hope," he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. He looks at you for a beat too long, not intrusive, just attentive, as if he's cataloging you the way reporters do—facts first, judgement later.

Dinner starts with the clink of glasses. Your father orders for the table without asking—old habit—and resumes his natural habitat: interrogations disguised as conversation. "Metropolis U treating you well?" he asks, carving the question like a command.

"It is," you say. "Midterms survived, somehow."

"Don't 'somehow' through midterms," he replies. "The only boy in this family ought to—"

"—be better?" you finish again, because it's easier to defuse a mine you've stepped on a hundred times. "Working on it."

Clark's eyes flick from your father to you and back, measuring the air pressure. "Midterms are brutal," he says gently, like he's tossing you a rope. "I almost flunked out of a journalism ethics seminar because I couldn't stop rewriting my final. Perfection's a habit you have to break on deadline."

Lois beams. "See? He's human. Mostly."

"Questionable," Lucy murmurs into her glass, and you smother a smile.

The waiter arrives with bread and butter and blessed interruption. Under the table, you flex the hand that shook his, trying to dispel the phantom charge. Across from you, Clark sits like a man who knows exactly how strong he is and refuses to prove it—quiet, patient, listening. When he laughs, it's genuine; when he speaks, he turns his shoulders to whoever he's addressing, as if that person is, for that moment, the center of the room.

"So, Metropolis U," he says, tilting toward you once the plates are down. "What's your focus?"

"Criminal psychology," you say, trying not to notice the way his eyes sharpen—interested, not interrogating. "And a minor in mythology, because I like stories where monsters aren't always what they seem."

"Those are the best ones," he says, and you could swear the light catches a hint of something in his expression—recognition, maybe. "Besides, most heroes don't know they are until someone asks them to be."

Your father clears his throat, hauling the conversation back to his end of the table. "Clark, Lois says you're a reporter. That a real job now, or just tweets and selfies?"

Clark smiles, unbothered. "I still use a notepad, sir."

"Good answer," your father says, and for him, that's almost affection.

Lois nudges Clark's knee with hers, and he glances down at her hand, at the ring, and then up at you. It should be nothing. It isn't. There's a frequency you both seem to hear, a low, private hum under the restaurant noise. You take a breath and look away first, focusing on your water glass.

Lucy catches you doing it and arches one perfectly judgmental brow. Later, she'll tease you. Right now she just smirks like she's stolen the last page of a book you haven't finished.

The food arrives. Your father tells a story from a posting years ago. Lois corrects the details in ways only she can. Lucy breaks the tension with a joke that makes two tables glance over. You contribute when pulled, deflect when pressed, and try not to steal glances at the man across from you.

You fail.

Halfway through your steak, Clark asks, "You get any time to yourself over break?"

"A little," you say. "Lois said tonight wasn't optional."

"She's persuasive," he agrees, the smile doing dangerous things to the corners of his eyes.

"Stop flirting with my fiancé," Lois says lightly, squeezing his arm.

"I'm not—" you begin.

"He's not—" Clark says at the same time, and Lucy outright cackles.

Your father sighs, long-suffering, but he's watching you again, measuring you against the invisible mark he set the day you were born. You straighten without meaning to. Clark notices. Of course he does.

By dessert, your pulse has learned the rhythm of that hum and accepted it: this is complicated. Not because he's charming (he is) or handsome (he really, really is), but because something in you recognizes something in him—an anchor you didn't know you needed.

After coffee, coats go on. Outside, Metropolis is crisp and busy and too bright. Lois laces her fingers with Clark's and rises on her toes to kiss his cheek. "You're coming to Sunday dinner," she tells you, which is not a question.

"Wouldn't miss it," you say, even though part of you very much would.

Clark offers his hand again when you say goodnight, and you take it because refusing would be louder. The spark is softer this time, less lightning, more a promise of weather. His thumb presses once, barely there, like a punctuation mark.

"Good to meet you," he says again.

"You too," you reply, and the words feel thin compared to everything unsaid between them.

Lois tugs him toward the curb, Lucy loops her arm through yours, and your father is already checking his calendar aloud. You stand at the edge of the city's noise with the taste of steak and secrets in your mouth and know, with the certainty of a headline, that tonight is not an ending. It's the lede. And you've just met the complication you'll be writing around for a long, long time.

YOU WEREN'T going to do this to yourself. Not again. Not for a man who belonged to your sister, and definitely not for a man who—by every available data point—was straight.

So you made a plan.

The morning after the dinner, you woke early and treated the feeling like an exam you refused to fail. Coffee. Shower. Shoes. Out the door before your brain could argue. Metropolis in spring smelled like wet concrete and newspaper ink, the kind of clean that only comes after a night of rain. You ran the river path until your lungs burned and your legs went static, until the hum under your ribs quieted to something manageable.

Back home, you set up on the tiny kitchen table with a highlighter army and your Criminal Psych notes. You built a fortress out of case studies and flash cards. When the impulse to replay Clark's smile crept in, you filed it like evidence and moved on.

You even wrote it down, because putting ink on it made it smaller:

CASE FILE: KENT, CLARK.

Conflict: Unwanted attraction to sister's fiancé.

Hypotheses: 1) Proximity + novelty + dim lighting = brain soup. 2) You're tired. 3) He's objectively attractive and kind; you're not a robot.

Action Plan:

• Limit exposure (especially the kind with soft lamplight).

• Keep hands busy at Sunday dinner (bring dessert, volunteer for dishes).

• Boundaries: No lingering eye contact, no "you're so interesting" follow-up questions, no kitchen tête-à-têtes.

• Remember: Lois comes first. Always.

You pinned the page to the fridge with a crooked magnet shaped like the Daily Planet globe and pretended that made you bulletproof.

Lucy FaceTimed just before noon, because of course she did. She angled the camera up under her chin to be as annoying as possible. "Morning, tragic hero."

"Afternoon," you corrected, clicking a pen like it was a detonator. "And I'm not tragic."

"You're late for brunch gossip," she said, then narrowed her eyes. "You went running. Gross. So, did you sleep at all or did you lie awake composing sonnets to Clark's jawline?"

"Lucy."

"Relax, I'm not the morality police. That's Dad." She softened. "You okay, though?"

You shrugged. Honesty won by a nose. "I'm... managing it."

"Good. Manage it far away from his mouth," she said, then added, quieter, "You know I've got you, right? If Sunday dinner is too much, I can fake food poisoning. Big dramatic exit. Maybe faint into the clam dip."

"Absolutely not," you said, surprised by the immediate warmth her offer sparked anyway. "I'll be fine."

She blew you a kiss and hung up with a threat to text you outfit options you would ignore.

You hit the university library next, where myth was safer than men. You pulled a stack of books on heroes who didn't want to be heroes and monsters who weren't monsters at all. You took notes that had nothing to do with blue eyes or steady hands. You let your brain gnaw on something older than your problems.

Lois texted around three: Cake tasting was a triumph. Clark says hi. Sunday 6 p.m.—don't you dare be late.

You stared at the words Clark says hi longer than necessary, then responded with a thumbs-up to the group chat and muted the conversation before your phone could become a live wire.

In the late afternoon, you detoured to a bakery two neighborhoods over—the kind with glass cases like jewelry boxes and a line of people willing to pay rent for a lemon tart. You sampled nothing, because you didn't trust your judgement, and ordered a box of miniature desserts that looked like they'd been crafted with tweezers. If you were going to keep your hands busy, you might as well arm yourself with sugar.

Back at your place, you ironed a shirt you didn't hate and practiced your boundaries like they were flash cards. No lingering, no listening too hard when he talks, no cataloging the way his laugh fits into a room. You were not going to be the person who complicated your sister's joy. You'd been that person once in a different story, and it had taken months to scrape the guilt off.

As the sun slid down behind the skyline, Metropolis turned gold at the edges. You packed your notes, slid the dessert box into a tote like contraband, and stood in the doorway for a heartbeat. You found your reflection in the hall mirror—eyes clearer than this morning, jaw set like a decision.

"Lois first," you told yourself. "Always."

Then you locked up and headed out, grateful for the few remaining hours between you and Sunday dinner, grateful for the city noise that drowned out the last of the hum, and grateful—most of all—that you had a plan.

YOU SHOW up early—on purpose—and the house greets you with that particular Sunday hush: blinds half-open, afternoon light in long stripes across the dining room, the distant tick of the grandfather clock. The kitchen smells like onions sweating in butter and the kind of optimism you only get before company arrives.

Your father has left a list the way generals leave battle plans, underlined twice: roast at 180°, potatoes parboiled, green beans blanch-and-shock, salad last. Beside it, a sticky note you'll pretend isn't an olive branch: Good. Early is respect.

You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and put your plan into motion. Desserts—your tiny jewel-box pastries—go straight into the fridge so you can "busy hands, busy mind" later. You queue up the most innocuous playlist you own, tie on an apron, and set to work. Knife, board, rhythm. Chop, sweep, sizzle. The pan answers with a friendly hiss. You taste the pan sauce, decide it needs brightness, grate in lemon zest. You are absolutely not thinking about blue eyes or broad shoulders or—

The back door opens. Voices. Lois's laugh, bright and familiar. Another voice—low, warm—slips under it like harmony.

You keep chopping, because you didn't hear anything, you're very busy, and if you just keep moving—

"Need a hand?"

You look up and he's there, framed in the doorway in a soft gray button-down with the sleeves rolled past his forearms, tie loosened to a suggestion. Clark. He's already shrugged out of his jacket, already reading the room, already making himself smaller in a way that somehow makes him feel even larger.

Rule #1: No lingering eye contact.

"Sure," you say to the cutting board. "You can—uh—drain the potatoes? Colander's in the lower cabinet."

He moves with careful confidence, like this isn't a foreign kitchen at all. The cabinet opens, colander up, steam blooms when he pours. He doesn't flinch at the heat. Of course he doesn't.

Rule #2: Keep hands busy.

"You want them roughed up for roasting?" he asks, shaking the pot just enough to give the edges texture.

"Yeah," you say, impressed against your will. "Nice. How do you—"

"Kansas," he says, smiling without looking up. "I've peeled more potatoes than I've written articles."

"That's... a lot of potatoes."

"Whole fields' worth." He sets the pot gently beside you and reaches for the pepper mill at the exact same moment you do. Knuckles meet, both of you freeze, and the pepper mill clatters once before you snag it.

"Sorry," you say too quickly, stepping back.

"My fault," he says, stepping back the same direction, which results in both of you stepping forward again at once. You both half-laugh, abort, and reset like two polite robots trying not to collide.

Rule #3: No kitchen tête-à-têtes. This is a hallway, not a tête-à-tête. You're fine.

Lois breezes in, hair up, lipstick perfect, a bottle of red in hand. She kisses Clark's cheek in passing, steals a green bean from the ice bath with the sleight of hand of a woman who's been stealing kitchen snacks since childhood, and drops a kiss on your forehead too. "Look at my favorite overachiever being on time," she sings, then to Clark, "See? Miracles."

"Miracles," he agrees, eyes kind. "What can I do next?"

"Salad," you say, because it's safe and far away. "Spin it dry. Dressing's there." You point to a jar you prepped to avoid improvisation near him.

He nods, washes his hands, and gets to work at the opposite counter. He spins the salad like a man who respects centrifugal force, then reaches for the jar. "Homemade?"

"Lemon, Dijon, honey," you say before you can stop yourself. "And—okay, two anchovies, but don't tell Lucy."

"My lips are sealed," he says, deadpan solemn, and you accidentally meet his eyes for a second. They're bluer in this light, and softer, and focused entirely on you.

Rule #1, you remind yourself, and pivot to the stove like it just called your name.

You build a rhythm. He plates. You seasons. He tastes, defers. You hand him a tasting spoon; he takes it like it's protocol, brushes your fingers once, and then makes a point not to again. When you haul the roasting pan to the oven, he's there without asking, taking the heavier end so you don't have to. Heat rolls out when you open the door—rosemary, garlic, meat—and the whole house smells like Sunday.

"That smells incredible," he says.

"Don't jinx it," you say, which makes him grin.

Lois floats by again, tucks herself under his arm for a heartbeat like it's her natural orbit, and checks your timer. "Dad just texted: 'On my way. Traffic is not respect.' He's mellowing in his old age."

"Miracle two," Clark murmurs, and Lois elbows him with affection.

While she's gone, Clark rinses the salad spinner and sets it to drip in the rack. He glances at your list on the counter, takes it in the way a journalist reads a source—quiet, thorough, respectful of the margins. "Want me to set the table?"

"Drawer by your knee for linens, top cabinet left for plates," you say, grateful to be assigned tasks that put him in another room, even if it's only ten feet away.

He moves through the dining room with that same careful economy, laying out plates, aligning forks with the kind of precision your father will pretend not to notice and appreciate anyway. You follow with glasses, and the two of you pass in the doorway like ships, polite, efficient, absolutely normal.

"Timer?" he asks, nodding toward the stove when you return to the kitchen.

"Six minutes," you say. "Then rest for ten."

"Got it." He leans a hip against the counter, not quite facing you, making sure the angle is open, nonthreatening—giving you space while still... here. "Any new class updates?"

You stir the pan sauce like it holds all the answers. "Criminal psych is a bloodbath."

He huffs a laugh. "Sounds right."

"Journalism ethics treat you better this time?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Treated me fine once I learned to let go of perfect." He pauses, searching your face—not in a way that pins you, in a way that invites you to set the distance. "You don't have to make small talk with me, by the way. I can be the silent cabbage-chopper."

"I don't do small talk," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended. "I'm... not avoiding you."

One brow ticks up behind his frames. "Noted."

You cough, completely normal. "Okay, yes, maybe a little. But I'm not—"

"—going to make this weird," he finishes gently. "Me neither."

You nod, grateful, and something in your shoulders loosens.

Front door: opening. Your father's footsteps—measured, authoritative. "Smells like a kitchen that knows the value of a clock," he declares, appearing in the doorway. He clocks Clark laying the last napkin and you at the stove, and for once his approval is simple. "Good job."

"Miracle number three," Lois stage-whispers from the hall, making Lucy snort as she arrives behind him with a gust of perfume and a bottle of sparkling water.

The room fills—voices, coats, the bustle of family—and the small, suspended charged moment dissolves into the harmless static of a house at dinnertime. You pull the roast to rest; Clark takes the carving knife without assumption and waits for your nod. You give it. He carves with steady hands and zero theater. You plate the greens; he passes them like a relay baton. It's a machine, and you're two gears, meshed cleanly.

Rule #4 (you just made it up): Teamwork is not intimacy.

You believe it. Mostly.

As you slide the miniature desserts into the far corner of the fridge, you steal one last look at the table you've both set—the symmetry, the effort, the care. Lois presses a grateful kiss to your cheek as she whirls past. Clark catches your eye across the room and gives you the smallest, most ordinary nod.

You then carried the platter in to your family and take your seat, the clatter and comfort of Sunday dinner rising around you like a tide.

DINNER HUMS along—good stories, easy laughter, the wine Lois brought doing its job on everyone but your father, who swirls his glass, grimaces like a disappointed judge, and taps the stem with two fingers.

“Basement,” he declares. “Top shelf, back wall. The rye. Not the one your uncle ruined with cinnamon sticks.”

Lois wags a corkscrew. “Clark, go help him before Dad sends a search party.”

“I’ve got it,” you say, already pushing back your chair.

“I’ll still help,” Clark answers, easy—already half standing, already reading your father’s face for the brand name behind the request.

You tell yourself it’s logistics, not longing, as the two of you cut through the hall and down the creaking steps to the basement. The air changes—cooler, quieter, smelling of wood polish, old paper, and the faint sweetness of cork. Your father’s bar sits under a string of warm bulbs, amber bottles lined like a stained-glass choir.

“Rye,” you announce, scanning labels. “No cinnamon crimes.”

Clark laughs under his breath and steps to the other side of the shelves, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a domestic kind of handsome that makes your rules flutter like loose Post-its.

He finds a bottle of bourbon and sets it aside. You pass over a rye you know your father hates. Your hands move efficiently, your throat tight.

Clark breaks the quiet first, not unkind. “Why are you avoiding me?”

You grip a bottle a little too hard. There’s no point in lying; you’ve been practicing honesty with yourself all day. “Because this is… complicated. And because I love my sister.”

“I love her too,” he says, steady, like that truth belongs in the room with all the others. “And I’m not trying to make anything harder.”

“But you notice it,” you say, eyes on the labels. “The… whatever-it-is, between us.”

There’s a brief pause, soft as a breath. “I do.”

Silence, except for the tick of the basement pipes. You slide another bottle out, set it down, line it up with the others like a defense line. “We should keep it polite. Plates and napkins. Carving and salad.”

His mouth tilts. “I’m very good at polite.”

“And yet,” you say, glancing up before you can stop yourself.

“And yet,” he echoes, eyes meeting yours—blue, open, maddeningly gentle. He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t touch you. He just looks at you like you’re a question he’s been trying not to answer.

“Found it,” you say too loudly, plucking the correct rye from the top shelf. The victory clangs hollow. You hold the bottle between you like a truce flag. He takes it—fingers brushing yours for a half-second, a harmless spark that doesn’t feel harmless at all.

“This is a terrible idea,” you say.

“The worst,” he agrees, voice low and honest.

You kiss him anyway.

It starts like a mistake and lands like gravity. He tastes like the wine you both pretended not to need, like mint and something warm, and you think—just once—before you pull away. You do pull away. “We can’t.”

“No,” he says, breath unsteady. “We can’t.”

You kiss him again.

It’s not careful this time. He sets the bottle down like it’s suddenly made of crystal, hands bracing the counter on either side of your hips without touching you. You hook your fingers in his shirt and he steps in, heat and breadth and restraint coiled tight. When you break for air, you hear your own laugh, wrecked and disbelieving.

“We shouldn’t,” you whisper.

“We shouldn’t,” he returns—and then his hands slide to your waist, asking, not taking, and you nod before you realize you’ve nodded. He lifts you onto the bar, the world tilting a fraction; your knees part to make room for him like a reflex you didn’t know you had. He fits there like he was always meant to, his forehead resting against yours for a beat that feels like mercy.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

You open your mouth to say it and something truer comes out. “I don’t want to.”

His answer is a sound more than a word, and then his mouth is on yours again—slow, then not, your hands in his hair, his thumbs pressing lightly at your hips, everything edged with the bright wire of wrong and the impossible relief of right. The string lights hum. Dust motes turn in the warm glow like snow that forgot how to fall.

“Hey!” Lois’s voice, distant but unmistakable, sails down the stairwell. “You two eloped with the whiskey or what?”

You both freeze, foreheads still touching, chests rising in the same rhythm. The call slices through the spell, but it doesn’t extinguish it; it just lays the heat bare.

CLARK, you think, say it out loud without meaning to, “We—”

“We’re going,” he says, already stepping back, hands leaving you with exquisite care. He swallows, collects the rye with a steadiness you envy, and offers you his palm to help you down. You take it. The contact is brief, grounding, electric.

You straighten your shirt. He smooths his tie. You both breathe like you just outran something and haven’t decided if you won.

Lois calls again, laugh tucked into your name this time. “Hurry up! Dad’s giving a lecture on Prohibition!”

“Coming!” you shout, voice almost normal.

Clark looks at you one last time—no promises, no plans, just the truth of what just passed between you. The fire doesn’t fade; it banks. You can feel it, glowing under your ribs, patient and dangerous.

“Lois first,” you whisper, because you need to hear it out loud.

He nods once. “Always.”

Then you climb the stairs side by side, carrying a bottle and the kindling of a problem you can’t drink away.

You don't plan the way your mouth remembers him.

It just happens—in the lull between toasts and the clink of cutlery—your brain flashes back to the basement: the warm hum of the string lights, the rye bottle sweating on the counter, Clark's breath hitching against your lips, the careful way his hands found your waist like you were something he didn't want to bruise. You swallow hard and spear a green bean. It tastes like nothing.

Across the table, Clark is doing an Oscar-worthy impression of a man listening to your father's anecdote about Prohibition raids. He nods in the right places, smiles at the punchline, but his thumb worries the seam of his napkin, a silent tell you can't unsee. When his gaze flickers up—just once—it catches on yours like a coat on a nail, and both of you look away so fast Lucy nearly laughs into her wine.

Guilt rolls in first—cold, clean, undeniable. It sits in your chest next to something hotter, lazier, impossible to tamp down now that you know the shape of his mouth. Desire comes with its entourage: curiosity, ache, that warm, heavy hunger that makes dinner drag like a lecture you didn't sign up for. You fixate on the clock over the hutch and measure time in crimes: three minutes since the last eye contact; five more until you can stand without making a scene; maybe twenty until you can get out into the air and walk this off.

Lois saves the table from your father's second pour by clapping once and announcing, "Emergency. The bakery messed up our order and I refuse to end this glorious dinner on store-bought cookies. Lucy, come with me. The little place on Third still has the lemon chiffon if we hurry."

Lucy is already halfway out of her chair, dramatic as ever. "I've trained for this."

You're on your feet too before you've decided to be—keys in hand, jacket over your arm, the promise of cold night air like a lifeline. "I'll drive," you offer, too eager.

Lois points a manicured finger at you without missing a beat. "Absolutely not. You"—she tosses her wallet to Lucy and kisses Clark's cheek in a practiced glide—"are staying here and keeping my fiancé company so Dad doesn't put him through the 'So You Want To Marry My Daughter' gauntlet while I'm gone."

Your mouth opens. A thousand reasonable objections sprint for the exit and crash into each other. "I can keep Dad busy," you try. "He loves when I—"

"—agree with him?" Lucy supplies sweetly, already shrugging into her coat. "Tempting, but no. Clark needs a buffer. Be a dear. We'll be twenty minutes."

You glance at your father, who is polishing his glass and clearing his throat like a firing squad. You picture Clark trapped in that cross-examination—résumé, finances, intentions—while you skulk off to chase sugar. The image feels like shoving him back into a burning building and closing the door.

"Fine," you tell Lois, because you do love her and because, apparently, you hate yourself. "We'll... hang out."

Lois squeezes your shoulder, quick and grateful. "Knew I could count on you." To Clark, she adds, "Back soon. Don't let Dad draft you into the Prohibition Bureau."

"Scout's honor," Clark says, smile easy but eyes—when they flick to you and back—anything but.

The door snaps shut behind the sisters, and the house exhales. Your father rises with his glass and his sermon and, mercifully, announces, "I'll be in the study. Ten minutes," as if the room is his to subpoena. He disappears down the hall, leaving the comfortable clutter of dinner debris and the two of you marooned in the soft aftermath of a meal you barely tasted.

Silence blooms. Not awkward, exactly. Charged. The kind of quiet that remembers things.

You gather plates because hands need jobs. Clark stacks them without being asked, sleeves still rolled, tie a little looser than before. The kitchen light is warmer than the dining room's, and it draws the edge off both of you, turns you into people instead of problems.

"I wasn't avoiding you," you say, which is technically true in this exact moment and wildly untrue for the last thirty minutes. "I was avoiding my father's third toast."

Clark huffs, grateful for the joke. "It was a strong one. Might've knocked me out."

"You did just survive a basement," you say before you can stop yourself, and there it is—no euphemism, no strategic silence. The word hangs, bare and bright.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not cornered, not pleading—just honest, the way he was when he asked if you were avoiding him and you said yes. "I've been thinking about it," he admits, voice low so it doesn't rattle the glassware. "About... that. About you."

Heat climbs your neck. "Me too."

Another breath. Another second marked on the clock. The fridge hums. Somewhere down the hall, your father shuffles papers in the study, a metronome for good behavior.

"This is a terrible idea," you say, because one of you should say it and you're not sure you can stop if he does.

"The worst," he agrees softly, with that small, rueful smile that started everything. "But I couldn't stop replaying it. And I don't know what to do with that except tell the truth."

You set the plates down like they're suddenly too precious to risk. "The truth is I can't stop replaying it either. And I hate that. And I don't."

His laugh is a quiet, helpless thing. "Exactly."

The distance between you is not much—three floor tiles, the length of a secret. You don't close it. He doesn't either. Instead you both lean into the same safe fiction: chores. He reaches for the faucet; you hand him the sponge. Your knuckles brush. The contact is nothing. It is also everything.

From the foyer, a gust of night air sneaks in under the door as a car passes outside. You catch the scent of Lois's perfume lingering on Clark's collar and—under it—something clean and cool and him. Your pulse goes out of step. You step back. He doesn't follow. It feels like both of you are holding a line with both hands.

"Lois did asked me to keep you company," you say, half to remind yourself which story you're in.

"She trusts you," he says, and there's no accusation in it, only the weight of what that trust means.

"I trust me," you answer. It's not entirely true, not tonight, but you want it to be. "And I'm not going to torture you by leaving you alone with my father."

Clark's mouth tilts. "That is a kindness I won't forget."

"Don't thank me yet," you say, flicking water at his wrist, tinny and ridiculous, and he glances at the droplet like it's a lifeline. "He'll call you into the study any minute."

"I can handle it," he says, and you know he can—interviews and press scrums and city disasters—he's built for weight. But the way he says it makes you want to take some of it anyway.

YOU STEER Clark away from the dining room on the pretense of a tour, letting the low thrum of your father's monologue fade behind you. The house is quieter down the hall—family photos in mismatched frames, the runner soft underfoot, that clean lemon polish smell your father insists on. You point things out because it gives your mouth something to do besides confess: the nick on the banister from when Lucy tried to surf it on a pillowcase; the narrow coat closet that still sticks in the winter; the tiny half bath where Lois once cut her own bangs and swore you to secrecy.

Clark listens like a reporter—attentive, smiling at the right beats, asking small questions that feel bigger than they are. You keep a respectful measure of space between you, professional, like you're the docent of a small museum and he's the only visitor.

"And this," you say, nudging a door with your shoulder, "is where I hid from everyone for four years."

Your old bedroom opens on a sigh of air, cooler than the hall. The posters are gone, the shelves half-full of textbooks you never reclaimed, but the shape of the room is the same: bed under the window, desk scarred by a hundred late nights, a lamp with a shade that throws warm ellipses on the wall. It smells faintly of clean cotton and old paper—the ghost of a life you outgrew but never quite escaped.

Clark stays at the threshold a heartbeat, then steps in, slow, careful, as if the floor might remember the truth better than either of you. He turns once, taking it in, and when his eyes come back to you they're softer, like the light in here dulled the edges.

"You had a good view," he says, nodding at the window. "City without the noise."

"Best place to think," you say, and immediately regret the invitation of the word.

The house creaks. Distantly, a cabinet door closes, a reminder that civilization is only two rooms away. You should walk him back. You should point at the desk and make some harmless joke about bad poetry and worse haircut choices. You should—

He kisses you.

Not the wrecked, electrified tumble of the basement. This is slower, deliberate. He leaves you room to refuse, and you use it for a second—hands braced to his chest, breath caught, the rulebook flapping open in your head. Then something unclenches. You tip forward into him like you've stepped into the exact shape of your want.

His mouth is warm and patient, the kind that coaxes rather than takes. The kiss unfurls—one, two, three beats—and the room tilts toward it. Your fingers catch the line of his jaw; his palm finds the back of your neck, steady heat and a promise he's not allowed to make.

"We shouldn't," you manage against his lips.

"I know," he whispers, and kisses you again.

It goes from careful to hungry like a tide change. You stumble backward a step and the backs of your knees meet the mattress. He breaks only long enough to search your face—asking—before you nod, a small, helpless consent, and sit. He follows, and in the awkward choreography of elbows and breath you end up where gravity wants you: straddling his lap, knees sinking into the familiar give of your old comforter, his hands braced at your hips like he's afraid of both holding on and letting go.

The lamp throws its quiet gold across his cheekbones. Up this close, the frames of his glasses are too much barrier; he slides them off and sets them blindly on the nightstand without looking away from you. You feel the impulse to memorize the moment the way you used to memorize exam answers—focus, clarity, a desire to keep.

You kiss him deeper, and the restraint in him frays. He exhales a sound you feel in your bones and tips his head, finding the line of your jaw with his mouth. You tilt instinctively, granting access before your conscience catches up. His lips find that place just below your ear and then lower, to the hinge of your jaw, the column of your throat. Each touch is slow, reverent, a mapping he'll pretend he never drew.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders. He is heat and steadiness beneath you, every breath a steadying hand on your spine. When his mouth settles at the base of your neck, your whole body answers—back arching, a soft sound pulled out of a part of you that doesn't care about rules. He hums against your skin, the vibration spilling through you like a secret.

You shift, trying to get closer to a man you're already wrapped around, and that's when you feel him—hard, undeniable, pressed against the inside of your thigh through the polite barrier of fabric. The knowledge lands like a match in dry grass. Your hands tighten where they're splayed across his chest; his fingers flex at your hips, not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just anchoring, as if he knows either choice would undo the little control you both have left.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs into your skin, voice rougher now, the question honest and heavy.

You hover in the space between sense and heat, the house and its noises reminding you that your life is ten steps away and this is a fault line running straight under it. You draw a breath that shakes. You taste guilt and want and something terrifyingly like relief.

"I can't," you whisper, because for once you can't make your mouth lie for you.

His arms tighten—not possessive, just present—and he returns to your mouth like a man choosing a storm. You meet him there, every rule you wrote this afternoon scattering like paper in a fan. The bed creaks its small objection and you both laugh quietly against each other's lips, breathless, reckless, aware and uncaring.

Down the hall, a door clicks. The house reminds you you're not alone. The reminder doesn't cool the fire so much as bank it, focusing it into something hotter and more concentrated. You rest your forehead to his, both of you catching the same breath, suspended.

"This is impossible," you say, but your hands don't leave him.

"I know," he says, and his thumbs sweep once over your hips, apology and confession, before he lifts his head to kiss you again, slow enough to pretend this is a choice you've thought through, deep enough to admit you haven't.

Your father’s voice cut down the hall like a gavel. “You two—kitchen.”

You and Clark stepped out of your old room composed to the point of parody—hair smoothed, shirts straight, your pulse doing its best impression of calm. Your dad stood by the dining table with his keys in one hand and his phone in the other, reading off a text.

“Your sisters caught a flat on Riverside. I’m going to meet them, swap the tire, and convoy them back. One man job, not three.” He pinned you both with a look when you opened your mouths. “I said one.”

“We can—” you and Clark started in the same breath.

“No.” He jerked his chin toward the sink. “Dishes. And make to-go trays for Lois and Lucy. Dessert too. I’ll text when we’re on the way.”

The front door swung wide; cool night air slid across the floor. A moment later the engine turned over, gravel rattled under the tires, and the house swallowed the sound as your father backed down the drive. The porch light clicked off, and quiet rushed in.

You and Clark stood in the kitchen doorway a beat longer than necessary, the stillness between you loud as a drum roll. Somewhere at the edge of your hearing, a neighbor’s dog barked. The clock over the stove ticked.

“How far is Riverside from here?” Clark asked, voice low, not trusting the room.

“Ten minutes there, five to swap if he’s feeling heroic.” Your eyes flicked to the clock. “Fifteen.”

He looked at you like a man who’d been holding a breath since the basement and finally found air. “Fifteen.”

You crossed the kitchen at the same time, meeting at the lip of the counter. The first kiss wasn’t cautious. It was the kind you fall into—like stepping off a curb you thought was there and finding only air. His hand came up to your jaw, steady, reverent; yours hooked in his loosened tie and drew him down. The faucet squeaked as you bumped it; a thin ribbon of water ran, a plausible soundtrack for two people who were supposed to be doing dishes.

You broke just long enough to hit your phone’s timer and slide it facedown on the counter. “Five-minute warning,” you breathed.

He smiled against your mouth, wrecked and grateful. “Smart.”

The kitchen lights were softer than usual, a warm hush that painted the edges of everything in honey. You felt him smile melt into a sound when your fingers slipped the top button of his shirt; he answered by sliding his palm over your lower back, drawing you in until your hips met the line of his. Heat rolled through you with dizzying clarity. The counter shifted under your hands; he lifted you up easily, like he’d been built for this specific lift, this specific kitchen, this precise gravity.

You settled on the counter, knees parting to bracket his hips without conscious choice. He fit there as if the space had been waiting for him. His mouth found the slope of your throat, mapping slower than your pulse could stand, pressing kisses that felt like the simple, impossible luxury of being chosen. You tipped your head back and let the ceiling blur. The low, helpless sound that left you made his fingers tighten at your waist.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, a rough echo of your old restraint, though neither of you moved away.

You answered with your hands—one at the base of his neck, the other sliding under cotton to warm skin, dragging a shiver out of him that you felt everywhere. “I don’t want to.”

He exhaled like confession and came back to your mouth. The world narrowed to heat and breath and the rhythm of the clock. His thumbs swept slow circles through your shirt; you answered with the same motion over his pulse, memorizing the beat. When you shifted, you felt him—undeniable, insistent—through the polite barrier of fabric, and the knowledge landed like a struck match. He groaned into the kiss; you swallowed the sound and gave him one of your own.

Dishes clinked faintly as your heel nudged a stack; the faucet’s trickle covered the noise. You laughed, breathless, and he did too, forehead dropping to yours in a moment of mercy before hunger pulled you both under again. Buttons gave way under impatient fingers; the neat knot of his tie loosened to a question mark. His hands skimmed your sides like he was learning a language he already knew.

You had meant to be good. Kissing had been the line you’d sworn to redraw. But fifteen minutes is not a lot of time, and the ache that had been coiled under your ribs all evening unfurled with a mind of its own. You didn’t stop at kissing. You couldn’t.

You leaned into him, your knees hooked on either side of his hips from your perch on the counter, pulling him closer until there was no space left to steal. His kiss was deeper now, a slow burn that tasted of wine and restraint fraying apart.

Your hands roamed up his chest, feeling the solid plane of muscle under his shirt, the steady pound of his heart against your palm. He shivered when your fingers found the base of his neck, thumbs tracing the tendons there. The sound he made—a low, muffled groan into your mouth—only spurred you on.

One of your hands drifted lower, skimming over his belt, the flat of his stomach tightening beneath your touch. You felt the faint tremor in him when you let your fingers slip down, undoing the button of his slacks in one slow, deliberate motion. The zipper came next, the faint rasp impossibly loud in the hush of the kitchen.

He broke the kiss just enough to glance at you, his breath rough and uneven, as if to ask if you knew exactly what you were doing. The way your hand slid past the waistband was answer enough. You traced the hard outline of him through the heat of the fabric, slow at first, just letting your palm explore the shape, the weight, the sheer size of him.

Clark’s jaw tightened; his hands gripped the counter on either side of your thighs as though grounding himself. You could feel him pulse under your hand, his body betraying exactly how much he wanted this despite every rule you’d both recited in your heads.

You teased him deliberately, letting your fingertips trace along his dick before curling your hand around him properly, the friction making his breath hitch sharply. The moment you began to stroke, measured and lazy, his head dropped forward until his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His lips brushed the side of your neck, not kissing, just breathing you in, as though he needed the scent of you to stay anchored.

“God…” he murmured, barely audible, the word carried on a breath that trembled against your skin.

You smiled faintly, emboldened, letting your hand explore him more fully, your thumb brushing over the ridge at his tip through the thin barrier of fabric. The way his hips flexed forward into your touch told you exactly how close he already was to losing whatever control he still had.

You both knew—down to the exact minute—that there wasn't enough time for everything you wanted.

Fifteen minutes wasn't nearly enough for the kind of hunger simmering between you since the basement. But knowing that didn't make you stop. It only made every touch sharper, every kiss more urgent, like two people cramming a lifetime of want into whatever time you could steal.

Clark's mouth was still warm on yours when his hands found your waist and turned you, guiding you toward the counter. The edge met your hips as his body pressed in behind you, his chest firm against your back, his breath hot against the curve of your neck. You braced yourself with both palms flat on the cool countertop, the polished wood biting into your skin just enough to make you aware of how exposed you were becoming.

One of his hands slid forward, splaying across your stomach, holding you against him while the other found the waistband of your pants. The contact was both deliberate and unhurried—his fingers curling just inside the band, tugging at the button, testing your restraint. Your breathing hitched when the metal popped open, the faint sound swallowed by the low hum he gave in your ear.

The zipper came next, its slow descent impossibly loud in the stillness of the kitchen. His knuckles brushed the top of your hips, sending heat straight down your spine. You could feel him, hard and ready against you, even through the layers still between you, the solid press of him leaving no doubt about exactly how badly he wanted this.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your ear, though his fingers were already working at the fabric, easing it lower over your hips. The question sounded more like a test than a request.

You didn't answer—not with words. Instead, you shifted just enough to give him room to keep going. The movement earned you a soft, unsteady laugh against your shoulder, as if he knew you were both standing at the edge of something dangerous and you'd just stepped closer.

He hooked his thumbs under your waistband and tugged, just enough for cool air to kiss the curve of you—skin bared in the soft spill of the kitchen light. The quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed suddenly loud; the clock ticked like a metronome for your breathing. Behind you, Clark's breath grew rougher, the careful man from dinner slipping out of his own restraint with every second you let pass.

You heard the soft rasp of a zipper and felt the shift of his body as he freed himself—no theater, just urgency. One hand settled at your hip, the other hovered for a heartbeat in indecision before he gave in to something uncharacteristically reckless. He wet his palm—quick, instinctive—and slicked himself with a single, deliberate stroke, a move so improvised it surprised even him. He wasn't the type to be careless, but whatever lived between you had rewritten his rules in the span of a breath.

Clark then positioned himself carefully, one steady hand at your hip, the other guiding himself with deliberate control. The first press of him made your breath catch—not from surprise, but from the sheer stretch of it, the slow push that had your fingers gripping the counter until your knuckles whitened.

A low moan broke free from your throat before you could hold it back, the sound muffled against the hum of the kitchen around you. Clark froze for a beat at the noise, his own breathing uneven, then eased forward again in measured increments. There was no rush in the way he moved—just enough to sink deeper, to let you feel every inch without overwhelming you.

You tilted your head, eyes shut, taking in the deliberate pace, the way his body felt like it was fitting into a space carved just for him. He held still once he was fully seated inside you, giving you time to adjust, his fingers tracing idle circles against your hip like he was checking in without words.

Somewhere in the back of your mind—blurry from the heat—you couldn't help the silent, fleeting thought: Lois must never complain. Because with the way he filled you now, the firm weight and length of him—easily nine, maybe ten inches—you understood just how much control he had to keep from driving in harder.

When your breath steadied and you rolled your hips back in subtle invitation, his low, throaty sound of approval washed warm against your neck. Then, with care and that same maddening precision, he began to move.

The clock over the stove ticked like a dare, and both of you answered it.

What began as careful, measured movement shifted—first to a steadier cadence, then to something urgent and unguarded. Clark's hands tightened at your hips, guiding you, finding a rhythm that matched the drag of your breath and the stuttering beat of your pulse. The edge of the counter bit pleasantly into your palms; each soft knock of your thigh against the cabinet reminded you how little time you had and how recklessly you meant to spend it.

He started controlled—every motion deliberate, every breath checked—then you felt the change when restraint slipped. A low sound rolled out of his chest, close to your ear, and he pressed in harder, deeper, the tempo climbing from patient to needy. Your name broke from him like a secret, half-whispered against your shoulder; you answered with a quiet gasp that made him shudder and chase it again.

Heat built fast—coil tightening, breath shortening, the two of you moving as if the room had narrowed to just this line of contact, just this rhythm. He adjusted the angle with a careful shift of his hips and the world snapped into sharper focus; you rocked back to meet him, wordless encouragement in the way your body yielded and asked for more. His mouth found your neck, teeth barely grazing, a kiss that landed more like a promise, and the next drive of his body turned the promise into a plea.

"Don't stop," you breathed, and felt him give in to the request like surrender.

The faucet's thin ribbon of water masked the soft, frantic sounds you couldn't quite swallow.

Time, traitorous and finite, kept marching. But for those rushing, breathless moments, it felt like you'd stepped outside of it together—nothing left but heat, the drum of your joined movement, and the rough-edged worship in the way he moved against you, as if he meant to memorize you before the world came back.

