#How to Study like a Harvard Student

[wingfleur]

# — calling mark grayson "small."

got fried as fuck and this shit came to me like a prophecy. a dream. i know i have my to-do list, but it’s hard for me to write stuff i’m no longer in the exact headspace for. like, i need to wait until i can get into it enough to feel it the way i did when i first thought of it. anyways, this is set in a universe that’s pretty canon-compliant: mark and amber broke up, but he hasn’t dropped out of college (yet) or ended up with eve. you also have no clue he’s invincible, just that he’s had a glow up and your cute, dorky friend from high school is now fine as shit. i also listened to “party favors” by leon thomas and big sean the entire time i worked on this.

lastly, i'd like to give a humongous shoutout to @omniphilic for beta-reading this monster for me! much love, sunshine, and godspeed, my children. enjoy! | wc: 7.9k words.

cw: nsfw mdni (18+), afab!reader, a lot of porn with a lot of plot, light angst, confessions, banter, friends-to-lovers, mentions of amber (i love you girl but it’s so easy to use you as a plot device </3), oral sex (f!recieving), explicit sex (p in v), missionary, squirting, dirty talk, praise, soft!dom mark, consider this my apology for the hurt/very little comfort v!card mark x reader fic <3

thinking about you joking around with mark grayson and calling him… small. you know where.

it sounds like such a silly scenario, but walk w/ me: you and mark have an… odd friendship. looking back on it, you two were an unlikelier pair than winning the lottery. you’re from completely different worlds– you were more on the straight and narrow: the academic side of things. all you did was bust your ass, and you had plenty to show for it– friends, awards, this air of recognition that followed you from classroom to classroom.

and mark? well, he fell more into the category of incredibly average. average grades, average social life, even an average reputation amongst the student body– the kind that makes you easy to remember and always gets you labeled as a “pretty cool guy,” but keeps you out of any real trouble. maybe that’s part of his charm– the fact that everything about him is initially so unassuming, so run of the mill that you don’t even think twice. not until you start to get to know him.

there’s plenty that sticks out once you get to know him.

then, somehow, at the start of your senior year, you two ended up partnered together for a project in the same upper-level english class. y’know, the college freshman one everyone takes because it’s a cheap credit, regardless of if they’re going to harvard to study law, or to the local community college to save a bit of money. neither of you had many expectations, but you and mark became fast friends. mark’s awkward charm grew on you, and he already had a decent opinion of you from seeing you around, but finally being in a situation where he could talk to you and not feel like a nuisance only made him think of you more highly than before. you were cool as shit; he has no idea how you two hadn’t spoken sooner.

but it’s no surprise that you two absolutely nailed the project. with your smarts and mark’s willingness to learn, the grade on it ended up being so good that it made you jump into mark’s arms out of pure excitement. mark caught you effortlessly, spinning you around and giggling alongside you without a second thought. the intimacy of such a reaction didn’t dawn on you two until long after he set you down, you grinning giddily in his face, while he could do nothing but grin back.

that’s how you ended up here– lying in mark’s bed, long after graduation, and visiting home from campus on a long weekend. you’re wearing one of his t-shirts and reading one of his copies of seance dog as he works on a paper. when you found out you two would be attending the same university, you were more than stoked. mark was stoked too, but he was so sure you could’ve gotten into one of chicago’s finest, or, better yet, move away from illinois entirely, rather than attend upstate university. he gave you a hesitant look when you said you were more than content with your choice, saying that a degree is a degree no matter where you went and that as long as you could be with mark, it would be worth it. deep down, though, mark swore something bloomed in his chest that day. he doesn’t really know what that feeling was– is, to be more accurate, because he still feels it sometimes– but that’s the least of his worries. 

his main worry is getting this paper in by 11:59 pm tonight. 

and just like that, the rhythmic clacking of mark’s fingers against the keyboard fills the silence and leaves you to bask in this comforting sensation of warmth. you’re so relaxed that you can’t bring yourself to move. not that you would have wanted to, anyway.

it’s peaceful. so, of course, you have to ruin it. 

“you ever want to fuck a cartoon character?” you suddenly say, the copy of seance dog in your hand and your foot crossed over your knee. you hear the way mark’s typing pauses for a moment, and imagining his reaction forces you to bite back a snicker. a pregnant silence fills the room before the typing begins again, just as rhythmic and hypnotic as before.

“i know you’re not saying that about seance dog,” mark finally quips back, his voice dripping with an absurd amount of mirth. you can hear his smile in his voice– you always can, because mark rarely doesn’t smile. it’s one of your favorite things about him.

you can’t help but take the bait.

“you think i could be?” you ask, tone scandalized and brows raised. neither of you move to face each other just yet– you don’t need to. you can tell exactly what face mark’s making from the sound of his voice, and mark can do the same for you. it’s how he knows that you’ve stopped biting back that smug smile of yours– the one that creeps across your face when you’re clearly up to something, but he doesn’t know what. you’re a troublemaker; it’s one of his favorite things about you.

“yeah,” he replies without missing a beat, “i clearly know nothing about you. i was once dumb enough to think you were intimidating.”

“i’m still intimidating!”

“yeah, maybe on occasion,” mark teases, his typing ceasing completely so that he can spin around in his chair. he leans against it with his head tossed back and his arms on the armrests, eying you gleefully as you put the comic face down on the bed. “most of the time i forget because you’re too busy saying shit that’s uncomfortably close to ‘i wanna fuck seance dog.’”

“eat shit and die, mark.”

“i don’t wanna.”

“then shut the fuck up and answer the question!”

“fine, fine!” mark laughs and lifts his hands up lazily off the chair in mock-surrender. “‘course i’ve wanted to fuck a cartoon character. who hasn’t? i’m not a nun.”

something flashes in your eyes, and you shift to lean forward towards where mark’s sitting, propping up on your elbows on the bed. you grin mischievously; it’s clear you’re up to nothing remotely good. 

“who?” you ask.

mark replies immediately. “koriand’r.”

“wha– from the titans?”

“no, from the avengers. yes, from the titans. who else would i be talking about?”

“alright, down, boy,” you say amusedly, making mark roll his eyes. “i was just checking. but you obviously can’t handle that.”

mark raises an eyebrow. “says who?”

“uhh, says me?"

the two of you are still for a moment, and you start to fear you said something wrong until you see mark’s eyes darken in that telltale way they do when he starts to feel challenged. then, as if that wasn’t enough to give you goosebumps, he does that stupid, mindless thing he does with his tongue, where he runs it along the inside of his cheek. your breath stills in your chest when mark pushes up off the back of his chair and leans forward towards where you lie on the bed, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped between his thighs. 

it’s hard to keep your gaze from dropping to the veins in his hands.

“oh yeah?” mark asks incredulously, tilting his head. you were joking about being the intimidating one earlier, but the real intimidator is mark. when he gets serious, you swear you can feel something in the air shift. maybe that’s why it feels like the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up right now.

“why not?”

the question, in its simple nature, catches you off guard, and in a brief moment of confusion, you tilt your head. “why not what?” “why couldn’t i handle her?”

you stare at mark as if he’s joking, but instead of him laughing and waving you off, mark stares back at you expectantly, brow arched and lips quirked up at the corners. it’s like he wants to smile, but he can’t. won’t. 

this dickhead must have a death wish.

“what do you mean ‘why couldn’t you handle her?’” you say casually– like what you’re saying is most obvious thing in the world. “it’s koriand’r, mark. she’d chew you up and spit you out before you even had time to undo your belt.”

you swipe up your copy of seance dog and busy yourself with trying to find where on the page you last left off. honestly, it doesn’t matter where you start reading. you’re willing to do anything to help get your mind off the weight of mark’s eyes boring into you.

“besides,” you huff, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “koriand’r has standards, and you probably have a small dick, anyway.”

the second those words leave your mouth, the room falls deathly silent, and you swear it’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room. you fall still where you’re at, hoping that somehow, someway, you not moving will make mark want to kill you less. you really don’t know what possessed you to say that– it was a poor attempt at deflection, considering the growing amount of tension you began feeling in that room– but you don’t mean it. didn’t mean it. not one bit. 

you’re doing mental gymnastics to figure out how you can take it back without sounding like a total loser before mark starts laughing, and the joyous and boisterous sound gives you pause.

he couldn’t have found that funny… could he? 

okay, yeah, after a little bit of consideration, he very well could have. this is mark grayson, you’re talking about– not one of the insecure guys you were used to dealing with, who were more likely to blow a blood vessel than a load at the idea of being perceived as “unmanly.” mark’s the type of guy to wear one of your crop tops because he knows you’ll whine about him stretching them out, or wear a maid dress as a punishment for losing a bet, masking his embarrassment with quips about how good his legs look. you also know mark enough to know he’s not a virgin, nor is he a prude, but not well enough to know intimate details about his sex life. sure, jokes are fine, but a play-by-play on how he screwed his ex feels… invasive. beyond the scope of your shared comfort. it was just something you never thought of asking.

well, more like something you could never bring yourself to ask.

you set the comic back down on the bed just in time to watch mark wipe some tears from his eyes, twisting around to face his laptop with a smile on his face. he resumes typing like nothing happened, like you didn’t just obliterate his manhood and leave it in pieces for him to pick up off the floor. it’s hard not to gawk at him in disbelief, blinking rapidly for a few moments before speaking.

“that– didn’t upset you?” you say tentatively, voice a lot meeker than initially intended. mark huffs out a laugh and spins around, hands back to resting on the armrests.

“why would it have?” he says bemusedly, still smiling from before. “we joke like that all the time. honestly, i’m surprised you hadn’t said something like that sooner.”

you can only stare at him blankly, brows knitting in confusion as mark continues to regard you patiently. then, you sit up, pushing up off your elbows to swing around and upright, one leg dangling off the bed while the other stays bent in front of you. 

“why didn’t you get mad?”

mark pauses, eyes narrowing as he tilts his head. “...is this a trick question? why would i? you were joking around.”

“most guys would’ve gotten mad about me saying something like that.”

“yeah, well, most guys aren’t exactly confident about what they’re packing downstairs.”

“and you are?”

mark’s lips part for a second, but no words come out. he quickly shuts his mouth and stares at you, but you stare back, ignoring the way your cheeks start to burn with red-hot embarrassment. 

“well, yeah,” mark finally says, eyes flickering nervously to the side. he looks everywhere– the alarm clock on the dresser, his posters on the wall, everywhere but where you are, sitting prettily on his bed– but his eyes have no choice but to finally lock back onto yours, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “‘course i’m confident about it.”

“...‘cause it’s not small.”

he pauses. “yeah. ‘cause it’s not small.”

your brain short-circuits right then and there.

you aren’t sure why you’re so surprised by this. it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to arrive to this conclusion. you were around when mark started dating his ex-girlfriend, amber– around long enough to have seen the exact point in their relationship where they shed the last of their inhibitions and began interacting with each other much more comfortably. you were also around long enough to watch mark come into himself– to lose that dweebish, unsure aura around him and become more confident. muscled. tall. even if he was still pretty dorky most of the time.

perhaps that’s when the thoughts started: when you started to think of mark less as a boy, and more as a man. when you began wondering things about him that you desperately wanted to know, but were much too scared to ask.

at least you have an answer to one of them now.

“hey,” mark says suddenly, voice sharp enough to cut through all your overthinking and analyses. mark’s closer to you now– right next to you, actually, the scent of his cologne filling your nose– and he has your hand in his, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the back. “you okay? should i not have said that–?”

you frantically shake your head. “no–! i mean, yes– god, fuck, no, mark, it’s okay.” you take a deep breath, letting your eyes fall shut. “i’m the one who asked. you just answered.”

you take in a shaky breath and let your eyes flutter open to find mark watching you adeptly, his eyes trained on your face. the expression he’s wearing is one of worry, those dark brows of his pinched in the middle to form a wrinkle you so desperately want to smooth out with your thumb. his plush, pink lips are parted, and in an attempt not to stare at them, your eyes fall to the floor, but not before momentarily catching on how his biceps strain against his sleeves.

for fuck’s sake, this is not the time to be focusing on how attractive you find your best friend.

“i wanted to know,” you finally say, voice soft and a little frayed around the edges. your eyes flutter shut again– something to give you a bit of extra courage to say what you need to say, and not cave under the pressure of your nerves. “i wanted the answer to that question. it sounds weird as fuck, and i totally understand if you want me to leave and never show my face around here again, but i’d be lying if i said i didn’t want to know.”

you open your eyes again to find mark still staring at you, eyes jumping all over your face, while sporting an unreadable expression. you find yourself swallowing hard as you steel yourself for what you want to say next, adjusting to sit and face mark completely. “i wanna know a lot of things about you, actually. and none of them are all that appropriate for two people who are supposed to be ‘best friends.’”

it’s mark’s turn to short-circuit.

“w–what?” mark stutters out, staring at you with a dumbfounded expression as his eyebrows shoot up in suprise. his mouth falls agape, opening and closing fruitlessly as he tries to figure out what to say. “i�� jesus christ, i don’t think you understand what you’re saying–”

“i know exactly what i’m saying.” your interjection is quick and firm, your expression void of your previous nervousness and now completely serious. “and you know it. don’t insult me like that again.”

mark’s protests die in his throat.

“i want to know you,” you start. “honestly. intimately. fuck, to be honest, i want to see you– naked, in my bed– but i didn’t wanna make things weird, and then you had that whole thing with amber, and then i thought you were gonna date eve, so i kinda just kept it to myself, but–”

“you can know me.” 

you freeze. “what–?”

“you can know me,” mark says again, his hand squeezing the one that he has wrapped in his. “you can know me. and see me. and i’ll answer every other question you’ve had about me, ‘cause i wanna know you too.”

you can’t help but stare at mark , absolutely and completely dumbfounded. if he notices, he doesn’t judge. doesn’t acknowledge it at all, actually. he just continues to steamroll ahead.

“god, fuck, i really wanna know you like that, too,” he sighs. “always have– like, all the way back in high school. i’d see you in the halls with your friends and think, ‘man, they’re hot,’ then move on with my life because i thought there was no way i’d ever have a chance with you. then, we got partnered up for that project, and i learned that you were so much cooler and more approachable than i had ever imagined, and i wanted to make a move on you so bad, but i still thought there was no way you could ever like me. william can testify to this– i was talking his ear off about you 24/7. still do. he is seriously getting sick of it.” 

the way mark talks is fast– so much so that all his words bleed together, voice full of excitement and sincerity. it make your eyes sting. after he finishes, his quick way of talking tapers off into a hefty bout of silence, his beautiful brown eyes flickering down to your joint hands. 

“and then came amber.”

the quiet that follows drapes over the two of you like a blanket, heavy with the weight of everything you two are thinking, but ultimately remains unsaid. the fact of the matter is that it doesn’t need to be said. you and mark just… know– understand– that amber was the first person, aside from you, to treat mark as less of an expendable, and more like somebody worth knowing. she took the opportunities you were too afraid to– penciled her name in where yours was meant to be and slipped right on into that “partner” position, wearing it as if it was custom-fitted. it may as well have been, because it sure looked good on her. 

he looked good on her. that’s why you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad.

“i never would’ve gone out with her if i knew you wanted me even half as much as i wanted you,” mark says quietly, reaching up to rub a tear from your cheek that you didn’t even know you shed. “but i didn’t. and we dated, and i slept with her, and i loved her, but i feel all of that for you too, y’know.” he cradles your face delicately as he climbs up onto his knees, his movements slow, as if moving too quickly would scare you off. moving too quickly would remind you that this is real; remind you that you probably shouldn’t be doing this, causing you to hop off the bed and run down the hall, flying down the stairs, past debbie, and out the front door.

but you don’t have to worry. never have, actually, because the way mark treats you is careful. cautious. he’s kneeling on the bed and easing you onto your back with such rapt attention that it makes your cheeks warm, head turning to the side to shield it from him before he turns your head right back to where it was.

“i want you to ask your questions,” mark says slowly, large hands pushing your knees apart to make room for him between your legs. you can’t help but stare at him helplessly, any and all words dying in your throat, but mark moves with a confidence that makes it clear you don’t need to speak. not when he’s hovering over you like this. 

“i want to answer your questions, and i want you to do the same for mine. ‘cause i’ve thought about you. a lot. and not all of it was decent. actually, most of it probably wasn’t.”

mark lets himself laugh softly at the admission, but you can only look up at him in awe, the muscles of your brows twitching from the urge to knit in confusion. mark’s eyes catch this, and he reaches down to smooth his thumb over the spot right between your eyebrows– the same way you wanted to do for him earlier.

“so tell me that this is okay.”

mark trails his fingers across your skin, skimming over your cheek, then your neck, then your shoulder, and all the way down your arm until reaching your hand. he tangles your fingers together and brings your wrist to his lips, a soft kiss being pressed to your pulse, which makes your heart stutter in your chest. mark doesn’t tease you for how vulnerably you stare at him, or for how red his actions make your face. he only looks down at you with a soft smile, peppering kisses to your palm.

“holy shit, mark, this is more than okay.”

mark’s grin is blinding when you surge forward to kiss him.

the thing that surprises you most about it isn’t how good of a kisser mark is, or how nice it feels for his big hands to come up and cradle your jaw. it’s how easy all of this is– how uncomplicated it is to be making out with mark, how your lips slot together as if it’s always meant to be this way, how raw his groan is when you tangle your fingers into his hair and tug. he has you pressed against the bed in seconds, one hand slowly slipping beneath your t-shirt as the other squeezes at your outer thigh. you feel dizzy when your lips part and he ducks his head down into your neck, sucking bruises into the skin with a fervor that makes you squirm.

“i– fuck, mark, not where people can see–!”

“does it matter if it’s visible? ‘s not like you’re fucking anyone else right now besides me.”

you hit mark hard against his back, but it only makes him chuckle, sitting up to look at you with messy hair and blown pupils. “what? you haven’t slept with anybody in a while, and you’re about to sleep with me. i didn’t say anything wrong.”

“how do you even know that, asshole?”

mark grins, sitting back on his haunches as he hooks the hem of your shirt on his index finger. he tugs it up enough to reveal your stomach. “‘cause you’re lying here in my bed, wearing my shirt, with me sitting between your legs. if i was the person you’ve been fucking, i’d definitely feel some type of way about that.”

you scoff, moving one of your legs to try and kick at mark’s chest. like the little shit he is, he catches it easily and presses a kiss to your ankle, setting it on one of his shoulders. “that doesn’t mean anything. i could have casual sex if i wanted to.”

“yeah,” mark agrees, both hands coming to smooth his shirt up the expanse of your body, “you could. if you wanted to. but you don’t, ‘cause you’re not like that.”

“bullshit.”

“is not. here, open your mouth for me.”

“wh–?”

“shut up and open it for a second, would you?”

you shoot mark a withering glare, but he just grins back, pushing your shirt up under your chin and offering the hem for you to bite down on.

“thank you,” he says gleefully, his words a little too airy and sing-songy for you to let slide. you try and kick him again, but he blocks your leg without much of a second thought, eyes laser focused on the sight of your tits in front of him.

“wow, you are so fucking pretty.”

the way he says it is so full of awe– so genuine– that it makes your mouth fall open. the t-shirt in your mouth gets stuck on your bottom lip in the process, and the sight makes mark chuckle, a boyish grin settling on his face. he reaches up to adjust it and pulls it back up so you can bite down on it again.

“i didn’t even say anything crazy yet,” he teases, laughing as you do your best to swear at him from around the fabric. mark ignores it to focus on the sight in front of him instead, though, fingers tracing up your rib cage before cupping the underside of each of your breasts.

your mind goes blank when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth.

“oh, fuck,” you gasp out, back arching off the bed and into his mouth. the t-shirt slips from between your teeth again, and you can feel mark grin around where his tongue swirls around your skin, popping off to look at you and chastise you softly.

“jeez, you really suck at following instructions,” mark playfully says. “and did you forget that my mom is downstairs? i’ve had her knock on the door during sex before, and trust me, it does not help to sustain the mood.”

“god, you sound like such a dork. ‘it does not help to sustain–’”

mark cuts you off with a groan, fingers curling into the waistband of your shorts and panties. “shut up and lift your hips already.”

you giggle. “fine, fine.”

you plant your feet and lift your hips off the bed enough for mark to tug your clothes off, separating your shorts from your underwear so he can tuck the garment into his pocket. You look at him with a flustered expression, mouth dropping open in bewilderment, but mark simply sticks his tongue out at you and flings your shorts to the floor, panties nowhere in sight. you hardly have enough time to process him keeping them for himself before he’s wrapping his hands around your thighs and tugging them onto his shoulders, putting him face to face with your cunt and lifting your lower back completely off the bed.

you knew mark was strong, but you never thought of him using his strength like this.

mark holds you firmly as he busies himself with eating you out like a man starved. those big, brown doe eyes of his look down at you, sometimes lingering on the rise and fall of your chest, and sometimes taking in the sight of your knitted brows and parted lips, both your hands tangled in the pillow behind your head. his eyes do fall shut every once in a while as if he’s savoring the taste of you on his tongue, and he probably is, knowing mark, but you don’t have the wherewithal to tease him. not now, at least. not when he’s got his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking in these sporadic little bursts that make your stomach burn with molten need.

“oh, f-uck,” you gasp, voice cracking on the expletive. in your defense, it’s the only word you currently feel like you know how to say, but mark doesn’t laugh or tease you for it. he just presses a messy kiss to your clit, then slides his tongue down through your folds to circle your hole, slowly and messily pressing inside of you. he pumps it in and out for a few moments, as if he’s trying to fuck you with his tongue, then flattens the muscle and drags it back up to your clit to press into it firmly. you untangle your fingers from the sheets and reach up to swat at mark’s thigh, twisting and turning frantically in his hold.

