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mypoisonedvine · 8 months

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𝖇𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖘𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖘 | professor!jonathan crane x batgirl!reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 | it can be difficult, living a double life: spending your days as a scholarship student at gotham university, and your nights as batgirl, the legendary heroine, fighting alongside batman and robin. though it proves to take a toll on you mentally and physically, flunked term papers and missed lectures will be the least of your problems when you encounter the scarecrow somewhere in the shadowy alleyways of gotham...

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 | 7k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 | NONCON SMUT (18+ only; violent/rough sex, use of fear toxin, degradation, semi-public sex/exhibitionism, bondage), professor/student dynamic (therefore implied age gap), some angst and depiction of ptsd/aftermath, reader is dating robin/tim drake

“And so,” Professor Crane continued, looking towards the class from the board, chalk in hand, "this triggers the fear response, and all that comes with it. You're probably familiar with the symptoms of fear: heart rate increase, cold sweat, overall heightened arousal."

A few giggles could be heard at that, and he rolled his eyes.

"Not that sort of arousal, necessarily," he frowned.

Everyone else just brushed off the childish humor of the moment, but you narrowed your eyes, getting a sense that the word necessarily was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.

He returned to his lecture, drawing lines in chalk over his crude diagram of the human brain, explaining how each area of the brain contributed to fear and the fight-or-flight response. As he spoke, you re-read the handout he’d given today— and you chewed on your lip absent-mindedly as you reviewed the bibliography.

"Dr. Crane?" you raised your hand, interrupting his lecture mid-sentence. "I had a question about some of the studies you reference here."

"Yes?" he returned, turning to face you with a slightly confused expression.

"Well you cite a paper out of Berkeley from 2002, to support the conclusion that exposure therapy is the best response to aggressive phobias— however, if you actually read the paper—"

"I read the paper, Miss," he interrupted sternly.

"Then, if you actually understood the paper," you continued, a few students gasping and laughing softly at your insubordination, "then you would see that the conclusions indicate the perceived decrease in fear response comes at the expense of long-term stability. Don't you think that negates any positive implications?"

The silence in the room was tense: everyone was waiting for how he would respond to your critique. Instead, he just smiled at you slightly. "I think you may have more context for how research is conducted, and reevaluate your conclusions, when you get a chance to organize your own research— in about a decade."

"Actually, Professor, I'll be leading my own experiment this quarter," you corrected, just as he was about to turn away from you and keep lecturing. "I'm the recipient of the Wayne Enterprises Collegiate Scholarship— which pays for my education here and also comes with a fifty thousand dollar research grant."

“Ah,” he said, bitterness dripping from his tone as he set his hands on the desk and leaned forward a bit. “May I ask what topic you hope to explore with your research?”

“Crime,” you explained, “and criminal behavior.”

“Hm,” he nodded, frowning slightly in an impressed sort of way, taking his weight off the desk. “And it doesn’t bother you that you’re here studying psychology?”

You lowered your brow, confused by his question. “I’m sorry?”

“Criminology is a subfield of sociology, which is related to but distinct from psychology,” he explained.

“Would you recommend that I switch majors, Doctor?” you asked simply.

“Well, it’s no secret that you’ve set the curve on our last two exams,” Dr. Crane smiled, tilting his head slightly. “So, no— I think I’d rather keep you here.”

You straightened up slightly, taken aback by his wording.

“Plus, while you’re still in my department,” he continued, “I have a better chance of talking some sense into you.”

With that, he returned to teaching, and you noticed how the other students were watching you before you sighed and tried to listen to the rest of class.

You caught up with him on a long stretch of hallway, just as he stepped up to his office door. “Professor!” you got his attention, and he turned to you with a slightly smug look as he held his hands together.

“Ah, yes,” he greeted, “I see you’re here to apologize for how you spoke to me in class today?”

You knew he didn’t actually expect that, he knew better after having you under him for the last two quarters— um, so to speak. “Just as soon as you do,” you offered with a smirk in return, shifting your weight on your hip.

That was what moved your button-down slightly, and his eyes drifted down to your neck— when they did, confusion and concern suddenly painted his expression. “My,” he gasped a little, pulling on the collar of your shirt with one finger to expose a healing scrape on your chest; his fingertip brushed over your skin and the golden chain of your necklace, and you jumped away slightly. “How’d you get that?”

“It’s nothing—” you blurted out, blinking quickly, “I tripped, on campus, actually.”

“That wonky step up to the Commons?” he assumed. “I’ve filed two complaints about that loose brick…”

“Yes,” you agreed quickly, smiling. “Yeah, I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I didn’t catch myself well while holding my books—”

“Hm,” he nodded back, “that’s a shame. A girl as smart as you, forgetting the Commons building doesn’t have brick steps— or steps at all, in fact.”

You swallowed thickly, glancing away.

“You sure were eager for an explanation, though,” he smiled. “How’d you really get such a nasty scrape? It does look like concrete, but I’m guessing it didn’t happen on campus—”

“It’s no matter,” you assured.

“It wasn’t that boyfriend of yours, was it?” he pressed. “Mr. Drake, as I recall?”

“Wha— no!” you gasped.

“He’s not your boyfriend?”

“Well, he is,” you explained, “but he didn’t—”

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Crane offered, lowering his voice slightly.

“Of course,” you sighed, “but there’s nothing to tell. Things are fine with Tim, I promise.”

“He shared your interest in criminal studies, didn’t he?” Professor Crane recalled. “Clearly, he didn’t share your scholarly aptitude, though, seeing as he’s dropped out.”

“H-he was smart enough,” you justified, “he left because of stress.”

“Ah,” the Professor nodded, “and he doesn’t take that stress out on you at all?”

“C’mon, Professor, Tim’s a good person,” you promised.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Crane replied, “but it’s the ones that act the kindest that have the most to hide, isn’t it?”

You knew there was another meaning to that statement, but there were so many possibilities that you couldn’t settle on one.

“You understand that if I suspect anything, I’m required to alert our student wellness services,” he reminded you. “They’ll have a counselor reach out to you—”

“Listen, Dr. Crane— I didn’t come here to speak to you about my personal life,” you reminded him, “I wanted to ask you about my performance in the class so far, in your opinion.”

He paused before sighing in relent. “I’m a little concerned, actually,” he admitted, “about your most recent paper.”

He pulled it from the folder under his arm and handed it back to you— covered in red ink. You blinked at him, biting your lip in confusion. “I thought these wouldn’t be returned until—”

“I worked on yours first,” he explained quickly, even though that explanation only brought more questions than answers. “It’s still very strong, but it’s not what I expect from you at this point. It feels rushed.”

