#Someone... anyone... are you out there... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonlightwritingf1 · 3 days ago

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Chapter 2: Breaking

ִֶָ☾. summary ━━━━━━━ After the fight with Y/N, Lando is left reeling in guilt and self-loathing, realizing too late that his cruelty came from fear of how deeply he cared for her. Meanwhile, Y/N suffers a severe panic attack and is hospitalized, feeling irreparably broken and unloved.

ִֶָ☾. pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

࣪ ִֶָ☾. word count ━━━━━━━ 4.8k

࣪ ִֶָ☾. warnings ━━━━━━━ medical emergency (panic attack, hospital, ambulance), loads of crying, loads of angst

ִֶָ☾. A/N ━━━━━━━ Okay, so I got very confused with the tag list, so I apologize if I forgot to tag you or if I tagged you twice.

Series Masterlist

The evening before, after Y/N left.

The door clicked shut behind Y/N with a finality that seemed to echo through every cell in Lando's body. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing and the distant hum of London traffic fifty floors below. He stood frozen in the same spot, staring at the door as if he could will her to come back through sheer force of regret.

What the fuck did I just do?

The question echoed through his mind like a Formula One car bouncing off barriers, each impact more devastating than the last. His hands were shaking—actually shaking—and he clenched them into fists to try to stop the trembling. The anger that had fueled his vicious attack just moments ago had evaporated the second she'd walked out, leaving behind nothing but a sickening void filled with self-loathing so intense it made him want to vomit.

"Lando." Pietra's voice cut through the silence like a blade, and when he turned to look at her, the disappointment in her eyes hit him like a physical blow. "What the hell was that?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. What could he possibly say? That he'd just eviscerated the only woman who'd ever made him feel like he couldn't breathe properly when she wasn't in the room? That he'd weaponized her deepest insecurities against her because she'd dared to speak truths he wasn't ready to hear?

"That was..." Max's voice was uncharacteristically serious, all traces of his usual humor gone. "Mate, I've known you for years, and I've never seen you be that cruel to anyone. Ever."

"She started it," Lando said weakly, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew how pathetic they sounded. Like a child trying to justify a playground fight.

"She called you out on your bullshit," Tom said, his usually friendly demeanor replaced with something harder. "And instead of taking it like an adult, you went for the jugular. You called her broken, Lando. Fundamentally broken. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?"

Broken.

The word seemed to hang in the air like a toxic cloud. He'd called her broken. He'd looked at Y/N—brilliant, fierce, impossibly beautiful Y/N—and told her she was incapable of human connection. Him. The man who'd spent the last 14 months unable to form a connection with any woman because his every thought was consumed by her.

"I need to..." Lando started moving toward the door, his body operating on pure instinct. He needed to find her, needed to take it all back, needed to—

"Don't." Ed's voice was firm. "Leave her alone, mate. You've done enough damage for one night."

"But I need to apologize—"

"Not tonight, you don't," Pietra said, and there was something in her voice that made Lando stop in his tracks. "She needs space. You need to figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Because that?" She gestured toward the door. "That wasn't you being defensive. That was you being deliberately cruel to someone who didn't deserve it."

Lando sank into the nearest chair, his legs suddenly unable to support his weight. His mind was racing, replaying every vicious word he'd thrown at her, each one making him hate himself more than the last.

You're completely incapable of human connection.

The irony of it was suffocating. He'd accused her of being incapable of connection when he was the one who'd been running from his feelings for her since the day they met. When he was the one who'd maintained a fake PR relationship and worn his ex's bracelet like some kind of shield against the terrifying possibility of actually wanting something real.

"She was right," he said quietly, staring at his hands. "Everything she said about me was right."

"That doesn't excuse what you said to her," Ed said. "Y/N's always been nothing but lovely to all of us. A bit reserved, sure, but kind. And you just... destroyed her."

Destroyed her.

The words hit Lando like a punch to the gut because he'd seen it happen. Had watched the light dim in her eyes with each cruel word, had seen her shoulders draw in as if trying to protect herself from his verbal assault. He'd seen the exact moment when his words had found their mark, when he'd confirmed every fear she'd probably ever had about herself.

And the worst part? He'd kept going. Had seen the damage he was causing and had pressed harder, twisted the knife deeper, because her truths about him had hurt and he'd wanted her to hurt too.

"I have to go," Lando said suddenly, standing up so quickly he knocked over his abandoned wine glass. The red liquid spread across Max's coffee table like blood, and Lando stared at it for a moment, seeing it as some kind of metaphor for what he'd just done—made a mess that couldn't be easily cleaned up.

"Lando—" Max started, but Lando was already moving toward the door.

"I can't... I can't be here right now," he said, his voice rough. "I'm sorry about dinner, about the wine, about... fuck, about everything."

He grabbed his jacket and was out the door before anyone could stop him, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator because he needed to move, needed to do something with the restless energy coursing through his body.

As he descended floor after floor, his mind wouldn't stop replaying the fight. But now, with the anger gone, he could see things he'd been blind to in the moment. The way her voice had trembled slightly when she'd talked about his ex. The way she'd wrapped her arms around herself when he'd started his attack. The way she'd looked at him at the end—not with anger or hatred, but with a kind of resigned acceptance that was so much worse.

Like she'd expected it. Like she'd been waiting for him to confirm something she'd always believed about herself.

At least I know it. At least I'm not walking around pretending to be something I'm not.

Her words echoed in his head as he finally burst out of the stairwell into the lobby. She thought she was pathetic. Thought she was broken and unlovable. And he—fucking idiot that he was—had just confirmed it all.

His McLaren was parked outside Max and Pietra’s building, right where he’d left it earlier that evening. Lando walked up to it, hands still trembling as he pulled the keys from his pocket. But as he reached for the handle, he paused. The lingering taste of wine on his tongue—subtle but undeniable—stopped him cold.

He stared at the car for a long moment before exhaling sharply, locking it again with a quiet beep. He couldn't drive. Not like this. Not after drinking. Not with his head spinning.

So he turned and started walking—no destination, no plan, just the need to move. The London air bit at his skin as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and wandered into the night, leaving the car behind.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t go back to his hotel room. It would be too empty, too quiet, too full of reminders of what a complete bastard he'd just been.

He ended up wandering aimlessly through London, the city lights blurring past as his mind spiraled deeper into self-loathing. For over a year, he'd been an absolute dick to her. Treated her with a coldness he showed no one else—dismissive, rude, sometimes outright hostile.

And why?

The truth he'd never admitted to anyone—barely admitted to himself—was that Y/N terrified him. From the very first moment he'd seen her at one of Max and Pietra's gatherings, something in his chest had shifted. It was like the world had suddenly snapped into sharper focus—like he'd been living in black and white, and she’d walked in carrying all the color he never knew he was missing.

She'd been wearing a simple black dress, nothing particularly special, but the way she'd moved through the room with quiet confidence had made it impossible for him to look away. He'd watched her laugh at something Pietra said, watched the way her eyes lit up when she was engaged in conversation, watched the way she absently tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.

And he'd felt like he'd been hit by a freight train.

It wasn't just that she was beautiful—though fuck, she was so beautiful it made his chest ache. It was something deeper, something that defied logical explanation. Like every cell in his body had suddenly oriented itself toward her, like she was magnetic north and he was a helplessly spinning compass needle.

He'd never felt anything like it. Not with Olivia, not with any of the models or actresses or influencers he'd dated or slept with. This was different. This was terrifying.

Because Y/N wasn't the kind of woman who would be impressed by his fame or his money or his lifestyle. He could tell that from the first conversation they'd ever had. She'd looked at him with those impossibly intense eyes and spoken to him like he was just... a person. Not Lando Norris, F1 driver. Just Lando.

And instead of being refreshing, it had scared the shit out of him.

So he'd done what any emotionally stunted coward would do—he'd pushed her away. Had been cold and dismissive and rude, had treated her worse than he'd ever treated anyone in his life. Because if he kept her at arm's length, if he made sure she disliked him, then he wouldn't have to deal with the terrifying possibility that she might see through all his bullshit to the person underneath.

The person who wasn't nearly good enough for someone like her.

Eventually, his legs carried him to a quiet side street, far from the noise and crowds. There was an old wooden bench tucked beneath a flickering streetlamp, and without thinking, Lando sank onto it. The full weight of his realization crashed over him like a wave.

For 14 months, he hadn’t been cruel because he disliked her. He’d been horrible because he was falling for her—and didn’t know how to handle it.

No, that wasn't quite right. He wasn't falling for her. He'd already fallen. Had been gone from that first night, probably.

Every gathering where she was present had been torture. He'd spend the entire evening hyperaware of where she was in the room, of who she was talking to, of whether she was laughing at someone's joke. He'd catch himself staring at her when he thought no one was looking, memorizing the way she gestured when she was making a point, the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking, the way her whole face transformed when she genuinely smiled.

And then she'd catch him looking, and he'd immediately default to coldness, to dismissal, to barely acknowledged greetings that probably made her think he couldn't stand her presence.

She had no idea that he'd stopped sleeping with other women entirely since meeting her. That every Instagram model who slid into his DMs got ignored. That the very thought of touching another woman made him feel physically ill because they weren't her.

Sometimes, he even tried flirting with other girls in front of her—half out of spite, half out of desperation. Just to get a reaction. Just to make himself forget her. But it never worked. He never even made it as far as touching them. Because every time, without fail, his mind went right back to her. Always her.

The PR relationship with Matilde continued only because he was contractually obligated, but even that had become unbearable. Every staged outing, every carefully orchestrated photo op felt like a betrayal of something he couldn't even name. He'd started pushing back against his management, trying to minimize the appearances, counting down the days until the contract expired and he could be free of the whole charade.

And the bracelet... Christ, the bracelet.

Lando looked down at his wrist, at the metal bangle that had become such a part of his daily wear that he barely noticed it anymore. He wore it out of habit, not out of any lingering feelings for Olivia. He'd genuinely forgotten it was even connected to his ex most days. It was just... there. Like his watch.

But Y/N had noticed. Had seen it as evidence that he was still hung up on his past, and he'd been too proud, too defensive to simply tell her the truth—that he hadn't given Olivia a serious thought in years. That the only woman who occupied his thoughts was sitting right in front of him, rightfully calling him out on his bullshit.

His phone buzzed with a text from Max: Where are you? We're worried.

Lando stared at the message for a long moment before typing back: I'm fine. Just need to think. I'm sorry for ruining tonight.

Max's response was immediate: You didn't ruin tonight. But mate, what you said to Y/N... that wasn't okay.

I know, Lando typed back. I know. I fucked up.

That's an understatement. I've never seen you be that cruel. What's really going on?

Lando started and deleted a dozen responses. How could he explain that he'd been cruel because he was scared? That he'd torn her apart because she'd gotten too close to truths he wasn't ready to face? That he was pretty sure he was in love with her and had just destroyed any chance of her ever looking at him with anything other than disgust?

In the end, he just sent: I need to figure some stuff out. Tell Pietra I'm sorry.

He turned his phone off before Max could respond, not ready for any more disappointment from his friends. He deserved it, knew he deserved it, but right now the disappointment he felt in himself was already threatening to drown him.

He ends up ordering an Uber to his hotel. The ride is a blur—quiet, heavy, suffocating. He barely registers the familiar streets as they pass, his mind still trapped in Max and Pietra’s apartment, replaying the fight over and over again. Every word, every look, every ounce of her pain loops in his head like punishment.

You're cold. You're bitter. You're judgmental. You suck the fucking joy out of every room you walk into.

Had he really said that to her? Had he really looked at the woman who'd been quietly driving him insane for over a year and told her she sucked the joy out of rooms? When the truth was that every room felt empty when she wasn't in it?

By the time he made it to his hotel room, Lando felt physically sick. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was retching, his body finally rebelling against the toxic combination of wine, adrenaline, and self-disgust.

When he was done, he slumped against the cool tile of the bathroom floor, feeling more exhausted than he had after any race. His phone, which he'd turned back on out of habit, showed multiple messages from the group.

Pietra: That was completely out of line, Lando. Y/N didn't deserve any of that.

Tom: Mate, I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to sort yourself out.

Ed: Never thought I'd see you be that harsh. Hope you're okay, but more importantly, I hope Y/N is.

Each message was another twist of the knife, but it was Pietra's follow-up that really gutted him: I texted Y/N to check on her but she hasn't responded. I'm really worried about her, Lando. You have no idea what you might have just done.

The implication in her words was clear—there were things about Y/N he didn't know. Depths to her that he'd never bothered to explore because he'd been too busy protecting himself from his own feelings. And in his ignorance, he might have done more damage than he could even comprehend.

Lando dragged himself to the bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. He collapsed onto his bed fully clothed, staring up at the dark ceiling as her final words echoed in his mind.

You're cruel, Lando. Genuinely cruel.

She was right. He had been cruel. Viciously, unnecessarily cruel to the one person who'd never deserved it. Who'd never done anything except exist in his proximity and unknowingly turn his entire world upside down.

He thought about all the times over the past 14 months when he'd caught her looking at him with something almost like hurt in her eyes before she'd quickly looked away. All the times he'd been deliberately cold when she'd tried to engage him in conversation. All the times he'd practically ignored her existence while being charming and warm with everyone else in the room.

She must have thought he hated her. Must have spent over a year wondering what she'd done to earn his disdain, never knowing that the opposite was true. That he was desperately, pathetically, completely gone for her and just too much of a coward to do anything about it except push her away.

And tonight, he'd pushed too hard. Had said things that couldn't be taken back, had confirmed every insecurity she'd probably ever had about herself.

You're just fundamentally, irreparably broken.

The words made him flinch even now, hours later. How could he have said that to anyone, let alone to her? How could he have looked at Y/N—brilliant, composed, successful Y/N—and called her broken?

But even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. Because she'd held up a mirror to his own life, his own choices, his own cowardice, and he hadn't liked what he saw. So instead of acknowledging the truth in her words, he'd lashed out with the cruelty of someone who knew exactly where to strike to cause maximum damage.

Lando rolled onto his side, catching sight of the metal bracelet on his wrist in the dim light from the window. Without thinking, he yanked it off and threw it across the room, hearing it hit the wall with a satisfying clang. He should have done that months ago. Should have done a lot of things differently.

His mind drifted back to another night, another gathering—when her voice, quiet but certain, had cut through the noise. She’d said she wanted someone who would fight for her. Someone who would choose her, every time. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate to go to battle for her, to face down the entire world if that’s what it took.

And what had he done? He’d been too scared to even admit he had feelings for her. Had maintained a fake relationship for publicity, worn reminders of his past like armor, and treated her like she was nothing to him. He’d flirted with other girls in front of her—desperate to get a reaction, desperate to make himself forget her—but it never worked. He’d been the exact opposite of what she needed, what she deserved.

The thought that she was out there somewhere in London, probably alone in her apartment, believing the horrible things he'd said about her made him want to get up and drive to her place immediately. But Ed had been right—he'd done enough damage for one night.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from composing a message to her, typing and deleting over and over again.

I'm sorry.

Delete.

I didn't mean any of it.

Delete.

Please let me explain.

Delete.

I'm a fucking idiot and you deserve better.

Delete.

In the end, he didn't send anything. What could he possibly say in a text that would undo the damage he'd done? How could he explain that he'd been cruel because he was terrified of how much he wanted her? That he'd confirmed all her worst fears about herself because he was too much of a coward to face his own feelings?

The truth was, there was no explanation that would make it okay. No apology that would erase the words he'd thrown at her like weapons. He'd shown her the worst version of himself tonight, and that might be all she ever saw when she looked at him now.

If she ever looked at him again at all.

—-

Back to present moment

"I think... I think I'm having a heart attack," she gasped into the phone, her voice barely recognizable even to herself. "I can't breathe... my heart is racing... I think I'm dying."

The operator's voice was calm and professional, asking for her address and symptoms while dispatching an ambulance. Y/N tried to answer the questions, tried to provide useful information, but she was too consumed with terror to form coherent responses. All she could focus on was the overwhelming certainty that her body was shutting down, that this was the end result of being fundamentally unworthy of existence.

The paramedics arrived within minutes, though it felt like hours to Y/N as she lay on her bathroom floor, having collapsed there while trying to make it to the door. They were kind and efficient, checking her vital signs and asking gentle questions about her symptoms while loading her onto a stretcher.

"Heart rate is elevated but not dangerous," one of them murmured to his partner. "Blood pressure is high but not critical. Pupils are responsive. Ma'am, have you taken any drugs or alcohol tonight?"

"Wine," Y/N managed to whisper. "A few glasses... hours ago."

"When did you last eat?"

The question made her realize she couldn't remember. Yesterday afternoon? The day before? Time had become meaningless in the face of such overwhelming emotional devastation.

"I don't... I can't remember."

The ambulance ride passed in a blur of medical equipment and concerned voices. Y/N drifted in and out of the panic, sometimes feeling like she could breathe again, sometimes convinced that her heart was about to explode. The paramedics monitored her constantly, offering reassurance that her vital signs were stabilizing, that she was going to be okay.

But Y/N couldn't believe them. How could she be okay when the person who was supposed to love her most in the world had just confirmed that she was fundamentally broken? How could her body be fine when her soul felt like it had been torn into irreparable pieces?

At the hospital, she was whisked into an emergency room bay where a team of medical professionals descended on her with the efficient choreography of people who dealt with medical crises every day. They hooked her up to an EKG machine, drew blood, checked her blood pressure, asked more questions about her symptoms and medical history.

"I'm Dr. Harrison," a kind-faced woman in her fifties said, pulling up a chair beside Y/N's bed. "Can you tell me what happened tonight? What led up to you feeling like you were having a heart attack?"

Y/N stared at the ceiling tiles, trying to figure out how to explain that her soulmate had just destroyed her soul without revealing information that would make her sound completely insane.

"I had a fight with someone," she said finally. "A bad fight. I was upset."

Dr. Harrison nodded with the kind of understanding that suggested she'd heard similar stories before. "Emotional stress can definitely trigger physical symptoms. How long since you've eaten anything substantial?"

"I don't know. Over 12 hours ago I think."

"And you said you'd been drinking wine?"

"Yes. But not that much. Three glasses maybe?"

Dr. Harrison made notes on her chart, her expression remaining neutral and professional. "We're going to run some tests to make sure everything is okay with your heart and other organs. In the meantime, I'm going to have a nurse bring you some juice and crackers to get your blood sugar stabilized."

The tests took hours. EKGs to check her heart rhythm, blood work to check for signs of heart damage or other medical issues, a chest X-ray to rule out any lung problems. Y/N lay on the narrow hospital bed, staring at the fluorescent lights and listening to the sounds of the emergency department around her—monitors beeping, phones ringing, the quiet conversations of medical staff as they went about their work.

She didn't call anyone. Didn't text Pietra to let her know what had happened, didn't reach out to her parents, didn't contact any of the few friends she'd managed to maintain over the years. The thought of explaining why she was in the hospital felt impossible. How could she tell them that she'd had a panic attack so severe she'd thought she was dying, triggered by a fight with someone who was supposed to be just a casual acquaintance?

Around noon, Dr. Harrison returned with the test results and a gentle smile.

"Good news," she said, settling into the chair beside Y/N's bed again. "All your tests came back completely normal. Your heart is healthy, your blood work is fine, there's no indication of any physical problems."

"Then what happened to me?" Y/N asked, her voice hoarse from hours of crying and hyperventilating.

"You had what we call a severe panic attack," Dr. Harrison explained. "The combination of extreme emotional stress, lack of sleep, not eating, and having alcohol in your system created a perfect storm for your nervous system. Your body went into fight-or-flight mode and couldn't find its way back to baseline."

Y/N nodded, feeling simultaneously relieved and embarrassed. Of course it was a panic attack. Of course her body had betrayed her just like everything else in her life.

"This is actually more common than you might think," Dr. Harrison continued. "When we're under extreme emotional stress, our bodies can react as if we're in physical danger. The symptoms you experienced—the racing heart, difficulty breathing, chest pain—those are all normal responses to what your nervous system perceived as a life-threatening situation."

"It felt like I was dying," Y/N whispered.

"I'm sure it did. Panic attacks can be absolutely terrifying, especially when they're this severe. Have you experienced anything like this before?"

Y/N shook her head. She'd had anxiety, had felt overwhelmed and stressed, but nothing like the complete physical breakdown she'd experienced that morning.

"I'm going to recommend that you follow up with your GP in the next few days," Dr. Harrison said. "And I'd also suggest considering some counseling or therapy to help you process whatever emotional trauma triggered this episode. In the meantime, make sure you eat regular meals, stay hydrated, avoid alcohol for the next few days, and try to get some rest."

Rest. The word felt like a cruel joke. How was she supposed to rest when her entire world had been turned upside down? How was she supposed to eat and drink and take care of herself when the person who was supposed to love her had just confirmed that she was fundamentally unworthy of care?

By 2:00 PM, she was discharged with instructions to take it easy and a prescription for anti-anxiety medication that she had no intention of filling. The taxi ride back to her apartment felt surreal, like she was returning to a crime scene where her former self had been murdered and left to rot.

Her apartment looked exactly the same as it had when she'd left it in the ambulance twelve hours earlier, but everything felt different somehow. The expensive furniture and carefully curated art pieces felt like props in a play about someone else's life, someone who had been naive enough to believe that success and material comfort could protect her from the fundamental truth of her own unworthiness.

Y/N collapsed onto her sofa and stared out at the London skyline, feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her entire life. Her phone, with its cracked screen, showed seventeen missed calls from Pietra. There was also a message from Sophie—a good friend from work—probably just asking a random question or seeing if she wanted to hang out like they sometimes did outside of work.

She couldn't bring herself to respond to any of them. What could she possibly say? That she'd discovered her soulmate found her so repulsive that he'd felt compelled to destroy her? That she'd had a panic attack so severe she'd thought she was dying? That she was now carrying a secret that would slowly poison her from the inside out for the rest of her life?

Instead, she turned off her phone and drew the curtains, plunging her apartment into artificial darkness. She would stay here, in this cocoon of expensive isolation, and figure out how to rebuild herself into something that could function in a world where the person who was supposed to love her most had instead chosen to confirm every terrible thing she'd ever believed about herself.

She had known the night before she made the right decision, but the hospital incident confirmed she really did indeed make the correct choice. The decision felt final, like drawing a line between her old life and whatever came next. She would never tell him about the mark on her hip. Would carry this secret until it killed her.

Even when it meant accepting that maybe, just maybe, everyone who had ever told her she was worthless had been right all along.

Taglist: @myescapefromthislife @gvcnnnnnnnbvszxv @lilorose25 @formulawhore @hangingwiththestars @ayap4paya @ispywlittleeye-blog @azuramicah @myheartgoesvroom @strawberrylov-er @landossnorriss @linnygirl09 @milkiane @liloessnitch @bbwzrld @dreaming-starlet @flower-555 @lovingaphroditesworld @kirajessie @oscatpiastree @greensnakegoblep @ofheroesandvillains @sk3tchb00ks @myangelbaby555 @stressed-cherry @forensicheart @glitteryturtledeer @nickie-amore @homosexualjohnwayne @littleshwt @anayaverse @matchieee @delightfulfoxconnoisseur @malloryaloisia @hayleejune @wierdflowerpower @icecreamitycream @rosydaysblog

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omicchii · 3 days ago

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WISHBOUND LOG [ENTRY 005]ㅤRUT MADE FLESH!

entanglement:dog hybrid!fushiguro toji x bottom male reader

surface-level reading: dorm assignments weren’t supposed to matter, but somehow you end up with fushiguro toji—untouchable, unreadable, and hiding more than anyone lets on. turns out he’s a hybrid, and when his rut hits, instinct takes over and it’s you he gravitates to.

contents of the charm: slowburn, plot with porn, college university alternate universe, aged down toji, reader doesn’t know toji’s a hybrid at first, rut cycles, marathon sex, unprotected anal penetration, anal gaping, fainting during sex, creampies, reader’s called omega even if he’s human, aftercare, possessive behavior, a lot of marking, manhandling, degradation & praise, 19.8k words wtf

scribbled in the margin: THIS TOOK LIKE THREE OR FOUR DAYS TO WRITE OH MY GOD. this genuinely wasnt supposed to be this long bro i got carried away w the plot 💔 i promise a separate fic that leans more on smut will be posted soon bc that was the original plan HELP,, ALSO THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE i love toji sm my dilf king ALSO NOT PROOFREAD

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ENDS UP AS YOUR ROOMMATE AND MAKES YOUR DORM FEEL LIKE ENEMY TERRITORY . . .

your life flashes before your eyes the moment you see the name on the roommate assignment sheet.

fushiguro toji.

the name is bolded at the top of the email, like it knows it’s about to ruin your entire year. at first, you think it might be a glitch—maybe the system crashed, maybe this is someone else’s result—but no. it’s definitely your name at the top, and fushiguro toji’s just underneath it. perfectly centered. stamped in fate.

you scroll through the rest of the email hoping for a way out. what you find is a cold, corporate statement at the bottom:

roommate assignments are final. changes may only be made if serious conflict is reported and verified by university housing.

so, basically, you’re screwed.

you wouldn’t care this much if toji was just some overly sociable senior who threw parties and blasted music all night. that kind of nightmare, you could handle. maybe you’d even end up bonding over a shared hatred of 8 a.m. lectures. but no—this is something worse.

toji is popular for one reason and one reason only: he’s terrifyingly hot. unfairly so. tall, athletic, all sharp features and a stare that could crack concrete. he’s the kind of guy who always has people whispering about him but never seems to speak more than a few words himself. and when he does, it's usually to tell someone to get lost.

you’ve seen him around campus—at the gym, outside class, walking back from practice with that same blank look on his face like he’s permanently bored with existence. once, a girl tried to flirt with him after a lecture, and he shut her down so fast she looked physically winded. another time, a group of guys tried to invite him to a party after a basketball game. he only clicked his tongue and looked at them in disgust before he walked off.

so, yeah. that guy is your new roommate.

you stand in front of your dorm room with your suitcase in one hand and your phone still pulled up in the other. the screen’s gone dim by now, but the name is seared into your memory. you stare at the door for a long second, then glance down the hallway, seriously wondering if sleeping on a bench outside might be more manageable.

you’re halfway through debating whether or not that counts as a “serious conflict” when the door suddenly swings open.

toji stands in the doorway, already looking irritated. he’s wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his forearms and a pair of worn basketball shorts. his hair’s damp, probably from a recent shower, and his eyes drop down to your suitcase before settling on your face. you haven’t said a word, and yet he already looks done with you.

“you just gonna stand there all day?” he asks flatly. “or do i gotta drag you in?”

you freeze. “uh. no—i’m coming in.”

you shuffle past him, tugging your suitcase behind you and kicking your shoes off in the process. the room’s already been claimed, of course. his bed is made, desk half-organized, shelves lined with protein powder and gym gear. your side is completely untouched. as you move toward it, you hear the door click shut behind you, followed by the sound of fabric rustling as he flops back onto his bed like it’s been a long day.

you hesitate for a second, awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, unsure what to say. you glance back at him.

“how’d you know i was out there?” you ask.

toji doesn’t even look up. he’s opened a protein bar and takes a bite before answering. “heard you breathin’.”

you blink. “you heard me breathing?”

he shrugs like it’s not weird at all. “thin door.”

right. sure.

you don’t press him on it. instead, you start unpacking your things, quietly arranging your side of the room while trying not to feel weirdly self-conscious about… existing. he doesn’t say another word, and you don’t push your luck. you’re just grateful he hasn’t kicked you out yet.

but the silence is heavy. like he’s listening to everything.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ONLY EVER SHOWS UP TO THE DORM LATE AT NIGHT WHEN HE THINKS YOU’RE ASLEEP . . .

you’ve been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours. the tiny red numbers on your digital clock have been crawling toward 2 a.m., but sleep still hasn’t even attempted to visit. the dorm’s too quiet. the mattress is too stiff. the shadows in the corners of the room don’t quite feel like they belong to you yet.

it’s been almost two weeks since you moved in, and your body still refuses to get comfortable here. every creak of the walls, every shift of the pipes makes your brain go full alert. you’ve tried everything—music, a hoodie over your face, pretending the ceiling is one of those cheesy mobile night skies from when you were a kid—but nothing helps.

except, maybe, the weird new ritual of waiting for toji to come back.

because the thing is he always shows up late.

like clockwork, somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m., the door opens. and it’s not like he’s out partying—you know that for a fact. he’s never smelled like smoke or alcohol, never drags himself in like someone who’s been drinking. and it’s not like he has friends. you’ve never heard him on a call, never seen him with anyone outside of class. he barely talks to you, and you live with him.

so, yeah. it’s unsettling.

your eyes shift toward the door now, like instinct. as if on cue, the lock gives a soft click, and the handle turns with that smooth, controlled motion that tells you he’s done this hundreds of times before.

you close your eyes.

it’s stupid, probably, but it’s become routine at this point. pretending to be asleep makes it easier. easier to avoid the awkwardness, easier to ignore the weird twist in your stomach when you think too hard about how secretive he is. easier to avoid the fact that sometimes you hear him pause by your bed, like he’s checking something.

you keep your breathing even and let your hands go limp at your sides.

he steps in. shoes come off at the door with barely a sound. there’s the soft rustle of fabric, the dull thud of a bag being dropped, and then the creak of the bathroom door as it opens and clicks shut again behind him.

you wait. one minute. two. three.

the room is silent. you start to shift a little, letting your eyes peek open just a sliver—just enough to glance at the clock again, maybe reposition your arm under the pillow—

and freeze.

toji is standing right next to your bed.

he’s just there, looming like a sleep paralysis demon with his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. his expression is unreadable at first, something bored and neutral—until his mouth quirks up slightly in that almost-smirk you’ve only seen once or twice.

“caught you,” he says, voice low and amused.

you jolt upright like someone just pulled the fire alarm.

“jesus christ—! what the fuck—”

he tilts his head. “you always fake sleep when i come back?”

“what? no,” you lie immediately. “i was sleeping. i was—i’m a light sleeper.”

toji hums, clearly not buying it. he stays where he is, relaxed and unbothered, like he’s used to making people squirm. “nah. you breathe different when you’re actually asleep.”

you blink. “…what?”

“your breathin’ pattern. it’s off.” he says casually. “when you’re asleep, it slows down after a while. your shoulders don’t tense like that either.”

you stare at him, deeply unsettled. “why do you know that?”

he shrugs, unhelpful as always. “i notice things.”

“okay, but that sounds like something a serial killer would say.”

he raises an eyebrow at you. “you sayin’ i’m a serial killer?”

“i’m saying you act like one.”

there’s a pause. then, to your shock, he actually lets out a short laugh—quiet and raspy and short-lived, but a laugh nonetheless. you don’t know whether to feel accomplished or concerned.

“maybe i just don’t like being watched while i come in,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

you frown. “i’m not watching you. i’m—i’m just awake.”

“every night?”

“…coincidence?”

toji gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second, then turns away and heads back toward the bathroom like the conversation’s over. just like that.

you fall back into your pillow, heart still racing.

you don’t know what he’s doing out there this late. you don’t know why he watches your breathing. you don’t know why he seems so familiar with your sleep patterns after just two weeks.

you also don’t know why none of that is enough to make you ask him to stop.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS LIKE YOU PISSED ON HIS TERRITORY WHEN YOU SIT ON HIS BED FOR THE FIRST TIME . . .

you’re already swaying before you even make it through the door.

the hallway spins a little when you try to kick your shoes off, but you manage—barely—until one of them gets stuck halfway and you just kind of… give up. your brain’s too fried to deal with it. your bag slumps to the floor next to them with a heavy thud, the zipper halfway unspooled from how fast you yanked it open earlier in class.

your phone buzzes somewhere in your pocket, but you ignore it. everything feels too loud. your clothes are clinging to your skin, your shoulder’s sore from carrying that bag all day, and you swear whoever came up with a 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. class schedule deserves jail time.

you shuffle into the room, squinting at the dull lighting, and drop yourself onto the first soft surface you can find. it’s a bed. whatever. it’s close enough to the floor that you don’t have to fight gravity. you don’t even think about it. you just sit—on the edge, hunched forward, head hanging low like your neck gave up holding itself up. you let out a sharp breath and close your eyes.

you don’t hear the bathroom door open. you do, however, feel it when the air in the room changes.

“...that’s not your bed.”

his voice isn’t loud. it doesn’t need to be.

you crack one eye open, head still tilted down, and find toji standing a few feet away. his hair’s shoved under a backwards cap that makes him look ten years younger—until you see his expression. the slow-burn scowl twisting up his face is not youthful in the slightest.

he’s dressed in yet another hoodie clinging to his frame, hands shoved in the pockets like he’s trying not to do anything impulsive with them. but the look in his eyes? sharp. warning-level sharp.

“shit,” you mumble, throat dry. “sorry. didn’t even notice.”

you make a weak attempt to stand, one hand bracing your knee, but your legs buckle halfway and you end up slumping back down with a quiet groan.

toji doesn’t move. he just stares at you like you’ve violated some ancient blood pact.