“oh my fucking god, mark, let go!” your whines are urgent, thighs beginning to quiver on either side of mark’s head. his eyes flutter open enough to look at you through his long, thick lashes, but his firm grip on your waist doesn’t let up in the slightest. his arms tighten around you, keeping your pussy to his lips and your body off the bed as he continues to ravage you like it’s the one thing he was born to do. “mark! ‘m fuckin’ serious– i’m gonna squirt if you don’t let go of m– oh, fuck!”

you realize your warning is a bit late as you feel that knot tighten and snap in your belly, but it would’ve fallen on deaf ears regardless of whether you said it earlier or not. your cunt gushes all over mark’s nose, lips, and chin, soaking the top of his t-shirt and dribbling a bit down onto the bed below. you’d think he’d have a concern of drowning, but mark’s tongue keeps moving as you cum, legs squeezing against his ears so tight that you’re sure he can hear absolutely nothing but his own heartbeat. you know you sure can’t– all you can hear is the distant sound of your own voice, and the way your breathing stutters in your chest, a series of tremors wracking your body so brutally that you’d liken them to an earthquake. 

“shit,” you gasp softly, limbs tingling once they regain sensation. you wriggle in mark’s grasp and he pulls back from your pussy with a pop!, lowering your hips down to the bed as he runs his tongue along his lower lip.

“you said you were about to squirt as if that was going to deter me,” mark says breathlessly, a soft laugh punctuating his sentence. his face is covered with your slick all over his lips and chin, the sun from the window catching on it in a way that makes it glisten. you’re embarrassed by his nonchalance, but it’s hard to be mad when mark looks this good. you did this to him– made his perfectly slicked-back hair disheveled, and soaked his lower face and chest in your cum. normally, you would reply to his quip right away, but right now, you don’t. you’re much too focused on watching how mark leans down to reach behind his head and grab at his shirt, shucking it off in one smooth motion to join your discarded shorts on the floor.

“it was supposed to,” you finally say, voice sounding just as breathless as mark’s. his lips quirk up at the corners, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. instead, he leans over you to open his bedside drawer, and you take that as an opportunity to continue. “didn’t realize i was sleeping with superfreak, over here.”

mark snorts. “i’m just a guy who prioritizes my partner’s pleasure over mine.”

“that’s a roundabout way to say you like to eat pussy. and ass. oh god, mark, you don’t eat ass, do you?”

mark wiggles his eyebrows in response, and you look at him with such a horrified expression that a giggle can’t help but escape from his chest. he shuts the bedside table with a soft thud and leans back over you with a strip of two condoms hanging from his mouth. your brows shoot up at the sight, but mark doesn’t see it. he’s much too focused on pushing his sweatpants and boxers down to his thighs, cock slapping lightly against his abs.

oh. you always knew mark looked good, but this? this is something else entirely.

“you’re staring,” mark says wryly, tearing one of the condoms from the strip, then opening up the wrapper with his teeth. you watch as he pinches the tip and rolls the condom onto himself with a level of precision that screams of practice. if you hadn’t just cum your brains out, you might’ve found yourself feeling a little bit jealous.

“‘course i am.” your reply is shameless, and it makes mark bark out a startled laugh. “you said it was big, not that you were carrying a weapon. now here you are, looking like asian adonis with my jizz on your face, rolling a condom on with the ease of a common whore. not to mention that you grabbed two of them.”

a giddy smile spreads across mark’s face in reply, but it’s not one of his usual ones: it’s bashful. it’s the kind of smile where he bites his lip to force it down, but it doesn’t work, so his bottom lip slowly unfurls from between his teeth. your ears burn bright red at the sight, but mark doesn’t comment on it. mark’s never been good at multitasking, and he’s much too focused on tossing the unopened condom to the side, then tugging you against him by your thighs.

“we don’t have to use them both,” mark says softly, the sweetness of his smile bleeding into his voice. it’s a bit jarring for him to be acting so adorably, like he’s not running his cock along the seam of your folds. the tip catches on your clit every so often, making your breath catch in the back of your throat.

“i like how that’s what you chose to comment on.” 

he shrugs. “didn’t have much else to say.”

“you’re a dog, you know that, mark?”

mark grins at you wickedly, leaning down to lick a stripe up your cheek.

“mm, yeah. ‘m guilty as charged.”

and just like that, he sinks into you, bottoming out in one smooth thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. your eyes screw shut, but you latch onto him immediately, hand shooting out in search of his. he takes it wordlessly, bringing your hand up so he can kiss your knuckles.

“you okay?” he asks tenderly, lips pressed to the back of your hand. you open your eyes, tears pricking at the corners, then nod slowly as a deep breath leaves your nose.

“yeah,” you say shakily. “just been a while. warn me next time.”

mark nods, doing his best not to get caught up on the fact that you want there to be a next time. “sure,” he answers. “sorry. here– put your legs on my shoulder.”

you lift your legs for mark to take, and he settles both of your feet on one of his shoulders like they belong there. then, he shifts forward, shuffling up so that his thighs bracket your hips, which slots him deeper into you than he has any business being.

it makes you feel crazy. you fucking love it.

once mark feels stable in his position, and any remnants of discomfort bleed from your expression, he starts rocking his hips in and out of you at a pace too quick to be languid, but too slow to be considered harsh. whatever rhythm he’s fallen into, it feels good. you’re clawing at the sheets at your sides and behind your head like a madman, that copy of seance dog he lent you long forgotten on the floor, along with everything else you two have taken off. 

“does this answer one of your questions?” mark asks lowly, eyes half-lidded and jaw tight. he’s got your legs pressed to his chest with one hand, the other splayed across your stomach to hold you in place. you can tell it’s not that simple, though; the firmness with which he presses down against your stomach is as if he’s feeling for something, and the realization makes you clench, cunt squelching lewdly around his cock inside you. “did you wonder how i fuck? if i liked it fast? or did it slow?”

in your day-to-day conversations, mark doesn’t swear all that often– at least, not compared to you– but the mouth he’s got on him in bed is a surprise that makes you flush down to your chest. you look up to see mark gazing at you with eyes that are almost black, a bright blush fanning across his freckled cheeks and nose. when he sees you struggle to answer, the gears clearly turning, but no words coming out, he grips your legs tighter and quickens the snap of his hips. mark’s lips fall open with a breathy moan as he watches the way your eyes roll back, and his abdomen clenches with the need to keep his own pleasure at bay. “c’mon, baby. tell me. tell me how you want it, ‘n’ i promise i’ll do whatever you say.”

“i– god, fuck, mark, yes, i wondered how you fucked!” your reply comes out breathy, whiny, and and rushed– a result of you making an actual effort to focus so it didn’t come out as a jumbled, inaudible mess. “i w-wondered if you’d treat me like glass, or fuck me like i had no self-respect. i don’t care what you do right now– swear t’god i don’t– ‘cause i just wanna cum. don’t fucking stop.”

mark huffs out a laugh at how desperate you sound, lips quirking up in a lopsided smile that shows off the cute little fangs he has in the corners of his mouth. he turns his head to kiss one of your ankles, then takes one to put it on the opposite side, making it so you have one leg on each of his shoulders. large, calloused hands slide down your legs and smooth over your thighs before taking your hands into each of his. you’re about to ask what he’s doing, but there’s no time for the words to come out. he’s already gripping both your wrists and tugging you forward, forcing your ass to smack against his thighs with every brutal snap of his hips.

your brain is about to melt out of your fucking ears.

“did you touch yourself?” mark’s asks breathlessly, dark eyes focused on your face. you try desperately to free your hands from his grasp, but your attempts are pathetically uncoordinated. the way his cock is rearranging your guts makes it impossibly difficult to focus. but despite your lack of success, your writhing makes mark tut at you disapprovingly, and he leans forward to keep you in place by resting a fraction of his body weight on your chest. “quit trying to run ‘n’ tell me. did you touch yourself thinking about me fucking you? imagining how it would be?”

mark leans down to lick a stripe up the side of your neck, voice dropping to a filthy, sultry whisper. “‘cause i did. thought about this all the time, what you’d feel like around me. it’s so much fuckin’ better than i imagined.”

you nod your head frantically, hands clenched into fists, and your nails dig so roughly into your palms that it’s a miracle it hasn’t drawn blood. mark isn’t completely satisfied with your response, but he takes it for what it is and releases both of your wrists in favor of grabbing onto your hips.

“if you touched yourself while thinking of me, then show me. play with it for me, hm?”

you don’t need much more coaxing than that.

your fingers fly to your clit at lightening speed, middle and ring finger rubbing in quick, tight circles that mark finds absolutely hypnotizing. your other hand comes up to palm at your breasts, pinching and tweaking at your nipples in a way that makes you whine. mark damn near growls at the sight, a string of expletives you’ve never heard from him before being let out into the ether as he doubles his efforts to fuck you into the mattress.

“open your eyes,” mark demands, his words oozing with a tone you’re very much not used to being addressed with. his voice is low, gravely, and deeply affected by the way your walls squeeze around him, and you find that you quite like having him like this: wrapped around your finger, barely hanging on, lost in everything pertaining to you. the sentiment is definitely shared, because as you force your eyes open, you feel your features pinch the way they do when you’re trying not to cry. it’s nothing bad– far from it, actually. it’s just that mark is fucking you so good that you feel like you’re losing your mind, and the pleasure is so mindboggling that it makes you wanna sob. 

“there y’go, baby,” mark sighs, “just keep lookin’ at me. i wanna see your face when you cum.”

his honest admission shoots straight through you and right to your core, pussy clenching around him tightly, your clit throbbing beneath your fingers. mark moans low and long at the feeling, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows hard.

“fuck, i like when y’do that– when you like what i say and you get all tight around me. just– keep touching yourself, pretty. look at me and let it happen.”

all you can do is nod helplessly. mark ducks down to press a kiss to your cheek, fingers pressing what will definitely be bruises tomorrow morning into the skin of your hips. his cock splits you open in a mindbending way, your fingers flicking at your clit so frantically that your hand has become nothing but a blur. 

then, the bubble bursts. your orgasm hits you like a truck, your head flying back, and the muscles in your jaw and neck pulling taut. the same goes for your legs– your knees lock up and your thighs pull tight, shaking with violent tremors as you gush again, this time, around mark’s cock. you do your best to keep your eyes open as you cum, but it’s hard. from what you can see, though, mark’s mouth drops open and his eyes flash with something bright– yellow, even– as he takes in the sight of you falling apart. whatever it is, you don’t give it much thought. your brain is much too fried to be trusting everything you see right now.

“you’re a fucking dream like this,” mark mutters, his tone oozing with awe and disbelief. dutifully, he fucks you through your second orgasm– all the squirming, pulsing, and wetness that’s stained his sheets twice in one night– and holds your unfocused gaze all throughout it before he feels you coming down and abruptly pulls out. your twitching legs drop unceremoniously to the bed, and mark swings his thighs over you to settle over your chest, fingers peeling off the condom and tossing it lamely to the side. all you can see past your wet lashes and teary eyes is mark’s fist moving in an urgent blur before he cums all over your chest, the orgasm hitting him so hard that he has to grip the headboard to stabilize himself. his super strength causes it to splinter just slightly as his legs shake, so much so that he can hardly hold himself up.

his cum paints your tits in hot, thick, pearly white strands, and mark clambers up from over you to lay down on the other side of the bed. you find it unfair, the way that he’s panting and shaking much less than you, but you don’t comment. you just stare up at the ceiling, the sound of your breathing filling the air.

“i hope that was good,” mark says earnestly, rolling lazily onto his side to look at you. you take another deep, grounding breath, then turn your head to look at him. your arm comes out too weakly to swat at his chest.

“there’s no way you just asked me that when your cum is drying on my chest.”

mark stares at you for a moment, then busts out into a fit of laughter, reaching behind his head to take the pillow so he can drop it casually onto your face. you can’t help but laugh too, arms coming up to shield yourself from the pillow, and you toss it back to mark where he catches it, then tucks it back under his head. “fuck me for trying to make sure you’re okay, i guess,” he says dramatically, rolling his eyes.

you flip over onto your stomach and bunch the pillow up under your chin, careful to ignore the wet parts of your chest as you widely grin and quip back. “i just did.”

“more like the other way around. this was me fucking you. into the mattress, might i add.” mark grins mischievously and reaches out to place his hand on your lower back, smoothing over your ass before dipping between your legs to find your folds. he trails his fingers up and down your wet and puffy slit, tongue darting out to wet his lips when he feels you shiver in reply. “but we can go again with you on top if you wanna fuck me. not like i’d ever say no to that. plus, it’d answer one of my questions.”

you’re part your lips to reply, but the sound of feet padding up the stairs, partnered with a soft call of mark’s name, makes you both freeze exactly where you’re at. you look at each other in panic, then scramble to get rid of the proof of what you two just did. mark leaps off the bed and onto his feet with impressive athleticism, tossing you your discarded copy of seance dog that you catch effortlessly with one hand. you tug your t-shirt down over your chest, ignoring the fact that there’s still cum on it you’ve hardly wiped off, and he busies himself with pulling his pants back up and slipping his t-shirt on. the fact that it’s still damp around the collar doesn’t matter– not when there’s much more incriminating evidence like his used condom on the bed, alongside the wrapper and the new one he was about to use on you again ten seconds ago.

you barely manage to get under the covers to hide your lower half by the time debbie opens the door, your shorts haphazardly kicked under the bed, and your panties in mark’s pocket. you double-check to make sure your comic isn’t upside down and open it to a random page, holding it as inconspicuously as possible, right in front of your face. mark’s hands are stuffed into his pants, the condoms and the wrapper fisted tightly in his hands.

“hey, you two,” debbie says sweetly, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of you. you swear, even if you two didn’t look suspicious as hell, debbie would still be looking at you two like she knows you did something wrong. “just came to let you know that dinner is ready. and that you two shouldn’t stay up too late tonight. i’m driving you two back to campus early, so i can get to work on time.”

mark smiles tightly. “okay, mom, thanks,” he says, pulling a hand out of his pocket to wave at her goodbye. debbie eyes him amusedly, taking in both of your disheveled appearances one more time before nodding and moving to close the door.

“oh, and mark? it’s been a long time coming, so i don’t mind if you two are having sex, as long as it’s safe and i don’t have to worry about becoming a grandma.”

the color drains from both of your faces, but debbie only laughs, a smile as sweet as her son’s spreading across her face. “but next time, if you’re gonna try and hide it, make sure the panties are tucked all the way into your pocket. i’m not judging what you’re into, but it’s kind of a dead giveaway when blue lace is halfway hanging out of your sweatpants.”

# — navigation

[pucksandpower]

All the Way Home

Toto Wolff x Lauda!Reader

Summary: growing up, you were the closest thing to a princess the paddock had, but then your Opa died and your father stole everything that was supposed to be yours while making sure to ship you far away from everything you called home … until a chance encounter with Toto brings back hope you were too afraid to feel for years

“You know,” Toto mutters, flicking a drop of latte foam off his blazer, “I think this is the universe telling me to stop drinking oat milk.”

You blink up at him, brows lifted, expression somewhere between mortified and amused. “Or maybe just … stop walking while texting.”

The coffee has already started to soak into his shirt. You’re holding what’s left of yours — lid cracked, brown ring around the rim, paper sleeve twisted halfway off. The crowd of students on Harvard Yard swirls around you like you’re a rock in a stream.

He squints at you. There’s something — some flicker of recognition behind his eyes. And for a moment you think maybe you imagined it, but then he tilts his head. “I know you.”

You’re already taking a step back. “No, you don’t.”

���Yes,” he insists. “I do. That voice. That accent.”

“Lots of people have accents,” you reply, sharper than you meant. It’s reflex. That blade in your voice — that edge you honed after years of learning how to disappear without actually vanishing.

He studies you more closely now. Tall and deliberate. Eyes narrowing like he’s squinting through fog.

You turn. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“Wait-” He reaches for your arm but doesn’t touch. “Please. Just a second.”

You stop. Only just. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way he says it. Not commanding. Not pushy. Just … asking.

He exhales. “You’re her. You’re Niki’s-”

“Don’t,” you cut in. Quietly. But it lands like a punch.

Toto’s mouth snaps shut. You stare at him for a moment, jaw tight, chest taut with that old ache that always finds a way to crawl back up your throat.

You don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

He clears his throat, gestures vaguely to the now-soggy sleeve of his shirt. “You owe me a new coffee.”

You arch a brow. That old Lauda move. He sees it and his expression flickers. Something like heartbreak and wonder at once. “I don’t owe you anything,” you say, but it doesn’t have bite this time. It’s … tired.

“I was joking,” he says quickly, raising both hands. “Of course.”

You sigh. The cup in your hand is still warm, but it doesn’t comfort you. You glance down at it. Then back up.

He looks older. But grounded. Solid. He doesn’t wear grief like you do, but you can see it. There. Behind the smile lines. In the slower way he breathes.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he says, after a long pause.

“Clearly.”

“You’re a student?”

“Yes.” You hesitate. “A bit over a year left.”

Toto’s brows rise, impressed. “What are you studying?”

“Finance.”

He chuckles. “Of course you are.”

You shift, uncomfortable. “Why are you here?”

“Guest lecture,” he says. “Leadership series.”

You nod, even though you don’t really care. Not about that, at least.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he adds, softer now. “None of us knew where you went.”

“That was the point.”

His jaw ticks. There’s silence between you again, thick and humming. The background chatter of students, birds, bikes zipping by — it all fades for a second.

“I looked for you,” he says. “After Niki passed.”

You feel that pang in your chest again, sharp and raw. You push it down. “Well,” you say, “my father made sure no one would find me.”

Toto’s face hardens. “I know.”

You cross your arms. “Do you?”

“I know what he did. I tried to intervene, but-”

“But it wasn’t your fight,” you finish for him. You don’t mean to sound bitter, but maybe you do.

He takes that. Doesn’t flinch. “I wish I’d made it mine.”

You blink. That hits somewhere unexpected.

“I’m sorry,” he adds.

You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“It does.”

“No.” You take a step back. “It really doesn’t.”

He watches you, carefully. “Let me buy you another coffee.”

“I don’t want a coffee.”

“Something else, then.”

You hesitate. For a beat too long. He sees it.

You don’t know what it is. Something about his voice? His presence? The way he says it like it’s not an offer, but a peace treaty?

You look away. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t.” He shrugs. “I want to.”

You almost laugh. “What, out of guilt?”

“No,” he says. “Out of care.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

There’s a pause. He glances at your hand. The way your fingers tighten around the cup. The way your nails dig into the paper sleeve.

“How long has it been since you spoke to anyone from the paddock?” He asks.

You laugh. Just once. Dry. “Since the day I was forced to leave.”

“Anyone?”

You shake your head. “I cut everyone off.”

“But why?”

You look him dead in the eyes. “Because it was easier.”

His expression falters. Just slightly.

“I had to survive,” you continue. “And no one was going to save me. Not back then.”

He breathes out slowly. “I’m sorry we didn’t.”

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad.”

“I know.” A pause. “But I still do.”

You look at him. For a long, quiet moment. This man who used to call you “mäuschen” when you would wander around the Mercedes garage in your soundproof headphones, gripping Niki’s hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. This man who used to sneak you chocolate and sit you on the pit wall during debriefs, even when it pissed everyone off.

You exhale.

“It’s been a long time,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not the same person anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

You nod slowly. “You should change your shirt.”

He grins. “That bad?”

“Very.”

“Will you be at the lecture?”

You snort. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have three final projects, a CAPSTONE defense, and a job offer for next summer I haven’t decided if I’m taking.”

“Impressive.”

You shrug. “It keeps me busy.”

“Where’s the offer?”

“London.”

That surprises him. He doesn’t say anything for a second. “You’d be closer to the team.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not why I’m going.”

He smiles. “Still. It’s a nice thought.”

You fidget with your sleeve. “I don’t know if I’ll take it.”

“Well,” he says, “if you do … maybe we talk again?”

You hesitate. That familiar voice in your head wants to say no. The one that’s protected you for years. But you look at him. And suddenly you’re eight again, in the paddock, sitting on Niki’s shoulders, watching Toto yell at a race strategist with one hand while handing you a juice box with the other.

Maybe you’re allowed to want a sliver of something soft again.

“Maybe,” you say.

He beams.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes. “Goodbye, Toto.”

He gives you a little wave as you turn to go.

But just before you vanish into the stream of students, you hear him call out. “Hey!”

You stop. Half-turn.

His smile is lopsided. “You look just like him, you know.”

You don’t ask who. You don’t have to. You nod. Once. And then you’re gone.

But he’s still standing there, dripping coffee and smiling like someone just handed him back something he thought was lost forever.

***

It starts with an email.

You’re curled up in a library armchair, shoes kicked off under the table, your laptop balanced on your knees. The screen glows with half-finished spreadsheets and a cruelly blinking cursor in the middle of a thesis sentence that refuses to write itself.

Your phone buzzes. You glance down, expecting a reminder or another notification about graduation regalia, but it’s an email.

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

Subject: An Apology, Properly This Time

You stare at it for a full ten seconds before clicking.

Dear Y/N,

I wanted to say again how sorry I am — for the coffee, for the past, for losing track of you when it mattered most.

It was a surprise to see you, but a welcome one. If you’re willing, I’d love the chance to talk properly. Maybe I can buy you that replacement coffee after all.

Wishing you a good rest of the semester.

Warmly,

Toto

You roll your eyes. Warmly. He always did try too hard to be approachable in emails. You and Niki used to laugh at that.

Your fingers hover over the keys. You type three words.

I’m fine, thanks.

And hit send. Done.

Or so you think.

***

A day later, another email.

This time, the subject line is just your name.

Y/N,

I hope you won’t mind me writing again. I keep thinking about what you said or didn’t say. I know you don’t want to talk about Niki. Or the past. But not seeing you at races has been … strange.