Rushed— yeah, I remember this one. I wrote it all the night it was due because I spent the three days before recovering from that fight with Falcone’s thugs at the docks—

“I’ll let you rewrite it,” he offered, “if you can get it back to me before I return the rest of your classmates’ work.”

You laughed a little, looking at the paper in front of you, and Crane knitted his brows together. “You know, Professor, sometimes I can’t tell if I’m your favorite student, or your most hated.”

He smiled a little, glancing down briefly at the floor in a sort of self-effacing way. “I don’t have favorites,” he assured, unconvincingly. “You’re not my best student, or my worst— you’re an entirely different kind of student. You’re nothing like those other… juvenile, moronic co-eds looking in the exact wrong place for an easy A.”

Your eyes widened a little, seeing the way he let a little irritation— disdain, really— paint his tone. He snarled a bit as he spoke, his nostrils flaring; like he was holding it back, how much resentment he really had for your classmates.

As quickly as it came, he seemed to shake it off, and then he smiled again… but it was tight, and forced, you could see that just as easily. “You challenge me,” he finished quickly. “I appreciate that as much as I detest it.”

You smiled back, somewhat genuinely despite the icky feeling that suddenly wiggled in your stomach. “I suppose I feel the same way,” you admitted.

He opened his mouth, hesitating slightly, before tilting his head the other way and starting over. “Could you come into my office for a minute?” he asked suddenly, a strange glimmer in his eyes behind the thin silver glasses. “I’d like to show you my latest work— I think you’ll find it quite intriguing…”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a ring of keys and started to unlock his office door, and you didn’t feel too excellent about it.

Just then, a group of students walked by, and you heard them talking amongst each other as one looked at a text message on her phone. “Oh my god,” one said as she explained to those around her, “my friend’s at the bank right now— she said someone’s holding up the place…”

“What?” another student asked, and you tilted your head a bit to hear them better.

“Yeah, the one on Main and 57th? The police aren’t there yet— she said they have guns…”

Your heart started to race. Sounds like a job for Batgirl.

Crane was in his own world, though, about to open the door. “Maybe I can even convince you to change some of your conclusions about the study of fear,” he posited.

You stepped back, motivated to leave just as much by a strange suspicion of Professor Crane as the opportunity to stop the nearby bank robbery. “I-I have to go,” you said, before you’d thought of a good excuse— and that hadn’t gone well for you last time, but hopefully he wasn’t going to quiz you on campus architecture again to trip you up.

He looked confused, a little sad even, as he turned to you again. “This won’t take long,” he promised, “I’d just like to show you—”

“Sorry,” you blurted out as you kept backing up, “I gotta… you know, um… buy tampons.”

Hoping something that awkward would get him to stop asking questions, you turned on your heel and darted off down the hall, looking for the best way off campus and to a secluded spot where you could pull your Batgirl get-up out of the false compartment in your bag and get to work.

“I don’t like you going out there alone,” Bruce said flatly, not looking up from his hands clasped in his lap.

“Wow, really?” you rolled your eyes, feigning surprise. “News to me.”

“You’re too young, and it’s dangerous,” he continued anyway.

“Doing all the greatest hits tonight, huh?” you smirked. “Next you’ll say you need to keep up your identity better, study hard so no one suspects you and then finish it off with don’t touch the Batmobile.”

He sighed and shook his head. “You can touch it, you just can’t drive it.”

“Right,” you agreed flatly, sighing as you adjusted in your spot on the couch. You’d taken up shop here in the Wayne Manor private library: something about your interaction with Professor Crane yesterday made you want to study off-campus for the afternoon…

You knew Bruce had a point about working alone— you didn’t really want to be alone, you were certainly safer when you had Batman by your side. The problem was that you were too safe… Bruce protected you so well that he hindered you; you’d accused him of wanting you to just stay behind and patch him up after fights rather than actually helping. He denied it, obviously, but actions speak louder than words— and there was such a difference in the way he treated you and Robin was obvious.

In fact, that itself had driven a wedge between you and your boyfriend— one of many reasons Bruce had implored you both not to get involved in that way, but it was sort of unavoidable. You can only do such high intensity, high pressure work alongside someone for so long before the tension is too much to bear…

Then again, that very tension that made your relationship with Tim threatened to break it, and you knew that— you felt that, even now, as he looked at you with a sympathetic sort of stare. You cleared your throat and focused on your book again.

“Please don’t go out without us again,” Tim asked— softer, sweeter, lacking that father-figure-sternness Bruce was always trying to muster.

“I think the people in that bank are pretty happy that I did,” you replied with a snarky smile.

“We were on our way—” Bruce began.

“It was a one man job!” you insisted.

“There were seven men on that heist team— and two more parked outside,” Bruce explained, getting more frustrated as this discussion continued. “It doesn’t matter. We work as a team.”

“Except when you go out alone,” you reminded him.

“I’ve been doing this longer,” he explained, standing up, “I’ve been doing it better, and I’ve been doing it on my own since you were still in high school.”

“Then why did you take me in?” you returned sharply, knitting your brows together in confusion and frustration. “Why did you train me, why did you bring me here and tell me the truth?”

“Because I saw your potential,” he answered as he began to walk away, “not because you’re ready to save the whole fucking world by yourself.”

You shook your head in frustration— almost disbelief, except of course he would do this— as Bruce shut the door behind him. Conversation didn’t go his way, he just left— that was normal. Ironic, for a man who interrogated criminals on the street almost daily.

“He’s right,” Tim informed you after a pregnant pause, and you glared at him.

“Would you excuse me? I have to study,” you explained sharply as you motioned to the textbooks and notepads laid out on the table, as you’d had them before you were interrupted by these two, “because apparently the best thing Batgirl can do is not be Batgirl.”

“Hey,” Tim sighed, “he doesn’t mean it like that… he just wants you to keep focusing on your studies, that’s all.”

“I just think it’s funny—” you began.

“I bet it’s not gonna be very funny,” Tim noticed with a frown.

“— that Bruce thinks it’s so important that I keep my grades up so nobody knows what I’m doing at night— so nobody knows that I’m not getting any goddamn sleep— but you got to drop out and that apparently wasn’t going to make anybody suspicious?” you noticed. “You know, I had a professor ask me about you today— wondering what was up with you leaving so suddenly. Why is nobody worried about that?”

“We worry about you because we care about you,” he explained.

You tossed your books aside, standing up to face Tim properly. “That’s bullshit,” you spat.

“You think I don’t care about you, seriously?” he asked.

“I know you care about me, but you don’t respect me,” you explained, “neither of you do. You two go off and do what you want, you’d rather me be your nurse than actually be out there— when you know damn well that you need me!”