“yours is literally two steps away,” he mutters.

“i know, i just—” you gesture vaguely, too tired to explain. “long day. can’t feel my spine. let me sit for, like… thirty seconds.”

he exhales, slow and sharp through his nose, and you can tell he’s debating whether or not you’re worth the argument. most days, he probably wouldn’t care—he’d just drag you by the collar or say something mean enough to get you off his shit. but today, you must look pathetic enough that even he’s hesitating.

he takes a step forward, then stops.

“you smell like campus.”

you squint at him. “...what does that even mean?”

he doesn’t answer. just grimaces a little, like the scent of other people on you bothers him more than he expected.

you blink slowly, head tipping forward again, this time resting fully in your hands. “toji, i will get off your bed in a minute. if you push me right now, i’ll die. you’ll have to clean up a corpse.”

“don’t tempt me.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ALWAYS WEARS HOODIES AND STUFF ON HIS HEAD, NO MATTER THE WEATHER . . .

toji’s been lying on his bed for the past thirty minutes, doing absolutely nothing but scrolling on his phone and occasionally sighing like you ruined his day. you don’t know what he’s reading. probably death threats. maybe recipes. who knows. he’s weird.

the room’s dim, just your desk lamp casting a soft yellow glow over your laptop. the air conditioner’s barely keeping up with the weather, and there’s a faint hum of someone’s bluetooth speaker from a few doors down. it’s summer, people are loud, and everything feels sticky.

you wipe your forehead with your sleeve and keep typing, barely registering the sweat clinging to the back of your neck until it drips down your spine.

“jesus,” you mutter under your breath. “how are you not melting.”

you don’t even mean to say it out loud. but then you glance over, and see toji lying flat on his back with his hood up and sleeves down. he hasn’t taken off that damn hoodie all day.

“what?” he says without looking up.

you spin a little in your chair, elbow propped on the armrest, cheek squished in your palm. “you’re not hot?” you ask, a little louder this time.

toji’s thumb stills on the screen. “no.”

you blink at him. “you’re wearing a whole-ass hoodie.”

“and?”

“it’s september.”

he shrugs one shoulder. doesn’t bother to elaborate.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then—“are you bald.”

toji looks up this time.

“…what?”

“like, under the hood,” you say, gesturing vaguely at his head. “you got, like, a cue ball situation going on? or… a monk thing? is it a religious vow?”

toji squints at you like you just accused him of arson. which, to be fair, feels like the same level of offense in his book.

“what the fuck are you talkin’ about.”

“i’m just saying,” you continue, utterly unfazed, “no one’s ever seen your head. i’ve known you for months and i don’t even know what your hairline looks like. you don’t take your hood off. you wore a beanie for three weeks straight. someone saw you at the gym with sleeves down. at the gym, toji.”

he blinks at you. expression unreadable.

“so,” you say slowly, “i’m just wondering… is it, like, a wig? do you glue it down?”

a silence settles between you. toji sets his phone down on his chest, his eyes still fixed on yours.

“you wanna die that bad?”

you snort. “that wasn’t a no.”

“you think i’d wear a wig?”

“well,” you gesture, “i don’t know what’s going on under there. maybe you got, like… patchy scalp. or mange. or a giant birthmark in the shape of a penis.”

he stares at you. not even mad. just… silent. eerie.

“i’m gonna bury you in this hoodie,” he says eventually.

“joke’s on you,” you mutter, turning back to your laptop. “you’re gonna have to take it off to do that.”

there’s a creak of movement behind you. your skin prickles. you pause mid-sentence and glance over your shoulder just as toji sits up, slow and fluid, elbows resting on his knees.

hood still on, naturally. he reaches up.

you freeze.

his fingers brush the edge of the hood—just barely tugging it back.

you catch the briefest flash of something dark at his hairline, the shadow of ink-black strands—real, not a wig, thick and messy like it’s been pushed back hastily—and then he yanks the hood right back on like he changed his mind halfway through.

“there,” he says, voice flat. “you happy?”

you blink. “…you still might be bald.”

toji grabs the nearest pillow and hurls it at your head. you duck, barely, cackling under your breath as it thuds off your chair.

“you’re actually insane,” he mutters, lying back down with the most violent sigh you’ve ever heard.

“what, i’m just curious.”

“you ask questions like you’re trying to get shot.”

you grin and spin your chair slowly back around, resuming your typing like nothing happened. still, you can’t stop thinking about the glimpse you saw—just enough to tell that there’s nothing weird under there. no scars. no tattoos. no signs of trauma.

you don’t say anything else after that, but the image sticks with you. the quiet look in his eyes. the flash of hair, thick and real. the way his hand twitched when your eyes lingered too long.

it wasn’t embarrassment. it was… something else, like instinct. like hiding.

like he didn’t want you to see too much.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GETS TWITCHY WHEN YOU COME BACK SMELLING LIKE SOMEONE ELSE . . .

you barely finish locking the door behind you when toji’s voice cuts across the room.

“the fuck is that smell?”

you freeze mid-step, one shoe half off. “huh?”

he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, arms folded, looking at you like you just dragged roadkill into the apartment. the tv’s on, something muted and boring, but his eyes are glued to you—sharp, irritated.

you sniff your shoulder. “i... don’t smell anything?”

“you don’t,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “but i do.”

you straighten up, confused. “i came from the library. i was with—”

“yeah,” he cuts in flatly. “i know.”

there’s a pause. just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“you gonna shower or what?” he asks.

you blink. “right now?”

“yeah. now.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees, tone low and firm. “you’re trackin’ three other people’s scent all over my dorm. it’s disgusting.”

“jesus, okay—sorry i have a social life.”

he doesn’t respond. just stares. the kind of stare that makes your skin prickle, like you’re too close to something that might bite.

you toe off your shoes. “it’s not that serious, man. give me five minutes to eat and—”

“no,” he snaps.

you look up, startled.

“you’re not puttin’ your shit on the couch. not touchin’ anything. not even the floor. you reek.”

his voice is calm, but there’s a weight behind it—cold and heavy, pressing down the back of your neck. you’ve seen toji irritated before—usually over traffic or a chipped mug—but this is different. his whole body’s coiled like a tripwire, and it’s all directed at you.

“alright, fuck, i get it,” you mutter, raising your hands in mock surrender. “i’ll shower.”

he doesn’t reply. just watches as you backtrack toward the bathroom like he’s making sure you actually go through with it.

you shut the door a little harder than necessary and lean against it, heart thudding. the hell was that? he’s never been this intense before. sure, he’s blunt and weirdly strict sometimes, but this was something else entirely.

you glance at your reflection and wrinkle your nose. do you really smell that bad?

as soon as the water starts running, some of the tension bleeds off—barely. you try not to overthink it while stripping down, stepping under the stream. but the image of his face—jaw tight, eyes cold—sticks in your head. it wasn’t just annoyance.

it was something closer to disgust. territorial.

you scrub harder than usual.

when you come out ten minutes later, towel around your neck and hair still dripping, he’s right where you left him. still on the couch, but now leaning back with one arm slung over the backrest, watching you with unreadable eyes.

“…better?” you ask dryly.

“yeah.”

you hesitate for a second, then head toward your bed, still towel-clad. he doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel his eyes on your back as you walk.

it makes your skin crawl.

but not in a bad way.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GROWLS IN HIS SLEEP . . .

you’re not sure what’s more exhausting—your presentation due tomorrow or the fact that you’re still working on it while half-asleep and slightly cross-eyed. the glow of your laptop screen is starting to burn into your retinas, but the moment you shift to close the damn thing, your brain remembers a slide you forgot to fix.

so you grit your teeth and keep going, back pressed against the headboard, blanket half-draped over your legs, and a half-empty water bottle rolling dangerously close to your ankle.

it’s one of those rare nights when toji knocked out before you did. not that you’re keeping track or anything—but it’s so uncommon that it almost feels like witnessing a shooting star. he’s curled up under his blanket across the room, a pillow covering his entire head like he’s trying to suffocate himself on purpose.

you're not even sure if it's comfortable, but he hasn't moved in the past twenty minutes, so maybe he's dead. or just incredibly asleep.

you're halfway through rephrasing a sentence when you hear it.

a low, guttural noise. deep. primal. angry.

you freeze. like actually freeze—fingers hovering over your keyboard, heart doing this little hiccup in your chest. you glance toward toji’s bed, thinking maybe he's awake, maybe he's watching something on his phone with the volume down low and bass on max. but his screen is off. and he hasn't moved.

then it happens again.

grrrrrrrrrr...

you nearly jump out of your skin. it sounds like a fucking animal. like something you'd hear behind you in a horror game just before you get mauled.

and then you realize.

it's coming from toji.

“what the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, staring at the pillow-covered lump across the room. “are you growling right now?”

there's no response, obviously. just another rumble, this one more of a snort, like he’s annoyed even in his sleep. you don't know whether to laugh or leave the dorm completely. who the hell snores like that? no—this isn't even snoring.

you’re half-convinced if you yank that pillow off his face, you’ll find a second mouth under there or something equally cursed.

you glance back at your laptop, then at him, then back at the laptop again.

“…i’m gonna pretend i didn’t hear that,” you mutter, dragging your blanket higher and doing your best to ignore the occasional low growl still rumbling from his bed like distant thunder. "whatever eldritch shit you're dreaming about, that’s between you and god."

still, you don’t go back to your slide right away. you just sit there listening, vaguely unsettled.

he sounds like he’s guarding something...?

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO KEEPS DOING THINGS THAT ARE BORDERLINE AFFECTIONATE . . .

you don’t expect him to be home.

technically, he’s not supposed to be. you remember him saying something earlier—something about going to train off-campus, something vague and grunted in that gravelly voice of his while you were half-asleep and facedown in a bowl of cereal. it didn’t sound like he’d be back anytime soon.

which is why it doesn’t make sense that the lights are on when you get back to the dorm.

you blink at the door, then double-check the hallway. no one around. it’s not late, but it’s quiet—just the hum of old pipes and the faint buzz of a vending machine down the hall. you unlock the door slowly, warily, like the inside might look different somehow.

and it does.

not by much, but still. there’s a plastic bag sitting on the kitchen counter, and when you peek inside, there’s a neatly packed to-go container. your stomach turns on instinct—recognizes the smell before your brain does. the grilled meat rice bowl from that place you keep swearing you’re gonna quit ordering from because it’s overpriced and always sold out by the time you get off campus.

except they didn’t sell out today. because it’s right here.

you stare at it for a moment. then glance toward the hallway. the bathroom door’s shut. faint sound of running water.

he is home.

you don’t even get a chance to call out before the door opens and he steps out, rubbing a towel over his head. his hair’s damp, skin still flushed from the shower, and he freezes the second he sees you holding the bag.

you lift it slightly. “this yours?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just shrugs the towel off his head and tosses it toward the laundry bin with a lazy flick of his wrist. “got two. figured you’d be hungry.”

“you went out of your way to get this,” you say slowly, watching him. “that place is like fifteen minutes from the gym.”

“so?” he mutters, brushing past you toward the fridge. “it’s not that far.”

“you hate crowds.”

“it wasn’t crowded.”

“it’s always crowded.”

he opens the fridge. stares inside like it’s got the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. then shuts it again and turns around, his face unreadable.

“are you seriously gonna bitch about gettin’ free food?” he asks.

you narrow your eyes. “no. i’m just confused.”

“you want the food or not?”

“…i want the food.”

he responds flatly, “then stop talkin’.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS WEIRD WHEN A FULL MOON IS APPROACHING . . .

“oh, hey. full moon this weekend,” you say absentmindedly, tossing your phone face-down onto the table after seeing a random post about it on twitter.

you don’t even glance at him. you’re too focused on finding the tv remote between the couch cushions. maybe that’s why you miss the way he freezes. he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t make a sound. his posture stiffens like something just locked up in his spine, and his hand—resting on the armrest—curls just slightly into a fist.

when you finally glance over, he’s already looking away. his jaw is tight, visibly clenched, and his fingers flex like he’s trying to shake tension out of them. the muscles in his neck twitch once before going still again.

you blink and squint at him, confused for a second. “…what?”

he doesn’t answer directly. after a beat of silence, he mutters something low under his breath about having stuff to do that weekend. the words come out flat and quiet enough that you barely catch them. he doesn’t elaborate.

you frown a little, but let it go. you don’t think anything of it—until the disappearances start.

at first you assume he’s just being his usual asshole self again. toji’s not exactly known for consistency. ever since you started rooming together, he’s mostly been lazy, half-asleep, or lounging on the couch with no sense of schedule. he’d gotten too used to your presence. now, suddenly, he’s gone at 2 a.m. with no warning or reason?

the first night it happens, you wake up because you heard the faint sound of footsteps, quiet but quick, and the soft click of the front door locking behind toji. when you peek into the hallway, it’s empty. the living room too. his shoes are gone. his jacket isn’t on the rack.

you check the clock: 2:47 a.m.

you frown and crawl back to bed, telling yourself not to be weird about it. maybe he just went for a walk. maybe he was hungry. maybe it’s not your business.

but then it happens again the next night. and again after that.

every single time, he comes back around dawn—sometimes a little after 6 a.m., other times just as the sky is starting to lighten. his hoodie is usually smudged with dirt, and you notice his jeans have grass stains near the knees. sometimes his hands are scraped up. other times, there’s something off about the way he moves, like he’s sore in places he doesn’t want to talk about.

he never says where he’s been. he just walks in, heads straight for the shower, and crashes in bed without another word.

you’d ask if he was getting laid somewhere, but honestly, he looks too pissed off and exhausted for that. more than once, you hear him groan like his body’s giving out.

huh.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GETS DEFENSIVE THE MOMENT YOU ASK HIM WHAT HE’S HIDING . . .

after the fourth day, you stop pretending you’re not noticing.

“what’s going on with you?”

toji doesn’t look up from the fridge. he’s rifling through it with one hand, the other braced on the counter for balance. his hair is still damp from another early morning shower, and there’s a faint bruise forming under his jaw that you’re sure wasn’t there yesterday. his hoodie is unzipped halfway, revealing a flash of his collarbone and the line of muscle that disappears into his sweatpants.

“you gonna get to the point or just keep starin’?” he grunts, not even bothering to turn around.

you ignore the sarcasm. “you’ve been disappearing every night this week.”

he snorts and reaches for a water bottle. “what’s it to you?”

you fold your arms and keep your voice level. “seriously, toji. where the hell are you going?”

he shuts the fridge harder than necessary. the bottles inside rattle against each other, and the sound echoes in the quiet kitchen. “none of your business,” he replies without looking at you.

you follow him to the table, watching the way he drops into the chair like his whole body aches. “it kind of is, man,” you argue. “you’re not going to classes, you look like shit, and you come back covered in dirt like you fought your way out of a fucking grave. if you’re in trouble—”

“i said drop it.”

his voice is sharp, cutting clean through your words. it isn’t loud—he doesn’t need to raise it—but the edge in it is enough to shut you up. he doesn’t yell, doesn’t glare, but the tone is enough to make your pulse skip for half a second.

toji unscrews the cap of the water bottle and downs half of it like he’s been in a desert for days. his fingers tap against the label once, slow and controlled.

“i don’t owe you a play-by-play,” he says eventually, eyes still fixed on the bottle. “we’re not datin’.”

you try not to let the frustration creep into your voice. “i didn’t say we were.”

“then stop acting like you’re my fuckin’ wife,” he mutters, standing abruptly. he walks off without giving you another glance, the sound of the front door shutting behind him louder than it should be.

you stare at the hallway, arms still crossed. your jaw clenches, but more than that, you feel unsettled.

this isn’t normal for him. toji’s secretive, yeah. you’ve gotten used to that. he’s not a guy who talks just to fill silence. but this isn’t privacy—this is avoidance. and whatever he’s avoiding, it’s starting to look less like a bad mood and more like something he can’t control.

you think about the moon again. think about how he froze when you mentioned it.

and you wonder what the hell it is you’re not seeing.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FINALLY GETS CAUGHT . . .

you honestly thought you'd get a few hours of peace today. toji had a required lecture he couldn’t skip unless he wanted to repeat the whole semester, so you figured the dorm would be empty.

you’d even planned it out: find your charger, eat something that wasn’t instant noodles, and maybe breathe without walking on eggshells for once. ever since the tension between the two of you started, you’d been giving him space. or at least trying to.

you unlock the door with your head down, muttering under your breath, “where the hell did i put that charger—”

your words die in your throat as you step inside and look up.

toji’s in the room. and he is definitely not at his lecture.

he’s also shirtless, standing with one arm halfway shoved through the sleeve of a black t-shirt. his chest rises slightly as if he was startled mid-movement, but that’s not what has you frozen.

the ears are what make your brain short-circuit.

short, pointed, and covered in black hair, they sit at the top of his head like they’ve always belonged there—twitching subtly like they’re tracking you. for a second you honestly think you might be hallucinating, except you blink, and they’re still there.

your eyes drift lower. he's ripped, obviously—you knew that—but now there’s the added complication of the thick black tail hanging behind him. it curves slightly at the end, curling over the waistband of his sweatpants like it’s completely normal. like it isn’t the most insane thing you’ve ever walked in on.

toji stares at you. you stare back. neither of you move.

“uh,” you say after a long, painful silence. “is this why you’ve been disappearing at night? because... you’re a furry?”

toji’s expression immediately sinks into one of pure disdain. he exhales loudly, dragging a hand down his face as the shirt falls forgotten to the floor. his ears twitch sharply in irritation, which only makes it worse because now you’re staring at them in real time.

“jesus,” he mutters. “i knew you were a fuckin’ idiot.”

you blink. “i mean, i didn’t know the tech for those ears got this advanced—”

“shut up,” he snaps, cutting you off like he doesn’t even want to humor whatever’s happening in your brain. “just shut up and close the damn door.”

you’re still frozen in place, heart hammering, but your hand moves automatically to shut the door behind you with a soft click. the air is thick with something unspoken, something raw and charged, and you can’t tell if you should be afraid or impressed or deeply, deeply confused.

your brain is still trying to catch up to what you just walked in on, but you push through the mental static and do your best to sound... normal. supportive, even.

“look, man,” you begin, carefully, hands raised halfway in a peace gesture. “i just want you to know that if—if this is your thing or whatever, i’m not judging. like, at all. live your truth. some people knit, some people join cosplay clubs, some people—i don’t know—put on ears and tails. who am i to say anything? we’re all just trying to get by.”

toji doesn’t even look at you as he pulls his shirt over his head. it’s one of those tight black ones that clings to every inch of muscle on his torso, and it takes real effort not to stare too long at the way it stretches across his chest and arms.

especially when his tail flicks once behind him in irritation, drawing attention to itself like it knows you’re trying not to look. great.

“you’re not helpin’,” toji mutters, voice flat as he smooths the hem of the shirt down over his abs. “and i already told you to shut the hell up.”

“right. right,” you nod quickly, still standing awkwardly near the door. “just thought i’d let you know i’m chill about it, is all. you don’t have to feel weird around me. you know, if this is a lifestyle thing—”

he turns to you sharply, ears twitching again. “what part of ‘shut up’ did you not understand?”

you clamp your mouth shut.

he sighs, long and heavy, and stalks toward you with the kind of slow, predatory energy that immediately sets your nerves on fire. before you can take a step back, his hand curls into the front of your shirt and he drags you—effortlessly—across the room.

you stumble into the couch behind you as he shoves you down into it, still standing over you with that same deadpan expression. his tail twitches behind him, and it takes everything in you not to say something about how real it looks.

he leans down slightly, resting a hand on the couch back as his eyes bore into yours.

“if you say another word,” he says calmly, “i will bite your fuckin’ head off.”

your eyes flick to his mouth, where his lips are pulled back just enough to show off a gleam of teeth. not normal teeth. sharper. animal-like. they catch the light and make your stomach drop in a way that’s equal parts awe and concern.

“got it,” you whisper, pressing your lips tightly together.

the silence that follows is thick. you sit there frozen, unsure whether you’re allowed to blink. toji stares at you for a second longer, then lets out another sigh and straightens up. he turns away from you, scratching at the back of his neck like this whole thing is more annoying than anything else.

but the silence keeps growing. and your mouth, unfortunately, has never learned how to stay shut for long.

“so... you are gonna explain this, right?”

he turns his head just enough to shoot you a glare. “disobedient little shit.”

you flinch a little, but don’t look away. your hands are clenched in your lap now, and your voice comes out a bit smaller than before. “i mean, i think i’m owed at least some context here.”

toji huffs. his ears twitch again, betraying the irritation he tries to keep off his face. after a beat of silence, he finally mutters under his breath.

“fine.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LOSES HIS SANITY TRYING TO EXPLAIN WHAT HE IS . . .

toji starts pacing.

he doesn't even bother trying to act casual about it—his movements are sharp, almost agitated, like he’s trying to burn through a fuse before it catches. your eyes track him automatically, more out of instinct than curiosity, but you can’t help noticing how his tail flicks wildly behind him, like it's just as tense as he is.

his ears are twitching nonstop too, swiveling every time you so much as breathe. the worst part is how normal it all looks on him. like they belong there.

he finally stops mid-stride and whips around to face you. “stop lookin’ at me like i’m one of those freaks,” he snaps.

you blink, caught off guard. “freaks?”

“yeah, the freaks,” toji repeats, like it’s obvious. “the ones who buy glue-on tails and make weird sounds at each other in public. fuckin’ wannabes.” he sounds personally offended. “they’re pretendin’. i’m not. don’t lump me in with them.”

your eyebrows slowly start to rise as your brain catches up to what he’s implying. and once it does, your concern skyrockets.

“wait,” you say carefully, “do you... do you think you’re, like... different? like biologically? are you mad because you think the furries are stealing your... i don’t know. culture?”

toji’s face twists into something murderous. “don’t finish that sentence,” he growls.

you shut up instantly.

for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of him breathing through his nose, sharp and irritated. then, like a switch flipping, he exhales in a long, frustrated sigh and runs a hand down his face.

“i’m just trying to understand,” you say weakly, shrinking into the couch. “this is a lot.”

he turns his head slowly to glare at you over his shoulder. “stop thinkin’ so loud.”

“i—what?”

“i can hear your stupid thoughts. you’re spiralin’.”

you avert your eyes, guilt prickling at your spine. “sorry,” you mumble.

toji mutters something under his breath and drags a hand down the back of his neck again. for the first time, he seems reluctant. not because he’s shy, obviously, but explaining this seems to physically pain him.

“look,” he says flatly, “whatever you’re imaginin’, it’s not that. i’m not delusional. my ears are real. so is the tail. they’ve always been. i don’t know what kind of advanced psycho bullshit you’re tryin’ to diagnose me with, but this isn’t that.”

you stare at him in silence for a long second, brain slowly melting. he sounds serious. dead serious. which would be fine if this wasn’t the most unserious shit you’ve ever heard in your life.

“so you’re not roleplaying,” you say dumbly.

toji throws you a look like he’s two seconds from strangling you.

“okay, okay,” you raise your hands quickly, “just clarifying.”

he rolls his eyes and starts pacing again, grumbling something that sounds like another insult to furries. your gaze drifts back to his tail as it sways behind him, less agitated now but still clearly alive.

your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “what if it’s just really good prosthetics?” you say to yourself.

“what the fuck did i just say about your thoughts?” toji snaps.

you ignore him. curiosity gets the better of you.

the moment he passes by the couch again, you reach out on instinct. your fingers close around the thick base of his tail and you tug, expecting something light or fake to give way.

what you get instead is a sharp, very real jolt of resistance—and a very real reaction.

“fuck—!” toji snarls, whirling around with wide eyes and a tick forming near his brow. his hand flies back to swat yours away, and his tail immediately coils like it’s guarding itself. his ears pin flat against his head, and for the first time all evening, he looks genuinely pissed.

“what the hell is wrong with you?” he demands, practically vibrating with rage. “do i look like a fuckin’ toy to you?!”

you’re frozen, staring up at him with your mouth slightly open. “it’s real,” you whisper, horrified.

he throws his hands in the air. “yeah, no shit! that’s what i’ve been sayin’ this entire fucking time!”

“i thought maybe it was a delusion!” you yelp, genuinely panicked now. “like, you believed it was real, but it wasn’t actually, you know? like a... tail placebo!”

“a what?”

you try to explain, but words are failing you. mostly because your entire worldview just took a nosedive into the uncanny valley. toji glares at you like he’s actively fighting the urge to murder you on the spot.

“pull that shit again,” he says lowly, “and you’re gonna lose a fuckin’ finger.”

you nod mutely. the silence stretches thick between you, broken only by the angry flick of his tail and your own stunned breathing.

finally, toji turns away again and mutters, “you’re the actual psychotic one.”

you decide not to argue. instead, you sit very still for a moment, reeling. not because he threatened to bite your finger off, though that part was admittedly a little terrifying, but because now there’s a lot more you have to wrap your head around.

namely: why the hell is fushiguro toji—your very human-looking, emotionally constipated roommate—suddenly the poster boy for something out of a dystopian anime?

“okay,” you say slowly. “then... what are you?”

he tenses again. not as violently as before, but it’s enough to notice. his back is to you, shoulders squared, head tilted like he’s deciding if you’re worth answering at all.

“i’m not some fairy tale,” he grumbles.

“i know,” you say quickly. “i’m just trying to understand. i’ve never seen anything like this before, and i’ve definitely never heard of—whatever this is, hybrids?—being real.”

toji exhales hard through his nose and turns slightly to glance out the window, as if pretending he’s somewhere else will make this conversation end faster. you don’t miss the way his fingers flex again at his sides, as if he’s fighting some invisible impulse. his voice is low and tight when he finally responds.

“don’t call it ‘whatever this is.’ and stop sayin’ that hybrid crap.”

you blink. “okay. then what is it?”

he turns around fully this time and meets your gaze, his expression unreadable. there’s no more twitching ears or angry tail flicking. he just looks... tired.

“synthetica,” he says. “that’s the real term. ‘synths’ for short.”

you stare at him blankly. “that sounds made up.”

toji snorts. “it is. someone in a lab probably got bored and slapped a cool-soundin’ name on us so they’d feel less like criminals.”

you’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t.

he goes quiet for a moment, jaw working. begrudgingly, he adds, “we’re not common. there’s only a handful of us out there. most people don’t even know we exist.”

“but... why?” you ask, voice soft. “how?”

toji shrugs, eyes flicking to the floor. “top secret international experiment. bunch of countries workin’ together on god knows what. japan is one of them. they’re tryin’ to engineer living weapons or somethin’ close to it. human bases, animal enhancements. better senses, faster reflexes, that kinda shit.”

your brows furrow. “you were made in a lab?”

he gives you a sharp look. “don’t say it like that.”

“i didn’t mean—i’m not trying to be an asshole, i just—god,” you exhale. “that’s a lot.”

toji lets out a humorless laugh. “you think it’s a lot hearin’ about it? try bein’ it.”

you swallow thickly. “how many of you are there?”

“not many,” he says. “low success rate. most don’t survive the process, and even the ones that do usually break down early. mentally, physically. too many issues. the ones that make it—” he gestures vaguely at himself, “—they monitor for years. and if you’re stable enough, they sell you.”

the words hit you like a brick to the chest. “they sell you?”

“yeah. to the rich. the government. collectors. freaks with too much money and not enough morals.”

you feel sick.

he glances at you again and, for a second—something softer flickers in his eyes, almost self-deprecating.

“i got lucky,” he mutters. “guy who bought me... he treated me like a person. raised me like a normal kid. not a pet, not a fucktoy. just a kid.”

toji’s expression hardens. “most aren’t that lucky.”

he doesn’t elaborate. he doesn’t really have to.

you let the silence stretch for a minute. the room feels colder than it did before. outside the window, the campus lights glow dimly under the night sky, but in here, it’s like the entire world narrowed down to just him.

fushiguro toji, who has ears and a tail and a past stitched together by governments and greed.

he shifts his weight like he’s ready to be done with this conversation, and honestly, you don’t blame him. “you satisfied?” he mutters. “or you gonna keep grillin’ me like some nosy fuck?”

you shake your head quickly. “no, i’m—i’m good. i mean, not good, but... i get it. kind of.”

you let the weight of his words settle in your chest. the silence between you stretches again, long and taut like a held breath. you don’t really know what to say, but you know what not to say. no wide-eyed sympathy, no pitying bullshit, no “you’re still you” garbage that he would probably spit back at you with disgust.

instead, you meet his eyes—still sharp and waiting—and say, “i’m not gonna tell anyone.”

he doesn’t respond immediately. he just stares at you like he’s assessing whether or not you’re lying. then, with a small scoff and an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he leans back against the window frame and mutters, “i know.”

you raise a brow. “you know?”

“if i thought you were the kind of idiot who’d go runnin’ your mouth, i would’ve broken your jaw ten minutes ago.” his voice is casual, like he’s talking about the weather. “my old man has enough money to erase people. wouldn’t be hard.”

“great. comforting.”

he shrugs, unfazed. “wasn’t meant to be.”

still, the threat lingers in the air—a reminder that you’re not dealing with a regular guy. there’s something sharper beneath the surface. something more dangerous. even if he’s choosing not to aim it at you.

you swallow hard and draw your knees to your chest, propping your feet on the couch and resting your chin on top. your voice is quieter now when you ask, “does anyone else know?”

toji scoffs, as if that question alone was insulting. “of course not.”

you nod, feeling a little stupid for asking. “right. yeah. didn’t think so.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, but you notice the way his body has eased slightly. not relaxed, exactly, but the tension in his shoulders seems to have drained just a bit. like something inside him uncoiled the moment you said you weren’t going to tell.

he stays standing for a few more seconds, watching you. his gaze isn’t hostile anymore—it’s just unreadable. and then he pushes off the wall and heads toward the kitchen like the conversation never happened.

you stay where you are, trying to make sense of everything. trying to piece together the version of toji you thought you knew with the one who just admitted to being engineered like a weapon.

from the kitchen, you hear the fridge door open and then shut again.

“you want anythin’?” his voice is gruff, casual, like he’s asking about a beer run and not pretending you didn’t just shatter a government secret between you.

you blink at the back of his head and answer, “no, i’m good.”

he grunts something noncommittal and disappears behind the fridge door again.

and somehow, despite everything, you find yourself exhaling. not because things are normal—they aren’t. but because, for whatever reason, he told you the truth. and that has to count for something.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO DOESN’T TALK ABOUT IT BUT DOESN’T HIDE IT EITHER . . .

things have been going… smoother, somehow. or at least, as smooth as things could be when your roommate was a genetically engineered hybrid with a tail that twitched every time you said something stupid. you don’t talk about the night you found out. he never brings it up, and you don’t push him to.

but the atmosphere between you has shifted, like something’s settled.

it’s a thursday afternoon when you catch him lounging on the couch. he’s got some rerun playing on the tv, barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone with one hand. he’s still got a jacket on—black, zipped halfway—but for once, the hood is down. and his tail is out, relaxed and lazily draped over the side of the cushions. it twitches slightly when you walk past.

you don’t mean to stare. really, you don’t. but you do.

toji catches you almost immediately. doesn’t even look up from his phone as he grunts, “if you’re gonna gawk, at least grab me a drink or somethin’.”

“you want anything specific, your majesty?”

he finally looks over then, eyes dragging up lazily to meet yours. “cold. fizzy. preferably not your cheap ass soda.”

you huff a laugh and make your way to the fridge, grabbing a can and tossing it to him. he catches it with one hand like it’s nothing, then cracks it open with a satisfied sigh. his tail curls slightly, almost subconsciously.

you’re still watching him. not as obviously this time, but he notices anyway.

“what now,” he mutters, side-eyeing you.

you hesitate, then ask, “can you, like… retract them?”

“what the fuck.”

“your ears and tail. can you make them disappear? like in anime.”

he lets out a groan that sounds half like a growl. “stop comparin’ me to that fictional bullshit.”

“it’s a valid question,” you mutter.

“no, dumbass. i can’t retract them. this isn’t some magical girl shit.” he takes another sip of his drink, then adds, more begrudgingly, “old man said the lab’s working on some suppressant or whatever. chemical compound shit. supposed to help us blend in easier.”

“like a serum?”

“somethin’ like that.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and… you’re not using it because…?”

toji shrugs. “probably costs a fuckton. not like he can’t afford it, but i’d rather deal with annoyin’ stares than inject myself with some new experimental crap.”

you hum under your breath, thoughtful. it’s easy to forget sometimes—how advanced science had gotten. and how most people were probably walking past synths without even knowing. the fact that someone like toji was one? someone who kept to himself, skipped parties, threatened to bite your head off for sitting on his bed? it felt unreal.

and yet here you were. watching his ears twitch every time the soda fizzed too loud. watching his tail flick with annoyance when you took too long to respond. watching him, quietly, and thinking maybe it wasn’t all that strange anymore.