The paddock still feels like it’s waiting for you to show up. Sometimes I catch myself turning, expecting to see you sitting in your old seat on the pit wall.

You were always there. Every race. Every season. You were a part of this world.

I suppose I just wanted you to know … we noticed when you disappeared. And I’m sorry we didn’t say so sooner.

- Toto

This one sits in your inbox all afternoon. You reread it between lectures. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Just nostalgia. But something in your chest cracks open just a little — hairline, nothing dangerous — and you find yourself hitting reply.

Fine. One lunch. You pick the place. I pick the time. You’re paying.

Don’t get used to it.

***

You meet at a little café near campus — somewhere he won’t be recognized, you hope. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the outdoor patio, awkwardly tall in a chair clearly not built for someone with his legs.

He stands when he sees you.

“You came,” he says, as if surprised.

You shrug, sliding into the seat across from him. “You wouldn’t shut up.”

He grins. “Persistent, not annoying.”

“Debatable.”

The waitress brings menus, but you barely glance at yours.

Toto peers over his. “You know what you want?”

“Anything that’s not ramen,” you mutter.

He chuckles. “That bad?”

“I’ve had instant noodles for dinner every night this week.”

There’s a pause. Then he looks up. “You don’t have to-”

“Don’t,” you say, sharply. “Don’t offer money. Or help. Or sympathy. This isn’t a rescue lunch.”

He nods slowly, lips pressing together. “Understood.”

A beat passes. The air between you cools. You open your menu again, mostly to avoid his eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, “we would have taken care of you.”

You don’t look up. “You didn’t get the chance.”

Toto lets that hang in the air for a moment. He doesn’t push. That’s always been his thing. Niki used to call him the tactician. Playing the long game.

Finally, you sigh. “You know, I thought maybe the F1 world would forget about me. Or pretend I was never there.”

He tilts his head. “You really think that?”

You glance up. “Don’t tell me I’m some legendary mystery now.”

Toto smiles faintly. “Actually, yes. Sort of. You vanished. No one knew where you went. People asked.”

“Who?”

“Lewis. Nico. Valterri. Everyone at Brackley. People from Ferrari. Red Bull, even. You were … part of the paddock.”

“Were,” you say. “Past tense.”

He shakes his head. “Not for us.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.

The waitress returns. You order something with actual protein and real vegetables, just because you can. Toto gets a quiche. You hand her the menus and fold your arms on the table.

“Fine,” you say. “You want the story? Here it is.”

He straightens slightly. He doesn’t interrupt.

“My father,” you begin, “never wanted me. Not when I was born. Not ever.”

Toto’s jaw tightens, but he nods for you to go on.

“I was an inconvenience. An accident. Opa … he took one look at me and decided I was his. That was it. He raised me like I was a second chance.”

Toto smiles, almost wistfully. “He adored you.”

You nod. “I know. I know he did.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard.

“He brought me to every race. Every meeting. Every single Grand Prix. I knew the names of every mechanic before I could spell my own. You were all my family.”

Toto doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then he died. And everything stopped.”

You pause. The air turns heavier.

“My father used a loophole in the will. Something buried in the Austrian estate law. It took a week — one week — and everything was gone.”

Toto’s brows furrow. “Gone?”

“Everything Opa left me. Every cent. Every asset. The houses. The trust fund. Gone.” You laugh, short and bitter. “He even took the watch Opa gave me on my sixteenth birthday.”

Toto looks like he’s going to be sick.

You go on. “Next thing I knew, I was on a plane to Geneva with a suitcase and a pre-paid tuition slip. No more phone. No contacts. No access. Just silence.”

“But the team-”

“I wasn’t allowed to reach out,” you say. “He made it very clear. And honestly? I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

Toto’s face hardens. “You were a child.”

You smile faintly. “Not really. Not after that.”

He runs a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

You tap the table. “So yeah. That’s how I went from the paddock to scholarship kid eating ramen.”

There’s a silence after that. A deep one. Then Toto says, voice low, “We would’ve fought for you.”

You meet his eyes. “It would’ve ruined you.”

“I don’t care.”

You believe him. But it doesn’t change anything.

“You’re here now,” he says. “That’s-”

“I work three jobs,” you interrupt. “One in the library, one at the student union, and one grading econ papers. I live on black coffee and stolen WiFi.”

His mouth opens, then closes again.

You smirk. “Still think I’m the girl from the pit wall?”

“I think you’re stronger than anyone I know,” he says, quietly.

That hits somewhere it shouldn’t.

The food arrives. You both pretend to eat.

Finally, you say, “Why did you really email me?”

Toto blinks. “I told you.”

“No,” you press. “Not just guilt. Not just Niki. Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I think you still belong with us.”

You laugh. “You don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“I think I’m getting a pretty good picture.”

You sit back, watching him. Measuring. “Lunch doesn’t mean anything,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m not coming back.”

He nods. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Then don’t take it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You always this persistent?”

He smiles. “Only for people who matter.”

You look away. Pretend the food matters more than the ache in your chest. But for the first time in years, the ache feels just a little less lonely.

***

Toto doesn’t sleep that night. He tells himself it’s the jet lag. Or the speech he has to deliver tomorrow. Or the espresso shot he downed at 8 PM like he wasn’t fifty-something with a tendency toward insomnia. But it’s not any of those things.

It’s you. It’s the way you said it — flat, matter-of-fact, like you were reciting the weather. My father stole everything. I work three jobs. I live on coffee and WiFi.

He’s haunted by the image of you sitting across from him at that little café, shoulders squared like armor, voice steady in a way that only people who’ve had to grow up too fast can manage. Niki would’ve lost his mind.

Toto rubs a hand down his face and opens his laptop. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for at first. Then he types:

Niki Lauda probate case.

The search results light up instantly. Austrian court records. Legal filings. Estate dispute. It’s all there — cold, clinical, digitized.

He clicks through, heart in his throat. And then he sees it. Niki’s will.

Filed one week after the funeral. A scanned PDF, official letterhead, stiff legalese.

To my only granddaughter, Y/N Lauda, I leave all personal assets, properties, and financial holdings under the Lauda Family Trust …

Toto’s mouth goes dry. There. In black and white. Niki left you everything. Just like he said he would.

But there’s more. A new filing. Contested. Your father’s name plastered all over it. Lawyers arguing that the will was “not consistent with existing family arrangements.” That Niki was “mentally compromised” in his final months. That the Lauda Trust should revert to the immediate heir under Austrian inheritance law.

And somehow they won.

Toto leans back in his chair, stunned. The legal gymnastics are breathtaking. Technicalities stacked on loopholes stacked on decades-old clauses Niki probably never even remembered existed. And no one fought it. No one even appealed.

You were seventeen. Still in shock. Still reeling. And they took everything.

He exhales sharply, pushes away from the desk. Stands. Paces. Swears under his breath. Then he grabs his phone.

***

You’re still half-asleep when it buzzes. Four times. You groan, roll over, slap at the screen until you find the call.

“Toto,” you croak, voice hoarse. “It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

“I read the will.”

You sit up. “What?”

“I pulled the court records. Niki left everything to you.”

Your stomach drops.

“Toto-”

“They stole it,” he says. “Your father. His lawyers. They-”

“I know,” you snap.

Silence.

You rub your eyes. “I know. Okay? I read it too. Years ago.”

“You didn’t tell me-”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

He makes a strangled sound, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It matters.”

“No, it’s over,” you say. “The case is closed. It’s done.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then, “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“You’re lying.”

You grit your teeth. “Toto, I swear to God-”

“He left it to you,” he says again, quieter now. “He meant for you to have it. Every bit of it.”

You exhale, long and shaky. “And he’s dead. And I didn’t have the money or the power to fight them. So I lost.”

“But I do,” he says.

You freeze.

“No,” you say quickly. “Don’t.”

“You know I can help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not some lost cause you need to fix!” Your voice breaks. “I’m not a team project, Toto. I’m not a race strategy you can outmaneuver.”

His breath catches on the line.

And then, softly, “That’s not what this is.”

You close your eyes. “I can’t do this again. I can’t lose more.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Another long silence.

Then he says, quietly, “You’re allowed to let someone help you.”

You hang up.

***

You avoid him for two days.

It’s childish, maybe, but you’re exhausted. From finals, from pretending, from carrying this thing like it’s not heavy. And now there’s him. Toto. This immovable force from your past suddenly crashing back into your orbit, and he’s not like you remember.

He’s worse. He’s older, yes — but not in the way you expected. Not smaller. Not dimmer. If anything, he’s more. More commanding. More composed. But also warmer. Gentler.

It throws you off balance.

The Toto you remember barked orders, clapped shoulders too hard, handed you protein bars and told you to “eat something that isn’t sugar.”

This one … This one looks at you like you matter. Like you still belong. And that’s worse than anything.

Because you don’t. Not anymore.

***

You’re walking across the quad when you spot him.

He’s standing near the gates, sunglasses pushed into his hair, hands in his coat pockets like he’s trying to look casual but failing spectacularly.

You stop. Groan. “Seriously?”

He turns. Smiles.

“I thought you were leaving,” you say.

“Tonight.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk,” he says, clearly lying.

You walk past him. He falls into step beside you.

You glare. “You don’t know how to quit, do you?”

“No,” he says. “I really don’t.”

You sigh.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just footsteps on pavement. Then he says, “I talked to a friend in Vienna.”

Your jaw tightens. “Toto-”

“She’s a probate lawyer. And a pain in the ass. She took one look at the filings and said they reek of manipulation.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

You stop walking.

“I said no,” you say, firmly.

“I know.”

“And you did it anyway.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And not in that polite, professional, Toto way. This is something else. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Every wall, every scar.

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone,” he says.

You hate how it sounds. Like kindness. Like care.

You look away. “You don’t get to care now.”

“I never stopped.”

That makes your breath catch.

He softens. “You think we all forgot. We didn’t. We were told you were … taken care of.”

You snort. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not the way you deserved.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, cold despite the sun. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This,” you say. “This thing where you swoop in like some — some savior. You’re not responsible for what happened.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I can still do something about it.”

You shake your head. “I’ve already rebuilt everything from nothing. I have a life now. A plan.”

He steps closer. “And what if you could have your life back?”

Your eyes meet. The air shifts. You don’t say it, but he sees it. That flicker of longing. The one you’ve buried so deep it hardly breathes anymore. But it’s still there.

You look away. “You should go.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“Goodbye, Toto.”

He nods, once. “For now.”

***

That night, you sit on your bed, staring at your ceiling. Your laptop is still open to your resume draft. You have a final in two days. Your phone is dark.

And still — you can’t stop thinking about him. The way he stood there. Solid. Unshaken. Like he’d tear the sky apart if it meant fixing this for you. Like he cared. Really, really cared.

You remember being ten, sitting on his shoulders after a podium, Niki laughing beside you, champagne sticky on your shirt. You remember Toto carrying you out of the garage when you fell asleep under a desk during FP2. You remember trust.

And now? Now he’s a man. And you’re a woman who’s spent the last six years learning not to want things she can’t have.

You close your laptop and turn off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to let someone fight for you.

Even if it’s him. Especially if it’s him.

***

The subject line of the email reads:

Austrian Grand Prix — A Terribly Unconvincing Excuse to Kidnap You for a Weekend.

You open it, already sighing.

From: toto.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com

I think you should come.

Not for the politics. Not for the will. Not for me. Come because it’s Austria. Come because it’s Spielberg. Come because the garage still has your name written into its bones.

Take a break. We’ll call it … strategic recovery. I’ll arrange everything.

- Toto

You stare at it for a long time. Your cursor hovers over “delete.”

You hit reply instead.

This doesn’t mean anything.

Y/N

Two minutes later:

Understood. But I’m still putting wine in your hotel room.

- Toto

***

The private flight makes you uncomfortable. Too much legroom. Too quiet. The kind of luxury you were once too used to and now don’t know how to exist inside. The flight attendant offers you fresh berries and coffee in a porcelain cup. You accept both out of guilt.

When you land in Austria, the air hits you differently. Sharper. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

It’s been six years. Six years since you left the track in tears and didn’t return. Since the headlines turned to nothing at all. Since you buried Niki and yourself all in the same summer.

Toto meets you at the entrance to the paddock.

“Welcome home,” he says.

You give him a look. “It’s not home.”

He lifts a brow. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

***

The moment you step through the paddock gates, time collapses.

People stop in their tracks. A Mercedes engineer drops his clipboard. Another one — the tall one with the silver hair, you can’t remember his name — just stares. His lip trembles.

You nod politely. Keep walking.

Toto walks beside you, a steady presence. Subtle, quiet, unmistakable. His hand never touches you, not quite, but it hovers behind your back like a safety net. Invisible unless you’re paying attention.

You are.

The Mercedes garage comes into view.

You stop. Your breath catches.

And then the crowd parts.

“Y/N?”

The voice is soft, stunned.

You turn. Lewis Hamilton.

He’s in red now — Ferrari. The suit fits him differently, like he’s carrying someone else’s legacy for a while. But his eyes are the same. Kind. Knowing.

“Holy sh-” He doesn’t finish. Just crosses the space between you in seconds and hugs you.

Hard.

You freeze for a beat. Then you melt.

He smells like sweat and tire rubber and something that’s always felt like safety. He pulls back to look at you, eyes wet. “You disappeared.”

“I know.”

“No one knew what happened.”

“I know.”

He studies your face. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Then nod. Barely.

“You’re here now,” he says.

It shouldn’t matter that much. But it does.

***

More people come. Mechanics. Engineers. James Vowles, now in Williams blue. Even Nico Rosberg takes a detour from reporting in the pit lane. They all say the same thing.

We missed you.

Where have you been?

Is it really you?

You smile until your face hurts. Nod until your neck aches. When someone asks if you’re back for good, you excuse yourself.

Toto finds you five minutes later behind the hospitality unit. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Just offers a bottle of water and waits.

You take it.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just a lot.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of a storage crate. He leans beside you.

“You knew this would happen,” you say.

“I hoped,” he admits.

You glance at him. “You’re not even pretending this was about rest.”

“Wasn’t my best lie.”

“No,” you say. “It really wasn’t.”

He grins.

***

By the time the day winds down, your nerves are shot. You let Toto walk you to your hotel room because you’re too tired to argue. It’s nice. Warm. The lights glow low. The view faces the hills.

There’s wine waiting. Of course.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says at the door.

You hesitate. “You could … stay.”

His brow lifts.

“I mean for a glass,” you say quickly. “Just a glass.”

“Right,” he says, smiling. “Just a glass.”

***

The wine is good. Too good. You’re on your second glass before you feel your shoulders loosen.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He’s in the armchair, his jacket shed, tie loosened. He watches you like he used to. Carefully. Kindly.

“So,” you say. “This was your plan.”

“Plan is a strong word.”

“Plot, then.”

“I prefer ‘gentle manipulation.’”

You laugh. You didn’t expect to. It surprises both of you.

You sip your wine. “It was nice. Today.”

He nods.

“Also horrible,” you add.

He nods again.

You stare into your glass. “I really loved it here.”

“I know.”

You trace the rim of the glass. “I was going to work for the team, you know? After university. Opa wanted me in strategy. Said I had the right kind of cruel.”

Toto smiles faintly. “He did say that.”

You swallow. “It’s like I lost him, and then I lost myself.”

You don’t mean to say it. But it slips out, raw and quiet.

Toto puts down his glass. You keep talking.

“And I didn’t know how to fight them. His lawyers. My father. They talked about trust funds and family trusts and implied Niki was confused when he wrote that will. And I was seventeen. I didn’t know who to call. I just … I shut down.”

Your hands shake. You place your glass on the table carefully. Toto says nothing. Just listens.

“I hate them,” you whisper. “And I hate myself for not fighting harder.”

He leans forward. “You were a child.”

“I was supposed to be smarter.”

“You were grieving.”

You blink hard. “I thought I could make it all mean something. Like if I just kept going. Got good grades. Worked hard. Became someone worth the Lauda name — maybe it would matter less that I lost everything else.”

Toto doesn’t speak.

You curl your fingers into fists. “But I still wake up sometimes thinking about the garage. The smell of rubber and champagne. Opa yelling at me in German because I forgot to zip up my jacket. You picking me up after I got too close to the pit lane.”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

“I miss being part of something,” you say. “I miss belonging.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. You don’t know why it breaks you.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s just him. But the tears come fast. You curl in on yourself. Press your knuckles to your eyes. Try to swallow it down.

And then Toto is there. He moves carefully, slowly, like you’re a deer in the woods. He sits beside you on the couch and opens his arms.

You don’t hesitate. You fold into him like you’re made to fit there.

He holds you. Not tightly. Not possessively. But completely. Like you’re something precious. Something once lost and newly found.

You cry until your throat hurts. Until your chest unclenches. Until all that’s left is the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you.

Eventually, your breathing evens. Your hands unclench. And you whisper, “Thank you.”

He says nothing. Just brushes his thumb gently over your shoulder.

You don’t move. You don’t want to. Nothing happens. But everything changes.

***

Cambridge looks different after Spielberg. Quieter. Greyer. Like someone turned down the saturation on the world.

You sit at your desk, textbooks spread open, half-read papers blinking on your laptop screen, but nothing sticks. Not the words, not the purpose. Everything’s a fog of too-late thoughts and echoing memories.

You haven’t responded to Toto’s last message. It’s not that you’re avoiding him — though, if pressed, you’d admit that you are. It’s just that being near him feels dangerous. He makes everything feel too sharp and too soft at once. He makes it harder to pretend that you're fine with the scraps. With the half-life you’ve built out of what was taken.

So you pull back. You don’t text. You don’t email. You don’t call.

He doesn’t chase. But he doesn’t vanish, either.

***

The package arrives on a Thursday. A long, sleek box in matte black with no return address.

You almost don’t open it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. A mistake. You set it on the corner of your desk like it doesn’t matter. But an hour later, when your nerves fray and your hands won’t stop fidgeting, you reach for it.

Inside is a leather-bound book, thick and heavy. Handmade. The cover is etched with the words:

LAUDA: A HISTORY IN MOTION

Your chest tightens. It’s not just any book. It’s yours. Photos you didn’t know existed. Notes in Niki’s handwriting. Marginalia from strategy meetings, race notes, printed-out emails between you and the engineers when you were sixteen and insufferable.

You flip to the first page. A card rests inside, handwritten in firm, slanted script.

For when you miss home.

No pressure. No agenda. Just memory.

- Toto

You put the book down. You pick it back up a second later. Then you cry for the first time in a week.

***

Three days later, a message lights up your phone.

I’m in New York for business. If you happen to feel like taking the train down … dinner’s on me.

You stare at it.

You type: I can’t.

You delete it.

You type: Maybe.

You delete that, too.

You end up sending just: When?

His reply is instant.

Tomorrow. 8pm. I’ll send the address. No pressure. Just food.

***

The hotel is expensive. Of course it is. Glass and stone and sleek grey walls with too many sconces. You feel out of place in your jeans and boots. But when you knock on the suite door and Toto opens it, he smiles like you’re exactly what belongs.

“You came.”

“You invited me,” you say, shrugging.

“You still came.”

You glance around. “This room costs more than my monthly rent.”

“Technically,” he says, stepping aside to let you in, “it costs more than your yearly rent.”

You snort. “You’re disgusting.”

He pours wine. “I’ve been called worse.”

***

Dinner is on the coffee table, not the dining table. You’re both cross-legged on the rug, barefoot, chopsticks in hand, picking at spicy tuna rolls and soft dumplings like it’s a sleepover.

Toto watches you closely. You try not to look back too much. But it’s hard. He looks stupid good in casual clothes — black t-shirt, dark jeans, hair a little messier than usual. His laugh is soft and infrequent, but when it happens, it’s like heat curling in your chest.

He tops off your wine. You sip too fast.

“You okay?” He asks after a long silence.

You nod. He waits. You cave.

“I’ve just … never been looked after by anyone who didn’t think they were owed something.”

The words hang there. Soft and sharp at the same time.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s seeing every version of you at once. Then, slowly, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You never owed me anything,” he says.

Your breath catches. It’s stupid, but that one sentence hits deeper than any gesture anyone’s made in years.

You blink quickly. “You’re going to ruin me.”

He smiles faintly. “No, you’ve done that part already.”

You laugh. You don’t mean to. It spills out broken and surprised. You’re still laughing when you kiss him.

It’s instinct. Gravity. You lean forward without thinking. One hand on his cheek. His fingers on your wrist. His mouth is warm. Familiar and new all at once. He kisses you like he’s never known another language, like this is the only word he’s fluent in.

But just as you start to fall into it — just as your hand slips down his chest and he moves closer — he stops. Pulls back. Breath ragged.

You freeze.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “Shit. I-”

“No,” he says, firm. “Don’t apologize.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I want this,” he says. “God, I want this.”

You’re holding your breath.

“But not like this,” he adds, softer. “Not while you’re still unsure. Not while you think this is something you don’t deserve.”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t think that.”

He tilts his head, eyes searching yours. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Because yes. Yes, you do.

Not always. Not when you’re with him. But the second he leaves, the doubt comes crawling back. That you’re broken. That you’re baggage. That you’re something people have to carry, not choose.

“You deserve to be kissed,” he says, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, “like you’re not a weight.”

You open your eyes again.

He’s still close. He kisses your forehead — gently, like a promise — and leans back.

You sit in the silence for a while. Breathing.

“You could’ve taken advantage,” you say quietly.

“I’d never.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s what breaks me.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch. He covers you with a blanket. Turns off the lights. Leaves a bottle of water on the table.

In the morning, there’s a note.

Didn’t want to wake you.

I’ll be back in Cambridge soon.

In the meantime …

Remember you were never lost. Just waiting.

- Toto

You fold the note and tuck it into the back of the book he gave you. It’s the first thing you’ve kept in years.

***

The call comes while you’re walking out of a seminar, your phone vibrating insistently in the pocket of your coat. You answer without checking.