“I need you,” Tim promised, “in so many ways. That’s why I can’t let anything happen to you—”

“Well, things need to happen to me sometimes! Isn’t that what life is, things happening to you?!” you laughed exasperatedly. “I mean, shit, why do I go to school at all? Why don’t you guys just lock me at the top of Wayne Tower and I’ll never ever leave and you can just climb up my hair when you wanna come visit!”

“Christ,” Tim groaned, “you are so fucking ridiculous sometimes— what are you trying to prove? Why do you need to be out there every night beating up bad guys, whether Bruce tells you to or not?”

Instead of answering that, you simply accused: “He obviously likes you better than me.”

“Is that really what this is about? You want Bruce to like you?!” Tim scoffed. “Are you that shallow?”

“I want him to trust me!” you clarified. “I want him to understand what I’m capable of!”

“You know what you’re capable of,” he replied, grabbing your shoulders. “I know. Is that not enough?”

You let out a long breath, looking down at the floor.

“I love you,” Tim sighed— but it didn’t sound very sweet when he said it like that, it sounded sad.

“I love you too,” you replied instinctively, but it felt oddly hollow leaving your lips.

“Please,” he breathed as he pressed his forehead to yours, “please stay safe. You’re stronger than me, you can take a lot more than I can.”

You were about to ask him what he meant by that, since you both knew he was physically stronger and more resilient than you, walking away from fights that could’ve put you in a stretcher. But before you could ask, he spoke again.

“My heart can only take so much.”

But that only proved your point, though you didn’t tell him out loud: that what him and Bruce wanted you to do had nothing to do with your strength, and everything to do with their weakness.

In your defense, you took the night off.

But the next night, you had to get out there— Bruce and Tim told you to stay behind so Batman and Robin could go save the day, and you? You were holding down the fort, keeping the couch warm. What a fucking waste; there was more evil in this city than two men could purge— there was more for you to do. As tempting as it was to meet them at the rendezvous location they’d figured out and try to help clear out the gangsters there buying an illegal weapons shipment, you knew that would just lead to the same fight again. This time, the plan was to go out, kick some criminal ass, come back, and leave Bruce none the wiser.

You scanned police radios patiently, waiting for just the right thing— small enough to fix on your own, big enough to matter. You wished, sometimes, that you had less to choose from…

Units respond, units respond — 10-79 reported at West Main and 88th.

Bomb threat. That felt manageable, and you were pretty handy with defusal in case that threat had any credibility. You turned off the radio and stood up, looking down over the city from your vantage point on a highrise fire escape. It was beautiful, in its grimy Gotham way: a light rainfall coated everything in a fuzzy static like old film; it made the concrete reflect the neon lights a little clearer, the whole skyline sort of slick and steamy.

Running and jumping to the next roof, you made a path to your destination and navigated the city unseen, like any good Bat-person would.

You were nearly there when you stopped on a roof above an abandoned manufacturing plant— well, that’s the thing, it wasn’t as abandoned as you thought. There was a glass sunroof, and even though it was dark and rainy, the light inside brought your attention to a group of men inside. Not to profile or anything, but 4 bald guys with guns standing around is usually a good sign that someone’s up to no good…

Trying to get a better look at what was going on inside, you carefully lifted one of the glass panels and slipped inside, sneaking around the metal scaffolding as the sound of the rain was muffled and replaced with distance, echoing voices.

You crouched in the rafters, watching with narrowed eyes as the group of men faced against a figure you couldn’t make out with the shadows and pillars in the way.

“So, are we good for this deal, or what?” the leader of the group asked.

A modulated, deeper voice answered: “This is half of what we agreed.”

“My team had some… road bumps, trying to bring this to you,” the man explained, stepping forward slightly. “We lost some of the compound. This is what we’re offering, take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” the shadowy figure agreed. “How much for what’s left?”

“The same price we discussed.”

“For half the amount? How does that work?”

“It’s a flat rate,” the smuggler— that’s what he must have been, right?— explained with a smug smirk. “In fact, I should charge you more— call it hazard pay, for what my men had to go through to get this here.”

“I see,” the deeper voice replied. “How about this: I kill all of you, and take it.”

Your eyes widened; isn’t this guy alone? He’s sure got some balls…

The group of men paused before beginning to laugh. “You?” the leader repeated. “This skinny guy in the suit is gonna kill all of us?”

“I can do worse than that— I’ll make you beg for me to kill you.”

Feeling the tension of this discussion reach its breaking point, you realized you needed to intervene now: leaning over to make sure you had the right spot under you, you took the grappling hook off of your belt and pointed it down.

Firing it with a metallic whooshing sort of sound, the device grabbed one of the men and yanked him up into the shadows of the ceiling with you. Everyone on the ground looked up in shock and fear, pointing their guns aimlessly into the darkness. Before he could even really react to what had just occurred, you dropped the man back down— onto one of his friends, of course, which incapacitated them both but saved him from a much worse fate than if he’d landed on that concrete warehouse floor.

“What the fuck?” the leader of the group yelled as he tried to fire indiscriminately up at you— but you were already running along the steel beam, following one of the men as he tried to make a dash for the exit.

A blast from your long-distance taser gun brought him to the ground instantly, and as the last one left searched for the source of your attacks, you jumped down to the ground just behind him, landing in a crouched position. As soon as he’d turned around to face you, you’d grabbed a loose metal pipe from nearby and hit him over the head with an oddly-satisfying bong noise.

You knew the other man was still somewhere in the dark nearby, and you called out for him: “Whoever you are, stop hiding in the shadows: that’s kinda my thing,” you informed him.

He stepped forward in the cool, gray light: a man in a torn and tattered suit, with a burlap mask that had massive stitches like scars. Batman had just warned you about this guy, what was his name again?

"My," he purred with pleasant shock, his voice clearly deepened electronically by something in that sack on his head. "If it isn't Batgirl. Nice outfit, very… shiny."

"Yours looks pretty rough," you noticed.

He shrugged. "It does the job."

You smiled back, remembering finally who you were dealing with. "Not with me. I'm not scared of you, Scarecrow."

"You will be," he promised.

You swung first, a roundhouse kick right at his head, but he ducked and came back up at you— he tried to grab you but you slipped away.

Instead of going after you again, he ran— grabbed one of the suitcases off of the palette nearby, whatever this ‘shipment’ was, and bolted for the door into the alleyway. You almost laughed, impressed that he thought he could outrun you, but then again this was the guy who threatened to kill four armed men straight to their face.

You chased him right out the door, but as you dashed into the alley behind the manufacturing plant— the one that faced the northern street— you learned a moment too late that he hadn’t run at all, but was waiting for you there.