Clark then crowded in closer, one arm banded around your waist to keep you tight to him as the other slid up, fingers curling under your jaw to tilt your face. You met him halfway, lips catching his in a heat-drunk kiss that stole what little breath you'd been rationing. He didn't slow—hips driving in a steady, hungry rhythm—so the kiss broke and reformed in shards: teeth grazing, mouths parting, the soft, helpless sounds you made swallowed against his tongue.

He kept talking between kisses, each thrust punctuating a word, praise roughened into a growl. "That's it... look at me... good—God, you feel—so perfect." The cadence of it went straight through you. You answered with a ragged, "Don't stop," and his laugh came low and wrecked against your mouth, followed by a deeper roll of his hips that had your fingers clawing at the countertop for purchase.

He chased your lips like a man starved, then trailed to your cheek, the hinge of your jaw, back to your mouth—every return a reward for the way you yielded to him. "You take me so well," he murmured, voice frayed silk, "been thinking about this—about you—since the second I tasted you." You gasped; he caught it with another kiss and fed you more: "So sweet... mine for these minutes... say my name." When you did, it unraveled him; his pace hit a deeper, truer rhythm, the kind that said he'd found exactly how to undo you and had no intention of stopping.

Your replies slipped into the heat with his—please and yes and more—threaded with shameless little praises of your own that made his breath hitch: how strong he felt, how deep he was, how good he was making you feel. He answered every admission with a new kind of worship: a thumb circling your hipbone, a kiss pressed hard to the corner of your mouth, a whispered, "That's my good boy," that sent your knees threatening to give.

The kitchen was thick with heat, the air carrying that charged, heady mix of sweat, breath, and something deeper—need sharpened to a fine point. Each movement sent the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin ricocheting off the walls, sharp and rhythmic, a pulse you could feel as much as hear.

The counter under your palms was cool in contrast to the fever of your skin, every push from Clark driving you forward just enough to make the wood creak beneath your grip. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the space, quickening with the urgency in him, in you, a raw soundtrack that drowned out the soft hiss of the faucet and the quiet tick of the clock.

Your breath came in uneven bursts, mingling with his—low groans from him, helpless gasps from you—layering over that relentless rhythm. The slap of skin was hypnotic, a metronome for the way you moved together, chasing something you both knew time would cut short but neither could stop reaching for.

Clark's pace stayed hungry, almost primal now, the sound of each thrust a physical reminder of how completely you'd both abandoned restraint. Every sharp connection of your bodies echoed in the small room, filling it with a sound that was all heat, all want, all the proof of just how lost you both were in the pleasure flooding every nerve.

You could feel the tension coiling in Clark—his hips driving forward with that sharpened precision that came only when the end was near. His fingers dug into your hips like he needed the anchor just as much as you did.

You were right there with him, your body tightening, clenching around him with each movement, dragging a low, guttural sound from his chest. The kitchen seemed smaller, quieter, like the rest of the world had faded out to just this rhythm, this heat, this chase toward release.

Then, his voice broke through the haze, deep and strained, each word riding the edge of a groan.

"You want me—" a thrust punctuated it, "—to finish inside? Keep things from... getting messy?"

The question was almost a plea, thick with lust and the barest thread of control he had left. His pace stuttered for half a beat, like he was holding himself back for your answer, his body ready to give in but waiting for your word. You could feel every bit of his need in the way he trembled against you, the urgency in his voice matching the fever in your own pulse.

You managed to nod, breathless, even as another deep thrust made your knees threaten to give. "Yeah," you rasped, your voice almost lost under the sharp slap of skin and the ragged sound of your breathing. You knew exactly what he meant—things could get messy fast if you didn't control it—but you also trusted that he'd thought it through.

Clark's hands slid lower on your hips, his grip firm, almost possessive now that he had your answer. You could feel the strain in him, the tension rippling through his body as he held himself right on the edge. Every push into you was hotter, deeper, more deliberate, like he was carving himself into your memory before time ripped you apart again.

You still had to think about yourself—about keeping your own release in check, making sure it didn't spill everywhere and give away what the two of you had just done in this kitchen. That thought flickered across your mind, but it was drowned out by the intensity of him behind you, by the heat of him driving into you like this was the only moment either of you had.

Clark's voice came low and uneven in your ear, his chest pressed to your back as he rocked into you. "Don't worry," he murmured, the words tight, like it took effort to get them out. "I've got a way to handle that too... but first—" His hips snapped forward, making you gasp, "—I need to finish inside you."

The promise in his tone sent a shiver straight down your spine. You could feel him chasing that final peak, every movement a little more desperate, a little less controlled, as if the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling was the thought of you letting him go exactly how he wanted.

Clark's rhythm faltered, his breath breaking into a low, guttural sound that rumbled against your back. His grip on your hips tightened as he buried himself deep one final time, holding you there as the heat of his release spilled into you. The sensation pulled a sharp moan from your lips, the sudden fullness making your muscles tense and flutter around him.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved—just the sound of your uneven breathing filling the kitchen, your hearts pounding like they were trying to sync. You felt him press his forehead briefly to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling against your back as he steadied himself.

Then, without pulling fully away, his hand slid forward, fingers wrapping around your dick with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. The first stroke was slow, deliberate, his palm warm and slick enough to make your hips jerk forward into his touch.

"You've been holding back," he murmured, his voice low and rough, still catching on the aftershocks of his own climax. His lips found the side of your neck, brushing soft, almost teasing kisses there before trailing up toward your jaw. The contrast between the intimacy of his mouth and the firm, purposeful rhythm of his hand had you trembling.

Each tug was perfectly timed, his thumb dragging over your most sensitive spot until the tension in your core began to coil dangerously tight. Clark kept kissing you—at first on your jaw, then finally turning your head just enough for his mouth to meet yours. The kiss was deep and messy, filled with heat and possession, his tongue sweeping against yours in perfect sync with the motions of his hand.

The combination was too much. You broke the kiss with a ragged moan, your release hitting hard, spilling into his grip as your body shuddered through it. He kept stroking you through the pulses, swallowing your sounds with more slow, lingering kisses until you had nothing left but the feel of his mouth and the faint hum of pleasure still dancing in your muscles.

When it was over, his hand loosened but didn't let go right away, as if savoring the moment before the reality of the ticking clock returned. He pressed one last kiss to your lips, breathing you in like he didn't want to forget the taste.

Clark finally let go of you, his hand still slick and warm from what he'd just worked out of you. You were still catching your breath, leaning into the counter for support, when you saw him glance down at the mess coating his fingers and palm.

Instead of reaching for a towel, he brought his hand up slowly, deliberately, his eyes locking on yours like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His tongue swept out, dragging over the heel of his palm first, gathering the taste of you with a low hum that sounded almost approving. Then he took his time with his fingers, lips closing around each one in turn, sucking them clean in slow, unhurried pulls.

The sight punched the air right out of you. His mouth glistened faintly in the kitchen light, every movement calculated but unpretentious, like this wasn't some show—like he genuinely wanted every drop. By the time he reached his thumb, your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

He finished with one last slow lick along the side of his finger, eyes never leaving yours, and then smirked just enough to let you know he'd caught every ounce of your reaction. Jesus, you thought, your whole body buzzing. Clark Kent—buttoned-up, composed, maddeningly self-controlled Clark—had somehow just become the hottest man you'd ever seen, and you weren't sure how you were going to survive the rest of the night knowing it.

For a long, suspended beat, neither of you moved. You stayed folded over the counter with Clark warm against your back, both of you breathing hard, hearts trying to find the same rhythm again. The kitchen light felt softer somehow, turning the sheen on your skin to gold; the only sounds were the thin hiss of the faucet you'd left barely open and the faint tick of the stove clock counting you back toward reality.

Your phone buzzed against the wood—once, insistent. Five-minute warning.

Clark pressed his forehead to your shoulder and exhaled, a low, reluctant sound that vibrated through you. Then he eased out of you with careful patience, one hand steadying your hip as if to apologize for the loss. You felt the sudden cool of air and the ghost of where he'd been, then the practical rustle of clothes: his zipper's quick rasp, the soft snap of a button, the slide of fabric as he tucked himself away and smoothed his shirt. You tugged your own boxers and pants back into place, fingers a little clumsy, belt tongue finding the buckle on the second try.

You turned at the same time. For a breath, you just looked—his hair a little mussed, tie loosened into a lazy knot, his mouth flushed; your reflection of that same ruin in his eyes. The pull between you sparked all over again. He cupped your jaw with a thumb that still trembled faintly, and you leaned in. The kiss you shared was slower than any you'd managed all night—no rush, just gratitude and heat, a seal on something neither of you knew how to name.

The timer in your head clicked over another minute. You both stepped back like you'd rehearsed it. Armor on.

"Okay," you said, voice huskier than you meant. "Trays."

"Trays," he echoed, already rolling his sleeves back to his forearms like a promise to be useful.

You killed the faucet and set the sink to fill with suds. Clark stacked plates into neat towers and ferried them over; you scrubbed, rinsed, and handed off to the rack with the efficiency of two people covering a secret with motion. He portioned leftovers into containers—roast, potatoes, green beans—labeling lids with a wax pencil he found in the drawer. You slid the jewel-box desserts into smaller clamshells, tucked napkins and forks alongside, and wiped down the counter where your hips had kissed the edge, the cloth making a clean, unremarkable path through the faint heat of memory.

By the time headlights feathered across the dining room wall and tires whispered back up the drive, the kitchen looked exactly as your father had left it in your charge—dishes stacked to dry, to-go bags lined by the back door, everything in its place.

The front door swung open on a gust of cool air and familiar voices. Your father stepped in first, coat half buttoned, the set of his shoulders loosening when his eyes swept the kitchen.

"Good," he said, approval plain as he took in the stacked drying rack, the gleaming counters, and the neat line of to-go boxes by the back door. "Efficient."

Lois breezed in behind him, cheeks pink from the night air, hand still looped through Lucy's elbow. "You're a lifesaver," she said, brushing a kiss against your cheek as she passed. To Clark, another kiss, a squeeze of his arm. "And thank you for keeping him company."

"Anytime," Clark answered, easy as a Sunday smile. His tie was straight again, sleeves rolled just so—every inch the composed fiancé. Only you could see the faint rose left at the edge of his mouth.

Lucy, triumphant, hoisted a white bakery box to shoulder height. "Stand back, mortals. The lemon chiffon has landed." She thunked it onto the table, flicked the twine loose, and lifted the lid with a magician's flourish. A halo of sugar rose when she peeled back the paper, lemon glaze shining under the pendant light.

Plates appeared. Knives flashed. The first slice sighed as it left the round. You served your father, then Lois; Clark slid your plate across without looking at you, the corner of his mouth quirking like he knew exactly what your hands felt like a few minutes ago and wasn't going to think about it. You weren't either. Not with cake this pretty.

For a while, it was simple: forks tapping porcelain, low commentary about crumb and balance and which bakery deserved a handwritten thank-you note. Your father declared the icing "the only proper way to end a meal." Lucy stole a bite from Lois's plate with the shameless precision of a jewel thief. Clark hummed his approval at the first taste, eyes closing for a blink longer than necessary, a sound you felt lower than was reasonable.

"So," Lois said, refilling your father's coffee and settling back with a cat-curious glint. "While we were rescuing dessert, did my brother tell any embarrassing stories about me to scare you off? Because if he brought up the seventh-grade bangs, I will sue."

Clark didn't miss a beat. He leaned back, draped an elbow on the chair, and put on his best earnest-reporter face. "Not a one. He gave me the grand tour, spoke highly of you, and"—he lifted his fork in salute—"made sure the kitchen was squared away like a pro."

"Suspiciously wholesome," Lucy muttered, squinting between the two of you like a detective who knows there's a clue she hasn't spotted yet.

"Some of us can manage wholesomeness," you said, studiously focused on cutting a perfect bite. The lemon glaze pooled at the edge of your slice; a strand of icing clung to your fork, then to your lip when you tasted it. You swept it away with the tip of your tongue on instinct.

You didn't look at him. You didn't have to. Clark saw—of course he did—and the reaction was immediate and subtle: a sharp inhale he hid behind a sip of water, the barest tilt of his head, and then, under the table, the gentle nudge of his shoe against your ankle. Behave.

Heat flickered up your neck. You shifted your foot back, the ghost of his touch lingering like a secret handshake. Across the table, he'd already gone back to nodding at something your father was saying about tire irons and proper torque, picture of composure.

Lois, satisfied—for now—launched into a rapid-fire recap of the bakery's closing-time drama. Lucy embellished shamelessly, claiming she performed "emergency pastry diplomacy." Your father declared that an art form the city should subsidize. Laughter spilled easy and warm; plates emptied; crumbs collected on thumbs.

When the last fork scraped the last ribbon of lemon from porcelain, you stood to pack the to-go boxes you'd prepared earlier. Clark rose at the same time, moving in sync with you without discussion: lids snapped on, napkins tucked, names scrawled across tops in quick, neat letters. Your fingers brushed once—brief, harmless, everything—and then fell away.

"Successful rescue," Lois pronounced, snapping the bakery box closed. She leaned into Clark's shoulder, content. Your father clapped a hand to your back, approval heavy and warm. Lucy winked like she knew all your tells and was keeping them for later leverage.

You smiled, mouth sweet with lemon, heart steadying into the ordinary music of family around a table—while under it, the soft memory of a nudge on your ankle thrummed like a private chord only the two of you could hear.

YOU VOLUNTEERED to walk Clark out, grabbing your coat from the hook as he balanced two neatly labeled clamshells—Lois and Clark—stacked in his arms. The night air had that clean, late-evening bite; your breath lifted white in the porch light as the door clicked shut behind you. Gravel whispered under your shoes. Out by the curb, Lois’s car sat beneath the streetlamp, flecked with a fine dusting of road salt that turned the paint a shade paler.

Behind you, the front hall was a tangle of familiar noise—your sisters scolding your father as only daughters can: “Text when you’re home.” “You promise you’ll make the cardiology appointment, right?” “Dad, it’s winter—wear the good coat.” He harrumphed and agreed in that way of his that meant he’d do most of it and pretend it was his idea.

Out on the walk, you angled closer so your shoulder could help with the weight of the door while Clark freed a hand to fish for keys. “Thanks,” he said quietly, that warm Kansas note in his voice turning the word into something softer.

“You did most of the heavy lifting,” you murmured, nodding at the containers. “I just provided moral support and, uh, cutlery.”

He smiled at that—small, tired, devastating. The porch light trimmed his profile in gold; the loosened knot of his tie made him look a little undone in a way only you would notice. “You kept me from the gauntlet,” he said. “I owe you.”

“You owe me exactly nothing,” you said, and the truth of it trembled in the space between you.

At the car, he opened the back door and set the boxes carefully on the seat like they were more fragile than pastry. When he straightened, the two of you fell into that gravity again—close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, far enough to call it coincidence if anyone looked out the window. The neighborhood was quiet: the soft electric buzz of the streetlight, a radio murmuring from somewhere down the block, a taxi rolling past with its heater whistling.

“Tonight was…” He searched for the word and didn’t find it. “A lot.”

You huffed a breath that ghosted between you. “Understatement of the year. And it’s only—” You checked your phone as a distraction. “—still the same day.”

Silence settled, not awkward, just full. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets so you wouldn’t do something stupid like touch his lapel just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

“We can’t do it again,” you said finally, because someone had to pick the line back up. Your voice was quiet but sure. “Whatever that was. We can’t.”

His agreement came immediately, like a reflex he’d already rehearsed. “We can’t.” A beat. He swallowed. “Lois first.”

“Always,” you said, and meant it. The words landed between you like a posted sign.

And still—neither of you moved. Your eyes held and held, the kind of looking that catalogues, not to memorize for later, but because you couldn’t not. All the things you weren’t saying threaded through those seconds: I felt you everywhere, I’m already missing a moment we’re still standing in, I don’t know how to be in the same room as you and pretend it didn’t happen.

You forced a crooked smile. “So… next time I keep you company, we actually… keep company.”

He answered with one of his own, exhausted and warm. “I’ll bring cards. Something very wholesome.”

“Gin rummy,” you said, deadpan.

“Dangerous,” he murmured, and it shouldn’t have made your pulse jump, but it did.

From the porch, Lucy’s laugh rang out, followed by Lois’s voice telling your dad she’d bring soup later in the week. You both flinched back into the world.

“Drive safe,” you said, stepping aside so he could close the door. It clicked with a mild, final sound that felt anything but.

His hand found your sleeve—just the cuff, just a graze—and then, before either of you could talk yourselves out of it, you leaned in at the same time. The kiss was fast and quiet and precise, the kind of thing you could deny if you had to, except you wouldn’t, not to yourselves. He tasted like lemon and coffee and the last five minutes you’d stolen in a kitchen that already looked innocent again.

You parted on a shared breath. His forehead hovered a fraction from yours, then he stepped back like it cost him something.

“Goodnight,” he said, eyes still on your mouth for one treacherous second before he dragged them up where they belonged.

“Goodnight,” you echoed, softer than you meant to.

He circled to the driver’s side just as the front door opened and your sisters spilled onto the porch, coats on, your father framed behind them with his arms crossed in satisfied inspection. Lois waved at you both like she’d choreographed the goodbye. Lucy clutched her cake with the reverence of a relic.

“Text us when you’re home,” Lucy called.

“We will,” Clark answered, voice steady, that easy fiancé smile on, the picture of a man ending a normal Sunday night.

He climbed in. You shut the back door and rapped your knuckles twice on the roof—habit from a hundred family departures. The engine turned over; warm air fogged the inside of the windshield for a second before the defroster battled it clear. He glanced at you once more through the glass. The look was quick, gone as soon as it came, but you felt it like a hand closing around a promise.

As the car pulled away, you stood in the streetlight glow with a bakery box under your arm and the taste of him brief and bright on your lips. You told yourself you’d just closed the door on a mistake.

But as the taillights stitched red down the block and your phone buzzed with the group chat lighting up—cake secured; dad scolded; mission accomplished—you knew better. Whatever lived between you hadn’t burned out. It had learned to live in the margins—glances, almost-touches, borrowed minutes—and it wasn’t done with either of you.

Not even close.

[invincibledc]

You: I’m not that pretty/handsome….

Damian who busted through your door: BLASPHEMY! WHO SHALL I END THE LIVES THAT TOLD BLATANT LIES!

Jason who came out from under your bed: I second on what the demon said.

Tim who was suddenly disguised as a giant teddy unzipping the suit: me three, what’s their name?

Dick who bursted through your windows: My Y/N distress signal alerted me! Who said that to you!!?

You: WHERE TF DID YALL COME FROM?!!

All of them: THAT DOESNT MATTER!

[malereadermaniac]

(;¬_¬) Alpha Tendencies - Clark Kent x Omega male reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Plot: Childhood best friends turn into something more when red kryponite forces out Clark's perverted thoughts

Featuring: Alpha (Smallville) Clark Kent x Omega male reader

Note: Presenting as A/B/O happens around 18 in this AU, not around regular puberty at 14!!!!!! ALSO! Never watched this series(?) and I know nothing abt DC other than what I've read from fanfiction so pls excuse any continuity issues and such!

Warnings: amab m!reader / FDNI ~ Minors DNI!

Alpha!Clark who's been protective over you since childhood. The two of you had been best friends and 'neighbours' since you two learnt to walk 'n talk! You were the closest house to Clark's farm; still pretty much in the middle of nowhere, but close enough that the brunette would knock on your door every day to get you outside to play together. And even though you two hadn't even presented yet, it was like you both naturally knew to settle into that Alpha-Omega rhythm. Clark would always watch out for you, his blood pressure spiking and his little fangs baring whenever you hurt yourself whilst playing or a stranger approached.

Alpha!Clark who presented as an Alpha and literally couldn't stop thinkin' about you. During his entire first rut, his brain was consumed with thoughts of you. Thoughts of you being such a good omega and helping him with school work, thoughts of him scaring off your bullies who thought you were too flamboyant, thoughts of you beneath him, thoughts of you purring Clark's name into his ear... It really affected Clark. He felt so full of shame once he'd come to after his rut had ended; he literally couldn't look you in the eye for a week!

Alpha!Clark who had discovered a new side of himself, a side he tried so hard to shove down and keep hidden. A side which would keep Clark up at night unless he jerked off to the thought of you, his innocent, perfect, sexy childhood best friend, in compromising positions and situations with the Alpha. A side to himself which made it so difficult for Clark to concentrate on what you were saying when you're eyes looked so pretty looking up at him, when your scent was making his brain feel fuzzy and his dick ache, oh and especially when your voice saying his name to get his attention sounded so sweet. But the superhuman kept this perverted side of himself bottled up. That was until he received a gift.

Alpha!Clark who couldn't turn down a gift from the Omega he'd been desperate to court since childhood. So, when you presented him with a silver band-like ring, how could he resist putting it on? Though both of you were unaware that the minuscule red gem encrusted into the ring, the one you thought was a plastic rhinestone, was actually one of the last tiny pieces of red kryptonite left on earth (excuse the lack of series knowledge). And you wouldn't find out for a while. After all, it was such a tiny piece that it affected Clark very minutely. Though it slowly but surely picked up speed.

Alpha!Clark who thought he just felt a bit braver recently. Maybe his brain had fully developed. Or perhaps he just stopped thinking about consequences or morals as much, but he was definitely acting differently... Again, it started off slow and small. An out-of-pocket kinda sexual comment about you that you'd laugh off: "Your lips look good around that popsicle". Then it turned into more open courting; yeah, you and Clark had kind of been courting each other since childhood, but now the Alpha was carrying your bag around all day and giving you gifts every morning. Then came the jealousy; an alpha couldn't get a word in if Clark was around, whether the said alpha be a friend of yours or even sometimes a teacher, Clark would be on them like white on rice; holding back snarls as his arm snakes around your waist, baring his teeth, and making passive-aggressive comments.

Alpha!Clark who was still managing to put up a 'good Alpha' front despite the influence of the kryptonite. But behind closed doors, it was a very different story. The laundry basket in your room had tempted Clark many times, to the point it became routine for him to sneak a pair of your underwear and take it home with him, replacing it with a pair he'd stolen a couple of weeks past, which had lost your scent. Oh, and not to mention the way that any time you would sleep over at his house, share a bed with him, Clark would make sure you were asleep and jerk off until his dick felt like it would fall off. You just looked so fucking perfect and blissful next to (below) him, how could he resist? How could he stop?

Alpha!Clark who had reached his boiling point. It was a hot summer day, and Clark was being made to help out on his parents' farm while school was out. Of course you offered to help him out, and how could he say no? It was getting to a point that Clark could barely go a whole day without seeing you. But you were really doing the opposite of helping him. Sure, you were getting the jobs around the farm done, no complaints there. But you were rendering the young alpha practically inept with the way your skimpy summer clothes were showing off your skin, the way your body was shiny and sweaty from the hot summer air, and holy shit, the way your face was flushed along with your cute pants of exhaustion? Clark could feel the boner in his pants almost tear the seams of his briefs.

Alpha!Clark who finally submitted to the influence of the red kryptonite in his ring, meaning he finally gave into his desires, his basic Alphan needs. You don't even know how it happened, but one second you were moving around some haybales in the Kent's barn, and the next you were sitting atop said haybales with Clark standing between your legs, kissing you feverishly. His scent of mineral musk and small notes of grapefruit was all you could smell, making your head feel fuzzy as you reciprocated the kiss, the kiss from your childhood best friend. Clark, on the other hand, was greedily inhaling the sweet smell of vanilla bean and sandalwood that was leaking from your scent gland; the alpha literally huffing through his nose whilst moulding his lips against yours, you'd think Clark was addicted to your scent.

Alpha!Clark who had his (temporary) fix of your lips and started kissing down your neck, stopping to give your scent gland some attention, and all the way down to the waistline of your shorts. Before it even registered to you, mainly due to the Alpha pheremones weakening your frontal cortex to increase the chance of reproduction, Clark was on his knees below you; his strong, muscular arms holding your thighs up and his chiselled face between your asscheeks. Loud moans and desperate whines echoed throughout the barn and only worked to egg Clark on as he worked his warm, wet tongue into your hole; your gushing slick and his own spit literally flowing down his chin and perfect jawline like some lewd waterfall. Your fingers gripped the Alpha's brown locks with a force that to you felt like a lot, but to the absolute hunk of an Alpha beneath you felt like an adorable attempt. Your toes curled in the air above Clark's head as your thighs shook from the intense pleasure of an Alpha eating you out like he was starved, because after pinning for you for so many years, Clark may as well have been.

Alpha!Clark who felt his heart skip a beat and his inner alpha scream in pleasure when you came on his tongue as you moaned out Clark's name. But the Alpha fell in love with you even more (though that would be literally impossible) when, after basking in the afterglow of your earthshattering orgasm, you offered Clark the same treatment, explaining with an embarrassed blush that you didn't want him to feel left out. That's how you both ended up lying hayloft of Clark's barn; you on top of the muscular alpha in a sixty-nine position, his dick in your mouth and vice versa. To say that Clark had never felt so much pleasure before would be an understatement, 'cause the way you started to gently lap at the Alpha's musky, inhumanely large dick and then transitioned into head sloppier than Clark had seen in porno's? That shit made Clark wanna cum then and there. But don't think that just 'cause the brunnette was almost drunk on pleasure that he wasn't focusing on your pleasure too! No, no, Clark was having to wrap his muscular arms around your hips to keep them still; the top he was giving you was making you leak slick and pre like a tap left runnin'! Seriously though, Clark could fit your entire omegan prick inside his mouth with ease, and the way his tongue would rub your tip whilst his cheeks would hollow was making you see stars.

Alpha!Clark who held off his orgasm, perks of being Kryptonian, unlike you, who shot another load down the Alpha's throat and leaked so much slick that Clark could have drowned. Though Clark was more than happy to hold off his orgasm if it meant he could knot his Omega; yes, his Omega, 'cause at this point, marking and knotting you were formalities to claiming you. By the time the aftershocks of your second orgasm had quietened down, Clark already had you in another position; kneeling behind you as your chest lay flat on the hayloft, your hips on the other hand, propped up and presenting for your Alpha. Clark gave you the grace of entering you slowly and giving you time to adjust to his ten-inch monster; though from the mewls and moans of pain and pleasure you were letting out, his soft approach barely helped.

Alpha!Clark who rocked your world the moment you gave him the green light. We're talking backshots that could be heard all the way in England; Clark's huge, masculine hands gripping your hips tight enough to move you on and off his cock but gently enough to let you know he cares. Your breathy moans loudly reverberated throughout the barn as Clark knocked the wind out of you with every thrust, and the Alpha's own groans and moans harmonised with yours so nicely. Your scents mixed in the air along with the smell of slick, spit, and sweat; the hot, humid summer air making even the open-plan barn stink of raw sex. The scene looked like it belonged in a VHR porno, and both of you couldn't get enough of it; your Omega keening and purring at the physical and emotional feeling of having an Alpha like Clark want you in this way, and Clark's alpha roaring in pleasure and pride from having his Omega beneath him and drunk on pleasure from his doing.

Alpha!Clark who checked in on you one last time before letting himself go, leaning down, his muscular chest to your arching back, and whispering in your ear 'you doin' good? Mind if I knot you, darling?'. Ugh and when you give the man a forced nod and moan out a 'yes please'? How could Clark help himself? He'd wrapping and arm around your waist and another around head, letting your head rest against his huge bicep as his hips start moving at a speed your body could barely register or handle. All you could remember other than your own lewd sounds and moans was Clark's groaned-out string of perverted, raw, Alphan comments as he knotted you. "Fuck you're so tight" "So fuckin' good for me- the- NGH- perfect fucking Omega" "AH- Shit-! so wet and warm just for your- your alpha" "Fuck 'm gonna knot you 'n fill you with my pups, darlin' You want that, don't ya?" That dirty talk, along with the feeling of Clark's thick knot pushing against your rim, was what sent you over the edge for a third time. You saw white, then black, then stars of white again as your vision came back in small spots. Your dick soaked the wood and hay below you with infertile Omegan cum, your breathy moans and whiny pants mixed with Clark's moans and croons as his knot kept him locked inside of you; his thick, warm, scarily fertile cum filling you to the brim. Every unconscious pulse of your walls coaxed and forced another shot of seed out of Clark; a natural push and pull from your inner Omega and Alpha. At the end of the day, no matter how much pleasure you get out of this, the end goal, whether you want it or not, is pups.

Alpha!Clark who would gently rub your hips and the side of your thighs as the intense aftershocks stop. The silence, accompanied by soft panting from both of you, was calming, and the feeling of Clark's hands rubbing your body and the marks left on it did wonders in relaxing you. Clark gently moved the two of you into a spooning position, mindful of his knot still keeping him rock hard and locked inside of you, and played with your hair as you both talked sweet nothings. "Y'know... I think I fell for you the moment I laid eyes on you" "Really? That quickly hmhm...? I think I fell for you when you carried me home when I scraped my knee" "That happened quite often, you'll have to be more specific haha" "Shut up... So... what did this mean?" "If it were fully up to me... I'd of marked you and paraded you around the town as my Omega by now... But the deciding vote will always be yours, [name]" "Hmhm~ I think we can take it a little slower than that... I think boyfriends is a good place to start~"

[riotlain]

How they sleep/cuddle

bigger than normal post but yknow :3

I was gonna do more characters for this so feel free to rq more characters for this

THIS IS A NWLNW BLOG!! WOMEN DNI

(yknow just means to not interact with the post)

Bruce Wayne

Not against cuddling. Will if you ask

He likes being big spoon, especially after a long day... will little spoon if he's particularly tired

Stays still when he's asleep aside from like occasional gripping

Either insanely light or insanely heavy sleeper theres no in between

The type to mumble in his sleep

Dick Grayson

Loves cuddling to the extreme

Spooning is big (He's usually big spoon but he melts if he's the little spoon)

Loves laying on your chest after a long day

He sleeps like a damsel in distress

Moves a lot when he sleeps and its usually gravitating towards you

A snorer

Jason Todd

Either insanely warm or insanely cold no in between

Sleeps like a victorian child on their death bed...

Likes to have an arm wrapped around you when cuddling but like unintentionally curls against your chest when he sleeps

Sleep talker and restless kicking

Wakes up a lot in the middle of the night so you might catch him staring at you or gone to the kitchen

Tim Drake

If its yalls first time he'll be like sorta stiff for a little

If yall dating for a good lil while then he'll be more relaxed

and also take up majority of the bed

He likes laying on your chest and vice versa

Sleep talker.. if he ever sleeps

Watches you sleep in the way where he's a really bored insomniac

Can't lay still at all when he's asleep and always gravitates towards you

Cold feeted mf

Damian Wayne

He's pretty on guard at first

He doesn't initiate the cuddling bc he isn't sure how at the beginning

Unless you start cuddling him he'll just sorta lay there and accept it

Eventually when he's fully comfortable he will still lay there like a plank but he'll have an arm around you

He looks like he's dead when he's asleep

He might like mumble something though

He has many pets so at least one will show up and lay there too

If someone walks in he'll deny everything they ask and tell them to get out (unless its Alfred then he'll nicely tell him to get out)

Clark Kent

Living heater

Loves cuddling and hugging

Coming back home after a real rough day and just hugging you

Laying on each other is his fav

Somewhat heavy sleeper due to him being used to his super hearing and stuff

Krypto is in your bed a lot too

Sleeps soundly as hell like damn!

Plastic Man

Flirty as hell like its crazy

Wraps around you like snake

Can't have a normal cuddle session with him probably bc he's like everywhere

He'll be your blanket if you're cold

In the literal sense he will be your blanket

Insanely warm

Fav position is spooning. He doesn't mind which he is bc either way he's gonna talk to you (will stretch his neck to look at you)

Sleep talker and moves around a lot

Everyday you wake up in a new position

[solar-wing]

⚣ One Kent Was Enough 👦🏻

⚣👦🏻 A/N → You spoiled little brats got a damn near 40k word fic out of me! No complaints, EVER again. Also, if anyone remembers, I posted about doing something like this before when I got inspired by this post from @cipheress-to-k-pop. Hope you enjoy and thank you for your patience and support! WARNINGS: Canon-Typical Violence | Canon Divergence | Domestic Fluff | Angst & Fluff | Minor Conner/M'Gann mentions | Slight Enemies To Lovers trope | Implied Mpreg |

⚣👦🏻 Summary → Conner and Y/N had a very tense relationship; tense meaning there was rarely a moment the two could be in the same room without arguing. Their friends didn't see a future where they would ever be close, let alone cordial. But, a timely visit from some special individuals could end up changing things for the better? Or worse, depending on the perspective. Could the world actually be ending?

⚣👦🏻 Words → 39.4K

REBLOGS and replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY 👦🏻

In the dimly lit garage hangar of Mount Justice, Batman, and Red Tornado stood solemnly by the ramp, awaiting the return of their young proteges from a mission that was purportedly successful, though marred by "minor complications," as Aqualad had cryptically reported. The exact nature of these complications remained unclear until the bio-ship's hatch door swung open, releasing a cacophony of shouts and arguments into the cool air of the hangar.

The first to disembark were Y/N and Conner, their heated argument escalating with each step they took from the ship. Their faces, illuminated by the harsh overhead lights, were twisted in frustration and anger—emotions that had clearly brewed long before the bio-ship touched down.

"You always undermine me, every single mission!" Y/N's voice echoed off the metal walls, his anger palpable. "With your encyclopedic brain, how can you not grasp the simple phrase 'I don’t need help'? Is English somehow the exception in your multilingual repertoire? Shall I translate it into Spanish? Russian? Swahili perhaps?"

Conner responded with equal venom, his voice low and menacing. "If you weren’t such a constant liability, maybe I wouldn’t need to intervene. And a 'thank you' might be nice, considering this is the fourth time this month I’ve had to bail you out."

As they continued their verbal duel, Batman and Red Tornado exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of resignation and concern. The other team members exited the ship, their faces tense and weary, evidently disturbed by the ongoing conflict between their comrades.

"Report," Batman interjected, his voice cutting through the bickering with authoritative clarity.

"We neutralized Bane’s operation and apprehended him," Aqualad reported, maintaining a composed demeanor despite the slight twitch of irritation in his brow. "The mission was successful."

"Yeah, barely," Wally added, arms crossed, his tone dry. "He almost got away, thanks to Yin and Yang over there."

Aqualad shot Wally a sharp look, signaling him to tread carefully, but the damage was done. Batman’s gaze hardened, his attention now fully on the quarreling pair behind him.

"And what do you do besides scream like a monkey and throw tantrums?" Y/N shot back at Conner, his voice rising with each word. "If it weren’t for your so-called Kryptonian powers, you’d be less useful than my dog in a fight!"

"Don't compare me to a monkey," Conner growled, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "And last time I checked, these 'weak' Kryptonian powers kept your behind safe more than once. Like that time you hid behind me when those League of Shadow goons cornered you?" Conner retorted, his fists clenched at his sides, the veins in his arms bulging with restrained fury.

"You baffling monkey head, I was casting a spell, not hiding!" Y/N snapped, his aura crackling with magical energy, a clear sign of his escalating temper.

"A spell to boost your courage, perhaps? And stop calling me names," Conner growled, stepping closer until they were nose to nose.

"What are you going to do? Thrown another tantrum if I hurt your wee little pride?" Y/N taunted, floating a few inches off the ground to meet Conner’s height, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Enough!" Batman’s command reverberated through the hangar, silencing everyone. He swiftly positioned himself between Y/N and Conner, his presence alone demanding peace. Aqualad and Kid Flash pulled Conner back while Zatanna and Robin gently guided Y/N to the ground, their actions preventative.

"This is the third time your arguments have nearly jeopardized a mission," Batman stated coldly. "Resolve this conflict, or you’re both sidelined until you can act like professionals."

With a final, piercing glance at the two, Batman turned and strode towards the mission control room, Red Tornado following in his silent, measured steps. The rest of the team dispersed quickly, their looks of sympathy and frustration cast toward Y/N and Conner as they left.

Fuming, Y/N rounded on Conner. "This is all your fault!"

"How is this my fault? You’re the one who can't keep his mouth shut," Conner shouted back.

"You're the one who can't take a hint and leave me alone," Y/N countered, his aura flaring.

"Well, maybe if you weren't such a pain in the ass, I wouldn't have to intervene," Conner said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, is that what you call it? Intervening? Because I'd call it something you tried to describe me as earlier with your self-projecting ass. And if you don't learn how to stay out of my way, I'll show you just how much of a pain I can be," Y/N threatened, his eyes glowing with unspent magic.

"Is that a threat?" Conner asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Oh, please, I wouldn't waste a threat on you. Your primate brain might not be able to understand it. But, it's definitely a promise," Y/N replied, his voice equally low as he turned away, his footsteps echoing in the empty hangar.

"Whatever," Conner muttered, turning and stalking off in the opposite direction.

As Y/N headed towards the showers, his mutterings continued, a stream of insults and grievances pouring out, unheard by all but Conner, who paused to listen with a heavy sigh before shaking his head and walking away.

The tension between Y/N and Conner had been growing for months, and their teammates were becoming increasingly concerned. The two had never seen eye to eye, but their animosity had recently reached new levels and now the rest of the team was beginning to suffer from it as well.

A couple of hours later, Zatanna and Y/N were deep in their studies in one of the library rooms at the base, surrounded by ancient texts and spellbooks. Y/N was particularly agitated, aggressively flipping through pages and muttering curses under his breath about Conner. This was typical following their arguments; Conner would withdraw and brood, while Y/N became irritable and quick to anger.

Their dynamic puzzled their friends and mentors. Despite claiming indifference toward each other, Y/N and Conner managed to elicit intense reactions from one another, more so than anyone else on the team. Initially, Y/N had been keen to form a bond with Conner, driven by an attraction he barely acknowledged. However, Conner’s apparent disinterest only fueled a series of confrontations, worsening their interactions over time.

As Y/N's frustration grew, Zatanna decided a break was needed. “Hey, I’m going to grab a snack. You want anything?” she asked, hoping to ease the tension.

“Conner’s head on a stake would be nice. If not, then apple juice, please,” Y/N half-joked, half-serious, not looking up from his spellbook.

Zatanna rolled her eyes at his melodramatic response and headed toward the lounge, where the mood was lighter. M’Gann was baking cookies, filling the room with a warm, inviting aroma. Dick and Wally were engaged in a video game, with Artemis spectating, while Kaldur was absorbed in a book.

Upon noticing Zatanna, M’Gann offered a spoonful of cookie dough. “Hey Zatanna, want to try my new recipe? I’m hoping it’ll cheer Conner up.”

“Sure, who would ever say no to free cookie dough?” Zatanna smiled, taking the spoon.

Artemis, overhearing the conversation, commented wryly, “M’Gann, you’re too good for him. I’d only bring back lawsuits for my exes.”

“We’re not exes!” M’Gann protested, a blush coloring her cheeks.

“So, you guys are still together?” Artemis raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing.

“No! Well—technically yes, but it’s complicated. We haven’t talked about it, but we haven’t broken up either. It’s just... things are different now. I’m not sure what we are. I mean, we’re not dating, but we’re not not dating. Does that make sense?"

"Not really, but whatever makes you happy," Artemis shrugged.

Zatanna offered her a sympathetic hand while washing the spoon in the sink. “Just give him some time. Where is Conner, anyway?”

“Either in the garage hangar or the training room, letting off some steam after his fight with Y/N,” Dick answered, his attention briefly diverted from the game.

M’Gann’s expression soured at the mention of Y/N, prompting Zatanna to add, “That’s why I’m out here. Needed a break from all the mumbled threats and angry huffs.”

“What were they arguing about this time?” Artemis inquired, genuinely curious.

“Who knows? Those two bicker so much, I doubt even they remember what starts it half the time,” Wally chimed in, his fingers busily working the game controller.

“But seriously, is it just me or is the tension between Y/N and Superboy getting worse?” Wally interjected, pausing the game.