“Hello?”

“It’s done.”

Toto’s voice is calm. Steady. There’s something final in it.

You stop on the steps, heart stuttering. “What do you mean, it’s done?”

“Check your inbox.”

You already know before you open it. You already feel it, like a shift under your skin.

The subject line on the email reads Final Settlement Agreement - Lauda v. Lauda

Your stomach flips.

“You didn’t,” you say. “Toto, tell me you didn’t go behind my back-”

“I told you I would take care of it.”

“You said-” You press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady your breathing. “You said no pressure. That you wouldn’t interfere unless I asked.”

“I lied,” he says, bluntly. “I’m not sorry.”

You close your eyes.

***

It started two months ago.

You had mentioned it in passing — how your father’s lawyers had buried Niki’s will under a pile of counterclaims, how no one fought back. Because there was no one left to fight.

You remember the silence that followed. Heavy. Intentional.

Then Toto, voice like steel wrapped in velvet, had said, “Let me make this right.”

You’d shaken your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It should be.”

“It’s over.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You’d stood then, pacing, angry and cornered.

“I don’t want you to do this out of guilt. Or obligation. Or because you loved him.”

“I’m doing this,” he said evenly, “because someone should have the decency to protect you.”

You winced.

Toto took a breath. “I’m not asking for permission,” he said. “I’m just telling you you’re not alone in this.”

***

The legal battle is fast. Brutal. Clinical.

His team — six lawyers, two forensic accountants, and someone who used to work for the Austrian Ministry of Finance — descends like a controlled fire.

You never attend a single meeting. Toto won’t let you. Instead, he updates you in short bursts. Texts. Occasional calls. Never too much.

He’s panicking.

Tried to get the press involved.

We stopped it.

The judge reviewed the original will. It’s solid. Your father never stood a chance.

You don’t respond to most of them. You’re scared to feel hope. But it creeps in anyway.

***

When the settlement is finalized, your father demands a private meeting. Toto insists on being there.

It’s held in a sterile conference room in Vienna. You watch your father walk in, sunburned and stiff-jawed, flanked by two suits and an ego that’s been allowed to rot in peace for too long.

He doesn’t look at you. Just nods once at Toto.

“She wanted to waste it all,” your father says. “Planes. Champagne. Charity. That’s not what he built the company for.”

“She was seventeen,” Toto replies coolly. “What she wanted was time.”

Your father sneers. “You think this is noble? Giving it all back to a little girl who hasn’t worked a real job in her life?”

“I think,” Toto says, standing slowly, “that if you ever say her name with that tone again, I’ll bury you so far in litigation your great-grandchildren will need passports to find you.”

Your father laughs — short, bitter. “I could’ve gone to the press,” he says.

Toto slides a folder across the table.

“NDA,” he says. “If you breathe a word of this, the penalty clause will leave you selling furniture on Willhaben by spring.”

There’s a beat. Then your father signs. And just like that, it’s over.

***

The accounts transfer. The assets are returned. Property titles. Investments. Control of the Lauda Family Trust.

You are, technically, one of the wealthiest young women in Europe.

You should feel triumphant. You don’t. The moment the final document is notarized, you sit in Toto’s car in front of the legal office, staring at the streets you grew up knowing.

Vienna hasn’t changed. You have.

He’s silent beside you.

“You okay?” He asks eventually.

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t look okay.”

You laugh under your breath. “What does okay look like, exactly?”

He doesn't answer.

“I keep waiting to feel like her again,” you admit, finally. “The girl I was. But she’s gone.”

He turns to you. “You’re not gone.”

“I don’t know how to be her anymore. She trusted people. She believed the world would take care of her.”

“She was allowed to believe that,” he says gently.

You glance at him. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, “you don’t have to trust the world. You just have to trust me.”

That breaks something open in you. Quietly. Invisibly. Because it’s not a grand promise. It’s not a vow.

It’s a fact.

***

You don’t go back to Cambridge right away. Instead, you stay in Vienna for a few days. Walk old streets. Visit the empty house Niki left behind.

You don’t cry. Not until you find a scarf of his — still faintly smelling of aftershave — and sit on the edge of the tub in the master bathroom, holding it like a life vest.

Toto gives you space. But he doesn’t go far.

He cooks most nights. Texts you to remind you to eat. Doesn’t press when you go quiet, but he’s always there when you emerge, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

On the last night, he pours you a glass of wine and hands you the scarf you left folded on the table. “You should take it.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

You hold it for a moment. Then press it to your face.

“It still smells like him.”

Toto nods. “Sometimes I still wait for him to walk around the corner.”

You look up. “Me too.”

He smiles, faint and sad. “He’d be so damn proud of you.”

You shake your head.

“No, really,” he insists. “He’d be furious about what happened. But he’d be proud of how you survived.”

You take a long sip of wine.

“It doesn’t feel like surviving,” you admit.

He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.

“It is,” he says. “And soon, it’ll feel like living again.”

You don’t believe him. But God, you want to.

***

You fly back to Massachusetts with a new bank account, a new title, and a legal team on retainer.

Everyone treats you differently now. You hate it.

So you don’t tell anyone. You don’t flaunt it. You keep wearing your old boots and your beat-up coat and sipping your $2 coffee because it still tastes better than the espresso in Vienna ever did.

But you write one check. One. To a foundation in Niki’s name. Quiet, unpublicized. Enough to fund STEM programs for underprivileged girls across Austria and the U.S. for the next ten years.

When the foundation director calls to thank you, you hang up before she finishes. You’re not ready for gratitude yet. You’re still learning how to hold good things without flinching.

***

Toto calls on a Wednesday. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He pauses. “You always say that.”

“It’s the safest answer.”

There’s a beat.

“Come to Hungary,” he says.

You smile despite yourself. “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to drag me out of hiding?”

“No,” he says. “It’s become a hobby.”

You laugh. It feels like the first real one in weeks. You say yes. Not because you’re ready. But because maybe you want to be.

***

It starts with a knock at your door. No warning. No text. Just a steady, confident knock like he has every right to be here.

You open it in sweatpants and a t-shirt from the university bookstore, hair unbrushed, a pencil still tucked behind your ear.

And there he is. Toto Wolff. In Cambridge. On a Thursday night.

He’s in jeans and a black sweater, somehow making it look like formalwear, his hair slightly windblown, hands in his pockets.

“You flew here,” you say, deadpan.

“Yes.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did,” he says simply.

“Did you consider texting?”

“I thought about it. Then I thought, no — she’ll say she’s busy.”

You fold your arms. “Because I am.”

He tilts his head. “Are you, though?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

He shrugs, like he can’t help himself. “Also, I missed you.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Then step aside. “Come in.”

***

You don’t go out. It’s raining, and you’re tired, and everything in you resists the idea of putting on makeup just to sit under fluorescent lights and be seen.

So you order in. Italian. Pasta and a bottle of red.

You eat at the small table in your apartment, legs tangled under the wood, like two people who’ve done this a thousand times.

He keeps looking at you. Not in a way that makes you self-conscious, just … quiet, constant awareness. Like he’s memorizing you.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your bowl.

“I know.”

You chew slowly. Swallow.

“Toto,” you murmur, “why are you here?”

“I told you. I missed you.”

“You’re not the kind of man who misses people.”

He nods once. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Silence.

Then you push your bowl away and rest your elbows on the table. “Why me?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Because I care about you,” he says. “Because I remember who you were before the world got cruel. And I see who you are now, and I think you’re even stronger.”

You look down at your hands. “Toto-”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” You exhale shakily. “You didn’t see what it did to me. What it still does. You come in and you fix things and you’re kind and capable and impossible not to trust, but-”

You break off.

“But?”

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

He leans in, voice low.

“Do what?”

You look at him — eyes wide, raw, stripped of every defense.

“Let someone care about me without thinking it’ll cost me something.”

He goes still. Then he reaches out, slow and measured, and brushes a thumb against your cheek.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“You don’t owe me gratitude,” he says softly. “You owe yourself peace.”

Your face crumples. God, you’re so tired of being strong.

***

After dinner, he insists on doing the dishes. You try to stop him — he ignores you. It’s so normal it almost feels like something sacred.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Why do you do that?”

He glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Take care of everything.”

He shrugs. “I like it.”

“No, seriously. Why?”

He puts down the sponge, dries his hands, then turns to face you fully.

“Because I’ve learned,” he says, “what it feels like to be taken care of. And what it feels like not to be. And I’d rather be the one doing the taking care, if I can help it.”

You study him. The lines around his eyes. The way he says things without softening them.

“And what if I want to take care of you?” You ask quietly.

That makes him smile, just a little. A flicker of something. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says.

***

You sit on the couch, side by side. The rain taps gently at the windows. Your knee bumps his. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. “I meant what I said earlier.”

He nods, not asking which part.

“I want you.”

He turns his head. His voice is gentle. “You have me.”

“No, I mean-” You sigh, frustrated with yourself. “I mean, I want this. Us. Whatever we’re doing. But I don’t know how to trust it yet.”

He doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t pull or push. He just waits. And somehow, that undoes you even more than if he’d kissed you senseless.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“I know.”

You look down. “It’s not because of you. I just …”

“You’ve had to survive on your own for too long.”

You nod.

“And you learned not to need anyone.”

Another nod.

“But needing someone isn’t weakness,” he says. “It’s just proof that you’re human.”

You huff out a breath. “Spoken like someone who’s never had their world collapse.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You forget, I lost Niki too.”

You go quiet.

Toto shifts closer, but still not touching you.

“I know what it feels like to lose the one person who saw you. Really saw you. And then you’re left in a world where everything feels … too sharp. Too fake. Too loud.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you whisper.

“I noticed.”

You finally look up at him. And when he reaches out, slow and careful, you let him touch you. His fingers trail softly along your jaw, then sweep your hair behind your ear. His hand lingers there, warm and steady.

“I’m not asking for all of you tonight,” he says. “I’m just asking for now. For this.”

You nod.

Then, with aching slowness, you lean in. And he kisses you. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just a gentle submission to something that’s been building for months — years, even.

A truth you’ve both tried to ignore.

His mouth moves against yours with reverence. His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding you. You fist his sweater, afraid if you let go he’ll vanish.

But he doesn’t. He stays. And when the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I won’t let you be alone,” he says.

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

***

You fall asleep on the couch, curled against him. His arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your cheek pressed to his chest.

No sex. No declarations. Just presence. Just the soft, steady rhythm of a man who made a promise without ever saying the words.

You’re safe now.

And for the first time in years, you believe it.

***

The wind coming off the North Sea smells like brine and smoke and burnt rubber. Zandvoort is alive, vibrating, a sea of orange and thunder. The kind of race weekend that doesn’t let you breathe unless you’re used to the air here.

You’re not used to it anymore. Not really. But you pretend you are. Because this time, you’re not sneaking in through a side gate, head low, eyes half-hidden behind sunglasses. You’re not here as a memory.

You’re here as someone real. Someone seen. Someone beside him.

You wear black, but the cut of the trousers is elegant, the blouse soft, and your posture straighter than it's been in years. You walk with Toto into the paddock at 10:47 a.m. sharp, his hand at your back as he nods to mechanics and engineers and PR staff who blink at you like a ghost just walked in and decided to stay.

But no one says it too loud.

Toto’s presence is a shield. And you walk with him like you’ve always walked beside giants.

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away. You belong here. God, you almost believe it.

***

It doesn’t take long for the cameras to catch on.

By FP2, the rumors are viral. TikTok’s already clipped a shot of Toto brushing something — dust, or a leaf, or maybe just a phantom — from your shoulder. There’s a still image of you two laughing at something George says in the garage. A blurry video of you standing just slightly behind Toto during a pre-race meeting with the press officers.

Commentators pick it up like they’ve been waiting for it. By the time the race goes live Sunday afternoon, Sky Sports is in full speculation mode.

“… well, she’s certainly not a new face to the paddock,” one of them says lightly. “If you’ve been around long enough, you’ll remember her-”

But they don’t get to finish. Because Nico Rosberg cuts in, voice hard and deliberate.

“Let’s be clear,” he says. “She’s not some mystery woman. That’s Niki’s granddaughter. She grew up in the garage with us. I remember her playing UNO with our engineers during rain delays.”

There’s an awkward pause. Nico keeps going.

“She disappeared because people failed her. That’s not gossip — that’s fact. She was seventeen when her life got pulled out from under her. And now that she’s back? Maybe the more respectful thing would be to welcome her, not turn her into a headline.”

Even the producer doesn’t know how to cut him off. Nico leans back in his chair like he just did what he’s always done — drove straight through the bullshit with no brakes.

You watch it later in your hotel room, stunned.

Toto grins at the screen. “Remind me to send him a bottle of something expensive.”

***

The paddock changes after that. The questions don’t stop — but they get quieter. People look you in the eye when they greet you. Mechanics you haven’t seen in nearly a decade stop you in the hallway.

“You look like your grandfather,” one says, voice thick. “You always did.”

Lewis finds you again in the back corridor of the hospitality suite on Sunday evening, just after podiums wrap.

He’s still in his race suit, zipped down to his waist, red fireproofs damp with sweat. You’ve barely opened your mouth when he pulls you into a tight, quiet hug that lasts almost too long.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you more.”

He smiles, but his eyes are glassy. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You pause. Then nod again. “Better than I’ve been in years.”

Lewis glances behind you, toward where Toto’s voice carries from the other room. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wider. “I can see that.”

***

It’s late when you return to the hotel. The lights in the hallway hum gently. Your heels click across the polished floor.

He unlocks the suite door for you. You step inside. It’s quiet.

And then-

“I saw you,” he says.

You turn.

Toto stands near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, shirt undone at the throat.

“I saw you today,” he says again. “Really saw you.”

You breathe in slow. “I was terrified.”

“You didn’t show it.”

You step closer. “I didn’t want to.”

He studies you. “You were magnificent.”

Your breath hitches.

He takes a step. Then another. And another. Until his hands are cupping your face and your eyes are locked on his.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he says quietly.

You nod.

His thumbs brush your cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another nod.

He leans in. And kisses you.

***

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. The world stays outside.

His fingers are in your hair, at your waist, guiding without pulling, urging without demanding. You follow. The bed is too soft. The sheets too white. But his hands are steady, and you anchor yourself in the weight of him.

When your blouse slides from your shoulders, you think this isn’t about sex. It’s about being seen.

He doesn’t undress you. He undresses with you. Like it’s a slow collaboration. His mouth doesn’t take. It gives. Praise and patience, murmured reverence.

“Beautiful.”

“Every part of you.”

“You’re not broken.”

You tremble under the weight of it.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says against your neck.

“I want to,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“No,” he says. “You don’t have to want this like it’s an obligation. You deserve to be wanted for you. No guilt. No debts.”

You look up at him — this man who’s so much older, so much taller, so much more — and you don’t feel young. You feel safe.

And when his mouth trails reverent kisses down your skin, when he touches you like he’s been dreaming of it for years — like it’s a privilege, not a right — you understand what people mean when they say worship.

It’s not about power. It’s about surrender. You let yourself fall. You let him catch you.

You lose track of time. Of shame. Of the version of yourself who thought she didn’t deserve this.

After, you lie tangled together in the dark. His hand stroking your hair. Your fingers curled at his chest. He breathes, slow and quiet, like he could stay like this forever.

You whisper, “I don’t know what this is.”

He says, “It doesn’t have to be defined yet.”

You press your mouth to his collarbone. “But it’s real.”

“Yes,” he says, voice low. “Very real.”

You fall asleep there — his arms around you, your skin still humming, your heart finally still. And for the first time in your adult life, the future doesn’t feel like something to brace for. It feels like something to reach toward. With him.

***

The email comes at 3:08 a.m.

You’re awake. Not because you can’t sleep — those nights are mostly over — but because you flew halfway around the globe on a long weekend, the world feels lighter lately, and you’re learning to hold it in your hands without gripping too tight.

You read it twice. Then again.

Dear Miss Lauda,

We’re pleased to offer you a summer position with the Petersen-Welling Foundation. Your application was exceptional, and we’re eager to have your voice on the upcoming F1 Heritage and Inclusion initiative …

You don’t smile at first. You just exhale. Slowly. Like you’ve been holding your breath for a very long time.

***

Toto finds you in the kitchen of the penthouse in Monaco — barefoot, hair tied back, his hoodie drowning you. He’s already showered from his morning run, towel slung around his neck, coffee in hand.

He pauses when he sees your face.

“What happened?”

You hold out your phone.

He scans the screen. His mouth twitches.

“That’s a hell of a line on your resume,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Harvard, Lauda, and now an F1 foundation. Soon you’ll outrank me.”

You roll your eyes. “I already do.”

He hums. “True.”

There’s a beat. You pick at your thumbnail.

He softens. “What’s the hesitation?”

You shrug. “It’s … a lot. Another adjustment. Another version of me.”

“You don’t need to become anything you’re not.”

You glance at him. “Even if who I am isn’t enough?”

His voice lowers. “You are more than enough.”

You look down. Then up again. “Harvard said they’ll work with the Foundation to let me finish the final term remote. Conditionally. Since I’ll need to be based in Europe.”

“And?” He prompts gently.

“I think I want that.”

He nods. “Good.”

You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“I was hoping you’d say yes.” He grins. “I already made a copy of my keys-”

You groan. “Toto.”

He’s smiling too much to apologize.

***

It doesn’t happen all at once. Because nothing between you ever does.

You don’t move into his life like a storm. You settle like sunlight across the floor — gradual, warm, steady.

First, it’s the right side of the bed at his house near Brackley.

You joke that it’s more like a hotel than a home. He tells you to put your books on the shelves. You bring two at first. Then twelve. Then your sweaters. Then the half-finished sketchpad you stopped using at nineteen.

“Is this permanent?” You ask one night, curled beside him.

“Only if you want it to be,” he answers.

Then it’s Monaco. His penthouse. Your toothbrush beside his. Your name added to the concierge’s approved list. The first time someone calls you Madam Wolff, you laugh for five minutes straight. He grins, wide and unguarded, and doesn’t correct them.

Switzerland comes next. The chalet is silent but not lonely. He lights the fireplace. You bake (badly). He eats your too-dense banana bread like it’s gold.

“This is dry,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re lying.”

“Of course.”

You both laugh until it hurts.

***

But Austria is the hardest. The Lauda estate feels frozen in amber. Rooms locked. Curtains drawn. Silence echoing down marble halls.

You stand in the entryway, keys shaking in your hand. Toto waits beside you, quiet.

“I don’t know if I can go in,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

You pause. Then step forward.

The door opens with a groan.bIt smells like dust and memories.

The first room you enter is the library.

You stop cold. Nothing’s changed.

The old desk. The leather chair. The framed photo of you and Niki at age fourteen, covered in grease and pride, standing between Lewis and a smiling Toto.

You sink to your knees. He kneels with you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve-”

Toto catches your face in his hands.

“You were a child. And they failed you. We all failed you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let’s bring it back to life. Together.”

***

You do. Not quickly. Not easily. But you do.

The internship is demanding, exhilarating, and so completely you. You organize roundtables on legacy, inclusion, youth development. You write memos late at night in Monaco, edit presentations in Brackley, fly to interviews from Switzerland, and finally host your first panel in Austria.

At the Lauda estate.

You host something here. By choice. It’s full circle and forward motion all at once.

The old house feels different now. Softer. There are photos of you and Toto on the mantle. A few of your old sketches, framed. Your books. Your grandmother’s piano.

A home. Your home. Not just because it has your name on the deed again. But because you live in it on your own terms.

***

The night after the panel, you and Toto walk the long slope behind the house. The air is cool. The stars are out. You carry your heels in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

“You haven’t stopped working in weeks,” he murmurs beside you.

“I’m trying to catch up.”

“You don’t owe the world an apology for existing.”

You look at him. “Sometimes I think I owe Opa.”

He stops walking. “You don’t.”

You glance down.

“He’d be proud,” Toto says. “But he wouldn’t ask you to pay some imaginary debt to keep his memory alive. You do that just by being you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you say softly.

“Anything.”

You face him fully.

“Do you think I belong here?”

He frowns. “Here as in …”

“In F1. In this world. In your world.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes your wineglass. Sets it on the stone wall.

Then takes your face in his hands. “I think,” he says, “that for six years, this world has been missing something vital. And now it’s whole again.”

You blink too fast.

“I think,” he continues, “that you belong here more than anyone.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “But more than that … you belong in your world. Whatever shape that takes. Wherever you build it. And whoever you let into it.”

You don’t answer with words. You answer with your arms, sliding around his waist. Your cheek against his chest. His heart steady against your ear.

***

Later that night, back inside, you open your laptop. There’s an email waiting from Harvard.

Term completion approved.

Dean’s note: we expect great things. You’ve already begun delivering them.

You sit back.

Toto passes you a cup of tea and slides onto the couch beside you.

“Big news?” He asks, eyes amused.

You look at him. And then you say it. Not for the first time. But for the first time with full, undiluted certainty.

“I’m home.”

He sets his tea aside. Pulls you close. Whispers into your hair, “You always were.”

And for once, the past doesn’t pull at you. The future doesn’t scare you.

Because it’s not just about where you live or what you’ve lost. It’s about what you’ve claimed. What you’ve chosen. What you’ve built.

A home. A career. A future. A man beside you — not in front, not above — but beside.

And a life, finally, that is yours.

All the way home.

[candyforthecorvids]

This post is just like those "How to Study like a Harvard Student!" Things but for ND people with executive dysfunction who can't even START studying.

Listen to Music, seriously it works so well. If you speak multiple languages, listen to music in the one you ARE NOT using. Listening to music w/o words is good for things like essays and reading, but with things like math, I 100% recommend listening to anything you really like. I can leave song reccs for no word songs if anyone wants them.