“you done starin’?” he asks, voice low.

“nope.”

“i’ll fucking deck you.”

you smile. “you say that every time.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS LEAVING HIS HOODIE OFF WHEN HE’S HOME . . .

the first time it happens, he comes out of the shower wearing nothing but a fitted black tank top and sweatpants, towel slung around his neck. no hoodie. no cap. his hair is damp, clinging to the sides of his face, ears twitching every so slightly as he walks past you like nothing’s changed.

he doesn’t say a word. just heads straight to his desk, opens his laptop, and starts clicking through whatever work he’s got lined up. you catch the faint flick of his tail, lazy and relaxed, swaying near the floor.

your footsteps creak a little on the floorboards as you cross the room, and his ears twitch again—subtle, but you notice. like they’re still getting used to being out in the open. but he doesn’t tense, doesn’t glare at you, doesn’t even tell you to fuck off.

you throw yourself on your bed with a soft thump and bury your face into your pillow, biting down a smile. you don’t say anything, don’t point it out. you just… let him be. and he lets you be. which, in a weird way, feels like a win.

the next time, he gets back from the gym late, the front door creaking open as you sit by the fridge, lazily picking at the grapes you’d stuffed into a bowl earlier. you look up just in time to see him tug his hoodie over his head and fling it onto the nearest chair, cap following suit as he runs a hand through his messy, sweat-damp hair.

he’s shirtless. again. glistening slightly from the workout. you tell yourself not to look. then you promptly look.

you clear your throat and pretend to cover your nose. “jesus, you stink. that gym must be cursed.”

he doesn’t miss a beat, twisting open a water bottle and chugging half of it before glancing down at you with a faint scowl. “funny. you smell worse every time i walk through the door.”

you snort, almost choking on a grape. “rude.”

he smirks faintly, the curve of it just barely there before he turns and leans on the counter beside you, tail flicking once near your leg. you try not to stare again.

but it’s hard not to admire the way his shoulders flex when he lifts the bottle to his lips again.

you lose the teasing edge in your voice as your gaze softens, eyes flicking to his ears—twitching once, but no longer tense. “i’m glad you’re not hiding anymore.”

he pauses. not long. just enough for you to catch the faint shift in his expression.

he scoffs, rolling his eyes as he pushes off the counter and mutters, “don’t get used to it.”

but you both know he doesn’t mean it. his tail brushes lightly against your shin before he walks away.

he’s still the same pain in the ass. but little by little, the armor’s peeling back.

you watch him as he flops onto the couch, tail draped lazily over the side, scrolling on his phone like he didn’t just take a step forward. like this is normal now.

and maybe, for him, it’s starting to be.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS ACTING LIKE HE ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT YOU . . .

it’s subtle. toji never makes anything obvious—like you’re supposed to piece him together on your own, without a manual, without instructions, just a mess of sharp edges and muscle memory.

you're half-asleep on the couch after a long ass day, your laptop still open beside you with a half-written paragraph glowing on the screen. the dorm’s quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the soft pat of footsteps across the floor. you don’t even lift your head until there’s a soft thump on the table next to you.

a glass of water. cold. no ice, because you never like ice.

you blink at it, then slowly glance up toji, who’s standing a few feet away, already looking at his phone like he didn’t just do something weirdly considerate. you open your mouth to say something—anything—but he cuts you off before the words come out.

“you looked like you were dyin’,” he mutters. “hydrate or whatever.”

you stare a second longer. "...you feeling alright?"

“shut up.”

your charger breaks, and without a word, he leaves his on your desk before he heads out for the day.

he starts ordering extra food. not a lot. just enough for you to notice that he keeps dropping a second serving of dumplings on the counter. he never says it’s for you, but he never eats it either.

you come home late one night, tired, brain-fried from a group project that went nowhere. the dorm is dark except for the glow from toji’s side of the room. he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, hoodie off for once, tail curled lazily around his hip. his ears twitch when you enter, but he doesn’t say anything. just glances up briefly before going back to the old paperback in his hands.

you throw your bag down and flop into your bed with a groan, muttering into your pillow, “kill me. please.”

toji’s voice is quiet. “what happened.”

you blink. roll over. “what?”

he doesn’t look up. “the group thin’. whatever.”

you stare. “…you actually listen to me?”

“unfortunately.”

and maybe it's nothing. maybe it's just these little things, these offhand gestures and quiet reactions. but when you glance over at him later that night, you find his tail slowly tapping against the mattress in a steady rhythm.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LETS HIS GUARD DOWN AROUND YOU . . .

somehow, toji ends up sleeping in the most random ass places these days.

like the couch. or the floor near the closet. you caught him passed out in the weird little nook by the window once, with a blanket half-draped over his chest and his tail lazily curled around a throw pillow.

he doesn’t even bother hiding anymore. no more burying his face under pillows like he’s allergic to being perceived. instead, he just knocks out cold wherever he feels like it. sprawled across the mattress like a corpse, one arm over his eyes, mouth slightly open, and snoring like a hellbeast.

no, really. it’s not cute. you thought the growling thing he did in his sleep was rare—some weird fluke that happened when he was having a bad dream or something—but no. apparently, that’s just his baseline.

there’s one night he falls asleep on the couch and you actually pause your movie because you think something’s growling behind you. turns out it’s just toji, chest rumbling, ears twitching, looking way too peaceful for someone snoring like a monster truck.

you try not to think about how comfortable he’s gotten. or how normal it feels now to see a tail flick lazily over the back of your shared couch. or the way his ears move when he hears you unlock the door, even if his body doesn’t.

and then there’s the food thing.

you come home one day and the dorm smells like grilled meat. actual grilled meat. not the instant crap you usually microwave. you turn the corner into the kitchen and there he is—shirtless, obviously, because why would he cook with clothes on—leaned over the counter with three full plates of steak and chicken and god-knows-what-else.

you deadpan, “did you eat someone?”

toji doesn’t look up. he rips into a piece of meat like it insulted his family. “don’t fuckin’ talk to me while i’m eatin’.”

“yes, sir. my bad.”

somewhere between the fourth and fifth steak, he looks up and notices you still staring.

“…you want some or what?”

you decline, because you’re not sure your digestive system could survive whatever prehistoric protein he’s inhaling.

but it’s weirdly domestic, watching him eat like this—no posturing, just unapologetically wolfing food down like this is his house and you’re the guest.

that night, you’re both in bed—your beds, respectively, because boundaries—and you’re scrolling through your phone while he lies there with his arm over his eyes, tail twitching every now and then like he’s already halfway to sleep.

you speak before thinking. “hey.”

he groans. “what.”

“…what breed are you?”

you swear you hear him physically grind his teeth together.

“cane corso,” he mutters, like it physically pains him to say it. “now shut up and go to sleep.”

you blink up at the ceiling. “huh. yeah. no, that makes a lot of sense actually.”

“sleep,” he growls again, but there’s no bite in it. just exhaustion.

you smile to yourself, just a little.

cane corso. yeah. big, territorial, kind of scary, probably could rip your face off if he wanted.

but he hasn’t. and he won’t.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO BEGRUDGINGLY LETS YOU TOUCH HIS EARS . . .

you’re both slouched on the couch, some true crime documentary droning on in the background. the narrator’s going on about a decades-old cold case, but you haven’t absorbed anything since the last commercial break. your focus has… shifted.

specifically, toji’s ears.

they twitch sometimes. subtle little movements, like a cat’s. one flicks toward the TV when the sound gets sharp. the other flicks back toward the hallway when something thuds faintly in the dorms. it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose either—he looks completely checked out, arms crossed, legs folded underneath him, blank expression fixed on the screen.

you glance at him from the corner of your eye, then look away.

and then you do it again.

and again.

by the seventh time, he lets out a heavy, annoyed huff through his nose. doesn’t look at you, just mutters, “what the fuck are you lookin’ at?”

you freeze for a second. then purse your lips, squinting forward like you’re pretending to focus on the documentary again. “nothing.”

his gaze sharpens. “bullshit.”

you sigh, giving up the act. you turn your head fully this time, resting your cheek against the back of the couch as you stare at him openly. “can i touch your ears?”

he blinks. once. slow and unamused.

“…what the fuck did you just say to me?”

you sit up straighter. “your ears. i just—i’m curious, okay? do they feel like real dog ears or not?”

his eyes narrow, jaw clenching slightly like you just insulted his bloodline. “the hell kinda dumbass question is that?”

you shrug. “a valid one?”

“do i look like a fuckin’ golden retriever to you?”

“no, you look like a pissed off cane corso, which is worse,” you mutter under your breath, not quietly enough.

he gives you a long, exhausted look.

but you’re already leaning forward with your hands clasped together. “c’mon, just for a second. please. i’ll stop if it’s weird. i swear.”

he stares at you. you can practically see the gears turning in his head—probably weighing the annoyance of saying yes against the bigger annoyance of saying no and having to listen to you whine about it.

eventually, he exhales through his nose. short. sharp. “fine. one second.”

you grin, victorious, and scoot closer. “hell yeah.”

you reach up carefully, fingers brushing the edge of one of his ears before you press in gently. it’s soft. like really soft. surprisingly warm too, and there’s a slight twitch under your touch like he’s trying not to flinch.

“huh,” you murmur, dragging your thumb along the velvety surface. “that’s crazy.”

he doesn’t say anything. just sits there with his arms still crossed, legs pulled up into a lazy cross-legged position, looking like a statue carved entirely out of apathy. his eye twitches every few seconds. you pretend not to notice.

you keep petting, half-entranced by the texture, the subtle responses—his ears flicking slightly, one tilting toward your fingers.

then, after a minute or so, his ears suddenly flatten back against his head and he swats your hand away. not hard, not with the kind of force you know he’s capable of—just a low-effort thwap, like he’s shooing a fly.

“that’s enough.”

you draw your hand back with a small pout. “damn. you’re no fun.”

“they get sensitive if you keep messing with ‘em,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s already regretting all his life choices.

you lean back again, arms crossed now. “kind of a good thing you don’t take the serum to hide them. they’re soft as hell.”

toji groans and tilts his head back against the couch like he wants to melt into it and die. “are you a fuckin’ moron?”

you blink. “rude.”

“it doesn’t remove anything,” he grits out. “the serum just lets me retract ‘em when i feel like it. doesn’t make ‘em disappear forever.”

you raise an eyebrow. “so you could pop them back out on command if you wanted me to pet you again?”

he clicks his tongue and says nothing. which is… kind of an answer in itself.

you grin. “noted.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO RESPONDS TO YOUR TOUCH WITHOUT THINKING . . .

the walk back from the convenience store is quiet.

the sky is dark but not black, the kind of shade that clings to the edges of streetlights and turns the air soft and heavy. you’re carrying a couple of plastic bags full of snacks and canned coffee, the handles cutting into your fingers with each step. toji walks beside you, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his head tipped just slightly forward like he’s too lazy to hold it up.

you glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

his ears are tucked flat, and his tail—though mostly hidden under his hoodie—is low, swaying just enough that you can tell he’s not irritated. not entirely.

you shift the bags in your hand, then reach over and press your knuckles lightly against his arm, bumping him once.

he doesn’t say anything, but he leans slightly into the pressure. barely. like he’s pretending it didn’t happen.

you do it again, knuckles tapping against his jacket. “you’re always so damn quiet when we go out. people probably think i kidnapped you.”

“you did,” he mutters.

“right. because i dragged a six-foot-two musclehead out of the house at gunpoint for banana milk.”

“wasn’t banana milk,” he says, eyes still on the sidewalk.

you bump into him again, a little more deliberately this time. “don’t change the subject.”

his tail twitches, just once.

you cut through a back alley to avoid traffic, feet crunching over loose gravel and wet leaves. there’s a vending machine humming against the wall, its light flickering faintly. you stop there, mostly out of habit.

toji stands just behind you as you bend down to press the button for canned tea.

you glance back at him. “you want one?”

he shrugs. “don’t care.”

you get two anyway.

when you hand him his, your fingers brush his. he flinches—not a big, obvious jolt, but a tight flick of his fingers before he pulls them back like the can’s too cold.

you pretend not to notice. “burn your delicate hands?”

“shut up,” he says flatly, but he doesn’t let go of the can.

you walk a few more minutes like that, trading quiet sips from your drinks, his shoulder brushing yours occasionally. it’s casual, incidental. it should be. but every time your sleeve touches his, he stiffens just slightly. not like he’s uncomfortable—more like he doesn’t know how to relax into it.

you try something.

you let your pinky drift, just enough to graze his hand. his fingers twitch again. then… stay still.

you stop at the low brick ledge outside a closed café, dropping your bags at your feet and sitting with a sigh. “my legs are gonna fall off.”

toji stays standing for a beat before finally sitting beside you. there’s space on the ledge, but he sits close—close enough that your knees knock together when he adjusts his weight.

you don’t pull away.

neither does he.

the silence stretches again, thick but not awkward. just full. you lean back, elbows propped on the edge behind you, head tilted up toward the sky. no stars tonight, just gray clouds moving slow and heavy.

you glance over at him.

he’s watching the street across from you, his face unreadable, mouth set in that neutral line he wears like armor. but when your knee nudges his again, gentle and intentional this time, his eyes flick to you for half a second.

you do it again—press your knee to his and leave it there.

toji doesn’t move.

you slide your hand down between you, let your fingers settle lightly on the edge of his thigh. you don’t grip, don’t squeeze. just let your touch rest there, warm and barely-there through the fabric of his sweats.

he goes still. completely still. but he doesn’t pull away.

his tail flicks behind him once, slow and uncertain, like he’s thinking about what to do. then he shifts just slightly—almost imperceptibly—into your touch. like his body is moving before he can second-guess it.

you both don’t say anything as your fingers stay right where they are.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LETS YOU SLEEP ON HIS SHOULDER . . .

you’re both slouched on the couch with a textbook cracked open between your knees and your notes scattered across the coffee table. it’s past midnight, the room dim except for the soft glow of the floor lamp in the corner. you’ve been trying to understand the same formula for the past twenty minutes, and your brain feels like it’s turning to paste.

you rub your eyes and groan, voice muffled behind your palm. “toji. i’m actually gonna die.”

toji sighs like he’s regretting every life choice that brought him here. “you’ve said that five times.”

“because it’s true.”

you slump sideways, cheek pressed against the back cushion. toji doesn’t look at you—he’s too busy scribbling numbers down in your notebook with that impatient grip of his, handwriting rough and fast but somehow still legible.

“this isn’t even your major,” you mumble.

“nope.”

“why do you know this?”

“i’m not stupid,” he says flatly.

you make a halfhearted noise of agreement. his tone is sharp, sure, but his tail’s swaying lazily over the side of the couch and his ears are relaxed, twitching now and then at the sound of the pages flipping.

he finally taps the corner of the book with his pen. “look. you’re messin’ up your order of operations. it’s not that complicated. you just keep rushin’ through the setup.”

you lift your head enough to squint at the equation. “okay, but explain it to me like i’m a dumbass.”

he grunts, but obliges.

the next ten minutes are him walking you through the problem step by step, voice low and even, surprisingly clear for someone who always sounds vaguely annoyed by everything. you nod along, jot down a few things, and try your best to follow, but your focus keeps drifting. the warmth of the room, the steady cadence of his voice, and the weight of the day all start to pile on.

he keeps talking. something about rearranging terms, then canceling them out—

but you don’t respond.

“hey,” he says eventually, glancing over. “you listenin’?”

he turns his head just in time to feel a sudden weight against his shoulder.

your head. you’ve knocked out completely, slumped sideways into him with your lips parted and breath slow.

toji goes very still.

his hand hovers midair for a moment, pen still between his fingers. your temple is tucked neatly against the edge of his collarbone, and he can feel the warmth of you, the slight drag of your breath brushing through the fabric of his shirt.

he exhales through his nose, low and tired. “...seriously?”

his voice is quiet, but there’s no bite to it.

your notebook is still open on your lap, pencil caught between the pages. your fingers twitch slightly in your sleep like you're still trying to write something down, and toji watches you for a second, then mutters something under his breath and closes the book for you.

he lets you lean there longer than he should.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS TOUCHING YOU WITH HIS TAIL . . .

the first time it happens, you honestly think it’s an accident.

you’re leaning against the kitchen counter, half-awake and waiting for the kettle to boil, when something soft brushes the back of your hand. it’s fleeting, just a light flick of movement, but distinct enough to make you freeze.

you glance over, and sure enough, toji’s crouched in front of the fridge with the door wide open, tail lazily swaying behind him. it’s the only thing about him that ever seems relaxed—long and dark, fur thick and well-kept, curving through the air like it has its own moods.

your eyes drop to your hand, still resting on the counter’s edge, and then shift back to him. he doesn’t turn around right away. just grabs a container of something, straightens up, and finally glances over his shoulder like he already knows what you’re thinking.

“move your damn hand,” he says, tone flat.

but there's something off about his mouth—a flicker of amusement curling at the corner. blink and you’d miss it.

you do as he says, not because you’re scared (maybe a little), but you’re trying to figure him out.

he’s unpredictable, the type who doesn’t like people close unless he has a reason to keep them there. so you assume it’s a one-time thing, a coincidence born out of bad spacing.

except it keeps happening. not every day. not even predictably. but often enough that you start to notice.

like when the two of you are sitting at the table—he’s reading something, and you’re mindlessly scrolling through your phone—and his tail shifts under the surface, brushes your ankle once, then again, light and purposeful.

or when he walks past you in the hall and it flicks against your knee, just enough to make you feel it.

at first, you think he’s messing with you. so you say something one night, voice low and careful, like you’re testing the water. “your tail’s got a mind of its own, huh.”

he doesn’t even look up from the couch. “you got a problem with it?”

you blink. “no. just saying.”

he hums—neutral, unimpressed. but there’s a twitch of his ear that betrays him.

he’s doing it on purpose.

you start to notice how casual the touches are. they’re always brief, just enough to draw your attention without drawing anyone else’s. never lingering too long. never paired with words.

it’s like some unspoken agreement. he gets to reach out in his own way, and you don’t ask questions.

one night, it’s just the two of you again—late, quiet, the kind of atmosphere where time feels heavier than usual.

you’re both on the couch like you always are when you both have free time. the tv’s on, but neither of you are really watching. he’s stretched out on one end, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, while you’re sitting near the opposite corner, elbow resting against the armrest.

his tail shifts once. then twice. it curls slowly toward you, brushes against the back of your hand like a test.

you don’t move away. instead, you curl your fingers slightly and let them graze along the fur—barely a touch. the texture surprises you. it’s softer than it looks.

he doesn’t say anything, but his tail stills for a second. not pulling away. not twitching in warning. just still, like he’s registering it.

your eyes flick to him.

he’s looking at the screen, jaw slack, head tilted slightly like he’s more focused on the sound than the visuals. he hasn’t acknowledged what just happened, but his ears have angled faintly back—toward you.

so you trace a little more of it, fingertips dragging lightly along the curve of it.

“you’re gonna make it shed,” he mutters after a beat, still not looking at you.

“you’re the one who keeps putting it on me,” you say.

he snorts. “don’t flatter yourself.”

but he doesn’t move. his tail twitches once under your hand, like it’s deciding whether to stay there or not, and then it settles.

you don’t know what this means yet, but whatever.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO SLEEPS IN YOUR BED WHEN HE FEELS TOO AGITATED TO BE ALONE . . .

you wake up to the feeling of movement.

the mattress dips at your side, slow but heavy, like something big just settled beside you. groggy, you blink against the darkness, eyes adjusting to the low sliver of moonlight slipping in through the blinds.

at first, you think you’re dreaming. there’s no reason for someone to be here—no reason for him to be here.

but then you roll over, and yeah. it’s him.

broad shoulders hunched slightly like he’s still on edge, messy hair flattened on one side, his jaw clenched tight. his eyes catch the light just enough for you to see the sharp glint in them. not exactly angry. just unreadable.

“…toji?”

he doesn’t look at you. “shut up,” he says.

you blink, brain still stuck somewhere between sleep and confusion. “...okay.”

he doesn’t offer an explanation. doesn’t shift to face you. just lays there stiffly on his back, one hand resting flat on his chest, the other shoved under the pillow like he needs something to anchor himself.

his ears are out. not tucked or hidden like usual. and they twitch once, sharp and reactive. his tail flicks behind him—once, twice, agitated—and then goes still.

you lie there in silence for a moment, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll give you an answer. but nothing comes.

you don’t ask what’s wrong. you don’t ask if something happened, or if someone triggered him, or if he’s trying not to lose control of something he doesn’t understand.

instead, you reach out and press your hand lightly against his bicep.

his muscles twitch under your touch—tense, coiled, like instinct told him to react before he remembered it was you. but he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t snap at you either.

so you leave your hand there. just for a while.

his breathing slows, bit by bit, until it’s steady again.

and even after your arm goes numb from the position, you don’t move. because he’s still there. not saying anything. not offering comfort. but staying.

he stays there the whole night.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STANDS CLOSER THAN NECESSARY IN PUBLIC . . .

you want ice cream.

at 11:48 p.m., your stomach decides to declare war on your self-control and your freezer is criminally empty. you’re already halfway into a hoodie, shoes half-laced, when you look over and say, “you coming?”

toji, who’s stretched out across the floor like a goddamn housecat in front of the fan, opens one eye.

“why the hell would i—”

“you can get something too,” you cut in, grabbing your keys. “or you can just follow me and complain the whole way. i don’t care.”

he does complain, for the record. muttering the entire walk to the convenience store like it’s a personal offense that you dragged him outside past midnight.

“not your damn dog,” he grumbles, hands shoved in the pockets of his black jacket.

but he still follows. always two steps behind. never more.

the store’s mostly empty. one cashier half-asleep behind the counter, a college guy loitering by the snacks, and the faint buzz of overhead lights. you make a beeline for the refrigerated section, scanning rows of drinks and ice cream cups with all the intense concentration of a man about to make a critical life decision.

you feel him before you hear him.

a quiet shift of air. fabric brushing fabric. the subtle weight of someone stepping into your space—just close enough to press into your personal bubble, but not close enough to be inappropriate. like a shadow at your back.

you glance to the side. his shoulder nearly touches yours.

“you’re crowding,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink. “don’t like the way that guy looked at you,” he mutters.

you blink, confused. “…what guy?”

toji doesn’t answer. his tail flicks once, slow and irritable. his ears are peaking out of his beanie, slightly tilted, like he’s still listening for movement. his gaze stays forward, blank like always, but his posture is different.

more tense. more aware.

he shifts a little closer, enough that his jacket brushes against your back when you reach for your drink.

you don’t say anything after that. just grab your ice cream, pay, and walk out into the night like nothing’s changed.

except from that night on, he never lets you walk ahead of him anymore.

when you’re out together, he’s always right there—beside you or just behind, angled like he’s ready to intercept anyone who steps too close. he stands between you and strangers in crowded places. presses a hand to your lower back when someone gets too near. doesn’t speak on it, doesn’t explain, but never wavers either.

he stands close. always too close to be just a roommate.

and you let him.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS WEIRDLY POSSESSIVE AS HIS RUT APPROACHES . . .

you’re sitting on the couch, finishing up your assignments with your laptop perched on your thighs. you’re mid-sentence, talking about some guy in your elective who made you laugh during a group activity, when toji sets his drink down a little too hard. the can slams against the table, a sharp metal clack that makes you flinch.

you look up. he doesn’t even look sorry as he mutters, “he sounds annoyin’.”

you blink. “he wasn’t. it was just funny.”

he doesn’t respond. just sits there with his arms crossed, his leg bouncing like he’s burning off something he doesn’t want to say out loud.

the next day, he’s waiting by the front gate when you get back from class.

you spot him easily. gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up, headphones around his neck. his cap is pulled low over his face, but even then, people glance at him as they pass. he ignores them, arms folded as he leans against the fence.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, trying not to sound surprised.

he shrugs. “finished early.”

“you never wait for me.”

he doesn’t explain. just falls into step beside you as you start walking back to the dorms. his tail flicks occasionally behind him. his hands stay buried in his hoodie pocket, but his body is tense—like he’s on edge.

“you didn’t answer my texts earlier,” he says, voice casual, but not really.

“i was in the middle of class.”

“hm.”

you glance at him. “is something wrong?”

“no,” he says. “just didn’t want you walkin’ back alone.”

“i’ve done it a hundred times.”

“doesn’t mean i like it.”

later that night, you’re in the kitchen getting a glass of water when there’s a knock on your door.

you open it to find one of your floormates standing there, asking if you’re still free to help with that project. you nod and tell him you’ll come by in a bit. it’s a short conversation. harmless.

but when you shut the door, toji’s standing at the end of the hallway, watching.

you frown. “what?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just moves closer, slow and quiet, like he’s thinking too hard about something he doesn’t like admitting. “he could’ve just texted,” toji says finally.

you blink. “what?”

“your little group project. why’d he come to the door?”

“he was just asking.”

he clicks his tongue and walks past you. “bullshit.”

you stare after him. “what’s your deal lately?”

he pauses, not turning around. then he says, “people like to use excuses to get close to you.”

you scoff. “he’s not trying to get close to me. it’s literally schoolwork.”

toji’s tail flicks behind him, agitated. he doesn't respond, but you can hear the edge in his voice when he mutters, “doesn’t matter. don’t like it.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO IS SUDDENLY ALL UP IN YOUR SPACE . . .

you’re standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, watching your eggs sizzle when you feel the heat of him behind you. you think he’s just passing through at first—maybe heading for the fridge, or the sink—but he stops short, close enough that the curve of his chest almost grazes your back. his breath brushes the side of your neck.

when you glance over your shoulder, he’s just… standing there. arms loose at his sides, tail flicking low behind him, eyes on the pan like he’s waiting for you to offer him a bite.

“you need something?” you ask.

he grunts. “nah.”

he doesn’t move.

you bump him with your elbow and he finally takes a step back, only to trail a hand over the small of your back as he does. casual. like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before.

but he hasn’t.

the next time it happens, you’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, and a friend drops by to return a book he borrowed. it’s not a long conversation. you’re standing by the door, talking about schedules and weekend plans, nothing special.

but the whole time, you can feel toji’s presence behind you—barely two steps away. arms crossed, expression blank. his ears twitch like he’s tracking every word.

your friend glances at him once, and then twice. “your roommate always look that thrilled to see people?”

you give him a strained smile. “yeah. he’s a real people person.”

once the door closes, you turn around to find toji still standing there. closer than before. his tail curls lazily around your calf and lingers there like it belongs.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO DOESN’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU SMELL DIFFERENT . . .

he’s leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting, one arm braced just high enough to block your path. the other hangs loose at his side, hand twitching once like he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. his eyes catch yours, sharp and dark, and he looks at you like he’s sizing you up. or maybe trying not to do something.

you blink up at him. “uh. hey.”

he doesn’t answer. his gaze drags over your face, slow, then dips to your throat. you feel the weight of it. it’s not subtle.

“you been wearin’ new lotion?” he asks, voice low and too casual to be casual.

you pause. “yeah. it was on sale.”

he already knows that. he saw the bottle sitting on your nightstand this morning. you left it out on accident.

toji shifts a little closer. you feel the warmth of him first—how solid he is, how tall. then his head dips, and before you can say anything, his nose brushes against the side of your neck. it’s slow. unhurried. like he’s savoring the scent, like he’s trying to memorize it.

you swallow hard.

“don’t like it,” he mutters. his breath is warm against your skin. “you smell different.”

your pulse kicks up, but you don’t step back. you don’t really want to. he’s close, closer than anyone has any business being, and you can feel the heat coming off him.

his tail flicks once and brushes your leg, lazy and thoughtless. there’s a tension in his voice that catches you off guard, like he’s trying not to let himself slip.

his hand lifts. his fingers skim your waist, then curl there, just barely, like he’s testing what he can get away with. you don’t stop him.

“couldn’t smell you right all day,” he says. his tone doesn’t change, but there’s a look in his eyes—like he’s losing patience with himself. “don’t like that either.”

you glance at his mouth. your throat’s dry. “i’ll switch back,” you say, quietly.

his gaze flicks up to yours. “yeah?”

you nod.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS LOSING SLEEP . . .

you wake up to the faint creak of the floorboards and the low hum of the fan overhead. it’s past three. your room is dark, save for the sliver of moonlight coming through the blinds, striping the floor in cold silver. at first, you think maybe it was just the fan, or the pipes doing their usual haunted-house routine. but then you sit up, and you see him.

toji.

he’s sitting on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, one knee bent and the other leg stretched out in front of him. shirtless. sweat-damp at the collarbones. breathing a little too hard for someone who’s supposedly been still. his head’s tilted back like it’s too heavy for his neck, jaw tense, like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to name. moonlight cuts across his shoulders, glinting off the chain around his throat.

you rub your eyes and whisper, “what are you doing?”

he doesn’t look at you at first. just tilts his head a little, jaw tight. his fingers twitch where they’re draped over his knee, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something.

“couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice low and rough. “what’s it look like?”

you glance toward the clock. 3:18. “you pacing again?”

toji doesn’t answer. just sniffs quietly and drags a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to cool himself down. like his own skin feels wrong.

“everythin’s fuckin’ loud lately,” he mutters. “everythin’ smells wrong. can’t think straight.”

you blink. he never complains. not about pain, not about stress, not about much of anything. hearing this much already feels like something's shifted.

he finally looks at you. eyes dark, heavy-lidded, like he's been wound too tight for too long. and then, without warning, he reaches for your wrist—not rough, not aggressive. just deliberate. his nose brushes your skin before you can even register what he’s doing, and he inhales deep, right against the inside of your wrist.

you tense for a second. not from discomfort. more from the way it feels—how natural it is. his voice is quieter when he speaks again, words pressed into your pulse. “this is better.”

you stare at him, unsure what to say.

he doesn’t ask you anything. doesn��t explain himself further. just keeps his face near your arm, breathing you in like it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping.

“go back to sleep,” he says finally, even though he doesn’t let go. “i’m not gonna do anythin’.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FINALLY GOES INTO RUT . . .

you barely get the door open before it slams shut behind you.

your back hits the wood with a dull thud, your bag slipping off your shoulder and hitting the floor. you’re half a second from cursing when you look up—and freeze.

toji's standing in front of you, close enough that his chest brushes yours when he breathes. and he’s breathing hard. really hard. his pupils are blown out, eyes glowing faint gold in the low hallway light. his tail’s lashing behind him, restless, agitated. his hair’s a mess, sticking to his forehead.

“toji,” you say carefully, eyes narrowing, “what—”

“close the door.”

it’s already closed, but you don’t correct him. his voice sounds rough, more gravel than usual, like he’s been grinding his teeth all day.

“what’s going on with you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his hands find your hips, firm and hot through your shirt. “smelled you comin’ up the stairs,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of explanation. “told myself i’d wait.”

you swallow. “but you didn’t.”

toji leans in a little closer. not enough to kiss you. just enough for his nose to brush your cheek, your jaw. he inhales slowly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your scent, and his exhale shudders out uneven.

“can’t think,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “everythin’s too much.”

his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. and for once, he doesn’t look like he’s got something sarcastic loaded on his tongue. no cocky grin, no smug little remark. just tension, heat, and restraint.

you place a hand on his chest, feeling how hard he’s breathing. the heat coming off him is unreal.

he lowers his forehead to your shoulder. “you don’t have to. i’ll—fuck, i’ll figure it out.”

you pause. your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.

“toji.”

he grunts in response, but doesn’t move.

“hey. look at me.”

his gaze lifts, slow and heavy. his eyes are sharp now—brighter than usual, but not out of control. you meet his stare, steady. “you’re not gonna fuck this up.”

his jaw ticks, like he’s biting back something. not words—restraint, maybe.

your fingers tighten slightly on his shirt. “so stop acting like you might.”

he exhales harshly through his nose, and he closes the distance between you like something inside him finally snapped. there’s no warning, no careful buildup—just the violent crush of his mouth against yours, like the pressure of holding himself back all day finally reached a breaking point.

it’s rough and unrestrained. his teeth catch on yours, breath hot and uneven, and he kisses like he doesn’t care about finesse, only contact. his tongue pushes deep, every movement driven by something primal, and his jaw flexes like he’s fighting to keep himself contained.

your head tilts instinctively, letting him in deeper, and you kiss him back with just as much urgency. it’s messy and wet, your mouths slipping and dragging together in a rhythm that’s more hunger than coordination.

each time your lips meet again, he groans—sharp and guttural—like just having your mouth on his is enough to shake something loose in him.

your hands slide under his shirt, palms dragging up the flat of his stomach. his skin is burning up—tight muscle shifting under your fingers, tense like he’s ready to snap. when your nails rake over the line of hair below his navel, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing hard enough to crack. his shoulders twitch like he’s fighting the urge to move too fast.

his tail hauls you in, locking your bodies together, and you feel the weight of him right up against you. your crotch grinds into his zipper, heat pressing hard against heat. he rolls his hips once—slow, deliberate.

your breath stutters, mouth brushing his as you try to say his name. it comes out broken. “toji—nnnh—”

he exhales through his teeth, head tipping forward like that noise short-circuited something in him. his tail jerks, tensing around your leg.

his mouth doesn’t leave yours. he has one hand groping down your ass, the other sliding under your shirt, fingers splayed across your lower back like he needs skin. the heat coming off him is overwhelming—muscle flexing with every breath, jaw working like he’s grinding down what little patience he has left.

toji huffs a low sound—not a laugh exactly. just something rough in his throat. he drags his mouth down your jaw, breath hot, voice low and strained.

