After Y/n Potter finds out about a bet between Theodore Nott and his friends, she is left heartbroken. Theo, who accidentally fell for her, is confident he'll win her back.
Warnings: ANGST, hurt/comfort, depression, heartbreak, slight manipulation, using alcohol to cope. (Let me know if I forgot anything).
Word Count: 2.7k
Masterlist I Part 1
The weeks after the betrayal were a blur.
A slow, suffocating kind of numbness settled over you, thick and inescapable, like fog that clung to your skin and crawled into your lungs, dulling everything but the ache.
You had always been strong. Brave. The kind of girl who carried other people’s pain like it was lighter than her own. You were the one who gave encouraging smiles across the common room, who let others lean on you even when your own shoulders ached.
But not this time.
Not after Theodore Nott.
Because this time, it wasn’t just heartbreak.
It was devastation. It was betrayal. It was a collapse from the inside out.
You stopped smiling. Stopped laughing. Stopped being you.
The mirror became a stranger you couldn’t meet the eyes of. You stopped brushing your hair. Stopped wearing the scarf he gave you. Stopped singing along to the songs your mum used to play, the ones Theo pretended not to like but had memorized anyway.
Your bed became your sanctuary and your prison. You curled beneath the covers, body rigid, unmoving, hoping the world would forget you existed.
You started skipping meals. At first because you couldn’t stomach the thought of walking into the Great Hall and seeing his face and later, because food tasted like ash in your mouth anyway. Your hands trembled more now. The hollows under your eyes deepened. Some days, you didn’t speak at all.
Classes became background noise. Your quill stayed dry. Professors called your name, and you didn’t answer. The world kept spinning, and you couldn’t understand how it hadn’t stopped.
Hermione asked if you were okay. You told her you were just tired.
Ron asked if Theo did something. You shook your head with a hollow laugh.
Harry didn’t ask at all.
He just watched you from across the room, brows drawn tight, his jaw clenched like it physically hurt him not to step in. But he didn’t push. He never had to. He knew your tells. And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that something had broken in you.
The whispers started a few days before Christmas.
It began as murmurs in hallways, then louder, more confident, as the truth clawed its way through the school like wildfire.
“Did you hear what he did to her?”
“She’s Potter’s sister. He’s got a bloody death wish.”
“Merlin, I heard he made a bet, fifty galleons to seduce her, sleep with her, then dump her before the holidays.”
“She trusted him. He used her.”
“She loved him.”
You didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend him. Didn’t speak a word.
Let them say it, all of it. Let them tear his name to shreds, spit it through clenched teeth, pin him to the wall with their fury. You let it happen because part of you hoped if they hated him enough, it might undo how much you still loved him.
But it didn’t.
Because even after everything, you still saw him.
In every hallway you walked down. In the library where you used to sit with your knees brushing under the table. In the Astronomy Tower where you first kissed him beneath the stars. In the corridor where he first touched your cheek, told you that you had ink on your face, and made you blush like an idiot.
You still heard his voice in your head. Still read your old Charms textbook and remembered the note he slipped into it.
You couldn’t eat Chocolate Frogs anymore. Couldn’t bear the thought of one showing up in your bag again, not knowing if it would be a gift or just another cruel echo of what you lost.
And your dreams?
They were the worst of all.
You still dreamed of him.
Of soft kisses and laughter by the lake. Of his hands wrapped around yours. Of the way he used to look at you when you weren’t looking, like you were something fragile and irreplaceable.
Except now, the dreams always ended the same way.
With his voice in that common room.
“She’s easy once you know what to say.”
You’d wake up gasping. Shaking. Sometimes crying so hard you bit your own hand to keep from making noise. Sometimes Harry would find you sitting by the fire hours before dawn, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the flames like they could burn away what he did to you.
And the worst part?
He saw you too.
Not just in classes. Not just in passing.
He looked at you.
Like you were a ghost he’d never stop chasing. Like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and you were the only thing that could fill the gnawing ache he’d carved into himself.
Like he remembered everything too.
You hated that part most of all, the way he still looked at you like he meant it.
As if the boy who shattered you could somehow still feel broken.
As if you weren’t already bleeding enough for the both of you.
And so you held your head high.
Even when it trembled.
Even when your vision blurred.
Because if you let yourself stop, if you let yourself look back…
You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to walk away again.
-----------
It was snowing outside when Theodore cornered you in the Owlery.
The stone walls were slick with cold, the wind slicing in through the high, arched windows, rattling the wooden rafters above. Snow drifted in slow, lazy flurries through the open arches, settling in soft piles near the roosts. Your fingers were stiff, numb with cold as you tried to tie a letter to your owl’s leg, breath fogging in the frigid air.
And then, “Y/N.”
His voice cleaved through the silence like a blade.
You froze mid-motion, the ribbon cutting into your fingers as your grip tightened. The parchment crinkled beneath your hand.
You didn’t turn.
He looked like hell.
Dark circles ringed his eyes like bruises. His lips were cracked, raw from wind or worry, or both. His school robes hung off him like a second skin he no longer fit into, wrinkled, disheveled, the tie completely gone. His hair was unkempt, wind-tossed, but not in the effortlessly cool way it used to be. No. This time, it looked like he hadn’t touched it in days.
There was a strange hollowness in him, like something had caved in and never quite filled back out.
“I need to explain-”
“No.” You cut in sharply, your voice flat and empty. You didn’t even raise your eyes. “You don’t.”
He hesitated.
“Please.”
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Just go away.”
“I can’t.” His voice cracked, barely audible above the wind. “I’ve tried. Merlin, I’ve tried to leave you alone, but I can’t-”
Your owl gave a sharp shriek and launched into the air, wings slicing through the snowfall, disappearing into the white blur beyond the arches.
You stood still for another breath, another two, then turned to face him.
He looked like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.
And for a moment, just one, he looked hopeful. Like maybe there was something in your eyes that he could still reach.
But there wasn’t.
“You already left me alone, Theodore,” you whispered, voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “The second you agreed to the game.”
He flinched.
You didn’t wait for a response.
Didn’t let yourself linger, because if you did, you weren’t sure your legs would keep moving.
So you walked past him, slow, deliberate, the snow biting at your cheeks like tiny needles, the cold sharp in your lungs. You didn’t stop walking until your fingers were numb and your throat ached from holding in everything you didn’t say.
And behind you, Theodore didn’t follow.
He just stood there.
Silhouetted in snowfall.
Alone.
Exactly the way he made you feel.
-----------
The Yule Ball came and went.
You didn’t go.
The invitations had piled up, boys asking if you’d be their date with nervous grins and trembling hands, but you turned them all down. Politely. Quietly. There was no room left in you for pretty dresses or floating candles or music that reminded you of the way he used to hum under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.
So you stayed in the common room, curled up in a too-large jumper by the fire, pretending to read a book you’d already finished twice. The Gryffindor girls laughed and twirled around you, high on the thrill of the night, but their voices felt miles away.
He went.
Of course he did.
With Daphne Greengrass on his arm, her nails painted emerald to match his tie, the same color as the ribbon he once used to tie up your hair, the one still hidden in the bottom of your trunk.
They looked like a painting: him tall and pale and silent, her laughing too loudly at things he didn’t say. She clung to his side like it meant something, like she didn’t notice how his eyes were always scanning the crowd, looking for a ghost.
Everyone knew it was a front. Even Daphne.
Especially Daphne.
She tried to kiss him during the last song, slow and soft beneath the glittering snowfall that had started to drift from the enchanted ceiling.
He turned his head away.
Didn’t say a word.
Later that night, when the castle had gone quiet and the corridors echoed with the fading warmth of celebration, you slipped out of your dorm and wandered toward the Astronomy Tower. You told yourself you just wanted air. Just wanted to breathe. Just wanted to reclaim something, anything, that hadn’t been touched by him.