Put on a movie, TV show, or video you've already seen a million times. It works the same as the music, but you're more likely to be distracted. It's important that you've already seen it. Otherwise, you'll just end up watching TV.

Buy stationary that you LIKE and ENJOY USING. If you see pens that you REALLY LIKE but the other pens are cheaper, get the ones you actually like. You will use them more. You will *enjoy* using them.

Not so much related to executive dysfunction, but I HIGHLY recommend getting folders for your classes. Even if it's only for a few, if you pull it out at the beginning, you'll have all your stuff inside and a place where you can put your papers instead of just shoving it into your bag.

Let yourself stim out loud while you do homework. Seriously, it can help you remember things and help you stay focused.

Eat your favourite snacks or drink something you enjoy drinking. It makes doing things so much more bearable, plus free dopamine.

(Edit: I reblogged some of people's additional thoughts)

I can't really think of anything else, but feel free to add stuff in the comments.

Disclaimer for the masses, I am not a doctor. These are from my own personal experience as someone w audhd. :)

[maewphoria]

⠀

⌗⠀양정원⠀⠀CAT⠀DISTRIBUTION⠀SYSTEM⠀꒰⠀PT.4⠀꒱

⠀

SYNOPSIS⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀starting college in a new city, you’re settling into your apartment and trying to make it feel like home. on your first day, a fluffy calico cat appears on your neighbor's balcony, jumping towards yours as if to greet you, stealing your heart instantly. but when a voice calls out for the cat from the next balcony, panic sets in—you rush back inside, too shy to meet your new neighbor. that neighbor turns out to be yang jungwon, a fellow student in the same university who’s also new in town. thanks to his mischievous and adventurous cat, the two of you keep running into each other in the most unexpected ways. a friendship blossoms, slowly turning into something deeper—though jungwon keeps insisting it’s nothing more than friendship. as feelings grow stronger, the question remains: will their bond turn into something more—or remain just a college memory?

pairing⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀college student!yang jungwon x college student!f.reader. featuring⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀all enhypen members, le sserafim yunjin, kazuha, and chaewon, aespa winter and karina (soon). word count⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀13.562k genre⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀sfw, fluff, angst if you squint, kinda slow burn, college life, university life, slice of life, comedy (although i don't find myself funny), friendships, relationships, and the cat distribution system. (it has chosen you and gave you two lovely cats.) warnings⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀drinking alcohol, parties, getting drunk (obviously), misunderstandings, jealousy, denial (jungwon is in denial), cowardice behaviour (jungwon is also a coward), lots of flirting and tension, cat keeps breaking into your apartment, kissing, skinship, reader (aka us) is very delusional and does a lot of overthinking, a bit cringe (i think it's cringe bcs i wrote it), and might contain suggestive content in the later parts that are yet to be posted. lowercase letters intended. very proofread. tell me if i'm missing anything. mæw's notes⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀hi guys! pt.4 is finally out! please enjoy! i kinda had a hard time writing pt.4 because i don’t really know what it’s like to study at a university abroad. i had to do some research on schools like harvard and ucla, and i found out they have over 100 buildings—like wtf? so i ended up creating my own university from scratch, added courses, building names, and all that. i just hope it’s somewhat close to how it is in real life. likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated.

library⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀part one. part two. part three.

#⠀OO5⠀:⠀WRONG TURNS AND REGRETS.

it had been three weeks since the welcoming party for the architecture students—an event you had somehow, miraculously, survived despite being a business ad major who had absolutely no business being there in the first place. yet the mystery gnawed at you still: how, exactly, had you gotten home that night?

for days, you pestered your friends for answers, clinging onto the hope that someone, anyone, might remember. but their confusion only mirrored your own. none of them knew how they had returned either.

they had all woken up already sprawled in their own dormitory as if placed there by invisible hands.

yunjin and kazuha were tangled together in a half-conscious cuddle on the living room carpet, while chaewon had managed to claim the entirety of the sofa for herself, mouth slightly agape, a small snore escaping every few breaths.

their recollections aligned eerily with yours—except for the part where you woke up tucked neatly in your own room.

your cropped crochet open-knit bolero was gone from your shoulders, folded neatly atop your bedside table. left behind was just your black spaghetti strap crop top, the hem riding a little too high up your stomach because of how deep your sleep was, and your shoes and socks resting side by side on the floor.

the scene was unsettlingly familiar, like déjà vu reaching out and tapping you on the shoulder. it reminded you of that night, just two nights before, when jungwon had helped your drunken self wobble back home with both patience and grace.

perhaps, maybe, it was jungwon once again.

except—you hadn't properly spoken to him since that afternoon when he had helped you carry and move your furniture into your new apartment.

he hadn’t even messaged, save for that polite "you're welcome" he sent, replying to your thank you message the morning before the party, a message so brief yet so final it almost stung. you didn’t even know if he had attended the party.

you and your friends obsessed over the mystery for a few more days, exchanging theories that grew more ridiculous with each retelling, until eventually the puzzle pieces were abandoned, scattered into the corners of your minds. life simply moved on.

your days resumed their steady, predictable rhythm.

yami would occasionally grace your apartment with her presence, weaving between your legs and purring like she owned the place.

you also dedicated yourself to preparing for the impending start of classes, assembling supplies and adjusting to the small, adult routines of calling your parents, updating them on your well-being and pretending everything was under perfect control.

you often found yourself heading down to the lobby to collect yet another delivery or two—nothing screamed adulthood like ordering a random cat mug at 2am. you ran errands with your friends, laughing over the ridiculous list of essentials you somehow convinced yourselves were necessary for survival.

yet despite all the activity, one thing remained absent: jungwon.

not a glimpse. not even a fleeting shadow at the end of the corridor. despite living on the same floor, breathing the same recycled air of the building, he remained conspicuously missing.

you told yourself it was simply bad timing. maybe he was busy, after all, school was only a week away, and the looming pressure was starting to make even the calmest of students a little erratic.

yunjin, in particular, had turned into a delightful hurricane of stress, insisting she didn't have enough materials even as her arms overflowed with sketchbooks, pencils, and highlighters of every conceivable color.

you, chaewon, and kazuha simply watched her spin through the aisles of the school and art supplies store, your expressions a perfect blend of concern and secondhand embarrassment.

"she must be excited," the three of you thought in unison, exchanging knowing glances as yunjin bolted toward yet another aisle like a woman possessed, clutching a sixth sketchpad to her chest.

the last week of the month slipped through your fingers like water, and before you could truly brace yourself, it was already the morning of your first day, orientation and tour day.

now you stood frozen in front of your closet, eyes darting from hanger to hanger, as if the right outfit might magically materialize if you stared long enough.

nerves twisted in your stomach.

you were nervous—nervous that you might get lost on campus despite yunjin thoughtfully printing out campus maps for all of you, highlighting routes and buildings like a seasoned tour guide.

nervous that you might embarrass yourself, trip over nothing, mispronounce a professor’s name, or somehow make such a terrible first impression that your professors would loathe you on sight (spoiler: they wouldn’t).

but above all else, you were nervous because, even though your friends were attending the same university, they were scattered across different programs and faculties. for the first time in one month, you were truly on your own.

after what felt like an eternity of agonizing, you finally chose your outfit—something comfortable yet respectable—and swiftly packed your tote bag with every essential you could think of: a notebook, a pen, your wallet, a mini hand sanitizer, a spare charger, tissues, your mini make up bag, and a quiet hope that you wouldn’t cry in public.

you quickly ran a brush through your hair, trying to tame the chaos, then hurried out of your apartment, juggling the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you half-sprinted toward the elevators.

as you rounded the corner, a familiar figure came into view—jungwon.

your heart skipped a beat, a flash of relief blooming in your chest. instinctively, you called out to him, voice light with the kind of casual friendliness you reserved for someone you were hoping to bump into.

he looked up, his eyes locking onto yours—and for a split second, something unreadable flickered across his face.

but then, just as you reached out your hand as if to tell him to stop the elevator doors from closing. despite seeing you, jungwon did the unthinkable.

he let the elevator doors close.

right. in. front. of. you.

you stood there, blinking at the now shut metallic doors, your hand still slightly raised in midair, feeling like you had just been personally victimized by the universe.

“what the fuck was that about?” you muttered under your breath, pressing the elevator button with a bit more force than necessary, your mind racing through every possible explanation, none of which made any sense.

meanwhile, inside the descending elevator, jungwon was a whirlwind of self-inflicted misery.

he leaned his forehead against the cool metal wall, lightly banging it once, twice, before dragging his hand through his hair in pure frustration.

“fuck,” he hissed to no one in particular.

he could still see it—the exact expression you had given him through the narrowing gap of the doors. you had looked so... betrayed. and annoyed.

so wonderfully, vividly pretty despite the negative emotions plastered on your face.

this was the first time he had ever seen you wear that expression, and somehow, it managed to stab him right in the chest despite only knowing you for a month.

he wished he could rewind time, shove his foot between the doors and do anything but what he had just done. but deep down, he knew that even if he had stopped the doors, the air between you would have been thick with something worse than awkwardness.

because the truth was, jungwon had been avoiding you. deliberately.

and the worst part? you didn’t even know why.

technically, you had done something. but you were so devastatingly drunk that night, you couldn’t possibly remember it—and jungwon wasn’t planning on telling you, not now, not ever.

not if he could help it.

he let out a heavy sigh, a sound full of regret, and stepped out of the elevator, shoulders slightly hunched as if he could physically shrink away from the guilt clinging to him. he barely made it out of the apartment building when a voice cut sharply through the air, halting him in his tracks.

“jungwon!”

he gasped audibly, body stiffening like a startled cat. he knew that voice—knew it down to the very marrow of his bones.

he didn’t want to turn around. every instinct screamed at him to keep walking, to pretend he hadn’t heard. but guilt is a heavy thing, and it anchored his feet to the ground.

reluctantly, jungwon turned.

and instantly wished he hadn’t.

there you were, standing not far from him, brows knitted together in pure exasperation, confusion swirling in your eyes, and—worst of all—a tiny glint of hurt buried beneath it all.

he felt the ground tilt beneath him.

“h-hey, y/n…” he stammered, voice pitching higher than he intended, forcing an awkward chuckle out in a weak attempt to appear casual.

you raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow, the kind of expression that could slice a man’s ego clean in half. then, with deliberate steps, you closed the distance between you.

jungwon froze again, practically forgetting how to breathe as you stopped right in front of him, arms folding across your chest in a perfect display of judgment.

“earlier. at the elevator,” you said, your tone flat, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “what the hell was that about?”

your bluntness struck him like a slap, and he scrambled internally for an answer that would save him. his eyes darted everywhere—from the pavement to a passing bird to an invisible point in the sky—anywhere but your face.

for a brief moment, his brain offered him nothing but static. then, like a merciful flick of fate, an idea sparked.

“i—i misjudged!” he blurted out, straightening up a little, trying to sound convincing. “i thought you weren’t going to make it to the elevator in time!”

he mentally patted himself on the back for that one, almost proud of the quick recovery.

but you weren’t buying it.

you narrowed your eyes at him, your frown deepening. “i could’ve made it. easily. if you hadn’t just stood there like a damn npc and let the doors close.”

jungwon winced, the truth of your words hitting harder than he cared to admit.

“oh… right,” he muttered, suddenly finding the cracks on the sidewalk incredibly interesting. he shuffled his feet, searching desperately for an escape hatch, but it was obvious—he was trapped. there would be no running from this confrontation.

so, he went for the simplest, oldest trick in the book: sincerity (and his looks).

“i’m sorry, y/n,” he said, lifting his head to meet your gaze with the most devastatingly apologetic look he could summon. his big, round eyes practically screamed forgiveness, the corners of his lips tugging down in a perfect portrait of remorse.

and it worked. he saw it—the moment your defenses cracked, a twitch of a smile betraying you.

jungwon seized his opportunity like a man who had been offered a pardon.

“then—goodbye, y/n! see you around!” he chirped brightly, spinning on his heel and sprinting away like a guilty cartoon character.

you blinked, stunned into silence, watching his retreating figure with growing disbelief. it took your brain several long, painful seconds to reboot, short-circuiting somewhere between ‘he looks so cute!’ and ‘wait, did he just run away?’

“hey! wait, we’re going in the same direction!” you called out, but it was too late. jungwon was already halfway down the street, pretending not to hear you.

you stood there, blinking dumbly after him, utterly bewildered by what had just transpired.

you exhaled through your nose, trying to calm your nerves, and pulled out your phone with a resigned sigh. you booked yourself an uber—because clearly, walking in the same direction as jungwon was not on today's agenda.

as if sensing your gaze still somewhere near him, jungwon abruptly veered off to another street, almost comically dramatic with the way he ducked his head and hurried his steps, clearly trying to escape your line of sight.

pathetic. dramatic. suspiciously fast. definitely guilty.

meanwhile, in his small spiral of panic, jungwon fumbled with his phone, his thumbs moving in a frenzy as he typed out a message to riki.

jungwon: where r u. pick me up. now.

but before he could even finish cursing under his breath, riki’s familiar car came to a stop right in front of him, its timing almost poetic.

the passenger-side window rolled down with a mechanical hum, revealing sunoo, who stared at him with an expression that perfectly blended confusion and secondhand embarrassment.

“yo, you look like you just got chased by a ghost,” sunoo said flatly, squinting at jungwon’s slightly sweaty forehead and thoroughly ruffled hair. “or, like, karma.”

jungwon rolled his eyes with a dramatic groan, not even trying to explain himself as he yanked open the back door.

“long story,” he muttered, flopping into the seat like a man who had just survived a war—an emotional war, perhaps, but a war nonetheless.

riki, in the driver's seat and already smirking, glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “good. we’ve got time,” he quipped, clearly eager for some tea.

jungwon waved a hand weakly in the air, “just drive,” he muttered. “we’ll be late.”

riki turned to sunoo with a knowing look. sunoo shrugged, as if to say ‘don’t look at me’, and riki shrugged right back. without further protest, he shifted gears and pulled out of the street, the car humming softly as they began the drive to campus.

jungwon leaned his head back against the seat, shutting his eyes. he could still see your face—your expression when you caught him ditching you at the elevator, the betrayal in your eyes, the sheer ‘what the hell’ radiating off you like heat.

and worse, he could still hear the echo of your voice: “we’re going in the same direction!”

tragically… you were right.

you, on the other hand, had already slipped into the back seat of your uber, the cool leather offering a small comfort as the city passed by in a blur. the ride was quiet—your driver occasionally humming along to the radio while you stared out the window, half-lost in your thoughts. within minutes, the car pulled up to your destination.

there it was. your university. grand horizon university. standing tall and proud, like an academic kingdom with gates flung wide open, welcoming—and slightly overwhelming—its new citizens.

students swarmed the entrance like ants on a sugar cube. some were poring over crumpled maps with puzzled brows, others paced in small circles while mumbling to themselves. a few brave souls had resorted to asking complete strangers where to go, and many had approached the campus security guards like weary travelers begging for directions to the nearest oasis.

you reached into your tote, pulled out your phone, and snapped a quick photo of the chaos—a little memento of your first day. the picture captured the mix of excitement and confusion around you, and you sent it to your group chat with a quick message:

you: i’ve arrived. front gate. help before i disappear into the crowd.

you were just about to scroll idly when you felt a sudden presence behind you—followed by familiar squeals and arms flinging around your shoulders.

“boo!” yunjin’s voice rang in your ear, immediately followed by kazuha and chaewon joining in on the ambush, their smiles wide, their energy contagious.

you spun around, pretending to scowl but unable to stop the grin tugging at your lips. you hugged them all back, your nerves easing just a little with the comfort of familiar faces.

“you could’ve warned me,” you muttered with faux irritation, brushing your hair back.

“where’s the fun in that?” kazuha smirked.

together, the four of you started walking toward the main entrance towards the main building in the middle of the university, your chatter bouncing lightly between you, an easy mix of nervous laughter and unfiltered panic.

“okay but like... are we ready?” chaewon asked, adjusting her strap bag anxiously.

“mentally? no. emotionally? also no. physically? barely.” yunjin replied, flailing her arms dramatically. “but spiritually? absolutely not.”

you all laughed, and for a moment, the tension melted. but as soon as the university doors opened, the noise hit you like a wave.

inside was just as chaotic—if not worse—than outside. students were huddled around bulletin boards, craning their necks and squinting as they tried to decipher lists of names, classroom codes, building numbers and names, and professor names that sounded made-up.

you weaved through the crowd with your friends and finally found your schedules, each of you staring on your copies of the campus map.

and then came the collective groan.

“ugh! why does this university have to look like a whole freaking village?” yunjin cried, clutching her map like it had betrayed her.

“tell me about it,” kazuha added, staring at her map like it might rearrange the buildings if she blinked hard enough. “i swear, i’m about to rent an electric scooter. or a horse.”

“why,” you said slowly, squinting at the map, “does this university have two hundred and thirty buildings?”

they both turned to pat your shoulders in silent solidarity, as if sharing the same academic tragedy. you sighed dramatically, already feeling the weight of your future footsteps.

you all then looked at chaewon, silently praying she had it just as bad.

she glanced at her schedule and gave a sheepish shrug. “mine’s kinda near... but also not? like, it’s not far-far but it’s not close either.”

you, yunjin, and kazuha groaned in unison before rolling your eyes and playfully turning your backs on her, walking away as if she had betrayed the sisterhood.

“rude!” chaewon called after you three with a laugh, instantly chasing after you with quick steps, and soon enough, you were all walking again, side by side, navigating the labyrinth together.

“good thing we only have orientations and campus tours today. if we had actual classes right now, we’d probably be buried under a pile of wrong turns and regrets,” you said, half-laughing as you glanced down at your phone.

you tapped a quick message to your parents—‘i made it to school safely’—along with a photo of the university gate for good measure. your mom had already sent three heart emojis and a good luck gif. classic.

with that done, you turned your attention back to the ever-confusing campus map that you folded and tucked between your fingers, just behind your phone earlier.

“okay, so right now we’re at aurora hall,” you began, squinting at the tiny lines and icons. “and i need to get to the south part of campus.”

your words caught everyone’s attention. three heads immediately leaned over your shoulder, eyes narrowing like detectives over a case file.

“wait—you’re going to the south campus too?” yunjin asked, pointing at the lower quadrant of your map. “what building?”

you tilted your map toward her while pointing at the building. “the vanguard business hall. apparently that’s the main building for business admin majors.”

as soon as the words left your mouth, the excitement erupted.

“no way, i’m headed there too!” yunjin gasped, then quickly clarified. “well, not there—i’ve got architecture at arcadia studios, but it’s in the same area.”

“me too,” kazuha chimed in, flashing a grin. “grand horizon performing arts center. sounds dramatic. fitting, right?”

chaewon raised her hand like she was in class. “silver screen studios for film and tv. also south campus.”

and just like that, a burst of collective relief washed over the group. you all let out a synchronized squeal, followed by a group hug that was slightly chaotic and entirely uncoordinated. still, it felt good—like the universe had decided to bless you today.

at least for the trip to south campus, you wouldn't be alone.

“okay, transportation,” chaewon said, already back in planner mode. “should we rent e-bikes or ride the shuttle buses?”

you all looked down at the map again, tracing little lines between buildings, searching for the nearest shuttle stops and rental stations.

“e-bikes sound cute in theory,” yunjin mused, “but we’d probably end up somewhere in a forbidden faculty zone and get expelled before day two.”

“true,” you said, nodding. “let’s not risk accidental trespassing just yet.”

the group collectively agreed: shuttle bus it was.soon enough, you were all sprinting through the university corridors like you were in a slice-of-life anime opening sequence. wind in your hair, laughter echoing behind you, dodging slow walkers like pros, and somehow managing to arrive at the shuttle bus station just in time.

the vehicle hissed to a halt as students boarded one by one, and the four of you squeezed into the middle row, still catching your breath and trying to act like you weren’t about to melt from the sprint.

as the bus rolled forward, it passed through winding lanes, landscaped gardens, and sleek buildings that shimmered beneath the sun. the driver, with a calm voice and an obvious love for punctuality, announced each stop clearly through the overhead speaker:

“silver screen studios.”

“grand horizon performing arts center.”