“It’s not just you,” Dick replied, setting his controller aside. “They’ve been at each other’s throats lately.”

Wouldn't it be funny if everyone were currently thinking of a memory where Y/N was literally at Conner's throat, trying to choke him out? Not that that actually happened or anything.

...

Okay, it definitely did, but Batman definitely did not have to get Zatanna and Zatara to magically restrain Y/N from trying to suffocate the half-Kryptonian with his powers.

...

Okay, he definitely did.

“I thought they were past this,” Zatanna sighed. “I mean, it’s been a year since their first big fight, and things seemed to have calmed down. But now, it’s like they’re back to square one.”

“I just want to know why Conner always seems to pick fights with Y/N for no apparent reason,” Artemis pondered aloud.

Zatanna noticed M’Gann mixing her cookie dough with more force than necessary and decided to distance herself from the counter, eyeing the bits of dough that were escaping out of the bowl.

“True, but Y/N can be just as provocative. He gives as good as he gets, which only escalates their conflicts,” Kaldur observed, not looking up from his book.

“It’s like a vicious cycle with them. Last week, Y/N cast a spell on Conner during an argument at school just to shut him up—literally removed his ability to speak temporarily,” Zatanna recounted, shaking her head.

“Yikes,” Wally winced.

“Yeah. Thankfully, no one was around to see it or the damage caused to the hallway in the aftermath. They should feel lucky I was there to clean up their mess,” Zatanna frowned, recalling the incident.

“Why are they so hostile towards each other? They’re supposed to be teammates, not enemies,” Dick wondered.

“Maybe they’re secretly into each other and are too stubborn to admit it,” Wally joked, earning a pillow thrown at his head by Artemis.

“Wally, that’s not funny,” M’Gann chided, her expression darkening.

“Sorry, sorry. I was just kidding,” Wally apologized, raising his hands in surrender.

“Why hasn’t Batman done anything about their constant fighting? Surely, he’s noticed how disruptive it is,” Artemis asked, her tone exasperated.

“He has, and he’s given them multiple warnings, but they haven’t listened,” Kaldur responded.

“Well, hopefully, they’ll sort out their issues eventually. For the sake of the team, and their own sanity,” Dick sighed.

“Yeah, those two getting along? Might as well be a sign of the apocalypse,” Wally joked.

No sooner had he spoken than the room was suddenly engulfed in a brilliant, searing light that pulsed like a living thing. It expanded rapidly, washing over everything in sight with an overwhelming glow, casting sharp shadows and making it impossible to see more than a few inches ahead. Zatanna stumbled backward, instinctively reaching out for the edge of the counter, her knuckles whitening as she gripped it tightly while M'Gann covered her face with her arm and did her best to hold onto the counter.

It was an intense magical energy that felt thick, almost tangible, vibrating in the air as it intensified. Zatanna could feel it coursing through her, every hair on her body standing on end as the power surged from the epicenter while the others struggled to remain upright.

The force of the magic tugged at everyone, like an invisible hand trying to pull them closer to the blinding core of the disturbance. Papers flew off the table, books flipped open and fluttered their pages wildly, and the very air felt charged with potential—like the moment before a storm unleashes its fury. M’Gann’s telekinesis instinctively flared, her eyes glowing as she erected a weak barrier to keep the scattered kitchenware from hitting anyone. Dick dropped his controller and braced against the couch, feeling the gust of wind push against his frame, while Wally, ever the speedster, darted to the side and ducked behind Artemis, trying to shield her with his body.

“What the heck is that?!” Dick yelled out, though his voice was drowned out by the roaring sound that accompanied the light.

“I have no idea, but I’m not sticking around to find out,” Wally shouted back, grabbing Artemis and speeding her around to behind the counter where M'Gann was.

Zatanna, eyes squinting through the blinding light, reached out with her magic, trying to push against the force, but even her well-honed abilities struggled to contain it. It felt wild and potent—untamed, but also somehow new and pure, like a water source that never experienced the effects of pollution. “What is this?” she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of sound and energy.

“Everyone, get down!” Kaldur ordered, shielding his eyes.

As the light grew in intensity, it became almost painful to bear. Everyone was holding on to something—whether a counter, a chair, or each other—bracing themselves against the sheer force of the phenomenon. It was as if the very fabric of reality was being stretched thin, ready to snap at any second. And then, just as quickly as it had started, the light dimmed, the energy receding, leaving the room eerily quiet. The gusts of wind ceased, and the magic that had filled the space dissipated into the air, leaving only the scattered remnants of their surroundings in disarray. Everyone stood frozen in place, breathless, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The team slowly emerged from their various hiding spots, still shaken by the unexpected display of magic. Dick was the first to stand, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear the spots from his vision. “Can someone explain why we just got hit by a magical freight train?” he groaned, squinting at the mess left in the room.

“Is everyone okay?” Kaldur asked, breaking the silence.

“I think so,” M’Gann replied, her voice shaky.

“What the hell was that?!” Artemis demanded, her heart racing.

Meanwhile, Zatanna stood frozen, her gaze fixed on something no one else seemed to notice. In the midst of the scattered books and overturned chairs, three new figures now stood in the room, looking completely out of place and, oddly enough, not at all concerned by the chaos around them.

“Uh, guys…?” Zatanna started, trying to catch someone’s attention.

Kaldur frowned, inspecting the room as though he could assess what had just happened with logic alone. “That was magic. Though, I've never felt anything like it. That energy felt…different. More raw than what we’re used to,” he noted, his brows furrowed. “It wasn’t one of Zatanna’s spells, was it?”

“No, it definitely wasn’t me,” Zatanna responded absentmindedly, her eyes still trained on the three figures. “But seriously, guys…”

M’Gann, still rattled, glanced around the room at the damage. “Do you think it was a new villain attack? It didn’t feel like a typical threat, but—”

“I don't think it was an attack,” Kaldur interjected, his eyes narrowing as he tried to piece it all together. “At least, not in the conventional sense. The magic was too unfocused.”

“But, how could someone attack us here? It seems unlikely any villain would consider attacking here, knowing we know that they know about the Cave,” M'Gann added, clumsily repeating Wally's words from their first week in the Cave.

“No, but it isn’t the first time we were attacked here,” Artemis reminded her.

“Guys!” Zatanna said again, this time louder, but still no one paid attention.

Dick continued to rub his temples, his patience wearing thin. “Whatever it was, we need to figure it out fast. We can’t just wait for Batman to—”

“GUYS!” Zatanna practically shouted now, waving her hands wildly in the air.

“What?!” Wally finally turned, looking exasperated.

Zatanna pointed dramatically toward the three new presences in the room, who were standing in varying degrees of awkwardness and curiosity. One of them was casually flipping through a spellbook that had landed on the floor, seemingly unbothered by the team’s presence.

“Uh, guys… You see three random kids in the corner too, right?” Wally asked, bewildered.

Artemis, peering towards the corner, responded dryly, “Of course, genius. Why else would we all be looking that way?”

The one with the spellbook, seemingly the oldest, stood confidently in the center, observing with an amused smile as Wally and Artemis bickered. The second boy, positioned slightly behind, crossed his arms and frowned—a familiar gesture that sparked a sense of déjà vu among the onlookers. The youngest clung to the eldest’s hand, peering from behind with wide, apprehensive eyes at the array of new faces, a strong resemblance to someone they all knew catching Zatanna's attention.

“Uh...when did they get here?” Dick asked, blinking rapidly.

The one holding the spellbook glanced at the Boy Wonder, his bright, yet calculating smile like he knew you and everything about you with just one look. “Oh, we’ve been here for a while. Hope we didn’t interrupt anything.”

The rest of the team’s jaws dropped simultaneously.

Before anyone could react to the newcomers, the sound of loud, heavy footsteps reverberated through the space, and Conner barreled into the room. His usual brooding expression was replaced by a combination of panic and anger, his hands clenched into fists. "What the heck is going on in here?!" he demanded, his eyes scanning the room for any signs of danger.

As the Kryptonian burst into the room, the youngest boy's face lit up with recognition. “DADA!” he exclaimed, releasing the eldest's hand and sprinting towards Conner with surprising speed.

Conner, caught off guard, froze, his eyes widening as the child collided with his legs and wrapped his arms around him.

"Dada, dada, dada!" the little boy repeated, his voice muffled against the older man's leg.

"What the...?" Conner mumbled, his brain struggling to process the situation.

"Um, Conner, care to explain?" Dick asked, his confusion evident.

"Explain what?" Conner shot back, his eyes darting between the team and the child clinging to him.

The team's faces registered a mix of shock and slight amusement as Superboy, taken aback, tried to gently remove the enthusiastic toddler clinging to his leg. The boy's laughter filled the room as he attempted to shake him off—unsuccessfully.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the eldest boy advised calmly. “That’s his favorite thing to do when you get home from work. The harder you try and shake him off, the longer he’s going to hold on.”

Conner stopped moving, and the child’s grip loosened slightly but remained firm. Frustrated yet curious, Conner looked around at the bewildered faces of his teammates. “Whose kid even is this?” he asked.

"Yours, apparently," Wally snickered.

"Not funny, Wally. Now, whose is it really?" Conner replied, his tone laced with irritation.

“Um... dude, judging from that kid’s reaction and the fact they seem to know you more than anyone, I’m gonna make an educated guess and say he’s yours too,” Dick replied, his voice filled with astonishment.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Conner snapped, his frustration growing.

"Language," the eldest boy warned, his eyes narrowing.

"Sorry," Conner grumbled, his cheeks flushing slightly, feeling scolded in a way only someone else ever made him feel. Who the hell were these kids?

Conner’s confusion deepened as he looked down at the smiling boy and then at the other children. Upon closer observation, their similar features became slowly unmistakable now, making it increasingly difficult to deny the reality: he was indeed their father.

Where was Maury when you needed him?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Conner groaned as the boy began climbing him like a playground.

“Welp, might as well continue down this crazy train since we're at full speed. So if we've summarized that these three random kids that just appeared out of nowhere are our resident Kryptonian's offspring, then who's their mom?” Wally asked, his gaze sweeping toward the female members of the team.

Zatanna raised an eyebrow menacingly, challenging him to continue, while Dick glared disapprovingly at the implication. Artemis watched the exchange with an amused yet intrigued expression.

M’Gann stood up abruptly, her voice ringing with a mixture of excitement and certainty, “Hello, Megan! If they're Superboy’s kids, there’s only one logical explanation.”

“They’re all clones made in a lab too?” Wally suggested, which earned him a round of exasperated looks.

“No, Wally. I was going to say that if they’re Conner’s kids, then I must be their mom!” M’Gann exclaimed, flying over to the three boys. Conner, looking increasingly overwhelmed, watched silently as she approached the children with open arms.

“Hi, little guys. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m M’Gann, or Megan here on Earth, but you can call me Mom. What are your names?” she asked with a warm smile.

The boys exchanged looks, seeming to communicate silently before the eldest responded cautiously, “Uhm, hi. Don’t know how to say this without sounding mean, but—uhm...”

“You’re not our mom,” the boy behind him said bluntly.

Everyone cringed slightly as that statement hit M’Gann like a physical blow, her face a mixture of confusion and hurt. But before she could gather her thoughts to respond, the room’s attention was diverted by more footsteps, these lighter but just as quick.

“What in the world is going on out here? Do you wombats not understand I’m trying to meditate? And where is my apple juice?!” Y/N’s voice, gruff with irritation, cut through the tension.

The youngest boy, still clinging to Conner, pointed excitedly at Y/N. “Papa!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent room.

“Does anyone want to explain why this random child currently playing monkey bars on Conner just pointed at me and called me Papa?” Y/N asked, his surprise evident as he stared at the child reaching out to him.

The team exchanged stunned looks, each as speechless as the next while M’Gann displayed a blend of horror and anger, Conner’s embarrassment and irritation at the "monkey bars" comment clear.

The heavy silence was finally broken by Wally’s incredulous remark, “Oh my god, the world is gonna end.”

Everyone gathered in the living room, with Conner and Y/N positioned centrally, while their three unexpected young guests sat casually on the couch.

“Okay, let me go over this one more time, just to make sure I’m not missing anything,” Y/N began, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he eyed the two oldest children exchanging knowing looks before turning his attention back to the group. “You three are from the future and used a magic spell that you're claiming I taught you to come back in time because you wanted to meet your parents?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re claiming,” the oldest affirmed.

“And you’re also saying that me and Conner are those parents?” Y/N gestured between himself and the Kryptonian, who was observing the children with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.

“Yep,” the boy replied confidently.

“LIAR!” Y/N’s voice boomed suddenly, pointing an accusatory finger at the child. The sudden outburst caused a stir among his teammates.

“Y/N!”

“Dude!”

“What is wrong with you?”

The children merely covered the youngest brother’s ears, though the little one giggled, oblivious to the chaos. Even Conner shot Y/N a disapproving look, though that wasn’t unusual.

“What? He claims I taught him that spell—something I would never irresponsibly share with a child, especially one that could cause all of this! Plus, that spell isn’t even in my book,” Y/N defended himself, his exasperation causing sighs and head-shaking among the team.

“Really?! That’s the part you find hard to believe?” Wally interjected incredulously.

“What? You don’t think they’re from the future?” Y/N retorted.

“Uhm, how about the fact they’re claiming to be your kids?!” Dick countered, his disbelief evident.

“Oh, right. Yeah, that’s not hard to believe at all,” Y/N responded dryly, drawing stunned looks from everyone, particularly Conner and M’Gann.

“This must be some sort of test by Batman, trying to teach me and Conner a lesson. Seriously, me and him? Together? Don’t insult me,” Y/N scoffed, dismissing the idea as utterly preposterous.

Conner’s expression shifted from confusion to anger, a storm brewing behind his eyes. He wasn’t the only one offended by the remark.

“Hey! You shouldn’t talk about Dad like that!” the middle child yelled at Y/N, mirroring Conner’s growing irritation.

“And what are you going to do about it, little boy?” Y/N taunted, only to yelp in pain as a blast of heat vision singed his thigh. “Ow! Did this little gremlin just fry me with heat vision? How does he even have heat vision when you don’t?!”

The room fell into shocked silence as the oldest child stood, calmly walking over to Y/N and healing the burn with a wave of his hand, leaving no trace of the injury. His powers were undeniable, as was the ever-clear fact that these kids were exactly who they claimed to be.

“Dude, Dad told you not to use your heat vision on people,” the eldest scolded his younger brother.

“Yeah, well, Papa warned you about snooping through his spellbook, and look where we are now!” the middle child shot back, waving his arms animatedly at the chaotic situation around them.

“AH-HA! Told you!” Y/N exclaimed triumphantly, though most of the team just rolled their eyes at his stubbornness.

“Dude, you’re focusing on the wrong thing. One kid just blasted you with heat vision, and the other healed you with magic that looks a lot like yours,” one of the others pointed out.

“I know, but I proved my point, and that’s what matters,” Y/N replied, his tone a mix of vindication and annoyance.

“As you should,” the oldest child agreed, earning a wary glance from Y/N.

“Okay, how about we start this whole thing over,” Zatanna suggested, cutting through the tension. With a flick of her wrist, she conjured extra seats for Y/N and Conner to sit across from their children. “Let’s try introductions first, and then sort the rest out.”

As everyone repositioned themselves, the youngest child sprang from the couch and darted back to Conner, once again climbing him like a jungle gym.

“Not this again,” Conner groaned, clearly exasperated.

“Told you, it’s his favorite thing. He loves when you come home from work or pick him up from daycare. He also loves tickle fights,” the oldest explained, pointing to Y/N as the little one began poking playfully at Y/N’s side.

“Tickle, tickle…” the young boy giggled, his tiny fingers eliciting the faintest smile from Y/N, despite himself.

Zatanna and Artemis both cooed at the adorable sight, and even the rest of the team seemed to soften at the moment. M’Gann, however, couldn’t hide her discomfort. Abruptly, she left the room, her departure noted by all but especially by those who understood the depth of her feelings.

“So, about those introductions again?” Y/N said, redirecting attention back to the children, who were now all grinning at the prospect of formally meeting their parents.

Conner Kent Junior, or 'CJ' for short, was the oldest of the three future children. Before he was born, his father had embraced the tradition of naming children after oneself, opting for 'Junior' rather than 'The Second.' Surprisingly, Y/N—usually stubborn six days a week and double on Sundays—had agreed to this tradition. Present-day Y/N found it hard to believe he’d relent on anything, especially to Conner. The idea that they were a couple in any reality was hard enough to swallow, let alone the fact that he would so easily give in to Conner’s whims.

Yet, here was CJ—living proof of their future union. The boy was a spitting image of Conner: the same eyes, the same jawline, and the same stoic demeanor in displeasing situations, so much so that one might mistake him for a clone. However, certain subtle traits also revealed the undeniable truth that Y/N was his other biological parent, such as the shared hair texture and, of course, the child’s inherited magical abilities.

But beyond CJ’s physical resemblance to Conner, his personality was a carbon copy of Y/N’s. His attitude, his way of speaking, and even his mannerisms echoed his magical parent so closely that it was both amusing and slightly disconcerting. Apparently, in the future, Y/N had become a powerful wizard—capable of rivaling entities and deities—which CJ mentioned with a hint of pride that threatened to inflate Y/N’s ego even more than usual.

CJ’s adeptness at magic was remarkable, something that nearly rivaled his father’s power. Zatanna had felt the raw and potent magic when they first arrived, and CJ explained that his abilities were tied to ancient magic Y/N had encountered in the past—or was it the future? It was confusing, but either way, it was clear this magic was the reason CJ and his siblings even existed in the first place. The revelation left both of his parents intrigued—and for Y/N, particularly, nervous.

CJ and his brothers had used his magical skills to travel back in time, doubting the stories they’d been told about their parents' rocky relationship. According to their Aunt Zatanna, their parents had not always been the most harmonious duo, and the kids wanted to see it for themselves. Zatanna had told them tales of Y/N taking away Conner's voice in the middle of an argument or using magic to strangle him (briefly) after Conner made a snarky comment about his weight.

"Isn't it ironic that Dad's the one with the temper, but Papa's the one prone to murderous behavior? It's always the quiet ones," CJ had mused with a smirk. "But we wanted to see it for ourselves. You wrote the spell that got us here, but you wouldn’t teach it to me until I was older, or unless it was absolutely necessary."

"Well, that explains why I don’t have a spell like that in my book. But you’re admitting that I didn’t teach you the spell and you went behind my back?" Y/N raised a brow.

"No, I’m not admitting anything. I’m just saying that you didn’t teach me the spell, but you did write it," CJ replied casually.

"That’s not the point, and you know it," Y/N huffed, crossing his arms.

"I’m not saying anything without my lawyer," CJ shot back, barely hiding a smirk.

The quick wit and smart attitude were unmistakably Y/N’s influence. Despite CJ’s striking resemblance to Conner, his magical aptitude and sarcasm were all Y/N—he was clearly his father's son.

Colin, the middle child, was the wild card of the bunch. While CJ bore Conner’s serious demeanor, Colin had inherited Y/N’s mischievous streak and free-spirited nature. He had his father’s hair and eye color, but he possessed all of Conner's powers and temperament. He could also perfectly replicate his father's neutral, glaring expression—his signature stoic face.

The earlier heat blast Colin had unleashed during their arrival was a clear testament to the volatile mix of his genetic heritage. Colin’s abilities, however, had raised a lot of questions, especially since he seemed to have powers that Conner didn’t. Before CJ could elaborate further on Colin’s abilities, Zatanna had quickly stepped in, cautioning them against discussing too much about the future. Revealing too much could damage the timeline—and Y/N certainly didn’t need any more ego boosts.

Colin had also made his feelings about M’Gann very clear when he spoke of a mysterious "green lady" trying to separate his parents, a sentiment that left everyone silently grateful that M’Gann had left the room.

The youngest sibling, Camden Kent, was a perfect blend of his parents. His dark hair and eyes were from Conner, while his skin tone clearly came from Y/N. Though Camden didn’t display any powers yet, his cheerful personality and playful nature brightened any room he was in.

Though there was an undeniable charm to the whole situation, it didn’t make it any less complicated. Y/N had been right about one thing—the spell the kids had used wasn’t supposed to be in their hands. Colin had graciously snitched on his older brother, explaining how CJ had managed to get his hands on the spell by sneaking into Y/N's study while he and Conner were distracted.

"It was all CJ! Papa was making dinner and yelling at Dad about being overprotective, and something about not wanting a repeat of the Phantom Zone thing. CJ snuck into the study, took the spell page, and we used it in his room. I think they heard us, though, 'cause before we zapped out, I heard them rushing upstairs," Colin had said smugly.

Y/N had chuckled, "Me mad at Conner for getting in my way and trying to play hero? Sounds about right."

Conner’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as Y/N’s words hit a nerve. The jab about playing hero had always been a sore spot, and hearing it now—especially in front of their potential future children—only made the sting sharper.

"Are you serious right now?" Conner growled, his blue eyes narrowing as the tension in the room escalated.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "What? Did I lie?"

"You always do this," Conner bit out, stepping closer. "Acting like you’re above needing help. I was trying to keep you safe—"

"Safe from what? Myself?" Y/N scoffed, crossing his arms. "I can handle things without you jumping in and messing everything up. If you’d stop being such a—"

"Hey!" Zatanna’s voice sliced through the rising tension. "Reirrab." With a wave of her hands, a glowing barrier appeared between them. "Can we not start another fight in front of the kids? I know this is overwhelming, but we need calm heads here."

Conner glared at Y/N but stepped back. Y/N, though clearly annoyed, shifted his stance and rolled his eyes.

"Whatever," Y/N muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Before Conner could respond, a sharp hiss from the couch interrupted them. "You didn’t have to rat me out, you little brat," CJ growled at Colin, who grinned smugly.

"You’re the one who got caught, not me," Colin taunted, sticking out his tongue.

CJ opened his mouth to argue, but a sharp look from Y/N silenced him. "Enough," Y/N said firmly, making both kids sink into their seats.

The room, now charged with tension from the glowering parents and their children was silent. That is until  Wally decided to speak up.

"Man, it’s like watching a mini version of you two go at it," he snickered, glancing at the kids. "Like father, like son—times two."

Dick raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Yeah, except I always thought Conner would be the one laying down the law. Not Y/N."

Wally laughed. "Right? Seeing Y/N as the bad cop—"

"Are you kidding?" Artemis cut in, crossing her arms. "Y/N’s always been a strict little stick-in-the-mud. I’m not surprised."

Y/N, who had been pinching the bridge of his nose, finally looked up. "Excuse me, I have always been the responsible one. Conner’s the one who probably thinks letting kids jump off roofs builds character."

Conner scowled. "I don’t see why not. They need to know how to fall."

"Typical," Y/N shot back, grinning sarcastically. "And you wonder why I don’t leave you alone with the kids."

"He's right," CJ chimed in.

"Yeah, Papa never lets you watch us alone for more than an hour after that one mission," Colin added matter-of-factly.

"See! And they said I didn’t know how to make smart decisions," Y/N replied dryly.

Conner sighed in frustration. "I can’t believe this. You’re blaming me for something that hasn’t even happened yet."

"Well, maybe if you weren’t so reckless, I wouldn’t have to worry," Y/N snapped.

"Reckless?" Conner scoffed, his voice rising. "You’re the one always running off and putting yourself in danger!"

Before the bickering could reignite, Zatanna cleared her throat. "Look, we’re not here to debate your future parenting dynamics. We need to figure out how to get these kids back to their timeline."

CJ, who had been fuming after Colin’s betrayal, hesitated. "Uh, about that…"

Y/N narrowed his eyes. "What now?"

The oldest child shifted nervously. "There’s kind of a problem with that."

Wally grinned. "What? You didn’t plan for the return trip?"

CJ flushed. "No, we did! But…"

"But what?" Conner asked, his patience wearing thin.

Colin piped up, "CJ lost the spell page."

All eyes snapped to CJ, who raised his hands defensively. "I didn’t lose it! I just… may not have held onto it tightly enough."

Y/N groaned, rubbing his temples. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

"Yep, definitely your kid," Dick commented with a chuckle.

Zatanna’s lips twitched. "Let me guess, you didn’t memorize the spell before casting it?"

CJ shifted uncomfortably. "We didn’t think we’d need it right away. I was focused on making sure it worked, not the clean-up."

"You didn’t think that maybe—just maybe—you’d need a way to get back?" Y/N asked, his exasperation evident.

"I was going to figure that part out later!" CJ snapped, sounding just as defensive as Y/N usually did when backed into a corner.

Conner crossed his arms. "This sounds familiar."

Y/N shot him a withering look. "Not helping."

Artemis laughed. "So what’s the plan now? We can’t keep these mini-you’s hanging around."

Zatanna nodded. "I can try to reverse the spell, but it’ll take time. I’ll need to gather some materials and maybe consult our spellbook. If future Y/N made it, it shouldn’t be too difficult."

"Hey!" Y/N protested, his ego bruised.

"She’s right," CJ admitted, earning a glare from Y/N.

"So we’re stuck with them," Y/N sighed.

"Hey, we’re right here!" Colin interjected indignantly, crossing his arms. "And it’s not our fault! CJ’s the one who messed it up!"

"Quit throwing me under the bus you ill-brained bug," CJ hissed, his narrowed eyes practically throwing daggers at his younger brother. "Don't call me names! And you did lose it," Colin shot back, his tone equally venomous.

"Enough," Y/N said, eyes hard. "No fighting."

Conner, meanwhile, looked at Camden, still hanging off his arm. The situation was far from what he’d imagined for his future. A family? Kids? He had never pictured it. And Y/N… he never thought they’d become something together. Yet, here they were.

"I'll start working on the reversal spell. In the meantime, we'll have to find a place for the kids to stay," Zatanna continued, ignoring the wounded expression on Y/N's face.

"They’ll stay with us," Conner stated, his tone firm.

Y/N’s brow shot up. "Excuse me? Us?"

"Yes, us. Did I stutter?"

CJ and Colin exchanged quick glances before Colin smirked, nudging his older brother. "Did Dad just use one of Papa's lines against him?" he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. CJ grinned, nodding. "Yeah, and somehow he's still breathing. Must be a miracle."

The room erupted into soft laughter, with even Wally doubling over in amusement. Artemis gave Conner a playful nudge, her grin wide. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Kent."

Conner and Y/N stood there, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. Conner clenched his jaw while Y/N crossed his arms, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

"Okay," Kaldur intervened, saving them from further embarrassment. "We need to focus on getting them home. Zatanna, you and Y/N can both do research together. CJ can help since he's the one who used it so he may remember some things from it."

Zatanna smiled faintly. "Sounds good. I’m gonna look into a few other things first, though. In the meantime, you might want to prepare yourself for a lot of questions, especially from Batman."

Conner groaned, clearly dreading the inevitable debrief. "Great."

"I have nothing to answer for," Y/N retorted. "I didn’t bring a bunch of kids from the future into the past."

"Maybe not, but you made them," Conner shot back.

"Oh, please. Like you didn’t have a hand in that."

"More than a hand," Artemis snickered.

CJ narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?"

The entire room, as if rehearsed, answered in unison, "Nothing."

Y/N and Conner had no choice but to let the kids bunk in their rooms until they could figure out how to replicate the spell and send them back to the future. The children, after all, had vehemently refused to sleep in the lounge. CJ had opted to stay with Y/N, while Colin chose Conner's room. Camden, at first, didn’t show a preference, but eventually made his decision clear by reaching for Conner. Despite wanting to wipe the smug grin off Y/N’s face, Conner gave in without much protest.

However, Y/N found no peace, especially with CJ bombarding him with questions about their relationship:

"Have you and Dad gone on a first date yet?"

"No."

"Have you guys kissed yet?"

"No—I... That’s a grown folks' question."

"So, when do you think you'll go on a first date?"

"Do you have an off button?"

"Do I look like a toy from Target to you?"

"Damn, you really are my son."

"Bad word."

"Sorry."

"Why do you guys sleep in separate rooms? You have your own room together back home."

"Uh... what did I say about grown folks' questions?!"

The questions seemed endless. Despite Y/N growing increasingly tired, he found himself surprisingly unbothered. Normally, anything that disturbed his rest would drive him mad, but for some reason, he found it hard to get annoyed by CJ’s relentless curiosity. Perhaps he understood. If Y/N were in the kid’s shoes, he’d probably be asking a million questions too.

"Hey, Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Does it ever end?

"Sure, kiddo," Y/N sighed, staring up at the rocky ceiling of his bedroom.

"What's the deal with you and Dad?"

Y/N froze, his eyes fixated on the ceiling as CJ’s innocent question hung in the air. He shouldn’t have been surprised, especially considering how sharp the kid was. This conversation was bound to happen at some point—though he would’ve preferred it to be later. He didn’t even know the answer himself.

What was the deal between him and Conner? That was the real question. The relationship was complicated, to say the least, and it was certainly not something Y/N was eager to explain to his future son. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips as he shifted on the bed, trying to buy himself some time. “That’s a... big question, kiddo.”

CJ, lying on his side, propped his head up on his hand, eyes wide with curiosity. “Yeah, but you guys love each other, right?”

Y/N gulped. Of course, the kid would jump straight to the heart of the matter. How was he supposed to answer that without messing up CJ’s perception of the future—or worse, letting his complicated feelings for Conner bubble to the surface in front of a child? He didn’t want to lie, but the truth... well, the truth was messy. And kids didn’t handle messy well.

“Well...” Y/N began, stalling as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Love is... complicated.”

CJ’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean by complicated?”

Y/N winced. Damn, these kids ask too many questions. He shifted again, trying to figure out how to tiptoe through this conversation. “I mean, sometimes people have... feelings for each other, but they don’t always know how to deal with them right away. Like, your dad and I... we argue a lot because we’re still figuring things out.”

CJ tilted his head, clearly not convinced. “But Auntie Z said you guys argue a lot in the future too. She said you love each other, but you’re both kinda... stubborn.”

Y/N pinched the bridge of his nose. Zatanna, I’m going to kill you. He sighed deeply, turning his head to look at CJ. “Yeah, that sounds about right. We’re both pretty stubborn. And when two people are like that, it takes them longer to... you know, get on the same page.”

CJ’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “So you do love each other!”

Y/N’s stomach flipped. He wanted to deny it, to downplay everything. But looking at CJ’s expectant face, he realized he couldn’t outright lie. He’d never been great at lying anyway. “It’s... complicated, like I said.”

CJ groaned, clearly frustrated with that answer. “You keep saying ‘complicated,’ but what does that even mean? Do you want to be with Dad?”

Y/N tensed, his heart racing. Okay, this is too much. “Uh... I think we should save this conversation for when you’re a little older, kid. Like, maybe a lot older. Or, you know, when you’re back in your timeline and it’s Future Me’s problem.”

CJ gave him an unimpressed look. “That’s a cop-out answer.”

Y/N snorted despite himself. “I... Who taught you that?”

“You did.”

“Of course I did,” Y/N muttered, shaking his head.

CJ wasn’t letting this go, and Y/N knew it. Y/N sighed, glancing back up at the ceiling, emotions stirring up that he wasn’t prepared to deal with. It wasn’t just complicated—it was a mess, a tangled web of miscommunication, stubbornness, and unspoken feelings that spanned the years since he joined the Team. He thought back to when he first arrived, how Dr. Fate had sensed the raw potential in him and demanded that he go under the Justice League's protection. Y/N didn’t have much of a choice back then, and neither did the Team when they were told he’d be joining.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. Y/N got along with everyone easily, even found a mentor in Zatanna and Zatara who was still being used as a host by Dr. Fate which is how he found him in the first place.

 But Conner? Conner was different. It was as though the Kryptonian had built a wall the size of Metropolis between them, remaining cold and indifferent despite Y/N’s attempts to connect. Y/N hadn’t expected to become best friends overnight, but the sheer lack of acknowledgment hurt more than he let on. He remembered how Conner would barely look in his direction, like Y/N didn’t exist, even though he treated everyone else like family.

It was confusing, especially when Y/N noticed how Conner always positioned himself near him during missions—ready to intervene but never willing to share a word afterward. That subtle protectiveness should’ve been reassuring, but it drove Y/N mad. If Conner didn’t care, why hover around him like some kind of silent guardian?

After months of trying, Y/N finally gave up. He mirrored the cold treatment, stopped reaching out, and focused on the rest of the team. But then, something shifted. The moment Y/N stopped trying, Conner started. The once silent indifference turned into sharp comments and antagonistic behavior. It was like Conner needed to get a rise out of him, and no one could push Conner’s buttons the way Y/N could.

Pretty soon, they were constantly at each other's throats (sometimes literally), bickering over the smallest things. Everyone else just rolled their eyes and let them sort it out, but the tension between them was palpable.

Looking back now, Y/N wondered if something had always been simmering beneath the surface, something neither of them knew how to admit. Maybe Conner’s way of dealing with whatever feelings he had was to push Y/N away, to lash out. Y/N wasn’t sure what scared him more—the idea that Conner never cared or the possibility that he cared too much and didn’t know how to handle it.

And now, faced with a future version of himself that had apparently figured it out, Y/N was stuck in a mess of emotions that defined their present. The thought made his chest tighten, and he shook his head, trying to push it aside. He wasn’t ready to untangle all of that just yet, especially not with CJ watching him, waiting for answers.

He glanced over at the kid, still staring at him with a mix of confusion and determination.

“Look, CJ, it’s... complicated,” Y/N repeated, knowing it was a weak excuse. “Your dad and I have a lot of history, and a lot of that is... well, not great. It’s a work in progress.”

The room fell silent for a moment, and Y/N hoped the interrogation was over. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, but CJ’s voice cut through the peace again.

“So... if you’re not together yet, does that mean I could mess it up by being here?” CJ’s voice was quieter this time, tinged with genuine concern.

Y/N’s heart sank. He hadn’t expected that. “Hey, no, no—nothing like that,” he said quickly, turning to face CJ. “You being here isn’t going to mess anything up. Don’t ever think that.”

CJ’s big eyes looked up at him, full of uncertainty. “But what if Colin, Camden, and I being here changes things? What if you and Dad aren’t meant to be together because of us? I don’t want to mess up your future.”

Y/N felt a pang in his chest. He could see how much CJ cared, how much this meant to him. The kid didn’t want to lose the family he had, and Y/N couldn’t blame him. Hell, Y/N didn’t know what the future held between him and Conner, but seeing CJ so worried made him realize just how important that future was—to these kids, at least.

He placed a hand on CJ’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. “CJ, listen. No matter what happens, you three aren’t going to change what’s meant to be, okay? Whether your dad and I figure things out now or later, that’s up to us. But you don’t need to worry about it.”

CJ’s expression softened slightly, but he still seemed unsure. “You promise?”

Y/N hesitated for a second, then nodded. “I promise.”

CJ studied his father for a long moment, then let out a sigh of relief and flopped back onto the bed. “Okay, if you say so.”

Y/N smirked, feeling like he’d defused the situation—until CJ spoke again.

“But seriously, you guys need to hurry up and kiss. You’re taking forever.”

Y/N groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my god, please stop.”

CJ giggled, clearly pleased with himself. “Well, it’s true. You’re way more lovey-dovey in the future. Like, gross sometimes.”

Y/N pulled his hands away from his face, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

CJ shrugged, a mischievous grin on his face.

Y/N rolled his eyes, turning back to the ceiling. He tried not to think about the fact that his future self was apparently a lot more affectionate with Conner, or the fact that CJ was clearly comfortable with it.

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his cheeks. This was going to be a long night.

Just as the eleven-year-old finally appeared to be settling down, a knock at Y/N’s door pierced the growing calm. He couldn’t mask the annoyance in his grunt as he called out for whoever was there to enter.

The door opened to reveal Conner, struggling to soothe a fussy Camden, with Colin in tow. Both Kryptonians looked exhausted, their matching bed-heads and disgruntled grimaces completing the picture.

Y/N was caught off guard by the endearing yet disheveled sight of them—Conner in his casual home attire, with Colin standing by his side like a shadow, and Camden, a perfect blend of Y/N’s and Conner’s features, in his arms. The scene felt surprisingly right.

“He won’t stop crying and fussing,” Conner explained, his voice tinged with fatigue. “I’ve tried everything. I think he wants to sleep with you.”

Taking Camden into his arms, Y/N immediately felt the toddler relax. “What’s up, buddy? Is your Daddy keeping you up with all his grumbling?”

“I didn’t do anything! He was fine half an hour ago, then he woke up crying. When I tried to calm him down, he just got fussier and started calling for his 'Papa’ over and over.”

CJ, from his spot on the bed, chimed in, “He probably had a nightmare. It’s hard for him to go back to sleep afterward.”

“And how do we get him back to sleep?” Conner asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“He usually sleeps in bed with you,” CJ answered.

“He was already doing that, and it didn’t help,” Conner replied, clearly exhausted.

“With both of you,” CJ clarified.

Y/N and Conner exchanged stunned looks, the suggestion hanging awkwardly in the air. “Uh, are you sure there’s no other way to calm him down?” Y/N asked, his voice laced with hesitation as he and Conner avoided each other’s gaze.

“Nope. So, scoot over and make some room,” Colin said, settling the matter with a tone that brokered no argument. With a reluctant shuffle, Y/N and CJ made room on the bed, both Y/N and Conner still clearly uncomfortable with the closeness but willing to do what was needed for the youngest Kent.

As they settled into an awkward silence, Camden, now nestled between them, began to quiet down, his sniffles subsiding as he felt the reassuring presence of both his parents. The soft glow of the nightlight spell Y/N conjured cast gentle shadows across the room, softening the edges of the tense atmosphere.

“Well, ain’t this cozy,” Y/N quipped, trying to cut through the awkwardness with a bit of humor. Conner just grunted in response, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, clearly wrestling with the intimacy of the situation.

CJ and Colin, seated toward the middle of the bed between their parents’ legs, watched the scene with knowing looks. “You guys are really weird about this,” CJ commented, shaking his head. “You do this all the time back home.”

Conner sighed, his gruff tone betraying his discomfort. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly 'back home,’ kid.”

CJ shrugged, then finally settled down, his eyes growing heavier as the night’s events took their toll. Conner, still visibly uncomfortable, shifted slightly, turning on his side to face away from Y/N, while Y/N remained on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The room fell into a profound silence, the only sounds being the gentle breathing of the boys as they finally succumbed to sleep.

In the dim light, Y/N and Conner lay awake, each lost in their own thoughts. The physical closeness, necessitated by Camden’s need for comfort, forced them into a proximity neither had anticipated—at least not under these circumstances. As the minutes dragged into hours, neither spoke. The air between them was thick with confusion, unresolved tension, and an undeniable sense of familial bond that neither could quite embrace nor deny.

Y/N’s mind raced with a mix of future possibilities and present discomforts. He turned his head slightly, glancing at Conner’s back and noting the tension in his shoulders. The fact that they could be a family—a real family, with laughs, fights, bedtime stories, and morning cuddles—felt absurd. Yet, somehow, it also felt right, in a way that scared him.

It was a future that felt like a dream, one so vivid during sleep but absurdly distant upon waking.

Conner, for his part, was equally conflicted. The physical presence of Y/N so close yet so far in spirit was jarring. He was used to tackling problems head-on, not lying silently next to them. The warmth from Y/N’s body, the sound of his breathing, and the soft rustle of sheets each time he moved—all served as acute reminders of what could be—a future intertwined with Y/N, a man he had known as a teammate but never as something more.

As Camden shifted in his sleep, mumbling softly and curling closer to Y/N, Conner let out a soft sigh. This was what family felt like—messy, uncomfortable, yet filled with unexpected moments of tenderness.

Fate was a cruel thing to dangle something so perfect right next to him, knowing that once this night was over, it would be back to reality.

The night stretched on, and though sleep tugged at their eyelids, both Y/N and Conner resisted, each caught in their own whirlwind of thoughts. They remained awake, guardians of the quiet peace that had settled over their children, protectors of a future still unwritten.