“should’ve come home sooner.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FUCKS YOU FOR HOURS WITHOUT A BREAK . . .

it’s been hours. your body gave out a long time ago, but toji’s still fucking you like he hasn’t noticed. or maybe he has and just doesn’t care.

your chest is slick with sweat, breath dragging in slow, shuddering bursts. your arms aren’t holding you up anymore—they’re just there, trembling under the weight of it all, while your cheek presses flat to the mattress. you can feel him behind you, stretched over your back, cock driving in deep from behind, heavy and thick and relentless.

every thrust pushes your knees forward. every one lands hard. there’s nothing left of rhythm anymore—just the sound of his hips slapping into you, the hot rasp of his breath, the ragged groans tearing out of his chest like he’s losing patience with how long he’s not buried in you to the hilt.

his hand’s on the back of your neck, rough and steady, holding you in place. not hard. just firm. like a warning. like you’re not supposed to move until he says you can.

“hnnnh—f-fuck—” he mutters low, voice scraping deep in his throat, teeth grit. “still so fuckin’ tight—nghh—even after all this?”

your only answer is a wrecked little noise, half-sob, half-moan, high and breathless as your spine arches under him. he snorts under his breath, then grinds in harder, cock dragging against your insides like he’s trying to feel every ridge. just to hear you make that sound again.

“yeah,” he breathes, all grit and filth, lips dragging down your spine. “that’s what I fuckin’ thought. slutty little hole still squeezin’ me like you haven’t been stuffed full all fuckin’ night.”

his other hand claws at your waist, pulling you back into each thrust like you’re just something to grip. your skin’s raw where he’s held you. hips littered with smudged fingerprints, red welts, nail marks.

your back’s even worse—dotted in bruises and bite marks, old and new, places where his mouth stayed too long. you feel used. split open. ruined. and he’s still not finished.

“tch—mmhhf—shit—” he groans again, slurring it into the crook of your shoulder. his breath is hot and shallow, tongue dragging lazy across a mark he left earlier, right before he sinks his teeth in again—sharp enough to make you jerk, and his hand tightens on your neck like he likes the way you flinch.

he yanks you back into another thrust, hard enough that your thighs tremble. his cock presses up deep—deep, thick, heavy, and swelling—and you feel the base start to stretch you for the second time that night. thick pressure blooming at your rim, making your hole flex involuntarily around him. you whine, throat caught on it—“nnhhh, f-fuck—s’big, toji—”—and his grip on your hips jerks tighter like instinct.

“yeah? you feel that?” he growls, voice going dark. “feel my fuckin’ knot pressin’ up in you again? uhhn— fuck—gonna split you open on it—keep you fuckin’ plugged, yeah?”

he leans in more, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, panting ragged against it, hips still driving forward with the single-minded force of a man possessed.

“nnnh—knot’s comin’ again,” he growls through his teeth, breath hot and shaking.

the bed shifts violently with every slam of his hips. he’s rutting into you, fucking up into the softest spots he’s already bruised inside you, cock twitching with every desperate grind.

the slap of his hips is wet, noisy—schlk, slrp, slap!—your ass glossy from sweat and slick and the mess that’s been leaking out of you all night, only for him to shove it back in every single time.

“hahhh—f-fuck,” you gasp, voice barely a rasp, eyes squeezed shut. “toji—s’too—t-too much—can’t—”

“nah.” his voice cuts in sharp, guttural, teeth bared behind every word.

“keep makin’ those pretty little whiny noises, baby—and i’m gonna knot you so deep you can’t even walk to class tomorrow—uhnnh—you’ll feel me in your guts all week.”

you whimper, pathetic—“tojiiiii—”—as your body clenches down again, as your cock twitches untouched beneath you, leaking helpless against the bed.

he bites right where your shoulder meets your neck, dragging his teeth slow as his hips stutter. you feel it. the knot swelling full—wider, tighter, locking in with a wet pop that stretches your hole around the bulge until it burns.

he groans, broken—“fffuck, f-fuck, thass’ it—fuuuck—”—and thrusts in one last time, buried to the hilt.

your eyes roll back. the pressure, the stretch, the way he grinds in deep with slow, pulsing jerks as his cock unloads again—thick, hot, endless—your belly goes tight, your body trembling as you moan loud and cracked through your throat.

“hnnh—fuck, baby,” he murmurs, voice ragged and already starting to haze over again. “don’t pass out on me yet.”

he kisses your neck as he continues with a manic grin, “still got hours t’go.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS CALLING YOU AN OMEGA . . .

you don’t even know how long it’s been. time stopped making sense somewhere between the fourth knot and the stretch of your hole around his cock going from unbearable to necessary. you’re not even on the bed anymore—can’t lie down, can’t crawl.

he’s got you pinned against the wall, your back slick against the paint, your legs hooked over his thick forearms as he fucks up into you like he’s trying to break the foundation.

his tail’s lashing behind him, wild and twitchy, muscles flexing with every brutal thrust like it’s sharing in the rhythm, like it’s got a mind of its own. it curls in close and flicks every time you cry out, curling tighter around his own thigh, coiling high and tense with every pulse of your wrecked hole around his cock.

his ears—dark, plush, twitching—flatten when he growls, stand upright when you moan, perk when you whimper and beg. they’re locked onto you, tuned to the mess you’re making, and when you hiccup a cracked little “f-fuck, toji—!” they twitch once and stay up, alert and fixated like prey just moved beneath his paw.

he’s carrying your whole weight like it’s nothing—slammed between his body and the cold wall, your arms dangling useless, your head lolling back with every thrust. your hole is stretched wide around him, gaping, red, ring twitching with every rut of his hips, like your body still doesn’t know what to do with the sheer size of him.

and still he keeps going.

shlk—schlp— the sound of it is slick and nasty, wet like your body’s just a sleeve made for him now. cum’s leaking out in thick, milky strings that drip down the back of your thighs and spatter onto the floor, but it doesn’t matter. none of it matters. he’s fucking it back in with every thrust, deeper, harder, like it pisses him off how much you’re losing.

your hole isn’t just raw. it’s used. ringed with spit, smeared with cum, loose enough that his cock drives in to the hilt with a nasty little slrrp and no resistance. no struggle. he’s got you wrecked, ruined, ruined good, and when your hips twitch, when your cock bounces soft and spent against your belly, all you can do is moan.

“t-toji—hahh—hahh, fffuck—i can’t—!”

your voice breaks, nearly a sob, but it doesn’t slow him.

“can’t what?” he snarls against your neck, hot breath thick against your skin. “can’t take it? mmnh—bullshit. you’re fuckin’ open for me, baby.”

his grip flexes under your thighs, fingers digging in until your skin dimples beneath them, lifting you just a little higher—enough to angle his cock deeper, until the base slams flush against your ass.

“gape’s sayin’ you love it,” he growls, biting the curve of your jaw. “little hole won’t fuckin’ close.”

his tail snaps against your leg when you twitch, a hard flick like warning, and his ears flatten when your head drops back, when your tongue spills from your lips in a broken moan.

he fucks into you harder, faster, thrusts bouncing you against the wall with each one, your back smacking it with soft little thuds as you moan through gritted teeth.

you’re drooling. you don’t even notice it until he licks it off your chin and laughs—low, raspy, breathless, one ear cocking at a smug tilt while the other stays up, twitching in time with your gasps.

“such a messy fuckin’ omega,” he hisses into your throat, tail winding tighter behind him, curling around your calf like it’s trying to bind you to him—keep you from even thinking about pulling away.

the word burns in your stomach. it shouldn’t. you’re not one. you’re just human. no scent, no heat, no biological bond. but toji’s rutting into you like you’re his, and when he says it—like that—something in your gut tightens and twists, hot and brutal and needy.

you moan like it hurts.

“nggh—f-fuck—toji—d-don’t—”

“don’t what?” he huffs, teeth catching your ear, ears now pinned low and back with heat, hips still driving up. “don’t call you what you are?”

you try to shake your head, but he growls—low, vibrating deep in his chest—and bites the side of your neck.

“baby, you feel like one.”

his thrusts go wild then. brutal. punishing. all weight and speed and raw hunger, his balls slapping wet against your ass as your hole clutches uselessly around him. you’re not even clenching anymore—just spasming, wide open, puffy and ruined and taking every inch.

his ears are flat again, head dipped low against your neck like he’s trying to bury himself inside you, chasing the feel of your hole spasming. his tail is thrashing wildly, curling, twitching, jerking tight every time your body shakes.

“this little cunt’s fuckin’ starving,” he grits out. “so wet—gaping like you need me, omega. fuck, I can see inside you when I pull out—uhhhhn, yeah, just like that—fuuuuck—”

he thrusts deep, then drags back slow, and you feel it—the way your hole stretches around him, how it barely tries to close before he’s slamming in again.

slrp-thmp. slrp-thmp.

“you hear that?” he pants, ears twitching. “you’re so fuckin’ sloppy for me—shit, could live inside this hole—fuck you open every night, knot you every goddamn morning—”

you’re babbling now. sobbing on every word. you don’t know what you’re saying. it’s just noise.

“ahhhnn—t-toji, it’s too—d-deep, too much—nghh—m’gonna—f’gonna—”

“cum,” he growls, voice ragged and desperate, ears up and locked forward. and when he slams in one last time, knot swelling thick and fast, you feel pressure locking in, sealing you up tight, heat spilling into your gut all over again.

your whole body shudders. your hole pulses and twitches around the base of his cock, stretched insanely wide, lips slick and raw and wet with the endless mess he’s pouring into you.

and he doesn’t let go. his tail winds around your thigh and his ears twitch with every little breath you sob out, just watching you tremble.

he just holds you there, up against the wall, pinned and leaking and knotted full, cock throbbing inside as he purrs into your throat.

“told you,” he pants, slow and smug. “my good little omega.”

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GROOMS YOU WHEN HIS RUT CLEARS MOMENTARILY . . .

toji’s eyes flick to the digital clock on your nightstand. 5:30 a.m.

he clicks his tongue, low and irritated. it felt like time’s mocking him, like the blinking red numbers have something to say about the fact that he’s still in your bed, half hard, drenched in sweat, and only now starting to feel like a human being again. or close to it.

your breathing’s the only sound in the room. light, shallow, a little uneven. you’re limp under him—dead asleep. face pressed into the pillow, mouth open, one arm stretched out like you tried to reach for him at some point before your body gave out.

toji exhales through his nose. the kind of breath that’s more of a sigh than he’ll ever admit to.

you’d passed out maybe fifteen minutes ago. slumped forward, shaking, legs done for, voice blown out. and he… didn’t stop right away. didn’t mean to keep going as long as he did, but it was like he couldn’t get his brain to come back online. not until now. not until the gnawing under his skin let up just enough to make room for something other than the need to fuck you full.

you reek of him.

sweat. spit. cum. the scent is thick in the air, and it drags something slow and satisfied through his chest. he did exactly what his body told him to—he claimed you, filled you, marked you until your body remembered his name even in sleep.

he shifts with a grunt, muscles complaining as he sits back. there’s a wet sound when he peels off your thigh, and he ignores it. he grabs a couple tissues from the box on your nightstand, wipes the worst of the mess off your lower back, your thighs, between your legs.

he’s not delicate about it. he’s not trying to be gentle. but he’s thorough. cleaning you down with the same rough, tired efficiency you’d use to wipe blood off a blade.

when he tosses the tissue into the wastebasket, he leans down again—nose brushing just behind your ear. you twitch in your sleep. not enough to wake. but enough for him to notice.

toji sniffs once. slow. then noses at your sweat-slick skin, his tongue dragging lazily up your throat, catching on salt and fading heat. it’s not sexual. not really. more like instinct. as if he’s checking, making sure you still smell like him underneath all the sweat and spit.

he licks again, lower this time. neck, shoulder, collarbone—wherever there’s skin he’s already bitten. he presses his tongue flat, slow and steady, like he’s cleaning you. it’s lazy, half-hearted. just a few tired swipes of tongue.

you’re covered in his marks anyway. hickeys blooming down your back, sharp little indents from his teeth littering your neck and chest. nothing that’ll scar, but you’ll feel them in the morning. you’ll know where he was.

his head drops against your shoulder for a second. he just stays there, breathing.

then, without saying a word, he crawls back into bed beside you. one arm hooks over your waist—heavy, anchoring. his other hand palms your ass once, almost absently, then drags the blanket up over both of you with a tired grunt.

his lips brush the back of your neck, pressing a soft kiss on the skin.

then he’s out just like that. still half hard, dehydrated, sore all over, but asleep in under a minute—his tail curled loosely around your thigh.

ㅤ

Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO TAKES CARE OF YOU THE MORNING AFTER . . .

you wake up slowly. everything aches.

your legs feel like they’ve been taken apart and reassembled wrong. your back’s sore, your neck’s stiff, and your throat’s dry. for a second you’re not even sure what time it is—just that the air’s warm, the light’s dim, and the bed you’re in isn’t cold.

then you hear it—soft clinking, a dull sizzle, the faint creak of a cheap cabinet door.

your eyes crack open.

toji’s at the kitchenette, back turned to you, wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweats and the same dark tank top he’d yanked halfway off sometime last night and didn’t bother finishing the job. his hair’s still messy. ears out, tail swaying slow and low behind him. there’s a pan on the stove. eggs. some kind of toast. you blink, confused.

your voice comes out rough. “...are you cooking?”

he doesn’t turn around. “what’s it look like?”

“you don’t even cook for yourself.”

“shut up.”

you’re pretty sure you hear him mutter “fucker can’t even stand straight today” under his breath as he flips something in the pan.

your head falls back against the pillow, eyes shutting with a groan. your entire lower body feels like it’s been run over and then thrown in the dryer. the soreness is the kind that comes from being thoroughly ruined and then left to steep overnight. and he’s acting like you’re the problem.

you manage to sit up a little. the blanket slips down your bare chest and you wince. “you didn’t have to, you know. i can—”

“no, you can’t,” he cuts in, flatly. “tried movin’ in your sleep and damn near whimpered.”

your face burns. “i did not whimper.”

he grunts. “sure.”

you hear the stove click off. a few seconds later, he’s standing next to you with a plate in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. he drops the water in your lap, then squats down in front of you, balancing the plate on his thigh as he holds a fork out to you like you’re five.

you glare at him. “i can feed myself.”

his gaze drops pointedly to your trembling thigh. “right.”

you open your mouth to argue again, but the smell hits you—eggs, rice, sausage, a little garlic. your stomach growls before you can stop it.

“…fine.”

he raises an eyebrow, like he knows, and then holds out a forkful of food. you take it, chewing slow. you swallow before mumbling, “you remembered i like garlic rice.”

he doesn’t respond at first. just shrugs one shoulder, gaze flicking to the side.

you keep chewing, quieter now. toji scoops another forkful for you without needing to ask. after a few bites, you finally ask, “didn’t you have class this morning?”

“emailed the prof.”

you blink. “...you emailed your professor?”

“yours too.” he nudges your leg with his knee when you keep staring. “don’t look so shocked. i know how to type.”

“you usually don’t care.”

he shrugs again. “felt like doin’ it.”

you don’t say thank you. not out loud. but you meet his eyes for a second too long, and he looks away before you can try and read the expression there. his ears flick like they’re irritated with him for letting you see too much.

after the last bite, he sets the plate aside and presses his palm to your forehead, checking your temperature like it’s casual, like he didn’t rail you into unconsciousness a few hours ago. you lean into the touch without meaning to.

you lie back down once the plate’s empty, stomach warm and limbs too heavy to argue with gravity. your body’s already trying to sink back into sleep, head turned toward the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

but toji’s not having it.

“don’t pass out yet.”

you groan into the pillow. “why.”

“you stink.”

“you stink,” you mutter, face buried.

he clicks his tongue. “shut up. you’re the one smellin’ like sweat and cum.”

you grumble something—probably an insult, though it comes out half-slurred. still, you don’t move. not until he yanks the blanket off your legs in one clean motion and the cold air hits your skin like a slap.

“fuck—”

“up.”

“toji.”

he’s already standing over you, arms crossed, ears twitching in clear irritation. “shower. now. or i’ll drag your sorry ass in there myself.”

you try giving him a withering glare, but you’re too tired for it to land. “i literally can’t walk.”

“yeah?” he shrugs. “not my problem.”

but it is his problem, apparently—because the next second, he’s bending down, one arm sliding under your knees, the other curling around your back like it’s nothing. you yelp as he lifts you, already halfway out the room.

“you could’ve just helped me walk, asshole—”

“you were gonna stall.”

he doesn’t bother with a warning as he nudges the bathroom door open with his foot and flips the light on. your head’s tucked under his chin, your arms looped around his shoulders by default, and he’s definitely not not smug about it.

the water runs hot by the time he sets you down on the closed toilet seat.

he yanks his own shirt off, tosses it somewhere out of sight, then starts the shower like he’s done this a hundred times. and maybe he has. not with you, but there’s something oddly practiced about it. efficient. like his hands know what they’re doing even if his brain’s halfway shut off.

he helps you up, steadies you with a hand low on your back. your body feels like rubber. your legs shake. still, he guides you in carefully, stepping in right after, tail flicking behind him as he moves.

his hands come next. shampoo, fingers massaging your scalp, dragging through your hair. not gentle, but not careless either. then soap across your chest, shoulders, arms—methodical, not shy. it’s not sexual. not right now. he’s just cleaning you up like you’re an extension of himself, like he doesn’t see the point in asking if you’re okay with it when you clearly need the help.

when he’s done, he shuts the water off, drapes a towel over your shoulders, and grabs another to scrub at your hair with. it’s rough. you wince.

“ow—”

“don’t be a baby.”

he dries you off quick, then wraps a clean towel around your waist before scooping you up again like a sack of potatoes. he heads straight for his bed this time, barely glancing at yours.

“hey,” you murmur, “that’s not my—”

“your bed’s a mess,” he grunts. “i’m not lettin’ you rot in that.”

you blink, too dazed to argue. “you gonna change my sheets?”

he scoffs. “what, you want me to leave you to do it?”

you sink into the fresh sheets like a stone, limp and clean and exhausted. toji covers you with a blanket, then disappears for a few minutes—probably to strip your bed and toss everything in the wash.

he climbs in next to you a minute later, arm slinging around your waist as he settles. his body’s still radiating heat, but calmer now. grounded. you feel the way his tail wraps loosely around your ankle under the covers. not tight. just there.

you’re already half-asleep when you mumble, “thanks.”

toji doesn’t answer. but you feel the way his fingers brush once, lightly, through your hair.

your voice is quiet as you ask, “have you… ever done this before?”

he doesn’t say anything right away.

you blink, eyes barely open. “i mean, taken care of someone like this.”

his scoff is immediate. sharp. defensive. “fuck no.”

you turn your head a little, enough to catch the way he keeps his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight. his ears flick slightly, tail giving a lazy, agitated twitch. he’s not looking at you. not even trying to.

you watch him for a second. “really?”

he grumbles, “you think i go around washin’ other people’s hair and changin’ their sheets?”

there’s something about how he says it—low, annoyed, like he’s irritated with himself more than you. like he’s realizing it for the first time too. you smile to yourself, barely suppressing the warmth creeping up your face.

“mm,” you hum, soft as you close your eyes. “good.”

toji still doesn’t look at you. but his hand rests a little heavier on your waist.

#wishes granted by omi .ᐟ #bottom male reader #male reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #anime smut #jjk #toji x reader #jjk smut #male reader #anime #mlm #x male reader #mlm smut #jjk toji #toji fushiguro smut #fushiguro toji #toji zenin

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mohgazah · 3 days ago

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There is a fire in my heart that no one can see‼️

This is the Third time I’ve lived through the brutality of hunger its harshness, its silence.

I walk through the streets of the city and find nothing to feed my children.

🩸The first time was last year, when I documented my situation holding onto a piece of bread after over a month of deprivation.

🩸The second time was 6 months ago when I brought some flour for my family and I was very tired because it was a very long walk.

🩸Now, I’m reliving that same pain.

The helplessness before my children, the heartbreak, it feels like I’m failing as a father. This is the very definition of powerlessness. I am of no use to them.💔💔

*Do you feel the weight of this hunger in my heart?

*Can you hear the cries of my children’s empty stomachs?

*Is anyone out there listening?

*Can anyone help us or Or convey the voice of this hunger to those who can help us?

Please donate, we are in dire need of your humanity. I hope you will not leave us to die in this harsh hunger. We want to feel that there is someone we can rely on to lighten this burden a little.

My campaign is verified on Gazavetters under # (88).

#gaza #free palestine #free gaza #gaza strip #save palestine #donations #help gaza #all eyes on palestine #i stand with palestine #donate if you can

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snail-day · 2 days ago

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Jason Todd can handle a lot, pain, blood, bullets. He’s survived things that should’ve killed him. He’s stared death in the face and grinned. But you crying?

No. No, that he can’t handle.

Especially not when it’s because of him.

It happens too fast, faster than he can catch. His voice rises mid-argument, sharp and defensive, frustration bleeding through every syllable. And then your breath hitches. Just once. Barely a sound. But he hears it. Sees it, too. The way your eyes suddenly go glassy, lashes trembling with unshed tears. The wobble of your bottom lip. That blink-blink-blink like you’re trying so hard to keep it in, like it’s your fault for reacting at all. That expression - so small, so crushed - makes something twist violently in his chest.

“Babe,” he says, immediately. Voice low. Cracked.

“Baby.” Already stepping closer.

“Lover.” he breathes, softer now, frantic in his own quiet way, reaching out before the first tear even falls. But it does, rolling down your cheek in a hot streak that shatters him completely.

“I didn’t mean that. I swear. I didn’t - ” His words fumble, tangled in his throat, caught between apology and desperation.

You try to turn away, swiping at your face, but he’s already pulling you in, arms strong and sure as they wrap around you. He sits down without thinking, dragging you with him into his lap, curling himself around you like a barrier from the world. Like if he holds you tight enough, he can fix it. Undo it.

You’re hiccuping against his chest, hands balled into his shirt, and he presses his cheek to the top of your head, breathing you in. You smell like tears and your shared shampoo and home. His fingers stroke your spine, firm and steady. Like you’re both reminding each other: still here. still loved.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Again. And again. “I didn’t mean to yell. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

His voice is low, rough with guilt. There’s something trembling in it, something he hasn’t let anyone see since he was a boy. And in this moment, maybe he is a boy again. Scared. Soft. Too full of love and too afraid to lose it.

Maybe he’s more like Bruce than he ever wanted to admit. Not in the brooding or the brawn. But in that quiet, aching fear, of losing everything he cares about. Of saying the wrong thing. Of being the reason someone walks away. So he holds you like he’s trying to rewrite the moment. Presses kisses to the crown of your head, holding you tight, and swears, silently, he’ll do better. Be better. For you.

Dc masterlist

#Tw: angst #Becomes fluffy-ish!#Jason Todd #Jason Todd x reader #Jason Todd x you #jason todd imagine #Red hood x reader #Red hood #DC x reader #dc universe

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miange1 · 2 days ago

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MY LOVE FOR YOU🥭

batch. . .🥥ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠•̥⁠`⁠ʔ. . . replaced alien bf x male reader

batch ingredients. . .🍍૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა. . . not much smut only a little bit of a mention , doing things very incorrectly , false flirting , reader is a sort of himbo , attachment issues , jealousy , he calls you a hairless monkey , reader is sensitive , crying , reader is mentioned to be malnourished(due to original boyfriend) , cheating mentions

something to know about the batch. . .🍉.

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა your (abusive) boyfriend had been replaced by an alien who most likely completely consumed him. here is part. 1. please read it for better understanding . you do NOT know he is an alien but you clearly know something is wrong

bakers note. . .🍐☆⌒(ゝ。∂). . . more alien bf 🙂‍↕️ i never proofread. this is a little messy and lazy im sorry🥀

he was doing better. by better , it didn't mean he was back to what you would call 'normal' but he could pet his own dog normally at least. and it was so odd. coco didn't even like him , but a few weeks ago when he came back from his trip— she was instantly on him and licking his face like he was a whole new person.

you were just sitting next to him as the TV played out in front of you, his arm around you and his fingers ghostly tapping along your arm as if to do something in morse. his eyes twitched, as did the end of his lips. he did that often, did it like he was thinking about what to do. then his head snapped towards you, and you flinched. yet it wasn't from fear, just from being surprised and weirded out. "we should go out together. somewhere fancy."

you were silent for a second, when your mouth opened to speak, nothing much had come out. "i..oh..okay?" and then he looked at you just as confused. "is that not couples do?" you shook your head, clearing your throat. "no, that's what couples do. but.." that's not what we do. you held your tongue.

the two of you ended up going anyway. you didn't have many nice clothes, nothing designer so you felt a little out of place. you were just dressed as nicely as you could be. the date was silent but it wasn't exactly awkward. he didn't eat much of his food, he even gave you the plate of the steaming creamy pasta. "you need to eat more. it's not safe for you if you don't." it was ironic , if you weren't almost flattered you would have called him a hypocrite. "thank you?" he stared you dead in your eyes , wouldn't stop until you finished.

his hand hooked to yours underneath the table , lightly swinging your arms together. his eyes were away from yours , and you had actually decided to talk to him about something. but you noticed that he seemed to be looking at someone rather than a random something. your head turned , and there he had been staring at a woman. ass way too big , definitely surgery , her face filled with botox. yet those were the girls you'd catch him with everytime you were. you knew it. you were still some joke to him.

—

"why are you upset?" you didn't answer. clearly he noticed you refusing to talk and look at him the entire car ride home even when he tried to engage in conversation. "im not." "you are a very bad liar." you huffed, fingers digging into the bed sheets. "it doesn't matter. you do it all the time , why should it matter now?"

he blinked too quickly. confused. "it matters because we are together. you seem to forget that." you didn't yell at him, but you did raise your voice. you had even started crying , completely upset at how idiotic he was! and he had taken it. just looked at you like he was taking it all in.

"i apologize. my eyes did not mean to wander lustfully. i was looking at the lady because of how unnatural she seemed.." you were breathing shakily, and he grabbed your hand and pulled you gently towards him. "it was idiotic. i still do not understand, but im learning. my eyes will not look at anyone except you." he spoke like a promise, it was almost unsettling.

his other hand came to your face, his fingers trembled as he wiped your tears. it wasn't that he was sad or scared, it was like he had never felt tears before. "you are my only hairless monkey i am interested in. we are mated." you snorted, bursting out laughing. you felt so much lighter, so much better it felt great. "you are so weird.."

his lips curled up, in an awkward shakey smile like to copy yours. "is this a time for me to penetrate your prostate for pleasure? that will also make you feel better, right?"

—

he made a habit of watching you sleep, mostly because he didn't need to. your body bare, and warm deeper into the sheets. he could see scars that he couldn't make go away, because they were not temporary. his fingers brushed over them, almost ashamed of actions he hadn't committed.

you were beautiful. how could someone hurt something ever so precious? it went beyond his intelligence.

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literary-dolly · 3 days ago

Text

baby steps.

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k warnings: jason has a kid, mentions of pregnancy, a bit of arguing but mostly fluff

Who knew a family of detectives could be so oblivious? (A.K.A the four times the Bats are blatantly confronted with Jason's kid and the one time they finally realise she's his).

It was incredibly rare that Tim asked anyone in his family for help. At best they would mock him for needing help in the first place, at worst (and in most cases) they would create more problems and, in turn, an even greater headache. It was even rarer that he asked Jason for help – Jason had a talent for doing both, rinsing him within an inch of his life while helpfully pointing out the fifteen flaws in whatever Tim had originally been thinking in the first place.

Alas, needs must.

Jason had made it abundantly clear that under no circumstances was anyone allowed to visit his apartment. He was fiercely protective of not only his space, but yours. The first time Dick had shown up unannounced, injured, whilst Jason was still out on patrol, meaning that you had to patch up a bloodied Nightwing on your favourite rug – well, Dick’s initial injury had been the least of his worries. Jason had practically chased him out of the apartment, and needless to say Dick hadn’t made an expressed effort to return any time soon.

But Jason had also made himself impossible to contact. The only chance anyone ever had of catching him was at the tail end of his weekly visit with Alfred, or some kind of Bat-emergency that involved all of them swarming into the Cave, typically with bigger issues at hand. Every time someone figured out his phone number, he changed it. Nobody knew his email address. He didn’t have a habit of responding to his mail.

Tim just had a few questions about shifts in gang territory in Gotham, questions he knew Jason would know the answer to, saving him hours of detective work trying to figure them out on his own. It was a long shot, and one that could potentially end in much more than a flesh wound, but he’d already sunk so many hours into the case that anything seemed like a decent option at this point.

And so, he sucks in a breath as his knuckles rap against the front door.

It takes a few seconds, a bit of shuffling from inside the apartment, but eventually it swings open, revealing Jason – looking alarmingly sleep-deprived, even for him, clad in his worn, stained Gotham Knights jersey and sweats.

“No.” The door ricochets shut almost instantly. He hears the chain go across.

“Please, Jason,” Tim calls through the letterbox, knocking more frantically on the wood, “It’ll only take five minutes!”

There’s a brief pause, a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife; he tries to prise the letterbox open, desperate to get a look inside. He nearly falls flat on his face as it swings back again.

“What do you want, Tim?” Much like his look, Jason’s voice is tired, laden heavy with sleep. It’s strange, Tim considers, it’s not like Jason had been patrolling more than normal, if anything he’d been out less in the past few weeks. He hadn’t had any major injuries that they’d known about.

In spite of that, he plasters on a smile, “Can I come in?”

Jason’s entire frame fills any view into the apartment – Tim has never been before, and he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t as interested about the case as he was in Jason’s choices in home décor. For a second, a look of genuine hesitation flitters across his brother’s face, but eventually he lets out an exasperated sigh, “Give me a minute.”

The door slams shut once again.

He can hear the telltale signs of life, the slam of doors and cabinets, the jumble of objects being moved about – he tries to look through the letterbox again, it’s in his best interest to know if Jason is up to something after all. It’s only a minute until the door swings open again, a clear path for entry this time, and Tim tries his best to look like he’s not casing the place as he makes his way over to the dining room table tucked in the corner. It’s unexpectedly cosy: warm colours, blankets, a roaring fireplace, a few photos of you and Jason hung up sporadically across the walls. He’d visited Jason’s safehouses before, and they tended to have more of a clinical, American Psycho kind of vibe. Needless to say the change of pace is a pleasant surprise, and no doubt your doing.

Jason doesn’t sit, instead opting to stand imposingly in the corner of the room with his arms tight across his chest. There’s a deadly scowl knitting his brows together, only the flickering of flames in the hearth interrupting the silence.

“Where is your better half?” Tim asks politely, trying to lighten the mood, “She’s much better company than you.” Probably not the way to go about it.

“Not here, clearly,” Jason huffs under his breath, throwing a look that very pointedly screams ‘get on with it’, but Tim almost draws back in surprise at his next words, “Would you, uh, like a drink?”

“Would I like a drink?”

“Yes, Tim, a drink.”

“You are asking me if I would like a drink?”

“At this rate you’ll be lucky if it’s cyanide,” Jason bites, “now for the last time, would you like a fucking drink?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim splutters, spreading the collection of papers he’d brought with him haphazardly across the table, “A Coke would be great, if you’ve got it.”

Jason only grunts in response, trapsing languidly off to what Tim could only imagine is the kitchen. For a brief second, just as the door opens, something catches the corner of his eye that he definitely was not expecting to see.

A stroller.

It’s just so odd. Jason and a stroller are two things he’d never anticipated seeing in a room together – let alone a room that belonged to Jason. Ideas race through his mind about what the purpose of it could be: Some kind of disguise? Did it have some kind of hidden vigilante potential that none of them had ever considered before? Was he using it to, uh, move things?

It hits him all at once. Lian.

It wasn’t at all strange for Jason to look after Lian for the odd night or two when Roy was away on missions. He’d occasionally bring her round to the Manor to see Dick during those periods to keep her occupied for a few hours. Tim hadn’t seen the girl in a while, a few months at least, and whilst he was fairly certain she was too old to be ferried around in a stroller, he wouldn’t exactly consider himself to be an expert on childcare.

He's quickly shaken from his thoughts as soon as Jason returns, kitchen door clicking shut softly as he slams a can of Coke down on the table, sipping his own coffee down in massive gulps.

“So, Timbit, tell me what you got. You have 30 minutes.”