He sprayed something in your face, and you coughed as a cloud of vapor filled your lungs. You assumed it was pepper spray at first, but it didn't burn— actually, it smelled a little sweet, sort of herbal. But the effects were almost instantaneous, the pounding in your chest and the sinking feeling in your gut, the world spinning around you.

The fear response: heart rate increase, cold sweat, overall heightened arousal.

Instantly you felt old memories rushing in— awful, horrifying ones, and even worse than you remembered them. For a moment, there was fear with no real object, just the feeling… until he grabbed your face and forced you to look at him, at the wicked mask that seemed impossibly close— that seemed like it could swallow you whole. You screamed, trying to turn away or shut your eyes or something, but nothing assuaged the terror.

"Please," you sobbed. "Make it stop! Please!"

“Nothing can stop it now,” his voice returned— even rougher and darker than before, the deep bass of it making you shiver. “This is who you are. Give in to the fear.”

If nothing else, he had a point that fighting it wasn’t proving very useful— but giving in meant letting the world collapse in on you, letting the darkness pull you back… the darkness you’d fought so hard to make into an ally was becoming your enemy again.

He grabbed your mask and tugged it away; even overwhelmed with primal terror, enough logic remained for you to reach up and try to cover your face.

But he simply grabbed your hands and shoved them away. You heard a laugh behind that horrible mask, just before he suddenly took it off.

The toxin changed his face, too— his smile was wider and his teeth sharper, his eyes totally black— and you couldn't recognize him at first. Only when he addressed you by name did you finally put it together; "Professor Crane?" you realized with a horrified gasp.

"I imagine you haven't finished rewriting that paper yet?"

"Oh god," you sobbed, "you— you're— how can you do this?"

You struggled against him again, but he held you back effortlessly. “I said I liked you because you’re a challenge,” he remembered with a laugh. “But out here, you’re no challenge at all. Just a stupid little girl in a mask.”

He slapped you hard across the face, making you stumble even more as you lost your balance, colliding with the damp black asphalt.

He descended onto you, turning you on your back when you tried to hide your face in your arm as an escape from the terrifying visions. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to put you in your place,” he admitted with a growl as he started to pull your armored clothes off of you roughly. “You act a little too fearless for my liking… good to know it’s all an act.”

You cried, shaking and flailing beneath him, but you couldn’t actually put up a fight like this— the darkness throbbed around you, shadows reaching out to pull you into their abyss. “Please,” you begged again, “no! Stop, please!”

You weren’t even sure yourself if you were talking to him or to the hallucinated, anthropomorphized energy in the dark, but neither stopped. He struggled at times to get your clothes off, they weren’t exactly designed to come off quickly but you shuddered violently from the cool night air when your chest was exposed. You heard a deep growl from him, and you whimpered loudly as his hands ran over your skin. “What are you so scared of?” he asked, sounding amused— but in your mind, those hands were claws that could shred you to pieces at any moment, and you breathed so fast that your chest just spasmed and quaked. “I think you’ve been needing this for a while…”

He roughly turned you onto your stomach, face down against the street, and started to tug down your pants. You were too scared to even beg him to stop, to try to bargain or reason with him— you just shuddered and cried, hiding your face and hoping for relief from the dread.

He smacked you on your bare ass, once it was exposed, and chuckled to himself at your whine in response. The next thing you heard was the sound of a belt opening, a zipper unzipped…

Was it the toxin that made you afraid he would rip you in half, when he pressed his erection against your thigh? Or was that just common sense?

You grimaced when you heard him spit into his hand, but it fell into a whining cry as he pushed his tip against your opening. With your pants only down to your knees, you couldn’t even spread your legs at all, making you feel even more like there was no chance he could fit. The sick, anxious fear felt a little different now— maybe not as strong, but mostly just something new… something deeper and subtler and heavier. It wasn’t visions of monsters or memories of suffering, it was just this inevitable violation and the sureness that you were completely helpless.

He pushed his hips forward sharply, making you scream out and instantly reach back to try to grab his hips and push them away. He ignored it and kept going forward with a low groan. “Mm, you can take it,” he promised gruffly. “Fucking take it.”

You cried as he put a hand on your shoulders, keeping you pressed down painfully into the ground, as he slid the rest of the way in.

It stung, it stretched you in an awful way and went far too deep… but you were wet, you could feel it. Overall heightened arousal… not that sort of arousal, necessarily. He obviously noticed as well, growling a bit. “You like this, hm?” he accused.

“N-no,” you managed to slur, but it was hard to even breathe with his weight pressing you down. You pushed back harder against his thighs through his undone trousers, but he growled and grab your hand to pin it down above your head. He brought the other up beside it, and quickly pulled his belt out from the loops to tie around your wrists. “Professor,” you pleaded under your breath, feeling your warm tears mix with the cold rain on the ground.

But he was already inside you, it was too late for that— and with your hands conveniently out of the way, he breathed heavy as he started to pull back and shove back in.

There was no build-up after that, he just fucked you as hard and fast as he wanted with no regard for how you cried and struggled under him. He grabbed your hair and forced your head back awkwardly as you sobbed.

“Say my name,” he ordered, apparently irritated by the title of ‘Professor’ — but you didn’t know for sure if he wanted to be addressed as Jonathan or Scarecrow, and you feared the consequences if you chose incorrectly.

Still, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “J-Jonathan,” you spat out hoarsely, and he grinned happily before dropping you back onto the ground. You struggled against the belt around your wrists— not actually expecting to get out of it, and not having any plan if you did, just mainly out of instinct. All it did was dig the sharp edge of the leather into your skin, making you cry harder.

It rocked you back and forth on the ground, those rough thrusts— the friction inside you was hot and fast, and each time he slammed all the way in, you heard the clapping of skin on skin and felt his tip ram against the deepest places inside you. You didn’t even realize it was possible to be bruised inside like that, but you knew you would be by the end of this.

He didn’t slow down, really, but he changed his rhythm slightly and found an angle to go even just a bit deeper into you, until you whined pathetically with every pump into you. It seemed like the toxin was wearing off, in that you weren’t seeing things anymore, but there was still obviously a sick feeling in your stomach, and an unreliable beating in your chest, and a deep throbbing in your ears.

“You’re getting even wetter,” he noticed with a low chuckle, and you whimpered as you hoped not to have to acknowledge that. “Fucking soaking me— poor girl, I don’t think you can help it…”

At least it made this hurt a little less, but no amount of wetness could prevent him from holding your hips painfully tight and fucking you so forcefully it seemed hateful. You whined loudly with every movement, fingers curling into shaky fists even when it was useless with his belt restraining you.