Finally, as the first hints of dawn crept through the curtains, signaling a new day, Y/N and Conner allowed themselves a moment of rest. Their eyes closed, not out of comfort with each other, but from sheer exhaustion. The sun would rise on two men still unsure of their path forward, but for now, they were bound by a shared responsibility and an unspoken commitment to the well-being of the children who had started the process of slowly bringing them together.

The next morning, Y/N and Conner were greeted by three simultaneous realizations. The first was the peculiar sensation of being surrounded on all sides—Y/N found CJ and Camden clinging to him like koalas, while Conner awoke to the unpleasant surprise of a foot in his face and a toe nearly up his nose, courtesy of Colin.

The second realization came when they noticed how close they had ended up to each other during the night, their bodies naturally gravitating together as if seeking warmth in the pile of kids nestled between them. It was a proximity neither had planned for, yet somehow, in the night’s deep silence, it didn’t feel… wrong.

Didn’t stop them from trying to scoot away from each other, though.

The third and most jarring realization came when the sound of cooing and giggling shattered the morning calm. Y/N blinked his eyes open, adjusting to the bright lights, only to see Zatanna, Artemis, Dick, and Wally gathered at the doorway, barely containing their laughter, smartphones in hand.

“What the—” Y/N started, his voice groggy and laced with confusion.

“Morning, sunshine!” Dick greeted with a smirk, snapping pictures as quickly as possible. “Don’t you all look nice and cozy?”

“It’s not every day we see such a picturesque family moment,” Zatanna added, her tone dripping with mock sweetness.

Conner, fully awake now, grimaced as he gently removed Colin’s foot from his face. “Can you guys not?” he muttered, trying to salvage some dignity.

Y/N, who, like many others, was not a fan of being photographed first thing in the morning, shot a glare at the group. “You all better consider yourselves lucky I’m still half-asleep. Otherwise, you’d all be something I could swat at right about now.”

Artemis, unfazed, grinned. She knew Y/N wouldn’t hurt a fly (unless it was an actual fly), especially not his friends.

Dick, on the other hand, was not so confident and took a cautious step back, just in case.

Wally, always the instigator, couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease one of his closest friends. He leaned against the doorframe, a mischievous grin on his face. “So, how was your night, lovebirds? Get up to anything interesting?”

Colin rubbed his eyes groggily, blinking up at Wally from his spot on the bed. “What do you mean by ‘interesting’?” he asked, his voice innocent but filled with curiosity.

Without missing a beat, everyone—Y/N, Conner, Dick, Artemis, Zatanna, and Wally—responded in unison, “Nothing.”

Colin blinked again, clearly not satisfied but too sleepy to push further. He shrugged it off, snuggling back into the blankets.

“Anyway,” Dick started, his tone slightly more serious, “Batman’s here. He’s waiting for you and your ‘guests’ in the mission room.”

Y/N groaned, the dread immediately washing over him. “Oh, come on. This early?”

“Batman doesn’t sleep, Y/N,” Zatanna quipped, smirking as she crossed her arms.

The kids, on the other hand, perked up at the mention of Batman. CJ’s eyes lit up with excitement, and he nearly launched himself out of bed. “Uncle Bruce is here?!” he exclaimed, practically bouncing in place. “We get to meet him in his prime!”

Colin’s face mirrored his brother’s excitement. “Yeah! We’ve never seen Uncle Bruce younger than when he was old and retired!”

Y/N winced, rubbing his temples. “Great. Because that’s exactly what I needed today. Batman in his prime.” He glanced at Conner, who was already starting to untangle himself from the bed and the web of blankets.

Conner met his gaze, both of them instantly realizing the same thing: one of them was going to have to explain this entire situation to the Batman. Neither looked eager to volunteer.

Y/N groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh... you're explaining this to Batman, right? Cool, great!” he said, trying to shift the burden onto Conner.

Conner shot him a sidelong glance as he finally freed himself from Colin’s grasp. “Why should I explain it? You’re the one who created the damn spell. This is on you.”

"Ah, future me did that. Present me, on the other hand, has done no such thing. So, therefore, this falls on you. See, math," Y/N said with his usual sarcastic tone. “And I didn’t bring three kids from the future back here. That’s not on me!”

“Oh, but I’m not their only father, am I?” Conner shot back, keeping his voice as low as possible but still sharp.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, so when it’s convenient for you to use the father title, now you want to use it? Yesterday you were acting like it was some cosmic mistake!”

As the bickering continued, Wally leaned over to Artemis and muttered with a grin, "Man, they’re already nailing the divorced parents thing. Ten out of ten performance."

Artemis smirked, not missing a beat. “Yeah, all that’s missing is the custody battle.”

“I didn’t say—” Conner started, but CJ, who had been watching the whole exchange, interrupted with an amused but exasperated tone.

“You know, if you guys are trying to keep quiet, you’re not doing a very good job,” he pointed out, his voice deadpan as he hopped off the bed.

Both men stopped mid-bicker, realizing the volume of their conversation had escalated. They shared a brief, awkward silence before Y/N sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Right. Sorry, CJ.”

“Are we going or what?” Colin asked, looking ready to sprint toward the mission room, his excitement bubbling over.

Conner grumbled under his breath as he pulled his shirt on, shooting Y/N another look. “I’m still not explaining it.”

Y/N threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine! I’ll explain it to Batman. But if he glares a hole through my head, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Deal,” Conner muttered as he turned to usher the kids toward the door.

Wally, who had been watching the entire exchange with great amusement, shook his head. “You guys are so much fun in the mornings. Really sets the tone for the day.”

Y/N shot him a half-hearted glare. “Wally, if you don’t stop talking, I will personally turn you into a decorative garden gnome.”

Wally just grinned wider, following the group as they headed out. "Try me, magic boy."

As they all made their way down the hall, CJ and Colin buzzed with excitement at the prospect of meeting the Dark Knight in his prime, while Y/N mentally prepared himself for what was sure to be a long conversation with Batman.

When they arrived at the mission room, Batman stood with his arms crossed, his expression as stoic and unreadable as ever. Superman and Dr. Fate flanked him, both with differing reactions already written across their faces. Superman wore a look of quiet curiosity, while Dr. Fate’s imposing helmet tilted slightly, as if analyzing every moment with critical intensity.

Y/N barely had time to feel the weight of their combined presence before a chorus of "Uncle Bruce!" filled the room, followed by the stampede of three excited children. CJ, Colin, and Camden rushed past Y/N and Conner, crashing into Batman with a level of enthusiasm normally reserved for holidays.

Batman barely moved, standing firm as three small bodies collided with him. His expression never wavered from his usual deadpan. He looked down at the kids clinging to his legs and tugging at his cape like it was any other Tuesday.

"Hello, boys," he greeted, his voice even, betraying no emotion.

"Uncle Bruce, you're so young!" CJ exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Yeah, you're not old and retired yet," Colin chimed in, his tone equally awestruck.

Camden, meanwhile, had attached himself to Batman's leg, refusing to let go. "Bat Bat," the toddler babbled, his voice muffled against the fabric of the suit as he began his usual routine of climbing up the grown man who, once again, was not fazed by the action.

A chorus of "Awws" echoed from behind Y/N, as Artemis and Zatanna both cooed at the sight of the two-year-old climbing all over Batman like a jungle gym. Meanwhile, Conner stood there, his arms crossed tightly as he watched his youngest son cling to the Dark Knight, not feeling a slight ounce of jealousy at the sight. Not one bit...

Y/N exchanged a glance with Conner, both of them unsure how to proceed. Batman’s piercing gaze and silent command made it clear someone needed to start explaining. But the Dark Knight simply looked back at the three of them, his expression unreadable, as if a trio of future children showing up out of nowhere was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Uncle Bruce! Can we see the Batcave later?" Colin asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

Batman merely raised an eyebrow under his cowl. “We’ll see.”

Y/N’s nervousness spiked. The fact that Batman was completely unfazed made him even more anxious. The Dark Knight was known for his cold efficiency and intimidating nature, but this calm acceptance of three kids who claimed to be the future children of his two protégés felt... ominous.

Superman, on the other hand, chuckled warmly as the boys shifted their attention to him.

“Uncle Clark!” Colin shouted, springing off the ground into the air toward the Man of Steel with just as much enthusiasm. “You still look the same, but somehow still young. That's so cool!"

Y/N, Conner, and pretty much everyone else in the room (except for Batman) stared in utter shock, watching the eight-year-old hover in the air next to Superman, who also looked a bit surprised.

"Is he—" Wally started, his eyes wide.

"Flying?" Artemis finished, her mouth hanging open.

"You can fly," Conner stated, his voice a mix of astonishment and confusion.

"Well, duh," Colin said, rolling his eyes. "Dad and Uncle Clark showed me how. Uncle Clark, look at this trick I learned," he added with an excited grin.

Before anyone could react, Colin rocketed upward, performing a flawless loop in the air, zipping in a spiral before descending slowly to hover near Superman. His face radiated pride, clearly relishing the opportunity to show off his flying skills. Superman watched him, still a bit stunned, but with a warm, amused smile on his face.

"Ta-da!" Colin shouted, floating back down beside him, his excitement undiminished. He began circling around Superman. "Do you not age because you're Kryptonian? Wow, I can't wait to be strong and ancient to!"

Superman chuckled, reaching out to ruffle Colin's hair. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, his voice light but tinged with curiosity. "So, this is what the future looks like for you guys, huh?"

Colin grinned, nodding enthusiastically. "Yep! And you’re still the strongest! I can't wait to show you some more tricks."

As Colin continued to hover, defying gravity with ease, Conner stood frozen. He hadn’t moved, his gaze locked on his son as he watched him hover so effortlessly. A strange tightness formed in his chest, bittersweet and unspoken. Colin could fly. Not with the assistance of a shield like him, but on his own. Part of Conner felt immense pride, but another part couldn’t help but feel that uncomfortable tightness deepen—a sense of longing for something he couldn’t quite articulate.

"He can fly," Conner muttered, catching the attention of CJ, who was watching his brother show off with an annoyed expression that softened when he saw his dad's reaction.

"Yeah, we found out just after Colin turned about five. That was a fun day for you two, especially since you had to chase him around the house for hours. He thought it was hilarious, but you and Papa weren’t too happy," CJ explained, his voice softer than usual.

Conner, still a bit stunned, nodded slowly. "That sounds... fun," he said, his tone lacking enthusiasm.

CJ looked like he wanted to say more, but his Aunt Zatanna's warning and the thoughts from his conversation last night with his Papa loomed over him. Instead, he decided to change the subject.

"So, um, yeah, that's Colin—middle kid," he said, turning back to his uncles, hoping to shift the conversation.

"What about you?" Superman asked, turning his attention to CJ.

"I'm Conner Kent Junior, or CJ for short. I'm the oldest and the leader of our team," CJ replied, puffing his chest out a bit.

Everyone chuckled softly, except for Batman, though, for the smallest sliver of a moment, the corner of his lip upturned into a tiny smirk.

"And that's Camden, the youngest," CJ continued, gesturing to the toddler who was now perched on Batman's shoulder, playing with the pointed ears of his mask.

"Bat Bat," Camden repeated, his adorable smile plastered all over his face.

"Yes, I am," Batman said, his voice as flat as ever, but his expression softened just a little.

Y/N turned, catching Conner’s gaze, which remained fixed on Colin, who was still hovering effortlessly in the air. The look on Conner’s face—bittersweet and filled with a mix of pride and something else Y/N couldn’t quite place—tugged at him. It wasn’t often Conner wore his heart on his sleeve, but in this moment, the unspoken emotion in his eyes was impossible to miss.

Y/N found himself feeling something unexpected—a sudden, quiet protectiveness. It wasn’t just about Colin flying, but the realization that Conner was watching a part of his son that he could never truly share. There was no jealousy or bitterness in Y/N's own heart, only a desire to make sure Conner knew that he wasn’t alone in this, that Y/N understood.

He cleared his throat softly, stepping closer to Colin, who was still circling around Superman in excited loops. “Alright, Colin, time to come down.”

Colin, his face flushed with excitement, ignored him at first. “But Papa, I haven’t shown Uncle Clark the trick where I—”

“I said down, Colin,” Y/N interrupted, his voice taking on a particular tone. A tone he probably inherited from his own parent—the one that could stop him in his tracks as a kid, and evidently, one that worked on Colin too.

Colin froze mid-loop, his defiant expression faltering for a moment as he hovered a few feet above the ground. “But—”

“Now,” Y/N added, his voice firm yet still gentle, his gaze unwavering.

With a dramatic sigh that only an eight-year-old could muster, Colin slowly descended to the ground, landing lightly on his feet. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, crossing his arms and scowling slightly. “I was just having fun…”

Y/N smiled softly, crouching down so he was eye-level with his son. “You can show Uncle Clark more later, okay? Right now, we need to focus.”

Colin huffed but nodded, the defiance in his eyes giving way to a grudging understanding. He glanced up at Superman, who gave him an encouraging nod, and then back at his dad, the scowl easing from his face.

“Good,” Y/N said, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Thanks, kiddo.”

As Colin sulked back to his brothers, Y/N straightened, his gaze shifting back to Conner, who had been watching the exchange silently. There was a flicker of something in Conner’s eyes—surprise, maybe? Or perhaps a quiet gratitude that Y/N had stepped in, that he understood without needing Conner to say anything.

For a moment, Y/N hesitated, feeling the weight of the unspoken between them. It was strange, this sudden need to make sure Conner was okay. Usually, they were too busy pushing each other's buttons, too wrapped up in their own frustrations. But now, seeing the vulnerability in Conner’s expression, Y/N couldn’t help but feel the tug of something... different.

“You good?” Y/N asked quietly, his voice low so the kids wouldn’t hear.

Conner blinked, as if caught off guard by the question. His eyes flicked from Y/N to Colin, then back again. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, though his voice was softer than usual, almost contemplative. “I’m fine.”

Y/N gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. He didn’t press further, didn’t want to push. Instead, he let the silence between them linger, a silence that felt strangely comfortable for once, even with all the chaos surrounding them.

For a split second, the air between them felt... less heavy. Less filled with the usual tension. There was no sarcastic retort, no biting comment. Just... an understanding.

But before either of them could dwell on the moment, CJ, ever the instigator, piped up with his usual boundless energy. “So, can we see the Batcave now?”

Batman’s stern voice cut through the room, as calm and composed as ever. “Later.”

CJ’s shoulders slumped dramatically. “Ugh, fine...”

After introductions were made, in true Batman fashion, he had DNA tests administered to confirm what Y/N, Conner, and all their friends already knew.

"The results are conclusive," Batman announced, his voice as stoic as ever. "Superboy and Y/N are both the paternal fathers to these children."

"Well, duh," Colin replied, rolling his eyes. "We told you that. But, what does paternal mean?"

"It means they're both our dads, dummy. And there's no need to be rude, Colin," CJ admonished, his tone exasperated. "It's not like we're lying."

"Stop calling me names! You're not the boss of me," Colin shot back, his cheeks flushing with anger.

"Actually, I am. I'm the oldest, so I'm the leader," CJ countered, his voice rising.

"No, you're not," Colin argued, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes, I am," CJ insisted, his temper flaring.

"No, you're not," Colin repeated, his voice growing louder.

"Yes, I am!" CJ yelled, his voice matching his brother's volume.

"Boys," Y/N warned, his voice firm.

"Sorry, Papa," CJ and Colin replied, their voices instantly contrite.

"I can't believe this is my life," Y/N groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"It's not so bad," Conner offered, his tone surprisingly gentle. "At least they're not fighting anymore."

Y/N let out a long, dramatic sigh, rubbing his face. “Fifteen hours ago, my life was normal. Now I have three kids from the future, and one of them’s trying to order around his brothers like he’s Batman.”

Superman chuckled warmly, offering Y/N a smile that somehow practically radiated paternal understanding. “It’s just the beginning, Y/N. You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”

"You got a kid I don't know about, Clarkie?" Y/N responded with a raised brow.

Superman returned his own raised brow at the nickname. "Clarkie?"

CJ turned his head toward the two men. "He calls you that all the time. Though, you seem a lot more surprised and annoyed about it now than you do in the future."

Y/N groaned while Clark chuckled at the kid's sharp observation.

"If this is what my mother meant by my kid being the karma to me for what I was to her, I want a do-over."

"Too late for that," Conner remarked, his lips quirking into a small, amused smile.

"Would you hush?" Y/N grumbled, shooting him a half-hearted glare.

“Well, I can't wait to see how we survive this,” Wally chimed in, shooting a look at CJ and Colin. “I mean, you’ve got two kids who are basically replicas of their parents, with an equal level of emotional control. One's trying to play leader, and the other... well, let’s just say I’m seeing Conner 2.0 with a side of ‘no chill.’”

Conner shot Wally a flat look but remained silent, his arms crossed as he watched Camden poke and prod at Batman’s suit. The toddler was giggling uncontrollably, practically hanging off Bruce’s arm, tugging at his cape like it was a new toy. Meanwhile, Batman stood perfectly still, as if he didn’t even notice. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something—just a hint—that suggested he wasn’t exactly unhappy with the tiny human attached to him.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Y/N muttered, glancing at Bruce’s unflinching demeanor. “A kid hanging off Batman, and he’s... not scowling. And here I am, trying to make sense of how this is somehow my life now or going to be my life in the future.”

Zatanna stifled a laugh, leaning against the wall. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? One day you’re acting like the kid, and the next you’re trying to manage three kids.”

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Y/N responded, glancing down at CJ, who was still trying his best to act like the "responsible" one, even if Colin was clearly not having it.

Artemis smirked. “Maybe both. We could use the entertainment.”

Y/N groaned. “I’m not here to entertain, Artemis.”

“You’re doing a great job of it, though,” she shot back with a grin.

Just as Y/N was about to respond, the door slid open, and M’Gann entered the room, holding a tray of snacks. Her presence caused an immediate shift in the room’s atmosphere. She smiled, but it was tight, strained even, her eyes flicking toward Y/N and the kids with clear unease. “I, uh, brought these for the kids,” she said, her voice polite but distant.

CJ, who was always quick to pick up on tension, noticed M’Gann’s discomfort and shot a wary glance at his brother. Colin, oblivious as ever, simply perked up at the sight of snacks. “Snacks! Finally!” he shouted, taking a step toward M’Gann’s tray, only to be yanked back by CJ’s firm grip.

Colin pouted but didn’t argue, instead crossing his arms and muttering, “I hate it when he acts like he’s the boss.”

Y/N couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the exchange. “You’re not helping, CJ,” he muttered under his breath before his attention shifted back to M’Gann, who stood awkwardly near the doorway, the boys clearly unsure how to approach her.

Wally, noticing the tension, tried to lighten the mood. “So, Camden looks pretty comfortable over there,” he quipped, gesturing toward the tiny toddler still clinging to Batman’s shoulder. “Who knew Bruce would be such a hit with kids?”

Camden giggled, poking Bruce in the cheek. “Bat Bat!”

Batman didn’t move, though Y/N could have sworn he saw the tiniest twitch of his lips. He wasn’t exactly scowling—and in Batman terms, that was practically a smile.

“I’ll be damned,” Y/N muttered. “Yeah, I’m definitely living in some weird alternate universe.”

M’Gann, however, remained tense, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. The kids seemed to pick up on her discomfort, and though Colin’s attention was still focused on the snacks, CJ’s eyes flicked nervously between her and Y/N. There was an awkward silence, the unspoken tension between M’Gann and the family hanging in the air.

Just as Y/N considered trying to say something, the atmosphere shifted dramatically, an intense, almost suffocating pressure filling the room.

"Ahem."

The weight of the room shifted, all eyes turning to Dr. Fate, his presence more imposing than ever with the golden cape draped over him, the helmet of Nabu gleaming ominously in the dim lighting. Giovanni Zatara's mortal voice was completely gone, replaced by the booming, ethereal tone of the Lord of Order. His deep voice reverberated off the walls, demanding attention.

"This situation is not to be taken lightly," Dr. Fate intoned, his words hanging heavy in the air. "The arrival of these children from a future timeline—brought here through magic—has the potential to disrupt the balance of time and space. The consequences of their presence could ripple through the past, present, and future, with devastating results."

The lighthearted energy in the room immediately deflated, the playful mood dashed away by Fate’s dire warning. Even Camden, perched on Batman’s shoulder, seemed to sense the seriousness of the moment, his babbling quieting as he curiously played with the pointed ears of Batman's cowl.

Superman’s easygoing smile faltered, his expression shifting into one of concern. “How bad are we talking?” he asked, his voice lower and more cautious now.

Fate’s helmet tilted ever so slightly, the glowing eyes narrowing. “Temporal magic is not only complex but perilous. The smallest disruption can lead to unforeseen consequences. The longer these children remain in the past, the more likely the timeline will fracture. Their very presence risks creating divergences—events that may never occur, or worse, events that should not happen but will.”

His gaze shifted to CJ, the weight of his words intensifying. “But of greater concern is the fact that a child of his age was able to perform such a powerful spell with no guidance or oversight from his father.” The glowing eyes behind the helm seemed to bore into Y/N, though the judgment lay with CJ. “No matter who taught him, such magic should not be wielded by one so young. It requires control, experience, and most importantly, restraint—qualities that take years, if not decades, to master. And yet, he succeeded in casting it.”

Y/N swallowed hard, his attention snapping to his son, who shifted nervously under Fate’s scrutiny. The weight of the implications settled over the room like a heavy fog. CJ, barely eleven, had performed a spell far beyond what should be possible for someone his age.

Fate’s voice remained steady, but there was a dark edge to it. “That a child of his age can even wield such power in casting a spell of that magnitude without proper teaching or supervision is concerning in itself. Magic of this level, cast without the necessary experience, is not only dangerous but reckless. The consequences of a misstep—of even the slightest deviation in its execution—could have been catastrophic.”

CJ bit his lip, his earlier enthusiasm fading under the weight of Fate’s words. He looked down, guilt flickering in his eyes, as Y/N’s stomach twisted with both concern and the unspoken pressure of responsibility.

Superman and Batman exchanged glances, the levity of the moment completely gone. Batman’s expression had hardened, though the toddler still clung to his shoulder, oblivious to the gravity of the situation.

“I didn’t mean to—” CJ began, his voice small, but Fate held up a hand, silencing him.

“Intent matters little when tampering with forces that defy time and space,” Fate continued, his voice resonating like an ancient echo. “The fact that you were able to do so speaks to an alarming raw power within you. A power that, without proper control, poses a threat to not only yourself but everyone around you.”

Y/N inhaled deeply, his heart heavy as he took in the full weight of what Fate was saying. His son—his eleven-year-old son—had tapped into something dangerous. And though Y/N had always known CJ had potential, this was... beyond anything he could have anticipated.

Fate’s eyes glowed even brighter, his voice growing more severe. “Raw power without discipline is more dangerous than any external threat. It is chaotic, unpredictable. You acted without full comprehension of the consequences, and that is not just reckless—it is irresponsible. Your abilities, if left unchecked, could tear the fabric of time itself.”

CJ’s shoulders hunched, his earlier confidence slipping away entirely. His eyes darted toward Y/N, then to the ground, his hands trembling slightly as he wrung them together. The weight of Fate’s words was pressing down on him, hard and unrelenting. He hadn’t meant to cause any harm, hadn’t realized just how dangerous his actions could be. The gravity of the situation—of potentially damaging the timeline and putting everyone he cared about at risk—was sinking in, fast.

Fate, however, didn’t let up. His voice echoed like thunder in the stillness of the room. “You are a child. A child with access to power that can upend entire realities. Do you understand the responsibility that comes with such abilities? You cast a spell beyond your understanding—beyond what should even be possible for someone your age—and in doing so, you’ve placed the timeline, and everyone within it, in jeopardy.”

Tears welled up in CJ’s eyes, his face crumpling as he tried to hold back the flood of emotions now overwhelming him. “I-I didn’t mean to... I just wanted to see you all... I just wanted to—” His voice broke, a sob escaping before he could stop it. He wiped at his eyes, trying to stay composed, but the guilt and fear were written all over his face.

Y/N’s heart clenched at the sight. Just the night before, he’d seen how worried CJ had been about messing things up, about somehow ruining the future for him and Conner. And now, Fate’s harsh words were doing exactly that—filling the kid with an unbearable sense of guilt. Y/N could feel it rising in him—an anger that came from a place deeper than usual, that soft protectiveness from before now something fierce he couldn’t ignore.

“That’s enough,” Y/N said, his voice sharper than anyone had heard it all day. He stepped forward, grabbing CJ and pulling the boy against him who immediately wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his side, desperately trying to hide his tears. “He’s just a kid, Fate. You’ve made your point.”

Colin made his way over to his brother to comfort him, a red hue in his irises as he looked ready to blow a hole through that helmet with his pointed glare at the sorcerer, matching the glowering expression on his father’s face as the Kryptonian also took his place beside the wizard and their two kids.

Fate’s glowing eyes bore down on Y/N, his voice unwavering. “A child or not, the consequences remain. The danger—”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, his entire body tense as he held CJ protectively against him. His tone, usually layered with sarcasm or lightheartedness even in stressful moments, was now razor-sharp, the edge of it cutting through the air. It was the kind of tone that made everyone freeze, even Batman, who stood stoic but noticeably more alert, his eyes flicking to Y/N as if assessing an emerging threat.

“A child or not?” Y/N echoed, his voice dropping into something deadly quiet. “He’s a kid. And you think berating him, making him feel like he's already damned the timeline to hell is helping? He’s eleven years old, Fate. Eleven. You might not care about that, but I do. And I’ll tell you this right now: you will not make him feel like a walking disaster just because he made a mistake.”

Fate, despite his unearthly power and presence, seemed to register the shift in the atmosphere. He held his ground but didn't move forward, the glowing eyes behind the helm unreadable. “I speak only of the risks—”

“And I heard you,” Y/N interrupted, his voice still steady but with a bite that could cut through steel. “We all heard you. Loud and clear. But let me make one thing perfectly clear to you: if anyone thinks for a second that they can make my son feel like he’s some kind of ticking time bomb, they’ll have to go through me first. I don’t care if you’re wearing the Helm of Nabu, a cape, or a bat on your chest—no one, and I mean no one, gets to treat him like that.”

There was a heavy pause, the weight of Y/N’s words hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break. Even Batman, who rarely showed hesitation or uncertainty, shifted slightly, his eyes flicking toward Superman as if silently communicating to be ready, just in case. Superman’s usually easygoing expression had hardened, though he was watching Y/N with a level of caution he typically reserved for far more volatile situations.

And Conner? His presence was something else entirely. If Y/N’s sharp, cutting words hadn’t been enough to put everyone on edge, Conner’s silent but simmering anger was enough to make the entire room feel ten degrees colder. His voice, when it came, was low—dangerously controlled. “You heard him,” he said, his hand resting protectively on the eleven-year-old’s shoulder. “He made a mistake, but he’s not going to stand here and be chewed out for something he didn’t fully understand. He’s our kid, Fate. Not one of your hosts that has to sit there and listen to you lecture them down.”

CJ looked up, eyes wide and brimming with tears, first at his dad and then at his papa. The anger in Conner’s voice wasn’t something he heard often—not directed like this. It was a quiet kind of anger, a controlled force that was all the more intense for how subdued it was. And that made CJ feel something else entirely: relief. Despite their obvious tense relationship in this timeline, his parents were standing up for him together, even in the face of someone as powerful as Fate.

Some things don't change even with time.

CJ sniffled quietly, his face still pressed into Y/N’s side, but it was clear the boy was taking comfort in the way both his parents stood there, a bit younger than he was used to, but still firm and unyielding. He knew the kind of power Dr. Fate held, knew that his presence alone could silence rooms, but right now, it was Y/N and Conner who were commanding the space.

Zatanna, Wally, Dick, Kaldur, and Artemis stood together, watching with bated breath as the tension in the room thickened. They had all felt a deep, instinctive protectiveness over these three since getting to know them—like an extension of their own makeshift family. But seeing Y/N and Conner, two of their closest friends, united in defense of their children? That was something else entirely. The raw intensity radiating from both men was a force of its own, sharper and more intimidating than any argument they’d ever had with each other. It was like watching two titans—formidable on their own—become unstoppable when their fury was aimed at a common enemy.

Even M’Gann, who had kept her distance from Y/N and the boys, couldn’t tear her eyes away. She crossed her arms, tension still visible in her posture, but the air crackled with something unspoken. Despite her unease, she couldn’t ignore the power shift happening right in front of them. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would happen next.

Fate’s eyes glowed brighter, but there was a brief hesitation now, as if weighing the situation. Beneath the room's tension, he could feel it—a subtle but undeniable pulse of magic rising in Y/N, simmering just beneath the surface, like a storm waiting to break. The potential that had long been sensed in him, untapped yet dangerous, now crackled in the air around him. The last thing Fate wanted was to turn someone as powerful as Y/N—given how potent his son’s magic already was—into an adversary or even a rival.

“You misunderstand—”

“No,” Y/N cut in again, sharper this time, his hand tightening around CJ’s shoulder protectively. “You misunderstand. I won’t let you stand there and intimidate my kid, make him feel like he’s already done irreversible damage just because he wanted to see his family. I get it—you’re worried about the timeline. Guess what? So are we. But if you try to guilt him, shame him, or talk to him like a liability again, I promise I will show you just how reckless I can be with my magic.”

It was the threat in Y/N’s voice—delivered in a tone that wasn’t raised, wasn’t shouted, but was filled with so much venom—that made everyone pause. Even Batman, who rarely reacted to emotional outbursts, visibly tensed. Y/N’s presence right now wasn’t just a protective father; it was something else, something primal. A warning.

Fate, still unmoving, regarded Y/N for a long moment, the glowing eyes behind the helm unreadable. Finally, the Lord of Order spoke, though his voice had lost some of its earlier authority, now more measured. “The consequences remain, but I will refrain from further...discussion. For now.”

“You’ll refrain permanently,” Y/N shot back, the edge still there. “I’m not asking.”

Conner’s eyes flicked between Fate and Y/N, his expression still cold but tempered by a quiet pride in the way Y/N had stepped up. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Y/N to go full protective mode in a way that was somehow scarier than his own outbursts. But damn, was it effective.

After another long, tense silence, Fate finally stepped back, his glowing eyes dimming slightly as if in reluctant acceptance. “Very well. But understand this: time cannot be ignored. The longer they remain, the more unstable the timeline becomes.”

“Yeah, we get it,” Conner replied, his voice low but steely. “We’ll fix it. But don’t think for a second that we won’t protect them every step of the way.”

Fate’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before he turned away, his cape billowing as he floated back slightly, allowing the tension in the room to ease, if only by a fraction. Batman, still standing with Camden on his shoulder, exchanged a glance with Superman, made a motion for them to intervene now.

Superman cleared his throat softly, stepping forward with a more diplomatic tone. “Alright, let’s all take a breath. We’ve got a situation to handle, and we’re all on the same side here.”

Y/N didn’t respond, his eyes still locked on Fate for another moment before he finally exhaled, the tension in his posture easing as he turned his attention back to CJ, his voice softening instantly as he murmured to his son. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

CJ sniffled again, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, still clinging tightly to Y/N’s side. “I-I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” Y/N whispered, pulling him close. “I know you didn’t.”

Conner knelt down beside CJ, his large hand gently resting on the boy’s back. “You’re not in trouble,” he reassured him quietly. “We’ll figure it out together.”

CJ nodded, still visibly upset but calming under the combined presence of his parents.

And as the room began to shift back to a more measured tone, Y/N exchanged a glance with Conner, a silent understanding passing between them. For all their bickering and back-and-forths, they were united in this.

For now, at least, the storm had passed. But the underlying tension remained, and everyone in the room knew one thing for certain: you can poke at Y/N and Conner, but their kids? That was a line you should never cross.

After their little confrontation with Fate, and managing to calm CJ down enough, Y/N and Zatanna along with the eleven-year-old wizard headed off to their study to start doing research on the spell future Y/N created so they could send the kids back home. CJ was more than happy to be getting quality time with his magical father and aunt, completely forgetting his dour mood from before.

The rest of the group split off to the their own quests and whatnots while Batman and Fate stayed behind in the mission room to discuss a bit more. Meanwhile, Conner along with Colin and a giggly Camden who was now hanging off a Superman's shoulder, playing with his cape made their way to the lounge area so the kids could have some breakfast.

As they stepped into the living area, the atmosphere shifted slightly. It was still tense, but there was a quiet comfort that came with being away from the others, especially with the kids now more focused on food than the overwhelming situation they were all thrown into. Colin, his hair tousled and his eyes full of curiosity, plopped himself down at the dining table and immediately began stuffing his face with the nearest food he could find, which happened to be a stack of waffles. Camden, ever the cheerful toddler, giggled uncontrollably as he played with Superman’s cape, his tiny hands tugging at it like it was his new favorite toy.

Conner, however, was lost in his own thoughts. He leaned against the counter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watched the kids. Colin’s carefree attitude was a stark contrast to the weight on his own shoulders, and he couldn't help but feel conflicted. It was strange—looking at these kids who were supposed to be his, knowing they came from a future that felt so far removed from his current reality.

Clark, noticing the heavy silence, walked over to the counter where Conner stood. His cape fluttered slightly as Camden continued to swing from it, but the Man of Steel didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he offered Conner a small, knowing smile.

“You seem quieter than usual,” Clark observed, his tone gentle but probing. “What’s on your mind?”

Conner let out a deep sigh, his gaze shifting to Camden, who was still laughing at Superman’s cape antics. “This whole thing... It’s just a lot to take in. I mean, I’ve barely figured out my own life, and now I’ve got three kids from the future showing up, acting like we’re some happy family.”

Clark nodded, his expression understanding. “It’s overwhelming, I’m sure. But they seem to know you—both of you—pretty well. You and Y/N. There’s... a lot of history there, and not just the tension we’ve all seen. There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Conner stiffened slightly at the mention of Y/N. He wasn’t ready to dive into that just yet, but Clark’s gentle prodding was hard to ignore.

“Yeah,” Conner muttered, his voice tight. “History.”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “You want to talk about it?”

Conner hesitated, his arms uncrossing as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He wasn’t the type to talk about his feelings, not even with Clark, but something about the situation—the kids, the unexpected future they were facing—made it harder to stay silent.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Conner admitted quietly, his eyes drifting to Camden, who had now taken a seat next to Colin and was trying (unsuccessfully) to eat a waffle without dropping syrup all over himself. “I mean... I had things figured out. M’Gann and I... We were good. Comfortable.”

Clark nodded slowly, letting him speak at his own pace.

“And then Y/N showed up,” Conner continued, his voice almost a whisper now. “Out of nowhere. And everything changed. I didn’t... I didn’t expect to feel anything for him. I thought I had my life planned out, you know? M’Gann and I... we were supposed to be the future. But then he came along and it was just...”

Clark’s gaze softened as he watched Conner wrestle with his thoughts. “Sudden?”

Conner nodded. “Yeah. And confusing. I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t even want to handle it.”

Clark remained quiet for a moment, letting the silence between them settle before he spoke again. “I know what it’s like to have everything you think you know shaken up. Feelings can be... complicated. And sudden, like you said. But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

Clark remained quiet for a moment, letting the silence between them settle before he spoke again. “I know what it’s like to have everything you think you know shaken up. Feelings can be... complicated. And sudden, like you said. But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

He paused, his gaze softening. "You know, when you first came into our lives, it was a shock—especially for me. No one expected it, the way you were discovered, and suddenly becoming a part of my life that I didn't know how to accept. And because of that, I wasn’t... exactly welcoming, was I?" Clark’s voice grew quieter, the regret in his tone unmistakable. "I didn’t handle it well at all. I remember Batman trying to have this talk with me about how I needed to be there for you, cause the transition you were going through was tough, but I didn't want to listen. It made me uncomfortable—angry even—and I let that get in the way of treating you the way you deserved."

Clark’s voice faltered slightly, the weight of those memories heavy. "I distanced myself. I barely talked to you, and when I did, it was cold, indifferent. And I know that hurt you. I can see now how much of a toll that took on you." He looked Conner in the eye, the sincerity in his expression clear.

Conner shifted uncomfortably at the memory, the wound of Clark’s initial indifference still raw even after all these years. His fists clenched slightly as Clark continued.

"And because of that," Clark added gently, "I pushed you away. I made you feel like you weren’t wanted, like you didn’t belong. That’s on me and I was wrong to do that. Now, this whole interesting scenario and being a witness to some of you and Y/N's expressive disagreements, I'm wondering if, in a way, you were doing the same thing to Y/N that I did to you." His tone wasn’t accusatory, but the weight of his words hung between them. "You and I... we’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we? What I’m saying is, sometimes the most unexpected blessings come from the most unexpected places."

Conner’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting to the table where Colin was still busy devouring his waffles. The kid looked so carefree, so unaffected by the tension in the air.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Conner admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Being a dad... being with Y/N... It’s all too much.”

As if sensing the weight of the conversation, Colin paused mid-bite and glanced up at his dad and uncle.

Colin smiled, his eyes bright. "Dad, can I have some apple juice?"

Conner blinked, the question catching him off guard. "Uh, yeah. Sure." He turned, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and filling it with the apple juice from the fridge. He handed it to Colin, who took it eagerly.

"Thank you!" Colin chirped, taking a sip.

Conner watched Colin, his eyes narrowing as the boy eagerly drank his juice, his messy dark hair falling into his eyes. The kid was a near replica of Y/N—sharp features, the same mischievous grin, and that glint of playful defiance. But even with all of Y/N’s traits so clearly stamped on his face, Conner could see bits of himself too. In the way Colin held himself, a certain stubbornness, and the unmistakable spark of defiance in his eyes that promised trouble wherever he turned. The thought made him both proud, and a little nervous. It was like looking into a mirror, one that reflected not just his own past but Y/N's influence as well, creating something that was uniquely theirs.

As Conner’s thoughts swirled, Camden toddled over, his tiny feet padding against the floor as he made his way to his father. Without warning, Camden jumped up, grabbing onto Conner's arm with a delighted giggle. Conner caught him easily, his big hand wrapping protectively around his youngest son as Camden snuggled against him, giggling softly. The warmth of the moment momentarily pulled Conner out of his anxious thoughts, grounding him in the simplicity of Camden’s affection. Less than 24 hours and the move was almost instinctive—the way he cradled Camden close, his strong arms wrapping around the small boy like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Clark, standing nearby, observed the scene with a faint smile. The ease with which Conner held Camden, the tenderness in his normally stoic expression—it was a side of him Clark rarely saw. It was a glimpse of something deeper, something real and undeniable. "Well, I wouldn't use the word ready, seeing as you're still young and have a lot to learn, from this point of view, you seem just fine to me," Clark commented softly, his voice filled with pride and reassurance. Conner looked over at his mentor, the weight of his worries momentarily lifting as he realized, despite everything, this—being a father—might not be as overwhelming as it seemed.

Clark’s smile softened, and he straightened himself out from his crouched position over the counter, “No one’s ever ready. But that doesn’t mean you’re not capable of handling it. You’ve always been stronger than you think, Conner. And look at them—” He gestured to Colin and Camden, who were now both completely focused on the plate of food in front of them. “You’ve done something right if these two turned out this way.”

Colin, oblivious to the compliment, wiped syrup from his chin and glanced up again. “Dad, you think too much,” he said plainly, as if stating an obvious fact.

Conner blinked in surprise, and Clark let out a soft laugh. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

Colin, sensing he was being teased, shot a quick glare at his uncle before turning back to his plate. “Papa says the same thing. You’re always thinking and not saying how you feel. Maybe you should try that. Just... you know, say what you’re thinking.”

Conner stared at his son for a moment, the kid’s words sinking in. It wasn’t just a child’s naive observation—it was Y/N’s influence. Y/N had always been the one to push him, to force him to face things he didn’t want to. And now, even through their future children, that push was still there, urging him to stop hiding and start feeling.

“I’ll think about it,” Conner finally said, his voice softer now, more thoughtful.