Steph loved shopping. Not extravagant shopping in luxury stores with millions of assistants that would attempt to shake her down for every penny as soon as she breathed through the door – just grocery shopping. It had always seemed like a mountainous task growing up, trying to make every penny stretch as far as possible, being forced to make practical decisions about what would last the longest or be the most versatile. But with a bit more money in her pocket now, it was a joy, the freedom to pick and choose anything, to go in with a recipe list and gather the ingredients, even splurge on a name brand.

It's her favourite part of the week, every time. Some people might find it sad, but hey-ho, it’s not like she gives a shit anyway.

That’s why she almost doesn’t notice when her cart clips the back of someone’s leg, lost in her own world, leering forward as she’s jolted over the handlebar. She definitely hadn’t noticed, until her victim turns around, that the person that she’d hit had been you.

“Holy shit!” Before you can even get a word in, Steph grapples her arms around you in some kind of pseudo-bear hug, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! Jason practically keeps you under lock and key, you know?”

You have an oddly sheepish look on your face as you reply, Steph astutely notices, eyes darting side-to-side. You look exhausted, concerningly so, the typical fun-to-be-around vibe you normally emanated decidedly missing. “Tell me about it. Uh, how have you been?”

“I’ve been good, good, same old really,” Steph pauses, before dramatically mouthing vigilante-ing with an overzealous eye roll.

“Jason mentioned you’d been doing really well,” you offer with a genuine smile, “Said that you and him had been working together a little more.”

“Yeah, well, it’s never easy with that pig-headed bas- oh my god who is this?”

A baby. Steph had failed to notice the whole-ass fucking baby in a carrier situated across your cart, giggling and beaming up at her with these beautiful blue doe eyes. Through her incredible detective skills (and the Daddy’s Little Princess sweater engulfing the tiny little thing), Steph quickly considers that this gorgeous young lady is the most magnificent creature she’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes upon. There’s a few tufts of thick, jet-black hair sprouting out of her head, a little crazy looking – but only adding to the charm.

“Can I?” She asks almost instantaneously, practically vibrating with excitement. The little girl seems just as eager, reaching up with her chubby little fists to try and get a grip on Steph’s waggling pointer finger.

She’s surprised, upon looking up, to see how uncertain you are. Your smile is nervous, still seemingly a little rattled by the unexpected encounter. It doesn’t take long, however, for your eyes to soften, a more legitimate grin quirking at the corner of your lip, “Go on then. Just – be careful.”

Steph’s already got the baby in her arms: bouncing her up and down, cooing, playing with her adorable rosy cheeks. It occurs to her all at once that she didn’t know that much about you, your history, or your family. If she’d known you had such a cute niece or cousin or something, she would’ve made an effort to get to know sooner.

The three of you stay like that for a least half an hour; you seem to loosen up over the course of the conversation, answering all of Steph’s questions about the little angel. There’s a warmth that burns bright in her chest as you ensure to ask about her just as eagerly, making sure that yes, she’s good and letting her know that, in spite of what Jason might say, she’s welcome any time if she needs anything. It’s only as the baby begins to cry, shrill and loud, interrupting her story about a chase her and Jason had been on last week, that Steph agrees to let her go – and I mean, she feels like wailing at the loss of that little bundle of joy.

She can’t say she blames you as you wrap the whole thing up fairly quickly, the pair of you sharing one more tight hug and the usual promises to see each other more often. You’re gone in seconds, fleeing down another aisle and out of the way of the other disgruntled customers bitching about the screaming infant.

It doesn’t take long for Steph to lock back into her mission in the cookie section, staring down at the lines of shelves: name brand Oreos? Yeah, name brand Oreos.

“God, I wish that kid would shut up,” comes a quiet grumble from the old gentleman to her left.

“Hey, fuck you, man. She’s literally a baby.”

There were a lot of things that Duke liked about school. His friends, primarily. The schoolwork itself was a bit of a dud.

Needless to say, the most difficult part of his week was rallying the youngest Wayne to be ready for their carpool back to the Manor on a Thursday evening. It was every Thursday, like clockwork, that Duke would visit Bruce and the rest of the Bats – and it was every Thursday that he would have to locate Damian Wayne and navigate him through the end of day crowds to meet Alfred. The kid clearly liked school more than he cared to admit, because trying to find him in the halls of Gotham Academy at 3pm each and every time was by far the most difficult mission he had ever been assigned.

Which is why it’s a surprise when he spies Damian stood directly in front of the main entrance, arguing with Jason Todd, nonetheless. He only catches the end of the conversation as he makes his way over, but it doesn’t scream of anything particularly brotherly, even friendly.

“–just tell me, Todd. I demand to know.”

“It’s none of your fucking business, you little brat. Move out of the way.”

It’s then that Damian catches sight of him, offering a standard scowl in his direction, “Thomas, don’t you think it’s fair that Todd should have to tell us why he’s arrived at our school on a seemingly random visit?”

“Nice to see you, Jason.”

“Hey Duke,” Jason grinds out, brow clasped between his fingers, “Damian. Move. Out. Of. The. Way.”

“Pfft, it is never a nice day to see Todd. What a preposterous notion,” Damian drawls, so infuriatingly blasé as he inspects the dirt underneath his fingernails.

“Duke,” Jason’s practically pleading, and it throws him for a hell of a loop. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Jason plead for anything, “Please can you get the little rat out of the way? I’m already late for something.”

“B didn’t send you to pick us up or anything?” Duke asks, and – hey, he’s a vigilante too – it’s in his nature to ask questions.

“Jesus fuck, not you as well,” he makes a quick dash to try and push past Damian, who quickly shifts to block his way, eliciting a scowl from a few teachers gathered across the path, “B wouldn’t dare ask me to pick you two annoying little fucks up. He knows I’d say no.”

“Todd, just tell us why you are here and I’ll let you past.”

“Damian, I swear to God if we weren’t at a school I would rock your –”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Jason,” Duke begins calmly, the fear of having to break up a fight between two trained assassins in a school yard echoing in the back of his mind, “Is what you’re doing really so bad you can’t just tell him? It’ll make this whole thing go quicker.”

“I’m not doing anything bad!” The elder throws his hands up in exasperation, “You people think the absolute worst of me. I’ve already told him – I’m here for an evening class. One that I’ve managed to come to for the past five Thursdays without running into either of you!”

“Is that enough for you, Damian?” Duke turns to face the younger Wayne, who still has his face contorted in a sour expression.

“No.”

“Fucking waste of time,” Jason mutters, full of venom, under his breath, slinking down to sit on a step. Duke can’t claim to know Jason particularly well, the man is definitively the scarcest of all the Wayne children, and they’ve rarely hashed out any kind of conversation one-on-one – but the man looks wrecked. Dark bags hang heavy underneath his eyes, hair flat and wavy against his forehead, the usual stripe of white mostly hidden underneath thick tufts of black. Even as he sits, his shoulders are slumped over, and Duke’s not unconvinced that the man might just fall asleep on the spot.

“Listen, Damian, I think maybe we should just–”

“Master Damian,” a curt voice calls out from behind them, and a bit of life seems to gleam back into Jason’s eyes as he clasps his hands together towards the sky, “I believe it would be rude to keep your father waiting any longer, would it not?”

Damian, who up until ten seconds ago had seemed such a mighty force, instead deflates, slinging his schoolbag over his shoulder and making ever so minute movements towards Alfred. Not an audible word passes his lips, but more a steady stream of various different threats and commands slowly dwindling to silence as he finally makes it to the butler.

“Master Duke, I believe you are due to come with us tonight, yes?” Alfred offers a warm smile in his direction, as always.

“See ya’, Jason,” Duke throws a salute in his direction, electing to not take it to heart when Jason gives him little more than a huff and a half-hearted wave in response.

“Master Jason,” Alfred begins so slowly, in a tone that they all know is reserved only for his favourite grandson, “It is only 4:06pm. I am sure if you arrive now, they shall still be inclined to let you in.”

“Thanks Alfie,” Jason mutters, hoisting himself to his feet with seemingly the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Damian’s eyes instantly come alive, fire blazing in his irises as he glares up at Alfred, “You know what he is here for, Pennyworth?”

“And Master Jason–” Alfred simply ignores the pestering questions of the boy at his side “–you seem to be lacking in a great deal of sleep. May I remind you, as I have many a time, that I would be delighted to help, should you require it.”

Jason’s face morphs into a mixture of relief and genuine fondness as he nods towards Alfred, disappearing into the entrance of the school.

If at that moment, Duke happened to notice the flyer on the school gate that read something along the lines of New Parenting 101, 3pm, Thursdays, he didn’t dare say anything about it. Unlike some of his counterparts, he’d like to believe he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

And besides, that means he can’t temporarily relish in knowing something that the mighty Damian Wayne doesn’t.

“Pennyworth, if you do not tell me what is going on with Todd, I shall be forced to ask Father.”

“I wish you the greatest of luck in that line of inquisition, Master Damian, I’m sure you will get very far.”

For a man who lived, worked and patrolled most nights in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson sure seemed to spend a ridiculous amount of time at Wayne Manor. It felt like he spent every waking moment stuck in traffic between the two, constantly ferrying back and forth: report due at work in Bludhaven, Babs wants his input on a case, need to go home to feed Haley, Tim needs this taking to Wayne Enterprises – Can he pick Damian up from school? Yeah, he can pick Damian up from school.

Which is why when nights like tonight come around where nobody requires anything else of him, he’s got his patrol covered for the evening and he can just leave the Manor to go home and cash in on that precious gem the rest of the world like to refer to as sleep, he’s packing his things up and hitting the road quicker than Wally. Even Bruce gives him a nod and a smile on the way out, telling him to rest up for their – oh god, their mission tomorrow.

The very last person that he’d expected to run into on his way out was Jason.

People. Because, holy shit, Jason has a baby strapped to his chest.

It’s all so casual, Jason with his sunglasses and tank on, strolling up to the front doors like there is nothing bizarre about the whole situation. The baby is fast asleep against him, letting out the occasional huff of air, but beyond that completely still and peaceful.

“Hi Jason,” Dick says, almost incredulously, as Jason had clearly just planned to carry on past him without a word.

Even through his sunglasses, Dick can practically hear his younger brother’s eyes rolling in his skull, “Hi Dick.”

“Hello baby,” He’s often been credited for being fairly observant, but it doesn’t take a mastermind to acknowledge the clear outlier in this situation. To add insult to injury, Dick makes sure to stare as pointedly as he can at the small child using its own thumb as dinner.

“C’mon now Dick,” Jason teases, a smirk on his lips, “We’ve gotten closer over the years – we’re not that close.”

“Jason why in the fuck do you have a baby strapped to your chest?” Every syllable is emphasised with a soft slap to Jason’s shoulder, and instantly Dick realises he might have just written, signed and mailed his own death sentence.

Clark would struggle to hold a candle to the intensity of the look Jason gives him, and Dick can’t help but falter back as Jason’s shoulders begin to square, his body language echoing a stance that he’s seen on his brother many times. The indicative signs he’s about to beat the shit out of someone.

“Are you stupid?” Jason grits out in a whisper, “She’s clearly asleep.”

“You are yet to answer my question.”

Jason’s glasses slip down onto the tip of his nose, allowing Dick a glimpse into those smouldering eyes. Everything written on his face screams obvious as he so snidely remarks that she’s yours, duh. Dick can’t help but do a double take as he stares down at the little girl – he’d had no idea that you had a kid, and he can’t help but feel atrocious now that it all fits into place.

Jason had always been so intensely private about your relationship, and your presence within the family saved exclusively for special occasions, holidays, birthdays, the like. Like an epiphany, Dick realises all at once how little he knows about you and your background. He had no idea that you’d even been in a relationship prior to Jason, let alone had a kid that you’d brought along for the ride. You were so young! And Jason – the fact that his brother had stepped up into the role, well, he couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Oh. Oh. I see,” Dick replies, awestruck, feeling far too ashamed and ignorant to dare ask any questions that might pry into Jason’s personal life. He knew how they tended to make him scatter. Does Bruce know about this?

“Uhm, Dickhead, you’re kind of in the way,” Jason thrusts out an arm to push him to the side, “Move.”

Holy shit Bruce must know – he’s brought the baby to the Manor.

“Oh shit, yeah, uhm, sorry.” He’s still in a trance. Haunted, some might say.

Jason, a little confused but cranky as always, offers little more than a judging look up and down as he passes through. Dick feels his entire body rupture as the door shuts softly behind him, leaving him in the evening husk.

So much for getting any sleep tonight.

“I’ve called this meeting because I believe we have something we need to discuss,” Dick starts, addressing the room. It didn’t take long to rally everyone, 24 hours to be exact, all of the children of the family sat engrossed on the floor of the library: himself, Tim, Duke, Steph, Cass, Damian. Everyone except Jason. “We need to talk about Jason and the baby.”

“What baby?” Damian blinks furiously, looking around demandingly at the rest who seem to nod in some kind of understanding.

“Jason brought a baby to the Manor yesterday. It is not his,” Dick starts causing a chorus of ooo’s and ahhh’s to erupt across the room, instead Dick just offers your name, “The baby is her’s. And now they’re raising her together.”

“Uhm, guys–” Duke calls out quietly amongst the rabble, sneaking a hand up slowly.

“Are you stupid?” Steph shouts, relishing as Dick jumps back in surprise.

“Why do people keep saying that to me?”

“She’s not hers,” Steph explains, “She’s like, her niece or something.”

“That would explain the stroller in their apartment,” Tim adds thoughtfully, and everyone whips round in an instant, throwing out a barrage of questions about Jason’s apartment – oddly focussed on its décor.

The door to the library slams open, silencing everyone in the room, “I can confirm, you’re all fucking stupid.”

At first, all that’s visible is Jason, an angry look etched into his features as always. The real shock comes when you step out from behind him, the little girl in question clutched tightly in your arms. He takes a moment to pull a chair over from across the room, taking the baby briefly in his arms as you get comfortable before handing her back over. Without missing a beat, he leans over to press a chaste kiss on the baby, brushing back strands of thick black hair off of her forehead.

“This is my daughter, you imbeciles,” Jason grinds out as he stalks over to the group, “Mine. Ours. As in me,” he pauses to point to himself furiously, before pointing to you, “Her.”

Whoever said a library was meant to be silent had clearly never encountered the Waynes. The noise is everywhere; everyone is on their feet practically clawing to get in front of their brother. Damian, who makes an attempt to grab at Jason’s jacket, is quickly swatted away. Dick, who is dipping up and down in a desperate attempt to maintain eye contact with Jason, gets his face shoved out of the way by Steph, who is trampling everyone in her path to try and get answers.

“Quiet. NOW.” Jason’s words come out so much quieter than any one of them would expect, but in an instant all six mouths snap shut. “Stop screaming in the presence of a literal 6-month-old.”

A few heads hang in shame, sauntering off to the other side of the room to get a look at the baby nestled in your lap. Dick stands gaping like a fish, arms raised at his sides, “But how? I thought she wasn’t yours?”

“Excuse me?” You call out from your perch on the chair, watching as the eldest Wayne winces in response.

“When were you even pregnant?”

“About six months ago,” you deadpan. Dick jumps back like he’s been burned.

“I was being sarcastic, Dickhead! Dick, that’s a baby. We’ve been together for three years!” Jason spits back, a look of complete and utter disbelief on his face.

“I don’t know how to age estimate children!”

“Well, I’ll give you a real good hint – that one’s not older than three!”

Dick pauses sombrely, a dark look passing over his features, “I didn’t– I didn’t think of that.”

Steph, who is now cradling the girl in her arms, turns to you in confusion, “But when we ran into each other at the grocery store? You didn’t say anything?”

You can only offer her a sheepish smile, “We hadn’t told you guys anything yet, and we were still getting used to the whole parenting thing. I thought you might have figured it out on your own, to be honest, but I wasn’t going to correct you if you were wrong.”

“Can’t hate a girl for protecting her peace,” Steph shrugs.

Tim peers over at the baby with an astonished laugh, “Jeez, Steph, are you blind? She looks exactly like him. Hair, eyes, nose, everything.”

“Okay Mister #1 Detective, I didn’t hear you figuring anything out.”

“Is this why you have looked reprehensible for the past months, Todd?” Damian calls out, trying his utmost to look disinterested in the girl cradled in Steph’s arms. His eyes blatantly give him away. “I thought you were having a mid-life crisis.”

“Mid-life crisis? Damian, I’m twenty-two,” Jason blusters, face going a dark shade of red, “and let’s not state the obvious about my mid-life crisis. But yes, it is why I have looked tired for the past few months.”

“You’re glowing,” Cass offers politely, a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You give her a bold smile in response.

Jason seems to deflate, finally collapsing down on the couch, “Yeah, cheers Cass. You look great too.”

It’s at that moment that a thunderous voice echoes from the hallway, a set of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching the library, “Jason? Is that you? Have you brought my grandchild to see me?”

“I’m so popular,” Jason grumbles bitterly to himself, eliciting snickers from everyone else (all apart from Dick, who has yet to move on from his previous conversation), “Yes, B, she’s in here.”

Bruce Wayne appears, clad in golf-attire from some Brucie event he’d been wrangled into attending, to instantly swoop the baby up in his arms, a soft smile on his lips as a symphony of giggles ring out across the room. Horror is etched into the face of every other vigilante present; scorned looks of complete and utter betrayal cast towards Jason lounging in his seat.

“You told Bruce and not us!”

“That’s not fair!”

“What the fuck, Jason?”

“Why would you tell Bruce first?”

“Technically, Alfred knew first,” Jason adds thoughtfully with a sharkish grin. The protests only get louder.

Bruce doesn’t seem to care for the rabble, nestled in an armchair with the baby cackling happily on his lap, his features lighter than they had been in years. Eventually, things begin to quieten as all attention is drawn to the pair, everyone pausing their complaints to stare fondly at the girl who can only peer at them with absolute curiosity. In the moment of peace, you and Jason offer each other a delicate smile – it’s been a long few months, but you’d relished doing it together. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to bring in the village.

“Well,” Bruce mutters with a grin, “at least none of you have to argue over who’s my favourite anymore.”

I had a day off work today and literally just smashed this one out. I'm a sucker for the 'jason has a whole life that nobody else knows about trope' and idk if you can tell from my reblogs recently but girl!dad Jason is haunting my narrative

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don't like it, leave me alone.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #jason todd x you #red hood x you #jason todd fic #red hood fic #dc fanfic #dc robin #dcu

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littledes1re · 3 days ago

Text

@/coffeeguitar | pt. 2

Pt. 1

Summary: After meeting, your relationship with Joel grows deeper and stronger—until one quiet night, he asks if there’s space for something more.

Warnings: Fluff, soft!joel, Age gap! (23 and late 50s), lot’s of romantic stuff, kissing

A/N: Didn’t even except to people like it this much, but here y’all go. This was an Idea by @glitterspark btw! People who wanted a second part are tagged!

The milkshakes were too sweet. You both said it at the same time, then laughed like it mattered—like agreeing on something silly made the whole thing feel easier.

You sat across from each other in a booth that squeaked every time you moved, splitting fries and trading stories like you’d been doing it for years. Favorite movies, weird childhood habits, moments that still made you flinch. Joel talked about his guitar like it was an old friend. You told him things you hadn’t said out loud in a while.

You noticed the way he looked at you—not dramatic or intense, just quiet and real. Like being in your presence settled something in him.

When you got home, you didn’t feel the usual quiet press of loneliness. You weren’t sad about your dad. You were smiling. Light. You kicked off your shoes, sat on the edge of your bed, and stared at your phone with a kind of gentle thrill in your chest.

You typed:

@/angelwings: Hope you made it home safe.

A minute passed.

@/coffeeguitar: Yeah, I did Hope you did too. I really enjoyed seeing you today.

You grinned—full, uncontrollable—and typed back:

@/angelwings: Me too :))

Then you tucked the phone beside you, heart still thudding in that sweet, nervuos way. You felt good. Different. Like you’d stepped into something real and didn’t need to know exactly where it would go just yet.

Joel didn’t remember most of the drive home.

Not in the usual sense, anyway. His mind was too full. Full of you—your voice, your smile, the way you lit up when you talked about the mismatched shoes story again. That laughter. That warmth. The one he hasn’t felt in years.

He parked the truck, stepped inside, and tossed his keys onto the counter with a clatter that felt louder than usual.

Then he just stood there, grinning. Not the tired grin he always gave strangers. This was different. This one had teeth. It pulled into his cheeks and stayed there like it had nowhere else to be. He caught himself smiling at nothing. Like an idiot. Like someone who’d just fallen into something he didn’t think he deserved.

That part stuck. The part where you didn’t care about his age. He worried about it for weeks—worried you’d freeze the second you saw him, that you’d change your mind, that you’d see him and think Oh.

But you hadn’t.

You smiled at him. You talked to him like it still mattered. Like he still mattered. And somehow, that made everything inside him settle.

He walked out onto the porch, mug in hand even though the coffee had gone cold. The night air was soft, still, and for once the silence didn’t feel heavy.

Joel hadn’t planned on telling anyone.

Especially not Tommy, who’d be smug about it for weeks. But then, one day later, the knock came—a familiar rhythm on the porch door—and Joel already knew it was his little brother before he stepped inside.

“Brought those wrench heads you asked for,” Tommy said, dropping a bag on the table. “And coffee, ’cause you drink it like it’s water.” He paused, squinting. “You good? You look… weird.”

Joel looked up from where he’d been sanding a rough piece of wood. “Weird how?”

Tommy grinned. “Like you had one glass of scotch too many again.”

Joel rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Then Tommy cocked his head. “Wait. Hold on.” He walked around the table slowly, eyebrows raised like he was inspecting a crime scene. “Is this about that forum account I made for you?”

Joel sighed, setting the wood down carefully. “Might be.”

“Might be?” Tommy blinked. “Are you saying you actually met someone?”

Joel’s silence was enough of an answer.

Tommy stared a second longer, then broke into a slow grin. “Hell yea, brother.” He walked up, slapped a proud hand on Joel’s shoulder, and shook him gently. “That’s what I was hoping for. You deserve someone real. Someone good.”

Joel just chuckled. “It’s… different. She’s kind. Sharp. Got this way of saying things that sits with you longer than you expect.”

Tommy leaned back into one of the creaky chairs. “So? Tell me something about her.”

Joel hesitated, then smiled. “She wears mismatched shoes sometimes. Told me about it like it was a confession, but I thought it was perfect.”

Tommy snorted. “You’re gone, man.”

Joel shrugged. “She makes the quiet feel less heavy.”

And Tommy didn’t joke after that. Just gave him a look—soft, sincere.

“You really like her?”

Joel nodded, eyes distant like he was picturing you again. “Yeah. I do.”

And for a moment, the porch was just two brothers sitting in the summer air, one of them wondering how he got so lucky, the other knowing it was about damn time.

@/coffeeguitar has sent 2 new Images.

You opened them slowly, already smiling before the screen loaded.

The first was a close-up: Joel with a deadpan frown, silver hair slicked back, eyebrows arched like he was trying way too hard to look intimidating. You burst out laughing.

The second was his usual coffee mug—worn and chipped on one side—resting on the porch railing with a caption scrawled underneath:

“Morning fuel.”

You stared a little longer at that one. Something about it warmed your chest, quiet and full.

@/angelwings: I may have forgotten to mention this, but you’re really handsome, Joel. I hope you enjoy your coffee.

A minute passed. Then:

@/coffeeguitar: Now hell, you done and made an old man like me blush.

You could picture it: him chuckling into his hand, maybe looking away from the screen like he didn’t know what to do with that compliment.

Then another message came through:

@/coffeeguitar: Gotta admit, I took the first pic ten times. Tried smiling, ended up looking like I was lost. That frown’s all I had left.

You laughed again, thumb tapping lightly on your phone. There was something so perfect about Joel—awkwardly sincere, gently self-conscious, and quietly full of care.

Evenings turned into hours spent on the phone—not always talking, sometimes just breathing together. His voice became something familiar in the quiet. Occasionally, one of you would fall asleep mid-call, still tangled in conversation. The line would stay connected through the night, like neither of you wanted to be the one to end it.

Mornings came gently.

His message always arrived first.

@/coffeeguitar: Morning, angel. Hope you slept better than I did. Got my coffee. Thinking about last night.

Angel.

He’d started calling you that like he’d been waiting to say it for weeks. It slipped out one evening, casual and quiet, but with meaning tucked beneath it.

When you asked him about it, brow raised and voice soft, he gave you that familiar smug answer.

“Well,” he said, “your name’s angelwings, ain’t it? Thought it’d be real fittin’.”

You’d reply from bed, half-smiling before your eyes even opened all the way.

@/angelwings: You’re too sweet this early. I did sleep well. Woke up missing your voice, though.

Joel would send back a grumble-typed “you’re gonna make me soft”, followed by a photo of his porch again. Same mug. Same railing. Different light. And somehow, it felt like a love letter every time.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed. It was just right.

And every morning and night, you kept showing up for each other.

That was the magic.

—

It was late—past midnight, but neither of you seemed ready to hang up.

Joel’s voice came through softly, a little rough from sleep, but still full of that familiar warmth.

You just finished laughing over something small—a story about someone at the store mishearing your order and handing you three muffins you never asked for. The giggles had barely settled when he went quiet.

Not awkward. Just… thinking.

You didn’t interrupt.

And then he said it.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hummed a yes, already sitting up straighter.

There was a pause.

“I keep thinking about you. More than I expected to. And it’s not just the calls or messages anymore.”

Your heart started thudding.

“I don’t know if this is selfish but… do you think there’s room for more here? Between us?”

For a beat, you couldn’t find words. You were too busy smiling, a grin blooming across your face faster than you could catch it.

“Joel,” you said, voice full of warmth, “Yes. Of course there is.”

You heard the breath he let out. A small chucklee, soft but thrilled.

“Well hell,” he said. “I might need to buy another chocolate bar to celebrate.”

You giggled through your reply:

“Make it two. I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

There was a pause, again. Comfortable, stretching across the line like a quiet breath between two thoughts. And then, he added, more hesitant this time:

“Angel… can I ask you something else?”

You murmured a quiet “yeah?”, already bracing for whatever came next.

“Would you wanna go on a real date with me? Like… an actual one. Not just milkshakes and porch calls. Something proper.”

He cleared his throat after saying it, trying to sound casual—but you could hear the nerves tucked behind the words.

You smiled, wide enough it reached your eyes.

“Yes. I’d love that.”

There was silence again—then a half-laugh from his side, a kind of breathless disbelief.

He chuckled. “Now I gotta figure out what counts as proper. Pretty sure clean boots and bad diner music still qualify.”

“They do,” you whispered back. “As long as you’re there, they absolutely do.”

—

Joel had picked the place carefully.

An old Italian restaurant tucked between two bookstores, quiet and weathered, with brick walls and checkered tablecloths that didn’t try too hard. The kind of place that still used handwritten menus and smelled like garlic and nostalgia.

You stepped through the doorway, the red dress hugging you just right, not loud—just elegant, like something borrowed from a dream. The soft lighting inside cast everything in amber, and for a second, it felt like time slowed.

Joel looked up from his table near the back.

And froze.

His lips parted, a small breath escaping as his eyes landed on you. Something flickered across his face—awe, disbelief, a quiet kind of joy that reached his smile before he even realized he was smiling.

He stood up quickly, straightening the jacket of his modest suit, not fancy but definitely the nicest thing he’d worn since… well, probably Tommy’s wedding. His hair was slicked back just enough, silver catching the glow of the candlelight, and his nervous energy made him look younger somehow.

“You look…” he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, “…better than anything I deserve.”

You laughed softly and walked closer.

“You look pretty damn good yourself, Miller.”

He gestured to your chair with a crooked smile. “Let’s sit before I forget how legs work.”

You slid into your seat, hands resting gently on the edge of the table. The first few minutes were quiet—those shy little glances, half-smiles exchanged like secrets.

Then, Joel broke the silence with a laugh.

“Gotta admit, I forgot how to be a romantic,” he said. “Used to be easier when I was younger. These days I just talk about coffee and guitars.”

You leaned in, eyes warm. “This is already perfect, don’t you worry.”

The waiter came, took your order. Pasta for you, pizza for him—he insisted on sharing both. You talked about music, books you pretended you’d finished, and how strange it felt to see someone you knew so well sitting right there, flesh and blood and blinking candlelight.

Joel kept looking at you like you were a gift he hadn’t expected—like the kind of beautiful that didn’t need explaining.

And the best part? You felt the same way about him.

Joel had told you he had one more stop in mind.

After dinner, he walked you out with his hand hovering near yours—close enough to feel, not quite brave enough to take. The night wrapped around you in quiet warmth, the kind only small towns and old Italian restaurants know how to hold.

He drove slow, gravel crunching beneath the tires, until the road opened up and a still, quiet lake came into view. Moonlight shimmered across the surface like someone had tipped silver into the water.

“This place’s kind of a secret,” Joel said, stepping out. “Tommy calls it boring. I call it peace.”

You followed him down a small dirt path, your heels sinking just slightly into the ground with each step. At the edge, the trees opened, and the stars spilled out above you—full, scattered, endless.

You stood there side by side, silence hanging easy between you.

A smile tugged on your lips. “It’s beautiful.”

Joel was gazing up when you turned to look at him.

His face tilted toward the sky, silver hair catching moonlight, jaw slack with quiet awe. You felt something pull at your chest—a thread that had been tugging gently for weeks. You stepped closer.

He looked at you just as you leaned in.

A soft brush of lips. Gentle. Intentional.

He stilled for half a second, surprise flickering in his eyes—then he leaned into it, hand lifting to your waist like instinct. The kiss deepened, slow and warm, and everything felt like still water and starlight. Just the two of you, finally close enough to breathe together.

When you pulled away, Joel blinked, dazed and smiling, then scratched the back of his neck and mumbled something.

“Angel.” Breathless. “Hope I didn’t forget how kissing works.”

You let out a soft laugh, eyes glowing. He gave a sheepish shrug, trying not to smile too wide.

“Been a while,” he added, voice low. “But damn… that might’ve reset the clock.”

You giggled, leaning into him as the stars above twinkled like they’d heard the whole thing. Joel sighed—relieved, content, a little stunned—and you both stayed close, wrapped in night and laughter and that new, beautiful feeling of being together.

Pt. 3

People who wanted a second part: @iamsherlocked-1998 @lanasdolll @rwbyssx @shivispunk @mxyjailer @buckyandlokirunmylife @lilu1000 @wildthyng @fallout-girl219

#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #tlou #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic

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dayboundpapercrane · 3 days ago

Text

Part 1. | Part 2. tw: mentions of death, stalking, voyeurism, manipulation, codependency, somno, just crazy shit man.

Neighbor!Caleb an enigma you often catch yourself thinking about too much during work, at home, and out with friends. He’s carved his way into your life so deeply, you’re no longer sure there’s a way out. And yet you have barely scraped the surface of who he is. There are strange instances, quiet moments where his eyes show someone you've never met. Or maybe you have, on rainy nights wearing a Colonel uniform.

Neighbor!Caleb who starts locking eyes with you too long, stands too close in the elevator, yet never touches you, talks to you with an ease friends of years don't have. Treats your wounds after missions and lectures you. "You’re safe here" he says one night, voice low. "I won’t let anyone hurt you." and you believe him, not out of confidence, but a gut feeling that doesn't go away, born from a fear you can't explain.

Neighbor!Caleb the man one of your friends, Simone, warns you about constantly. "There’s something wrong with that guy. He watches everything you do, and his eyes never stop moving." You and Tara laugh it off. She doesn’t. "I’m serious. He looked at me like I was in the way. It's creeping me out." The five times your friend has met him, none have successfully dissuaded her about him.

Neighbor!Caleb tells you one night he used to be a pilot, just in passing. "I’ve seen things" he says, like it’s a warning. "I just wanted to fly. Then suddenly I was already preparing a fleet" He smiles at you. The unexpected revelation leaves you scrambling for a reaction, fleet that explains the uniform. Before your brain can stop your mouth, the words are already out "The uniform looks good on you, though." It’s a throwaway comment, at least you think it is, his lips quirk up.

But something shifts in him. Something dark. You miss his reaction when you excuse yourself to the bathroom, the way his smirk spreads, slow and certain or the flush in his ears and cheeks red with something that isn’t embarrassment.

Neighbor!Caleb who stops pretending not to know too much. "You eat late now" he comments, offhand. "Didn’t use to." He looks down at his mug, then adds, "That new take-out place gives you hives. You should stop ordering from there." your cheeks warm, nodding your head at him, lightheaded at how he notices everything. You don't stop to think why knows that.

Neighbor!Caleb who starts leaving things behind, his keys, a mug, a jacket, all quiet symbols of presence. Subtle, constant reminders. "It’s natural to forget things at home" he says with a playful smile. You don’t remember when your apartment became a home to him, what's more surprising is how it doesn't bother you at all. Your cheeks warming again and that familiar racing heart inside your chest.