But he was already there.
Curled against the far wall, slumped beneath the stars, the moonlight painting sharp angles into his too-thin frame. His cloak was half-off his shoulder, his tie undone, his hair a mess of curls falling into his eyes.
He was drunk.
Alone.
His hands were trembling, white-knuckled around a crumpled piece of parchment. One of yours. You couldn’t tell which one, the ink had bled, distorted by tears and smudged fingerprints. Your handwriting, once so neat, now unreadable.
He held it like it was holy. Like it was all he had left.
He didn’t see you.
Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath when you realized he was crying.
Not the quiet kind.
The kind that ripped out of your chest when no one was listening. The kind that left you empty.
You stood there in silence, the snow creeping in through the open arches, cold settling into your bones.
And for a second, just one, your fingers twitched at your side, like you might go to him. Like you might kneel beside him and wipe the tears from his cheeks and tell him he ruined you, but you still couldn’t bear to see him broken.
But you didn’t.
You turned.
And left before he could ever know you’d been there.
-----------
February.
Your Potions partner dropped the class.
You were assigned a new one.
Theo.
You nearly protested. Nearly walked out.
But something in you, maybe anger, maybe exhaustion, said no.
You sat beside him in stony silence, ignoring the way his fingers twitched near yours, the way his voice caught every time he said your name.
You didn’t speak.
But he did.
Little by little.
Week by week.
He asked if you were okay.
You didn’t answer.
He complimented your potion knowledge.
You ignored him.
He passed you a note once during a silent reading assignment. All it said was:
“I miss the way you smiled at me.”
You burned it with a flick of your wand.
He didn’t pass another one.
But he never stopped looking at you.
-----------
It happened in March.
You were on patrol. Alone. Prefect duty.
There was shouting echoing through the dungeons. At first you thought it was Peeves. But then you recognized the voices.
Theo.
Draco.
“-She’s not yours to fix, Nott!”
“She’s not yours to talk about!”
“You broke her-”
“And I’ll spend the rest of my life fixing it, if I have to!”
You rounded the corner just in time to see Theo punch Draco in the gut.
Hard.
Draco wheezed and stumbled back, red-faced and furious.
But Theo didn’t look angry.
He looked wrecked.
“I love her,” he said, voice hoarse. “You don’t get to talk about her like she’s some stupid bet we won.”
“She’s a Potter,” Draco spat. “You think her brother’s ever going to let you near her again?”
“I don’t care what Potter thinks.”
Theo turned, eyes blazing.
“I care what she thinks.”
He looked up, and saw you.
Everything stilled.
You stared at each other in the dark hallway, heart pounding, lips parted.
Then you walked away.
Not because you were angry.
But because, for the first time in months…
You didn’t know what to feel.
-----------
Two days later, a letter showed up on your bed.
Nothing except your name.
You hesitated, fingers trembling, then opened it.
Y/N,
I don’t know how to do this right. I never did.
The night they made the bet, I was drunk. I was stupid. I said yes because I didn’t want to be the one they laughed at. I thought it would be harmless. I thought it would be easy.
But you weren’t easy.
You were brilliant. Brave. Kind. You looked at me like I was worth something, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t think I deserved that.
Somewhere between pretending and falling, I lost track of the lie.
And by the time I realized I loved you, it was too late.
I don’t want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know that I never stopped choosing you.
Even now. Even in silence. Even when it hurts.
You cried.
Not because you forgave him.
But because, for the first time, you believed him.
-----------
The next time he approached you, you didn’t walk away.
You didn’t smile either.
You just stood by the Black Lake, arms crossed, as he approached slowly, like he wasn’t sure you wouldn’t disappear.
“I still hate what you did,” you said softly.
He nodded. “You should.”
“I’m still angry.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “Stay angry. Just… be angry with me. Not without me.”
You exhaled shakily. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “As long as it takes.”
Silence.
Then finally. “You’ll wait… and you’ll make it up to me.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
You raised an eyebrow. “You want me back, Theodore Nott? You’re going to earn it.”
His mouth parted.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
“I can do that.”
And Merlin help you,
You smiled back.
-----------
He wrote you letters. Almost daily.
Never asked for anything.
Just sent you thoughts. Funny stories. Memories. Apologies.
One had a pressed flower from the Black Lake. “Thought you might want to keep it this time.”
One had a bad sketch of you. “My masterpiece. Don’t laugh.”
One had a Chocolate Frog with a note: “For old times. No tricks. Promise.”
You didn’t respond.
But you didn’t throw them away.
-----------
May.
You sat by the lake again, the same log where he first made you laugh.
You heard footsteps.
You didn’t turn.
He sat beside you in silence.
Then, quietly: “Do you hate me less today?”
You smiled, just a little. “Maybe.”
“Enough to go for a walk?”
You looked at him.
His eyes were softer than you remembered. Like he’d carved away every part that used to be cruel just to be worthy of sitting beside you again.
You nodded.
He stood and held out his hand.
You stared at it.
Then, finally, you took it.
It was warm.
Steady.
Real.
He didn’t pull you in.
Didn’t kiss you.
Didn’t rush it.
He just held your hand as you walked, like the slow act of existing beside you was enough.
And maybe, just maybe, it was.
Because love isn’t loud.
It’s not always fireworks and confessions and screaming matches.
Sometimes, it’s just this.
A quiet beginning.
After everything.
-----------
Epilogue
You kissed him again for the first time in the rain.
He was holding your face, soaked and trembling, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe you were real again.
“I’m still angry,” you whispered.
He smiled. “Good.”
“And I still don’t trust you fully.”
“I’ll earn it.”
And when you kissed him, he didn’t rush.
He kissed you like he was scared to wake up.
And for the first time since you walked away that night, the world felt right again.
Not perfect.
But healing.
Together.
----------------
Thank you all so much for all the love on Cruel Games. It siriusly (; means so much me, I really thought that this acc would just be something for me to do for fun and that It wouldn't blow up! Also thank you to all the people said I should make a part two, I'll tag you down below!!
Tag List: @lilians17 @thegoddessofnothingness @fries11 @froggiedragon @nayegpr
Theodore Nott x female reader (Harry's twin sister)
He never meant to fall for her.
When a drunken bet between Slytherin’s most notorious boys dares Theodore Nott to make the Gryffindor princess, Harry Potter’s twin sister, fall in love with him, it starts as a game. Fifty galleons. One month. One heart.
Warnings: ANGST, betrayal, heartbreak, manipulation, underage drinking. (Idk what else, let me know if I forgot anything).
Word Count: 3.6k
Masterlist I Part 2
The Slytherin boys’ dormitory reeked of firewhisky and the air was thick with smoke, both from the cigarettes and the heat of too many egos in one room. Bottles clinked together in careless hands.
It was nearing 2AM. The fifth bottle had just been cracked open.
“Mate, I’m telling you,” Lorenzo Berkshire slurred, tipping his half-empty bottle toward Theodore Nott with a lazy, drunken grin. He was draped across one of the emerald velvet chairs like he was born in it. “You don’t have the balls.”
Theo sat on the edge of his bed, one long leg stretched out, the other pulled close. He twirled his wand between two fingers, lips twitching into a faint smirk. His dark hair fell into his eyes, shadowing the perpetual boredom painted across his sharp features.
“Don’t tempt him, Enzo,” Mattheo Riddle chimed in, flicking ash from his cigarette with a smirk. “He’ll do it just to prove you wrong. Pride's practically a second religion to this one.”
“Thirty galleons,” Draco offered, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. His cheeks were flushed with liquor and mischief. “If you can make her fall for you.”