Colin nodded as if that was enough, shoving another bite of waffle into his mouth.

Clark stood up, giving Conner a knowing look. “That’s all anyone can ask for.”

Conner didn’t reply, but the weight in his chest felt a little lighter. For the first time since the kids had arrived, he didn’t feel completely overwhelmed. It wasn’t easy—nothing ever was when it came to his feelings, especially when Y/N was involved—but maybe, just maybe, he could figure it out.

The kids kept eating, and for the first time that morning, the tension in the air seemed to ease. There were still questions left unanswered, still emotions to sort through, but for now, Conner let himself breathe. Clark’s words, and Colin’s surprisingly wise insight, lingered with him.

Maybe he had been thinking too much. Maybe it was time to start doing.

Conner stood outside the study Zatanna and Y/N used to study and practice their magic, his hand hovering over the knob. He stood frozen just in front of the door, his hand hovering over the doorknob as he listened to the low murmur of voices from inside. His pulse quickened as he took a deep breath, steeling himself. He knew he couldn't avoid Y/N forever, but the thought of facing him, of confronting the mess of emotions swirling in his chest, was almost too much.

It had been a few hours since his conversation with Superman and the advice from his middle son, and already it felt like his courage was slipping away, drowning under the weight of old insults, arguments, and uncertainty. The thought of facing Y/N, of peeling back the layers of resentment they had built up over time, felt like an insurmountable task.

He'd already been by 15 minutes earlier, coming to grab CJ so the kid could also eat before heading back to help his Papa and Aunt with the spell to return them to their original timeline. But something about seeing Y/N, the look he'd been giving him since this morning, made Conner hesitate in returning to the room to talk to him. There was an intensity in Y/N's gaze that rattled him—like the magic user could see right through him, past the facade of indifference, straight into the mess of emotions swirling beneath the surface. It wasn’t a glare, not exactly, but something sharper, more discerning. And it unnerved Conner in a way he wasn't used to.

Anger, frustration—those were familiar. He could work with those. They fueled him, gave him something to push against. But this? This nervous, anxious feeling? That was foreign territory. Normally, when he got anxious, he'd channel it into anger—yelling, snapping, getting into yet another argument with Y/N. But here, standing outside the door, knowing what he needed to do and how he should approach it... it made his stomach churn. Because as much as he hated to admit it, every time he reacted in anger, he realized it only proved Y/N right. And the last thing he wanted to do now was give the smart-ass a reason to smugly say "I told you so" over and over until who knows what end.

He may be irrational at times, but he wasn't dumb. And his pride could only take so much.

No, Conner needed to do this right. But how was he supposed to do that when it felt like his nerves were crawling under his skin, making it impossible to think straight?

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his nerves. Just as his hand tightened around the knob, ready to push the door open, his superhearing picked that moment to tune in on the conversation happening inside.

"Conner? Attractive?" Y/N’s voice cut through the muffled conversation, a sarcastic edge to his tone. "Yeah, I thought so. Once. You know, back before he treated me like I wasn’t worth his time. I don't understand how this seems funny to only me. How people can just… change their tune overnight. One day, I was just a nobody on the team to him, then when I start treating him the same way, suddenly, it's like I'm the only one on the team—but for all the wrong reasons."

Conner’s heart skipped a beat, his grip tightening on the knob, but he didn’t turn it. Instead, he leaned closer, his superhearing focusing in on the conversation and the harsh but strained sound of Y/N's words.

"Y/N..." Zatanna’s voice came through softly, as if she was trying to comfort him.

"No, seriously," Y/N continued, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You can't not admit how funny and ironic this whole situation is. Me and Conner, together? The universe could not come up with a more hilarious joke."

Conner froze at Y/N's words, his stomach knotting as he strained to hear more. His pulse quickened, the sarcastic bite in Y/N’s tone cutting deeper than he expected. That bitterness, though, the strain in it—that was what really threw him off. It wasn’t just sarcasm for sarcasm’s sake. It was the sound of someone who’d been hurt and was still trying to laugh it off, even when the pain was clearly bleeding through the cracks.

Inside, Zatanna’s voice came through, softer now but insistent, a mix of empathy and reason. “Y/N, come on. You’re not being fair to him—or to yourself. I know Conner wasn’t exactly Mr. Warmth when you first joined, but you gave it right back to him. And you have to admit, a lot of the time, you weren’t just defending yourself.”

Y/N snorted, and Conner could almost see the exasperation on his face. “Oh, really? What would you call it then, Z? I was supposed to just sit back and take it? Let him look through me like I didn’t exist? And then when I finally matched his indifference, suddenly, I'm the bad guy?” His voice grew more animated, like the floodgates of resentment had been opened. “I didn’t ask for any of this! I didn’t ask to feel anything for him. Hell, the attraction I had? I thought it was done the second he made it clear I didn’t matter. But then... now? When I’ve finally learned to put a wall up, he wants to start giving me these long and sad looks like I'm supposed to feel sympathy for him. Zatanna, we'd literally just got sidelined by Bats not even a few hours earlier because me and him could not stop fighting on the mission. Don't think I didn't see all of your tired and annoyed looks while me and him kept screaming at each other."

Conner’s stomach twisted painfully, a knot of guilt and frustration coiling tighter with every word. He wasn't even in the room and he could feel the weight of Y/N’s resentment settling on his chest, like Y/N was saying all of this directly to him, staring him straight in his blue eyes. It felt heavy and suffocating.

Hearing Y/N talk about his walls, about the way he felt forced to build them up—it stung in a way the Kryptonian wasn’t prepared for. He had always thought their arguments, their constant bickering, were just a reflection of their differences, not realizing how deeply he had hurt Y/N in the process.

Of course, this was the moment when he was reminded of Superman's words from before about how he’d treated him in the beginning when Dick, Wally, and Kal broke him out of Cadmus. It just made the sting feel worse, considering Conner knew exactly how Y/N was feeling because his mentor had once made him feel the exact same way, even if their circumstances were a bit different.

And now, to hear that Y/N had once felt something for him—attraction even—only to have it turn into this bitter, sarcastic shield... It made Conner feel like he had been blind to it all, and now he was paying for it, unable to untangle the mess he’d helped create.

Zatanna sighed. “I’m not saying he didn’t screw up, Y/N. We both know Conner can be... complicated, especially with his emotions. But you’re not being honest with yourself either.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “You built that wall out of your own fear too. You’re as stubborn as he is. He pushed you away, and you pushed back just as hard.”

Y/N groaned, clearly growing frustrated with the direction of the conversation. “Look, Z, I’m not saying I’m perfect, alright? But do you blame me? Every time I tried to be decent, I got shut down. Every time I tried to be patient, I got a door slammed in my face. And now—now we’re supposed to pretend like none of that happened? Like the past just doesn’t exist because we’ve got some kids from a future I can’t even picture?” His voice wavered for a moment, a crack in his bravado. “You, him, and everyone else must have a lot of faith in me if you think I want to sign myself up for something like that just because three little boys popped in from the future to tell us our fortunes! And you know what? You really shouldn't, because I don’t want to live in a world where I have to constantly wonder in the back of my mind if I’m worth someone’s time or if they’re suddenly going to change their tune at the drop of a dime because of this, that, and whatever the hell the third might be! I’m not going to live like that. And if that means walking away from all this, then so be it. The kids will get over it. Shoot, they won't even be here to see it!”

Conner’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles going white as Y/N’s words echoed in his ears. The frustration bubbled up inside him, twisting and coiling into something darker, something harder to control. Y/N’s dismissal of the kids—their kids, his sons—like they were some temporary nuisance, some fleeting inconvenience that would disappear once this whole mess was over, set Conner's blood boiling. He could feel the anger rising in his chest, threatening to burst out in a way that had always felt second nature to him, the way it always had when he and Y/N fought.

But this? This wasn’t just about him anymore. It wasn’t just another fight between him and Y/N where they could trade barbs and insults like it was some kind of sparring match. No. Now it felt personal in a way that cut deeper than all their previous arguments combined. Y/N wasn’t just throwing him under the bus with his biting words and sarcastic remarks—he was dismissing the future that their kids came from, the life that, according to CJ, Colin, and Camden, they were supposed to build together. Y/N wasn’t just rejecting him. He was rejecting all of it—the family, the possibility, the kids—and that hurt worse than anything Conner had ever felt before.

He couldn’t tell if the anger in his chest was fueled more by his own pain or by the thought of the kids overhearing something like this. What would Colin think if he knew Y/N felt this way? The kid who loved his parents more than anyone. Or Camden? Did Y/N consider for one second how CJ would feel, knowing that boy practically looks up to and tries to follow every step his Papa takes? This would absolutely destroy all three of them, especially the oldest one. The thought of Y/N throwing them aside like a passing inconvenience tore at him, and Conner had to fight every instinct and nerve in his body telling him to march into that room and turn the whole conversation into an all-out brawl.

Inside, Zatanna’s voice softened, but there was a slight edge to it now, the first sign of her patience wearing thin. "Y/N... that's not fair to the kids and you know it. You already told me how CJ talked to you last night and how terrified he is of him and his brothers interfering. You know this will only break him. He, Colin, and Camden practically worship the ground you and Conner walk on. They didn’t ask for this any more than you did. And you’re right, you didn’t sign up for this, but you can’t just treat them like they're some temporary burden. They're your family too, no matter how far in the future it may be. You see how CJ looks up to you, how protective Colin already is of not just his brothers but his parents as well. A trait I'm sure he more than gets from his father. They’re real, Y/N, and they’re here. You can't just wish them away because you're scared of what this means for you and Conner."

There was a beat of silence, and Conner could almost imagine Y/N gritting his teeth, wrestling with the emotions he so desperately tried to hide behind sarcasm and bravado.

"Yeah, well, I didn’t ask to have my life turned upside down, Zatanna," Y/N shot back, his voice cracking just enough to betray the vulnerability underneath. "I didn’t ask for kids to show up and tell me I’m supposed to end up with someone who can’t stand me half the time! I didn’t ask to be put in a position where the second I feel like I can breathe, I’m right back at square one wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now."

Conner felt like he was suffocating, standing there just outside the door, torn between barging in and finally letting all the anger and hurt pour out or walking away before he said or did something that couldn’t be taken back. His heart hammered in his chest, the fury building alongside the urge to just smash something, anything, to release the pressure that was pushing down on him. But he couldn’t. Not like this.

Zatanna sighed heavily, the sound filled with both exasperation and empathy. "I get it, Y/N. I do. This situation isn’t fair to you. It’s a lot. And I don’t envy the position you’re in. But pushing Conner and the kids away isn’t the answer. You’re scared, and I get that too, but don’t let fear make decisions for you. You care about them—I know you do, even if you won’t admit it. And maybe—just maybe—you need to stop fighting against this so hard and try to see it from Conner’s side. You might find that you’re not as alone in this as you think."

Y/N let out a bitter chuckle. "Alone? You think I’m not alone? Have you seen how we’ve been? Every time I try to meet him halfway, I get shut down. Every single time. I’m done fighting for something that’s never going to work. He’s made that clear. Hell, if it weren’t for the kids being here, I wouldn’t even be considering any of this! Tell me, Z, in what world do you see me and Conner—two people who are always at each other's throats—sharing a bed for absolutely no reason at all. I'm surprised nothing in my room was broken or destroyed by the time the sun came up."

Conner’s jaw tightened. So that’s it, huh? The only reason Y/N was even still in this mess was because of the kids. That was the line. That was the breaking point. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, the frustration turning to anger, sharp and hot. His vision blurred at the edges as he fought the overwhelming urge to kick the door down, to confront Y/N and make him understand how wrong he was.

But what would that solve? Another fight? Another shouting match that would just end with more resentment and more unresolved tension between them? He couldn’t do that again. Not now. Not after hearing everything Y/N had just said.

But walking away wasn’t an option either.

Zatanna’s voice softened again, but there was a weariness in it now. "Y/N, I get it. You're angry, you're hurt. But saying things like that—about the kids, about their future—it’s not fair to them or to yourself. You’re scared of getting hurt again, but pushing everyone away isn’t going to protect you. It’s just going to make things worse."

Y/N didn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other side of the door. Conner’s heart pounded in his ears, the conflicting emotions swirling inside him like a storm. Part of him wanted to scream, to let Y/N know exactly how wrong he was. But another part of him—the part that had heard the hurt in Y/N’s voice, the vulnerability behind the sarcasm—wanted to do something else entirely. Something that scared him just as much.

Before Conner could make a decision, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. He turned just in time to see Wally, Dick, and Artemis heading toward him. Wally raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting between Conner and the closed door. "Uh... everything okay, man?"

Conner stiffened, his fists still clenched. "I... it’s fine."

Dick frowned, clearly unconvinced. "We need you in the mission room. Batman just got a hit on something. It’s big."

Artemis glanced toward the study door, her sharp eyes catching the tension in Conner’s stance. She gave him a knowing look before she stepped forward. "I’ll go get Y/N and Zatanna."

Conner wanted to protest, wanted to stop her, but he couldn’t find the words. Before he knew it, Artemis had already knocked and entered the room, leaving him standing there with his heart still racing and his mind still tangled in a web of conflicting emotions.

A moment later, Y/N emerged, his eyes immediately finding Conner's like a magnet. There was a flash of something in his expression, but it was gone before Conner could even begin to decipher it. Y/N brushed past him without a word, his shoulders tense and his jaw set.

Conner watched him go, the anger and frustration still simmering beneath the surface. And as they turned to leave for the mission room, the Kryptonian couldn’t help but glance toward Y/N in front of him, his retreating back a stark reminder of the distance between them. His anger hadn’t faded—it still simmered just beneath the surface—but there was something else now too. Something he couldn’t quite name. Something that made it impossible to walk away, no matter how much he wanted to.

And that scared him more than anything.

Batman’s gaze remained locked on the multiple video feeds displayed across the console, his usual stoic expression growing more grim by the second. "Late yesterday, our computers picked up on a surge of interesting reports," he began. "People reporting their cars stolen or missing, wild animal sightings, and sudden changes in temperature. At first, we thought they were isolated and random events. But we kept an eye on them just in case it turned out to be more."

Kaldur, ever the attentive listener, leaned in slightly. "They turned out to be more?"

"Much more," Batman responded, his fingers swiftly typing across the console to pull up a series of chaotic images and videos from Boston. The entire team turned to face the screens as footage of cars, objects, and even large pieces of buildings being torn apart and flung into the air played on the screen. More clips followed—animals that clearly weren’t native to the area running rampant through the streets, attacking anything in sight. The streets themselves seemed warped, as parks and intersections were transformed into different ecosystems—a tundra, a jungle, and even a volcanic landscape, each more out of place than the last.

"A small number of the Justice League was deployed early this morning to respond to these incidents," Batman continued, pulling up a map showing the spread of the chaos. "But the situation has only escalated. The environments are not only unstable, they’re... evolving. What started as small, localized disruptions has grown into widespread chaos. And they’re intensifying by the hour."

Artemis crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. "How bad are we talking?"

"Bad," Batman said, turning to face the team fully. "I believe the warning we received from Doctor Fate had more merit to it than we hoped." The mention of Fate caused a ripple of tension through the room. "He believes we’re dealing with an ancient magical anomaly, something that hasn't been seen in centuries, and that these chaotic events are due to the arrival of our... special guests." His eyes flicked briefly toward CJ, Colin, and Camden.

The kids stiffened at the mention, exchanging glances.

"Wait... you’re saying this is because of us?" Colin asked, his tone tinged with both confusion and worry.

Batman’s response was direct. "Yes. The random reports and strange events started just last night. We weren't aware at the time, but the beginning of these events coincides with the time you three arrived." His voice didn’t carry accusation, just facts. But the weight of his words hung heavily in the air.

CJ’s expression remained strangely neutral, though Y/N noticed something in his son’s eyes—something like understanding, but not the kind of fear or confusion he would expect. Y/N’s gaze lingered on CJ for a moment, but he didn’t say anything.

"So, what do we do?" Conner asked, his expression hardening.

Y/N's eyes flicked to Conner, catching the hard edge in his voice, the tension unmistakable. It wasn’t just the situation weighing on him; there was something deeper, something personal brewing beneath the surface. And Y/N wasn’t the only one who noticed. Colin's gaze dropped, his usual mischievous energy dulled as the weight of responsibility settled on his young shoulders. CJ, however, remained quiet, still unreadable, though Y/N could feel the tension radiating from him like a coiled spring.

Batman didn’t miss the shift either. His voice remained calm, but there was an urgency to it now. "We need to stabilize the situation in Boston before it spreads. Many members of the Justice League haven’t reported back, and their silence is concerning. The biggest problem, though, isn't just the animals or the environmental disruptions." He pressed a button on the console, and the screen shifted to show a massive tear in the sky over Boston. A swirling, violent rift of dark energy hovered ominously above the city, crackling with magic. "A magical rift has opened, centered over Boston. That rift is the source of the anomalies."

The team stared at the image, eyes wide. The rift pulsed with a dark energy that made the hair on the back of Y/N’s neck stand on end just by looking at it.

"The entire Justice League was sent out to respond," Batman explained, "but we haven’t heard back from them for some time. There’s been radio silence from their end for the last thirty minutes."

"That’s not good," Dick muttered under his breath.

"No, it isn’t," Batman agreed. "I'm sending you all there immediately to investigate and intervene. But..." He turned his gaze to Y/N. "Zatanna will stay behind to continue working on the spell with CJ’s assistance. I believe sending them back home to their timeline may be the only way to stop these anomalies for good."

CJ’s expression remained passive, though Y/N noticed the way Colin stiffened at the mention of going home, his eyes wide and filled with guilt.

"We don’t want to mess things up," Colin whispered, his voice tight.

Y/N placed a hand on Colin’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, this isn’t your fault, Colt. We’re gonna fix this."

Colin’s worried expression softened as a small smile crept across his face, and next to him, CJ’s lips curled into a matching grin. They exchanged a quick look before turning back to their father, the tension from a moment ago fading slightly. Y/N caught the change in their demeanor, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"What are you two smiling about?" he asked, his voice gentle but curious. Colin glanced at CJ before looking up at Y/N. "You called me 'Colt,'" he said, his grin widening. "That’s the nickname we came up with in the future. You always call me that." CJ nodded in agreement, his own smile reflecting the same fondness.

Y/N blinked at the revelation, a strange warmth spreading through his chest at the thought that, in some future timeline, he and Colin had this kind of bond. It felt oddly natural, like he was slipping into a role he hadn’t quite realized he was ready for. Colin and CJ were still smiling, their expressions lighter, and for a brief moment, Y/N let himself feel the weight of their affection. It was... nice, for a brief moment.

He opened his mouth to say something—maybe a teasing remark about how he should’ve guessed the kids would come up with such a cool nickname—but the seriousness of the situation quickly pulled him back. They were still in the midst of chaos, after all. His gaze shifted to the rest of the team, and that familiar, nervous tension returned to his gut.

Before Y/N could say anything further, Batman's voice sliced through the air, firm and commanding. "Alright, we can’t waste any more time," he said, cutting off any brewing conversations or potential arguments. "You'll be split into two teams based on your abilities. Here’s how this will work."

The room fell silent, everyone turning their attention to him. "Aqualad," Batman continued, locking his eyes on the Atlantean, "you’ll lead the first team to handle ground operations along with Superboy, Kid Flash, and Artemis. Your focus is handling the anomalies, managing the chaos, and protecting civilians. Also, locate any League members and assist them as needed. Keep them safe and minimize further damage. Use whatever resources you need."

The room remained tense as Batman continued, his gaze shifting toward Y/N. "Y/N, you’ll lead the second team with Robin and Miss Martian. Your task is to deal with the rift directly. It’s magical in nature, and based on what we know, you’re the only one with the necessary skills to close it. Miss Martian will assist with psychic communication, and Robin will handle any technical or tactical complications."

Y/N nodded, his expression serious. "Got it."

Before Y/N or anyone else could move, Conner’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unyielding. "No way. Y/N, you’re staying here with the kids."

Y/N blinked, standing up from where he knelt beside Colin, his brows knitting together. "Excuse me?"

Conner crossed his arms, his expression firm and unwavering. "You’re not going to Boston. You’re staying here."

Around them, the tension in the room skyrocketed. Zatanna and Artemis exchanged uneasy glances, while Wally shifted on his feet, clearly bracing himself. Everyone knew what was coming; the team instinctively prepared for another explosive clash.

Y/N narrowed his eyes, frustration building in his chest. "And why exactly would I stay behind when I’m one of the only people here who understands how to deal with magical threats?"

"Because I’m not letting you get caught in the middle of this while our kids are here!" Conner snapped, his voice rising.

Y/N’s jaw clenched. "I’m not some helpless bystander, Conner. I can handle myself, and right now, the rift is the priority."

"The kids are the priority!" Conner shot back, his eyes blazing. "I’m not letting you go out there and risk your life when our sons are—"

"Enough." Batman’s voice cut through the argument like a knife, sharp and commanding. He stepped between the two of them, his gaze stern. "Y/N is the only one who might be able to close the rift. His magic is directly tied to the arrival of CJ, Colin, and Camden. If the rift was caused by their presence here, then Y/N’s magic may be the only thing capable of closing it."

Conner glared at Batman, his fists clenched tight enough that his knuckles turned white. "Then I'm going with him."

Batman didn't flinch. His tone was calm but firm, the kind of authority that couldn’t be ignored. "No, you're not. You're needed on the ground, dealing with the environmental and animal threats. This is a magical anomaly, and the team needs someone with the expertise to handle that. That's Y/N."

"I'm not letting him go alone," Conner growled, taking a step forward as if challenging the decision.

Batman’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerously low register. "You're not the one who makes that decision, Conner. And Y/N won’t be alone. Robin and Miss Martian will be with him, along with any League members still on the scene. They'll ensure he has the support he needs."

Before Conner could respond, CJ stepped forward, tugging at his dad's arm. "Dad, it’s okay," he said, his voice steady in a way that was unnerving for a kid his age. "Papa's strong. He'll be fine. He’s got this." CJ’s quiet confidence washed over Conner like a calming wave, his blue eyes—so much like Conner’s own—looking up at him with unwavering trust.

Y/N noticed the subtle exchange, his gaze lingering on CJ. Something in the boy’s demeanor, that calm assurance, struck Y/N once again. But he held back from saying anything, choosing instead to focus on the task at hand. Conner, for his part, let out a deep breath, his posture softening slightly, though the tension in his shoulders remained.

Before anyone could take a step forward, a small voice broke through the tense silence. "Papa... Daddy..." Camden’s soft, trembling voice wavered as he looked between Y/N and Conner, his tiny hands clutching the hem of his father’s shirt. His wide eyes brimmed with tears, lip quivering as the realization settled in—both his parents were leaving. "No go," he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. "Stay wif me. No go."

Y/N immediately knelt down beside his youngest, his heart twisting at the sight of Camden’s tears. He reached out, gently cupping the little boy's cheek. "Hey, hey, it’s okay, Cam. Papa’s not going anywhere forever. We’re just going to fix the big problem, and then we’ll come right back. Okay?"

But Camden wasn’t having it. His small hands reached out, grabbing onto Y/N’s shirt as if to anchor him in place. "Noooo, Papa! No go! Stay wif Cam!" The words came out in hiccuping sobs, and before Y/N could even respond, Conner had already knelt down beside them.

"It’s okay, bud," Conner murmured, his voice softer than anyone had heard it in a while. He gently lifted Camden into his arms, holding him close against his chest. "We’ll both be back before you know it. Aunt Zatanna’s gonna take care of you while we’re gone, alright? You’ll be safe."

Camden buried his face in Conner’s neck, his tiny body shaking with sobs. "Nooo... wanna stay wif Daddy... Papa..." His babbles were barely coherent now, muffled by Conner’s shirt as his small fists clung to him.

Y/N’s chest tightened at the sight of Camden’s tears, the sound of his son’s soft sobs tugging at his heart in a way nothing else could. But he forced a reassuring smile, placing a hand on Camden’s back. "We’ll be back really soon, okay, Camden? Aunt Z can show you some new magic tricks while we’re gone. How does that sound?"

Zatanna stepped forward, her expression soft and understanding. She held out her arms toward Camden, her tone gentle as she addressed him. "Hey there, big guy. Why don’t you come hang out with me for a bit? We’ll have fun, I promise."

After a few more moments of coaxing from both his parents, Camden finally loosened his grip, his tear-streaked face still buried against Conner's shoulder. Slowly, hesitantly, Conner passed him over to Zatanna, though the little boy still whimpered softly as she took him into her arms. "You’ll be okay, Cam," Conner whispered, brushing a hand through Camden’s dark hair before stepping back.

Y/N couldn’t help but watch the way Conner handled Camden, the tenderness in his touch, the quiet murmurs of reassurance, so different from the fire and stubbornness that had flared just moments ago. It was strange—how easily Conner shifted from the abrasive, hot-headed fighter to the soft-spoken, caring father. And despite all the chaos, despite the argument they’d nearly launched into, Y/N felt a tug of something deep in his chest. Fatherhood, it seemed, suited Conner more than Y/N would have expected. The Kryptonian’s natural protectiveness extended beyond just brute force; it was in the way he held Camden close, the way he whispered calm reassurances, like every word was meant to soothe the little boy’s fears. For a moment, Y/N almost forgot about the mission ahead.

He shook the thought away as Zatanna cradled Camden in her arms, the young boy finally quieting down, his hiccups slowing as Zatanna whispered softly to him. "I’ll keep an eye on them," she said to Y/N and Conner, her voice steady. "They’ll be safe here. Focus on what you need to do."

Y/N nodded, giving her a grateful look. "Thanks, Z." He turned to CJ and Colin, offering them a reassuring smile. "You two behave, alright? Help Aunt Z as much as you can."

CJ gave a small nod, his usual calm demeanor still present, though Y/N noticed the subtle determination in his expression. Colin, on the other hand, tried to put on a brave face, but Y/N could see the worry flickering in his eyes. "We’ll be okay," Colin said, though his voice wavered slightly. "Just... come back quick, okay?"

"Promise," Y/N replied softly, ruffling Colin’s hair before stepping back. He exchanged a final glance with Conner, their earlier tension still simmering beneath the surface, but now there was something unspoken between them—an understanding, however fragile, that they would both fight for their kids, for each other, even if they didn’t always agree.

Batman’s voice broke the moment, pulling them back to the task at hand. "Time to move. We’ve already lost too much time."

With a final look at his family, Y/N squared his shoulders and turned toward the zeta tube, the familiar swirl of light surrounding him as he prepared to confront the chaos in Boston.

The mission was a disaster before it even started.

The moment they arrived on the scene, it was like stepping into a nightmare—or worse, a magical hurricane on steroids. Boston wasn’t just in chaos; it was in pieces. Buildings hovered mid-air, entire streets warped into bizarre, shifting landscapes, and what looked like glowing neon vines were spreading across the city like it had been chosen as the set for an apocalyptic rave.

The team didn’t even have time to blink before they were hit with a wave of magical energy, the force of it sending shivers down their spines. Y/N, standing at the forefront, felt the familiar buzz of magic, but this was different. Wild. Unhinged. It was like a thousand magical threads all pulling in different directions, completely untethered. He could sense the power surging through the air, crackling with energy that had no business being there.

“What the hell is this?” Kid Flash muttered, staring at a car that was literally floating by like a balloon.

"Language," Robin chimed in, though he was just as unnerved.

Kid Flash shot Robin an unimpressed look. “Really? Now you’re pulling that?”

Robin gave a sheepish shrug, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, force of habit. The kids, you know?"

Conner scanned the area, his jaw clenched. "This isn't just magic. It’s chaos."

Y/N grimaced, eyes narrowing. "It’s more than that. The magic from the rift is spiraling out of control and destabilizing everything. Warping reality all around us.”

"Three kids caused all of this?" Artemis asked, incredulous.

"Well, technically, they haven't been born yet," Kid Flash pointed out. "So, yep, sounds about right."

As they moved deeper into the city, it became clear that nothing was untouched by the rift. People ran through the streets, some of them glowing as if they'd been hit with magical radiation, others transforming into strange, otherworldly creatures. One moment, a guy sprinted past them, looking normal enough—until he sprouted wings and took off into the sky like it was a completely rational thing to do on a Tuesday morning.

“Is that dude... part bird now?” Kid Flash asked, not even bothering to mask the disbelief in his voice.

Y/N watched with a mix of panic and fascination. “Yeah, it looks like it. That’s the kind of magical chaos we’re dealing with. Try to keep up.”

The air crackled again, and with each step closer to the rift, the environment shifted more dramatically. It wasn’t just the people being affected—entire blocks were freezing over in seconds, only to melt and turn into jungles or deserts moments later. One building seemed to be trapped in time, flickering between its current state and what looked like a medieval fortress.

It was like reality itself had been thrown into a blender, and someone had hit the highest speed setting.

Aqualad’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and focused. “We need to split up now! Artemis, Kid Flash, Superboy—fan out. We need to get people to safety and keep a lookout for any members of the Justice League. Y/N, Robin, Miss Martian—head for the rift. We’ll cover your flank.”

Superboy hesitated, his gaze lingering on Y/N as he nodded. There was something in Conner’s eyes—concern, frustration, maybe both—but Y/N couldn’t focus on that right now. He had his task, and the last thing he needed was to get distracted by Conner’s protective streak. Conner opened his mouth, like he was about to say something, but Y/N gave him a quick, determined nod before heading off toward the rift with Robin and Miss Martian in tow.

The team split off, each group moving with purpose through the chaotic cityscape. Superboy’s fists clenched as he watched Y/N disappear into the swirling madness ahead. "Be careful," he muttered under his breath, though Y/N was already too far to hear it.

As Aqualad led the others into the thick of the chaos, they dodged bursts of energy and tried to maintain a safe path for the civilians. Kid Flash darted from person to person, grabbing anyone who looked even remotely human and speeding them to the nearest shelter that wasn’t floating or shifting between realities. “Dude, this is like a magical acid trip gone wrong,” he muttered, dodging a glowing tree root that suddenly shot out from the ground.

“Stay focused, Kid,” Aqualad called over his shoulder. “We need to find the rest of the Justice League.”

Artemis fired a volley of arrows, knocking aside a swarm of neon-colored birds that were swooping down toward the civilians. As she reloaded, she glanced over at Superboy, who was busy punching a giant, glowing slug-like creature into the pavement. She watched as he ripped a car door off with far more force than necessary, letting the terrified people inside scramble out. "Hey, Supey, you doing okay?"

Superboy grunted, his fists clenching as the creature writhed beneath him. "Fine."

But he wasn't fine. Not even close. Every punch he threw was fueled by more than just the chaos around them. It was the gnawing worry at the back of his mind—twisting tighter with each passing second. The rift, the magic, Y/N out there somewhere—too close to the danger, too exposed. And then there was the conversation he'd overheard earlier, still simmering beneath the surface like a hot ember he couldn’t put out. Every word Y/N had said, the sarcasm and bitterness, how he had basically dismissed everything that had happened like it was nothing, felt like salt in an open wound.

He couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen, and the thought of being away from Y/N while he faced that rift felt like trying to fight with one arm tied behind his back. Worse, part of him was still angry—angry at Y/N for throwing up those walls, for acting like none of it mattered. But what made it worse was that Conner couldn’t tell if he was more furious at Y/N or at himself for not realizing how deep those scars ran.

His anger and worry mixed into a volatile blend, and every punch, every kick was a release he desperately needed. But none of it made him feel better.

"You sure?" Artemis pressed, her tone cautious as she loosed another arrow. "Because you seem a little tense."

"I'm fine," Superboy repeated, though his jaw tightened with each word, his voice a little more clipped than before. He slammed the slug creature into the ground again, more aggressively than necessary, trying to focus on the task at hand. But no matter how hard he hit, it didn’t stop the weight pressing on his chest—the same weight that had settled in the moment Y/N disappeared into the chaos.

Conner just wanted to get this over with, to punch his way through every problem and make sure Y/N was okay. But magic wasn’t something he could punch. And that made him feel powerless. Useless.

"Uh-huh." Artemis wasn’t convinced, but she knew better than to push him when he was like this. She pulled back another arrow, this time aiming for a cluster of glowing tentacles slithering toward a nearby building. But she could see the tension in Conner’s stance—the way his fists stayed clenched even when there was nothing left to hit. He wasn’t fine. He was worried.

Meanwhile, Y/N’s team moved swiftly, the eerie glow of the rift growing stronger with every step. The air was thick with magic, the kind that sent chills up Y/N’s spine. He could feel it as they got closer—something ancient, powerful, and very, very angry. The energy was wild, and the closer they got, the more erratic it became. Sparks of light crackled in the air, and the ground beneath them shifted as if reality itself was struggling to hold together.

“We’re close,” Robin said, his eyes scanning the distorted environment with a mixture of curiosity and unease. “But, is it just me, or does something feel really off? It feels like…”

“Like we’re being watched,” Miss Martian finished, her voice steady but tense. She hovered a little higher, her green skin glowing faintly as she reached out with her mind, trying to get a sense of what was ahead. But she quickly pulled back. “There’s something... someone near the rift. I can’t tell who, but their presence is overwhelming.”

Y/N's heart raced as the sensation grew stronger. He felt the energy around him tightening, like a binding rope or python trying to squeeze him. “Whoever—or whatever—it is, they’re using the magical energy from the rift to fuel themselves. We need to be ready for anything.”

He could feel his own magic stirring, a rush of energy he didn't recognize but still somehow felt humming through his veins. It was a strange sensation, like a muscle flexing, preparing for a fight. His fingers tingled, and the air around him seemed to shimmer, almost imperceptibly.

"I can feel it," Y/N murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "The energy. It's... it's like nothing I've ever felt before."

Robin frowned, his eyes darting around the area. "That's not good, is it?"

"Nope, probably not," Y/N answered.

The closer they got to the rift, the more oppressive the energy became, like walking through thick, suffocating fog. The sky above them was torn open, swirling with dark, crackling energy, but it wasn’t just the rift that was the problem anymore. The presence Miss Martian had sensed—it was stronger now, looming over them like a shadow just out of reach.

As they approached the clearing near the rift, the ground shifted again, this time pulling away as if something massive was displacing the air itself. The sky above them darkened, the swirling mass of the rift glowing with an intense, unnatural light. And that’s when they saw him.

Y/N’s breath hitched as a figure began to emerge from the rift, hovering above the ground. At first, it was just an outline, a silhouette against the chaotic sky, but as the glow of the rift illuminated it, their worst fears were realized. Cloaked in dark, swirling magic, Superman floated in the air, his eyes glowing an unnatural, eerie green.

Something was wrong—terribly wrong. His normally calm and composed face was twisted in a snarl, his eyes glowing with that eerie, unnatural glow. Tendrils of dark energy spiraled around him, almost like chains, binding him to the rift.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “Oh no...”

Superman’s gaze locked onto them, but it wasn’t the familiar gaze of the Man of Steel. It was something else—something darker. And then, as if pulled by some unseen force, Superman’s attention shifted directly to Y/N.

Without warning, he shot toward them like a bullet, fists clenched, eyes blazing with magical energy. Y/N barely had time to react, throwing up a protective shield just as Superman’s fist collided with it, sending shockwaves rippling through the air. The force of the impact knocked Y/N back, his shield flickering as he struggled to hold it in place.

“Uh, guys. I think something's wrong with Superman,” Robin yelled, eyes wide with shock.

"Oh really, you think so?" Y/N shouted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I couldn't tell!"

Miss Martian, her eyes glowing white, tried to reach out to Superman, hoping to break through the haze of magic. But, the moment she touched his mind, she recoiled, her expression pained. "It's like his mind is screaming. I can't get through."

Y/N gritted his teeth, his hands shaking as he held up the shield.

“Y/N, can you—?”

“Working on it!” Y/N grunted, his magic straining against the overwhelming power of Superman’s attack. He could feel the dark energy coiling around Superman, like some kind of dark spirit or entity was latched onto him, controlling him. And worse—it looked like it was focused solely on the young magic user.

The rift above them pulsed violently, feeding the entity’s strength as it drove Superman forward again, his fists glowing with that same dark energy. Y/N braced himself, sweat trickling down his forehead as he prepared for another onslaught.

But, before Superman could strike, a blur of black and red shot past, tackling him mid-air with an angry shout.

Superboy.

The half-Kryptonian slammed into Superman, the force of his impact sending both Kryptonians crashing into a nearby building. The structure shook, but thankfully it held. Superman barely seemed fazed, his glowing eyes snapping toward Superboy as he regained his balance mid-air. The tendrils of dark energy flickered around him like an agitated beast, coiling tighter as if preparing for another assault.

Superboy landed in front of Y/N, fists clenched, his breathing heavy. His jaw tightened, his gaze locked on Superman, who was hovering ominously above them. "Stay behind me."

He didn’t even flinch as Superman’s eyes narrowed, a fresh wave of dark energy coiling around him. But Y/N was already bristling, his frustration bubbling over. “Are you insane?!” Y/N snapped, scrambling back to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. “Do you know what you just did?”

Superboy didn’t tear his gaze away from Superman, his muscles coiled like springs ready to launch again. “Yeah, I saved your behind.”

“No, you didn’t!” Y/N’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with anger and panic. “You’re supposed to be with Aqualad, helping the others! Not throwing yourself into a fight you cannot win. Superman’s juiced up with magic, Conner—he’s stronger than ever. You’ll get yourself killed!”

Superboy’s eyes flared, his own frustration boiling over. “And what, I’m supposed to just stand by and let you handle this alone? I’m not leaving you out here to face him by yourself!”

“I’m the one who can actually deal with this!” Y/N snapped, his fists clenched in frustration. “You’re only making it harder! I swear, you pull this stunt every time.”

“What, care about you?” Superboy shot back, his voice strained with a mix of anger and desperation.

“No, you put yourself in danger because you think you have to protect me,” Y/N hissed, his eyes flashing with fury. “Like I can’t handle it.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so reckless and actually stayed at the Cave like I told you, we wouldn’t even be in this mess!” Superboy countered, his jaw tightening as his temper flared.

“Who do you think you are?” Y/N scoffed, his frustration peaking. “And I’m not the one who just launched myself at a possessed Superman. You do realize that’s the textbook definition of reckless, right?”

Superboy’s growl deepened, his fists clenched so tight they trembled. He stepped closer to Y/N, frustration etched in every line of his face.

“If you two lovebirds are done, we’ve got bigger problems,” Robin cut in sharply, his voice tinged with urgency.

Y/N and Superboy froze mid-argument, their eyes snapping up toward Robin. Whatever anger had bubbled between them fizzled away as they realized what he was pointing to.

Superman hovered menacingly above them, his eyes glowing an even more vivid, unnatural green. Tendrils of dark energy coiled around his body like a living shadow, pulsing with an eerie power. His once-familiar face was a mask of pure malice, the heroic expression they knew replaced with something far more dangerous—predatory. His gaze locked onto them with a chilling intensity, his posture tense, ready to strike.

“Focus, guys,” Miss Martian urged, her voice tight as she floated beside them. “He’s about to attack.”

Superboy’s jaw tightened, and Y/N’s heart raced. Whatever had taken hold of Superman wasn’t letting go, and it had them squarely in its sights.

Back at the Cave, the quiet hum of the lights overhead was the only sound filling the air as Zatanna sat with CJ and Colin, keeping a watchful eye on the youngest Kent. Camden was currently asleep on one of the couches in her and Y/N’s study, wrapped in a blanket. It had taken some time to calm him down, especially since he had gotten more antsy after not being able to see Conner and Y/N before they left, but CJ had been a big help.

Speaking of CJ, Zatanna, ever perceptive, had noticed the strange and quiet behavior from the oldest Kent, something that Y/N had picked up on as well before they left for Boston. Y/N had even reached out through their magical connection, asking her to check on CJ and make sure everything was okay. There was something about the way he acted—like he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

“CJ, is there something on your mind?” Zatanna’s voice was soft, coaxing without pressuring.