Neighbor!Caleb has started invading your dreams. It began quietly, his voice in the dark, his mouth ghosting over your skin. But lately, the dreams have turned feverish. You feel his hands too warm, too knowing, caressing every inch of you. His breath at your throat. His head between your legs. Every night, you wake up gasping, aching, panties drenched in shame.

Neighbor!Caleb has noticed you can’t meet his eyes anymore. Not with how vivid the dreams feel. Not with how your body reacts like it remembers something real. And maybe it does, because what you don’t know is that Caleb doesn’t just visit you in dreams. He slips through your door, unseen, always after midnight. He leaves no marks, no evidence, only the heat on your skin and the lingering scent of him you can’t explain. And he tells himself it’s okay, that your soft sighs, your restless movements, the way you whisper his name in your sleep— It means you want this, it's permission.

Neighbor!Caleb who is waiting outside watching, when one afternoon you stop by the coffee shop near your building. Caleb doesn’t like the place says the coffee’s bad but you go anyway. The barista remembers your order. Flashes you a smile and leans in a little too close when he hands you your drink. You smile, just a little. You don’t think much of it.

The next time you visit, the barista isn’t there. No one mentions him. His name tag’s gone. Someone new is working the register and when you ask where he went they just shrug.

Neighbor!Caleb starts fading out of your days. He works longer hours, replies slower. You barely catch a glimpse of him anymore. Lately, the only sign he’s still around is the muffled thud of his boots echoing down the hallway always after midnight. And then there's the smell, faint, metallic, human. Lingering in the corridor long after he’s passed, you tell yourself it’s nothing. But it wasn’t there before.

Neighbor!Caleb disappears without a trace. No warning, no goodbye. You knock, no answer. You text and it's silence. So you search the coffee shop, the bookstore, the overlook at the edge of Linkon and a chill creeps in as you realize… every place you check is somewhere you brought him to, somewhere you mentioned. It's like he never left a footprint of his own. After all these months, you don’t really know him at all. And maybe you never did.

Neighbor!Caleb who lets your panic spiral. Who leaves you pacing your apartment, replaying every conversation, wondering if you upset him. If you misread something. You start checking the hallway reflexively. As if he might reappear. As if he’s watching from somewhere unseen.

Neighbor!Caleb whose absence somehow makes your apartment feel wrong. Lights flicker more. Doors creak. The floorboards groan. You try to see friends, but the weight follows you everywhere, telling them all about how you feel constantly watched for some reason. Telling yourself it’s better, you were becoming too used to him, too dependent, but each night feels too quiet. The building too still. You listen for footsteps that don’t come.

You hear about the death of a hunter from Tara, it's a friend from the Association, the one who visited you a few days ago. It’s Simone who tells you that he crashed his car, details were not shared. You can’t make sense of it. He was laughing, alive and now he’s gone. The weeks that follow pass in a blur grief wrapped in funeral arrangements, long 24-hour hunting shifts, exhaustion that sinks deep into your bones.

You’re drained. Emotionally. Physically. Like the ground has shifted, and you’re still trying to find your footing. You miss him, he haunts you even in dreams, sometimes scary, other times sweet, but most often you wake up frustrated, overheated.

Neighbor!Caleb who comes back after weeks and weeks as if no time passed. You open the door after hearing familiar steps and keys jingle, to find him standing by his door, suitcase in one hand, keys in the other. He stares at you then smiles. "Miss me?" he says, like it's a joke, like he wasn’t the ghost you couldn’t stop thinking about. You want to ask where he was. To demand why he disappeared. But the words catch in your throat. Instead, at your silence he sighs and says "work" like it explains everything. Yet just like before he starts slipping back into your routine, noticing the dark circles under your eyes "You need rest" he says softly, voice almost tender. But the kindness feels like a leash.

Neighbor!Caleb who, after returning, is more attentive than ever. Too attentive. He brings your favorite pastries before you ask, noticing every little thing again. "You’ve been restless" he says, voice low. "Too much time alone makes your thoughts spiral." You nod. You’ve felt that, too. He smiles. "You need structure again. Something.... or someone to anchor you." and you believe it as he softly rubs his thumb on your cheek. The past weeks without him a bitter reminder.

Neighbor!Caleb makes the nightmares fade. The apartment feels warmer. Caleb brings groceries before you run out and cooks dinner almost everyday. Life smooths out and gets easier again, you feel like yourself. People at work say you’re doing amazing, you tell him everything. "You probably can't live without me now huh?" his tone is light, playful, a jab at your dependency, but you stare at him until his ears turn red. "Yeah, maybe I can't Caleb."

Neighbor!Caleb makes that first night with him burn through you fast, frantic, like something neither of you can stop. His hands are rough. He kisses you like he owns you, slow at first, then desperately, like he’s staking a claim no one else gets to challenge. His hands grip too tight bruising, then too soft, reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. He touches you like he knows exactly what makes you scream his name, grasp the sheets and see stars behind your eyelids.

There's a heaviness in him now that pulls like gravity. You see the blood under his nails, the look in his eyes when he thinks you're not watching. Everything you've been taught to avoid for survival screams inside you, but the weight of his chest, how his pupils absorb everything when he's between your legs makes every warning shutdown.

Neighbor!Caleb leaves one night for "errands" muttering something vague with that familiar, tight-lipped frown. It’s probably work-related, judging by his expression. He kisses your cheek on the way out, distracted. His tablet is still on your counter— forgotten. You glance at it, then at the door. You shouldn’t snoop, but his birthday’s coming up, and he never tells you anything. You just want to know something. A clue. A favorite movie, a memory, anything. He knows everything about you but remains a mystery himself. Your fingers hesitate over the screen. You remember the code. You saw it once, months ago, when you first met him.

You key it in. It unlocks.

Neighbor!Caleb whose tablet is full of live video feeds. Your bedroom. Your hallway. The kitchen. A view from behind the bathroom mirror angled high, quiet, still. All date back as early as your 3rd meeting, even dates where he had vanished. Silent proof that he never left you alone, hell, there's even a feed of your closet.

Neighbor!Caleb who labeled the footage by date and time. Who saved clips with titles "She cries again (2:08 a.m.)" "She says my name in her sleep (23:04pm)" "She hums the song I hum (14:37pm)" you feel like you cant breathe, hands shaking as you scroll more, stopping at a folder that makes your heart stop. Pressing play on the ones labeled "Favorites" hearing your own moans fill the room.

◇

A/N I know cliffhangers suck, dont hate the player hate the game. A much longer update you cant be mad at me fr. It's kinda funny to me how he saw 2 men speak to you and the crashouts were severe (つω｀*) but I think Caleb would actually go to crazy lengths. Infold is just being a coward!!! Let me know if you guys like how it's going :)

#love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb x reader #caleb x you #lads smut #caleb xia #caleb x mc

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luludeluluramblings · 23 hours ago

Text

Oh my God, Oh my God. Who wrote this? - Part Twelve

Neglected!Reader x Yandere!Batfam

You crash out just a lil’ bit. But, you finally talk to Cass. Who actually confirms some things and gives sage like advice.

Warnings: Yandere themes, GN!Reader, Pesudo-Incest (Reader does NOT see themselves as part of the family), Reader’s age is ambiguous, CRACK, Platonic!Cass

Prologue - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven

Platonic Route

You at least waited until you were on the roads leading to Wayne manor before you began to crash out. God, you didn’t need someone in the city seeing you screaming at the top of your lungs and recording you.

Note to self, get windows tinted.

Anyway, where were you?

Oh, yes. Screaming your fucking lungs out.

You probably made an interesting sight. The purr of your car engine couldn’t even be heard from the level of noise coming from your throat.

“FUCKING PERVERT LITTLE SHIT!”

Very mindful.

“I’D SHOVE A CACTUS UP YOUR ASS BUT YOU’D PROBABLY LIKE THAT YOU FREAKY GOONER!”

Very demur.

By the time you finally pulled up to the manor gates you were exhausted from screaming, heaving a little, and just done.

Tim was a pervert, and Dick and Jason were flirting with you. You needed to see what you were dealing with. And, just how far this rabbit hole went. Was it really just Tim possibly writing this stuff?

He had been shit and shameless at hiding it.

With a level of furious mania you decided you needed to talk to Cass. But, first?

You needed some rope.

After checking the Gotham Birdwatch Twitter page to see who was patrolling that night and who was in the manor, you were relieved to see that it looked like Cass was off duty.

If you’re luck held she’d be on the rooftop of the manor. If it didn’t, she’d be in the cave. You prayed it was the first option because you didn’t want to have to wait for her to show up at some random time.

Under the cover of night you, opened the door to the balcony and… pulled out a stepladder.

There’s no way your ass was going to just climb up the damn side of the building. Nah, you did not have the training for that parkour shit.

After making sure your phone was secure in one of your pockets, you tied the rope in a secure manner around your waist and legs. You didn’t necessarily have a fear of heights, but you had a tendency to be jumpy and that paired with ledges was a recipe for disaster.

Once secured around you, you carefully climb up on to the roof and latch the rope to one of the spires. Giving it a good tug to check before finally starting your search.

Cass would be along the edge of the roof somewhere you bet. So close to the edge you went.

Although, sometimes you’d look down into the bushes or your feet would slide a bit and you’d feel your butthole pucker at the thought of falling.

But, focusing on the task at hand, you didn’t find Cass up there. And, she didn’t even look surprised to see you.

She definitely heard you coming. Not like you hadn’t been muttering stupid stuff under your breath while you traversed the roof tiles.

You quickly approach, making sure you had enough rope before moving to sit close to her. She gives you a blank look, but she doesn’t move away.

A good sign for an adoptive older sibling.

However, there’s a slightly shard tone. And, while you know she can read you better than anyone in the world, you decide to be blunt.

“As my older sister, you are obligated to help me through shit I’m going through even if it means just sitting there quietly and just listening. And, I am going through a lot of it right now.” You finally kill the silence and watch her with bated breath.

Would she dip out? Leave you on the roof? Just ignore you until you went away because she didn’t consider you family?

So many questions, but she stopped it all with one answer.

“Okay.”

Okay?!

“That’s it? No questions? No, ‘not my problem’ before dramatically jumping off the roof like a—“ Shit, you probably said too much and she’s gonna know you know that her and the others identities.

“It’s okay. I know.” Cass gives you a slight quirk of her lips while almost delicately patting the spot next to her for you to sit.

You’re strangely, touched.

“So, I just come up and demand you listen to me and that I know all of y’all’s secret identity, and you’re okay with it?” You dryly question as you move to sit right next to her. It seemed a bit too easy, but you were going to take it after getting the L so much lately.

“Yeah.” She gives you a look for half a second. And, when she doesn’t tense and doesn’t flinch. Making you feel less confused and a bit more exasperated.

“I could’ve come to you any time with a problem, couldn’t I?” You finally question, though it’s a bit more of a statement.

“Older sister.” And, that was answer enough. And, maybe it was.

You’d never really felt apart of the family, but hearing Cass say such with ease and not lying about it, or at least you couldn’t tell, was kinda nice.

“Bruce had a rule to keep you out of things. But, a lot of our lives are involved in crime fighting.” That unfortunately made sense and caused you to groan.

It pissed you off a lot. Not because of the reason, but because no one bothered to explain it. It took Cass, someone who didn’t even talk much, to finally do it. Which you did appreciate, but still stung.

But, you are grateful for her. And, for a moment, you just enjoy the night air with her.

“Tim’s writing smutty fanfiction about his vigilante identity and me, while Jason and Dick are acting weird.”

“They’re all writing. And, Steph is too.”

“Son of a bitch!” You nearly shriek, but Cass puts her had on yours before you could jump into a rant.

You calm a bit, waiting for her to continue.

“Steph does it to make them upset.” Ah, that sounds like something she’d do. And, a bit more soothing for your fragile sanity. You don't think you could handle Steph.

“Good for her.” You click your tongue, still unsure about this situation.

“Bruce doesn’t know. Damian is monitoring, but they’re still working around him.” Well, that was very reassuring. A bit surprising that Damian was at least trying to come to your defense. But, it was still a bit too much mentally.

“This isn’t going to end well.” You finally manage to say.

And, there was the truth of the matter. Even if Bruce got involved, you didn’t know if things would go back to being the same. You didn’t even really want to know if they could. If Bruce had left you all alone this whole time as some messed up way to protect you, what would he do if he found all this out?

“What should I do?” You finally ask, feeling a bit lost. How could you possibly gain an advantage in this situation?

But, Cass turns to you. And, with all her knowledge and all her wisdom, she gives you the words that every older sister loves to give their younger sibling.

“Play dirty.”

"… You are officially my favorite sibling."

"I know."

Taglist:

@ocean-mochi @cupid73 @vanessa-boo @ashtheweird @theall-seeingone @bbmgirll @nervousalpacalady @rovcarmen @rues-lovely-memoir @cgmajor @ruikeremi @themostdelusionalgirl @mazixxss @bellethesleepypotato @bad4amficideas @cruzerforce4256 @galaxypurplerose @wizzerreblogs @kkocho @d-aezy @frogwizard13 @badluckinfrench @farsketch @cruzerforce4256 @00hellohello00 @pigeonl0rd @hunter-hears-all @eyeless-kun @ee-1ovelifedownthedrain @awawage @minimari415 @hon3ydewcaram3l @caught-the-feels @calicocat-ina-tuxedo @darktrashpoetry @wisefuncherryblossom @shqyou @tvnile @eepywoman @dottoreos @unclearblur @neverano @misaki-kira8 @prorpy @hearts4mica @c4xcocoa @chiara-bell @oliviaewl @letsbedragonstogether @whoareyou3iamyu @cloudedthotz @h0neysiba @chessitune @thanablackwell @holderoflostmemories @allycat4458 @jjoppees @rtyuy1346 @yandereheros

A/N: I just wanted to give Cass her little moment. She's clearly been influenced by Stephanie. And, now we can commence the delightful joy of making the boys lives hell. Let the warfare being. I'm thinking psychological warfare with Reader using the fanfictions the boys write as a way to torment them.

A/N: My birthday is tomorrow! 🥳

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #yandere dc #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere dc x reader #dc x reader #fanfic!reader

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sparrows4bats · 3 days ago

Text

Jonathan Kent is an oblivious jealous fool when it comes to Damian Wayne.

Thanks to @honeyplus for inspiring this and talking through ideas.

The whole mess starts when Jon accidentally overhears a conversation. He doesn't usually tune into Damians conversations he just listens to his best friends heartbeat and lets it soothe him. This time, he catches a few errant words that flip his whole world upside down.

Damian is sitting with his coworkers at the hospital discussing their love lives when Damian is asked who his ideal type is. He tries to dissuade them but is eventually pestered into answering. Jon would laugh at the once proud Damian Wayne being broken down by middle aged nurses but the answer stops him dead.

"I guess I like a guy that's smart, strong, kind, and loyal."

One of the interns yells, "Duh! We all want a dashing prince charming, but we meant what is your type physically? Do you like rich bastards like yourself with killer jawlines or bad boys in leather jackets? Stuff like that!"

Damian blanches at the suggestions. "I am not attracted to men like that at all!"

"What does it for you then?"

Here, Damians heartbeat picks up a little, and Jon can imagine his faint blush. "I like simpler men, I guess. Ones that don't care about money too much. Animal and nature lovers, stuff like that."

"So you have a thing for farmhands and hikers, huh?"

Damian laughs. "With black hair and blue eyes."

The people around him sigh and start suggesting people they could set Damian up with. One even mentions that her brother is a vet!

Jon stops listening at that point and starts to panic because is Damian planning to replace him?!

All those things Damian listed apply to him and the idea of someone else coming into Damians life like that sets him on edge.

Jon tries to forget it it but his thoughts are haunted by some blue-eyed outdoors man taking his best friend away from him.

Because if Damian wants a date, Jon can take him on dates! As a friend, of course, he doesn't want to make him uncomfortable! They do everything else together, and platonic dates sound like fun!

Jon is smart, kind, and strong. Damian doesn't need anyone else!

So after work, he flies to Damians Apartment to ask if he'd like to go on a friend date with him.

Damian isn't home from his shift at the hospital yet, so Jon uses his key to let himself in and starts fixing dinner for them both, like he has done hundreds of times before.

Damian comes in about an hour later exhausted from a surgery that ran long.

"I made food!" Jon shouts over his shoulder as Damian dissappears to change out of his scrubs.

"Thanks!" Damian shouts back from the bedroom.

Jon plates up just as Damian comes back wearing sweats.

They eat and discuss their days until Jon plucks up the courage to ask Damian what he has wanted to all day.

"So I was wondering, do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow?"

Damian stops chewing and stares at him.

"As friends!" Jon adds, waving his hands in front of him.

Damian takes a deep breath and says, "Jonathan, we have been dating for months."

Jon feels his sense of reality shift. "Oh. Wait. What?!"

Damian sets his utensils down now. "We have been dating romanticly for months."

"I would remember having that conversation!"

"It wasn't so much a conversation but a natural progression of things."

"But we haven't even kissed yet!"

"I thought you were taking things slow."

"But." Jons head is spinning now. It's not a bad idea, dating Damian for real. It would keep hypothetical veterinarians from trying to steal him away, but he is so confused. "What do you mean months?"

"Jon, you live with me." Damian deadpans

"Yeah, but"

"We share a bed every night."

"That's friend beh-"

"We cuddle."

"That's normal."

"You were discussing having kids with me last week, Jon."

"I just really love you and think you'd make an amazing dad." Jon gets misty eyed just thinking about it.

"I know Habibi, but we shower together." Damian is exasperated now.

"Platonically!'

"Jon, the only thing we don't do that a couple does is have sex.

Jonathan Kents brain leaks out his ears at the mental picture alone. "Sex was an option this whole time?! And you didn't tell me?!"

Damian sighs. "I climbed into your shower and wore my nice underwear to bed. I don't know how I could have been more obvious."

Jon remembers that underwear and how good Damian looked in it, but he had thought it was normal to want to kiss your best friend when they are as attractive as Damian is. The idea that he could have is messing with him.

He focuses back on his apparent boyfriend, who is looking very unimpressed with him.

"Can we have sex now?" Jon tries.

Damian groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. "No, I'm tired tonight."

Jon is disappointed, but at least that no wasn't a never.

"And" Damian interrupts his train of thoughts "I have been trying to seduce you for weeks so I expect a little more romance than that Jonathan Kent!"

Oh. Jon knows that tone of voice, Damian is pissed. Jon is going to have to grovel big time.

Damian finishes his dinner and does the dishes just like every night.

Jon joins him in bed, and instead of just cuddling, Damian kisses him goodnight. It makes Jon warm, and his heart skips several beats.

Maybe his feelings were romantic, after all. Huh.

The grovelling begins the next morning with breakfast in bed and Jon making reservations for their first, definitely not platonic, date.

Damian is still pissed but does kiss him goodbye when he heads to work.

Jon tries to look for advice but everyone he asks stares at him in horror or laughs in his face. Even his Mom.

It takes a week of dates, coffee deliveries, and getting Damian the cake he likes from Turkey for him to be forgiven.

Jon has a great time getting kisses and confessing his love at every opportunity now that he knows that he can.

At least now he doesn't feel guilty for staring at Damian in the shower. And if he can convince Damian to marry him as soon as possible, no one can ever take him away from him!

#damian wayne #jon kent #jondami #damijon #batfamily #supersons #jon kent is an oblivious idiot

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midniqhtt · 3 days ago

Text

ᯓ★ clark kent - superman

𝜗𝜚 masterlist • dc • 07/27/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs three II one I two II gif credit - @/junkfoodcinemas

here are some clark kent stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡

ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I HC- hurt/comfort I ~S- implied smut I

ꨄ︎ immune I @ggclarissa I F

in which your psychic abilities work on everyone except clark kent — and the more you try to figure it out, the more everything starts to make sense.

ꨄ︎ love, meteors, and clark kent’s accidental flight I @stevebabey I F

Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is.

ꨄ︎ you are in love I @auroralwriting I F

clark kent had always been a good friend to you at the daily planet—but as the two of you fall head over heels for each other, you can’t help but notice the striking similarities between him and superman

ꨄ︎ hope I @toxicflowergirl I A + F

Clark saves you.

ꨄ︎ in every universe I @bellasweetwriting I F

keeping a relationship a secret is never easy, specially when two people really love each other, and specially when one… loses their memory.

ꨄ︎ hair falling into place like dominos I @alwritey-aphrodite I F

ꨄ︎ made you blush I @hoult-nicholas I F

ꨄ︎ kryptonite poisoning I @kindnessistherealpunkrock I F

ꨄ︎ drabble I @skeltnwrites I F

even when you throw yourself into danger clark can't stay mad at you

ꨄ︎ to whom it may concern I @cursedheartsclub I F + S

You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.

ꨄ︎ soulmate imagine I @kirietown I S

ꨄ︎ play pretend I @bloatedandalone04 I S

Once the work day is done, you and Clark are free to be just that - You and Clark. That means you get spontaneous visits and dinner made for you, and Clark gets all he will ever need. You.

ꨄ︎ soup deliveries I @starluved I F

You don't come to work for a while, Clark worries about you and brings you soup.

ꨄ︎ pet I @honeybunnyale I S + A

Had Clark seen the second half of the transmission...

ꨄ︎ to trust and trust till you can no longer bear it I @heartburriedinvenice I A + F

in which you vowed to never let anyone into your life anymore until one day you met clark kent. and now you wonder if maybe that was all a big mistake.

ꨄ︎ you’re a witch I @maikorian I F

Clark didn’t expect his girlfriend to be the newest hero in Metropolis. The red witch.

ꨄ︎ the other man I @honeypiehotchner I A + F

You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.

ꨄ︎ drabble I @mcrdvcks I F

ꨄ︎ 2 for 1? pt2 I @anonymousfangir1 I S

What if you were seeing both Clark and Superman? And no, you didn't know they were the same person.

ꨄ︎ not our universe I @saltcxrcle I A + F

you've had a complicated relationship with being a metahuman, but after taking a look into the multiverse—you've never hated having your powers more.

ꨄ︎ request I @headkiss I F

ꨄ︎ i got it I @lomlsatoru I HC

you tell clark “i got it.” so many times and he is sick of it.

ꨄ︎ going home/staying home I @softestqueeen I F

while trying a viral trend on your boyfriend clark kent, you realise how much you really mean to him.

ꨄ︎ in case you’re reading this I @hangmanwrites I F + A

You, a hopeless romantic who leaves a note in a library book on a whim, and him, the quiet stranger who writes back signing only as “C.K.” It wasn’t meant to be anything, just a moment, a message, a maybe, but somehow it becomes something more.

ꨄ︎ field trip savior I @caoimhewritesfics I F

Your field trip gets rudely interrupted by another inter-dimensional monster. Superman saves the day and steals your heart

ꨄ︎ order for superman I @illumoria I F

ꨄ︎ slow down pt2 I @ficsbyfrankie I A

y/n has had an obsession with superman for ages. like, in a crush kind of way! lucky for her, her best friend is the best wingman ever.

ꨄ︎ in plain sight I @anon-188 I A + (in progress)

you’re in love with superman. clark’s in love with you. the only problem? you think they’re two different people.

ꨄ︎ swear jar I @hyoer I A + F

Clark is the office goody two-shoes. Can you really make him swear?

ꨄ︎ one-shot I @barnesonfilm I C + ~S

you didn't imagine meeting your boyfriend's parents for the first time would start with you crash landing on their lawn in the middle of the night

ꨄ︎ drabble I @little-miss-dilf-lover I F

clark kent finding out you read superman fanfic

ꨄ︎ i know, i know, i know I @luveline I F

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.)

ꨄ︎ mysteries of our disguise revolve I @supershithits I A + F + S

you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman #superman x reader #superman 2025 x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent smut #clark kent angst #clark kent fluff #clark kent imagine #superman x you #superman x y/n #clark kent fic #clark kent fic recs #superman fic recs

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neellscapsule · 2 days ago

Text

a teen . . . mom!?

summary | kara only wanted to get wine-drunk, she didn't expect the effects it would have . . . especially when it came to you, a forty —sixteen?— batmom.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x batmom! reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, super comic relief, teenager!reader is a menace to society. she physically and mentally age regresses but just because of a wine-day gone wrong :D

word count | 5.5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is not part of the kent!batmom!reader series. but it includes some of that. you don't need to read the other parts to understand it. this is a one shot, it won't have a continuation.

IT WAS A QUIET AFTERNOON IN THE STUDY ROOM.

Which, by Batfamily standards, meant only low chatter instead of emergency signals and rooftop injuries. The spring sun filtered through the tall windows, casting soft, golden patterns over the wood-paneled floors and worn rugs.

Jason leaned his weight lazily on one foot, cocking his arm back as he aimed a dart between two fingers. Across the room, Damian stood with his arms crossed, brows furrowed in the way that meant he was pretending not to care, but tracking every motion with the intensity of a hawk.

“Go on, Todd,” Damian said, in that smooth, faintly imperious voice. “Miss again and I’ll call it a mercy kill.”

Jason grinned. “You’re talking big for someone who lost three rounds to me last week.”

“It was two,” Damian snapped. “And I let you win the second.”

Jason threw. The dart thunked into the board, a perfect bullseye.

“Sure you did.”

Across the study, Cassandra was curled up in the corner armchair, legs tucked under her. She wore a thick navy hoodie and AirPods, bobbing her head to the beat only she could hear. She watched the dart game out of the corner of her eye, waiting for her turn, but didn't speak. She didn’t have to—Cass was good at communicating with glances alone.

Tim sat on the couch, cross-legged and half-focused on a tablet in his lap, scrolling through files Bruce had sent him earlier about recent LexCorp activity. But Bruce, sitting across from him with a fresh cup of black coffee, had started speaking, and Tim—curious as ever—had set the screen down, listening closely.

And then Dick spoke, that usual warmth lacing his voice like a current of sunlight breaking through a cloud.

“So…Mother’s Day’s coming up.”

Everyone looked up, heads turning like a lazy wave passing through the room.

Bruce arched a brow. “Already?”

“Two weeks out,” Dick replied, spinning a basketball on one finger. “Which means we have to start planning. Last year was amazing. We set the bar pretty damn high.”

Damian scoffed, just as his dart embedded itself with perfect aim. “Last year we attempted to make her breakfast and nearly set the kitchen on fire. How is that your definition of amazing?”

“She cried,” Dick said, eyes wide with dramatic flair. “She cried and told us it was the best day of her life. That makes it a win.”

Cass pulled one AirPod out and offered a soft, almost dreamy smile. “She loved the photo album we made.”

Tim nodded, now turning toward the conversation. “Yeah, we should do something else personalized this year. Not just gifts.”

Jason finally turned from the dartboard, expression a little more serious now. “She’s done so much for us. Like… how do you even thank someone for that? Don’t start with the mama's boy stuff—” He pointed at Dick, preemptively shutting him up. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Bruce said, quietly, and it silenced the room for a moment. Then, softer, “She deserves something good this year. We all do.”

“Agreed,” Tim murmured, folding his arms. “Let’s make it count.”

Then the sound came

A metallic grind, a low hum, a sudden, vibrating thud like a pressure valve being opened too quickly. The kind of sound only one place in the Manor could produce.

The Batcave.

Weapons were drawn before anyone spoke. Instinct took over. Damian’s sword was at his side before his feet hit the floor. Jason had his twin pistols unsnapped. Tim flipped his bo staff into his palm. Bruce stood, straight-backed and focused, something sharp behind his gaze.

Only Cass remained calm, pulling her AirPods out and rising silently, expression unbothered but watchful.

They knew the rule: the Batcave wasn’t open territory. Only a handful of outsiders had access through that entrance. Clark. Kara. Conner. Jon. Diana. No one else.

So they moved—quiet, fast, precise—descending into the dark corridor that led to the heart of their operations. Footsteps echoed over stone. Jason went first, shoulder to shoulder with Damian, both of them tense and silent. Behind them came Tim and Cass. Bruce brought up the rear, quiet as a shadow.

The moment the platform came into view, the sight gave them pause.

Kara stood near the central console, half-leaning on it like someone who wasn’t quite balanced. Her hair was slightly mussed, cheeks pink with either embarrassment or something stronger. Krypto sat loyally by her side, tail thumping slowly. She pursed her lips, shifting her weight, looking . . . guilty.

Clark was standing with his arms folded, his posture unusually rigid. His jaw worked the way it always did when he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. He was angry. Not just annoyed or uncomfortable. Angry.

He caught sight of Bruce and exhaled, visibly bracing himself.

“Clark?” Bruce’s voice was a deep, quiet thing. “What happened?”

The family eased slightly. No one lowered their guard entirely, but the weapons were sheathed, stowed, folded back into utility belts. If Clark was here, if Kara was here, it couldn’t be world-ending. Just… strange.

“Everything’s fine,” Clark said, too quickly.

She blinked slowly. “Almost.”

“Kara.” Clark’s voice was a warning now.

“What?” she said, rolling her eyes. “It is. Nobody’s dead. I only sorta screwed up.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen at the farm?”

“No,” Clark said firmly. “Nothing dangerous. Nothing permanent. It was—”

“Well—” Kara interrupted, eyebrows lifting as she crossed her arms. “That’s debatable.”

Clark elbowed her, not exactly subtle. “Kara.”

“I’m just being honest!” she whined, then gave a sheepish shrug. “It’s a little temporary. One hundred percent contained. Just… very slightly out of hand.”

Jason squinted. “Okay, what is this? Did someone open a Phantom Zone portal again? Did Jon break the time treadmill?”

“No,” Clark said, sighing. “No Phantom Zone. No timeline collapsing. It’s…a chemical situation. Temporary. Contained. Everything is going to go back to normal by tonight.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Start from the beginning.”

“There was an experiment. LexCorp. Some remnants of a Luthor liquid serum Kara managed to—acquire.”

“Stole,” Kara muttered helpfully.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stole. She thought it was wine.”

“In my defense, it looked like wine.”

“She and . . . Well, they drank it,” Clark said, louder now. “And things got… scrambled. The effects are temporary. The serum ages or de-ages the subject, depending on genetic compatibility.”

Kara looked deeply offended. “I was tipsy. It looked like Smallville summer wine, Clark! You made it!”

“I didn't think it was a mix of alien compounds! I wanted to serve her some wine!”

Tim interrupted, “Wait. What does this have to do with—”

And that’s when the voice rang out.

“Okay, what the hell is this place?”

It echoed from the shadows behind the console. A girl stepped out.

Sixteen, maybe. Her hair was unbrushed, tangled and thick, held back by a red bandana. She wore a denim overall, short-legged and patch-pocketed, clearly old and worn in, and over that, a red flannel flapping open, several sizes too big. Clark’s. Definitely Clark’s. And a pair of worn-out sneakers that had seen better days. Maybe better centuries.

She stared up at the stalactites overhead, mouth parted. The high ceilings of the Batcave. The holograms, the platforms, the frozen-in-time suits. Her shoes clacked awkwardly on the stone floor as she spun slowly around.

Her eyes, wide and suspicious, scanned the Batcave with fascination. “Are we in a mine shaft?” she asked, spinning slowly. “Is this one of those weird rich people train stations?”

Then she turned.

Wide, familiar eyes. That face, younger but still unmistakable. But unmistakably her.

You.

Or, more specifically, you at sixteen.

Tim’s voice cracked in the quiet.

“…Mom?”

You paused mid-spin. “Mom? Who’s a mom?”

Bruce moved first, slowly stepping forward, as if any sudden motion might startle her off a cliff. You looked at him, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Who are y’all?” you asked, voice thick with a Kansas twang, the vowels long and slow. “Is this a movie set? Is this, like… NASA?”

Jason dropped both his arms. “No. No, no, no, no.”

Kara raised a hand sheepishly. “Oops?”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is what I meant. Temporal regression. Not full time travel, just... age reversal. It’ll wear off. Eventually.”

“You turned our mother into a teenager?” Tim shouted, voice breaking.

“Okay, stop sayin’ that. I don’t know what kinda cult this is, but I ain’t nobody’s mama.”

You take a half-step back from the sudden wall of strangers, your wide eyes darting between the dark-clad group in front of you and the enormous computer screen glowing behind them. You don’t know what to make of any of it. You definitely don’t know what to make of them.

You reach instinctively for Clark’s sleeve.

It’s familiar, solid. You grip the flannel he let you borrow earlier tighter around your shoulders, the hem hanging nearly to your knees. You feel ridiculous in it, but also... kind of protected. The way you always do around your big brother.

You don’t even try to hide the fact that you’re pressed against Clark’s arm like you’re glued to it. Not because you’re scared. Not really. But because everything around you feels like something out of a sci-fi channel marathon you fell asleep to once. And frankly, you don’t trust the ground not to move. The ceiling’s way too high. The lights are all weird and humming.

And not a single pig in sight.

Also, Clark smells like safety. You’ve always thought so. Even now, when he’s tense as all hell and fidgeting with the collar of his shirt and shooting Kara a look that clearly says you’re going to pay for this later, you can still hear his heartbeat under your cheek.