“The Gryffindor princess herself,” Blaise added smoothly, spinning a gold coin between his fingers. “Y/N Potter. Golden girl. Top of her class. And tragically naive.”
Theo raised an eyebrow, mildly intrigued. “You want me to date Harry Potter’s twin sister?” he repeated, drawing the words out slowly, like they were some foreign incantation.
Draco grinned like a cat. “Not just date. Win her over. Make her think it’s real. Sweep her off her feet, flowers, compliments, the whole bloody show.”
“Take her to Hogsmeade,” Blaise offered. “Let her wear your scarf. Make her think you’re different.”
“And if you sleep with her…” Enzo slurred, barely able to sit up straight, “I’ll throw in an extra twenty galleons. Fifty in total. Enough for that new broom you've been eyeing, yeah?”
Theo’s smirk faltered, just for a moment. The idea was ridiculous. Cruel. He wasn't desperate. And yet…
He could already hear their laughter if he refused. He could see it, the smug glances, the mocking jabs, the unspoken truth that they thought he couldn’t do it.
That she was too far out of reach, even for him.
“Relax, mate,” Mattheo said with a crooked grin. “It’s not like she’s a saint. She’s still a teenage girl. With a thing for dark-haired brooding types, I’ve heard.”
“Bet starts tomorrow,” Draco added quickly, already savoring the spectacle. “You’ve got until the Yule Ball to seal the deal.”
Theo’s eyes narrowed. That gave him… what? A little over a month?
A month to make Y/N Potter fall for him.
“Sick game,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
“Says the one who hasn’t said no,” Blaise sing-songed.
The room fell into a brief, heavy silence, punctuated only by the slow drip of firewhisky from a tipped bottle.
Theo’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t a monster, but he wasn’t a coward either. And somewhere deep down, buried under years of pureblood pride and reckless anger, he wanted to prove that he could do it. That he could charm the Gryffindor sweetheart, just to spite the world that always told him he’d never be enough.
He raised his bottle with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Fine,” he said, voice cold and deliberate. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
The room erupted.
Lorenzo whooped, slamming his hand against the nearest wall. Blaise let out a low whistle. Mattheo raised his cigarette in a mock toast. Draco looked positively gleeful.
-----------
You never really noticed Theodore Nott before.
He was quiet, dangerously so. Not in the way that demanded attention like Draco Malfoy, or commanded it like Mattheo Riddle. Theo drifted through hallways like smoke: sharp-eyed, unreadable, always just out of reach.
And maybe that’s why you stayed away. Because he never looked your way. Because he was a Slytherin. Because you were a Potter. And because, deep down, something about him terrified you, not in a bad way. In the way falling feels just before you hit the ground.
But then, one day, he looked at you.
It was just after Transfiguration, and you were halfway down the corridor when you noticed him leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. The sunlight streaming through the high windows lit up the dust motes in the air and cast a soft golden halo around him.
His eyes found you instantly.
“Y/N Potter,” he said casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve got ink on your cheek.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Before you could react, he stepped forward and reached out. His thumb brushed gently across your cheek, his touch feather-light but confident, like he had every right to touch you. You froze, heart stuttering in your chest as he looked down at you, eyes glinting with amusement.
“There,” he said, voice lower now, lips quirking. “Gone now.”
He didn’t wait for a thank you. Just turned, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked away.
You stood there in the corridor for a full minute after he disappeared, your cheek still tingling where he’d touched it.
That was the beginning.
-----------
He kept showing up.
At first, you thought it was coincidence, him passing by your table in the library, brushing past you in Potions, or sitting a few rows behind you in Astronomy. But then it started happening more often. And then it stopped feeling like coincidence.
He’d sit near you in the library, pretending to read but glancing up every few minutes like he was waiting for you to look at him. You never made the first move, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Sometimes, you’d find a Chocolate Frog slipped into your bag. Once, he left a folded note inside your Charms textbook. All it said was:
“You bite your lip when you're reading. Very Distracting.”
You blushed so hard you couldn’t focus for the rest of the lesson.
He held doors open. He remembered how you took your tea. He teased you gently, never cruelly, always with a smirk that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to admit.
But what got you most, what really ruined you, was how he listened.
Really listened.
Not just to your words, but to the things you didn’t say. To the sighs between sentences, the way your hands fidgeted when you were anxious, how your eyes lit up when you spoke about your mum’s old records. He’d nod like it mattered. Like you mattered.
He wasn’t who you thought he was.
He was thoughtful. Witty. Unexpectedly gentle, especially when the world wasn’t watching.
You remember the first time he made you laugh so hard you cried. You’d both snuck out of the castle, bundled in cloaks and scarves, sitting by the Black Lake under a fading winter sun. He was telling you about the time Draco accidentally hexed himself bald in third year, and his impressions were so ridiculous you nearly fell off the log you were sitting on.
Theo caught you before you did, hands gripping your waist, breathless from laughter. And for a moment, just one, he didn’t let go.
You remember looking up at him, suddenly aware of how close he was. How his laugh faded into something quieter. How the space between you felt like it was made of static.
That was the first time he kissed you.
It was soft. Hesitant, like he was scared you might pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You kissed him back like you’d been waiting for it your entire life.
After that, everything changed.
He’d greet you in the morning with a quiet “Hi, love” as he passed your table. His hand would brush yours under the library table, fingers tangled briefly, heart pounding. You’d sneak out to the Astronomy Tower late at night and lie on your backs, stargazing, whispering secrets into the dark like they’d disappear by morning.
And one day he introduced you to his friends.
The boys didn’t say much, just raised their brows when you walked into the dining hall hand-in-hand with Theo.
Mattheo gave him a slow, knowing smirk. Blaise leaned back and muttered something under his breath. Draco looked you over like he was sizing you up but said nothing.
Lorenzo was the only one who spoke.
“Didn’t think it was real,” he muttered, raising his glass toward Theo. “Guess we all owe you now, huh?”
You didn’t know what he meant.
But Theo just tightened his grip on your hand and smiled. “Yeah,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Guess you do.”
-----------
It wasn’t long before you fell, completely, recklessly, all-consuming.
And he made it so easy.
You remember the night it happened, the night you nearly told him you loved him.
It was storming outside, rain pounding against the floor of the Astronomy Tower. You were both curled up on a conjured blanket, far past curfew, the fire in the nearby torch casting warm flickers across his face.
“I don’t like people much,” Theo murmured into your hair, his arm wrapped around your waist. “Never have.”
You turned your face toward him. “You like me.”
He looked down at you then, his expression unguarded for the first time.
“I like you too much.”
There was a pause.
Then he kissed you again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he had all the time in the world.
You didn’t stop it when his hands slid under your jumper. You didn’t want to. Every touch felt sacred, like something you’d been holding out for your entire life..
It ended with you asleep in his arms, limbs tangled together like a secret only the two of you knew.
And for the first time in years, you felt safe.
Wanted.
Chosen.
You were falling. Hard.
And the worst part?
So was he. Or at least, that’s what you believed.
-----------
Six weeks.
That’s how long it took for you to fall in love with Theodore Nott.
Six weeks of stolen glances and midnight kisses. Of aching silence and whispered promises. Six weeks of convincing yourself that this, whatever this was, meant something to him too.
You let him in. Past the layers. Past the name that followed you like a shadow. Past the expectations of being Harry Potter’s sister. With him, you weren't “The Girl Who Lived” You were just you.
And you thought, maybe that was enough.
But all of that shattered on a Thursday night.
You’d just finished tutoring a second-year in Charms and were heading back to the Gryffindor Tower through the dungeons, a path you took sometimes because it was quiet and warm and Theo always met you halfway.
But tonight, he wasn’t there.