“arcadia studios.”

one by one, your friends got off. chaewon first, waving enthusiastically. then kazuha, who gave a little spin before hopping off, dramatically clutching her schedule like a script. yunjin followed next, shooting you a thumbs up as if to say ‘you’ve got this’.

and finally, it was your turn.you stood, your tote slung over your shoulder, and stepped off with the others headed toward the vanguard business hall—a part of the sprawling college of business and management complex.

as your shoes hit the pavement, you took a deep breath. this was it. your first real step into university life.

then, you looked up at the towering structure before you, your breath hitching slightly in awe.

the vanguard business hall stood like a monument to ambition—ten stories high, cloaked in sleek panels of silver and glass that shimmered beneath the morning light. its clean lines and polished finish gave it the kind of sharp sophistication that whispered, ‘only the bold survive here’. it was the kind of building that didn’t just exist—it announced itself.

for a moment, you stood at the base of it, tilting your head all the way back just to take it in, as if you were trying to absorb some of its power through sheer admiration. you could almost hear it taunting you, daring you to prove you belonged here.

you exhaled softly and squared your shoulders, adjusting the strap of your bag as if it might suddenly make you feel more grown-up, more prepared.

then you quietly muttered under your breath, a little pep talk to yourself, “okay... good luck, me.”

and with that final whisper of hope and bravado, you stepped forward and pushed open the glass doors—walking into the future with all the courage, curiosity, and slightly faked confidence you could muster.

just a few minutes earlier, jungwon and his friends had found themselves in a strikingly similar situation as you and your group—equally disoriented, equally overwhelmed, and just as hilariously unprepared for the sheer sprawl of campus life.

the five of them had huddled around a map, each trying to decipher the labyrinth of buildings, shuttles, and cryptic acronyms like they were decoding ancient hieroglyphs. eventually, the group had to split, though not without groaning dramatically about the injustice of parting ways on their very first day.

jake and sunghoon, after much squinting and turning the map sideways for no apparent reason, had discovered they both needed to head north.

jake was assigned to the science complex—ominously named the helix research center—while sunghoon had to make his way to the monolithic fusion engineering complex, which honestly sounded more like a boss level in a video game than a school building.

meanwhile, jungwon, riki, and sunoo were bound for the south campus. jungwon had orientation at the arcadia studios—the heart of the architecture department. riki was heading to the grand horizon performing arts center, while sunoo was off to the silver screen studios, home to film and tv production students (and future dramatic monologues, no doubt).

the farewell was brief but not without flair. sunghoon and jake darted off to their own shuttle station with mock salutes and promises not to get lost or abducted by rogue professors. the remaining three made their way to the same shuttle bus station you and your friends had used earlier.

though fate had kept your paths from crossing that morning, something about the moment had tugged at jungwon—a peculiar sense of déjà vu, or maybe just the faintest echo of your voice from that first conversation you ever had. it hovered somewhere in the back of his mind, stubbornly refusing to take shape.

the shuttle ride was short, efficient, and surprisingly smooth and now, jungwon stood before the arcadia studios.

he didn’t enter right away.

instead, he lingered at the edge of the building’s shadow, tilting his head back to fully absorb the sight before him. the arcadia studios were a brutalist marvel—raw, unapologetic concrete rising like a fortress. but the roughness was softened by its tiers of lush greenery, terraces overflowing with vibrant plants that draped down the façade like ivy at an ancient castle. it was both cold and alive, severe yet poetic.

in his eyes, it wasn’t just a building.

it was a declaration. a promise that creativity didn’t have to be polished to be profound. and for jungwon, a budding architect with dreams too big for his own good, it was love at first sight.

he smiled softly to himself, the earlier tension melting away just a little. then, with one last breath of courage, he stepped through the wide doors and disappeared inside.

once everyone had disappeared into their respective buildings, the real whirlwind began.

orientations were in full swing. professors, sharp-dressed and bright-eyed (well, most of them), made their introductions—some warm and charismatic, others slightly robotic, as if they’d already rehearsed their welcome speeches one too many times over the years.

after a short talk, students were nudged into groups of ten for the ever-dreaded yet unavoidable “get-to-know-you” icebreakers.

each person took turns standing up, voice wavering or booming with overconfidence, depending on their personality. they shared their names, the courses they’d chosen, and why they had enrolled at grand horizon university.

the stories were a mix of heartfelt dreams, practical decisions, and the occasional joke that drew scattered chuckles. one guy said he only came here because the food in the cafeteria was ranked top ten in a blog he trusted religiously. no one knew if he was serious. he probably was.

some students spoke with ease, others visibly battled secondhand embarrassment for their peers, and a few simply tried to survive the social gauntlet without spontaneously combusting. it was a chaos of charm and awkwardness.

once the introductions settled down, the next phase began: the grand tour.

sleek shuttle buses lined up like in front of the buildings, waiting to tour the new students around the southern half of the campus. professors climbed aboard alongside their groups, and designated student guides took to the front, bright smiles plastered on as they reached for the intercoms.

the tour was fairly straightforward—an overview of each building as they passed, the guide pointing out massive lecture halls, pristine laboratories, sunlit studios, and confusingly named complexes.

each announcement was followed by students craning their necks to look out windows, snapping quick photos or scribbling down building names as if they'd remember which was which by tomorrow. they wouldn’t. no one ever does.

on your side of things, the tour had turned unexpectedly delightful. two students sitting near you had sparked up a conversation, and before you knew it, laughter flowed easily among you. you talked about your majors, your expectations, the panic of navigating an unfamiliar campus, and which professors looked like they've already prepared our downfall for fun.

your nerves slowly melted away into genuine enjoyment. there was something comforting about realizing everyone else was just as lost and excited as you were.

meanwhile, on another shuttle just a few buildings away, jungwon sat stiffly in his seat, listening to the tour guide’s voice drift through the bus. he nodded now and then, more out of politeness than curiosity, but his thoughts were elsewhere—spiraling.

something was gnawing at the edges of his mind. he couldn't shake that strange pull, the feeling that he'd forgotten something important. something—or someone.

then, as if fate had impeccable comedic timing, he turned his head toward the window.

and there you were.

riding a shuttle labeled ‘college of business and management complex’. chatting animatedly with the people beside you, smiling in that way that made things feel lighter.

his eyes widened as it hit him all at once.

bsba hrm. that’s what you said when you first met. that's your major. and now, here you were, in the south campus—his campus. so much for thinking he could spend the day dodging any accidental reunions. the universe had other plans.

“oh, i am so screwed,” he muttered under his breath, dragging out his map and promptly holding it up like a newspaper in a spy movie, trying to block his face from view even though you were clearly far too engrossed in your conversation to notice him. still, he wasn’t taking any chances.

he slumped deeper into his seat, sighing into his collar. maybe if he wished hard enough, he’d turn invisible. or teleport. either option sounded appealing.

once the orientation and tours wrapped up, you were quick to text your friends, fingers flying across the keyboard as you asked if they were finished and where they wanted to meet.

the replies came fast—chaewon, kazuha, and yunjin had wrapped up too, and without much debate, you all agreed on a place: the design & arts café tucked near the college of architecture, design, and planning.

it was quaint, cozy, and boasted drinks with pretentious names like “aesthetic matcha fog” and “monochrome americano.” you loved it.

coincidentally—though destiny might argue otherwise—jungwon, riki, and sunoo had just finished their own orientations and had exactly the same idea.

“design & arts café?” sunoo asked, scrolling through his phone.

“sounds good,” jungwon mumbled distractedly, still recovering from the earlier heart attack.

and so, completely unaware of each other’s plans, both groups set off toward the same charming café… one for coffee and comfort, and the other, unknowingly, toward a collision course with chaos—or maybe just an awkward reunion.

the four of you arrived at the café first, fortunate enough to beat the incoming tide of students that soon began trickling in, like drops before a storm. the design & arts café, with its warm amber lighting and soft hum of lo-fi music, was already halfway to overflowing.

its charm lay in the deliberate mess of creativity—sketches and prints hung on the walls, mismatched chairs that somehow worked together, and menus handwritten in chalk that made even the simplest drinks sound like a masterpiece.

yunjin and chaewon, ever the designated errand duo, volunteered to place everyone's orders, slipping away toward the counter with practiced ease. meanwhile, you and kazuha remained at the table, guarding everybody’s bags and phones, nestled in the quiet lull before the café reached peak chaos.

“good thing we got here earlier,” kazuha remarked, eyes drifting toward the growing line that now curved around the entrance.

you nodded, grateful for the lucky timing. while waiting, you and kazuha exchanged stories about your respective orientations and campus tours, comparing professors, the energy of your groupmates, and the many moments of near-miscommunication that left everyone either giggling or sweating.

just as you were imitating the overly dramatic voice of your tour guide, yunjin and chaewon returned, trays in hand and cheeks flushed from the heat and noise of the café.

“they said the food might take ten to fifteen minutes,” yunjin announced as she plopped down beside kazuha, setting the drinks on the table with theatrical flair.

chaewon took the spot next to you, carefully distributing napkins, straws, and drinks before handing the empty tray to a passing waiter. “thank you!” the four of you chimed in chorus.

“what were you guys chatting about?” chaewon asked, leaning slightly closer, curiosity evident in her eyes.

“just our orientations and the tour,” you replied, already sipping from your drink, the coldness cutting through the lingering warmth in the air.

“were they fun?” yunjin raised a brow, stirring her iced latte lazily.

you all nodded enthusiastically, breaking into a rapid-fire exchange of stories—mock reenactments, dramatic gasps, and exaggerated impressions of professors who clearly didn’t know how to use microphones.

laughter filled your little corner of the café, wrapping around you like a comforter. and then kazuha suddenly paused mid-laugh, eyes lighting up as if a forgotten memory had just barged its way back into her consciousness.

“oh right!” she said, waving her hand to corral everyone's attention. “something happened earlier.”

you looked up from your cheeseburger croissant, mid-bite. “what happened?”

kazuha leaned in a little, her tone dropping as if she were about to share a scandalous secret. “this guy came up to me and said he knew me—like, knew us. he asked what happened after the welcome party, when he helped us three back to our dorm.”

chaewon’s eyes widened in recognition. she gasped, slapped a hand over her mouth, then quickly chewed and swallowed whatever she'd been munching on before blurting out, “wait! the exact same thing happened to me!”

the table fell quiet in suspense as chaewon leaned in. “a cute guy—super polite—walked up and asked the same thing!”

“cute?” yunjin perked up, clearly invested now. “did they say their names?”

kazuha squinted in thought. “he said his name was… riki? or maybe kiki? something like that. honestly, i’m bad with names.”

chaewon giggled, nodding in solidarity. “mine said something like… sunoo? or soonoo? i think? he had great skin though.”

you blinked. “you guys are hopeless.”

kazuha, unfazed, twirled her fork through her carbonara. “i asked him how he even knew about us and he just smiled and said, ‘a friend of ours is a friend of yours.’ like—hello? what does that even mean?”

“that sounds like the start of a treasure hunt,” yunjin muttered, eyes narrowed. “or a mafia movie.”

you all laughed, tossing out theories as if you were detectives in a teen mystery drama. maybe they were undercover students. maybe it was a dare. maybe one of them was a secret admirer pulling the strings behind the scenes.

what none of you realized, however, was that not far from your table, just past the display case of pastries and behind a pair of oblivious art majors discussing something color related, stood jungwon, sunoo, and riki—utterly unaware of the conversation unfolding about them.

while riki and sunoo bickered over the menu—sunoo insisting on the blueberry muse tea, while riki claimed it sounded like a shampoo—jungwon stood a little apart, tuning out the noise of their playful quarrel.

the café was now a full-blown frenzy, packed with chattering students, baristas calling out names over the whirr of machines, and the occasional chair scrape that made everyone flinch for no reason at all.

jungwon sighed softly, the way someone does when they’ve just realized they're the only sane one in the group. he turned around, neck craning slightly as he scanned the room in search of an empty table. a small miracle: tucked near the corner, almost hidden, was a table clearly meant for four—but with one chair missing. three chairs. three of them. perfect.

just as he opened his mouth to share the discovery with the others, his words caught in his throat.

at the edge of his vision—soft, golden, unmistakably familiar—was you.

you were sitting with your friends, smile wide, laughter lighting up your features in a way that made the café’s dim lighting seem brighter for a second. jungwon froze. the kind of stillness that only happens when something—or someone—unexpected reappears.

he hadn’t even realized he'd stopped moving until a light tap on his shoulder brought him back to earth.

“jungwon, you okay?” sunoo asked, eyebrows raised in concern before following jungwon’s line of sight. and then, he smiled. “oh, is that chaewon? i think that’s chaewon.”

sunoo tried waving a little in her direction, although chaewon didn’t notice—too absorbed in peeling the lid off her drink. jungwon blinked rapidly and looked away, but not before sunoo had seen enough to realize this wasn’t about chaewon, it was about the girl sitting beside her.

“what are you two doing?” riki called out from the front, motioning to them to move up in the line. “we’re holding people up.”

“we saw someone we know,” sunoo explained as he fell in beside riki. “chaewon’s here, in the café. she’s in my major too.”

“oh yeah,” riki said, recognition dawning. “i think i met one of her friends too—kazuha, i think? she’s also in performing arts.”

they shuffled forward in line, but jungwon lingered behind, staring at the floor like it had just whispered his deepest secret aloud.

“guys,” jungwon said, voice low, “can we… maybe go to a different café?”

sunoo and riki turned to him, nearly in unison. “huh? why?”

“i mean,” he started, a little too quickly, “i just thought maybe we could eat near the north campus instead? maybe link up with sunghoon and jake? it might be less crowded too.”

riki and sunoo exchanged a look—half confusion, half telepathic best friend conversation. they could see it: the slight panic in jungwon’s eyes, the nervous clench of his jaw. something was up.

but they didn’t press.

“sure, man,” riki said with a shrug, stepping out of the line as if they hadn’t just spent fifteen minutes arguing over drinks.

sunoo smiled gently, falling in behind him. “that’s a great idea, actually. i’ll text sunghoon—see where they’re eating.”

jungwon exhaled, the relief immediate and visible in his shoulders. he trailed after them, grateful, fingers twitching with the anxious energy he hadn't managed to shake off since seeing you.

as they exited the café, the soft ding of the doorbell signaling their departure, jungwon allowed himself one last glance over his shoulder.

you were still there, surrounded by laughter, unaware of the ripple you’d sent through him.

he looked away and sighed, the sound quiet but heavy, and walked out into the sunlit afternoon, where his friends were already waiting.

as soon as they received the location from sunghoon and jake, the three made their way to the stem fuel stop, a modern, industrial-style café nestled just outside the college of science and mathematics complex.

the walls were covered in chalkboard doodles and formulas no one actually read, while the smell of roasted coffee beans and sizzling fries hung comfortably in the air.

they walked in, instantly greeted by jake’s enthusiastic wave from across the room. he was already seated at a corner table, mid-bite, with a tray of fries between him and sunghoon, who looked up from his phone looking like he just aged five academic years.

“there you guys are,” jake grinned, mouth half-full, before popping another fry into his mouth.

sunghoon gave them a small nod, setting his phone down slowly, eyes shifting to jungwon, who hadn’t said a word since entering.

they took their seats—sunoo on one end, riki beside him, and jungwon in the middle, visibly tense. sunoo and riki exchanged a glance before both quietly turned their attention to jungwon, brows slightly raised.

“so… what gives?” jake asked, licking salt off his fingers. “thought you were all eating at the design & arts café?”

“we were supposed to,” riki replied casually, reaching for a fry. “but it was already packed when we got there, and jungwon suggested we head here instead.”

his voice was nonchalant, but the way he tilted his head toward jungwon didn’t go unnoticed. jake and sunghoon caught it immediately, their gazes now fixed on the boy in question.

“okay,” sunoo began, arms crossed, leaning in a little. “jungwon. spill.”

jungwon let out a sigh so deep, it seemed to come from the soles of his feet. he closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to meet four sets of expectant eyes. and so, with the weight of an overly dramatic confession pressing on his chest, he told them everything.

he began with that night—the aftermath of the architecture welcoming party. how he’d offered to take you back to your apartment, just trying to be polite and helpful. everything was fine... until it wasn’t.

“i swear, she just stopped in the kitchen,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “and then she cupped my cheeks. my actual face.”

riki choked on a sip of soda. “no way—”

“yes way,” jungwon groaned. “and before i could even process what was happening, she just—started kissing me. on the face. like how she kissed my cat. repeatedly. with affection. so much affection.”

sunghoon blinked. “you got yami’d.”

“i got ambushed,” jungwon clarified, looking pained. “i didn’t even have time to run.”

his friends looked equally horrified and amused, already piecing the chaos together.

he went on to explain that ever since that night, he'd tried to maintain distance—create space. but you always showed up. in places he least expected. like some kind of charming poltergeist with perfect comedic timing.

then came this morning’s catastrophe.

“remember earlier,” he added, shifting uncomfortably, “when you caught me hiding behind a wall just a street away from my apartment building looking like i saw a ghost?”

sunoo nodded slowly. “we thought you were being dramatic.”

“yeah, well, the ghost was her.”

the table burst into quiet laughter, and jungwon rolled his eyes before continuing.

“i just stepped into the elevator,” jungwon said, leaning forward with an exasperated whisper, “and then she just—turned the corner. like it was a horror movie. i panicked. froze. and let the elevator doors close right in front of her.”

the entire table groaned in unison, hands flying up as if trying to physically catch the level of secondhand embarrassment in the air.

“oh my god, you didn’t,” sunoo winced, clutching his chest.

“i did,” jungwon sighed, defeated. “and of course, she was already behind me before i could go outside the building. called my name. asked me what just happened. i panicked again and said—” he paused, covering his face. “the most ridiculous excuse ever.”

“what did you say?” jake asked, eyes wide.

“i said ‘i misjudged! i thought you weren’t going to make it to the elevator in time!’” he said and groaned.

they all stared at him before groaning, basically saying ‘what the hell man?’

“i know!” jungwon snapped. “and she called me out immediately. saying, ‘i could’ve made it. easily. if you hadn’t just stood there like a damn npc and let the doors close.’”

sunghoon shook his head, biting back a smile. “and then?”

“i did what any respectable man would do,” jungwon mumbled. “i gave her the puppy eyes. apologized. and then ran the second i saw her hesitate.”

a silence fell over the table.

then: laughter. loud, unforgiving laughter.

jake slapped the table. sunoo buried his face in his hands. riki leaned back like he was about to fall off his chair, while sunghoon just shook his head, muttering something about how this was better than any tv show.

“okay, but real talk,” sunoo said once the laughter settled. “don’t you think it’s a bit unfair? you’re avoiding her like she did something wrong, but she has no idea what that is.”

the others nodded slowly, their amusement now replaced with a kind of thoughtful concern.

jungwon let his head fall back against the chair, eyes staring up at the ceiling as if searching for divine intervention.

“i don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “i thought... ignoring her would be easier than explaining everything. i just didn’t want to deal with it.”

“look,” riki said, tone more serious now, “we get it. but just tell us what you want to do. whatever it is, we’ve got your back.”

jungwon sat up, looking around at the four boys who had somehow become his emotional support team. he smiled faintly, the knot in his chest loosening a little.

“she’s a business ad major,” he said. “her classes are in the south campus. there’s a real chance i’ll run into her again, and... i’m not ready for that. not yet.”

“then that’s what we’ll do,” sunoo said simply, clapping his hands once. “operation: avoid the girl who kisses like she’s greeting a house pet is a go.”

they all agreed with a chorus of nods, their expressions varying from concerned to playfully dramatic.

jungwon smiled genuinely this time, the kind of small, grateful smile you give when you feel seen—even if you’ve made a mess of things.

“thanks, guys,” he muttered.

they all smiled in return, and just like that, the conversation shifted. no more drama, no more awkward elevator encounters—at least not for now. they moved on to safer territory: their orientations, campus tours, the professors they’d met, and the weirdly aggressive squirrel sunghoon swore chased him near the library.

for now, all was calm. or at least, calm enough.

once the last bites of lunch had been savored and the cafés began to quiet, the university crowd began to drift toward a new destination: horizon square.

nestled at the very heart of grand horizon university—between the bustling north campus and the vibrant south—it stood as a kind of living crossroads, a wide-open plaza pulsing with student life. its sprawling walkways were paved with stone in geometric patterns, bordered by stretches of manicured lawn and punctuated with fountains that danced softly under the afternoon sun.

shuttle buses lined the curb like a mechanical parade and near the square's edges, street food stalls sizzled and smoked, perfuming the air with the smell of grilled meat, buttery pastries, and something sweetly unidentifiable.

this was the university's beating heart, and today, it was dressed for an occasion.

dozens of vibrant club stalls had taken over the square—each one boasting colorful tarps, makeshift banners, and enthusiastic upperclassmen who were equal parts persuasive and unhinged. this was club day, and at grand horizon university, it wasn’t just tradition—it was a requirement. every student had to join at least one club, a law more binding than some course requirement.

you stood with your friends at the edge of the square, bright pamphlets in your hands. it had been handed to you by a particularly energetic senior who’d practically stuffed it into your chest mid-walk. the paper listed every club on campus—from the usuals like student government and photography to more obscure options like the “modern escapists book society” and the suspiciously vague “club club.”

yunjin, kazuha, and chaewon had already circled their picks with the decisiveness of people ordering dessert after a good meal. you, however, stared at the list like it was written in another language.

“you okay?” chaewon asked, peeking over your shoulder as you flipped the pamphlet upside down, hoping it would spark inspiration.

“honestly?” you sighed. “none of them are calling out to me. i don’t want to just pick one because it sounds cool and end up trapped in a weekly horror show of forced interactions.”

“too late,” yunjin quipped, nudging you playfully. “that’s called college.”

she had already chosen to join the design society, which made perfect sense—she had the aesthetic sense of a pinterest board and the confidence to back it up. kazuha, on the other hand, had naturally gravitated toward the grand horizon dance company, drawn in by the familiar rhythm and stage lights. and chaewon? she surprised no one by going for the film & tv production society—if anyone was made for dramatic camera pans and chaotic editing rooms, it was her.

you admired their certainty as much as you envied it.

“i think i’ll just walk around,” you finally said, eyes scanning the lively square. “i want to see if any of these clubs actually speak to me. like, soul-to-soul.”

“sure,” kazuha smiled. “we’ll just see you at aurora hall when we’re done?”

“deal,” you nodded.

with that, the four of you drifted apart, each pulled in a different direction by color, curiosity, or convenience. the square buzzed around you like a beehive—music blasting from bluetooth speakers, laughter echoing, students juggling flyers and iced coffees, shouting over one another in a chorus of invitations.

and somewhere among that cheerful chaos, you were hoping to find your place.

or at least a club booth that didn't have glitter in the air and desperate energy in the eyes.

somewhere near the heart of horizon square—surrounded by the hum of voices, the rustling of pamphlets, and the occasional clang of a tambourine from a wildly enthusiastic music club—stood jungwon and his group, each of them absorbed in their own glossy paper map of campus club life.

the pamphlets were colorful, almost aggressively so, each one a collage of ambition and chaos. every square inch was crammed with names, taglines, and wildly optimistic descriptions. jungwon’s friends were already forming their personal paths, choices made with the kind of ease that made jungwon’s indecision feel a little louder in his own chest.

“alright, let’s split up and sign up,” sunoo declared, already folding his pamphlet like a seasoned origami artist.