CJ, sitting beside her, barely glanced up from his phone, his expression guarded and unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Zatanna offered him a kind smile. “You’ve been pretty quiet since the others left. Is everything alright?”

He hesitated, a flicker of conflict crossing his face before he sighed softly. “I’m fine. Just... worried about Dad and Papa.”

Zatanna watched CJ closely, noting the way his eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite place—hesitation, maybe. There was something more behind the boy’s silence than just the usual concern for his parents.

"Your fathers are strong, you know that, right?" Zatanna offered with a warm smile, hoping to ease whatever tension was weighing him down. "Whatever they're facing, they’ve got each other and the team to back them up."

CJ nodded, but it was clear her words weren’t doing much to lift the cloud hanging over him. His fingers drummed lightly against his phone, his eyes distant. "I know they’re strong. I'm not really worried about that," he muttered.

Zatanna leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowed. "Then what are you worried about, CJ?" Her tone softened further, sensing there was something deeper at play. "You’re holding something back, I can tell. If you’re worried about more than just the fight, you can talk to me. I’ll keep it between us."

CJ glanced at Colin, who had been quietly sitting cross-legged on the floor. The younger boy looked equally conflicted, like he knew exactly what CJ was thinking but wasn’t sure how to express it. After what felt like forever, CJ sighed, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s not the fight. Not really."

Zatanna waited patiently, giving him the space to continue.

"It’s just... the green lady," CJ said, his tone carrying more weight than she expected. "I don’t trust her. Neither of us do."

"The green lady?" Zatanna’s confusion was brief before realization dawned. "You mean M’Gann?"

Zatanna’s mind raced as she connected the dots. She had noticed it too—the way the boys interacted so easily with most of the team. They had a natural rhythm and rapport with nearly everyone, treating them like family. To them, everyone was either an Aunt or Uncle. They were always joking with Dick and Wally, learning fighting moves from Kaldur, and laughing at Artemis’ stories. Even their comfort around Superman and, surprisingly, Batman had caught Zatanna's attention. They had slipped into these relationships as if it was second nature.

But with M’Gann, it had been different. The boys were distant, almost cold, and while M’Gann wasn’t unfriendly, she too seemed hesitant. Zatanna had chalked it up to natural awkwardness, considering their sudden appearance, but now, hearing CJ refer to her as "the green lady" in such a cold tone, it was clear something deeper was going on.

"I’ve noticed you two keep your distance from her," Zatanna said carefully, studying both CJ and Colin’s faces. "And... she tries to get close, but there’s always some wall. Do you mind telling me why?"

CJ glanced at Colin again, and this time, it was Colin who spoke, his voice soft but steady. "She’s... different where we’re from. Really different."

Zatanna raised an eyebrow slightly. "Different how?"

CJ shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze dropping to his hands. "She... doesn’t like us much. Not really. She doesn’t like the idea of Dad and Papa together, and she’s—" He hesitated, clearly trying to find the right words without revealing too much.

"She tries to keep them apart," Colin finished quietly, his eyes trained on the floor. "She says things, does things... to make them fight sometimes. We’ve seen it."

Zatanna frowned, her heart aching at the weight these boys were carrying. She leaned in a little closer, her voice gentle but firm. "That sounds... complicated. But remember, this is a different timeline. People here aren’t the same as the ones you know. You’ve seen that, right?"

Colin nodded, but his eyes remained downcast. "We don’t mean to be mean, but she’s very different from the one we know with our parents. We’ve tried to find ways to tell Dad and Papa... but we don’t know how. Every time we try, something stops us. It feels like something is stopping us from interfering, and I don’t know how to make them see what we see." His voice cracked slightly, and he glanced at CJ for support.

CJ picked up where his brother left off, his voice steady but filled with frustration. "The M’Gann from our timeline, she’s... worse. She always tries to come between our parents, always messing things up for them. Sometimes she makes them fight each other. We’ve seen her do it so many times, and it always makes Papa and Dad upset. Sometimes at each other."

Zatanna’s eyes widened slightly, the pieces falling into place. "So, that’s why you two act so strange around her. You’ve been calling her 'the green lady' because you don’t trust her."

CJ nodded again, his expression darkening. "Every time I look at her, I see everything she did to hurt them in our time. And now, with us here, it feels like we’ve managed to do the one thing she’s been trying to do for as long as I can remember—keep them apart. What if we really messed things up? What if Papa never forgives Dad for everything that happened? I see how Dad looks at Papa, but... it doesn’t feel like Papa feels the same way. Especially when Dad’s around. It scares me. Like we’ve made things worse, just by being here."

Zatanna sighed softly, her heart aching for the boys. She could see how much they were carrying—fear, guilt, and the heavy burden of a future they weren’t supposed to interfere with. She knew they were holding back more than they were saying, but she also knew the dangers of knowing too much about the future. They were in a precarious spot, balancing on the edge of what they could share and what had to be kept hidden.

“CJ, Colin," she began gently, leaning forward to meet their eyes, "you’re not responsible for your parents’ lives. It’s easy to think that because you’ve seen so much, but love is complicated. There’s a lot of history between your Papa and Dad—some of which you haven’t seen yet, and some you might never need to see. What matters now is that they’re both strong, and they’re both fighting for what’s right. You being here... I don’t think you’ve ruined anything. If anything, I think you've actually opened their eyes.”

Before they could respond, the air in the room shifted—a crackle of magic filling the atmosphere, a familiar, tingling sensation that made Zatanna straighten immediately.

The atmosphere grew thick with energy, and a bright light bloomed in the corner of the room, just like when the boys first arrived—though this time, it was focused in one spot, far more controlled than the chaotic arrival from before. Zatanna’s senses heightened immediately as she recognized the magical aura, though there was something different about it. It was familiar, but stronger, more commanding, like CJ’s presence magnified, though this one carried with it a weight of experience.

As the light dimmed, Zatanna turned around, her eyes widening at the sight of two figures standing in the room—one taller, broader in the shoulders, still wearing a shirt that looked a size too small, while the other carried the same mischievous glint she knew all too well, tempered now by time and wisdom. Her breath caught in her throat as CJ and Colin’s faces lit up with pure joy.

“Zatanna, are you telling my kids stories again?” His voice was unmistakable, carrying that signature teasing, sarcastic tone.

"You are such a freaking idiot."

The words came out in stuttered breaths, each one sharp and ragged as Y/N lay pinned beneath the weight of Conner. His chest heaved with exhaustion, every breath a reminder of the strain his magic had taken on him during the battle. Conner didn’t move, his broad form pressing down heavily against Y/N, arms still wrapped protectively around his middle as though the fight wasn’t over yet. His grip was firm, almost too tight, as if letting go would mean surrendering Y/N to the chaos that had just unfolded.

They were both breathing hard, lungs burning as they tried to recover. The wreckage of the building around them was a brutal reminder of what they had just been through. The entity that had possessed Superman had been relentless, breaking free from the rift, driven by an insatiable hunger for power—magic, specifically. It had been searching for the source, seeking something ancient, something it believed would restore it to full strength. It had sensed CJ’s magic first, the magic that had torn the rift open. But when it found Y/N’s magical presence, something familiar, it zeroed in on him with a terrifying, singular focus.

Y/N could still hear the chilling words the entity had spoken through Superman’s lips, his voice distorted and twisted with malevolence:

"Ah, now it makes sense..." The entity’s voice slithered out of Superman’s mouth, twisted and unnatural, sending a shiver down Y/N’s spine. "The power I felt... that magic I sensed, so potent, so ancient... it called to me, even from within my prison. A power like that could only belong to someone with blood like yours." The entity's voice dropped, dripping with venomous amusement, each word laced with a cruel edge. "Yours is different from what I felt before... refined, controlled. But the first pulse I sensed was raw, untamed—much like you once were. A child, then. A child with blood like yours."

Superman’s—no, the entity’s—eyes gleamed, glowing with an eerie green light, filled with a malice that made Y/N’s stomach churn. "Your child, I assume. Familiar, yes... a direct descendant. How fitting." The thing let out a low, sinister chuckle that felt like nails on glass. "I will enjoy watching your line fall. I’ve waited so long... and today, both you and your whelp will suffer for what was taken from me. What your bloodline stole so long ago will finally be mine again."

The words hung in the air like a curse, dark and twisted, and Y/N felt his heart lurch in his chest. His hands shook, both with fear, but also a surge of protectiveness so strong it nearly overwhelmed him. He’d known CJ and Colin for less than 24 hours, but the very idea of anything harming them lit a fire inside him that burned brighter than any magic he’d ever wielded.

His jaw clenched, his breath quickening as he stared down this ancient evil wearing Superman’s face. The entity’s words echoed in his mind, its chilling threat against CJ ringing louder than the chaos of the battle around him. His magic flared to life, sparking at his fingertips. Not his kids. Not today.

Y/N wasn’t ready to be a parent—hell, he wasn’t sure he ever would be—but that didn’t matter right now. This thing, this twisted, malevolent force had come here looking to destroy his child. And no matter how outmatched he was, no matter how much stronger this entity might be, Y/N wasn’t going to let that happen. He’d take on anything—demons, gods, even Superman himself—if it meant protecting CJ.

"You’re not touching him," Y/N growled, his voice low and dangerous. Magic surged around him, crackling like wildfire. "I don’t care what you think you’re owed. You’re not getting past me."

Even as the odds stacked against him, Y/N felt something unshakable in his core. A new kind of strength, one that didn’t come from spells or incantations. It came from the protectiveness he felt for his son—the child who had come from some future he barely understood but who he was already willing to lay everything on the line for.

The entity grinned, the malice in its expression deepening. "Brave words for a dead man. You will watch your child fall before I take you next."

Y/N didn’t respond, his entire focus shifting to the battle ahead. His fear was there, gnawing at him, but so was something more powerful. For CJ, Colin, and Camden—for his sons—Y/N would fight until his last breath.

The battle had been nothing short of a nightmare, each moment a desperate attempt to stop the possessed Superman while keeping the team safe. Y/N had thrown every ounce of magic he had into protecting them—shields, energy blasts, containment spells—but none of it had been enough. The entity had twisted Superman’s powers, amplifying them with its own dark energy. Magic that would have at least slowed Superman down had no effect. And if they hadn’t been able to handle Superman without magic, how could they hope to stop him with it?

Still, it hadn’t stopped Conner. He fought like a man possessed himself, throwing everything he had between Y/N and the corrupted Kryptonian. Blow after blow, Conner absorbed the hits, bloodied but undeterred, keeping Superman distracted just long enough for Y/N to work out a plan. The rest of the team, alongside a few Justice League members Aqualad and the others had managed to find, had joined the fray. They'd been overpowered early on, knocked out when the entity first took control. The dark magic amplifying Superman’s abilities had caught them completely off guard.

But he never wavered.

Y/N quickly realized that fighting head-on would be a losing game. The entity's power, amplified by Superman’s, was far too overwhelming. But the rift—the thing that had brought it here in the first place—was still open, pulsating with chaotic energy, tearing the fabric of reality apart. That was when Y/N knew what had to be done. If he could close the rift, the entity would lose its anchor to this dimension. And with any luck, that would drive it out of Superman’s body.

It was a gamble, and a long shot at best.

Throwing himself into the task, Y/N channeled every ounce of magic he had left, weaving a spell to close the rift. The entity sensed it almost immediately. It directed Superman’s relentless attacks toward Y/N, trying to stop him. But Conner—bruised, battered, yet still standing—fought tooth and nail to keep Superman at bay, taking hit after punishing hit to buy Y/N just enough time.

Y/N could still feel the power surging through him, every part of his body alight with the energy required to seal the tear in reality. But it drained him. The spell needed everything he had, and in those final moments, just as he forced the rift to close with a deafening crack, he felt his consciousness slipping away. The world blurred, the sounds of battle fading as he fell from the sky, too exhausted to keep himself afloat.

That was when Conner leaped. He caught Y/N mid-air, his powerful arms wrapping around him as they fell into the wreckage of the collapsing building below, shielding him from the worst of the impact.

The rift sealed, and with it, the entity’s hold on Superman shattered. It was pulled back into the prison from which it had escaped, leaving Superman himself unconscious but finally free from its control.

And now, here they were—lying in the rubble, both too exhausted to move, trying to catch their breath. Y/N groaned again, the full weight of Conner pressing down on him, his body too heavy and too warm against Y/N’s aching frame.

"You do realize you're crushing me, right?" Y/N rasped out, each word strained and breathless, still pinned under Conner’s weight. His chest was heaving, trying to catch up with the breath that had been knocked out of him. Conner, on the other hand, didn’t budge. His arms remained locked around Y/N, his breath still hot against Y/N’s neck, and while the battle was over, it felt like the two of them were still fighting... something.

"Don't care," Conner murmured, his voice rough and strained. "You're not going anywhere."

Y/N groaned, the exhaustion creeping into his bones, mixing with the heat of Conner’s body pressing against him. "Dude, in case you didn't notice, the fight's over and you're kind of heavy. Please, get off me," he managed to huff between labored breaths.

Conner made no move to shift. "You’re fine," he said, though the protective edge in his voice didn’t waver. His arms still refused to let go, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of Y/N slipping away, even for a second.

"Seriously, man, I’m suffocating here." Y/N squirmed a little, not so much because he couldn’t breathe, but because the warmth and proximity were... uncomfortable. Not physically, but in a way he didn’t want to think too hard about. "Get off already."

"No." Conner’s voice was unyielding, a stubborn refusal that sent an involuntary shiver down Y/N’s spine.

"Are you serious right now?" Y/N craned his neck to glance at him. "This is ridiculous."

"I’m serious," Conner replied, his voice low. "I’m not moving until I’m sure you’re okay."

Y/N narrowed his eyes, irritation flaring up despite the exhaustion. "I’m fine. I’m alive, aren’t I? Now get off me before I hex you into next week."

Conner snorted softly, but his grip still didn’t loosen. "Like I’d let you."

Y/N bristled at the arrogance in his tone, trying to ignore the fact that his heart was hammering a little too fast. "What’s your deal, huh? Why are you always trying to play hero?"

"I’m not—" Conner’s voice was rough, and he shifted just enough to catch Y/N’s eyes. "I’m not trying to be a hero. I’m just trying to keep you safe."

Y/N’s temper flared at that. He shoved at Conner’s chest, trying to push him off, but of course, it was like shoving a brick wall. "I don’t need you to keep me safe, Conner. I’m not some fragile little flower. I’ve been dealing with stuff like this long before you ever decided to—"

"That’s not fair," Conner cut him off, his voice hardening. "You’re the one who’s always putting yourself in danger. What am I supposed to do, just sit around and wait for you to get hurt?"

"I can take care of myself," Y/N snapped, eyes flashing. "I don’t need you or anyone else to protect me. I’m not a damsel in distress."

"That’s not what I’m saying—"

"Then what are you saying?" Y/N challenged, his voice rising.

Conner’s jaw clenched, his breath coming in heavy, frustrated bursts. His eyes locked with Y/N’s, something dark and stormy flickering in their depths, and for a split second, it looked like he was about to argue back—like they were going to keep bickering until one of them snapped.

But then something shifted in Conner’s gaze, something that made Y/N’s breath catch in his throat.

Before Y/N could get another word in, Conner’s hand shot up, his fingers gripping Y/N’s jaw with firm but careful pressure. He tilted Y/N’s face up, his grip unyielding, and Y/N’s heart raced, heat flaring in his chest as he realized what was about to happen.

"Conner, I swear—"

The rest of Y/N’s protest died in his throat as Conner’s lips crashed down onto his, cutting off any words that might have followed. The kiss was sudden, fierce, filled with a rawness that felt like all the frustration and tension that had been building between them was finally boiling over. Conner’s mouth moved against Y/N’s with a desperation that sent a jolt of fire through him, the heat between them blazing in an instant.

Y/N’s first instinct was to shove him away—to push back against the overwhelming intensity of it all—but his body betrayed him. His hands, which had been pushing against Conner’s chest moments ago, faltered, fingers curling against the fabric of Conner’s shirt as he fought between wanting to resist and wanting to melt into the kiss.

Conner’s other hand slid down, wrapping around Y/N’s waist, pulling him even closer—if that was even possible—until there was no space between them. Y/N felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of Conner’s body and the sheer force of the kiss, and yet... he didn’t hate it. In fact, the heat of it, the possessiveness, the way Conner’s lips moved against his like he couldn’t bear to let go—it was enough to make Y/N’s mind spin.

His breath hitched, a small sound of protest caught somewhere in the back of his throat, but it was swallowed by the heat of Conner’s mouth. Y/N’s heart pounded so loudly in his ears that it drowned out everything else—the rubble, the aftermath, the fact that they had almost died. None of it mattered. Not in this moment. Not with Conner’s lips moving so fiercely against his, like kissing Y/N was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Y/N should have been angry. He should have shoved Conner away, demanded an explanation, demanded they talk it out like they always did. But as Conner’s fingers tightened their grip on his jaw, forcing Y/N’s lips to part just slightly, and as his tongue brushed against his bottom lip with an insistent hunger, Y/N’s thoughts scattered.

Every nerve in Y/N’s body was alight, buzzing with the sensation of Conner’s touch. He felt like he was being burned alive from the inside out, his skin tingling, his heart racing so fast he thought it might explode. He wanted to scream, wanted to shout at Conner for being such an idiot—for making everything so complicated—but at the same time, he wanted to drown in the heat of the kiss, in the way Conner’s hands felt like they were made to hold him.

The push and pull inside Y/N warred with itself, but the kiss—it was relentless, pulling him under, making his mind go blank. It was overwhelming, suffocating, but in the best possible way. Every time he tried to pull back, Conner’s hand would tighten just a bit, his lips pressing harder, like he wasn’t ready to let Y/N go.

And maybe Y/N wasn’t ready to let go, either.

When they finally pulled apart, gasping for air, Y/N’s head was spinning, his lips tingling from the bruising intensity of the kiss. Conner’s forehead pressed against his, their breaths mingling in the small space between them, both of them panting like they had just been through another fight.

"That’s what I’m saying," Conner murmured, his voice rough, his breath hot against Y/N’s lips.

Y/N blinked, his mind still trying to catch up to what had just happened. His heart hammered against his ribcage, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he stared up at Conner, wide-eyed and completely disoriented. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words got stuck in his throat.

All he could do was stare at Conner, his thoughts a chaotic mess of confusion, anger, and something else—something warm and dangerous, something he didn’t want to admit he felt. His lips still tingled from the kiss, his skin still burning from where Conner’s hands had touched him, and Y/N had no idea what to say.

"I couldn’t just... stand by," Conner said, his voice a rough whisper, his forehead still pressed against Y/N’s. "I couldn’t lose you."

Y/N swallowed hard, his pulse racing as he stared into Conner’s eyes, the weight of everything between them pressing down like a storm about to break.

"You can be so damn reckless," Conner continued, his voice low and strained. "I can't stand it."

Conner’s chest heaved with every breath, his forehead still pressed against Y/N’s. His heart was pounding, louder than the chaos around them, louder than his own thoughts. There was so much he wanted to say, and for once in his life, Conner Kent wasn’t sure where to start. His hands, still gripping Y/N’s waist and jaw, felt like they were the only things tethering him to reality.

"You can be so damn reckless," Conner finally muttered, his voice low and strained. "I can’t stand it."

Y/N was about to snap back—about to say something sharp or sarcastic, probably both in response—but Conner wasn’t done.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" Conner’s voice cracked, a rare vulnerability leaking into his tone. His fingers tightened their grip on Y/N’s waist, his breath shallow as he tried to piece his thoughts together. "From the moment you joined the team, I couldn’t figure it out. I couldn’t understand why I was so... drawn to you. It scared me and I just tried to avoid and ignore it and you. But then when you started avoiding me, ignoring me... and I didn’t know how to deal with."

Y/N’s lips parted to respond, but Conner shook his head, not letting him interrupt. "It irritated the hell out of me. Every time we argued, every time you shut me out, it just made me... angrier. But not in the way I was used to. I wasn’t just mad—I was hurt. And I didn’t know how to handle it, so I lashed out. And then I’d regret it. Every damn time."

Conner’s voice softened, his forehead pressing even more firmly against Y/N’s. "You always pushed back, fought me at every turn, and instead of backing off, I wanted to fight harder. Because... I hated how much I cared. It didn’t make sense to me, not at first. I didn’t want to care."

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, his pulse quickening as Conner’s words sank in. But still, he remained silent, letting Conner get it all out.

"And then these past 24 hours... I don't know, Y/N." Conner’s voice cracked again, this time from the sheer weight of everything. "Since CJ, Colin, and Camden showed up... I didn't know what to make of that and I just tried to ignore my thoughts and feelings harder. Seeing them, knowing what could be... it scared me. But it also made me realize how much I couldn’t stand the idea of losing you. I don’t care about the past or the arguments or the crap we’ve been through. All I care about is the fact that... I can’t imagine my life without you in it."

Y/N’s breath hitched at those words, and Conner’s gaze softened, his thumb gently brushing against Y/N’s jaw. "I know I hurt you. I know I pushed you away, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know how to deal with it—hell, I still don’t, but I can’t keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than just... a teammate or a friend. I tried to ignore it for so long, but now, after everything, I can’t."

The tension in the air shifted, the weight of Conner’s words pressing down between them. Y/N’s chest felt tight, his mind spinning as Conner continued, his voice softer now.

"At some point, it started to feel like you didn't—like you don’t want me around, and it ate away at me. I get it, because I’ve been there too. But every argument, every stupid fight we had... it wasn’t because I hated you, Y/N. It was because I was terrified of how much I... cared."

Conner’s forehead finally lifted from Y/N’s, and their eyes met, the intensity between them crackling like static. "I’m sorry for all of it—for making things harder on you. But I need you to know... I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore."

Y/N’s heart was hammering in his chest, his head spinning from everything Conner had just laid out in front of him. He wanted to say something—anything—but for once, Y/N was at a loss for words. He stared up at the Kryptonian, wide-eyed and dazed, trying to make sense of the flood of emotions coursing through him.

But he wasn’t done yet.

"You’re important to me," Conner whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "More than I’ve ever let on. More than I’ve ever let myself admit. And if you need space, if you need time, I’ll give you that. But I can’t pretend anymore, Y/N. I can’t act like I don’t want you in my life. Because I do. I always have."

Y/N swallowed hard, his pulse still racing as Conner’s words finally sank in. Everything—the tension, the arguments, the hurt—it all clicked into place. This wasn’t just some pent-up frustration or tension from the battles they’d faced. This was something deeper. Something neither of them had fully understood until now.

Conner’s hands tightened their grip on Y/N’s waist, his thumb brushing softly against his jawline. "You’re not alone in this," he said quietly. "I’ve felt everything you’ve felt. I just didn’t know how to say it. Until now."

Y/N’s heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Conner could hear it. The rawness of Conner’s confession, the vulnerability in his voice... it was overwhelming, but also something Y/N hadn’t realized he needed to hear. Now, at least, he couldn't use the excuse that he didn't understand Conner anymore.

He'd probably still use it though if it helped him win an argument but that's just a toxic habit that will have to be unpacked later at some point.

Y/N blinked up at Conner, his heart still thundering in his chest, his mind racing to catch up with the sheer weight of everything Conner had just laid on the table. He wasn’t used to this—being the one someone poured their heart out to. And hearing all of it, laid bare like that, especially from someone as guarded as Conner, it was... overwhelming. Too much, almost.

And as much as Y/N wanted to take a moment, to gather his thoughts and sort through what he was feeling, the weight of the situation was all too literal.

"Wow," Y/N finally managed, his voice breathless, though not just from the emotional onslaught. "That was... deep. Really deep. And you know, I’d appreciate it more if I wasn’t currently suffocating under the weight of your muscled chest."

Conner blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes as he processed Y/N’s words. The tension broke for just a second, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Oh, right." He shifted, his body easing off Y/N’s a little, though he still didn’t let go entirely. His arms remained locked around Y/N’s waist, as if he wasn’t ready to fully separate just yet.

Y/N groaned as the pressure eased, the slight relief allowing him to take a proper breath. "Thanks. You’re built like a tank, you know that?"

Conner’s smile was small, but there was a warmth in it that made Y/N’s chest tighten. "I’ve heard that before."

Y/N felt the corner of his own lips twitch, the sarcastic comment easing some of the tension between them, but only for a moment. He glanced away, his gaze flickering to the wreckage around them, trying to find something—anything—to focus on other than the sheer vulnerability hanging in the air between them.

But Conner was relentless. His grip on Y/N’s waist tightened ever so slightly, pulling Y/N’s attention back to him, grounding him in the moment. "Y/N..." Conner’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. "I’m serious. I meant what I said."

Y/N swallowed hard, his chest tightening again as he forced himself to meet Conner’s gaze. "I know," he said, the words coming out quieter than he intended. "I... I get it. And... I hear you. It’s just..." He trailed off, his mind scrambling for something to say that didn’t feel too raw, too exposed. Vulnerability wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

He let out a shaky breath, trying to force some humor into his voice, though it didn’t come out as smoothly as he hoped. "Look, I’m not exactly great with... feelings, okay? You know that. You’ve seen that. And honestly, this whole thing is... a lot. It’s a lot to take in."

Conner didn’t say anything, just watched him with those intense blue eyes that made Y/N feel like he was being seen in a way he wasn’t used to.

Y/N’s fingers fidgeted slightly against Conner’s shirt, his mind still racing as he tried to find a way to explain how he felt without completely losing his nerve. "I’m not saying I don’t feel the same way," he continued, his voice softer now, more serious. "I’m just... I don’t know, Conner. I don’t know how to deal with this. With us. I didn’t exactly expect to have you drop... all of that on me right after we nearly died, you know?"

Conner’s lips quirked into a small, almost sheepish smile. "Timing’s never been my strong suit."

"Yeah, no kidding." Y/N let out a breathy chuckle, but it was laced with something deeper—an edge of vulnerability that he couldn’t quite mask with his usual sarcasm.

The smile faded from Conner’s face, replaced by that same look of quiet intensity, and Y/N felt his stomach flip. "You don’t have to have it all figured out," Conner said softly, his voice steady. "I don’t, either. But... I just needed you to know. I couldn’t keep pretending like I didn’t... care."

Y/N’s throat tightened again, and he struggled to find the right words. "You’ve... definitely made that clear," he muttered, his voice catching just slightly. His heart was pounding again, that uncomfortable mix of emotions—fear, warmth, something close to hope—tugging at him.

There was a long, heavy pause between them, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air. Y/N’s hands, still resting against Conner’s chest, flexed slightly, feeling the steady thrum of the Kryptonian’s heartbeat under his palm. It was steady. Strong. A quiet reminder of the man who had just thrown himself straight into danger, quite recklessly if it may be noted, just to keep Y/N safe.

"I’m scared," Y/N admitted before he could stop himself, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t easy to say, but it was the truth. And if Conner could lay everything bare like that, then maybe Y/N owed him the same. "I’m scared of... this. Of what this is and means. Scared that at some point, you'll change your mind and go back to ignoring me and pretending like I don't exist. I'm scared of getting hurt, but, I also am really scared of... losing you as well. Don't let that go to your already ginormous head."

"I’m scared," Y/N admitted before he could stop himself, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t easy to say, but it was the truth. And if Conner could lay everything bare like that, then maybe Y/N owed him the same. "I’m scared of... this. Of what it means. Scared that at some point, you’ll change your mind, go back to ignoring me, and pretend I don’t exist. I’m scared of getting hurt. But..." He hesitated, his voice faltering for a moment. "I’m also really scared of losing you. And don’t let that go to your already ginormous head."

Conner’s grip tightened around him, his eyes softening with an understanding that made Y/N’s heart stutter in his chest. He leaned in, their foreheads brushing lightly as Conner spoke, his voice low and rough, thick with emotion. "You’re not gonna lose me. Not ever." The conviction in his words made Y/N’s chest tighten even more.

"I’m scared too," Conner continued, his voice gentler now, like a confession he hadn’t meant to voice aloud. "But we can figure this out. Together. We don’t have to rush into anything. Just... give me a chance. Please."

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, his throat tight as his fingers curled into the fabric of Conner’s shirt, gripping just a little harder. Whatever was happening between them, it wasn’t simple—far from it. But hearing Conner lay it all out there, hearing him say the things Y/N hadn’t even realized he needed to hear... it made the fear a little less overwhelming.

For a long moment, Y/N didn’t respond. He just stared at Conner, the weight of everything settling in his chest, heavy but somehow comforting. "Alright," Y/N finally whispered, the tension in his voice easing, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "But seriously, don’t let that big head of yours get any bigger."

Conner chuckled softly, the sound sending a warmth through Y/N that he wasn’t quite ready to deal with. But for now, it was enough.

As the group stepped through the Zeta tube, the familiar whirring and beeping of the system was the only sound filling the otherwise tense silence. The battle had left everyone exhausted, and the weight of what they’d just faced hung heavily over the team. Wally, always one to lighten the mood, was the first to speak up.

“Okay, but can we just take a moment to appreciate how insane it was to see Y/N go full-on wizard against Superman?” Wally said, his eyes wide with lingering awe. “Like, I knew magic was cool, but that was next-level.”

Kaldur nodded, though his expression remained serious. “It was a battle none of us could have prepared for. The entity’s power... it amplified Superman in ways we couldn’t have predicted.”

“Yeah, but Y/N went all Gandalf on him,” Wally continued, gesturing wildly. “I thought he was going to pull out a staff and scream ‘You shall not pass!’ any second.”

Conner, walking silently behind the group, shot Wally a sidelong glance. “It wasn’t funny, Wally. That thing nearly killed him.”

Wally raised his hands defensively. “I know, I know! I’m just saying, it was impressive. You have to admit it.”

“Yeah,” Artemis chimed in, her voice quieter but no less impressed. “He held his own. I don’t think any of us expected him to hold off a superpowered Superman for that long.”

Before anyone could respond, the Zeta tube beeped again, signaling their arrival back at the Cave. As they stepped forward, though, what they saw waiting for them froze everyone in their tracks.

Standing there casually next to the console as if this was completely normal were two very familiar figures—familiar, yet slightly more older, their features more mature, their presence commanding. The older versions of Y/N and Conner were standing side by side, along with CJ, Colin, Camden (perched on his dad's shoulders of course), Zatanna, and Batman, all waiting for them with expressions ranging from amused to unreadable.

The team stood frozen, eyes wide as they took in the sight of their future counterparts. Wally’s mouth dropped open, and his head darted between the two older men and their younger selves. His brain scrambled to process what he was seeing, but Future Y/N’s casual greeting broke the silence.

"Hi, kids, welcome back. Did you have fun?" Future Y/N asked, a smirk playing on his lips, as if this whole situation was perfectly normal.

Wally blinked, raising a hand and pointing between the two Conners and Y/Ns. "Uh... you all see the duplicate Y/N and Conners too, right?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and disbelief.Artemis rolled her eyes, though she was just as stunned as the rest. "Yes, Wally, we all see them. They're not clones."

Wally, ever the wise-cracker, couldn’t help himself. "Well, technically, Conner still is," he quipped, flashing a grin. Both Conners, in perfect sync, rolled their eyes at the comment, their shared exasperation almost comical. Before Wally could revel in his joke, Artemis delivered a swift smack to the back of his head.

"Ow!" Wally yelped, rubbing the spot. "What? It was accurate!"

Future Y/N chuckled at the playful banter, casually crossing his arms over his chest. "Ah, some things never change," he remarked, his tone light and teasing. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned his gaze to his past self, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So... how was that first kiss, huh?"

Present Y/N froze, his face instantly flushing a deep red as he stammered, completely caught off guard. "W-Wait, what—who said anything about a kiss?!" His voice cracked slightly, and he cast a panicked glance at Conner, who wasn’t faring much better. Conner’s cheeks were quickly turning a shade of pink that rivaled Y/N’s, his eyes darting anywhere but at the group, avoiding everyone's curious stares.

The room fell into a stunned silence as the rest of the team blinked in disbelief, their gazes bouncing between the two. Artemis raised an eyebrow, Kaldur seemed momentarily at a loss for words, and even Batman shifted ever so slightly, though his expression remained as stoic as ever.

CJ and Colin, on the other hand, exchanged grins—CJ’s particularly smug, mirroring the exact cheeky smirk their father wore. The boys’ amusement was palpable, clearly enjoying the show unfolding before them. Little cheeky bastards indeed.

This story concludes on Archive of Our Own.

☀️ | Conner Kent/Superboy | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

[theodorenmyth]

Snowfall Shenanigans.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ; Fred G. Weasley x M!Reader | christmas playlist

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ; You go looking for Fred on a snowy day and end up in a chaotic snowball war by the Black Lake. Between laughter, a ripped snowman, and soft kisses under falling snow, you realize the real magic isn’t the snow—it’s him.

𝐀/𝐍 ; YAHOOOOO, MY FIRST CHRISTMAS FIC!!! i havent wrote fred in a long time so enjoy guys!! also if my writing seems different its because i got a writing block.. and im trying to get my writing skills back

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ; 3k+

The Gryffindor common room was oddly quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t belong in a place where Fred Weasley existed.

Normally, by this hour, the room would be humming with energy—cards snapping from enchanted decks mid-air, chatter bouncing off stone walls, the distant sound of someone cursing as they got hit with a rogue spell. But not today.

Today, the fireplace crackled alone. The chessboard sat untouched. And the corner where Fred usually lounged upside down on the couch, legs over the backrest and arms flopped dramatically like a dying Victorian lady, was empty.

You glanced around again, brows pinching together.

“Fred?” you called softly, peeking behind a pile of blankets he’d once called his “winter nest.” Nothing but your own voice echoing back.

He wasn’t in his usual hiding spot behind the bookshelf. He wasn’t loitering in the stairwell either, waiting to scare first-years by pretending to be a ghost. He wasn’t even by the snacks tray Hermione had spelled to refill with gingerbread.

Your chest tightened with that familiar itch—Fred was definitely up to something.

And when Fred Weasley was unaccounted for? Chaos wasn’t just near. It was already happening.

You sighed and zipped your coat up to your chin. The fabric rustled as you grabbed your scarf and shoved your gloves into your pockets, already bracing for the cold. Your boots thudded softly against the floor as you made your way out of the common room, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Your breath puffed in little clouds the moment you stepped into the hallway. The castle was dipped in frost, windows rimmed with delicate lace-like patterns. You passed by a few bundled-up Ravenclaws giggling on their way back from Hogsmeade, and even they gave you weird looks as you muttered—

“Where the hell are you, Weasley…”

Snowflakes clung to your lashes by the time you pushed the main doors open and stepped outside. The world beyond was buried in white, fresh snow untouched and glistening under the soft winter light. Your boots crunched with every step, a slow, steady rhythm as you scanned the grounds.

And then it hit you.

Not a thought.

Not a hunch.

Not even a spell.

A snowball.

Right in the face.

SPLAT.

Cold, wet, and instant. You stumbled backward, blinking violently as snow dripped down your cheeks and into your mouth.

"What the f—"

A scream of laughter echoed across the clearing.

Not just any laugh. That wheezy, chaotic, "I-just-started-something-I-can’t-finish-but-it-was-so-worth-it" kind of laugh.

Your vision cleared just in time to see him—Fred Weasley, standing near the edge of the Black Lake, perched on a snow-covered tree stump like some kind of demented winter goblin. He had three scarves wrapped around his neck (none of them matching), one glove missing, and a wicked grin stretched across his face.

His eyes were bright. Wild. Proud.

“Missed me, love?” he called out.

You wiped the snow off your face with a slow, dramatic swipe of your sleeve.

“…You’re so dead.”

“Oh no,” he gasped, clutching his chest in mock fear. “Not the wrath of my beautiful, freezing boyfriend—however shall I survive?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to answer.

Because you were already lunging forward, scooping a vicious handful of snow from the ground. Cold clumped between your fingers as you packed it into a tight sphere.

The snowball war had begun.

Snow flew through the courtyard like spells in a duel, fast and wild and chaotic. Each snowball hit the ground with a soft thud or exploded midair, flinging white powder in all directions. You were soaked already—cheeks red, hair dusted with snow, breath sharp in your lungs—but you didn’t care. Not when Fred was across the way, cackling like a madman and launching another snowball straight at your head.

You yelped and ducked behind a tree just in time, heart pounding. “You’re enchanting them, aren’t you?!” you shouted, peeking out from behind the trunk, only to immediately get smacked in the shoulder with another snowball.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Fred hollered back, already forming another one. His grin was wild, borderline feral, as if this snow war was the highlight of his entire year.

You narrowed your eyes and scooped up a fresh pile, packing it tightly between your palms. “Liar.”

You sprinted out from cover and flung it with all your strength—dead center to his chest. Fred gasped like he’d been mortally wounded and staggered backward, one hand dramatically clutching his heart.

“You’ve slain me!” he wailed. “Have mercy!”

“I’ll show you mercy!” you shouted, barreling forward.

Fred barely had time to drop his half-made snowball before you tackled him straight into a snowbank. He went down with a surprised oof, arms flailing, a breathless laugh spilling from his mouth.

“You absolute menace—wait, WAIT—”

You were already climbing over him, straddling his hips and grabbing two massive handfuls of snow. With a devious smirk, you shoved the freezing snow directly down the front of his shirt.

“NO—YOU BASTARD—IT’S IN MY PANTS—”

“Good.”

“I’M FREEZING—”

You kept going, stuffing more snow into his shirt while he squirmed and thrashed beneath you, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. His face was red, his hair a mess, and he was absolutely soaked—but still, somehow, smiling like you’d just told him he’d won a thousand galleons.

Finally, he grabbed your wrists in surrender, wheezing. “I yield—I YIELD—UNCLE—”

You flopped down beside him in the snow, out of breath, cheeks aching from how hard you were grinning. Fred was still laughing, snow sliding down his stomach under his shirt, making him shiver violently.

He turned his head to you, eyes bright and nose pink. “You know,” he panted, “this is true love.”

You snorted, brushing snow out of your lashes. “Because I nearly gave you hypothermia?”

“Exactly.”

Eventually—after more snowball violence, three truce betrayals, and a very near-death experience involving a magically booby-trapped snow fort (entirely Fred’s fault, even though he insisted it was “just a teensy defense charm”—you nearly lost your eyebrows, mate)—you both stumbled out into the center of the courtyard.

The whole place looked like something out of a postcard: glittering white, powdery layers stacked on every stone ledge and tree branch, the Black Lake shimmering faintly in the distance like someone poured liquid silver over it.

The air bit at your cheeks and the tips of your ears, but all you could focus on was the untouched patch of snow stretching wide in front of you like a blank canvas.

Fred’s eyes lit up the second he saw it.

“Oh, hell yes,” he breathed, hands on his hips like he’d just discovered the Holy Grail. “That’s it. This is the spot. Prime snowman territory. We’re doing it here.”

“I swear to god, if you enchant it and it starts chasing people again—”

“That was one time! And honestly, that snowman had personality—he just lacked boundaries.”

You stared at him flatly. “He tried to bite a third year.”

“Because she threw a rock at his head!”

You huffed a laugh but still dropped to your knees in the snow beside him. Cold soaked instantly through your trousers but you didn’t care. Fred looked like a five-year-old given free reign in a candy shop, already scooping up snow like it was a rare artifact. His gloves were practically falling apart at the seams and his cheeks were flushed pink and freckled, little wisps of snow clinging to his ginger lashes.

“Alright,” you said, cracking your knuckles. “Let’s build the ugliest snowman Hogwarts has ever seen.”

Fred gasped like you insulted his future child. “Ugly? Ugly? Absolutely not. We are building a king. A snow daddy. The most glorious, muscular, devastatingly handsome snowman this courtyard has ever laid its frosty little eyes on.”

“Please don’t say snow daddy ever again.”

“Snow Zaddy, then.”

You groaned. “I should’ve just stayed in the common room.”

“Too late. You’re in the trenches now.”

You rolled your eyes but got to work, helping him start the base. Fred took it way too seriously. He kept mumbling “symmetry” under his breath like he was Michelangelo, rotating the ball of snow over and over to make sure it was “aesthetically balanced.”