Instead, you passed by the entrance to the Slytherin common room just as the door cracked open, left ajar by someone who clearly forgot to close it all the way.
You weren’t trying to listen. You weren’t even curious.
Until you heard your name.
“She actually thinks you like her?” Blaise’s voice rang through the air, slick with mockery. “Merlin, Nott, I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”
Your feet stopped cold. Your hand dropped from your bookbag.
Inside, laughter rippled like poison.
“She’s a Potter, mate,” Mattheo added, a cruel grin evident in his tone. “You’re playing the long game.”
“Fifty galleons richer by Christmas,” Lorenzo said smugly. “Who knew Theo had it in him?”
Your throat closed up. You felt your heart stutter and then drop entirely. The air around you shifted, colder, heavier. Like the world had tilted and you hadn’t caught up yet.
And then you heard it.
His voice.
Theodore’s voice.
He chuckled, low and lazy, like this was just another conversation. Like you were just another game.
“Wasn’t that hard,” he said, and your breath caught. “She’s easy once you know what to say.”
Someone laughed. Maybe Mattheo. Maybe Enzo. You couldn’t tell. Everything felt like it was happening underwater.
“You had her wrapped around your finger after what, two weeks?” Draco sneered. “Almost impressive.”
Theo didn’t deny it.
Didn’t hesitate.
He just shrugged. “She wanted someone to see her. I pretended I did. Simple.”
The boys hollered. Blaise clapped him on the back. You could almost hear their smirks, like knives in your spine.
“She thinks you care,” Mattheo said with a dark laugh. “You’ve practically got her begging to say it first.”
“What’s next?” Enzo added. “Collect your winnings, and ghost her before New Year’s?”
And Theo, your Theo, just laughed.
“As if I’d stay longer than that.”
The words punched the air out of your lungs.
Your hand flew to your mouth before the sob could escape, but it was too late. The world tilted on its axis, the corridor swaying around you.
You stumbled back a step, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. You couldn’t stay there. You couldn’t breathe. Every word kept echoing in your head like a curse you couldn’t lift.
“She’s easy.”“I pretended I did.”“As if I’d stay longer than that.”
You wanted to be wrong. You wanted to burst through the door and demand he take it back. Tell you it was just a joke. That they made him say it. That he didn’t mean it.
But you didn’t.
You turned and walked away.
Fast. Silent. Shaking.
The tears came before you even made it to the end of the corridor.
Not soft ones. Not quiet ones.
Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that tore out of your chest like something feral.
Six weeks.
Six weeks of believing he saw you. Loved you. Chose you.
And the whole time, it was for a bet.
-----------
You didn’t confront him right away.
Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even when he passed you in the hallway with that easy, lopsided smile and whispered “Hi, love” like nothing had changed.
You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe without choking on everything you now knew.
Instead, you let it rot. You let the betrayal sit in your chest like a curse, burning and festering until all that was left was ash.
You stayed up all night. Sleepless, shaking, clutching your pillow like it might hold you together. Over and over, you replayed every kiss, every look, every promise.
Every lie.
The worst part was, he was good at it. Too good. He made you believe. He made you trust.
And you hated him for it.
But you hated yourself more, for falling.
By the time you decided to confront him, the rage had burned through you like wildfire and left nothing but hollow devastation behind.
It was two days later when you saw him again.
He was by the Black Lake, just like always, hands shoved in his coat pockets, the early December wind tousling his hair. His head was tilted to the side, watching the water with the kind of stillness that used to make you think he was a mystery worth solving.
You knew better now.
Your footsteps were slow. Measured. He turned when he heard you approach, and for a moment, just a moment, his whole face lit up.
He looked happy to see you.
That hurt more than anything.
“Y/N-” he started, voice soft, a smile tugging at his lips.
And then your hand cracked across his face.
Hard.
His head snapped to the side. The sound echoed off the lake, sharp and final like a closing door. A few birds startled from the nearby reeds, flying off into the grey sky.
Silence settled between you like a chasm.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there, stunned, cheek reddening where your palm had landed.
You stared at him, your chest rising and falling too fast, your breath unsteady, eyes already glassy with tears you swore you wouldn’t let fall.
“You lied to me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, but each word struck like a blade. “All of it. The notes. The smiles. The way you looked at me.”
His expression cracked.
“No, Y/N, wait-” he took a step forward.
You stepped back immediately, shaking your head.
“Don’t.” Your voice broke. “Don’t come near me.”
He flinched like you’d struck him again.
“You bet on me,” you choked, each word trembling with disbelief and fury. “You bet on me, Theodore. You made me fall for you. For galleons. For fun.”
He looked like he couldn’t breathe either.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, okay, it started that way. I won’t lie to you. I was stupid. I was drunk. They were egging me on, but it changed, Y/N. It wasn’t, Merlin, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but then it did-”
“Stop,” you whispered. “Please stop.”
His voice died in his throat.
Tears stung your eyes, your vision blurring as your lip trembled. “You looked me in the eyes. You kissed me. You held me like I meant something. All while laughing about it behind my back.”
Theo’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
He looked… broken. Gutted.
But not as much as you.
You took another step back. “You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t get to say it changed. You don’t get to rewrite what you did.”
He tried again, desperate now. “Please, Y/N, just listen, I swear, I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know I’d-”
“But you did,” you whispered, tears finally spilling over. “You meant to. And you broke me anyway.”
The wind howled between you, biting and cold.
His shoulders sagged. His hands, once so steady, trembled at his sides. He looked at you like he didn’t recognize himself.
But you did.
And you would never forget it.
So you turned.
And walked away.
You didn’t run. You didn’t sob. You didn’t scream.
You just walked, slow and shaking, because if you ran, you wouldn’t stop. And if you stopped, you’d collapse.
Behind you, Theo didn’t follow.
He just stood there.
Alone.
In the cold.
Holding the pieces of everything he ruined.
-----------
Theo didn’t return to the dorm that night.
Or the next.
The Slytherin common room, once filled with heat and laughter and too-loud bragging, felt colder now. Empty, even with five boys still inhabiting its dark green walls.
The fire burned low in the hearth, barely crackling anymore.
Theo hadn’t spoken since that day by the lake.
At first, the others shrugged it off.
“Let him sulk,” Mattheo muttered. “He’ll get over it.”
“Probably just embarrassed,” Blaise added. “Got in too deep, that’s all.”
But he didn’t “get over it.”
He barely spoke in class. Showed up late to Potions, if at all. Sat in the back of lectures with hollow eyes and ink-stained fingers. He no longer cracked sarcastic jokes under his breath or leaned over to whisper something cruelly clever during a boring lecture.
He didn’t flirt.
He didn’t smile.
And he didn’t look at anyone the same way, not really.
You had become a ghost to him.
A phantom that clung to every hallway, every staircase, every book left on a table with your name scrawled on the inside cover. He started walking the long way to class, just to avoid the places you used to meet. He couldn’t sit by the lake anymore, not even alone. He tried once. Lasted ten minutes. Then vomited in the bushes and didn’t go back.
He thought maybe if he drank enough, he could forget how your voice cracked when you said you broke me.
But the firewhisky only made it worse.
He started drinking late at night. Alone. Avoiding the others unless forced to share a table or a classroom. He stopped going to meals altogether. Once, Mattheo made a comment about him wasting away.
He didn’t respond.
And the moment anyone said your name, even in passing, his expression turned to stone. Cold. Barely human.
But it was Lorenzo who finally pushed him too far.
They were in the dorm, mid-December, snow piling outside the windows and music crackling. Theo sat on the windowsill in silence, staring at nothing, while the others tried to pretend things were still normal.
“Told you she’d break eventually,” Enzo said, laughing with a swig of his drink. “Didn’t think you’d lose your mind over it, though.”