When you turned your face to the side, you saw figures at the other end of the alley— not hallucinations, nothing scary, just passersby on the street— and you reached out for them instinctively as hope flooded your chest. Blinking the tears from your eyes, you could see them clearer: a man and woman, older, well-dressed. “P-please,” you croaked out in a broken voice, “please, help me— call the police—”

They heard you, and they turned and looked at you, only to grimace and turn away; the man pulled his date closer, shuffling her away with him as they kept walking. You whimpered pathetically, and Crane laughed above you. “That’s Gotham for you,” he mused. “No one wants to get involved. These are the people Batgirl wants to save?”

They weren’t the only ones who saw, either; later, a small crowd of young men in bandanas and baggy pants passed by— some of them looked young enough to still be in high school. You prayed to anything that would listen that they would move along without noticing, but one of them saw and pointed at you two with a scoffing laugh. Feeling as if you could throw up, you shut your eyes tight and heard the chorus of jeers as they realized what they were seeing. They laughed and hollered; what the fuck, dude! and ohh shit and hey, she’s pretty hot declared in juvenile voices between raunchy chuckles. You saw flashes of light when you blinked your eyes— were they taking pictures of this with their phones? You wondered if Jonathan would be forced to stop them, if he was concerned about evidence, but he didn’t react at all… he didn’t even slow down.

Once they’d gotten an eyeful and the sight had lost its shock, they wandered away— you could still hear their voices echoing around the buildings for a moment until it all faded in with the ambient sounds of the city: sirens, horns, footsteps, and that perpetual Gotham drizzle.

“I can feel it,” he whispered to you suddenly, “it keeps squeezing me. Such a needy fucking cunt.”

You didn’t know if the ‘cunt’ was referring to your anatomy or to you as a person, and either option made your throat a little dry— but dryness was the least of your problems between your legs, in fact you were pretty sure you were dripping now, you could feel how slippery and sticky you’d become. Your thighs were coated, it was even running down over your swelling and neglected clit.

He lowered himself a bit, resting his arms beside your head and breathing close to your ear. He even brushed some of your hair out of the way with his hand, wanting to get a better look at your face, and you shut your eyes.

Increasingly loud groans and sighs above you made you realize what was about to happen, just as much as the throbbing feeling inside you.

“F-fuck,” he let out in a scratchy voice. “Fuck!”

You whimpered yourself just as you heard him choke out a sort of high-pitched, shaky moan, and his thrusts went from erratic and desperate to slower and uneven. He twitched inside you, and you felt the flood of heat in impossible contrast to the cold ground under you.

“God…” he groaned, his hand on your shoulder tightening and digging a little too deep into your skin. Then he laughed a little as he finally came to a stop— breathless, light, almost making him sound impressed. With you or himself, it’s hard to say; it sounded like a laugh of relief.

A lump formed in your throat as you considered what you were supposed to do now— he’d just come inside you, raw, and it made your stomach sink (but it made your walls clench unexpectedly, too). As he carefully pulled out, you whimpered at the way it reawakened the sting of his first entrance— especially when he first pushed inside. He sighed heavily when he finally got himself out of you completely, and then his hands— hot, a little clammy, and strong— came into view to free your aching wrists from his belt.

He stood up over you, and you heard him readjust his trousers before zipping them up and putting back on his belt. “Was it good for you?” he asked with a quiet, but smug, chuckle.

Bringing your hands nearer to press against the ground, you tried to lift yourself up on shaking arms. When your torso was only a few inches off the pavement, Jonathan put his polished shoe on your back between your shoulder blades and pushed you back down. You whimpered as he looked down at you, tilting his head while he admired your helpless form.

“Stay down,” he ordered.

Finally taking his foot off of you, he picked his mask up from the ground, sighing as he shook some of the raindrops off of it and put it back on.

“Well,” he began with a sigh, his voice modulated by the sack over his head again, “I’ll see you in class. I look forward to seeing what you do with that paper.”

You didn’t watch him leave; you just heard the warehouse door shut again. Your eyes were looking blankly forward, blinking away stinging tears, looking at the way the neon lights of the buildings across the street reflected in the puddles on the ground.

You jolted, much more than necessary, when someone knocked on the bathroom door; it made the water in your bath ripple, though the fluffy white surface of the bubbles was hardly disturbed. “Can I come in?” you heard Bruce’s voice.

“Yeah,” you answered, but he stopped when he opened the door.

“You’re not decent,” he noticed, turning away.

“There’s bubbles everywhere, you can’t see anything,” you sighed, and he stepped the rest of the way in. A pause that both of you pretended wasn’t awkward occurred.

“Tim told me that you came back roughed up,” he said eventually.

You said nothing.

“I told you not to—” he began.

“I know.”

He sighed; you kept staring forward at the white tile wall in front of you. "What happened?" he asked simply.

“I know Tim told you already— two guys, probably Falcone’s— they went at me in a tunnel by the Southside,” you explained with a sigh. “I was just following a stolen van, I didn’t know who took it— I would’ve called you if I knew. I just wanted something I could handle on my own.”

You knew the story didn’t add up; Falcone’s men would’ve probably given you a black eye, maybe a broken nose, and bruises on your stomach from kicks and punches. Instead what you had were concrete scrapes on your cheek, fingerprint-sized bruises on your hips and thighs, and thin abrasions all around your wrists. Not to mention the jitters and auditory hallucinations from working Crane’s toxin out of your system— his voice, still in your ear: just a stupid little girl in a mask. You’d stopped looking over your shoulder by now, but your heart still raced every time.

You knew the story didn’t add up, but you knew it didn’t matter, because Bruce was going to buy it. He wasn’t ready to imagine the truth yet. This time, when you heard Crane’s voice, it wasn’t a hallucination but a memory: you sure were eager for an explanation.

Bruce nodded and began to walk out of the bathroom. “Alright,” he said. “Rest up.”

You scoffed to yourself as he left quietly— for a detective, he still had a few blindspots. Surely, we all do.

Left alone in the bathroom again, you were surrounded by silence once more. In silence, it was easier to hear his voice in your ear. Just a stupid little girl in a mask.

The shrill sound of your cell phone startled you, and you awkwardly leaned out of the tub just far enough to grab it off of the pile of towels you'd left it on.

"Hello?" you answered, irritation obvious in your tone.

“Hello, ma’am, this is Tracy from the Gotham University Student Wellness Center,” the sweet, lilting voice came from the other end of the line. “We recently received notice of concern that you may be experiencing domestic violence. We’d love for you to come into our office to discuss this and receive complementary counseling, when’s a good time that we could—?”

You hung up and tossed the phone away, sinking down into the water.

#cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy fic #cillian murphy x reader #scarecrow smut #scarecrow x reader #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane dark fic

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tomriddleslove · 2 months

Text

i still look for you.

✩Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: Theodore cannot wait to start the next chapter of his life, moving in with you. Alternatively: Memory is a fickle thing.