“Clark,” you hiss, whispering to him like he’s your lifeline. “Why are there ninjas in a cave?”

“They’re not ninjas,” he says softly.

“They’re totally ninjas.” You look at the smallest one with the sword. “That one’s even got a blade. Don’t try and gaslight me, Clark.”

“That’s Damian.”

“Oh, you named the ninja.”

“He’s your—” Clark stops himself and visibly decides against finishing that sentence. “Let’s just say he’s family.”

You blink at him, then blink again at the short, brooding boy who’s glaring at you like you just insulted his entire lineage.

“Family?” you echo. “We talkin’ blood? Or, like, Thanksgiving-level ‘you have to sit next to Uncle Steve even though he smells like sardines’ kind of family?”

He doesn’t answer. Krypto, saint of your sanity, lets out a soft huff and nuzzles into your side. You crouch immediately and tangle your fingers into his fur. He’s warm and real and familiar. Thank god.

“You get it, don’tcha, boy? This is all nuts.”

Krypto wags his tail once. You're taking that as agreement.

Kara, who’s been hanging back trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly, steps forward like she’s about to deliver a very complicated math presentation without knowing how to count.

“So,” she says brightly. “Funny story…”

You tilt your head. “That’s never how good stories start.”

“Well… remember when you were helping Ma Kent with the garden and we had dinner and then we went to the cellar?”

“No.”

“Okay, fair, because you got drunk off of Clark’s summer wine—”

“She did not get drunk,” Clark interjects, looking scandalized. “She sipped half a cup.”

“She’s a lightweight, Clark!” Kara cries.

You raise your hand. “Hey! I’m young, not weak.”

“You’re almost a baby,” he mutters, looking personally betrayed.

You hold up your hands. “I’m whatever age I was this morning, which, as far as I remember, is still sixteen, and none of this explains why I’m here.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” Kara says, putting her hands on her hips. “There was a bottle. We thought it was apple cider. But it was glowing, and probably from Luthor’s lab, and I was dared to try it—”

“No one dared you,” Clark says.

“—and I may have poured some into the wine without realizing it was some kind of… de-aging compound.”

You blink at her. “You what?”

Kara shrugs with the energy of someone who absolutely knows they’re in trouble but is too hungover to care. “On the bright side, it’s temporary.”

You slowly straighten up and stare at her. “You turned me into a minor.”

“Temporarily!”

Clark winces. “It’s wearing off by tonight.”

“Does the IRS know that?” you ask, before immediately following it up with, “Wait, do I have a mortgage?”

“No,” Bruce says dryly. It’s the first thing he’s said in several minutes. “You live here.”

You point at him. “You say that like it makes sense.”

“Bug, look,” the old nickname slipping from your brother's mouth caught your attention again. “This is where you live, actually. You are forty. You are married to Bruce. And you have five children alongside him. And these five here are those children.”

“. . . So, like, is this real? You didn’t drug me and put me in, like, a bat-themed escape room, right?”

“Why would I drug you?” Clark asks, mortified.

“Why wouldn’t you?” you shoot back. “I once shaved your eyebrows in your sleep when I was mad about you eating my pie. This could be revenge.”

Clark groans. The kids stare at you.

“Okay, wow,” Tim mutters. “She’s always been like this.”

“Worse, apparently,” Damian mutters.

Jason finally groans and leans against the cave wall like the full absurdity has just settled in. “This is worse than that time Bruce got turned into a baby.”

“I’m sorry—what?” you ask immediately.

Bruce doesn’t respond. His eye twitches.

Clark clears his throat. “Look, Y/N—”

“Don’t call me that,” you say automatically. “It’s too grown-up. You make it sound like I pay bills.”

“Well...you do pay bills.”

“I’m sixteen,” you declare, backing up, one hand on your hip. “The only thing I’m legally responsible for is not failing chemistry and remembering to brush my teeth.”

Tim raises a hand. “Technically, if she’s back in her sixteen-year-old body, can she still sign legal documents? Do we have to contact a guardian?”

Clark rubs both hands down his face. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I’m calling Ma,” you announce. “Or maybe Pa. Actually no—wait. I don’t have my phone. Someone took it.”

You turn to Clark, grabbing the front of his shirt again like you’re about to confess your sins. “Clark. I’m scared. This is like one o’ them dreams I get when I eat too much bacon.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Clark says, rubbing your back like you’re five and just skinned your knee. “You’re safe. Just stay here until the effects wear off.”

“For how long?” you ask, nose wrinkling.

“A few hours,” Kara chirps.

You stare blankly.

“Hours? With them?”

Clark starts steering you gently toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat. Something with bread. Lots of bread.”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause last time I drank, I rode Pa’s tractor into the pond.”

“And I had to fish you out. Yes. That’s why.”

As Clark helps you up the steps, you glance back at all of them again. Still strangers. Still bizarre. But they’re watching you like you matter. Like you’re something more than a tipsy farm girl in borrowed flannel.

You blink slowly and lean your head on Clark’s arm.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“…Do I really kiss him?”

Clark laughs. “More than once.”

“… Wow.”

And you giggle the whole way up.

You’re still chewing on the corner of your sleeve when the smells start hitting you.

Warm bread. Roasted corn. A little honey, maybe. Something with sage. You blink up from where you’ve been pretending to count how many ninjas live in this cave—your current estimate is “too many”—and sniff again.

That’s cornbread. Your cornbread. The one Ma Kent makes when it’s been a long day in the fields, and she doesn’t want anyone talking until everyone’s had a slice. And that’s—oh lord—that’s peach cobbler. And is that...

“Is that fried green tomatoes?” you ask, wide-eyed, following your nose like a bloodhound.

You abandon Clark’s arm like it’s a shed skin, Krypto trotting beside you as you charge up the stairs from the Batcave like a girl possessed.

Then you’re in the dining room.

The long oak table stretches out before you like something from a royal banquet, except instead of swans carved out of ice, it’s biscuits, golden and stacked in neat towers. Thick slabs of pot roast steaming in heavy, gravy-soaked platters. A skillet of corn pudding. Macaroni that’s baked right, none of that watery cafeteria stuff. Greens swimming in broth. Sliced ham with a brown sugar crust. Butter melting off the edges of everything.

You stand there, slack-jawed, a hand pressed to your stomach like maybe you dreamt this. Like maybe the cider and wine and weird glowing juice from earlier invented this whole fantasy.

“Did I die?” you ask out loud. “Is this heaven?”

“No, Miss Y/N,” says the man in the apron, stepping forward with all the dignity of a knight approaching a queen. “But I shall take the compliment.”

You blink at him. He’s tall, older, with the kind of soft British voice you’d normally only hear narrating nature documentaries. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alfred,” he says with a small bow of his head. “And dinner is served.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

The chair closest to the center of the table is pulled out for you, and you don’t even question it. You plop down like a sack of corn feed, already reaching for a biscuit. The moment it hits your mouth, you moan.

“Oh my god, this is illegal. This has gotta be a federal crime. What did you put in this?”

“Flour, butter, buttermilk,” Alfred replies dryly. “And an abundance of affection.”

You point at him, chewing. “Don’t get all poetic on me, mister. I’m emotionally vulnerable. But I like you, let me tell you that.”

“Most do,” he replies without missing a beat, disappearing into the kitchen again.

Around the table, you spot the not-ninjas from the cave—who, apparently, are your kids. They’re spread out across the long, dramatic dining table like they belong there. Like they’ve sat there with you before. Hundreds of times.

There’s a quiet comfort to the way they occupy the space. The scraping of forks, the occasional head tilted in your direction like they’re watching a ghost move and breathe and laugh.

You shovel another bite of soup in your mouth and sigh contentedly.

“Oh my lord. Y’all eat like this every day?”

Jason, who is halfway through his second helping of roasted chicken, snorts. “Not unless you’re around. You’re the only one Alfred spoils like this.”

“Damn right he does,” you say, pointing with your spoon. “He knows quality when he sees it.”

Across the table, Damian snorts under his breath. You shoot him a look.

“What’s your name again? Demian?”

“Damian,” he corrects you, like it causes him actual pain.

“Right. You’re the little ninja.”

“I’m not—”

“He’s not a ninja,” Jason interrupts. “He’s just angry and carries weapons.”

“Which is the definition of a ninja,” you say, nodding solemnly. “A tiny, lethal ninja.”

Damian’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You’re more annoying as a teenager than I expected.”

You grin. “And you’re smaller than I imagined. So we’re even.”

“Mom,” Dick cuts in, gently, like he’s trying to keep the dinner from devolving into actual combat. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

You pause, spoon halfway to your mouth again.

You glance at him. At his warm eyes. The subtle curve of his mouth when he calls you mom, like it’s something sacred. Something that makes him feel safe.

Five of them. Five. Each one with eyes too watchful, expressions too full of restrained emotion. You don’t remember raising them. You don’t remember them at all. But you can’t deny how much it seems they remember you.

They all look at you like you hung the moon. Or maybe like you were the moon, and just fell out of the sky.

You shake your head. “I don’t. I mean… y’all are very sweet. You seem like good people. But I don’t know you. Not really.”

A pause. The mood drops just slightly.

“But,” you add, offering a crooked smile, “I can tell you’re mine.”

Tim blinks at you. “How?”

“Because you all look like you wanna cry, but you’re pretending to be cool about it,” you say, reaching for your bread roll. “That’s textbook Kent behavior.”

Cass sits silently to your right, scooping some greens onto her plate. She doesn’t push. Just eats, and watches, and offers a small nod when you meet her eyes. You don’t know her, but you like her already. She seems like someone who doesn’t talk unless it’s important.

Tim’s two seats down, fussing with the tablecloth and poking at his food like he’s too stressed to eat. He hasn’t stopped looking between you and Bruce since the meal started.

You still haven’t really figured out that part yet. Bruce sits at the head of the table. Quiet. Watching. You’ve been sneaking glances at him in between bites of roasted potatoes, trying to piece together why your chest gets tight when he looks away. He’s handsome, sure—rich people often are—but it’s something else. Something behind the way his eyes soften when he watches you laugh.

You’re not dumb. That’s not a stranger’s look. That’s something older, deeper, thicker than time.

But he hasn’t said much. Just listened. And you’re not sure whether you’re more confused by him or comforted by him.

“So,” you say, pointing your fork at him this time. “You’re the one I’m supposedly in love with.”

The room goes very still. Even Damian’s fork hesitates mid-air. You keep chewing, eyes locked with Bruce, and watch as the corner of his mouth—just barely—twitches.

“I—um—” Dick makes a strangled sound. “Maybe we ease into that conversation?”

“Why?” you ask, grinning now. “We courtin’ or somethin’? Did I leave myself a note? Some Kansas-girl-doomsday-plan in case I ever forgot? ‘If lost, return to the tall broody guy with the eyes like storm clouds’?”

Jason barks a laugh and promptly chokes on a string bean. Cass slaps his back without even glancing at him. Tim exhales like someone who’s just been released from a hostage situation.

Bruce, however, finally speaks.

“We married quite the years ago,” he says, voice low and careful. “One here. Another in Smallville. You, obviously, enjoyed the one at your house the most.”

Your chewing slows.

For a moment, something in your chest aches, sharp and sudden, like it’s remembering something your mind hasn’t caught up with.

“Well,” you say after a second, softer now, “I can believe that.”

You look around the table. At these strange, wonderful people with your name on their tongues. You don’t know how or why. You don’t remember the hugs or the heartbreak or the nights they must’ve fallen asleep on your shoulder. But something deep down—a bone-deep kind of knowing—tells you you’d die for each one of them without blinking.

And you feel it more clearly now, under all the noise and gravy and jokes and silence.

You feel safe.

“I’m real lucky,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

Cass tilts her head.

“Hmm?” Dick asks, gently.

You clear your throat, suddenly shy. “Just… reckon I got no clue how I ended up here, but I can tell you it ain’t bad. If this is the future—present? Whatever it is—I think I must’ve done somethin’ real good to get here.”

Damian finally speaks.

“You raised us,” he says, deadpan. “And you did it exceptionally.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

Damian sets down his utensils, folds his hands neatly, and repeats in that clipped, matter-of-fact voice: “You raised us. Me. The others. You taught us how to trust. How to care. You made this house into a home. You protected us. All of us.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Damian adds slowly, “you taught Alfred how to make fried chicken that actually slaps.”

Jason nods in agreement.

You laugh again, louder this time. It bursts out of you in a way that makes Cass’s eyes soften and Bruce’s head tilt just slightly in your direction. You laugh until you have to wipe your eyes on your sleeve and Alfred appears beside you like a magician, handing you a cloth napkin as though he’s been anticipating that exact outcome since the meal began.

“I like it here,” you say honestly, smile still lingering.

No one answers. They don’t have to. The warmth in the room does it for them. The shared glances. The way Tim is no longer fidgeting, how Dick looks just a little less like he’s trying to hold everything together with charm and string. How Jason has stopped guarding his plate. How Cass lets her fingers rest beside yours on the table. How Damian doesn’t look away.

You’re sixteen and lost and missing whole years of your life, but somehow you’re sitting here in a place that feels like it waited just for you. A place where the people around you speak of you not like you’re missing—but like you never left.

You glance at Bruce again.

And you think—not think, you feel—that whatever you’ve forgotten, whatever’s waiting when this all wears off, it’s something you’d want to run back to with open arms.

Maybe even something that’s already been waiting.

You don’t feel the moment it happens.

There’s no dramatic surge of power, no flash of memory overtaking you like lightning. No cosmic thunder or shaking ground. Just warmth. A deep, complete warmth that seeps in from your spine and settles into your limbs like summer sunlight after a storm.

You are sleeping.

Somewhere in the manor, the halls are quiet. The grandfather clock in the entryway ticks along like it always does, neither hurried nor idle. The windows let in pale blue light, that in-between shade that hovers after sunset but before darkness. A cool wind moves through the trees outside, rustling the leaves in that specific, low, lulling way that only wind in a big old yard can. The world outside breathes, and so do you.

You’re still. Curled under thick covers that smell like lavender and laundry soap and a home you somehow never stopped belonging to. Kara’s gentle voice is long gone now, her apologetic explanation about molecular re-stabilization and Kryptonian neural interference left behind like a bookmark in a story already finished.

You sleep through it. Through the moment when everything settles into place again. Through the return of every year you’ve lived. Every scar and every birthday candle and every night you stayed up late just to fold clothes for five kids. You don’t jolt awake when it happens. You don’t startle or sit up or gasp.

You just breathe deeper.

And by the time the moment passes, you’re forty again.

A mother. A partner. A Kent from Kansas and a Wayne by choice, tangled up in one long, complicated, impossibly lucky life.

You wake up slowly. Like your body’s been waiting for you to come back.

The room is dim, the bedside lamp off, the curtains partly drawn. You shift under the covers and let out a soft groan as your joints stretch, your muscles easing from the hours of sleep. You recognize the weight in your bones. The familiar slight pull in your shoulder from when you helped Damian fix that punching bag mount last month. The dull, expected ache in your lower back you’ve had since you fell asleep on the couch with Jason a year ago and never quite recovered from it.

And you smile.

You sit up in bed slowly, pushing the comforter aside. Your feet hit the floor. The carpet’s soft under your toes, plush and warm from sunlight that must’ve sat there for hours earlier. You pad across the room, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your mind still gently fogged but clear in all the ways that matter.

You know who you are. You remember your life. Your family. Your name. Every moment of it.

Every child. Every heartbreak. Every fight at the dinner table. Every embrace on the front porch. Every night Bruce reached for your hand under the blankets and you found him waiting there, steady as ever.

You shuffle into the bathroom and splash water on your face. No panic. No rush. Just the ordinary, heavy-limbed sort of wakefulness that comes after a long nap. You see your reflection in the mirror and smile faintly—your face is yours again. Older, but in a way you’ve grown to love. The lines around your eyes aren’t flaws; they’re maps of laughter and worry and too many hours squinting at homework papers and birthday lists.

You pull on a fresh pair of sweats and one of Bruce’s soft and old shirts from the dresser drawer. You don’t even think about it. Just slip it over your head like you’ve done a hundred times before. It smells like cedar and ink and something deeper, something unmistakably him.

You don’t bother with shoes. The floor is cool beneath your soles as you make your way down the hallway. The manor is hushed, and you walk like someone who belongs here—because you do.

The house remembers you. The creak in the third stair. The way the light hits just right through the windows near the library. The faint scent of coffee that always lingers near the kitchen no matter the hour. You pass framed photos along the hall—Cass’s first dance recital, Tim’s high school graduation, Damian in a rare candid moment on a horse—and your heart tightens, swells, relaxes all at once.

You pause in front of one: Bruce and you on the Kent farm, both of you squinting against the sun, his arm snug around your waist, your mouth caught in mid-laugh. You touch the frame gently, then keep walking.

You don’t have to ask where he is. You know.

Bruce has a particular silence that follows him. Not a cold one. Not empty. But heavy and meaningful, like the kind of quiet that makes everything else make sense. You follow it like a trail, soft-footed, slow. Your fingers trailing along the hall as you go. You’re still half-asleep, and your body knows it—still soft around the edges, still sunk in that liminal warmth that only comes from a nap where the world was finally allowed to pause.

You find him in his study.

He’s seated at his desk, the lamp beside him casting a warm halo of golden light over his hands and jaw. His jacket is off. Sleeves rolled up. Shirt slightly rumpled. There’s a book open in front of him, and for a second you think he’s reading, but then he glances up the moment you enter.

And when he sees you—barefoot, sleepy-eyed, wearing his shirt and nothing else—he smiles.

Not a smirk. Not one of those sharp, fleeting things that cross his face in public. But a true, quiet smile. The kind that starts small and deep and grows only enough to be felt, not flaunted.

You don’t say anything at first. You walk across the room, slow and unhurried, like your body knows exactly what it needs before your mouth even thinks to speak.

Then, voice gravelly with sleep, you mutter the words like a kiss:

“Hello, handsome.”

Bruce leans back in his chair just slightly, like the sight of you is all he needs to let the weight of the day fall from his shoulders.

He watches you for a second, just a beat longer than necessary. Not because he doesn’t recognize you. But because he does. Because you’re you again, fully and completely, and he doesn’t need to check, doesn’t need to ask.

His voice is low, fond. “Welcome back.”

You don’t hesitate. You step close to the chair, and with all the ease in the world, you sink into his lap.

His arms go around you instantly.

It’s instinct, that part. Like breathing. Like gravity. His hand settles on your lower back, firm and grounding. His other brushes a strand of hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. You curl into him, cheek against his shoulder, eyes half-closed again, your entire body relaxing like it’s found the softest part of home.

You sigh.

“Long day, huh?” you murmur.

Bruce chuckles quietly against your temple. “You could say that.”

You both fall quiet for a while. He holds you like he’s not sure he’ll get the chance again. Like he’s afraid even now that it could all slip away. You don’t rush him. You just lean into him, letting your arms drape around his neck, one hand resting at the back of his head, fingers threading into the thick hair there.

“I remember everything,” you whisper.

Bruce’s hand tightens at your waist, just for a moment.

“I know,” he says. “I could tell the second I saw you.”

You breathe deep, your nose brushing the side of his neck. He smells like paper and ink and something darker, something quiet and unmistakably safe. You don’t need to say the words out loud. You know he hears them anyway.

Still, after a moment, you lift your head and tilt his chin to face you.

“I missed you,” you say.

“I was right here,” he replies.

“I know,” you smile faintly. “But I missed me, too. I missed us.”

Bruce’s eyes are soft. His thumb rubs a slow, steady circle against your side, anchoring you there.

“You came back,” he says.

“I always would,” you murmur. “You know that.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

You stay like that for a long time. No need to move. No one asking questions. No world-ending alarms or high-tech misfires or impossible missions. Just this. Just his arms and your breath and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

Eventually, he speaks again.

“The kids—”

“I remember them,” you interrupt gently. “All of them. Every last impossible, wonderful one.”

He exhales slowly. You feel it in his chest, the way it unwinds him.

“I said some ridiculous things,” you add after a beat, laughing under your breath. “Told you I’d testify against myself for casserole. Called you ‘sir.’”

“You also asked if I owned the bank.”

“Do you?”

He hums. “Technically.”

You smile against his neck. “I’m never gonna live that down.”

“No,” he says. “But they loved you for it.”

You lift your head again, your voice quieter now. “They really okay?”

“They missed you. Every minute.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and slow, and holds you there like the ground beneath him finally stopped shaking.

And when your eyes finally close again, warm and safe in the circle of his arms, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that you came back to exactly where you’re meant to be.

Home.

#bruce wayne x reader #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batmom reader #kent!batmom!reader #batboys x reader #bruce wayne x you #platonic dick grayson x reader #platonic jason todd x reader #platonic clark kent x reader #platonic cassandra cain x reader #platonic tim drake x reader #platonic damian wayne x reader

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cressidagrey · 3 days ago

Text

System Failure - Chapter 4: Brackley

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well. Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Ana has a meltdown. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Difficult Family relationships. Toto tries his best. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025

She didn’t expect anyone to notice.

It was just a shirt.

A black Mercedes team polo — same logo, same structure, same sharp lines.

Only it wasn’t.

It was softer. Cotton. Hers.

The first time in years she’d walked into the engine lab without feeling like her skin was crawling under her collar.

She was reviewing tire temperature data on her tablet when she felt it: eyes.

Not staring. But… watching.

First from one of the junior mechanics, a man with his hair tied in a tight braid and sweat forming under the high-poly collar of his regulation kit.

Then from Fatima — PR, usually glued to screens and two phones, now blinking owlishly at Ana’s sleeves.

Then from a second-year aero analyst who tugged at the hem of her stiff-fitted polo and kept looking away like it hurt to stare.

Ana tapped a graph.

Waited.

Finally, Fatima stepped closer, voice pitched low. “Sorry — can I ask something?”

Ana glanced over. “You just did.”

Fatima grinned nervously. “That shirt. Is it… different?”

Ana paused.

Then nodded once. “Cotton blend. Custom seams. No tags.”

Fatima exhaled like someone had just opened a window. “God, I knew it. You don’t look like you’re dying.”

One of the mechanics — Leo, Ana remembered — leaned in. “I get rashes from these sleeves every race week. Yours look… soft.”

Another person joined. Then a fourth.

“Do you think they’ll make it standard?” someone asked. “The… your version.”

Ana blinked.

She hadn’t thought of that.

She hadn’t thought about anyone else when the prototypes arrived. Just getting through a day without feeling like she was battling her own clothes.

But now she looked around and realized: they were all tugging at their cuffs.

Unbuttoning their collars. Picking at the embroidered tags inside their necklines like they were trying to scratch out a secret.

Maybe she hadn’t been the only one suffering. Just the only one who refused to normalize it.

“I don’t know,” Ana said slowly. “But I’ll ask.”

Fatima smiled, wide and unguarded. “You should. It’d be the first time teamwear didn’t feel like armor.”

Ana didn’t say anything to that.

But later — in her office, with the door half-closed and the polo still loose against her skin — she opened her email.

***

Email Subject: Cotton Blend Uniform Feedback

From: Dr. Anastasia Wolff <[email protected]> To: Team Kit Procurement <[email protected]> CC: Toto Wolff (CEO) Claire Hammond (HR), Marcus Reidl (Design Lead)

Dear All,

Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.

If we can accommodate wider distribution, please proceed.

Also — suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.

Regards, Dr. Anastasia Wolff Lead Systems and Hybrid Performance Engineer Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025

Toto read Ana’s email twice.

Then a third time.

Then he slowly took off his glasses and set them down with an almost reverent sort of care, like the weight of the message had finally sunk in.

He hadn't expected this.

He thought the clothing issue was singular. Specific. Ana-specific.

He thought — wrongly — that this was about her and her alone.

But then he reread the line:

“Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.” “Recommend trial sizes for track staff and junior team members.”

And another:

“Suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.”

He leaned back in his chair.

God.

How many people had just quietly endured because they thought complaining about a shirt made them sound soft? Weak? Replaceable?

How many of them were right to be afraid?

He looked over at his assistant, who was sorting emails across the room.

“Leonie?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“Can we… get feedback from staff before we finalize the 2026 team kit?”

She paused. “You mean from the senior leads?”

“No,” he said, frowning. “I mean… everyone.”

She blinked.

Toto tapped the desk absently. “Anonymous if necessary. Ask what they actually want to wear. What bothers them. What doesn’t work. Give them options. Not just sizes — materials. Seam styles. Fastenings. Tag placements. Everything.”

Leonie opened her laptop again, rapidly typing. “I’ll draft a feedback form today.”

He nodded.

Then, softer: “I don’t want anyone on this team to feel like they have to earn the right to be comfortable.”

She glanced at him, surprised.

“Not after this,” he added, motioning toward Ana’s email.

And he meant it.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members.

lorelai.pa: GUYS THE FORM THE FORM JUST DROPPED THIS IS NOT A DRILL

sam.transmission: wait the anon team kit feedback form??

jules.elec: YES check your inbox “2026 Apparel Feedback – Optional & Anonymous” Toto’s name is on it. He wants our thoughts.

jess.hr: this feels like that scene in Les Mis where everyone’s like “do you hear the people sing” but about polyester

ellie.electronics: someone’s finally listening 😭 i’m going to cry over a cotton-blend hoodie

fatima.pr: entered “the polos give me existential rage and also chafe my neck like I’m being strangled by a team sponsor”

nicola.sim: I said: “I have a recurring dream about removing the inner tags with fire” follow-up question was “any preferred materials?” i said: yes. soft.

rachel.aero:I just want a version of the rain jacket that doesn’t make me sound like a pissed-off bag of Doritos when I move

Sima.calibration:I said we should bring back zip-off trousers for variable pit lane conditions

you’re all laughing now but you’ll thank me at Monza when it’s 37 degrees

Lucy.comms: I asked if we could have those polos with the half zips again but in bamboo this time don’t judge me

leo.mechanic: I said “please no more fitted sleeves that cut off circulation like a blood pressure cuff from hell”

liv.strategy: I literally typed “I want to wear my team kit without itching like a Victorian ghost girl with TB”

benjy.data: someone’s gonna read this and be like “we’ve made a terrible mistake”

kayleigh.powerunit: seriously though do we think this is because of Ana? 👀

zahra.aero: 100% she wore The Cotton Polo and now we have a form she is the revolution

jules.elec: she suffered so we could be free

leo.mechanic: I still think Toto saw her pick at her collar once and commissioned an entire line of custom-engineered knitwear

lorelai.m: give that man a dad medal wrapped in organic bamboo jersey

tom.sim: if we get a fleece-lined travel hoodie that doesn’t trap heat like a dying star i will get “w21 lives forever” tattooed across my knuckles

***

Twitter Thread: Max to Mercedes?? Let’s Talk About It

@/F1Whispers: 🚨 Hearing whispers that the Max-to-Mercedes conversation isn’t just paddock fantasy anymore.

Apparently someone from Verstappen’s camp had an informal sit-down with a senior Mercedes figure post-Spain.

We’ll be watching this one very closely. 👀

↳@/charlottechicane: “Informal sit-down” = espresso and ruin. I am so ready.

↳@/pitlanecryptid: no bc imagine Toto walking into that meeting like “so are you finally done pretending Red Bull isn’t imploding?”

↳@/DataLapDan: i know we’re all excited but if max actually goes to mercedes i’m gonna be insufferable like "my world domination au is CANON" levels of unbearable

↳@/verstappensburner: this entire fanbase is going to emotionally combust if max shows up to silverstone even looking at the Mercedes hospitality

@/laurensleftshoe: you’re telling me that in the same season Red Bull fumbled strategy, pissed off Verstappen, and Mercedes quietly fixed their engine?? oh this is SILLY silly season.

@/PaddockWhispers: Not saying anything definitive (yet), but there’s a vibe shift happening. Hearing from more than one source that Mercedes talks with Max Verstappen aren’t as dead-in-the-water as they used to be. 👀

@/javi_ontrack: you mean to tell me we’ve entered the “what if Max leaves Red Bull” timeline in THIS economy????

@/amberflagf1: Reminder: Max has a Red Bull contract until the end of 2028. Also reminder: contracts in F1 are written in pencil and everyone knows it.

@/formula_flirt: I cannot emotionally handle Max Verstappen in Mercedes silver. I would combust. Respectfully.

@/f1firestarter: Max Verstappen to Mercedes would be the biggest defection since Lewis left McLaren. This sport hasn’t known peace since 2007 anyway. Let chaos reign.

@/deaddownforce: Christian Horner if this actually happens: 👨‍🦲🪑😭📉📉📉📉📉

@/helmutvision: Toto’s going to sign Max out of pure spite and call it “a long-term strategic investment.”

@/emiliapits: just saying… Max Verstappen looks one engine failure away from handing in a transfer request #SpanishGP

@/tirewearupdates: We are entering that delicious stage of Silly Season where the rumors go from “lol imagine” to “wait is that actually happening” Max to Mercedes is no longer a meme it’s a threat

@/f1teaaccount: 👀 multiple paddock sources are now saying that Max has “not ruled out” a conversation with Mercedes about 2026 Red Bull’s collapse + Mercedes’ 2026 PU project = ✨spicy✨

@/wheresthegrip: red bull’s falling apart, toto’s wearing that tight smile like he knows something’s already signed, and max looks 4.6 seconds away from choosing violence every sunday we’re so back

@/karunactually: Look, it’s all smoke until there’s fire, but I’ll say this: Mercedes’ power unit development is the most locked-down I’ve seen it in years. And Max is asking very smart questions about 2026 aero.

@/engineerera: If Max goes to Mercedes and GP goes with him… I will simply combust. Red Bull who? I don’t know her.

***

Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman

Kimi: OLIVER. Have you seen Twitter.

Oliver: Always a good start to the day Which bit this time?

Kimi: VERSTAPPEN TO MERCEDES??? People are saying it's real now Like meetings and talks and performance clause drama levels of real

Oliver:

Lmao yeah.

That’s just a rumour. Chill.

Kimi:NO YOU DON’T GET IT If it’s true I’m SCREWED I’m a rookie George has won races They’re not going to fire the guy with media training and four trophies They’ll fire me

Oliver: Okay. One: You haven’t even done half a season. Two: You literally out-qualified him in Miami. Three: You are Toto’s investment. They’re not firing you.

Kimi: I saw Toto smiling in the paddock after Spain Like a knowing smile Like a “I’ve just offered Max Verstappen a multi-year deal” kind of smile I’ve barely been here five minutes. I just stopped getting lost in the motorhome. Toto’s going to be like “you’ve had a nice gap year, off you go.” I’ll be back in F2 by Spa.

Oliver: Toto is not sending you back to F2.

Kimi: He’ll send me to Formula E. Or worse. Endurance.

Oliver: Please breathe.

Kimi: He’s going to call me into his office. And I’ll walk in and he’ll just gesture at a Mercedes shirt and be like “This is for Max. Pack your things.”

Oliver: Kimi.

Kimi: I JUST STARTED UNPACKING MY THINGS

Oliver: Kimi.

Kimi: Do you think Red Bull would take me? Do you think I could learn how to smile for their videos?

Oliver: You hate their social media team.

Kimi: Yes but I love not being unemployed.

Oliver: You're not getting fired. You're 18 and terrifyingly good. Max to Mercedes isn’t about you. It’s about Red Bull imploding.

***

Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: GUYS WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

Oscar: It’s 6:14am. What is wrong with you.

Carlos: You better be dying

Lando: HAVE YOU SEEN TWITTER check your feeds right now go go go

Oscar: Oh. Wait. What.

Carlos: Oh qué coño “Verstappen to Mercedes 2026”? Are they serious???

Lando: HE’S JUMPING SHIP MAX. TO. MERCEDES. I KNEW SOMETHING WAS OFF

Daniel: ...what did I just wake up to

Lando: I KNEW HE WAS HIDING SOMETHING and now he’s packing his bags and heading straight into Toto’s loving arms??? THIS IS A GRID-LEVEL EVENT

Oscar: There’s no confirmation. Could just be speculation.

Carlos: You don’t switch teams because of one bad race. That’s not Max.

Lando: that’s what you think but I think… it’s the girlfriend 😐

Oscar: No.

Carlos: Lando.

Daniel: God.

Lando: what if she’s a Mercedes girl what if he’s been SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY THIS WHOLE TIME what if she's one of Toto's engineers or like. his race strategist or his cat sitter, I don’t know, everyone in that team is suspicious

Oscar: This is why no one tells you anything.

Daniel: I know for a fact she’s not Toto’s cat sitter. BECAUSE HE DOESN’T HAVE A CAT

Lando: SO YOU DO KNOW HER WE’VE CIRCLED BACK CONFESS

Carlos: Can we stay on topic

Lando: I am on topic Max is leaving red bull for love for romance for goddamn affection, carlos

Oscar: Or maybe for stability and a better engine

Lando: you’re no fun

Daniel: You really think Max Verstappen would switch teams because of a girlfriend?