He smirked as he held up a galleon between two fingers. “Fifty well-earned galleons, boys. Now you can finally buy that-”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Theo punched him.
Hard.
The crack of fist against jaw echoed through the dorm like a firework.
Enzo stumbled back, blood already spilling from his split lip. “What the fuck, mate-?!”
“Say her name,” Theo said, his voice eerily calm. “See what happens.”
Nobody laughed after that.
Not Mattheo.
Not even Draco.
They all stared at Theo, at the tightness in his jaw, the haunted look in his eyes, and realized that this wasn’t just some heartbreak.
This was ruin.
Because the damage was done.
He’d played the part. Worn the mask. Followed the rules of the game they all built together.
He’d won the bet.
But in doing so, he’d lost the only thing that ever made him feel like more than a Nott.
More than a shadow.
He’d lost you.
And you, Y/N Potter, the girl who smiled into his shoulder and held his hand under library desks and kissed him like he mattered, you would never look at him the same way again.
Hell, you wouldn’t look at him at all.
And that was his punishment.
Not the silence from his friends.
Not the bleeding knuckles.
Not the sleepless nights or the screaming regret.
It was your absence.
The final, gaping hole you left behind when you walked away.
And Theo realized then:
He didn’t just ruin the best thing he ever had.
He ruined the only good thing he ever was.
----------------
I hope you guys loved it!!!! I am getting back into my harry potter era, so I went to search angsty theodore fics and there are like none so I wrote my own. <3
ok so might be a little freaky idk BUT…. Scott Barringer or/and Sam Monroe x vampire!reader who occasionally feeds off them but they lowkey freaky and enjoy it 😛😛 like they enjoy how they feel when they’re lightheaded and lowkey get hard but they don’t admit it… Like they lowkey look forward to those night that reader pulls up to feed off them 😭 You can make it a smut if u want but it’s not a need, I feel like reader would snicker at them (maybe call them hoes) and like idk fuck them or jerk them off while feeding off them or something idk bruh IT DONT GOT TO BE SMUT 😛🫶🫶
I like ur fics sm omfg can I be your 😛 anon or is it taken? If it is can I be your 💅 or 🍉 anon? Idfk what anon’s you hot bruh 💔💔
𐔌 : HEARING DAMAGE ⊹
《 SCOTT BARRINGER X VAMPIRE!MALE!READER 》 #newgenderpovwhodis 😣😳 divider credit: @uzmacchiato
SCOTT BARRINGER keeps a journal underneath his mattress. He writes about anything on his mind, documents his dreams, or whatever happened that day. This evening, as Yard of Blonde Girls plays on the stereo, Scott takes a pen from his backpack and searches for his journal. But it wasn't there. His heart dropped. Did his roommate find it and look through it? Hopefully not.. God, he hopes he didn't. That would be so embarrassing.
“Where is it? Where is it?” Scott mutters to himself anxiously while looking around the small dorm room in hopes he'd find the journal. He glances at a corner, and his heart drops. You. With his journal in your hands, and even worse, opened. “Today he visited me. He asked to feed off of me, and at first I said no, but he was so‐” You read from the book, but Scott snatches it from you. “That's not funny, man. Stop looking through my personal stuff.” The blond says with an annoyed expression and tone.
You chuckle and shake your head. “But he was so persuasive. Either I actually let it happen or he put me under spell-” “Stop! Fuck, did you memorize it or something? Jesus.” Scott rolls his eyes and shoves the journal back underneath the mattress. “Maybe.” You toss a shoulder and move over to the shelf on the wall where he keeps all his textbooks. “I didn't know you wrote about me in your diary.” You look back at him with a smug smile and pick out a textbook to look through.
Scott's cheeks flush pink, and he looks down at the floor. “It's not a diary, jackass.” He says and takes a seat on his bed. “It's just a journal for me to write in when I don't have anyone to talk to.” He fiddles with the strings of his sweats. “Really? I'm always here if you wanna talk, you know that. You don't need some dumb diary..” Scott looks up to you when the 'dumb diary' is mentioned. “Scuse me..” You say and clear your throat. “Dumb journal.” You correct yourself for his peace of mind. “Better.” Scott smiles a little bit after you correct yourself. “Mm.” You hum. “Anyway, yeah. You can just talk to me instead of writing down your thoughts. I don't have anything better to do.” You put the book back on the shelf. it's not like you were actually reading it.
“I can't talk to you about.. you. It's embarrassing.” Scott looks at everything but you. He's not so great with eye contact. “So is all you think about, me?” You chuckle and he groans. Scott gets defensive. “No! I meant.. like..” He looks at the floor for something to say with his bottom lip pierced by his teeth. “Like..” He furrows his brows and groans. “Shut up.” He rolls his eyes and waves dismissingly. You laugh and sit next to him.
“What's wrong? cat got your tongue, Scotty?” You ask while smiling. “Do you ever stop talking?” He snaps back and finally looks at you, but notices your faces are very close to each other, so he tries to scoot away, but you don't let him. You put your hand on his thigh and he immediately looks down at it. “What are you doing? Stop touching me.” He says, but really, he doesn't mean it. Both of you know he doesn't. “I can't touch you all of a sudden?” You say in a whisper. That whisper that does things to Scott.
“Don't even.” He looks away. “That was a one-time thing. I-I wasn't even thinking straight. I don't even think I wanted to do it. It was you! You, like.. like-” “Cast a spell on you so you'd do it?” You finish his thought, and he nods quickly. “Yeah, uh-huh. Exactly that.”
“Sorry to break it to you, blondie.. but that was all you. You said you wanted to, so.” You shrug and look away as well. In those few short moments, Scott's mind went back to that night when you came into his room, like usual. But the unusual thing about that time was the thing you did..
“A-ah.. shit. Don't stop, please don't stop.” Scott whimpered into your neck. Your hand was stroking him at a fast pace.. Just how he likes it. He was already jerking off when you randomly came in through the window that's always open. You thought you might as well finish the job for him.. you ruined his orgasm after all. “I'm close again.. hhuh.” Scott moaned and gripped your shirt. His moans bounced off the cold walls of his dorm room. Thank God his roommate is rarely there at night since he sleeps over at his girlfriend's apartment.
That was all Scott could remember before you interrupted his thoughts. “But you wish it wasn't.” Wish it wasn't a one-time thing. Scott groans and looks over at you. “Stop getting into my head. Again, that's personal.” He pushes you. You laugh it off. He's just embarrassed.. It's cute. “Alright, fine. I'm sorry.” You apologize and hold his cheek. Scott sighs and leans into your touch. “Whatever..” He plays it off. “Whatever?” You snicker. “Sure. Come on, let me make it up to you.” You tap his cheek.
“How?” He asks quietly. “You know..” You say and lean in close to his lips. Scott's breath hitches, but he doesn't move away. “I'm not gay.” He says after a moment of silence. “Never said you were. Plus, you always want me to kiss you. What's wrong with it today?” That got Scott thinking. Well, for one, he is gay. He's just in denial at the moment. And the other thing.. Well, there is no other thing. He's just in denial. “Nothing, I guess..” Scott closes his eyes and connects his lips with yours. It was a hungry, sloppy kiss, as if he had been waiting for it for a long time.
Making out led to getting horny.. and hungry. “Move.” You whisper to Scott and tilt his head to the side. “No.. please? You did it last time, and it still hurts..” Scott whines. Without even having to read his mind, you knew he enjoyed it when you fed off of him. “Just for a second.” You cover his mouth with your hand and sink your teeth into his neck. “Aah.. fuck. Shit, that hurts.” Scott grips your shoulder. But the pain only turned him on even more. He kept whining and making small noises of discomfort until he got lightheaded. He finally stayed quiet.