Warnings: Brief allusion to alcoholism if you squint

Songs: Never find u - Sombr

I bet on losing dogs - Mitski

I wait for you - Alex G

The date reads the 2nd of May, 2002. Theodore looks down at the calendar and for some reason, a horrible feeling of dread pools in his stomach. He can’t exactly tell why.

He shakes it off, yawning lightly as he sits up in bed. He runs a hand through his messy hair, eyes adjusting to the dim morning light as he looks around his now bare room. His feet touch the bedroom floor, and he sits on the edge of his bed for a second, staring off before getting up.

There was no time for zoning out, he had things to be doing.

With a gentle sigh, he pushes himself off the bed, the warmth of the sheets still clinging to his skin. As he pads into the kitchen, his bare feet lightly brushing against the cool floor tiles, he catches sight of the empty firewhiskey bottle on the counter.

A furrow forms between his brows as he reaches for the bottle, his fingers brushing against the smooth glass surface. Memories of the previous night flicker in his mind, hazy and fragmented.

He must have indulged more than usual.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he meanders back to the bedroom, where cardboard boxes lie in disarray. He reaches into one of the unsealed boxes blindly and tugs on the first thing he finds, a grey knitted sweater and a pair of black slacks. He wanders out of the bathroom, brushing his teeth as he tosses the few stray things that lay here and there, things he had forgotten to pack the day before.

Theodore, albeit a little hungover, was thrilled. Today was the day he was due to move into his new apartment with you. You would be meeting him in the evening because you had work, however Theodore had a day off, so he would do the bulk of the moving process in the meantime. He’s just slipping his shoes on when the doorbell buzzes. He walks over to the intercom, buzzing the person in.

Theodore presses the button on the intercom, expecting to hear the voice of the moving truck driver but Instead, there's silence.

Frowning slightly, he presses the button again, but still, there's no response.

Yet another thing to solidify his choice to move out of this shitty apartment, as if the prospect of living with you wouldn’t be enough.

“Get- This- Stupid- Fucking- Thing- To- Work-” Theodore grunts, banging his fist into the intercom. Finally, the buzzing sound rings, and he can see the driver entering the flat through the small camera.

With a resigned sigh, Theodore hurriedly shrugs on his jacket. He jogs over to the door as a knock echoes through the apartment, cursing as he almost trips over a box. Kicking it to the side frustratedly, he opens the door.

"Sorry about the intercom," Theodore apologizes as he reaches the driver. "It's been acting up lately."

The driver nods understandingly, offering a sympathetic smile. "No worries. Let's get these boxes loaded up, shall we?"

They spent the next half an hour carrying the ridiculously heavy boxes down 4 flights of stairs because the elevator had stopped working. Theodore wipes the sweat from his brow as he sets down the last box with a thud, the weight of it nearly causing his arms to tremble. He takes a moment to catch his breath, chest heaving with exertion. He reaches into his pocket and hands the driver what Blaise had informed him to be a form of muggle currency, a flimsy piece of paper with “£50” written on it.

“Thank you for your help,” Theodore says, breathing slightly laboured. The driver was merely doing the job Theodore had paid him to do, but he couldn’t help feeling slightly sympathetic for the clearly older man who had broken out in a sweat by the time they had bought the first two boxes down. The driver frowns as he looks down at the note, then back up at Theodore.

Was it not enough? Had Theodore given him the equivalent of a single sickle?

His misinformed panic quickly subsides when the balding man grins, extending a hand out to Theodore.

“No worries mate. Bit of a drive, isn’t it? How are you getting there?” The man says, and Theodore pales for a second.

What exactly did muggles use again?

“Car,” Theodore blurts after a second, and the man nods, pocketing the £50 note into his shorts.

“Well, I reckon you’ll arrive before me. Should be close to 8 hours, had to tell the missus I wouldn't be home for the day. Had her questioning whether I was working or down at the pub!” He chortles.

Theodore chuckles nervously, feeling slightly out of his element with the man's casual banter. He nods along, trying to appear as though he understands every word, despite the thick accent throwing him off.

"Yeah, the drive should be fine," Theodore replies, forcing a smile. "Thanks again for your help. Really appreciate it."

With a final nod of farewell, Theodore watches as the man heads back to the truck and drives away, leaving him standing alone in front of his old apartment.

Casting one glance around the barren area, he apparates away, appearing in the corridor of his new house in no less than 4 seconds. He truly does pity muggles and their transport, for he couldn't even entertain the idea of having to spend 8 hours trapped in a car.

He walks around the empty house, a small smile tugging at his lips as he imagines the countless things you’d do here. The idea of building a life with you, so grossly domestic, brought a grin to his face.

You had been a saviour to Theodore, a burst of sunlight on a cloudy day.

He can still recall the day he had first met you with frighteningly precise clarity, though to Theodore it was only natural that he did, for he was sure he only started living when he had met you. He was only ever bound to fall deeper in love with you from the very first time he had seen you looking up at him with that slightly lopsided grin that sent shivers down his spine and warmth flooding his chest. It was as if the world had suddenly become brighter, more vibrant, simply because you were in it.

Whether it was studying together in the library, sneaking out for midnight strolls around the castle, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, Theodore found himself falling deeper and deeper under your spell.

He snaps out of his daydreams, looking around as he checks his watch.

15:07

This would be the perfect time to go out and explore the town a bit, perhaps find a supermarket.

The driver was due to get here around the same time you would finish work, and Theodore was sure you’d be exhausted. He decided to make you some dinner, knowing how late shifts at the ministry drained you.

Navigating the winding streets, Theodore takes in the sights and sounds of the town, marvelling at the quaint shops and charming architecture. It's a far cry from the bustling streets of Glasgow, but Theodore finds himself drawn to the peaceful atmosphere of the small town.

After 2 hours of finding himself sidetracked by a variety of different shops, he finally finds a supermarket. He heads in and emerges later with his wallet considerably lighter and a handful of bags filled with an unnecessary selection of snacks, and produce.

It was only a further 3 hours later, after Theodore had procrastinated reading a book as he lay sprawled across the remarkably comfy bed that came in the refurbished apartment that he realised for the abundance of cabinets and chairs that the place came with, there would not be a single pot or pan in sight. How Theodore planned to cook tomato soup without a pan, or a chopping board, or a knife at the very least, was beyond him.

With a begrudging sigh, he accepted the financial loss of having to venture back into town to get the necessary culinary equipment. At least now by the time you’d be back from work, the soup would just about be ready, so you could enjoy it nice and fresh.