Lando: Yes. Do we need to stage an intervention???

Carlos: You’re acting like he joined a cult.

Oscar: I’m muting again.

Daniel: Same.

Lando:

YOU’RE ALL BLIND

HE’S DEFECTING

AND HE’S TAKING HIS SECRET GIRLFRIEND WITH HIM

OPEN YOUR EYES SHEEPLE!

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Raymond: I just got three missed calls from Helmut. One from Christian. And one from someone in communications asking “how hypothetical this all is.”

Jos: 😂

Raymond: You think this is funny?

Jos: A little. They’ve spent the last year ignoring him. Now they remember his number?

Max: I got a text from Christian. Just said: “Are you free to talk later today?” Didn’t even put a smiley face.

Raymond: Yeah, they’re rattled. Now everyone’s watching every move you make.

Max: Good. Maybe now they’ll realize “next year” isn’t a plan. It’s a stall.

Jos: Told you this would get their attention. Should’ve done it back in Hungary.

Raymond: They’re already trying to spin it internally. Said you’re “frustrated but committed.” Which is rich, considering you’ve barely committed to a sandwich lately.

Max: I’m not saying anything to them until we decide what we want. Let them sweat.

Jos: They deserve to sweat. They built an empire around you and assumed you'd never walk away.

Raymond: You sure you’re ready for the chaos if this keeps escalating? Sponsors. Media. Internal leaks. They’re going to start dangling upgrades and favors like candy.

Max: Let them. I'm not interested in words. I'm interested in performance. And in options.

Jos: He means Anastasia Wolff.

Raymond: Oh for god’s sake

Max: I mean winning. And maybe a competent power unit.

Jos: Just admit it, you want a new car and the girl to match.

Max: I want a future that actually exists.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 9 June 2025

Ana didn’t usually pay attention to gossip.

She didn’t have the time. Between engine simulations, thermal load mapping, and trying to outsmart the very laws of physics that governed engines, her brain had better things to do than scroll through rumor threads or listen to whatever the hell the factory gossip mill spat out between coffee breaks.

Gossip was for bored comms interns and second-tier Twitter accounts and the anonymous message boards she refused to acknowledge she read. Gossip was an inefficient use of processing power, and she had an engine to build.

Well—part of an engine.

Ana was deep in the work. She liked that about engines: either it ran, or it didn’t. It didn’t hide behind charm or half-truths or the kind of smile that curled just at the corner like it knew what your heartbeat did at 2 a.m. when it whispered your name.

She was elbow-deep in the systems diagnostic interface when it happened.

“...bet Toto’s buzzing. I mean, Verstappen in Mercedes? That’s headline stuff.”

Ana didn’t look up immediately. The interns chatted all the time. She’d learned to tune them out like background static.

But then someone laughed.

“That’s the thing, though. Apparently the talks are real this time. Like, post-Spain. Horner looks ready to combust. Heard Max’s team asked for a second round of briefings already.”

Her fingers froze. Not stopped—froze. A full system hang. The kind that required a hard reboot.

She stood up too fast, knocking over a container of diagnostic strips. “What are you talking about?”

Three junior engineers blinked at her like deer in carbon-fibre headlights.

“I—uh—sorry?” one offered. A kid. Probably twenty-three. Probably didn’t know the laws of thermodynamics, much less the laws of personal space.

Ana’s voice came out cold and precise. Like dry ice instead of fire. “You said Verstappen and Mercedes. What talks?”

He hesitated. “It’s just, um, what people are saying. Apparently he’s… not thrilled at Red Bull. And with the new regulations—”

“What talks?” she repeated, sharper now. “With who? When? On what basis?”

Silence. Someone coughed.

Another engineer—Liam—spoke up, clearly trying to calm the waters. “Ana, it’s probably nothing. Just paddock noise. Silly season stuff.”

“I don’t care if it’s silly season or the Book of Revelations,” she snapped. “You don’t bring that name into this building without—”

She cut herself off.

She had not meant to sound that emotional. She didn’t do emotional.

Emotional was messy. Emotional got you left in a cold Vienna apartment when you were eight years old and didn’t understand why Mama never came back. Emotional got you 10 years of therapy and a lifelong fear of letting anyone close enough to notice that your heart beat out of time when Max Verstappen so much as looked at you.

“Forget it,” she muttered, already crouching to pick up the diagnostic strips. “Get back to work.”

She tried to focus again. Truly, she did.

But all she could see was him.

Max, in a Mercedes fireproof. Max, in her garage. Max, here.

That wasn’t just gossip.

That was personal.

And she had to find out from watercooler gossip that he might be walking straight into her father's garage next year?

She dropped into her chair, jaw tight.

She was going to kill him.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members.

liam.engine: okay so… ana just full-on snapped because someone mentioned max verstappen in the breakroom

tom.sim: like snapped snapped?? or ana-normal snapped??

liam.engine: diagnostic strips were flung. her eye twitched. she pulled rank with a voice that could’ve cut titanium.

kayleigh.powerunit: i was THERE. i thought she was going to throttle poor benjy. he looked like a ghost.

tom.sim: to be fair benjy always looks like a ghost. poor child lives on vending machine coffee and hope.

ellie.electronics: wait wait back up. what about verstappen?

liam.engine: someone mentioned the rumors he’s been in talks with merc and she lost it. like. visibly rattled.

sam.transmission: are we… not supposed to know that? because we all know that.

jess.hr: you didn’t hear it from me but… there have been board-level discussions. like actual meetings.

kayleigh.powerunit: george is going to combust. first his championship dream, now his dream girl?? mans cannot catch a break.

ellie.electronics: okay first of all. ana does NOT know george exists in that way. he flirts, she blinks and changes the subject to engine temperature mapping.

tom.sim: yeah but he tries. like, tragically hard. someone should tell him.

liam.engine: we have. multiple times.

sam.transmission: i think he genuinely believes if she just softens a little she’ll like him.

jess.hr: spoiler alert: trying to “soften” Ana Wolff is a career-limiting move.

liam.engine: but imagine…george losing both the girl and his seat to the same man. brutal.

tom.sim: “he came, he saw, he took your garage and your girl” – max verstappen, probably

kayleigh.powerunit: no but seriously, if verstappen joins next year…ana is going to short-circuit.

liam.engine: she already has. i swear i saw her hand shaking when she went back to her desk.

ellie.electronics: …do we think they’ve got history?

tom.sim: mate. that wasn’t “history.” that was “I will end you for not telling me yourself.”

liam.engine: also. george absolutely walked past Toto’s office ten minutes ago and didn’t even look inside. he knows.

kayleigh.powerunit: press F for george russell. he’s not getting the girl. he’s not getting the seat.

sam.transmission: this team is going to be absolute chaos next season.

liam.engine: so…basically. max to mercedes: 90% confirmed george: 90% doomed ana: 100% about to kill someone

kayleigh.powerunit: can we get hazard pay?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: You unbelievable, reckless, arrogant bastard.

Max: Hi Poekie 🥰

Ana: Don’t you dare call me that. is it true?

Max: you’ll have to be more specific. i do many things. most of them well. 😏

Ana:Is it true you’re talking to mercedes?

Max: define “talking” Like… theoretically, if a man was tired of his car dying every other Sunday and wanted to drive something that didn’t sound like a blender full of nails and steers like a shopping trolley, would that be so shocking? Was wondering when that would land in Brackley. Impressive it took this long, honestly.

Ana: You think this is funny?

Max: I think it’s adorable that you're this worked up. Is that a little engine rage I sense? Or something else?

Ana: You’re unbelievable.

Max: You say that every time I make you come.

Ana: You’re smirking through text. I know you’re smirking. Wipe it off your face or I swear to God I will personally rig your MGU-K to explode.

Max: You threatening to blow me up is the highlight of my week. I wasn’t hiding it. Just… hadn’t mentioned it yet. It’s not official. I haven’t signed anything. But yeah. I’m thinking about it.

Ana: Why?

Max: Because Red Bull’s a shitshow. Because the car’s not where I want it. Because 2026 is a clean slate. Because Mercedes has the best shot at nailing the regs.

Max : I was waiting for the right moment to tell you. You know. When you weren’t actively building the engine I might end up driving.

Ana: You absolute—

Max: Careful. You call me enough names, I might think you miss me.

Ana: You were going to let me build that engine and not say a word?

Max:I think it’s poetic. You building the engine I win my next championship with.

Ana: You’re not funny.

Max: A little bit. Also… If I do come to Mercedes, I’d get to see you more. You sure you want to complain?

Ana: Max.

Max: Ana.

Ana: This isn’t funny.

Max: It’s not meant to be. It’s serious. I’m serious. This team. This future. And you.

Max: You can throw everything you want at me, but I’m not pretending this isn’t personal.

Max: You and I never weren’t personal.

Ana: Stop flirting with me.

Max: You texted me first. Angry. You’re always hottest when you’re mad.

Ana: unbelievable.

Max: you should see how good i look in silver might need you to help peel the fireproofs off after practice. for research. obviously.

Ana:I hate you.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Are you seriously considering Mercedes or was that just a fever dream I saw on Twitter this morning?

Max: Depends.

Victoria: MAX. Are you actually considering it??

Max: I’m thinking about it. New regs. New challenge. New team that isn’t Red Bull collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

Victoria: So that’s a yes.

Max: It’s a maybe. A serious maybe.

Victoria: And what does your situationship think about this?

Max: She’s not my situationship.

Victoria: Max.

Max: What?

Victoria: You’ve been sleeping with the same woman since 2016. You once skipped a Red Bull sponsor dinner because she had the flu. You got into an argument with Charles Leclerc because he flirted with her. You remember what day her mother left and make sure not to say anything soft around her that week.

That’s textbook situationship energy.

Max:No.

That’s Ana refusing to process any emotion stronger than mild caffeine withdrawal energy.

It’s different. She’s not my situationship. She’s the love of my life. She just doesn’t know how to be loved yet.

Victoria: Oof. That’s devastating. And also weirdly poetic. Have you told her that?

Max: She’d run.

Victoria: So you’re just gonna… casually defect to her team and hope the proximity therapy works?

Max: Basically, yeah.

Victoria: You’re unhinged.

Max: She’s worth it.

Victoria: Jesus.

Victoria: Fine. But I’m getting front row seats when she inevitably explodes at you in the Mercedes garage and you just stand there like a golden retriever in love.

Max: She already threatened to rig my MGU-K. Does that count?

Victoria: God. She so loves you.

Max: I know.

Victoria:I reserve the right to say I told you so if she makes you cry in an airport again though.

Max: That was one time and I was jetlagged

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025

The thing about working for 48 hours straight is that eventually, the code starts humming. Not metaphorically. Literally. The numbers pulse on the screen like they're breathing. The engine model almost sings.

It was beautiful. Or maybe that’s just the hallucination talking.

Ana hadn’t meant to do this. Not really.

But the rumours wouldn’t shut up.

Every thread. Every whisper in the office. Every poorly disguised hallway conversation that cuts off when she walks by. They all hum with the same goddamn thing:

Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026.

So Ana did what she’s always done best: work.

And then kept working.

And then kept working past the part where most people would’ve gone home, or taken a nap, or consumed anything other than coffee and three-day-old protein bars.

The Max-to-Mercedes rumors had detonated in her skull like a landmine, and the only solution was to outpace the noise. To code faster than she could think. To simulate until reality bent around the dyno and all that existed was pressure ratios and heat recovery systems.

Ana had not slept in—well. She couldn’t quite remember. Forty-eight hours, give or take. Possibly more.

Sleep was inefficient. Feeling things was inefficient. If she could out-engineer her central nervous system, maybe she wouldn’t have to think about him walking into her garage wearing her team kit and asking her to act like they were nothing more than a very well-documented HR violation waiting to happen.

Nope. Absolutely not. Rejected.

It was fine.

Totally fine.

She stayed.

Skipped lunch. Skipped dinner. Drank whatever sludge passed for coffee in the staff kitchen. Ate two protein bars and a half-bag of Haribo from someone’s drawer.

By hour 36, her eyes twitched when she blinked. By hour 38, One of the CFD renderings had started to look like Max’s smile and she’d closed the window with so much force the monitor flickered. By hour 42, she had a conversation with the exhaust flow diagram.

Ignoring your feelings via work? Ten out of ten. No notes.

The door to the systems lab opened, and James—sweet, anxious James—peeked in with the caution of a man trying not to get yelled at.

“Hey, uh… Ana? You’ve been here a while.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m busy.”

“Yeah. No, I see that. It’s just… someone said you haven’t gone home since Monday?”

“I took a nap during the CFD cycle.”

“You mean the thirty-two-minute cooldown window?”

She adjusted her monitor. “Power naps are valid recovery strategies.”

James stepped back like she was radioactive. “Okay. Yeah. Coolcoolcool.”

***

There were a few things Lorelai had learned about Dr. Anastasia Wolff after working as her PA for years:

She did not like phone calls.

She did not tolerate inefficiency.

She did not, under any circumstances, do emotional meltdowns.

Which was why Lorelai was… confused.

Because there was currently a meltdown happening. A very quiet, very clinical, very Ana-coded meltdown. But still—an undeniable one.

The first sign something was off: Ana had skipped her 2 p.m. apple.

Now, most people wouldn’t clock that. But Lorelai kept receipts. Not metaphorical ones—literal, detailed, colour-coded records of Ana Wolff’s habits. Not because she was creepy (debatable), but because being Ana’s assistant was like managing a billion-dollar Formula 1 car that had decided to develop sentience and reprogram itself with C++ and repressed trauma.

And now Ana had been in the systems lab for forty-eight hours.

Which is why Lorelai—personal assistant, keeper of the calendar, shepherd of wayward engineers—was deeply, profoundly concerned.

Forty-eight hours.

Straight.

No shower breaks. No meal breaks. Just coffee, simulations, and whatever slowly crystallizing protein bar graveyard she’d built next to the dyno monitor.

And the thing was… no one knew why.

At first Lorelai thought maybe it was a tight deadline. A design review. A manufacturing delay. Ana loved a crisis, thrived on impossible timelines like a cryptid built from caffeine and elite academic trauma.

Something was wrong.

And it had started the exact same day the rumors about Max Verstappen coming to Mercedes had hit the media cycle like a wrecking ball dipped in silver paint.

Lorelai had seen the slack channel, of course. Heard the whispers. Everyone had.

Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026.

A little gossip grenade tossed casually into the Slack channels and now rolling around under everyone’s desks.

Still, she didn’t get it. Ana didn’t even like Max Verstappen. Or… well.

She never talked about Max Verstappen.

Which, knowing Ana, might’ve meant something entirely different.

Now, Lorelai wasn’t stupid. She’d worked at Brackley long enough to know that F1 was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and gossip. She’d been in procurement for four years before Ana had stolen her during a lunch break by asking, “Would you like to stop being bored and start being indispensable?” And frankly, that had been the sexiest job offer she'd ever received.

But she’d never—never—seen Ana like this.

Forty-eight hours in the lab. No sleep. No food except Haribo and the kind of protein bar that tasted like bark. No interactions with the outside world except for three short, sharp emails, all time-stamped between 3 and 4 a.m., and all featuring increasingly unhinged demands about airflow telemetry and torque mapping for 2026.

At first Lorelai thought it was just a normal hyperfixation spiral. Ana had those sometimes—one moment she’d be designing cooling systems in her head, the next she’d be elbow-deep in CAD software muttering about slipstream efficiency like it owed her money.

But this?

This was personal.

Which didn’t make any sense, because Ana didn’t do personal. She did spreadsheets. She did systems.

And yet here she was.

Working like her brain was on fire.

Refusing food.

Snapping at poor James from aero like he’d suggested they reintroduce porpoising for fun.

And most concerningly…

Whispering to the exhaust flow diagram.

Lorelai watched her from the doorway, nursing her third espresso and wondering how many HR policies were currently being violated by pure sleep deprivation.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members.

james.aero: okay so question hypothetical if someone’s been working for maybe 48 hours straight and won’t make eye contact and is whispering to the exhaust flow diagram should we… like… do something?

liam.engine: oh no is it Ana please tell me it’s not Ana

james.aero: uh how long has Ana been in that lab?

zahra.aero: Since… Monday?

james.aero: It’s Wednesday evening.

ellie.electronics: Guys. She just asked the exhaust rendering if it wanted a break.

daniel.it: ok but like in a normal voice or a soft voice

ellie.electronics: a soft voice like it was a hamster

mira.simulations: Jesus.

felix.eng: Should we… call someone?

daniel.it: like who? HR? Her dad? Her exorcist?

ellie.electronics: I vote Toto. This feels above our pay grade

felix.eng: No offense but I’d rather arm-wrestle a live inverter

daniel.it: Wait what if it’s the Verstappen thing You know… the rumor. Max to Mercedes? 2026?

mira.simulations OH MY GOD

james.aero: Wait wait wait are we suggesting that Ana Wolff —Dr. “emotions are for the weak” Wolff— is spiraling because of… a driver transfer rumour?

ellie.electronics: what if they used to date

daniel.it what if they still do

mira.simulations she did flinch when someone said “Red Bull” in the hallway earlier

james.aero: i thought that was about the drink

mira.simulations: she called it “synthetic capitalist battery acid” and kept walking

felix.eng: idk guys she’s brilliant but she’s acting like someone just told her her pet died and the pet was responsible for aero performance

sara.branding: ok but why does she care so much about Verstappen joining? she’s literally never mentioned him

jess.hr: maybe she’s secretly in love with him like that weird Wattpad slow burn where the ice queen and the golden retriever fall in love after ten years of mutual pining

matt.merchandise: first of all: I’d read that second: why is that so specific

nicola.sim: does anyone know if they’ve ever even spoken????

james.aero: i once saw them pass in the paddock she nodded he blinked it was the most emotionally loaded 0.7 seconds of my life.

amelie.procurement: guys. if Max Verstappen signs with Mercedes Ana is going to have to see him every single week

james.aero: …should we start updating the fire protocols now

liam.eng-lead: does this mean we’re in an enemies-to-lovers arc or a “do not engage unless you want the hydraulics to burst” arc

kayleigh.powerunit:

yes

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Max: so hypothetically if someone were to show up in Brackley wearing silver and looking criminally good in it would you throw a wrench or just ignore them

Max: also asking for a friend: is rigging an MGU-K to explode technically a war crime

Max: …ana?

Max: ok you’re mad. that’s fine. you’re cute when you’re mad. well. terrifying. but also cute.

Max: is this you icing me out for flirting too much? because i can do more flirting like a lot more no one’s stopping me

Max: okay you’ve never taken this long to respond even when you pretended to “accidentally” leave your phone in a Faraday pouch because you were “busy” mapping thermal decay

Max: (yes i remember the exact phrase. no i don’t forgive you)

Max: ana please just text me that you’re alive i’m starting to imagine really dramatic things and you know my imagination is unhinged i saw you break a torque wrench once with your bare hands i believe you could disappear into a server rack and never come out

Max: i know you’re not answering because you’re working. but 36 hours without sleep isn’t working. that’s crashing.

Max: okay. seriously. this isn’t funny anymore. are you okay? did something happen?

Max: Nastya. please just let me know you’re okay. i don’t care if you’re mad. i don’t care if you’re busy. i care if you’re breathing.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025

Toto Wolff was not a man easily rattled.

He had survived backmarkers, boardroom politics, and the 2016 championship. He had learned to speak calmly while millions watched his drivers threaten to kill each other in front of national cameras.

But nothing—nothing—quite sent ice through his bloodstream like hearing Lorelai say, in her deceptively calm tone:

"I think there’s… a concern. About your daughter. From a safety protocol perspective.”

He looked up from his laptop.

Lorelai stood in the doorway to his office. Immaculate as always. Her glasses perched at the edge of her nose. Her iPad hugged tightly to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from losing her grip on reality.

“She hasn’t left the building since Monday. And she’s… uh… talking to herself. In at least three languages. Possibly four.”

Toto sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll handle it.”

He didn’t ask why no one had handled it sooner.

Because he knew the answer.

People didn’t tell Dr. Anastasia Wolff what to do. They let her work, in awe and slight terror, until she disappeared again like some kind of ghost of the dyno bay—brilliant, brutal, and untouchable.

He strode through the corridors with long, purposeful steps.

Anastasia was exactly where he expected her to be: hunched over the control interface, surrounded by code, still wearing that black fleece with the fraying cuff. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair braided but unraveling, and she didn’t even glance up when the door opened.

Toto felt that ache in his chest again—the one he always got when she was like this. Too quiet. Too still. Too close to the edge of something brittle.

He still remembered the first time he saw her.

Vienna. 2005.

Anastasia Yelena Volkova had arrived on his doorstep like a misdelivered package—tight-lipped, red-eyed, nearly eight years old, wearing a coat two sizes too small and clutching a Soviet-era suitcase with her initials stitched inside in Cyrillic.

Her mother hadn’t come in. She hadn’t even looked back.

Just a stiff nod, a clipped explanation in Russian that amounted to your turn, and then she was gone.

Anastasia had only spoken Russian back then. Refused to answer in anything else. It had taken months for her to say “yes” instead of da. A year before she started using “Papa.” Two before she stopped flinching when someone raised their voice.

And even now, nearly two decades later, Toto still wasn’t sure she believed she belonged.

She’d grown into someone sharp and strange and brilliant. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask for things. She lived in the folds of logic and simulation code and thermal maps, and most of the time he let her stay there. Let her be who she was without trying to shape her into something softer.

Because Toto was a smart man.

He knew his daughter was clever—anyone with two Cambridge degrees and a doctorate was clever.

But Ana wasn’t just smart. She saw things. Solved problems that hadn’t been named yet. She treated the 2026 PU like a living thing, coaxing performance from it the way some people coaxed birds into their hands.

He didn’t always understand her—but he never underestimated her.

Now, nearly twenty years later, that same girl was barricaded in a dyno bay surrounded by code and caffeine and emotional landmines he still didn’t know how to read.

He walked in and saw her hunched over a workstation, hair fraying from her braid, muttering in a furious whisper about battery drain cycles like the fate of the earth depended on it.

She didn’t even flinch when the door opened.

He used the only thing that still worked.

“Anastasia Yelena Wolff.”

She froze.

Like a gunshot. Like the echo of a childhood too sharp around the edges.

Slowly, she turned. Her face was pale, eyes glassy and over-bright, like someone walking the tightrope between clarity and collapse.

“Papa?” she asked. Quiet. Distant. Like maybe her brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“Anastasia,” he said more gently now. “You need to stop.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “I’m just—working through the module delay. If I can get the compression sync to balance before the next sim—”

“You’ve been awake for two days.”

“I’ve done worse.”

“That’s not comforting.”

She didn’t answer.

Toto stepped around the desk and crouched down beside her chair, like he had when she was small. He’d always been a tall man, but he’d never once tried to loom over her. It never would’ve worked. Even at fifteen, Ana had stared him down like she was the one writing his performance reviews.

“You need to sleep,” he said softly.

Anastasia looked away. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Why?”

Her jaw flexed. Silence.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he stood and held out a hand.

To his surprise—she took it.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t speak much on the drive, either. Just curled into the passenger seat, like her bones had finally remembered they were tired.

When they arrived at his house, she walked in automatic. Like the muscle memory never left. Same bedroom. Same old lamp.

Toto handed her a bottle of water and told her to brush her teeth.

She didn’t even roll her eyes.

When she curled up under the duvet, he pulled it gently over her shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure if she was asleep yet.

Then she whispered, “Thanks.”

He paused.

“Always.”

He sat there a few minutes longer, watching her breathe.

Still brilliant. Still so sharp it scared him sometimes.. Yet he still wondered if her mind was something even bigger than what she let people see. Something that frightened her, too.

She was lethal.

Not just degrees. Not just intellect.

A mind like a scalpel.

And a heart she kept padlocked, duct-taped, buried somewhere beneath layers of grit and code and engine schematics.

He stood.

Turned off the light.

Closed the door behind him.

And told himself—once again—that he was doing his best.

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff

Toto Just brought Ana home. She was in the systems lab. Forty-eight hours. Maybe more. Lorelai says she didn’t leave since Monday.

Susie: Oh no. That’s a full bender. Did something trigger it?

Toto:I don’t know. No one seems to know what triggered it. She wouldn’t say. Just kept muttering about engine logic and simulation lag and something about thermal sync ratios. She looked… hollow. Not angry. Not manic. Just gone. Like she disappeared behind the code and forgot how to come back.

Susie Was it the 2026 revisions? The PU development?

Toto I asked. She just said she was working. You know how she gets. That thing where she locks in and forgets she’s a person.

Susie And you think it’s just work?

Toto No. I think it’s something. But she won't let me see what it is. She never has.

Susie: Poor girl.

Toto: Her brain doesn’t stop. Not like other people. She doesn’t feel things in real time — she just stores it somewhere deep and then short-circuits under the weight of it.

Susie: You’ve always said she runs like an engine.

Toto: Yes. High power. No governor. And when it overheats, she doesn’t shut down — she redlines. Quietly. Efficiently. Until she crashes.

Susie: You did the right thing bringing her home.

Toto: I hope so. I don’t always know how to help her. She’s brilliant. But it’s like she’s made of glass sometimes. The high-grade kind. Sharp edges. Carries voltage.

Susie: You help by being there. That’s always been the way. She came home with you, didn’t she?

Toto: Yes.

Susie: Then you’re doing fine.

Toto: She thanked me. Before she fell asleep.

Susie: Then she knows.

Toto: Knows what?

Susie: That you love her. Even if you don’t always know how to say it.

Toto: … I hope so.

Susie: She’s not broken, you know.

Toto: I know. She’s just wired differently. And sometimes… I think the whole damn world should rewire itself to match her, instead.

***

Toto Wolff’s House, Brackley, England - 12 June 2025

Ana woke to the uncomfortable sensation of… stillness.

Not quiet, exactly — her brain didn’t really do quiet — but a kind of post-storm silence. Her skin felt too tight. Her throat dry. Her tongue like the underside of a radiator cap. Muscles ached in places she didn’t even remember using.

It was bright. Too bright. Morning light spilling past gauzy curtains that weren’t hers, across a room she hadn’t slept in for years.

Her old room.

Her father’s house.

She groaned, curling onto her side, eyes scrunching against the sun like it was personally trying to shame her. Memories came back in flashes — the hum of the dyno bay, the way the monitor had started pulsing, the battery flowchart she’d argued with at hour 45. The moment she’d looked up and seen Toto there, like a conjured hallucination.

Except it hadn’t been.

He’d come. Scooped her up like she was still eight years old with a head full of Russian grammar and trauma. Sat her in the passenger seat. Put her to bed.

Now she was here.

And she felt awful.

Everything in her body was slow. Her brain was fogged with something like grief and guilt and tech fatigue. And under all of it — beneath the espresso crash and cognitive flatline — there was shame. Deep and bone-quiet.

He’d used her full name.

And she had gone with him.

God.

Ana sat up slowly, wincing as her body protested the motion. Her hoodie was twisted around her like a straitjacket. Her braid had mostly unraveled and clung to one side of her face. Her glasses were missing. Probably lost in the chaos. Her socks didn’t match.

Everything hurt.

She dragged herself to the kitchen by muscle memory, following the smell of espresso and something warm and toasty.

Toto was already there. Reading something on a tablet. A second coffee sat waiting beside a plate of toast — buttered, crusts cut off, just like she used to eat it when she was too tired to argue with food.

He didn’t look up when she entered.

“Good Morning,” Toto said, still reading.

“Is it?”

“You’re upright, so that’s progress.”

She sipped the espresso, wincing slightly. “My brain’s still buffering.”

“You were arguing with a bar graph last night.”

Ana gave him a tired glare. “It was slow.”

Toto set his tablet down and looked at her properly. His expression was unreadable in the way that always made her bristle.

“You look terrible,” Toto added.

“That’s not comforting,” she rasped.

“I don’t do comforting. I do espresso and early exits.”

Ana smiled. Brief. Real.

They lapsed into silence.

Eventually, she spoke. “I’m sorry.”

Toto didn’t say anything.

Then, softer: “You came to get me.”

Toto met her eyes. “You’re my daughter.”

After a moment, she said, very quietly, “Do I… scare you?”

He looked up.

Ana didn’t.

“I scare myself sometimes,” she murmured. “When I get like that. When I forget to stop. It’s like—if I pause for even a second, everything will catch up.”

Toto exhaled. “You don’t scare me.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Confuse me. Force me to Google terms I’m pretty sure you made up. Yes. But you don’t scare me.”

Ana looked away. “You didn’t even know I existed until my mother dumped me at your door.”

Toto’s voice softened. “I didn’t know you existed, no. But the moment I did, you were mine. There’s a difference.”

Ana looked away. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t know what to do with me.”

“Most of the time,” Toto said bluntly. “But that’s not the same as not wanting to try.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I don’t always know what to do with any of you,” Toto said. “You just require… a different operating manual.”

She glanced up. “German or Russian?”

He smirked. “It’s in Hieroglyphs. I’ve given up trying to read it.”

Ana huffed a laugh, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

He slid a plate across the table. Toast. Buttered. Cut into quarters.

Ana stared at it.

“I’m not eight,” she muttered.

“You’re acting like it,” he replied, sipping his espresso.

She snorted. Picked up a piece. Ate it.

Then after a pause: “Thank you. For coming.”

Toto nodded.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added quietly. “Whatever this is.”

She didn’t answer.

But she finished the toast. Drank the rest of the coffee. Sat there just long enough for him to believe — maybe — that the worst had passed.

And maybe, just maybe, it had.

***

Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Susie: Hey love. Just checking in — how are you feeling?

Ana: Hungover. Except without the alcohol that usually causes it.

Susie: So the 48-hour no-sleep, Haribo-and-coffee-fueled science bender finally caught up with you?

Ana: Might’ve run out of caffeine before I ran out of coping mechanisms. Or the other way around.

Susie: Ana. Darling. You do know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even difficult things. Especially difficult things.

Ana: I didn’t want to think about my feelings. I wanted to out-engineer them. Put them in a box and simulate them into submission. It worked for 47 hours and 17 minutes.

Susie: And then the crash?

Ana: Then the crash. And the hallucinating of a CPU diagram that was smiling at me.

Susie: Oh Ana. That’s when you close the laptop, sweetheart.

Ana: I was hoping I could outpace it all. The noise. The feelings.

Susie: You're not a robot. No one’s asking you to be.

Ana: I have too many feelings, actually. They just… don’t like being perceived. Especially not by me.

Susie: You are so your father’s daughter it’s terrifying sometimes. You know I love you, right? Even when you’re a sleep-deprived raccoon in fleece.

Ana: Thanks, Susie.

Susie: Next time, text me before the Haribo hallucinations kick in, okay? I’ll bring tea and non-emotional distractions. Like British Bake Off reruns.

Ana: Deal.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr.Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: I’m alive.

Max: you’re texting which means you didn’t die which is fantastic news for my blood pressure

Ana: Calm down.

Max: Calm down?? Ana, are you fucking kidding me right now?

Ana: I just woke up.

Max: You disappeared for three days, ghosted every message, probably rewrote half the powertrain manual, and now you want me to act normal?

Ana: Yes.

Max: absolutely not. I thought something happened. I thought you collapsed at your desk or got electrocuted or walked straight into a jet fan because you were thinking about combustion ratios and forgot how walls work.

Ana: …only one of those is remotely plausible.

Max: Which one.

Ana: None of your business.

Max: You scared the shit out of me.

Ana: I didn’t mean to.

Max: Then what were you doing?

Ana: Not thinking about you. That was the plan. Didn’t work.

Max: You pulled a 48-hour lab lockdown to avoid your feelings for me?

Ana: I didn’t say that.

Max: You really need to work on your emotional repression outlets.

Ana: You’re the one making everything complicated.

Max: I texted you that I might change teams. You started hallucinating torque values and drinking Red Bull like it was IV fluid.

Ana: Max.

Max: Ana.

Ana: …my father had to tuck me in, you asshole.

Max: 😭😭😭😭

Max: god i wish i had a photo framed. on my wall. above my sim rig.

Ana: I’m blocking you. Papa took me home. Tucked me in. It was deeply humiliating. Do not make it worse.

Max: i’m going to make it so much worse you got papa’d. your dad tucked you in like a little burrito. this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Ana: I hate you.

Max: it’s horrifying for you i understand

Ana: Do not send me memes. I’m still rebooting my brain.

Max: too late [attachment: “YOU WORKED 48 HOURS STRAIGHT? BABE YOU’RE A BIOHAZARD 💅” meme.jpeg]

Ana: I should’ve stayed asleep.

Max: i missed you. next time, disappear for less than 12 hours or i’m coming to Brackley and starting a dramatic scene in the simulator bay

Ana: That’s not a threat. That’s workplace misconduct.

Max: Try and stop me. You scared me. You don’t get to do that again.

Ana: I didn’t think you’d care that much.

Max: I do. ***

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