Scott smiled at the ceiling and bit his lip. It's like being high x100. His breathing stopped, and that's when you knew you had taken too much blood. You stop and look at him. He was so pale and looked drained. “My bad. Your blood.. it's.. the best I've ever tasted.” You help him lie down. “Thank you.” He replies slowly. Gosh, it's gonna take him a while to recover. “Fuck, Scott. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suck you dry.” Those words made him anxious. “Dry? What the hell, man! Am.. Am I gonna croak?” He panics. “No, no, no.. just.. go to the hospital.”
“With a bite in my neck? Right.” Scott rolls his eyes. “Fine.. I'll take care of you.” You lie down next to him and kiss his forehead. “I'll take good care of you.” You smile and caress his cheek. “You better.. because if I die, I'm haunting you.” He jokes. He trusts that you won't let him die. If he's close, then he 100% wants you to turn him into a cold, soulless vampire. It'd be pretty wicked, he thinks.
does teen!dad scotty ever get upset or annoyed a bit when leo wants out of his arms and to walk around a ton when at horizon (ik you’ve said when he starts walking and stuff he does around there) just cuz he wants to hold his baby as much he can fr or ??
girl I didnt see this, oops..
He gets a little upset. He hasn't seen Leo in weeks (maybe months), and all he wants to do is hold him, but Leo likes to move around all the time now that he can walk. Scott 100% gets jealous when Leo makes grabby hands at anyone else.
But when it's time for Leo to nap, Scott's the one putting him to sleep in his arms. He hums songs or reads bedtime stories. He definitely has a few books for that in his drawers so that when you and baby come over, Scott can read them.
synopsis: Jason comes back from patrol with a baby and soot in his hair. He never thought he deserved anything good, but you build something soft anyway.
words: 3.8k
warnings: crying baby. no use of y/n
---
The building is coming down around him.
Smoke curls like claws through the stairwell, the air thick with heat and sirens and screaming — but none of it matters. Not really. Not since he heard the crying.
He kicks down the last door on the left. Inside: scorched drywall, a mattress half on fire, and—
There.
Curled in the corner like a forgotten blanket. No older than a few weeks, swaddled in soot, mouth open and wailing. Eyes wild. Reaching.
Jason doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.
Just moves.
He’s across the room in three steps. Drops to his knees. Checks the baby over with hands he can’t make stop shaking. No visible burns. Still breathing. Covered in ash.
The moment he lifts him, the baby latches onto his flak vest with tiny, furious fingers.
Won’t let go.
Jason’s heart punches his ribs.
"Hey, hey," he rasps, trying to make his voice gentle. “Got you. I got you.”
A beam groans above them. He doesn’t wait. Tugs his jacket off and wraps it around the baby like armor. One hand under the neck. One against his chest. Head down. Go.
Out the hall. Down the fire escape. Through the smoke.
The baby doesn’t cry anymore. Just holds on.
And Jason?
Jason runs like hell.
—
You are not expecting a baby tonight.
In fact, the only things on your to-do list are:
Recharge.
Hydrate.
Kiss your hot husband when he gets home from his nightly war on Gotham’s crime statistics.
You are currently achieving two out of three. Your AirPods hum low-fi jazz into your ears, and the cucumbers on your eyelids are starting to slip down your cheekbones. Somewhere across the apartment, your diffuser is puffing lavender-scented clouds into the air like a sleepy little train. You smell like a coconut-sugar candle and your nails are drying. Life is good.
You’re just starting to doze off when the window clicks open.
Of course. Jason never uses the damn door.
You expect the usual: a grunt, a dropped helmet, maybe a kiss pressed to your forehead before he stumbles into the shower.
Instead, what you get is smoke. Soot. A strangled cry.
You sit up.
Cucumber slices slide down your cheeks and onto your hoodie. One AirPod clatters to the couch cushion. Your husband is standing in the middle of the living room, soot-streaked and wide-eyed, holding a bundled shape in his arms like it might vanish if he so much as blinks.
You stare at him.
Then at the bundle.
Then at him again.
“…Jason,” you say slowly. “That is a baby.”
“I know,” he blurts. “I know. I just—I didn’t think, okay? I saw him and I—”
“Jason.”
He takes two steps forward, the bundle squirming weakly in his arms. There’s a tiny, high-pitched hiccup. The shape shifts and reveals a round, red-blotched face, mouth open in the start of another wail. Soot clings to chubby cheeks.
Jason looks wrecked. More than usual. Helmet hair, bruised, a tear down the seam of his jacket. His arms are trembling.
“There was a fire. A ring. The bastards were running kids out of Crime Alley and I—he was just there. Crying. Everyone else gone. And he grabbed me. Grabbed my glove like he wasn’t letting go, and I just—” His voice breaks. “I saw myself for a second. Just. I moved. I didn’t think. I couldn’t leave him.”
You blink. A slow breath leaves your lungs.
“Come here,” you say, voice soft.
Jason hesitates. “Sweetheart—”
“I said come here.”
He obeys, like he always does when your voice dips into that tone.
You reach for the baby.
Your fingers graze the edge of the jacket and pause. The baby’s eyes flutter up. Red, watery, still in panic mode, but he looks at you. Just for a second.
You smile. “Hi there,” you whisper, more breath than words.
And then, gently, you ease the baby out of Jason’s arms.
He goes without a fight. The baby whimpers, grabbing your shirt with one sooty fist, and tucks himself into your chest with the kind of blind trust that makes your throat ache.
You sway a little, automatically. Muscle memory from a life you never thought you’d need.
“You did the right thing,” you say.
Jason’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His chest rises like he’s about to sob and collapse all at once.
“Breathe, Jay,” you tell him. “In. Out. Again.”
He listens.
One breath. Then another. Then a shuddering sigh.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispers.
“You brought him home,” you say simply. “That’s what you did.”
He swallows.
“Go shower. You’re bleeding. You smell like fire.”
“I can help—”
“You will. But after you shower.”
Jason hesitates. “We don’t even have wipes or—”
“Are you kidding me? You’re the Red Hood. You own three brands of baby wipes. You said they’re the only thing that gets the powder residue off your guns.”
He squints. “You said you wouldn't make fun of that anymore”
“Go. Shower. We’ll be here.”
Jason shoots you a grateful look and then turns to go to the washroom after promising the baby he’ll be back.
You settle onto the floor with the baby curled against your chest, sitting cross-legged by the coffee table like this is any other Tuesday night and not a total deviation from reality. Your fingers are already moving before your brain catches up, brushing soot from his forehead, rocking him in slow, instinctual sways.
He’s hiccuping. Sharp little spasms that jolt through his tiny body, each one punctuated by a shaky breath and a soft, broken sound from the back of his throat.
Your heart squeezes.
“Shhh,” you whisper, rocking a little more. “I know. I know, sweetheart. We’re gonna fix it, okay? You’re safe now.”
The baby wipes, Jason’s fancy, unscented ones, sit in the middle of the table like some cosmic joke. You grab them with one hand and ease the little boy into your lap with the other.
He blinks up at you, lashes crusted with ash, lips trembling. You think he’s trying to cry again, but he’s too tired. Instead, he lets out a low, wheezy whimper that turns into another hiccup, and you feel it all the way through you.
“I know,” you murmur. “Big day, huh?”
You unwrap Jason’s jacket that's been wrapped around the baby slowly, piece by piece. It’s warm from his body heat, and the baby makes a small sound of protest as the cooler air hits his skin.
“Oh, I know, I know,” you croon, voice going higher and softer without you meaning to. “Almost done. Let’s get you all cleaned up, little guy.”
What’s left of his onesie is charred at the edges, barely clinging to one shoulder. You tug at it carefully, apologizing every time the fabric catches. He doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are curled into little fists, still clutching invisible threads.