With the attention span of a 5-year-old, it was only natural for what should have been a 30-minute store run to turn into a 2-hour shopping spree, but Theodore couldn't help it when he saw a second-hand book store and a florist stand that sold green - yes green - tulips (which so happened to be your favourite flower). Entering the apartment once again having sworn to himself that he is not to spend for the next month, Theodore sets down the bags and rolls up his sleeves, washing his hands as he prepares to cook.

Theodore sets to work, chopping vegetables and simmering soup on the stove. The savoury aroma fills the air, mingling with the scent of fresh herbs and spices. It's a labour of love, preparing a meal for you after a long day, but Theodore wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks to his admirable procrastination skills, Theodore had managed to pass an impressive 7 hours doing nothing and was only midway through dicing some garlic when a resounding knock echoed through the empty house.

Moving the sizzling pot off the stove, he makes his way over to the door, wiping his garlic-smelling hands on his trousers as he opens the door. The same man stands before him, a truck parked outside as he greets Theodore.

“Cor, smells lovely. Must have gotten here well before me if you're already cooking” The man chuckles, and Theodore nods, fumbling for an excuse.

“Relatively smooth journey.” He nods, haphazardly slipping his shoes on as he follows the man to the empty truck. No longer living on the top floor of a dingy apartment building, the process of moving the boxes was far easier, and no longer than 10 minutes later the driver is (to Theodore's relief), waving goodbye with the large wad of bills clutched in his hands. Theodore sighs as he shuts the door, setting the final box down on top of the coffee table. Boxes lay strewn around the living room, which was connected to the kitchen in an open-plan configuration. Quickly finishing off the last of the cooking so he could leave the soup to simmer, he makes his way over to one of the boxes, ripping at the tape.

He reaches for a picture frame tucked away in one of the smaller boxes. With a tender smile, he carefully removes the frame, revealing a picture of you and him taken during one of your adventures at Hogwarts.

You had just spent the day out in Hogsmeade, and after successfully smuggling 5 bottles of fire whiskey back into the castle, you both sat on the sofa in the common room, a blanket thrown over the two of you. You had a red scarf wrapped around your neck. You loved that scarf, wearing it absolutely everywhere despite Theodore’s protests that you were repping the rivalling house.

You were curled up into Theodore's side, a grin on your face. Mid-laugh, your cheeks and the tip of your nose red as you were looking beyond the camera. It was a simple candid shot taken by Pansy and one that you had found incredibly adorable and immediately framed.

Gently dusting off the frame, Theodore carries it over to one of the shelves in the living room, setting it carefully down.

He hears the sound of the door opening behind him. Turning around, Theodore's heart skips a beat as he sees you standing in the doorway, a tired smile on your face as you kick off your shoes and step inside.

"Hey," you greet him, your voice soft with exhaustion but filled with warmth.

Theodore's face lights up at the sight of you, and he can't help but feel a rush of excitement. Dropping the box he's holding, he rushes over to you, enveloping you in a tight embrace.

"Welcome home," Theodore whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I've missed you."

You return his embrace eagerly, burying your face in his chest as you breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne. It's a comforting embrace, and you can’t help but cling to him a little tighter.

You pull away, a small grin tugging at your lips as you look around your new home.

The space may be filled with boxes and scattered belongings, but it already feels like home with Theodore by your side.

"Wow," you murmur, your eyes wandering around the room. "It looks amazing, Theo. You've been busy."

Theodore beams with pride at your words, his heart swelling with happiness.

"I wanted everything to be perfect for when you got home," he says, his voice filled with affection. "And I thought we could celebrate our new place with some homemade tomato soup."

You can't help but smile at his thoughtfulness, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you. Theodore always knows how to make you feel special, even after a long day at work.

"I love it," you say, crossing the room to wrap your arms around him once more. "And I love you."

You momentarily break away from the hug, reaching over for the ladle, You sneakily take a sip of soup, ignoring Theodore’s gasp of indignation as you groan.

“And I fucking love tomato soup,” You groan, and Theodore can’t help but laugh.

“Go and change. I’ll plate it for us.” Theodore says, moving over one of the boxes labelled ‘Crockery’.

You hum, wandering off to the bathroom. Your voice resounds off the bare walls as you speak.

“Start without me, love. I need to shower and I want to go to bed as soon as possible”

Theodore frowns, ignoring the slight disappointment but agreeing nonetheless. He indulges in a hearty bowl of soup, one set for you on the counter as he leans against the kitchen island.

About 20 or so minutes later, Theodore is washing his bowl, and his attention is drawn to the sound of the bathroom door opening. You emerge, still clad in your work clothes, a tired but content expression on your face. Theodore's eyebrows furrow slightly at the sight, a hint of confusion flickering in his eyes.

You had said you were going to shower, so why haven’t you changed? Perhaps you were simply so tired you had forgotten to bring some other clothes, or you didn’t realise. Theodore shrugs it off, far too enamoured by you to ponder on it for long.

You pad into the kitchen as a gentle acoustic melody fills the area, and you look over to see the record player propped up on a still-sealed box, alongside a stack of records. You can't resist teasing him about unpacking the vinyl player first.

"Really, Theo? Out of all the boxes, you had to unpack the record player first?" you tease, a playful glint in your eyes.

Theodore rolls his eyes playfully, but there's a smile tugging at his lips as he pulls you into his arms. "Hey, music sets the mood," he defends himself, swaying you gently in a makeshift dance.

You can't help but laugh at his response, feeling the warmth of his embrace enveloping you.

You shake your head in mock exasperation, but there's a fondness in your gaze as you look up at him.

As the music plays softly in the background, Theodore and you begin to sway to the rhythm, your movements slow and synchronized. The dim light of the kitchen casts a warm glow over the scene, illuminating your faces as you gaze into each other's eyes.

Your hands find their place on Theodore's shoulders, while his hands rest gently on your waist, pulling you closer to him.

Theodore's gaze is soft as he looks down at you, a small smile playing on his lips. A small giggle resounds through the kitchen area as he pulls back, hands holding yours as he spins you around.

A small yelp escapes your lips as he dips you, his laughter mingling with yours as you dance with one another. You slow down slightly, resting your head against Theodore's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as you move together. The song slowly fades into the next track, and you pull back slightly, resting your chin on Theodore’s chest as you look up at him.

“It’s perfect. It’s everything we spoke about back when we were at Hogwarts” You murmur, and he smiles softly.

“It is” He whispers against your lips, as he leans down to kiss you.

This. This is what home felt like.

It was simple, but it was belonging, and it was belonging with you.

Theodore yawns, and a small grin tugs at your lips as you look at him.

“Go to bed. I’m gonna quickly eat and sort some things out then I’ll join you.” You reassure, pulling away.

He goes to protest but yawns, and realises that he truly was quite tired. With a sheepish smile, he nods, kissing your forehead as he disappears off to the bedroom.