You were halfway through patting the middle section into place when Fred suddenly said:

“Wait. Abs.”

You froze. “…What?”

Fred turned to you with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. “This man needs ABS. I’m giving him a core.”

“Fred—”

“I’ll sculpt it. You give him a pretty face. I trust your taste. After all…” He wiggled his eyebrows, pointing both thumbs at himself. “Look at who you’re dating.”

“Delusion.”

Still, you sighed and started working on the snowman’s face, conjuring some pebbles into clean black buttons for eyes and shaping his cheeks into soft, round curves. You were focused—until Fred started humming something aggressively off-tune behind the snowman, muttering under his breath and using his gloved fingers to sculpt little indentations down the stomach.

“I swear,” you called without turning, “if you give this thing a full six-pack again, I’m leaving you for George.”

“He’d never sculpt for you the way I do!”

You stepped back to check the face. It was actually pretty cute—kind eyes, a little button nose. You smiled to yourself, proud of the symmetry. Then you walked around to the front and—yeah.

Of course Fred had carved snow pecs. With nipple buttons. And what appeared to be… hip dips?

You blinked at it, then looked at him.

Fred wiped his brow dramatically. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he? I gave him Adonis genes.”

“You gave him a porno subscription.”

Fred leaned forward with his hands behind his back like he was admiring art in a museum. “He’s got… range. Emotional depth. Intimidating muscle tone.”

You jabbed a finger at the pebbled trail of abs. “That’s a whole damn V-line.”

“He works out.”

“He looks like he eats protein powder for breakfast and calls his mum ‘bro.’”

Fred gasped like you just insulted his son. “He’s sensitive, you know!”

You stared for a long moment, snow sticking to your lashes, lips twitching at the corners.

“You gave him eyebrows.”

Fred beamed. “Sexy ones.”

“That’s it.” You sighed, flicking snow at his face. “You’re banned from speaking for five minutes.”

═══════════════════════════════════════════

Once your masterpiece was complete (and totally cursed-looking), Fred took a slow step back, hands on his hips as he admired the absolute monstrosity you’d created together.

The snowman was lopsided, with one eye higher than the other and a jagged mouth curved into a slightly menacing smile. The "abs" Fred sculpted were hilariously defined for a being made of snow, and the scarf you tied around its neck was already slipping. Professor Flitwick’s hat tilted dangerously to one side, barely clinging to the snowman’s bald little dome. And yet—there was something charmingly chaotic about it. A reflection of the two of you, maybe.

Fred grinned like a maniac, absolutely proud. “I think he’s beautiful.”

“He looks like he haunts dreams.” You shook your head, fighting back a smile.

“Exactly. That’s called character, love.”

Then, without warning, he turned to you, eyes gleaming, and tugged you into him by the front of your coat. His gloves were still a bit damp from the snow, and you squeaked at the chill pressing into your sides—but Fred didn’t care. He wrapped both arms around you, pulling you snug against his chest, like the warmth of your body was more important than not freezing his fingers off.

His hair was a mess—orange curls sticking out in every direction, dusted with soft snowflakes. A few had melted against the curve of his cheekbones, leaving streaks of pink where the cold had nipped at his freckled skin. His nose was flushed red, and the tips of his ears were nearly matching, but the smile on his face? Radiant.

“You look cold, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice warm enough to steam the air between you.

“Gee, wonder why.” You shivered dramatically, then poked his chest. “Couldn’t possibly be because someone just threw snow right to my face earlier.”

Fred laughed under his breath, the kind that rumbled softly in his chest. “That someone sounds devilishly handsome.”

“That someone’s about to get yeeted into the lake.”

“Ooh, threats. How romantic.”

He unwrapped the scarf from his own neck, then carefully—reverently—wrapped it around yours instead. His fingers moved slowly, brushing your collar, adjusting the fabric so it sat just right. Then he leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours.

You could feel his breath against your lips. Close. Still smiling.

“C’mere.”

The kiss that followed was soft and playful, like the snow falling around you—light, fluttery, lingering. His gloved hand cupped your jaw while the other rested behind your neck, pulling you into him like he needed the contact more than the air. Your lips were chapped from the cold, but it didn’t matter. He kissed you again. Slower. Deeper.

You hummed against his mouth, nose brushing his, and smiled as he finally pulled back.

"You taste like sugar cookies," he said, looking half-drunk on you.

"That’s because I was baking for you before you committed assault by snowball," you mumbled, cheeks flushed more than from just the cold.

Fred chuckled, gaze flicking up to your hair. He reached up, brushing a stray snowflake from your brow with the gentleness of someone touching something fragile.

“Totally worth it.”

You didn’t realize how long you stayed there.

Lying back in the snow, shoulder to shoulder, limbs barely brushing, yet the heat between you was unmistakable.

The sky above was endless—an ocean of silver-gray clouds swirling softly, releasing flake after flake like gentle confetti.

Snow settled in your hair, on your scarf, even on your lashes, and you didn’t bother to blink it away. It was peaceful.

Calming.

The kind of quiet that settles deep into your chest and makes everything else feel far away.

Like the world had paused just for the two of you.

Fred’s pinky was hooked through yours beneath the snow, the wool of his gloves damp from the fight earlier, but you could still feel the pressure.

Still feel the little squeezes he gave you every now and then like secret messages—I’m here. I’m happy. I love this. Maybe even I love you, but that wasn’t something either of you had said yet.

Not out loud.

Your breaths clouded in the air between you, soft and synchronized, like you were breathing together without even trying.

You tilted your head to the side, cheek pressing into the snow, and Fred was already looking at you.

That smile—lazy, warm, crooked at the corners like he knew something you didn’t. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, a little red at the tip of his nose, and there were snowflakes tangled in his lashes and freckles.

You couldn’t look away.

You didn’t want to.

“You’re staring,” you whispered, voice almost lost in the wind.

“So are you,” he shot back with a grin, turning fully on his side to face you, resting his cheek on the back of his hand. His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up again, a playful glint sparking behind the softness. “We look like idiots.”

You snorted. “Cute idiots, though.”

Fred hummed in agreement, reaching over to gently tug your scarf back up around your neck, fingers brushing the skin beneath your jaw. “The cutest,” he said, matter-of-fact. “If Hogwarts had yearbook awards, we’d win Most Likely to Build a Snowman with Abs and Make Out Beside It.”

You let out a loud laugh, the kind that pushed your head back into the snow, body shaking. “That’s… specific.”

“Accurate, though.”

You shook your head fondly, biting back a grin as he settled down again beside you, this time scooting closer so your thighs pressed together through thick layers of winter robes. The chill of the snow beneath you had long since seeped through your clothes, but you barely noticed anymore. Not when he was this close. Not when you could feel his presence like a fire, radiating into your skin, your bones, your heartbeat.

And Merlin, the way he looked at you. Like you were every warm place he’d ever known. Like you were the hearth he wanted to curl up beside after a long day. Like he was memorizing you, every breath, every shift, every snowflake caught in your hair.

You could’ve stayed like that forever. Just breathing. Just existing. Just being next to each other in that sacred little pocket of winter.

His fingers shifted to lace with yours, firm this time. No more shy hooks. Just firm, interlocked hands buried under snow, like a promise you didn’t need words to understand.

And neither of you spoke again for a while.

Because you didn’t need to.

The world felt still. Soft. Quiet in a way it never usually was at Hogwarts. No moving staircases. No shouting portraits. No exploding cauldrons or Peeves hurling chalk. Just snow falling like feathers, and the warmth of Fred beside you, and the steady beat of his thumb brushing yours, again and again and again.

Warmth bled through the layers of jackets and gloves and scarves, sinking beneath the skin, curling around your ribs and spine. It was more than physical heat. It was the kind that melted the tension in your chest. That made the cold seem bearable. That made the world seem okay—just because he was in it.

It was in the way your laughter still echoed faintly across the courtyard.

It was in the way his nose bumped yours, gently, almost shyly, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

It was in the silence.

The snow kept falling. Slow, endless. Dusting your hair like sugar and the corners of your smiles like frost.

And somewhere between snowball fights and half-built snowmen and hands hidden beneath the powder—

It started to feel like magic.

Not the kind you learned from textbooks or wands. Not charms or enchantments or hexes.

The kind that crackled in the air when you looked at someone and just knew.

The kind that filled your chest until it ached and bloomed.

The kind with frozen noses and warm hands, freckles and laughter, red hair and a kiss that made your lungs forget how to breathe.

The kind that made you feel seen.

Loved.

Chosen.

The real kind.

[spidermaniscool-420-deactivated]

Fred Weasley x Gryffindor

I'm posting the rest of the harry potter ones tonight so I can start on my new obsession

I Have finally started to write these on a laptop instead of my phone so maybe they will be better and will come out faster. Also thank you to everyone who reads this.

You and the rest of Gryffindor were celebrating your win against Slytherin in quidditch. You were leaning on the wall when Fred came up to you.

Fred: Hey, will you come to the astronomy tower with me?

Y/n: Yeah is there something wrong?

Fred: No, nothings wrong I just wanted to talk to you in private.

Y/n: Oh, okay then let's go

Fred grabs your hand and takes you to the astronomy tower, holding your hand the whole way. You noticed but didn’t think anything about it. Once you got up to the astronomy tower Fred faced you.

Y/n: So, what did you want to talk about?

Fred: Well we’ve been friends for a while and I was wondering if you would be willing to be more than friends.

Y/n: Are you being serious? This isn’t just a prank?

Fred: I am very serious, will you Y/n L/n be my boyfriend?

Y/n: Fred Weasley I will be your boyfriend.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. He kissed you back and put his hands on your waist and pulled you closer to deepen the kiss. When you pulled back your face felt hot and was red.

Fred: You look cute when you’re blushing.

This made you blush even more and hit his arm gently.

Y/n: Shut up.

He laughed and pulled you into a hug.

Fred: You know you love me.

You hugged him back

Y/n: Yeah, I do

He leaned down and kissed you again. You kissed him back, then you pulled away looking into his eyes.

Fred: We should probably get back to the common room.

Y/n: Yeah we really should so we don’t get into trouble.

You held hands as you went back to the Gryffindor common room.

[bagerfluff]

Harry Potter Master List

🌶️ = Smut

Edit: I do not support the words or actions of JKR and am no longer in the fandom or interact with it in anyway

Harry Potter x Male Reader

Cuddles At Three In The Morning

Love And Limps

George Weasley x Male Reader

Sneaking Around

Fred Weasley x Male Reader

Dating Privileges

[theodorenmyth]

Second Chances.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

Summary ; You loved him through every lie, every empty promise, every time he left you waiting in the cold—and still, you believed he could change. Even when your friends begged you to walk away, you stayed, hoping your love would be enough. But when Theodore forgot your anniversary and laughed with someone else like your heart didn’t exist, you finally broke.

A/N ; hi.. cried while making this teehee. Dont forget to listen to these songs while reading! ; - happier than ever by billie eillish - im not the only one by sam smith - happier, traitor, favorite crime and deja vu by olivia rodrigo -tightrope by michelle williams (tgsm)

Warnings ; Emotional abuse, cheating, toxic relationship, gaslighting, self-blame, emotional breakdown, public humiliation (non-violent, verbal), heavy angst, mentions of crying, no happy ending.

Word count ; 9.8k

The corridor is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your stomach twist—not because it’s peaceful, but because it isn’t supposed to be. Like a lull before a scream. Like a heartbeat pausing for something awful.

Your steps echo. Too loud. Too exposed.

You weren’t even supposed to be here. Just a late walk back from the library, arms full of books for your next Potions essay, scarf half-draped over your shoulder. You’d checked your watch—past curfew, sure, but you’re a Prefect. You had a pass. And you were worried.

Theodore hadn’t shown up to dinner. Again.

He hadn’t replied to your note either—the one you’d left folded neatly into his pillow, reminding him to eat something, please, because he always forgot when he was stressed. You just wanted to check. Maybe bring him his favorite tea from the kitchens. Maybe surprise him with the scarf you knit.

Just a little bit of love. That’s all it was.

That’s when you saw them.

It hits like an icicle through your chest—sharp and so cold it burns. You don’t even register that your legs stop walking. You freeze in place, in the worst possible moment, in the wrong place at the worst time.

He’s there. Theodore Nott.

And she’s with him.

Pressed against the stone wall of the hallway like a scene out of a bad romance novel, except you’re not the one in his arms. Her hands are on him—fingertips brushing over his jaw, the hem of his shirt half-tugged from his trousers. And his hand?

On her hip.

You don’t breathe. Can’t. Won’t. Because breathing means accepting it’s real.

She leans up and kisses him—right on the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t pull away.

Your books slip from your arms and crash against the stone floor. It’s loud enough to startle you back into your own body. Loud enough to startle them, too.

She gasps and jumps back, adjusting her blouse with trembling fingers before bolting down the hall without looking at you.

But he doesn’t run. No—Theodore turns to you slowly, like he’s just been caught doing something minor. Like this is detention-worthy at best.

His mouth opens, slow and almost bored. “Y/N—?”

Your name in his voice feels like a slap.

You don’t even flinch when he says it. You just look at him. You look and look and look, hoping—somehow—that the more you stare, the more the image will change. That this is a dream. That it’s not him.

But it’s him. And his shirt is still rumpled. His lips are still kissed. His expression is still unreadable.

“It’s not what it looked like,” he says, walking toward you with all the urgency of someone fixing a mild inconvenience.

You take a step back.

He pauses.

“She came onto me,” he adds, like it explains anything. “It wasn’t serious.”

You blink. “Did you stop her?”

The silence that follows is damning. You already know the answer.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s the one tired. “It wasn’t anything.”

You try to smile. You really do. But it cracks at the corners, and your lips tremble instead. “You… you promised.”

The words aren’t accusations. They’re reminders. Gentle. Shaky. Just facts.

He shrugs. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

Your heart shatters in slow motion.

You stare down at the scattered books on the floor. They’re all gifts from your friends—titles they lent you, the ones they know help you sleep when Theodore doesn’t come to bed. Little pieces of comfort. And they’re all lying there like casualties.

He notices your silence and steps forward again. This time, his voice softens—not quite genuine, but close enough to mimic it.

“Babe, come on. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I care about you.”

The word care hits your stomach like a rock. Not love. Not even affection. Just… care.

Still, he reaches out. Cupping your face like he’s done a thousand times before—when he wanted something. When he needed forgiveness. When he needed you to believe him.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

You hate how your heart stutters at the words. How part of you wants to fall into him. How badly you want it to be real.

So you nod.

You lie.

“Okay.”

His relief is instant. He pulls you closer, arms looping around your waist. His chin rests atop your head like nothing happened.

Like your chest isn’t caving in.

You let yourself be held.

And you feel sick. ═════ Next Day – Hufflepuff Common Room ═════

The fire crackled lazily, casting soft amber light across the walls. It was supposed to feel warm. Safe. Home.

Instead, the silence after your words landed like a curse.

“I forgave him,” you say quietly, barely above a whisper.

There’s a beat of stillness before Felix jerks up from where he’s sitting on the couch beside Liam.

“WHAT.”

Felix’s voice shot through the cozy warmth of the Hufflepuff common room like a spell misfire. Heads turned. Charlotte almost dropped her mug. Noor whipped around from where she sat curled up with a book, eyes already narrowing into lethal slits.

You stood frozen by the fireplace, scarf still looped around your neck. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Felix was on his feet now, storming toward you with all the fury of a golden retriever pushed past its limit.

“No. No no no. Y/N, please—tell me you’re not serious.”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I forgave him,” you said softly.

Charlotte gasped like you’d just confessed to murder. Noor straight-up dropped her book and stood.

“You what?”

“I—he apologized,” you mumbled, avoiding eye contact. “He said it was just… a moment. That it didn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Noor hissed, storming toward you like she was going to physically shake the sense into your brain.

“Again?!” Charlotte squeaked, stepping up beside you, her fingers tangling with yours automatically. “Y/N, sweetheart, again? How many times has it been now?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

“Exactly!” Noor snapped, arms crossed so tightly across her chest it looked like she was holding herself back from throwing hands. “You don’t even know anymore. That’s how normal this shit has become for you!”

You winced.

Felix exhaled shakily. “Y/N… we talked about this. You said last time was the last time. You were crying in my arms, remember? You said it felt like you were being torn apart.”

Charlotte nodded furiously. “You said he made you feel like a placeholder. That he didn’t see you anymore.”

Your lip trembled. “He was sorry.”

“He’s ALWAYS sorry!” Noor exploded, her voice breaking. “Sorry means fucking nothing if you keep doing the same thing over and over again. That’s not remorse, that’s manipulation.”

Liam was seated on the windowsill nearby, arms folded, eyes half-lidded and sharp. He hadn’t spoken yet—but now he did, cool and calm and terrifying.

“You know what’s wild?” he said, voice low. “He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. Like he knows you’ll forgive him. Like he’s testing how far he can push you before you finally break.”

Charlotte let out a tiny sob, still holding your hand. “Please… just tell me this is some kind of prank. You didn’t really go back to him. You can’t.”

You looked down at your feet.

The floor was spinning.

Felix gently touched your shoulder, his voice trembling. “He didn’t even run after you last time. Do you remember that? You walked out of the Three Broomsticks shaking, and he just stayed there. Didn’t call. Didn’t look. Didn’t care.”

“He was drunk,” you said weakly.

Noor laughed—a hollow, bitter thing. “He’s always drunk. He’s always something. And you always have a damn excuse ready for him.”

“I love him,” you snapped, voice cracking.

Silence.

Charlotte’s bottom lip quivered. Felix looked like he’d been physically slapped. Noor just stared.

“You love him,” Noor repeated slowly. “Does he love you?”

“…He says he does.”

“But do you feel it?”

You blinked back tears.

Felix stepped in, his eyes glassy now too. “Y/N. Loving someone doesn’t mean letting them wreck you. It’s not supposed to hurt like this. You’re not supposed to be afraid of being forgotten.”

You shook your head. “I’m not afraid.”

“Then why,” Noor whispered, “do you keep trying to convince yourself?”

The words gutted you.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around you, tucking her chin into your shoulder. “You’re the best person I know,” she said, her voice muffled. “You bring everyone cookies when they’re sad. You know the difference between people’s fake smiles and real ones. You remember birthdays. You remembered mine when my parents didn’t.”

Your tears finally spilled over.

“And he treats you like you’re disposable,” Felix finished softly. “You deserve a love that picks you back up, not one that pushes you to the floor.”

You looked up at all of them.

Felix, shaking. Noor, fuming. Charlotte, teary-eyed and clinging. Liam, silent but furious.

You felt so, so tired.

“I know it looks bad,” you whispered. “I know he’s done horrible things. I know all of you hate him. But I… I see something in him.”

Noor rolled her eyes so hard she almost collapsed. “You see a fantasy.”

“He could change,” you insisted, voice hoarse.

“He won’t,” Liam said simply.

Charlotte just held you tighter.

“He could,” you repeated, even weaker now.

They didn’t speak.

They just looked at you.

All four of them, in their own ways, breaking in front of you because they couldn’t stand to see you breaking anymore.

“I just… I believe in second chances,” you whispered. “People deserve them.”

“And what about you?” Noor demanded. “When do you get your second chance? When do you stop bleeding for someone who won’t even notice the stain?”

You let the silence sit between all of you.

Felix touched your hand. “Please… don’t do this to yourself again.”

Your throat closed up. You bit down hard on your tongue.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Charlotte looked like she might cry again. Noor looked like she might murder someone. Liam just stood and left the room without a word.

Felix squeezed your hand tighter.

“You can’t,” he murmured, voice breaking now too. “You can’t keep doing this.”

And you didn’t answer.

Because you knew you would.

Again.

══════ Later That Night – Slytherin Dormitories ══════

You slip into Theodore’s room like a ghost. You always do.

Your presence is barely a whisper, barely a breath in the chilled air. The green glow of the enchanted lanterns casts shadows across the stone walls, making everything feel colder than it should. He’s sprawled across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, flipping lazily through a magazine he probably doesn’t care about.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He never is.

He just lifts his gaze lazily and smirks like nothing happened earlier. Like your heart didn’t drop into your stomach the moment you saw him with someone else.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s nothing.

“Hey,” you whisper, stepping closer, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater to keep them from shaking.

You hover for a moment, waiting for… something. A gesture. An apology. An invitation. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word—so you crawl onto the bed beside him, careful not to touch too much, not to hope too loudly.

He tosses the magazine onto the nightstand and finally reaches out, hand resting lazily on your waist like you’re just another accessory to his evening. Like your presence is a background comfort, not a choice he makes.

“You okay?” he asks, voice bored. “Your little group looked like they were about to explode earlier in the Great Hall.”

You force a small smile, your fingers tugging at the edge of his blanket. “They’re just worried.”

He scoffs softly. “They’re always worried. It’s exhausting.”

“They don’t understand you like I do,” you say quietly, the words like pins in your throat.

Theodore chuckles, low and humorless. “They don’t like me, is more accurate.”

“They love me,” you say instead, voice shrinking.

He shrugs. “They love you too much. It’s annoying.”

You glance away. That shouldn't sting, but it does. Your friends loving you shouldn’t be framed like a flaw.

He shifts slightly, arms open, and you take that as your cue. You move toward him automatically—like muscle memory, like reflex, like addiction. His arms wrap around you loosely, and you bury your face into his chest.

He’s warm. He always is. It’s what makes this so hard.

“I don’t want to fight,” you whisper against the fabric of his shirt.

“We’re not fighting,” he mutters, like the thought of arguing is beneath him. “You’re here. That’s all that matters, right?”

You nod against him. You lie again. Because what else are you supposed to do?

His fingers trail up your back in lazy strokes, more out of habit than affection. He doesn’t kiss your forehead. Doesn’t whisper that he’s sorry. Doesn’t even hold you tight.

But you hold onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you from shattering. Because for some reason, he still feels like home—even if he’s the one burning the foundation.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

Yours is breaking.

You woke up early today.

Which was rare. You weren’t a morning person by any means. You were the type who groaned when the sun peeked through the curtains, who clung to your pillow like a lifeline, who mumbled incoherent curses when someone dared to open a window before breakfast. But this morning—this morning was different.

The dormitory was still cloaked in sleepy darkness, only touched by the faintest blue light of dawn leaking in through the frost-rimmed windows. You could hear the soft rustle of bedsheets, the slow breathing of your housemates, and the gentle crackle of the low-burning fireplace in the corner. The world hadn’t quite woken up yet.

But you had.

Your hands moved slowly as you slipped out of bed, careful not to make noise. You didn’t even use your wand—just lit a lantern with your fingers trembling from the cold and from something else you couldn’t name. Not nervousness. Not quite excitement.

Hope.

Hope had a funny way of blooming in your chest like a stubborn flower, even after all the storms.

You padded across the room, still in your socks, and carefully pulled Theodore’s sweater out of the drawer. The dark green one. The one he always let you steal, even if he teased you about it. The one that hung a little too loose on you, made you feel small in a good way, like you could disappear into something that smelled like him. You pressed your nose to the collar for a second. Just a second. Just enough to feel warm.

Then, instead of putting it on like usual, you folded it. Slowly. Deliberately. You smoothed out every wrinkle with your palms and laid it on your bed like it was something sacred. Something meaningful. A quiet ritual between lovers. Or… almost lovers. Or whatever you and Theo were these days.

Next, you reached for the scarf.

Your scarf.

It was your favorite one—the black one you stitched gold stars into last winter when you were bored during the holidays. You’d worn it through the first snow and the second. And the first time Theo had seen it, he’d grinned and pulled it up over your nose and said, “You look adorable, you know that?” like it was a fact, not a compliment. That scarf had stayed with you through every fight, every make-up kiss, every teary apology. It was yours.

But this morning, you wanted him to have it.

You wrapped it gently, folding the ends over each other like you were tucking in a blanket. Then you reached into your drawer, pulled out a tiny piece of parchment, and started writing.

“For after Quidditch. Thought you might be cold. Don’t be late. I miss you already.”

You stared at the note. Bit your lip. Your handwriting looked shaky. Would he think it was clingy? Would he laugh?

You almost crumpled it.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You slipped it between the folds of the scarf. Then you held the whole bundle against your chest for a few seconds, breathing in deeply like maybe if you held it close enough, it would carry some part of your love with it.

You looked at the clock. Too early still. The others were asleep. The whole castle felt like it was holding its breath.

So were you.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, scarf around your neck, cheeks pink from the cold that leaked in through the stones. Your lips were chapped, your hair a little messy, but there was a glow in your eyes you hadn’t seen in a while. You looked… hopeful.

Maybe this time…

Maybe this time he wouldn’t forget.

Maybe this time he’d meet you by the greenhouse like he promised.

Maybe this time he’d wrap the scarf around his neck and smile and say thank you and hold your hand on the walk to Hogsmeade.

Maybe this time he’d see how much you loved him.

You smiled. Nervous. Excited. A little dizzy with it.

It wasn’t even your anniversary or anything—it was just one of those days where your heart was stupidly full, and you thought, Maybe this time, he’ll meet me halfway. You waited for him after class. Right outside the pitch. Even though the wind had already started to pick up and the air carried that sharp, icy warning of winter biting at your cheeks. The sky was grey, blanketed by thick clouds that looked like they might drop snow at any second.

Still, you stood there—gloved hands tucked into your sleeves, rocking on your heels for warmth.

You were early. Of course you were.

You liked the feeling of anticipation. The hope that maybe this time, when practice ended, he’d walk straight over. Maybe this time, he’d be smiling just for you. Not half-tired or distracted. Not already texting someone else. Just you.

You shifted the little paper bag in your arms, trying not to crumple it. Inside: a sandwich you’d made during breakfast. His favorite—peanut butter and strawberry jam, crusts carefully trimmed off because he always wrinkled his nose at them. You’d wrapped it up with parchment and tied it with twine. You even doodled a tiny snake on the note card stuck inside:

"Post-practice fuel. Don’t be late, sleepyhead."

You hugged the bag to your chest.

The wind picked up again, ruffling your scarf. You pulled it tighter. The black one with tiny, gold embroidered stars along the edges—messily stitched by hand, but charming in its imperfection. You remembered staying up late in your dorm to finish it. Needle pricks on your fingers, your tongue poking out in concentration.

He always said you looked cute when you were focused. Said he liked that scarf best.

That’s why you brought it. Just in case he forgot his.

Because he always forgot his.

You smiled softly to yourself, pressing your nose into the collar of your coat. The ache in your hands didn’t matter. The cold didn’t matter. Not if he showed up this time.

Not if he took your hand like he promised.

Not if he wore the scarf and said, “You spoil me.”

Not if he kissed your forehead and muttered something about how you were too good for him—but still leaned into your touch like he needed it.

You waited.

And waited.

You checked your watch. Checked the time. Checked it again.

The ache in your arms started to settle. A kind of disappointed heaviness.

The paper bag crinkled as you hugged it tighter.

The sandwich inside was still warm.

His favorite. ──────────────── It was 4 PM when practice ended.

You knew because you’d been staring at your watch since 3:45. You wanted to be early. You wanted to be the first thing he saw when he came out—hands tucked into your sleeves, scarf fluttering slightly, cheeks pink from the cold, holding his favorite sandwich like some ridiculous rom-com character.

One by one, the other players started trickling off the field.

Laughter. Shouts. Muddy footprints.

But no Theodore.

You stood up straighter. Smoothed your sleeves. Brushed snow off the bench.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

You shifted from foot to foot, your shoes wet now. The grass had frozen beneath you, crisp with frost, and you could feel the chill sneaking into your socks.

You rubbed your hands together. Checked your watch again.

Still no sign.

Maybe he was just taking a while. Maybe he was showering. Maybe he—

“Y/N?”

You turned your head so fast your neck cracked.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Avery—not Liam, but another player from the team. He smiled politely. “You waiting for Theo?”

You nodded, hopeful.

He blinked. “He left, like, twenty minutes ago. Said he had something to do.”

Your heart dropped. “Oh. Um. Okay. Thanks.”

He waved, oblivious, and jogged off toward the castle.

You slowly sat back down.

Your fingers trembled as you placed the sandwich bag in your lap. The wind picked up, tugging at the ends of your scarf like even the air wanted you to go home.

But you stayed.

You told yourself maybe Avery was wrong. Maybe Theodore was just around the corner. Maybe he’d come running, breathless, apologetic, eyes soft with guilt and wanting.

You waited until your toes stopped feeling like toes.

Your phone buzzed once. Then again.

You didn’t check it.

The snow started falling at 5:17.

Thin flakes at first. Then thicker.

You tried to curl into yourself, your scarf wrapped tight around your face.

He’s coming.

He promised.

He wouldn’t forget you. Not this time.

You weren’t angry.

You were just so, so tired.

At 6:07, the Howler arrived.

“IF YOU’RE STILL OUTSIDE, Y/N, I’M GOING TO SCREAM—NO—ACTUALLY—I’M COMING TO FIND YOU, I SWEAR—”

Charlotte’s voice was shrill through the air, echoing off the trees and glass panes of the greenhouse.

You blinked slowly. The tip of your nose was numb.

The greenhouse door slammed open so hard it rattled on its hinges.

“No fucking way.”

Noor stormed out like the wrath of God in a crimson trench coat. You’d never seen her run before—she always walked like she was above the world—but this time? She sprinted.

“Y/N. Are you fucking kidding me?”

You managed a weak smile. “Hey, Noor.”

“Don’t ‘Hey Noor’ me, what the hell are you doing out here?” she barked, skidding to a stop in front of you. “Have you LOST your mind?”

“I was just waiting—”

“For him?” she snarled, eyes wild. “It’s fucking SNOWING, Y/N. You’re shaking like a leaf, your lips are blue, and you’re out here because that bastard forgot about you AGAIN?!”

You flinched, and she immediately froze.

Her voice dropped, but not the fury. It just simmered now—low, dangerous.

“I swear to Merlin, I will drag him by the roots of his pretty little hair and set him on fire.”

You whispered, “Please don’t…”

She crouched down, her coat rustling. Her hands didn’t touch you, not yet, but they hovered—furious and protective all at once. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m okay,” you said. “He probably just got caught up in something.”

Her lip curled. “Yeah. Probably someone else’s bed.”

You winced.

She saw it. And her rage cracked into something uglier. Not softer. Just hurt.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” she whispered. “Why do you let him?”

Before you could answer, more footsteps—Felix, Charlotte, Liam.

Felix’s face was red from running. “Found them?”

“YEAH,” Noor yelled over her shoulder. “I FOUND THEM FREEZING TO DEATH BECAUSE THEIR DUMBASS BOYFRIEND BAILED. AGAIN.”

Charlotte gasped and ran to you. “Oh my god. Y/N—your hands are like ICE!”

Felix was already pulling out the emergency blanket from his bag like he knew this would happen. “I brought this just in case. Here.”

You didn’t resist. You let them wrap it around you.

You let Charlotte fuss over your hair, and Felix pat your back, and Liam stand behind them like a shadow ready to burn the world down.

But you didn’t look at them.

You looked at the path leading back to the castle.

Waiting.

Still hoping.

And that made something inside you crack.

══════ Later That Night. ══════

You didn’t cry.

You just laid in bed, curled on your side, your arms wrapped around your own middle like maybe that would stop your ribs from cracking inward. The blanket was too warm, the silence too loud. Every sound from outside—every laugh, every pair of footsteps—made you tense.

The sandwich was still in the paper bag. Slightly flattened. The scarf you wore that day was now crumpled next to it, still carrying the faint warmth of your hope.

You stared at the ceiling for hours, eyes unfocused.

You hadn’t said a word since you came back.

No one forced you to.

But you weren’t alone. You never were. You could feel them.

Noor, Charlotte, Felix, and Liam—your constants.

Felix had brought you hot cocoa three times. You didn’t touch any of them. The last one had gone cold.

Charlotte curled up on the edge of your bed, rubbing slow circles on your back with the gentlest fingers, murmuring soft things like, “You’re okay. I’m here. Just breathe with me, okay?”

You didn’t respond.

Liam had taken Felix’s spot when he left to get more tea, silent as always, rubbing the back of his boyfriend’s neck while staring out at the dormitory door like he was daring Theodore to walk through it.

And Noor?

Noor was pacing.

Her boots thudded against the common room floor, her cloak swishing behind her, her jaw clenched like she was physically restraining herself from grabbing her wand and storming into the Slytherin dorms with murder in her eyes.

“Coward,” she muttered. “Fucking coward.”

Charlotte gave her a look, silently asking her to keep her voice down.

Noor didn’t care.

“Are we serious right now?” she hissed. “He stood them up. Again. He does this every time. And you’re all just sitting here?”

“Noor,” Felix warned softly.

“No, don’t you ‘Noor’ me, Felix,” she snapped. “I’m done playing quiet for the sake of their feelings. I’m DONE watching them get chewed up and spat out like they’re nothing!”

Her voice cracked.

Yours didn’t move.

Noor stepped closer, crouching beside your bed. “Y/N,” she said, lower now, but her voice still trembled with barely-suppressed rage. “You waited in the freezing cold for three hours. With a sandwich. A scarf. A fucking card. You could’ve gotten sick. You could’ve passed out. You didn’t even eat. And he didn’t show up. Again.”

Still, you said nothing.

Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “Noor…”

“No. No, they need to hear this. He doesn’t care, Y/N. He’s never going to care. You’re not some charity case he’s going to learn to love just because you’re sweet and soft and wait around. He’s a waste of skin. He’s a liar, and he’s cruel, and I swear to Merlin, if I see him near you again—”

“Noor,” Liam said firmly.

She shut up. Barely. Her fists still trembled at her sides.

She turned back to you.

You weren’t crying. That made it worse.

She dropped to her knees, grabbed your hand gently—almost too gently for how furious she looked—and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m yelling. But I love you, okay? You’re my person. You’re one of the only ones I give a shit about. And it kills me watching you act like he loves you back.”

You didn’t squeeze her hand.

You didn’t pull away either.

You just laid there.

Quiet.

Staring at the door.

Waiting. ═════ The Next Day ═════

You found him sitting at the edge of the Slytherin table at breakfast.

Laughing.

Grinning.

Like nothing happened.

He was surrounded by his usual circle—Mattheo tossing bits of toast at Blaise, who dodged lazily while sipping his coffee. Draco was fixing his cufflinks, already looking bored. Pansy was applying lip gloss with a charm-enhanced mirror, and Lorenzo was retelling some story about a sixth year falling into the lake. Astoria sat at the end, quiet, eyes distant as she picked at her eggs.

You approached slowly, scarf folded in your hands, heart thudding so hard it echoed in your ears.

Theodore looked up mid-bite, smirk curling his lips. “Hey,” he said casually, like he hadn’t completely forgotten about you.

Like he hadn’t left you standing in the cold with a sandwich and a hopeful smile.

“Can we talk?” you asked.

Mattheo snorted. “Oop. Trouble in paradise?”

You ignored him.

Theodore leaned back on the bench, all nonchalant charm and unbothered attitude. “What’s up?”

You glanced around. Everyone was watching.

Pansy raised a brow. Blaise looked away. Astoria’s hand froze mid-slice of toast.

You swallowed the tightness in your throat. “You didn’t come yesterday.”

Theodore blinked. “Oh. Right.”

Just oh. Like he’d forgotten his textbooks. Not you.

You waited.

Draco glanced at Theodore, then at you, and let out a quiet exhale like he already knew where this was going.

Theodore scratched his neck, still chewing. “Yeah, I got caught up in something.”

“What?” you asked. Voice small. Already crumbling.

“Dunno. Just… stuff.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, unbothered.

Mattheo chuckled under his breath. “Well, that clears it up.”

Lorenzo elbowed him. “Shut up, man.”

Astoria didn’t look at anyone. She just kept slowly slicing her toast into perfect, untouched squares.

“Are you mad?” Theodore asked, like you were being unreasonable.

“I’m not mad,” you said. And it was true. You were beyond mad. You were tired.

“You look mad,” he said, laughing a little.

“I’m not,” you repeated, even though your throat burned.

He rolled his eyes. “Merlin, you’re being dramatic again.”

That hit.

That hit so hard it made you take a half step back.

And not a single one of them said anything.

Not even Astoria.

You tried to hold it together. You held out the scarf, neatly folded. “I made this for you.”

He took it, blinked at it. Turned it over in his hands like it was a trinket someone gave him out of obligation.

“Yeah?” he said. “Cute.”

That was it.

Mattheo muttered something under his breath—probably mocking.

You tried not to cry.

You waited for him to reach out, to thank you, to care.

He didn’t.

Instead, he glanced over your shoulder and said, “I’ll see you later, yeah? I’ve got to meet someone.”

Your stomach twisted.

Mattheo raised a brow. “Don’t you already have someone?”

Blaise choked on his drink. “He means someone else,” he said with a smirk.

Lorenzo hissed, “Guys—”

Draco didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, pity on his face. The kind that hurt worse than anything else.

Pansy popped her lips and turned away.

And Astoria?

She finally looked up at you.

Just for a second.

And in that second, you saw it. The guilt. The regret.

The part of her that knew.

But she said nothing.

She turned her face away.

And you?

You didn’t ask who Theodore was going to meet.

You didn’t want to know.

══════ That Night – Hufflepuff Common Room ══════

You sat curled up in the corner of the oversized couch, knees drawn to your chest, the heavy common room blanket wrapped around you like it could stitch your cracks back together. The fire crackled lazily across the room, casting warm light against the amber-stained walls—but none of it reached your eyes.

Charlotte lay stretched across the couch beside you, her head resting carefully on your thigh, one arm curled around your waist like she could hold your sadness in place if she hugged tight enough. Her hair smelled like lavender and peppermint. She didn’t say anything. Just held you.

Felix sat on the floor near your feet, leaning against the couch, worry crinkling the corners of his soft brown eyes. He looked up at you every few seconds—his hand resting lightly on your ankle through the blanket like a silent lifeline. In his other hand was a steaming mug of cinnamon hot cocoa. He kept offering it without words, and every time you shook your head, his smile dropped a little lower.

Liam was stretched out beside him on the rug, long legs crossed lazily. One of his hands rested on Felix’s thigh, fingers drawing idle patterns, while the other toyed with the hem of Felix’s sleeve. His eyes never left the fire, but he hadn’t stopped listening for a second. His jaw clenched every time your breath caught.

Noor paced behind the couch. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her boots thudded softly against the rug, her red coat draped over her shoulders like she hadn’t even bothered to take it off when she rushed inside. Arms crossed tight. Eyes furious. Face unreadable in the dim light—until she stopped. Planted herself behind you. Stared down at your slouched form like she was trying not to break something.

You hadn't said a word since you'd come in.

No one had to ask what happened.

They knew.

Felix shifted a little closer. “Y/N…”

Your eyes didn’t move from the fire. Your voice, when it came, was hoarse. “I waited.”

Silence.

You swallowed. Your hand gripped the blanket tighter around your knees. “He didn’t come.”

Charlotte’s arms tightened around your middle. Her voice trembled when she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Noor scoffed sharply. “Of course he didn’t.”

You winced.

Felix reached up and gently brushed your wrist. “You should’ve told us sooner.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” you murmured.

That made Charlotte sit up properly, her hand cupping your cheek as she turned your face toward her. “You’re never a bother.”

“She’s right,” Felix added, his voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Noor’s voice was flat. “You shouldn’t have to go through this at all.”

Liam looked up. “We told you he wouldn’t show.”

You finally looked down at your lap. “I thought he would this time.”

Noor’s pacing picked up again. “You always think he will. And he never does.”

“It was just one afternoon—”

“Stop defending him,” she snapped, spinning on her heel. Her dark eyes blazed. “He’s not worth defending.”

You shrank into yourself.

Charlotte reached for your hand. “Y/N, no one’s blaming you. We just hate seeing you hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.”

No one believed you.

Felix whispered, “You’re allowed to be.”

“I said I’m not.”

Silence. Thick. Cold. Uncomfortable.