You grab the first wipe and start gently, his forehead, soft and warm, dotted with grime. You trace along his eyebrows, then sweep carefully down the bridge of his nose. Each stroke is featherlight, the kind you might use for glass.
He hiccups again, but it’s quieter this time.
“There you go,” you whisper. “See? Not so bad.”
You work your way down. Cheeks, chin, neck. There’s a smudge of blood near his ear that you clean with extra care. Not his, thankfully. His arms are sticky, tiny fingers coated in smoke and something that might have been applesauce at some point.
You talk the whole time.
Not because he understands, but because you need it. Because it keeps your hands steady. Because if this baby is going to live in your world now, then he deserves to hear words that are soft and steady and safe.
“You’re doing so good,” you say as you clean under his chin. “Brave little man. Bet you didn’t think you’d end up in a vigilante’s living room tonight, huh?”
He blinks, hiccups again. Then lets out a slow, shuddery sigh.
That’s the first time he really settles.
Not asleep, not yet. But no longer vibrating with fear. His hands uncoil a little. One of them smacks softly against your chest, fingers opening and closing. Grabbing. Seeking.
You let him wrap them around the drawstring of your hoodie.
“Got me?” you whisper. “Yeah. I’ve got you too.”
You work your way down to his belly, where there’s more ash than baby skin, and clean it in little circles. His legs twitch when you get to his feet. He lets out a hiccuping noise that might almost be a laugh.
You smile, watery and wide.
“Ticklish, huh? I’ll remember that.”
Once he’s clean, or as clean as he can be, you reach behind you for the towel you spotted earlier, fresh and fluffy from laundry day. You lay it out on your lap and ease him into it slowly, like wrapping a present made of porcelain.
He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t protest.
Just lets you fold the corners around him and pull him close.
You lift him again, now swaddled and warm and smelling like Jason’s baby wipes. His cheek presses to your shoulder. One final hiccup rattles out of him, soft and damp.
Then stillness.
You stroke a hand down his back and feel his breathing even out, the rhythm finally syncing with yours.
“See?” you whisper. “We’re okay.”
You hold him like that for a long time, rocking gently, chin resting atop his head. His grip on your hoodie string tightens once more, like he knows this is something new, something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he wants to keep it.
You kiss the top of his head, right over a little fuzz of hair.
“Welcome to the world, baby boy,” you murmur. “Let’s make it better than the one you came from.”
You hear the bathroom door creak open before you see him. He appears in the doorway, soft footsteps, damp hair dripping onto his shirt, a slight limp that he’s trying (and failing) to hide. He’s in one of his plain black tees and a pair of sweats that hang low on his hips, clean for the first time in hours.
But he looks older.
Not just tired, aged. Like whatever he saw in that warehouse tonight carved something new into his bones. His shoulders are hunched. His hands tremble at his sides. He’s blinking too much, like the light hurts.
You don’t say anything. Not yet.
You’re still on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, and the baby, your baby now apparently, is curled into your chest, wrapped in the fluffy towel, finally calm. One chubby fist clings to your hoodie drawstring. His little mouth hangs open slightly, breath puffing soft and warm against your collarbone.
Jason sees the two of you and stops like he’s been gut-punched.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
You meet his eyes.
“Well,” you say softly, “you missed bath time.”
He swallows. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. “You look…natural.”
“Do not make a MILF joke right now,” you warn him.
His lip twitches. Not quite a smile. But almost.
He crosses the room slowly, barefoot and silent, and sinks onto the coffee table across from you, elbows on his knees. His eyes don’t leave the baby. You watch his fingers flex, twitch, then curl into fists against his thighs.
He’s still shaking.
You shift the baby slightly so he’s more visible. “He’s clean now,” you murmur. “Mostly soot. One scratch. Nothing serious.”
Jason nods, jaw clenched tight.
“Want to hold him?”
He blinks. “I—I’ll drop him.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I’m not—he’s so small. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You look at him. Really look at him. The man who faced death a hundred times, the man who ran into fire tonight without flinching. He’s more afraid of this baby than he ever was of a bullet.
“You okay, Ma?” he asks, voice low.
“Jay,” you say gently. “Meet your son.”
Jason sucks in a breath.
You shift the baby carefully, transferring the little bundle into his arms. Jason’s muscles go taut. You guide his hands. One behind the neck. One under the towel. The baby stirs a little, but does not wake.
Jason just stares.
“Our son,” he says quietly. Then, softer, like it costs him something: “You’re already better at this than me, Ma.”
“Not a competition.”
“If it was, you’d be winning.”
You smile. “Let me know when you’re ready for diaper duty.”
He doesn’t laugh. His throat bobs.
“He held onto me,” Jason says. “When I picked him up. Like he was already used to me. Like he knew.”
“He probably did,” you reply. “You’re loud.”
“Sweetheart.”
You glance at him, lips twitching.
He looks back, eyes full of something you don’t have a name for, and murmurs, “You’re killing me here.”
You grin. “Good.”
He snorts, and the sound breaks something in both of you.
You pull a small notepad from the coffee table and hand it to him. Folded. Torn out with care. You made the list while he was in the shower, one-handed, with the baby hiccuping on your chest.
Jason takes it with one hand, still awkwardly cradling the baby in the other.
He unfolds it.
Formula (small can to test for allergies)
Bottles (with the little slow-flow nipple things)
Diapers (Get all from size newborn to size 3 just to be sure)
Wipes (unscented, non-alcohol)
Pacifier (whatever brand looks trustworthy)
Blanket
He stares at it for a second.
Then he says, “You’re terrifying when you’re calm.”
“You said that already.”
“Still true.”
He glances up. “You sure you’ll be okay here?”
You raise a brow. “I just cleaned a crime scene off a one-month-old with gun wipes and wrapped him in a bath towel. I think I’ve earned your trust.”
Jason exhales, slow and shaky. He leans down, presses the gentlest kiss to the baby’s forehead. Then one to your temple.
“I’ll be back in ten,” he says, voice gruff. “Don’t let him grow up without me.”
“No promises,” you say, already pulling the baby back into your arms. “He’s learning fast. Got a strong grip.”
He grabs his keys and is halfway out the window before you call out, “Hey!”
He pauses.
“You’re doing good,” you tell him.
He looks over his shoulder, silhouetted by the streetlight behind him.
“Only ‘cause I’ve got you” he says.
Then he disappears into the night.
You look down at the baby, who is still fast asleep, tiny chest rising and falling like the most fragile promise.
“Well,” you whisper. “That went okay.”
The baby grunts.
You take that as agreement.
–
You and the baby were doing okay for a while.
After Jason left, you wrapped the baby a little tighter in the towel and curled up on the couch with him tucked against your chest. The apartment was warm, quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of the blanket nest you’d made. You could feel the baby’s little breaths on your collarbone: slow, sleepy, steady.
You thought maybe you’d both doze off.
But then he shifted.
Just a little.
His head tilted back, eyes blinking open. Still a little glazed from fatigue, but alert now. Searching.
And you watched him look around the room.
His gaze skipped past the shelves, the ceiling, the lamp. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t newborn twitchy nonsense. He was looking.
Your chest squeezed.
“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing a thumb along his cheek. “I miss him too.”
The baby let out a soft sound. Not quite a cry. Just a broken little whimper, like something in his tiny chest had snapped loose.
And then came the tears.
Big, hiccupy sobs, full of confusion and exhaustion and something too big for his little body to hold. His face scrunched. His fists clenched in the towel. He started wailing like his heart was breaking.
And somehow, that was the thing that undid you.
You tried. You really did. You held him, rocked him, whispered, “Shh, baby, shh, he’ll be back soon,” over and over again.