“creative writers’ forum, here i come,” he added with a proud twirl, like he’d just been cast in a play.

riki, unsurprisingly, had set his eyes—and rhythm—on the grand horizon dance company. he gave a little spin for dramatic flair, earning a thumbs-up from sunoo and a head shake from jungwon.

“we get it,” sunoo deadpanned. “you’ve got moves.”

“can’t waste this talent,” riki replied, flipping imaginary hair as he walked off.

jake, meanwhile, had found unexpected excitement in the biology enthusiasts club. something about their tagline—“where science meets obsession”—spoke to the budding lab rat in him.

sunghoon stood frozen, his pamphlet flapping lazily in the breeze. “i... don’t want anything that screams ‘engineering.’ i’m traumatized already and school hasn't officially started yet.”

“so just do something chill,” jake shrugged.

and with that, sunghoon chose the chill spot: a club that promised board games, snacks, naps, and zero productivity. the dream. the sanctuary. his people.

but jungwon remained where he stood, pamphlet still unfolded in his hands like a riddle waiting to be solved. while the others peeled off one by one, he found himself flipping pages and rereading club descriptions with growing restlessness as he walked aimlessly.

he wanted something... more. something honest. something that would let his creativity breathe.

and then he heard it—a very familiar voice. a voice he would never forget.

“would you like to join our club?”

the voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough to cut through the noise. jungwon glanced up, heart skipping in recognition. there, behind one of the stalls, stood someone he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“jay?”

he didn’t even realize his feet had started moving until he was already crossing the short distance, smiling wide, pamphlet forgotten.

the man behind the stall blinked, scanning the crowd for the voice. then, spotting jungwon, his eyes lit up. a grin cracked across his face as he stepped out from behind the table.

“bro! what are you doing here?” jay exclaimed, clasping both hands on jungwon’s shoulders like he was trying to confirm he was real.

jungwon chuckled, brushing his hands away and dapping him up. “what do you think i’m doing here? obviously pursuing higher education because my parents say it's ‘necessary’.”

“classic,” jay laughed. “same old jungwon.”

he gestured toward the stall, ushering him over like he was welcoming a guest into his home. jungwon followed, sinking into the offered chair with a soft smile playing on his lips.

“how’ve you been?” jay asked, leaning against the table. “how are sunoo and riki?”

“i'm good and sunoo and riki are actually here too,” jungwon said, lighting up. “we all got in. they’re off somewhere now, signing up to the clubs they wanna join.”

“no way,” jay said with mock disbelief. “the gang’s all here? man, time really does fly. one second we’re cramming for high school finals, the next we’re at the gates of adulthood, pretending to have it all together.”

jungwon laughed quietly, nodding. “yeah. wild.”

jay had always been like an older brother to them—cool without trying, always knowing just what to say. back in high school, he was the one they ran to when things got too loud or too confusing. even now, just seeing him eased a weight jungwon hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

“so,” jay said, crossing his arms, “have you picked a club yet?”

jungwon hesitated. “not yet. i’ve been looking for something... art-related, maybe. i’m not really confident in my skills, but i know i have decent skills. i just don’t think it’s enough.”

jay hummed thoughtfully and, without missing a beat, took jungwon’s crumpled pamphlet right out of his hands.

“let’s find it, then,” he said, scanning the list like a detective about to crack a case. “you’ve got good instincts. we just need to find the right space to grow them.”

and in that moment, jungwon didn’t feel so lost anymore.

“how about the art & sketch society?” jay offered, handing the pamphlet back to jungwon with a confident flick of his fingers. “focuses on drawing, sketching, all that creative jazz. sounds like it’s right up your alley.”

jungwon blinked, unfolding the slightly crumpled pamphlet with renewed interest, eyes scanning the maze of club names and descriptions. “where did you even see that? how did i miss it?”

jay leaned over with the air of a man who’s done this far too many times, pointing to a modest little box near the bottom corner of the page. “right here. you need better eyesight, man.”

jungwon rolled his eyes but chuckled, the corners of his mouth curving upward. “what would i do without you?”

“probably join something tragic or something that requires anything physical like taekwondo,” jay said with mock solemnity.

jungwon snorted.

“actually,” jay added, a little more seriously, “i was gonna ask if you wanted to join our club. but, uh, figured it might not be your thing.”

he handed over a smaller, more personalized flyer—clearly homemade, slightly chaotic in design, and deeply proud of it.

jungwon read the name aloud, brow furrowed. “the... multi-maybe club?”

jay grinned. “we call ourselves the m-and-m’s. the m-m club, if you will.”

jungwon looked up, deeply confused and deeply amused. “what do you even do in a multi-maybe club?”

jay’s grin widened. “maybe everything. maybe nothing. maybe you paint a wall. maybe you'll nap under a tree. it’s a lawless land, my friend.”

jungwon burst into laughter, the kind that bent him slightly at the waist and made him cover his face for a second. jay stood back with a smile, watching fondly like an older brother watching his favorite sibling crack up at a dumb joke.

“dude,” jungwon said through the laughter, wiping at his eyes, “you just made my whole day.”

“glad to be of service,” jay replied, giving a mock bow.

as jungwon tried to catch his breath, he remembered something. “sunoo and riki need to know you’re here. they’d lose their minds. you free later?”

jay looked down at his wrist, as if checking a watch that didn’t exist. “hmm... maybe i have time.”

jungwon raised an eyebrow.

“okay, okay,” jay laughed. “i’m free. just gotta find one more person to sign up for our club, and then i can pack this whole thing up.”

he stood up straight, brushing invisible dust off his pants, and jungwon mirrored him.

“we’re all meeting at the stem fuel stop later, after everyone’s done signing up,” jungwon said, slowly backing away. “also, we met two new people—you’re gonna love them. they’re... something else.”

“perfect. i’m bringing someone too. you’ll love him,” jay replied, raising a hand in a casual wave as jungwon turned.

“see you later, m&m,” jungwon called over his shoulder with a smirk.

“go find your sketch society, art boy,” jay shot back, laughing.

with one last grin, jungwon disappeared into the crowd, pamphlet in hand, his steps a little lighter now as he searched for the art & sketch society’s stall.

you, on the other hand, were still wandering—admittedly a little lost and, at this point, thoroughly over the parade of pamphlets being thrust in your face.

upperclassmen lined the plaza like cheerful merchants at a bizarre bazaar, each one passionately marketing their clubs as if their lives depended on it. from anime appreciation societies to eco-sustainability coalitions, everyone seemed to have something to pitch. and yet, nothing called out to you.

you smiled politely, declining brochure after brochure with a soft “no, thank you,” until your feet—bored of your indecision—guided you toward a rather peculiar-looking stall.

its banner was simple yet striking: two large block letters—M M—hung above, bold and cryptic. beneath the sign, in slightly chaotic handwriting, read: the multi-maybe club.

you tilted your head. multi-maybe?

it sounded like the kind of club that didn't quite know what it wanted to be. a filler club, perhaps. the type students joined just to finish a university requirement. and yet... there was something oddly magnetic about it. as if those two bold letters were speaking directly to your soul in a silent language only lost, curious freshmen could understand.

drawn in by either fate or mild existential curiosity, you approached.

the guy behind the table was currently mid-conversation with another student, his animated gestures suggesting a practiced pitch. but then his gaze shifted and locked onto you.

“oh—hi there! are you interested in joining our club?” he greeted warmly, already reaching for a flyer. he handed it to you with both hands, like it was something sacred.

you glanced down at the handmade paper. bold scribbles, doodled stars, and a questionable amount of glitter glue outlined the text:

‘welcome to the multi-maybe club! where you can do everything... or nothing. your multiple maybes? might just happen here—or maybe not. it's your choice!’

he flashed a grin and pointed proudly at the sign above his head. “we're all about possibilities,” he said. “maximum freedom. minimal expectations.”

you looked at him, then at the sign, then back at the flyer.

“…where do i sign up?” you asked, surprising even yourself with how fast the words came out.

the guy's smile spread even wider, his eyes practically lighting up. “you just made the best maybe-decision of your life, miss..?” he declared, handing you a clipboard with a list of names. without hesitation, you wrote down your name, your major, and scribbled your signature at the bottom.

“y/n,” you said. “just call me y/n.”

“y/n,” he repeated with a nod, committing it to memory. “nice to meet you. i’m jay—vice president of the m-m club. our president’s off being a busy graduating senior, but she exists. i promise.”

you chuckled, handing back the clipboard.

jay reached under the table and pulled out a more official-looking pamphlet—actually printed, this time. “here’s our schedule, basic club info, building details. you’ll mostly find us in the lucent library next to aurora hall. the librarian kinda loves us. mostly because we either do absolutely nothing or occasionally help re-shelve books. it’s a vibe.”

you scanned the paper, trying not to laugh at how absurdly laid-back the club seemed. still, it felt oddly right.

“thanks, jay,” you said, tucking the brochure into your tote bag. “see you around.”

“yep, see you around,” he replied, giving you a small wave as you turned to leave.

as you walked away, your thoughts drifted. ‘did i really just join a filler club?’ you shook your head, a small laugh slipping from your lips as you slid the flyer into your bag, tucked just beside the brochure.

but strangely enough, you felt something warm bubble in your chest.

excitement.

not the wild, overwhelming kind—but a quiet, budding curiosity.

as soon as you managed to escape the buzz of horizon square—dodging the last wave of overly enthusiastic club recruiters—you finally spotted your friends. they were gathered on the broad stone steps leading to aurora hall, their silhouettes bathed in the golden hue of the afternoon light.

you waved both arms above your head as you jogged toward them, the crowd now thinning as students slowly trickled out of the plaza. some were heading home, others drifting into the campus cafés, tucked-away eateries, or lingering in the comfort of air-conditioned student lounges.

yunjin noticed you first. she raised a can of diet coke in the air like a sacred offering, her expression amused. you couldn’t help but let out a chuckle—she knew you too well.

you reached them with slightly breathless laughter and dropped yourself between chaewon and kazuha, letting your weight sink into the cool steps. yunjin was perched two steps above you, and with no hesitation, you leaned back so your head could rest comfortably on her thigh. she handed you the drink without a word.

“bless your soul,” you mumbled with a grateful smile as you cracked the can open and took a generous sip. the fizzy sweetness coated your tongue, and you exhaled with an exaggerated, refreshed sigh. without a second thought, you leaned back further, letting your body melt against yunjin’s warmth as she absentmindedly played with your hair.

“should we go home now?” she murmured lazily, fingers threading through your strands.

the word home struck like a silent spell.

no one answered immediately. instead, all four of you sank into an almost meditative silence. just the thought of soft pillows, cool sheets, and the sweet hum of an air conditioner was enough to temporarily sedate you all.

you each had things to prepare for tomorrow—yes, technically syllabus week, but the illusion of leisure was already wearing thin. there were class schedules to memorize, supplies to organize, nerves to settle.

after several long, deliciously quiet moments, as if perfectly choreographed, you all nodded slowly and muttered a collective, almost reverent: “yep.”

no further discussion was needed. you stood together, heavy-footed and slow-moving, like four survivors of a mild but exhausting war.

“we should head back and recharge,” you said, walking in step with them. “we’ve only got one week to mentally brace ourselves for whatever academic avalanche awaits.”

“and we find out our schedules tomorrow,” kazuha added with a groan, already opening her phone to book a ride. “can’t wait to see if fate puts me in an 7a.m. class in the first semester.”

“tell me about it.” yunjin grumbled.

chaewon simply sighed like she’d already accepted her impending doom.

you booked your own ride and the four of you migrated to the waiting shed just by the university’s gate. the air was beginning to cool as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows along the sidewalk.

your uber arrived first.

you gave each of your friends quick hugs and soft cheek kisses—half-hearted from tiredness but no less sincere.

“text us when you get home,” chaewon reminded you just as you slid one foot into the car.

you gave her a lazy thumbs-up before disappearing behind the door and letting it close with a soft thud.

the ride home was quiet. your head leaned against the window, and the city outside blurred into pastel streaks as exhaustion settled in your bones. by the time you arrived at your apartment, you barely had the energy to thank your driver.

the moment the door shut behind you, you kicked off your shoes and peeled away the layers of your day until you were down to nothing but your underwear and bra. with a long exhale, you padded barefoot across the floor and into your bedroom, phone in hand.

a few quick texts were sent—first to your group chat: ‘home safe’, then to your parents, followed by a small heart emoji. you dropped your phone onto the bed with a soft thump and made your way to your closet, grabbing a change of clothes.

the shower was bliss. warm water cascading down your skin like a gentle reset, washing away the sweat, the noise, and the weight of navigating new beginnings.

after drying your hair and pulling on fresh clothes, you collapsed onto your bed. the mattress embraced you like an old friend. the pillow welcomed your head like it had been waiting all day.

you meant to grab your phone again.

you meant to check messages, maybe scroll a little.

but your body had other plans.

within minutes, your breathing slowed, thoughts blurred, and sleep took you—soft and soundless.

meanwhile, tucked into a corner booth at the stem fuel stop, jungwon and his group were in a state of quiet suspense—well, most of them were. jake and sunghoon were entirely absorbed in their own little worlds, multitasking between snacking and scrolling through their phones, while sunoo and riki eyed jungwon like he’d grown a second head.

“won,” sunoo said, voice laced with suspicion and a bit of exasperation, “can you please tell us why we’re still here? i thought we were just gonna meet up, take a break, maybe grab some food. but you’re not even eating. you’re just… smiling at the window.”

sunoo gestured dramatically toward jungwon, who was indeed sitting there with the faintest, most serene smile on his face. every time the café door swung open, his head would subtly turn, eyes lighting up with anticipation. it was getting weird.

“just trust me,” jungwon said, practically glowing with mystery. “you’ll be surprised. and happy. very, very soon.”

sunoo narrowed his eyes but leaned back in his seat with a long sigh, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “i swear… him and his mood swings.”

riki raised an eyebrow and tilted his head toward sunoo, silently mouthing, ‘what’s up with him now?’

sunoo just shrugged, the universal response for ‘no clue, don’t ask me.’

riki glanced at the clock. “he sure is taking his sweet time,” he muttered under his breath, peering down at his phone, clearly considering whether this whole setup was worth the wait.sunoo shot him a look that said ‘tell me about it’, when—

“i see you two are still as impatient as ever.”

a familiar voice, smooth and teasing, landed behind them, a head popping from behind them and a hand gently pressed down on both their shoulders, startling the two boys upright.

they twisted in their seats, eyes wide.

“jay?!” they both gasped in unison, voices laced with disbelief, joy, and the slightest touch of betrayal—how dare he sneak up on them like that?

sunoo shot up from his seat and threw his arms around jay’s neck like he was making up for lost time. riki was still half in shock, but his body moved on instinct, arms wrapping tightly around jay’s waist.

“woah—hey—okay, this is happening,” jay laughed, slightly thrown off balance by the ambush hug, his arms eventually resting around both their heads, gently ruffling their hair like he used to.

jungwon, still seated and watching the scene unfold, burst into a quiet laugh. there was something so warm, so stupidly precious, about seeing his friends melt like kids at a surprise reunion.

“did you guys miss me that much?” jay teased, smiling as he tried to wiggle free from their emotional death grip.

sunoo and riki both nodded emphatically, faces buried in opposite ends of jay’s shoulder and torso.

jay chuckled, “you do realize it’s only been two years, right? not a whole lifetime.”

sunoo and riki pulled back just far enough to glare up at him, eyes narrowed.

“that is a lifetime,” they chorused indignantly, as if he’d just said something blasphemous.

jay held up his hands in surrender, laughing again. “okay, okay. two years is forever. my bad.”

he patted their heads again, endearingly like an older brother humoring two very dramatic younger siblings. “now, can i sit? or do i need to earn that too?”

sunoo finally slid back into his seat with an exaggerated sigh, while riki made room on the other side. jay sat between them, comfortably wedged in the heart of the group once again—like he’d never left.

“umm, guys?” jake’s voice sliced gently through the warmth of the reunion. it was the kind of voice people used when they were trying not to intrude but also couldn’t ignore the rising curiosity bubbling inside them. his hand hovered mid-air like a student with a question—half-hopeful, half-hesitant.

he and sunghoon had been sitting quietly, mere spectators to the emotional reunion unfolding in front of them. they didn’t want to interrupt something that was clearly meaningful, but the urge to be part of it was beginning to hum louder deep inside them.

besides, judging by the way riki and sunoo lit up at the sight of jay, this wasn’t just a casual catch-up—this was the friend reunion. and they wanted in.

“are you gonna introduce us,” jake said, tilting his head, “or should we just keep watching from the audience section?”

jay chuckled, the sound low and familiar, like laughter shared in hallways and cafeterias. he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “sorry, sorry. name’s jay. i’ve been friends with these three since high school. i’m a third year here at grand horizon—marketing major, occasional chaos enabler.”

he reached out to shake their hands.

“jake,” the boy said with a bright smile, “biology major. aspiring mad scientist.”

“sunghoon,” the other said smoothly. “engineering. part-time realist, full-time eye-roller.”

jay grinned as he shook both their hands. “i like this group already.”

“how’d you all meet, anyway?” he asked, looking around as he settled into the seat like he belonged there.

sunoo, ever ready to explain, perked up. “sunghoon’s my dorm mate, jake’s with riki, and we kinda just... adopted jungwon last month. it was very wholesome.”

“like a stray cat,” jake added helpfully.

jungwon made a face. “i’m right here, you know.”

“we know,” riki said, patting his head.

jay laughed, then, without missing a beat, leaned over and stole a fry from jake’s plate with the grace of someone who had clearly done this before.

“did you just—?”

“i did,” jay confirmed mid-chew, grinning. “anyway, it’s great to meet you guys. you’re gonna love it here, i promise. oh—and i’ve got a friend coming. he should be here any minute.”

as if on cue, the bell above the café door gave a soft chime, announcing the arrival of someone new.

and then—he walked in.

a young man with striking red hair, not the playful kind, but the bold, unapologetic shade of red that demanded attention the moment he entered a room. his presence was immediate—subtle, but undeniable.

he wore a black tank top tucked effortlessly into dark gray, high-waisted trousers tailored to perfection. they cinched his waist and flowed down with structured elegance, every step a study in confidence. layered loosely over his frame was a glossy black leather button-up long sleeve shirt, worn open, the material catching the light with each movement like a ripple of shadow.

a thin, silver chain with a cross pendant rested against his collarbone, glinting faintly. tiny silver hoops adorned his ears, understated yet intentional. and slung diagonally across his torso was a sleek black crossbody bag, the strap sitting snug over his chest, completing the look with quiet precision.

he didn’t look around frantically. instead, his eyes swept the café with the calm disinterest of someone who had no need to search—only to be found.

he looked cool—effortlessly so. intimidating, even. the kind of person who didn’t need to try hard to stand out. he just did.

all five of them froze, except for jay. the kind of freeze that wasn’t fear, but awe. they weren’t sure whether to hope this was jay’s friend or pray it wasn’t—because if it was, they were suddenly not sure they were dressed well enough for this sudden meet up.

jay raised his arm and called out with a wide smile. “yo! heeseung, over here!”

the red-haired man—heeseung—glanced over. a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, quiet but genuine. and then he moved, heading toward them with long, unhurried strides, each step measured and magnetic.

“wait... that’s his friend?” sunoo whispered, eyes wide.

riki nodded slowly, voice distant. “he looks like a runway model who just woke up and decided to casually destroy everyone’s self-esteem.”

“and somehow he looks even taller in person,” jungwon muttered, blinking.

“i'm probably taller,” riki tried saving his self-esteem even though he wasn't sure if it was actually working.

jay was already stylish—sharp jawline, good taste, an air of familiarity. but heeseung? he walked in like a scene from a movie. red hair, glowing skin, dressed like a secret. he didn’t blend in. he redefined the space around him.

even jungwon, who had his own soft kind of charm with tousled blonde hair and a boyish smile, felt like a background character.

heeseung approached the table with the quiet composure of someone used to eyes following him—unbothered, but never arrogant. like the world always adjusted itself slightly to make room for him.

he walked past everyone at the table, his pace unhurried, presence effortlessly commanding. but instead of acknowledging the wide-eyed stares or curious glances sent his way, he went straight to jay, greeting him with a casual dap that spoke of years of shared moments and easy trust.

after the brief gesture, heeseung’s gaze swept across the table, his lips tugging into a soft, almost bashful smile. it was surprising, really—how someone who looked like a living editorial spread from a fashion magazine could also look so... shy.

he leaned closer to jay, his voice low. “umm, do i have to introduce myself first?”

a second ago, he had seemed untouchable—cool, collected, almost intimidating. now, he resembled a new kid in class, unsure where to begin.

jay chuckled, amused by the contrast, and gave heeseung a light pat on the back. “just sit down and start talking,” he whispered, then gently nudged him toward the only empty chair—right beside jungwon. heeseung blinked, then allowed himself to be pushed down into the seat like a confused but obedient hamster.

“oh, okay,” he muttered under his breath, then cleared his throat and addressed the table. “hi, umm... i’m heeseung. a friend of jay’s. third year. music composition major. we’ve also been in the same club since first year.” he nodded once, firmly, as if that sealed the deal on his introduction.

there was a beat of silence before everyone else began introducing themselves, one after the other.

first came jungwon, polite and reserved. then sunoo, bright and curious. riki chimed in with a charming smile, followed by jake, who had the enthusiasm of a golden retriever discovering a new friend. sunghoon went last, cool and composed, giving a small nod as if he were in a press conference.

the energy was a little awkward, but thankfully, everyone seemed willing to push past that initial stiffness. questions began to float into the air, light and genuine.

riki leaned forward first, his tone friendly. “so, how’d you and jay meet?”

heeseung let out a short laugh, the memory lighting up his face. “we met on the first day of uni, actually. both of us were at horizon square, just wandering around trying to figure out what club to join. then we ended up standing in front of this one weird stall that had two massive m’s on the sign. the multi-maybe club. weird name, right?”

the group chuckled.