Around half an hour later Theodore's eyes flicker open at the sound of you entering the room.

You settle under the covers, nestled close to each other, sharing the warmth.

"So, how was your day, love?" Theodore asks, his voice gentle as he strokes your hair.

"It was good," you reply with a soft smile. "Busy, as usual, but nothing I couldn't handle."

Theodore nods, his expression filled with understanding. "I'm glad to hear that. You always handle everything with such grace."

You chuckle softly, feeling a pang of bittersweet emotion tugging at your heart. "Well, you know me, always trying to keep it together."

There's a moment of silence between you, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Theodore feels a sense of longing, as though he is yearning for something he can't quite grasp.

"You know," he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, "We should go out to town tomorrow. I found a nice cafe you’d love.” Theodore mumbles, sleep overtaking him as he fights to keep his eyes open.

You remain silent, running a hand through Theodore's hair as his head rests on your chest.

“We’ll see.” You whisper, reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp.

Theodore frowns, slightly confused. He speaks through his half-asleep state.

“Do you have work tomorrow? It’s a Sunday, you never work on Sundays,” He mutters.

You pause, your heart skipping a beat at his words. A pang of sadness washes over you, but you push it aside.

“We’ll see tomorrow.” You say softly, pressing a kiss to Theodore’s forehead.

Theodore hums, curling into you closer as he wraps an arm around your waist.

“You make it sound like you’re going to disappear.” He mumbles into your neck. A small smile tugs at your lips as you wrap your arm around him and let your eyes flicker closed.

“I love you, Theodore.” You whisper, before you both succumb to sleep.

Dawn breaks, the gentle glow of the morning sunlight casting a serene glow on the bedroom. As Theodore wakes up in the morning he reaches out, sleepily fumbling around for you. His hand reaches out but finds only empty space, the other side of the bed cold. Groggy and disoriented, he blinks away the remnants of sleep, trying to shake off the fog that clouds his mind.

With a heavy sigh, he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes as he takes in the quietness of the room. It's too quiet, he realizes as if the very absence of sound weighs down on him.

Pushing himself out of bed, Theodore pads across the room, his footsteps echoing softly against the floor. He wanders through the empty house, the silence feeling oppressive now.

“[Name]?” He mumbles out, looking around.

No response.

He frowns. Today was a Sunday. You never worked on Sundays. Surely, if you were working, you would have told him.

His phone pings and he’s momentarily distracted, looking down at his home screen.

Blaise: We’re always here for you. It might not get easier but we’re all here to help. Sending you love.

Theodore frowns, utterly confused. It was such a morbid message from Blaise out of the blue.

He doesn’t have much time to unpack the meaning, however.

Entering the kitchen, Theodore's gaze falls upon the untouched bowl of soup on the counter. Confusion furrows his brow as he approaches it, a sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach.

"[Name]?" he calls out, his voice echoing in the empty room. There's no response, just the silence that seems to press in on him from all sides.

Becoming more awake now, Theodore's movements become more frantic as he searches the house, calling out your name with increasing urgency. But there's no sign of you, no trace of your presence anywhere.

Panic begins to rise within him, checking each room as your name falls from his lips in desperation.

Stumbling back into the living room, he walks to the corridor but pauses when a glimpse of a white card catches his eye, poking out from the box laying atop the coffee table. He feels inexplicably drawn to it, a nagging feeling telling him to pause his searches for you.

Frowning, he tugs it out of the box, and his eyes roam over the small, A5 sheet of card.

In Loving Memory of [Name] [Last Name]

14/04/1981 - 3/05/1998

oh.

right.

Theodore's heart lurches in his chest as he reads the words on the card, a cold shiver running down his spine.

He reads the dates again, his mind struggling to grasp everything.

Theodore sinks onto the nearest chair, his hands trembling as he clutches the card tightly. Tears blur his vision as he struggles to come to terms with the truth, the weight of his grief crashing down on him with a crushing force.

It all makes sense now. The inexplicable moments of confusion, the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right. He had been living in a dream, clinging to a reality that no longer existed.

Grief may have been cruel, but love was crueller. Grief made him acknowledge that you were gone, that you had been gone for four years, but love made him think you’d walk through the door any moment with a tired smile tugging at your lips. Love made him think he could cook for you and sit down with you at the end of the long day. Grief made him accept you would never be here again but love? Love made him look for you.

Tears blur his vision as he struggles to come to terms with the reality of your absence, a hollow ache settling in the pit of his stomach. How could he have been so blind, so foolish to believe that you were still here with him?

He feels suffocated by the emptiness of the house, the silence echoing like a constant reminder of what he has lost.

His movements uncoordinated and shaky, he stumbles as he walks over to the kitchen. He haphazardly throws open cabinets as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey, his fingers fumbling as he struggles to twist off the cap. Taking a massive swig straight from the bottle, he welcomes the burning sensation that courses down his throat, momentarily dulling the pain that constricts his airways.

Theodore stumbles back to the bedroom, the bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand. As he navigates through the maze of boxes, he knocks one over, its contents spilling out onto the floor. He curses as he knocks it over, and in a cruel twist of fate, a red scarf is sent tumbling out of the box.

His breath catches in his throat as he picks up the scarf, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric. Somehow, it still carries the faint scent of your perfume, a haunting reminder of your presence that lingers in the air.

“Fuck!” Theodore shouts, smashing the bottle of whiskey against the kitchen counter as he holds onto the scarf.

Curses and shouts of anguish tear from his throat, echoing off the walls of the empty house like a sick symphony . He smashes the contents of the box with reckless abandon, the sound of breaking glass filling the air.

But as suddenly as his outburst began, it comes to an abrupt halt; Theodore's chest heaves with exertion. Panting heavily, he stares blankly at the wreckage around him, the full weight of his actions sinking in.

For a moment, there's only silence, broken only by the sound of his ragged breaths.

He wanted none of this. None of these stupid things, or this stupid house. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of you. Perhaps it was because everything he did, was for you. Whether you were in this life or the next.

He kicks the scattered mess around him, walking off to the bedroom.

Tears well up in Theodore's eyes as he collapses onto the bed, clutching the scarf to his chest with a desperate grip. His body racks with sobs as he holds onto the memory of you tightly, and he can only pray that he’ll wake up and you’ll be there.

Grief may have been cruel, but love was crueller. And with the way Theodore loved loves you, he was only ever bound to such a miserable demise.

@mildlyuninformative @chgrch @gillyweeds @anti-hero03 @schaebickel @lillywildly @batmandabest @always-reading @multifandom-worlds

#slytherin #slytherin boys #tom riddle #harry potter #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #theodore nott #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott angst #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott fic #theodore nott fluff

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