But your voice wobbled. Your throat tightened. And somewhere between one sob and the next, your own tears started falling.
You’re still crying when the window opens.
You don’t look up at first. You just whisper, “Jay?” like maybe you’ve imagined him, like maybe you’ve gone soft with shock and longing.
But then—
That’s when the window bangs open again.
You jump, clutching the baby tighter, but then—
“Sweetheart,” Jason breathes, breathless and wind-chapped and bag-laden, “I’m back. I got it all. I—holy shit, are you crying?”
“No,” you sniff, snuggling the baby closer. “We’re both crying.”
Jason’s face crumples. He’s across the room in two strides, bags thunking to the floor.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you. “It was ten minutes. What happened?”
“He missed you,” you whisper, gesturing at the baby. “I missed you.”
Jason leans forward and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your temple, like he’s trying to seal the cracks. “I’m here now. Okay? You’re not doing this alone.”
The baby lets out one last watery squeak before going quiet, little fists still clinging to your hoodie strings like they’re lifelines.
Jason exhales hard. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
He scoops the bags off the floor and starts unloading: bottles, formula, wipes, a six-pack of tiny diapers, a giraffe pacifier, and, somehow, a stuffed penguin wearing a bowtie.
“I panicked,” he says when you lift an eyebrow at the penguin. “He looked trustworthy.”
You laugh, a little teary still, and set the baby down gently on the blanket-nest you made on the couch. “Okay. You want bottle or diaper?”
Jason eyes the baby warily. “I’ll take diaper. Can’t mess that up too bad, right?”
You make a noise that is not confirmation and head to the kitchen to figure out formula.
Behind you, Jason crouches over the baby like he’s defusing a bomb. “Alright, little man. Let’s not make this weird.”
You’re measuring formula powder into the bottle when you hear a yelp.
“Did he pee on you?”
“Direct hit.”
You bite back a snort. “Wipes are next to you.”
Jason mutters a prayer to whatever gods govern newborn hygiene and starts cleaning up. You screw the bottle lid on and flick the kettle on to heat a little water.
A minute later, you yelp and yank your hand back.
“Babe?” Jason says, halfway through taping the diaper.
“Burned my finger,” you say, holding it under cool water. “He better appreciate this. Formula smells like wet chalk.”
Jason is quiet for a second. You look over and shout out, “You okay?”
“I’m fine. You?”
You glance down at your finger, still under cool water, then over at him, on the floor in front of the couch, legs splayed awkwardly, baby wrapped in a blanket in his lap like something sacred and possibly radioactive.
“I’ve never been better,” you say.
You mean it.
Jason searches your face, like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. But you watch the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a little. The kind of shift that says okay, we can breathe now. Just for a minute.
You dry your hands on your hoodie and grab the warm bottle from the counter. “Alright, Jay,” you say gently, “feeding time.”
He adjusts the baby in his arms slowly, carefully. Like he’s still convinced one wrong move will make the kid detonate. But the baby just blinks up at him, quiet now, eyes big and glassy.
You lean in, helping Jason guide the bottle toward the baby’s mouth. “Remember what the video said? Just enough tilt to keep the nipple full.”
“Like a fuel injector,” he mutters, which is a sentence that absolutely does not belong here and yet somehow fits perfectly.
Then softly, hesitantly the baby latches.
Jason freezes.
And then the baby starts drinking.
A tiny sound, halfway between a slurp and a sigh, escapes his mouth as he settles in, hands curled against Jason’s shirt like he’s staking a claim.
Jason’s voice is barely audible. “He’s eating.”
You press your shoulder against his. “You’re feeding him.”
“Holy shit.”
You laugh. “Exactly what the baby was thinking, I’m sure.”
The room is so still. Gotham hums beyond the windows with distant sirens, the occasional horn, but inside, it’s just the three of you. Just this quiet miracle.
The baby drinks slowly, pausing now and then to blink up at Jason. There’s something so trusting in that look, like he already knows this is his person. Like he knew the moment soot-covered arms scooped him from the wreckage.
You rest your head on Jason’s shoulder. He leans into you instinctively.
“I thought I broke everything I touched,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t break him.”
He looks down again, awe softening the edges of his face. “No. I didn’t.”
When the bottle’s almost empty, you pull back gently. “Okay. Now for part two.”
Jason squints at you. “Part two?”
“Burping. Remember the video?”
Jason blinks. “Oh God.”
You laugh. “Don’t panic. We’ve got this.”
You lift the baby from his arms and place him carefully against your shoulder, one hand supporting the back of his head, the other patting his back in slow, rhythmic taps.
Jason watches like it’s surgery.
“Not too hard,” he murmurs. “Not too soft. Just right.”
“What is he, a porridge?”
“I swear—”
And then the baby lets out a very small, very proper burp.
You both freeze.
Jason’s mouth drops open. “That was—he—he did it.”
You beam. “He did it.”
“No you did it. You’re the baby whisperer.”
You lower the baby back down, curled against your chest now, heavy with milk and sleep and trust.
Jason reaches out and brushes a single finger down the baby’s back. His hand is so big next to that tiny body, but the touch is impossibly gentle.
“He looks like he’s already dreaming,” Jason whispers.
You nod, watching the baby’s eyelids flutter. “I hope it’s something soft.”
A pause. Then:
“What do you think he dreams about?” Jason asks.
You smile. “Right now? Probably warm bottles. And maybe you.”
Jason’s quiet for a beat too long.
You glance over.
He’s staring at you.
Like the world just narrowed down to you and the sleeping baby and the way your voice wraps around both of them like a blanket.
“I really love you,” he says softly.
You blink.
“Say it again.”
“I love you”
You smile. You tilt your head until your temple touches his.
“Back at you.”
The baby lets out one last sigh and goes completely still.
You and Jason don’t move. You just sit there, watching the baby sleep, your arms wrapped around the beginning of something new. Something that still smells like formula and burnt fingers and trust.
the first thing jason notices when he wakes up is that you're not on your side of the bed. the sheets on your side are messy and he is surprised you managed to leave without him noticing. last night patrol really did a number on him.
there's always this uneasy feeling whenever you're not by his side, this voice in his head telling him something bad might’ve happened to you. but this weight on his chest relaxes as soon as he hears movements in the kitchen.
after stretching a little jason is out of bed, eager to be by your side already.
but when you see him walking through the bedroom's door, he is meet with a frown, instead of the usual way your face lights up when he enters a room. "no. no, you were supposed to stay in bed."
he raises his brow, "was i?"
you nod, almost pouting now, "you were. go back to bed."
he can't help but chuckle at that, "why's that, baby?" and despite your protest, he closes the gap between you. "hm? why did you sneak out, baby?" his hands find their way on your hips, and he turns you to you faces him.
you mumble, "cause it's your birthday."
jason's eyes widens, and that's when he notices what you were up to. there it is, on the counter, a tray. with breakfast. for him. orange juice, pancakes, eggs and bacon. hell, even a card. for him. for his birthday.
"all that for me?" he tugs you closer, eyes fixed on yours.
"of course, it's your birthday. so i thought id bring you breakfast to bed."
all he can do is smile fondly, "you're too sweet,." he brings you against his chest and kiss the top of your head, "too good to me, i don't deserve it."
you scoff, as if offended by such statement. "yes, you do. even more so today."
jason relishes in this embrace, like he feels your love for him radiating off you. he still thinks he is undeserving of it, no matter how long you've been together. but he keep his mouth shut for now, letting his doubts be swallowed by your care.
you pull away slightly to look up at him, "happy birthday, jay."
he smiles, and lean to kiss your forehead, when your face lights up at the gesture, he presses his lips to your. "happiest birthday. thanks to you."
"can you go back to bed now ? i still want to pull my surprise."