Liam sighed quietly and shifted closer to Felix, resting his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “He’s not going to change, Y/N. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Noor slammed her hands on the back of the couch. “Well, we’re going to.”

Charlotte flinched. Felix looked up, startled.

You blinked, slowly.

Noor’s voice cracked. Just a bit. “You keep letting him do this to you. And we’re the ones who have to hold you together afterward. Again. And again. And again.”

You said nothing.

She stepped around the couch this time. Stood in front of you. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you know how hard it is to watch someone you care about willingly drown?”

Your lower lip trembled.

Felix’s hand slid into yours.

Charlotte whispered, “Please say something.”

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You just sat there. Breathing quietly. Tears gathering but refusing to fall.

Charlotte laid her head back against your shoulder and held your hand tighter. Felix leaned against your leg. Liam reached over and pulled the blanket higher around your shoulders like a big brother trying to protect you from the world. Noor stayed standing. Watching.

You finally exhaled. A shaky, hollow sound.

No one spoke after that.

Not until minutes later, when your head finally dropped onto Charlotte’s and your eyes fluttered shut.

Then, in the soft flicker of firelight, Noor turned away from you and stared at the dancing flames.

Her voice was so quiet you barely caught it:

“…He doesn’t deserve you.”

Your hands trembled as you fastened the little bow on the photo album.

You had been working on it for weeks—meticulously printing photos in the library, slipping them into the pages with protective sheets so they wouldn’t wrinkle. You even redid the cover three separate times because the first paper creased, and the second one didn’t feel right. This one, though—this one was perfect. A soft, velvety parchment gold, warm to the touch, like how he used to feel when he'd pull you into his chest on cold mornings.

You picked the ribbon carefully too. First it was silver, then green, then finally a golden thread laced with hints of forest satin—your house and his, tied together, just like you wanted to believe you were. It wasn’t just a bow. It was a symbol. A fragile little knot you kept trying to make hold everything together.

And it wouldn’t tie properly.

You undid it again. Retied it with slow, shaking fingers. You focused on making the loops symmetrical, tugging them into place like you could control the outcome if the bow was perfect enough. Tight enough. Beautiful enough. Like if you just tied it right, maybe he’d finally see all the love you had left to give him.

You whispered under your breath, more to yourself than anything else, “Okay… just one more time. Make it nice. He’ll notice this time.”

Your lips tugged into the faintest smile, trembling. “He likes green. Right? Or… wait, maybe the gold looked better on his desk… it’ll match his eyes. Maybe that’ll make him—” You stopped. Shook your head. “No. Don’t think like that. He’s going to love it. Of course he will.”

You stared down at the album when you finished. Your name was written in tiny cursive in the bottom right corner of the first page, right beneath a caption: “Here’s to everything I remember for both of us.”

You ran your fingers over the cover slowly, like you were trying to press the warmth of your hands into it. Into him.

You flipped through it again. Just to make sure.

The first page: a photo of you and Theodore on the Hogwarts Express—he was asleep with his head on your shoulder. You were smiling into the camera. You remembered how warm he was that day. How he held your hand under the table at lunch.

“I think this was the day I started loving him,” you murmured to no one. “Or maybe it was the day before. Doesn’t matter. I think he loved me that day too.”

The next page: your first Hogsmeade trip. A dried candy wrapper tucked into the corner. A note scribbled in pencil beside it: “You said it tasted like soap. You still ate the whole thing.”

You laughed softly, but it cracked halfway out. “He said I was dramatic,” you said, your voice barely a breath. “But he smiled the whole time… that has to count for something, right?”

Each page bled with memory. The first snowfall you watched together from the Astronomy Tower. The stolen kiss in the Potions classroom. A blurry picture of him laughing—one of the only ones where his guard was down.

You pressed your fingers to that page and closed your eyes.

“I wish you still laughed like this around me…”

There were dried flowers glued in the margins—petals you’d stolen from the Greenhouse during spring. Wrinkled receipts from Honeydukes. A ticket stub from a Quidditch match. Wrapping paper he tore from a gift you gave him months ago, smoothed out and tucked into a pocket.

You paused at a torn-out page from your Transfiguration notebook. Scribbled on the back of it was a doodle—just a tiny little sketch he made of you, passed across the table during a boring lecture.

You smiled. Soft. Fond. Fragile.

“He said he was awful at drawing…” You brushed your thumb across the paper. “But he tried. He tried that day.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at the rest of the album. At everything you gathered. Everything you glued and wrote and colored and built just to remind him.

Every inch of the album was a love letter without words. A thousand little whispers bound in ink, petals, and glue. A prayer that he might look through these pages and remember. Not just the moments—but how deeply you had loved him through all of them.

You sat back, holding the album in your lap. Your fingers curled around the edges as you whispered:

“…I hope he keeps this forever.”

Because in your heart, you already knew.

This might be the last thing he ever gets from you.

You hoped it would be enough.

You hoped he’d remember.

Of you. ══════ The day passed. ══════

You arrived at the Astronomy Tower just past noon, earlier than you should have, heart hammering in your chest with that nervous kind of excitement that only love—real love—could bring.

You had worn your best coat. The one he said made you look “stupidly huggable.” Underneath it was the soft sweater he left in your dorm once, the one that still smelled faintly like his cologne. You hadn’t even told him you still had it.

The gift—your photo album—was tucked safely into your bag. Your hands had spent the entire night before tying the ribbon and redoing it again and again until it sat perfectly. You kept peeking at it throughout the day like it might fall apart without your attention.

You told yourself he’d come.

He said he would.

“Right after practice,” he promised that morning, hand brushing against yours. “The tower, yeah?”

You remembered the way he smiled when he said it—casual, rushed, but familiar.

Familiar enough to believe in.

So you waited.

You leaned against the cool stone railing, watching the students buzz around like ants below. The castle looked beautiful from up here—frost dusting the rooftops, snow starting to fall in gentle flakes. You told yourself that this was going to be the perfect memory. That tonight, when he showed up, you’d give him the album and maybe—just maybe—he’d hold you like he used to. Kiss your forehead. Tell you he was sorry for being distant lately.

Maybe he’d stay.

Time passed.

The sky shifted from pale gold to steel grey. The shadows stretched longer. You traced your name into the thin layer of frost on the railing. Then his. Then a little heart. You smiled at it, even though it came out crooked. The cold made your fingers stiff.

He was probably just late.

You checked the time again.

And again.

You paced a little. Sat down. Stood up. Walked around the tower once. Rechecked your bag to make sure the album hadn’t bent. Tucked the ribbon again. Re-tied it.

Every little movement felt like a ritual to ward off disappointment.

By the time the sky turned blue-black and the first stars started to peek through the clouds, you were still there.

You tried to convince yourself he must’ve forgotten the time. Maybe he had to shower. Maybe he was changing. Maybe he had to stop by the library.

Maybe.

Maybe.

But your fingers were numb now, and the wind had started to bite through the layers of your scarf. Your cheeks stung. You couldn’t feel your toes. Your knees ached from standing too long.

And still—you stayed.

Even when the castle bell chimed once. Then twice.

Even when the candles in the windows began to flicker out.

Even when your chest felt hollow and heavy and achingly quiet.

You waited.

And waited.

But Theodore never came.

You walked back in silence.

It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t calm.

It was the kind of silence that rang in your ears like a scream held just behind your teeth. The kind that filled your chest with a weight so crushing, so thick, it made your lungs burn. Your boots echoed against the stone corridor, each footfall slower than the last, like your legs were dragging the ruins of your heart behind them.

The Astronomy Tower disappeared behind you, swallowed by distance and dark. The wind from the high ledges had bitten at your cheeks, left your fingers trembling, but you hadn’t felt it then.

You didn’t feel much of anything now.

Only cold. And that wasn’t the kind of cold you could fix with fire.

The gift was still in your hands.

A soft package wrapped in silver paper, cradled like it mattered. Like it was still worth something. You stared at it as you walked—at the way the ribbon had frayed from how tightly you’d clutched it all day. The green and gold thread had come undone at one corner, now dragging behind like a wounded limb.

You couldn’t feel your fingers anymore.

You couldn’t feel your face.

You couldn't even feel your own name sitting behind your tongue.

You turned a corner, head low, barely noticing the flicker of torchlight trailing across the old stone walls. The castle groaned quietly around you, an old heartbeat that had no sympathy left to offer.

It was supposed to be a special night.

Just you and Theodore. Like he said. Like he promised.

He told you this morning, voice rough with sleep, lips brushing your forehead as he tugged on his Quidditch gloves, “After practice. Astronomy Tower. I won’t be late.”

You had believed him.

Because of course you did.

You always did.

You let out a breath that shook more than it should have.

Then—laughter.

Soft. Muffled. Familiar.

It slipped through the crack in a nearby classroom door.

You paused.

It was late. Most students were already in their dorms. The halls had emptied hours ago.

But that voice—

Theodore.

You knew it like the inside of your own heart.

You didn’t mean to stop.

But you did.

You didn’t mean to listen.

But you heard your name.

And your body turned cold all over again.

“Honestly?” Theodore’s voice was relaxed, amused. “I don’t even know why I’m still with them.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

There was a pause, then a girl’s giggle followed. One you didn’t recognize.

“They’re kind of clingy, aren’t they?” she said, breathy.

“Kind of?” Pansy’s voice drawled next, sharp as ever. “They follow Theodore around like a damn puppy. Always smiling like an idiot. It’s actually sad.”

“They made you something once, right?” Mattheo added lazily. “That… what was it? A journal?”

“A scrapbook,” Theodore said, laughing now. “With glitter. Pressed flowers. Little notes in the margins like, ‘Our first Hogsmeade date’ and ‘You looked so beautiful this day!’ It was like a six-year-old made it.”

Another chorus of laughter.

You stood still in the hallway, your mouth parted slightly, your eyes locked on the floor like if you stared hard enough, it would swallow you whole.

“They cried last week, didn’t they?” Mattheo added. “When you skipped that library thing.”

“Oh, yeah,” Theodore said. “Tried to act chill but you could see it all over their face. They were devastated. Honestly? It's too easy.”

Someone gasped between laughs.

“Why don’t you just end it?” the girl asked. Her voice was light. Careless. Like the words didn’t carry the weight of your entire world.

A silence.

Then Theodore said, clear as glass,

“Because they’ll always take me back.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

Your feet felt bolted to the floor, your lungs tight and burning. Your ears rang, like the laughter echoing behind that door was bouncing inside your skull.

And your heart—

You felt it.

Not figuratively.

Not like a metaphor.

You physically felt something snap inside your chest. Like a delicate thread had been pulled taut too many times and this was the final pull. The one that broke it clean.

The world blurred around the edges, vision going distant. Your fingers loosened around the gift. The silver paper crinkled slightly as it slipped lower in your grasp.

The ribbon finally fell off.

It floated to the floor like a dead thing.

You didn’t pick it up.

You didn’t open the door. You didn’t confront him. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t ask why.

Because you already knew.

You knew he had never planned to come.

You knew he’d been laughing before you even left the tower.

You knew the version of Theodore you loved didn’t exist anymore—maybe never did.

So you did the only thing you could.

You turned.

And walked away.

Not fast.

Not dramatic.

Not with tears.

You just walked. Quietly. Slowly. Head down. Heart shattered. Gift cradled like a funeral bouquet in your arms.

By the time you reached the Hufflepuff common room, your eyes were glassy, but dry.

Your friends were already inside.

You didn’t say anything as you walked past them.

Not a word.

Not a glance.

You just curled up in your bed, facing the wall.

The photo album still clutched in your hands.

Your scarf still tied tight.

And your heart, for the first time—

Empty. ══════The next day, Great Hall.══════

Breakfast at Hogwarts was loud. Always.

Clattering plates, floating toast racks, enchanted snow drifting lazily from the bewitched ceiling. Students piled into the Great Hall with sleepy eyes and messy hair, laughing, trading notes, stealing bites off each other’s plates.

And then you walked in.

And something shifted.

No one noticed it right away—just a hush that rippled quietly across the room, like the castle itself knew something was about to break.

You didn’t flinch under the weight of the stares.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t say hello.

You just walked.

Through the Hufflepuff table.

Past the Ravenclaws.

Down the path between Gryffindors and Slytherins—until you stood at the end of his table.

Theodore Nott.

His laughter faltered the moment he saw you.

He was surrounded, like always. Pansy twirling her hair beside him, Astoria whispering something to Draco. Blaise lazily chewing his toast. Mattheo talking with his mouth full. Lorenzo leaned back, sipping pumpkin juice like he owned the damn room.

Theodore looked… unbothered.

Relaxed.

Until you dropped the album into his lap.

Hard.

Wrapped in silver paper and a gold-and-green ribbon that now looked almost mocking.

He blinked. “Y/N—?”

“What’s this?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

He turned it over in his hands, confusion flashing across his face.

Then: “Is this a present?”

Your voice was sharp. “It was supposed to be.”

He stared at you.

“You forgot,” you said. “Yesterday.”

His face went blank.

“Oh… right. Shit.”

You almost laughed.

But not the kind that meant joy.

You nodded to the album.

“I spent weeks on that. I stayed up after curfew cutting pages and organizing things, pressing flowers, writing little notes. Things only you would remember, if you cared.”

Now the Slytherins were silent.

Every single one of them had turned to watch.

You took a breath. “Do you want to know what the first page says?”

He didn’t respond.

“It says: You are worth the work.”

His jaw tensed.

“And I believed that. Even when you were distant. Even when you forgot to show up. Even when I waited in the cold for hours with that stupid scarf and a sandwich and a letter that I rewrote five times. I still believed it.”

Now you were raising your voice. Not yelling. But louder. Steadier.

And that’s when the rest of the room noticed.

Hermione Granger had lowered her fork mid-bite.

Ron Weasley was staring while holding a turkey leg.

Harry Potter stopped doing his Charms assignment.

Ginny Weasley froze mid-sip of pumpkin juice.

Neville Longbottom dropped his spoon into his cereal.

Cedric Diggory looked over mid-bite, fork suspended.

Angelina Johnson’s eyebrows flew up.

Lee Jordan whispered something to Katie Bell.

Lavender Brown smacked Seamus on the shoulder and motioned toward the Slytherin table.

Anthony Goldstein paused mid-page of the Daily Prophet.

Padma and Parvati Patil turned in unison.

Cho Chang slowly lowered her teacup.

Even Luna Lovegood blinked from her seat at the Ravenclaw table, dreamy expression sharpening just a bit.

You were shaking now—but you didn’t stop.

You looked right at him. Right at the boy who held your heart like it was optional.

“And you forgot,” you said. “You forgot me. Again. Like I’m just something waiting for you in the background while you play pretend with people who don’t even see you.”

“Y/N—can we please not do this here—”

“Why not?” you snapped. “Embarrassed?”

His mouth opened. Closed.

You took a step closer. “Because you should be. Everyone should see this. See you. See what it looks like to love someone who only ever takes.”

The Great Hall was dead quiet now. Even the ones who don't give a fuck about Hogwarts drama's stopped talking and turned to look.

You could hear your own breathing.

“I told myself you’d change,” you whispered. “I defended you. I lied to people I love to protect the idea of you I had in my head.”

His hands were clenched into fists.

You leaned in just enough for only him to hear—

“I can’t keep bleeding just to prove you’re worth saving.”

Theodore’s throat bobbed. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

You exhaled slowly. “No, you’re not.”

He stood up, fast, knocking over his cup.

Still, no one moved.

“I love you,” he said, desperate now. “I messed up, I know—I’ll fix it, okay? I’ll do better.”

You didn’t blink.

“You had so many chances, Nott.”

Silence.

“I was your comfort. Your safety. Your guarantee. And you treated me like something to return to only when the others left.”

Tears slipped down your cheek. But your voice didn’t shake anymore.

“And I’m done.”

He looked stricken. “Y/N, please—”

You stepped back.

And for the final time, you smiled.

But it was hollow. A goodbye carved into a mouth that had said “I love you” too many times without hearing it back.

“I hope she was worth it.”

And you turned away.

The album slid from his lap to the ground, pages spilling, memories scattering.

The sound it made echoed louder than any argument.

The whole hall watched as you walked away.

And no one followed.

Not even him.

The silence that followed could’ve shattered the stained glass windows.

You didn’t look back.

Not when the album slipped from Theodore’s lap, pages spilling across the floor like torn pieces of your heart. Not when a girl at the Ravenclaw table let out a stunned gasp. Not when the Slytherin table went stiff with discomfort—Pansy frozen mid-hair-twirl, Astoria blinking like her brain had short-circuited.

You just walked.

Every step echoing across the marble like the ending of something sacred.

At the Gryffindor table, Seamus whispered something, but Dean elbowed him quiet. Angelina slowly lowered her fork. George looked at Fred like was that real? Cedric sat frozen at the Hufflepuff table, brows drawn, knuckles pale against the wood. Cho's mouth was slightly open, eyes following your retreating figure. Luna blinked slowly, her radish earrings still.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody even breathed.

And Theodore?

He just stood there, surrounded by the friends who once encouraged his cruelty through silence, staring at the floor like it held the answers he never looked for in you.

The album lay open now—one page revealing a photo of you both on a snowy night near the Black Lake. You were smiling, scarf around your neck, lips pink from the cold, cheeks tucked into his jacket. He was looking at you in the photo, not the camera.

Now he didn’t even look at that.

He didn’t move.

A beat passed. Then another.

And then—

“Y/N!”

Charlotte's chair scraped across the floor with a screech. She was already halfway up, napkin flying from her lap. Her whole body moved before her mind did. Her spoon clattered against a plate.

She shoved past confused students with a panic that made more than a few people stand up in concern.

“Y/N—wait—!”

Your legs were faster.

You didn’t run, but the kind of walk you had was worse. The kind that said if I stop, I’ll break. So I won’t.

You were already pushing through the massive oak doors of the Great Hall when she reached the end of the aisle.

Noor was next—standing with an expression that could burn through metal. Her fists were clenched at her sides, jaw locked. She turned once—looked straight at Theodore. Looked at him like she was about to do something unspeakable.

Then she stormed after Charlotte without a word.

Felix blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a daze. “Oh my god—oh my god, go—go—” she said breathlessly to Liam, grabbing his wrist as he jumped from his seat.

Liam nodded once. Tightly. Quietly. Like he’d just made a silent vow to kill someone.

══════ Outside the Great Hall ══════

The air hit you like a wall.

Cold. Biting. Real.

Your breath curled out in shaky puffs, eyes unfocused, hands still trembling from adrenaline. The corridor felt enormous. Empty. Like the walls were breathing with you. Like the castle itself wanted to cry.

You made it three steps past the entrance before you collapsed onto the stone bench near the stairway. Shoulders shaking. Hands curled in your lap. No tears yet.

Just shock.

Then—

“Hey hey hey hey hey—” Felix’s voice cracked as he slid in beside you, already pulling you into his arms as he reached you first before the others. “Hey, I got you. I got you, Y/N. Please breathe.”

You gasped. Not sobbed. Gasped.

Your body refused to keep it in. You didn’t want to cry—didn’t want to give him that satisfaction—but the tears came anyway. Ugly. Raw. Violent.

And Felix didn’t let go.

He just tucked your head against his shoulder and held you like his life depended on it. “It’s okay, I got you. We’re here. It’s over. You did it. You did it, Y/N. You’re safe.”

You tried to say I’m sorry but your voice was gone.

Noor arrived seconds later. Her boots hit the floor hard, every step like a heartbeat, and the moment she saw you curled up in Felix’s arms, her whole body softened.

She sat on the other side of the bench and said nothing.

Just placed a warm hand on your knee.

And stayed.

Charlotte came next, pink scarf flying behind her like a ribbon in the wind. She dropped to her knees in front of you, instantly cupping your face with shaking hands.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Her voice broke. “You were so brave.”

You sobbed harder.

Liam crouched behind Felix, one hand on his boyfriend’s back, one on yours.

None of them said anything after that.

They didn’t need to.

They just held you.

Because you’d done it.

You’d walked away from someone you loved.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

══════ Back in the Great Hall. ══════

Theodore hadn’t moved.

His hand hovered above the torn-open album, eyes glassy, expression unreadable.

The whole table was still watching him.

Even Mattheo didn’t speak.

Draco had his arms folded, lips tight. Pansy’s face was pale. Blaise wouldn’t even look at him.

Astoria said, very quietly.

“…You deserved that.”

Theodore didn’t answer.

He just stared down.

Not at the photos. Not at the flowers. Not at the ribbon.

But at the space where you had stood.

And realized—for the first time in his life.

You weren’t going to stand there ever again.

[sundayroadkill]

💜 scorbus and stairs 💛

a lil love note to the staircase ballet, and to how close these two get to kissing with every revision they do.

a request for my friend and shout-out to this ask

[casuallybeez]

Pretty Boy [Percy Weasley]

|| Percy Weasley x Male Reader

↳ I love this man to bits. He's so cute.

Summary || Perfect prefect Percy can't help but find himself distracted by Slytherin's renowned pretty boy.

CWs: Drinking, mild party antics, mutual pining

PERCY WEASLEY WAS NOT easily distracted. He was a man of focus and dedication. He cared deeply about his job as the Gryffindor prefect and would not compromise it. Of course, that was until he encountered a striking young man named Y/N L/N.

It was well after curfew. Percy was just about to call it a night. He'd caught only one student out of bed, a Ravenclaw first-year who claimed he'd lost track of time. Percy gave him one night's detention as a lesson to not be out again. He was infamous for being a stickler for the rules, much to the chagrin of every troublemaking student.

Percy rounded a corner only to slam into a Slytherin student. Books scattered across the stone hall. The student, who looked a year older than Percy, gasped in surprise. He began picking up his books while profusely apologizing. It wasn't often that a Slytherin apologized to Percy, and he found himself curious. Percy tilted his head, watching the Slytherin gathering his books- Potions books, Percy realized.

The Slytherin looked at Percy sheepishly. He expected detention to be the cost of his rule-breaking. Percy was utterly awestruck. Y/N L/N was terribly pretty, and even though the castle was dark, with only Percy's Lumos to light it, he could see Y/N's handsome features. Percy had never seen Y/N up close, having only passively admired him from afar. No wonder he's so popular.

Percy cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure, "Go back to the Slytherin dorms. I best not see you past curfew again."

And with that, Percy stepped past Y/N, not daring to look back. Y/N watched Percy continue walking confidently. He was confused. He thought for sure he'd be given detention. Y/N shrugged and heeded Percy's advice, walking down to the dungeons. He was careful to avoid the ire of anyone else.

That morning at breakfast, Percy kept glancing over at the Slytherin table. He watched Y/N, who was in much better lighting, laugh and talk with his friends. He was undeniably handsome. Fred was no fool and could tell by Percy's troubled expression that something was on his mind. Fred elbowed Percy's side, forcing Percy to break his focus and look at his brother.

"What's up with you?" Fred asked lightheartedly. He'd never seen Percy look so distracted before. Percy averted his eyes and grumbled, annoyed that his brother had caught on that something was amiss. Percy did not feel like sharing with his little brother that he was pining over someone he'd only encountered once. But it seemed that Y/N had that effect on people.

"Nothing," Percy spoke sharply. Fred realized that he'd hit a nerve. He noted his brother's behavior and returned to enjoying breakfast and chatting with his fellow Gryffindors.

Percy stewed in his thoughts. He could hardly believe that Y/N L/N had apologized for causing trouble. Percy had had many run-ins with Slytherin students, who almost always sneered and glared at him. Y/N didn't do that, though. He appeared more embarrassed than annoyed. Percy heard rumors of an unusually kind and charming Slytherin, but he didn't think them credible.

Later in the day, Percy stumbled into the library to get his act together and focus on academics. It was like Percy was cursed because there was a familiar Slytherin with his head buried in a book. Another potion book Percy recognized. Percy shook his head. He was not going to act delusional over some pretty boy.

He turned to browse through the shelves. Percy was assigned an essay on hexes and needed to pick which one he would write about. Percy diligently read every title and occasionally pulled out a book to flip through it. Nothing struck him as interesting enough to write an entire essay about.

Suddenly, Percy realized someone was next to him, browsing through books. He glanced over and was surprised to see it was Y/N. He was graceful, tracing his fingers across each title, mouthing the titles to himself. Y/N looked towards Percy and softly smiled at him before returning to skimming through books. Percy instantly looked away, embarrassed that the Slytherin saw him staring. He felt his freckled cheeks burn, mimicking a fever. But oh, how nice it was to see him smile. It couldn't hurt too bad to be a hopeless romantic, could it?

Y/N walked away, book in hand, not realizing the effect he was having on Gryffindor's perfect prefect. Y/N had purposefully browsed the books next to Percy to sneak a glance at him. He'd never noticed the pretty, red-haired, freckle-faced prefect. Y/N asked around at breakfast to learn more about the mysterious Gryffindor that had run into him. He knew of the Weasleys, particularly the two prankster twins he'd had the displeasure of meeting. But Y/N hadn't heard much about Percy, only that he was allegedly a pain to be around. He'd have to find out for himself if the rumors were true.

It was months later that they interacted again, but they exchanged many glances. Fred followed Percy's gaze enough and realized he was fawning over Y/N L/N. This fact amused him. Percy, his stern, uptight, perfect brother, fancied Slytherin's prettiest face. Fred shared this discovery with George, and so they hatched a plan.

The twins both knew that Y/N was no stranger to a party and if they asked nicely enough, they might be able to convince him to attend one at Gryffindor. Fred and George found Y/N leaving the Great Hall and pulled him aside.

"What do you two want?" Y/N groaned, brushing Fred's hand off of his arm. The twins leaned on each other, grinning at Y/N.

"We were wondering," George started, "Would you like to attend the finest party at Gryffindor celebrating our excellent win?" Fred finished in a sophisticated tone. Y/N rolled his eyes at Fred's words.

"Yeah, alright, what's the password?"

Percy never cared for parties. They were loud and filled with obnoxious drunk people. It wasn't Percy's scene. He wasn't much of a drinker, didn't enjoy dancing, and always regretted getting roped up in party games. The twins convinced Percy to come tonight, saying he should loosen up and show some house spirit.

It seemed Percy was right. The music was loud, and the people were too. As Percy leaned against the wall, sipping his fire whiskey, he couldn't help but question why he agreed in the first place. Someone rested on the wall next to him and leaned over to speak.

"Not enjoying yourself?"

Percy snapped out of his thoughts. Y/N wasn't wearing his Slytherin robes, opting for black slacks and a button-up. The top few were unbuttoned, showing off his collarbones. Y/N held onto a cup of fire whiskey, taking a swig as he observed Percy quietly.

"You could say that," Percy didn't stare at Y/N long, choosing to gaze off at the students laughing and dancing together.

"Y/N! Come play truth or dare with us!" Oliver Wood's unmistakable Scottish accent called over. Y/N chuckled softly and gestured for Percy to join him. For some reason, Percy felt compelled to, even though he hated playing this type of game.

They all gathered in a circle, with Y/N leaning on the arm of the couch. Percy sat on the ground next to Fred. There were several people, Oliver Wood, Cedric Diggory, the Weasley twins, Angelina Johnson, and many others that Percy didn't know the names of. Y/N rolled his eyes at the Slytherin girl sitting on the couch by him. The two seemed friendly.

"Okay, okay, I'll go first! Y/N, truth or dare?" George hiccuped, clearly having drank his fair share of fire whiskey. Y/N grinned. He wasn't usually the first up, but Y/N was not complaining.

"Truth," He spoke firmly.

"Have you kissed anyone in this room?" George asked, wanting all the juicy details. Y/N and the girl next to him jokingly made kissy sounds and giggled.

"Kimmy wishes! I kissed Cedric on a dare once," Y/N shrugged, and Cedric nodded in agreement, recalling a familiar situation where they dared to kiss. Y/N looked around the room, humming as he thought.

"Fred, truth or dare!"

"Dare," Fred answered confidently. Whatever Y/N had to throw at him, he could take.

"Sing us some opera," Y/N knew Fred was a terrible singer. They'd done karaoke enough to know so. Fred immediately began his best rendition of Ave Maria, which was awful. Fred was tone-deaf and flat on every note. He barely squeaked out the high notes. Everyone laughed at his dreadful performance, and Fred started laughing after the first verse.

Fred turned to look at Percy, poking him, "Truth or dare?"

Percy knew better than to pick a dare, but he also knew Fred would ask something embarrassing if he chose the truth. He licked his lips nervously, "Truth."

"Who's the most attractive person here?" Percy cursed himself immediately and pressed his palms to his face, groaning. Of course, Fred would do this when Y/N was present. Percy grumbled and whispered,

"Y/N..."

The whisper was loud enough for Y/N to hear it and practically short-circuit. He tensed and felt feverish. Kimberly, his best friend, looked at Y/N and made an 'ooo' sound as she connected the dots. Cedric also caught on to Y/N's flustered reaction. Y/N hardly batted an eye when they kissed, so for him to visibly flinch and look ruffled meant there had to be something going on.

Cedric looked from Y/N to Percy, noting how both looked mortified. They'd make a cute couple, he thought.

The game continued, but Y/N had stopped paying attention. He was too distracted by Percy's admission. Y/N knew he was attractive, but hearing his passive crush say so felt unbelievable. Merlin, it felt good to be mutually pining. Y/N finished the rest of his fire whiskey, requiring some liquid confidence.

It wasn't long before the game ended, the twins leaving to dance to their favorite song and several others leaving to join them. Y/N left to refill his cup with more fire whiskey. He spotted Percy leaning against the same wall he'd found him at before. After pouring his cup and taking a quick swig, he strode over to Percy.

"So... You find me attractive?" It probably wasn't the best way to start a conversation, but it was something Y/N was dying to know. Percy's cheeks flared up; he gulped nervously.

"I... I do," Percy couldn't look Y/N in the eyes. He thought Y/N was here to make fun of him. Percy glanced at him to see Y/N smiling dumbly, starstruck by the revelation.

"That's so crazy. I didn't think you'd like me back," Y/N chuckled, flashing his charming smile. Percy's breath hitched at the Slytherin's casual confession. Slytherin's pretty boy, a guy people swooned over, liked Percy Weasley?

"You like me? Why?" Percy was astounded, his mouth agape as he processed that someone as desirable as Y/N fancied him. Percy never thought of himself as attractive. He was always called boring and uptight. What kind of person would like that?

"Well, you're beautiful."

Percy could not believe what he was hearing. He thought that somehow it was a dream. There was simply no way this was happening. Percy pinched the back of his hand hard. The pain reassured him that it was real. Y/N noticed Percy pinch himself, and he laughed, finding it cute. No one ever called Percy beautiful. He found it ironic that a guy who was thousands of times more handsome was the one to call him that.

"You're serious?" Percy had to ask. His eyes were wide, and he suddenly felt nervous and jittery.

"I am," Y/N was leagues more confident than Percy. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Percy's cheek before wandering off to return to the party. Percy patted the spot that Y/N had kissed and sighed.

The party ended up being a good decision after all.

|| Word Count: 2,027

[deadghosy]

SLYTHERIN BOYS MASTERLIST

(Ordered by post date/hogwarts legacy is included)

HARRY POTTER

🐍 If you missed the hoop while playing basketball

🐍 Platonic Slytherin boys with a keeper friend

🐍“I’m allergic to bullshit”

🐍 Reacting to you saying “you’re gonna pass out”

🐍 React to you saying “someone is staring”

🐍 Taking an ugly picture of them

🐍 Reacting to you clogging up their toilet

🐍 React to you being outside despite being allergic to mosquitoes

🐍 React to you passing out

🐍 Reacting to you oversleeping

🐍 Curly hair! Reader (poc friendly)

🐍 React to you giggling at your phone

🐍 Platonic Slytherin boys with adhd friend

🐍 The type of drivers they are as memes

🐍 Texting them “I think someone is following me”

🐍 When someone tries to bully you

🐍 How they react to you saying “I’m hungry”

🐍 React to you driving crazy

🐍 React to you saying “I hate you” to them

🐍 Reacting to you saying “ima kill myself”

🐍 Mattheo with a male roommate pt.1

🐍 Mattheo with a male roommate pt.2

🐍 Coquette! reader

🐍 Reacting to you being a telepathic/having telekinesis

🐍 Best friend! Mattheo headcannons pt.1//pt.2//pt.3

🐍 Modern Slytherin boys with a male figure skater

🐍 Chaos magic user! Reader

🐍 Platonic modern Slytherin boys with an insomniac male roommate

🐍 Reacting to you dancing alone

🐍 Reacting to you falling asleep during a movie

🐍 Percy Jackson! Reader w/mattheo

🐍 Reacting to m! Reader shaving

🐍 Platonic high! mattheo

🐍 High Theo x reader

🐍 You being scared awake by thunder

🐍 Slytherin boys when they miss you

🐍 Werewolf M.R, T.N, & L.B

🐍 How they would pick you up

🐍 Crybaby! Mattheo

🐍 Teddy-T.N

🐍 Vlogger! Mattheo pt.1//pt.2

🐍 Slytherin boys w/ blind!reader

🐍 July 4th with the Slytherin boys

🐍 Reacting to you falling face first

🐍 Reacting to you falling asleep to them talking

🐍 Reacting to you doing a back flip

🐍 Fanboy! Slytherins with a singer!reader

🐍 Owl!reader

🐍 French!reader getting hurt

🐍 Slytherin boys with witch beauty gf

🐍 Vampire mattheo

🐍 Vampire Tom

🐍 Reacting to their boyfriend having scars

🐍 Ghostface! Mattheo

🐍 Being mattheo’s childhood friend to lover: male version//female version

🐍 Mattheo (fem!reader) during your birthday

🐍 Slytherin boys with a black fem!reader who tall like Megan thee stallion

🐍 Reacting to you crying

🐍 Reacting to m!reader picking them up

🐍 Stalker!Mattheo

🐍“A love that burns.” Poet!mattheo

🐍 Summertime with mattheo riddle

🐍 Being best friends with Lorenzo

🐍 Beach days with Theodore Nott

🐍 Theodore Nott being your yandere best friend

🐍 Sugar daddy!Tom headcannons

🐍“All men are shit..except for you” SB reacting to you saying this

🐍 Old money!Theodore Nott headcannons + moodboard

🐍 Reacting to reader being a manipulator

🐍 Hoodie stealer-Mattheo

🐍 Toxic!theodore nott banners

HOGWARTS LEGACY

🐍 Platonic Ominis headcannons

🐍 Platonic Sebastian headcannons

🐍 Werewolf Sebastian & Ominis x reader

🐍 Sebastian & Ominis with a merfolk! Reader

🐍 Loverboy! Modern Sebastian headcannons and imagines

🐍 Platonic sliver trio headcannons

🐍 Ominis with a hufflepuff lover

🐍 Platonic brotherly headcannons with Sebastian and m!mc

🐍 Chaotic modern Sebastian headcannons

🐍 Ominis x blind!reader headcannons

🐍 Modern platonic Sebastian headcanons with m!mc

🐍 Chaotic modern sliver trio headcanons & imagines

SIBLING! READER

🐍 React to sister! Reader dating

🐍 React to their little sibling falling in their dorm

🐍 Sister!reader on her first period

🐍 Riddle brothers with a sister having a Mandy personality

🐍 Baby! Reader taking their first steps

🐍 Modern au riddle brothers with a little sibling

🐍 Reacting to eating their food

🐍 Baby sibling falling asleep on them

🐍 Reacting to sibling reader crying/bullied

🐍 Reacting to sibling reader ignore them

🐍 Draco with a twin gryffindor sister

🐍 Reacting to little sibling cling to them after holiday

[deadghosy]

Mattheo, Theodore, Lorenzo x male reader (Group/poly)

Where they’re werewolves? — super protective & scenting their mate all the time

WEREWOLF! MATTHEO, THEODORE & LORENZO X MALE! READER

You didn’t know how this happened. All you did was be yourself around your housemates in Slytherin. Not knowing 3 of them were werewolves, and now. You’re their mate. Their scent all over you, always are around you. They look like bodyguards as mattheo and Theodore are by your side while as Lorenzo is behind you when walking to class or anywhere.

Some might say you are very protected, which is true. Your boys love you well to the point they get kinda aggressive when they deem someone as a threat to the relationship the four of you have. Mattheo almost got a boy into a coma, all because the student didn’t “back off”. Theodore goes with verbal abuse and confrontation. He knows how to scare people away. And then there’s Lorenzo who’s a devil in disguise. Doing small little curses at the person. Making them go crazy.

Sometimes you can’t even catch your own breath around those 3. When relaxing in the common room, mattheo is on your left, Theodore is on your right, and Lorenzo is just sitting in front of your legs and in between them. His head leaning back so you could scratch his scalp. The boys are always begging for you to scratch their scalp. The way you do it just makes them wanna claim you all over again.

When you scratch mattheo, his head is all in your neck. Pressing soft kisses, he’ll even do small nips at it as he rubs your hips. For when you scratch Theodore, his tall body is leaning down on you. Making you having to lay on something as Theodore is literally rubbing his face in your neck. Masking his scent again on you over, and over. Lorenzo is slightly tamed as he just smile while giving your wrist soft kisses. Your boys love you very well.

Sometimes you play little jokes on them. Mattheo would try to find you when you had sprayed your fragrance you use a lot on a hoodie so you can trick the riddle werewolf that you were in your room. When really you were outside in the yard. Mattheo found you an hour later and was absolutely touch starved. Immediately hugging you and kissing your face with those beautiful eyes of his tracking your whole body to make sure you were okay.

Lorenzo is practically the most softest of them all. He’s the one who follows you the most. Rubbing your stomach when lying down together, holding your hands.

And when the full moon hits. They can’t help but transform into their wolves and lick your hands and face. Their licks to your face is basically kisses as they try to speak only to growl in admiration at how you aren’t scared of them. Mattheo is a dark wolf, Theodore is a mixture of light brown and brown fur, and Lorenzo is just a bright brown color. So you’re lucky to know which one is which.

Right as of now, you are in what muggles call a dog pile. Lorenzo is on your stomach, mattheo is on your right, and Theodore is on your left. Cuddling you with their body heat as the slight broken heater in your room was heating it up against the cold night. Lorenzo was half asleep as he just cuddled deeper against your belly. Sometimes Lorenzo had “urges” deeper than the other boys surprisingly. Mattheo was playing with your fingers as Theodore was playing with your hair. “Darling..when is the next moon?” Lorenzo asks, his voice a little husky from drowsiness. You took a deep breath in and look over at the calendar.

“Oh my…it’s tonight…” you say, sitting up a little as your boys groaned annoyed. They hated turning into wolves. More or so reasons because they can’t hold you properly or ki ss you properly. They find it mostly annoying how you baby them when they pamper you so much in their regular form.

“I hate it..” Lorenzo said. Nuzzling his messy bed hair against your stomach before pouting up at you. “I know dear.” You said with a soft voice. You started to scratch his scalp, making him let out a sigh of relief. Your two boys only relaxed in your presence. Minutes passed and they could feel themselves wanting to transform.

“Can I kiss you before we transform?”

“Could I still lay on you??”

“Can I hug you right now?”

Questions were just thrown out in the air. You weren’t overwhelmed of course, just thrown off at how quick your boys wanted you before they transformed. You kissed mattheo gently, you let Theodore hug you. His dark wood scent clinging into you. And you nodded yes to Lorenzo who smiled still. Just happy to stay lay on you. Again, a few minutes pass and mattheo is the first one to transform. His dark black fur covering your eyes of Theodore and Lorenzo following suit. Now you felt a wolf’s nose on your stomach. Whimpering as Theodore and mattheo just snuggle into your arms.

“Awww Lorenzo..it’s just for tonight love.” You say that but the poor werewolf has his ears pushed back. It seems mattheo is laughing at the other werewolf. Because Theodore then smacks the dark wolf with his paw. Making mattheo growl a little. “Hey! No fighting on my bed you gits.” You give them a pointed look. Making your three boys nuzzle against you.

They licked your face, making you giggle. Your giggle made it even more known at how sweet and apiece you were and are to them.

They are your boys.