“anyway, jay started talking to me out of nowhere—just asking random things like what my major was, what music i liked, what my blood type was. totally normal stuff.” heeseung grinned. “we didn’t know anyone at the time, so it was honestly nice he didn’t just leave after signing up. after that, we kept in touch. we’d study in the library together, eat lunch during breaks... even though we’re in different majors, he kind of just stuck around. and yeah, he’s basically the only real friend i’ve had here.”

jay, listening with an increasingly dramatic expression, slowly placed both hands over his heart like a victorian lady hearing a love confession.

“awww,” jay gasped. “i’m your only real friend?”

he reached out theatrically for heeseung’s hand, his eyes brimming with fake tears.

without even blinking, heeseung rolled his eyes and yanked his hand away—then flipped jay off with a casual flick of his middle finger.

the entire table erupted into laughter.

“well,” heeseung added with a playful smirk, “i’m actually hoping to change that by meeting all of you.”

jay clutched his chest as if he'd been shot. “and just like that, replaced. i should’ve let you eat alone.”

more laughter followed, the kind that comes when tension melts away and something genuine settles in its place. the group was still new to each other, but it no longer felt like strangers trying too hard. it felt like the beginning of something that might just be real.

the conversation continued to flow—light, casual, but slowly unraveling layers. they asked about each other's lives, traded stories of high school mischief, swapped sports preferences, and shared scattered facts with the kind of curiosity only new friendships carry. it was a soft chaos of voices, laughter, and the occasional gasp at unexpected confessions.

then, as if sensing a lull in the momentum, jay leaned forward and tilted his head toward jungwon.

“so,” he said with a glint in his eye, “anything new with you, jungwon?”

jungwon blinked, caught off guard. his mouth opened slightly, ready to reply—but sunoo beat him to it with a mischievous grin.

“he has a girl problem right now,” sunoo said in a sing-song tone, and jay’s expression lit up like a proud older brother watching his kid finally enter the dating world.

“what? finally?” jay laughed, eyebrows raised in delight.

jungwon’s ears turned an unmistakable shade of pink, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he let out an awkward chuckle. “it’s not a problem, she’s not a problem,” he said, shaking his head, clearly hoping to steer the topic elsewhere—anywhere, really.

but riki leaned in dramatically, eyes wide with faux shock. “ohhh, he’s defending her now? this is new.”

sunoo, never one to let a moment slip, immediately mimicked jungwon’s earlier voice. “she’s not a problem,” he repeated with exaggerated sincerity, clasping his hands to his chest like he was quoting poetry.

jay looked amused, borderline delighted, as he leaned closer. “okay, now i have to know. what happened?”

heeseung, who had been quietly sipping his drink and observing, now perked up as well. his eyes, already large, seemed to double in size, gleaming with pure curiosity. “i’m curious too.”

jungwon groaned, realizing escape was futile. “nothing happened,” he muttered. “let’s just say... i’m trying to avoid her. that’s it. end of story.”

he looked around the table, firm and resolute, like a man putting up caution tape around his heart.

everyone exchanged glances but decided—for now—to let it go. jay, however, had other plans.

with the stealth of someone used to scheming, he leaned toward sunoo and gave the slightest nod. sunoo caught it instantly.

sunoo sighed, already resigning himself to being the group's designated informant. jay then flicked his gaze toward heeseung and gave a small head gesture toward sunoo. heeseung, catching on, turned to sunoo as well. sunoo nodded once, a solemn confirmation.

a pact had been made. they were going to sunoo and sunghoon’s dorm later. mission: dig up all the tea.

it might’ve been a spontaneous plan, but in their group, that was more than enough. jay and heeseung were already honorary members. the invitation was unspoken but entirely valid. all they had to do was wait for jungwon to finally go home.

as if on cue, the topic changed, drifting into safer territory—about the orientation and tour earlier and old campus drama when jay and heeseung were first and second year. the sky outside had deepened into shades of evening, and before long, it was time to go.

the group slowly rose from their seats, gathering their things, still chatting as they made their way out of the café. they lingered at the front gate of the university, waiting under a waiting shed for their ubers to arrive.

jungwon’s car was the first to pull up.

“i’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he said casually, waving as he climbed into the vehicle.

“bye!” the group chorused.

“message us when you get home,” sunoo followed up as jungwon hops inside the car.

but the second the car door shut and his ride rolled away down the street, the rest of them turned toward each other with the same look.

it was time.

no one needed to say it. it was understood. they were going to sunoo and sunghoon’s dorm, and tonight, they would unearth the full story behind jungwon’s ‘she’s not a problem’ girl.

jake and riki, a bit late to realize what was happening, exchanged glances.

“wait—are we going too?” jake asked.

“you are now,” sunoo said, already walking ahead.

riki shrugged. “well, i do know the whole story…”

“perfect,” jay grinned. “you’re coming. we need to know every detail.”

and with that, the group disappeared into the night, drawn together not just by friendship, but by the irresistible pull of juicy gossip waiting to be spilled behind dorm room walls.

taglist⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀ @morganaawriterr @wondoras @mypolka @meowwwon @dolliehue @in-somnias-world @yjwonsgf @kirijuns @iifrui @momisanalien @vieniee @drunkjazed @hhyvsstuff @readinmidnight @noona-neomu-yeppeo @cutehoons02 @robotinvenus @starfallia @nijisanjigenshin @kkamismom12 @kinamurariki @soobundle1009 @supershy3 @nodoubtily @vrikisn @jayjw16enxp @skzfangirl143 @0leelina0 @noriiluv @o2whre @nocturnebite @userprdx (taglist is still open, comment to be added.) final notes⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀i hope you guys enjoyed! part five will probably be posted on saturday or sunday! see you guys then!

©⠀mæwphoria⠀|⠀all works belong to me. strictly do not plagiarize, copy, translate, paraphrase, rewrite or repost my works on any other platforms. if it's inspiration gained from my work then it's appreciated and i wish you good luck with your own stories. thank you.

⠀

[lewisvinga]

what, like it’s hard ? | max verstappen x fem! med student! reader

summary; fans couldn’t help but criticize y/n and her lack of appearances at races. turns out, the girlfriend of their favorite driver has a pretty smart brain

fc; various girls on pinterest

warnings; hate comments, cursing

taglist; @namgification @louvrepool @locelscs @thehufflepuffavenger1 @minseok-smaus @goldenmclaren @ollieshifts @lavisenri @graciewrote @xoscar03

notes; requested ! as a nursing major, i <3 anything to do w reader in the med field 😩

masterlist !

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

liked by maxverstappen1, alexandrasaintmleux, and others !

yourusername: finally done w this weeks exams, now to study for the next one🤒

maxverstappen1: u gotta check my brain miss future neurosurgeon bc all i think abt is u

yourusername: i’d say your brain is working just fine !😁

yourbestfriend: perks of being a nurse is seeing you drag urself down the halls 🥸🥸

yourusername: see i’m physically there but after 24 hrs im mentally not 😕

username: oh hello

username: HIIAISKAKDKS

username: wait omg ur in med school????

yourusername: yes🤓 i’m omw to being a neurosurgeon, long path but it’s worth it🤍

username: A NEUROSURGEON?!-“;&2@;9???!!’alddk

username: y’all no wonder y/n hasn’t been to races if she’s in MED SCHOOL

username: she’s being miss smartie pants meanwhile u guys were hating 😒😒😒

alexandrasaintmleux: you’ll be the prettiest neurosurgeon ever💓

yourusername: alexxxx🥹🥹❤️‍🩹

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liked by maxverstappen1, yourbestfriend, and others !

yourusername: another busy month + finally a day off! finally spent a day w max after being at the hospital non stop for a month 😴😴😴

tagged; maxverstappen1, yourbestfriend

maxverstappen1: and we made most of that day❤️ love you, dr y/n

yourusername: soon soon, love you my maxie!❤️‍🩹

username: no way a wag goes to harvard med school

yourusername: what? like it’s hard?

username: LEGALLY BLONDE REFERANCE Y/N ILYYYYY🙏🙏

username: stop the first pic is scute🥹🥹

username: do you know how cool it is that seeing a wag as a med student??? it’s my dream to be a doctor, y/n you’re an inspiration!

yourusername: oh my🥹 you’re too kind💓

username: harvard med school to be a neurosurgeon IKTR!!!!

username: me romanticizing nursing school;

username: they could never make me hate on her for not going to races! med school is hard enoughhhh

yourbestfriend: look at us working on the same floor 🥸

yourusername: i fear they’re gonna be sick of us once we get paired together for surgeries

username: imma pretend i need brain surgery so i can meet y/n💆‍♀️

username: poor girl gets one day free a month and was getting hate for not being able to travel to multiple countries for a week💀

username: she’s out here becoming a neurosurgeon meanwhile they’re hating behind a screen ijbolllll

username: y/n would be the coolest neurosurgeon i just know itttt

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

would you ever consider writing for jacob elordi? b/c now i'm craving him with a lawyer gf too😭😭 like he would sooo be with someone smart. those airport pics? buying books for her. the world? shocked he's not with a model.

Out of my league || Jacob Elordi x reader

A/n: love love love!!! And yes i plan on making more jacob fics :) i felt like i needed to post smth so here 😭

Warnings: none

Wc:

For the longest time, Jacob has always stayed private about his relationships. Whenever he would be asked in interviews, he would acknowledge he was in a relationship but never went into detail into who it was.

Fans have since then speculated that he was dating a model, or even another actress. Especially after an interview he had where he was asked if he was seeing anyone and he responded with “Yeah, I am. But I think she’s out my league to be honest,” with that boyish grin.

The two of you met while you were at a cafe in Boston, studying for an upcoming test when he left his wallet at the counter. You obviously knew who he was, I mean, who didn’t?

Jacob found you crazy attractive. Not just because of your looks but because you were smart. It wasn’t everyday he would bump into a Harvard student studying law.

After about two years of dating, the two of you decided that it wouldn’t matter if fans found out the two of you were dating. No one’s opinion would change anything.

jacobelordiupdates_

Liked by 3,047,183 people

Jacob spotted at Sydney airport buying books 👀 wonder where he’s off to?

view all comments

user1: 😍😍

user2: he’d be my airport crush omds

user3: he’s so hot I cant.

user4: the fit.

user5: damn his gf is so lucky

y/n_y/l/n: he’s actually coming to see me 🙃

↘️ user6: who even are u 😭

~

And so when he came to Boston to visit you—the day before valentines—he decided to finally post you on his instagram. Undoubtedly, Jacob’s fans went into a frenzy. Going crazy at the fact that they were wrong and that he was not dating model, or an actress like they suspected, but a Harvard law student.

jacobelordi

Liked by y/n_y/l/n, sydneysweeney, archmadekwe, and 9,397,028 others

What the monkey on the wall says 🐒❤️

tagged: y/n_y/l/n

view all comments

y/n_y/l/n: mwah!

↘️ jacobelordi: 😚😚

user1: OMG OMG OMG

user2: everyone wake up, Jacob posted about his gf

user3: so she isn’t a model…… WE WERE SO WRONG LMAO

user4: did anyone notice her comment on jacobelordiupdates_ post yesterday 😭😭

user5: oh to be her 😩

user6: she’s a Harvard law student? omfg I’m curious as to how they even met

↘️ y/n_y/l/n: ☕️🔑

↘️ user7: IS THIS A HINT LOL

~

y/n_y/l/n

Liked by jacobelordi and 10,037 others

nope not a model, just your average Harvard law student!!

view all comments

jacobelordi: so much better than a model babe 🥱

↘️ y/n_y/l/n: hehehehehe 🥰

user1: JACOB IN THE THIRD PIC

user2: isn’t that the book he bought at the airport yesterday 😭

↘️ user3: YES!

↘️ user4: that was what I was thinking too 🤔

↘️ user5: that’s so cute aweee

user6: the caption. love her for that lmao

user7: she’s so luckyyy

user8: the fact that everyone for sure thought Jacob was dating a model 😬

↘️ jacobelordi: they thought wrong. law students do it better

↘️ y/n_y/l/n: lol sorry to burst ur bubble x

↘️ user8: OMG OMG U BOTH ANSWERED

user9: finally, a celebrity not dating some other celebrity or model 😂

user10: how can a Harvard student be out of Jacob Elordi’s league?!

[r0-boat]

For last night's stream we streamed a cute little dating sin called "I JUST WANT TO BE SINGLE!!"

It was a game cast of mostly girls even the MC and it was very cute.

As you may not or may already know I have a challenge where every after stream I do I make a drabble or headcanons or any writing based on the game I've played! And since the dating sim was very generic at school transfer student I thought I would do the same with WHB!

So enjoy being the human transfer student at an all demon school.

What in hell is bad? Seven Kings X transfer student

Whb high school AU

Mammon's Dad is alive, Solomon is your father these devils are younger than in the Canon games. Strictly an AU for fun silly purposes. All people are adults I don't specify if it's a high school or a college, but if it helps you sleep at night it's college. Solomon is one of those cool teachers that every student loves, Solomon isn't the best father but he is trying.

Cw: very silly, sfw but suggestive, cliche, some mention of sex because of you know who.

Intro:

What the fuck???

Three words screamed into your mind as you look on at the building that was supposedly your school It looked less like a school building and more like a castle. It's even look like the universities all your friends got accepted in. It looked more than that. Like how we would picture a top college like Yale or Harvard would look like if you've never seen or even heard of it before.

You knew that mysterious all expenses paid scholarship was a bad idea. But it wasn't a prank fine print was fine print. And the icing on the cake. Your father Solomon I would never home because of work was the one who sent you the letter.

Whatever they saw in you must be damn good to be able to get a fucking scholarship and a school that looks like this. The courtyard was utterly deserted signaling that everyone was probably already in their classes. You sigh as you walk over to the huge gated fence slowly and struggling to push the giant iron Gates open enough for you to squeeze by. Seriously who the hell are these gates designed for prisoners?!

But as soon as you stepped through the door this school was a different place entirely. It looked so orderly and clean on the outside but on the inside... It looks like a war zone. Cracks and holes in the floor boarded up windows with broken glass scattered about. The place wreaked of cigarettes and weed and alcohol. Just what kind of school was this??

You would soon get your answer when you stepped into your classroom. Handsome yet dangerous looking men stared at you sharp teeth sharp eyes and even sharper horns that adorned their head.

Devils?!

As the teacher also a devil with a tail that fully moved in such a way that you ruled out the possibility of it being fake introduced you.

"This will be our first human transfer student in a long time! And from then on... You're peaceful school life would never be the same.

Satan

Captain of devil's football (cavalry as they call it), His seating is at the back of the room, and it just so happened that next to him was the only open seat. He stared at you intensely with a scary look, with those red eyes piercing into your very soul. Your heart is pounding as you turn over with a timid smile. "H-hey..." But the devil said nothing as he continued the stair. It was like this for a while until he finally said, "yer a human right?" The word stumbled out of you immediately: "Yes!" The devil studies you for a second but a smile widens as he points "I know you! Your Mr Solomon's kid!" Hearing your dad's name you whip your head around "What? Solomon? You know him??" Satan's toothy grin goes wider "fuck yeah I do He's awesome! I never knew you had a kid though! I wonder why...." You didn't know what else to say if your dad was here you natural you had an urge to go see him when he turned to certain age to be on your own he showed up less and less so it was really hard to get into stay in one place. But Satan's energetic words cuts off your train of thought "You're definitely not going to survive here!" You must choked on your own spit. Yeah no shit Sherlock You kind of known from the moment you walked in but still it was just a shocking to hear it from someone else. "Oh yeah especially since your Solomon's child! Everyone's going to be drooling over you. Nah fuck that I'm going to protect you." He grinded his teeth at the mere mentioned And he just decided this instantly no rhyme or reason not that you think anyway. And he was true to his word a lot more than you thought because they were way too many devils that Satan had to show away That being said he didn't even like his own teammates getting too close It kind of sucked if you wanted to make new friends but I guess having scary dog privileges does help if you want to avoid not so nice people. In your short time of knowing Satan you've learned few things One of them being he had a short temper and once he blew his top he exploded like a volcano. Out of sheer anger he picked up a desk and hurdled it at a devil smashing the wall in process. Now you can see why your classmates called him "Lord of Wrath."

Mammon

You met him when he saw a crowd in the schoolyard. You've had extra free time to kill since Satan's desk-throwing stunt blew a hole into the wall of the classroom, which means an hour of free time. The group of devils gathered Drew your curiosity for you to come closer. When you pushed through the crowd you saw a man sitting on a bench He was sculpted like a rugged a mountain His muscular arms folded His legs crossed with a smirk on his face You finally were able to focus on the words they were saying "Lord of Greed something I want to buy but I can't afford-" , "say no more... Say the amount and you may have it"

"Lord of Greed those rings look so gorgeous where did you get them?!"

"Oh these cheap things? Meh the solid gold can't remember how many carrots off the top of my head but if you want it knock yourself out... They're not the best in my collection and honestly been wanting to get rid of them for a while." He looked so casual just taking off a gold ring and tossing it to the devil who asked as if these rings were worth mere pennies to him. That's when his eyes fell upon mine. His smile widened as he scooted to the right opening a seat for me "Oh? You're that human. Come sit with me." As all eyes were on you in an instant peer pressure crushed under your weight like a styrofoam cup as you shuffle toward him as if he was a god and you were a mere peasant.

As soon as you sat down his He leaned back and forth his eyes sculpting you just like a certain devil this morning before saying. "Hm... I like you, You're mine now."

"Excuse me... " You didn't realize you said it out loud until the devil chuckles "I said I like you and I own things that I like... I think humans call it 'relationship' I'm not really familiar with human courting. But you are mine now and I guess That means I am yours too." The group of devils around you too eyes widen like saucers. You had no idea what's going on as the devil's around you whisper material wealth, money,richest person in the world, jealousy This was all going so fast your head was spinning This was the second devil today that just decided that they liked you for no reason at all.

"say... What are your plans for lunch today?" You didn't even get a chance to open your mouth before he talked over you "whatever they are cancel them. You will be having lunch with me a five course meal made fresh by my father's personal chefs." You wanted to talk to say something You didn't even get a word out of your mouth when arms wrap around you and suddenly your transported in other place entirely.

Leviathan

An empty classroom with nothing but desks the same cracked walls a bottle of what you assume is alcohol have has really thrown on the floor and sitting on the desk staring at the window a man with a princely pretty looking face hair with a pearly white color that was mesmerizing to your eyes. But when you turn to look at you that color was all but mesmerizing as he looked at you with pure disgust. "You..." He snarled as he got it from his chair. Making strides toward you You were terrified but you stood your ground Even as he grabbed your face that made you flinch forcing your head left and right. Your eyes squeaks shut before putting your hands on him and pushing him away. He clicked his tongue and snarled. "Weak and annoying pitiful humans and you dare to be related to Solomon."

That struck a nerve. All day you've hadn't said a single word and this devil insulting you was the final straw.

"at least I don't have the personality of a raccoon with rabies your breath smells worse than the garbage you ate this morning."You snapped back at that moment you regarded little for your safety of what this devil could do to you No one talks to you or your family like that. Especially not assholes like him. The devil's eyes went wide for a second only to scrunch back up and click his tongue. "Just watch your back human..." He hissed storming up the classroom. First day and you made an enemy Great.... You definitely can't wait to get bullied by demons.

Beelzebub

You met him on the way to one of your classes getting chewed out by a teacher. You couldn't know but watch as the man with a single horn just nonchalantly leaned against the wall as the teacher went off on him: "You're the future Lord of Abyssos... You have to take this seriously! You're missing a lot of classes....!!!" But to the Lord of Gluttony, all this information went in one ear and out the other. When the teacher finally stormed off that's when he realized you had eavesdropped way more than you should have. When your eyes met, He smiled and pulled you into the room.

"hey haven't seen you before...hmm... You're Solomon's kid right?" He said his arm wrapped around your shoulder as he leans near your face. " Um yeah. " You just accepted that probably every person in the school knows now.

"Hell ya." Please smile before something seemingly distracted him That's when he held the back of your head and leaned your head in burying his nose and your hair. Instinctually you pulled back. " Sorry sorry It's just, wondering where that smell was coming from so I thought I'd take a sample from you." with his arms still around your waist He got up from leaning against the desk walking out of the classroom dieting you God knows where. "One thing about devils. Is that if we like something we like to get 'intimate' with that thing. " He smirked and the way the word intimate rolled off the tongue major eyebrows furrow. You're not quite sure what he meant by that and honestly part of you is too scared to ask. " Where are you taking me?" You said half wanting to change the subject. "Cafeteria where else?"

"But it's not lunch?"

"pft so?" Beelzebub chuckled as if you were worried about skipping class as a mere funny joke. "You worry too much. You're Solomon's kid. The teachers won't do anything, trust." Even though You are the kid of someone who apparently was extremely popular in this school and left a bad taste in your mouth to know you were getting special treatment. And you were practically being yanked along by this random devil, so you couldn't really do anything well, not if you worried about your safety. You still remember Satan hurdling the desk like it was nothing.

Lucifer

Remember Leviathan well unlucky for you he remembered you. When Beelzebub was taking way too long to get simple drinks to bring back to you to the empty pafeteria You decided to say fuck it and just walk back to class. And does he walk through the empty hallway you stopped and that's when you saw him. His scowling face made your heart drop.

Here is a fun fact about devils you learned when you just tried to turn around and walk away. They know magic as a tendril coming up from seemingly nowhere wrapped around your neck and yanked you backward toward him when his hands grabbed your shoulders. He yanked you and slammed you against the lockers, pinning you, his face hovering over yours. "I saw you hanging out with those other dimwits... "You're not sure why, but you know exactly who he was talking about. " Someone like you shouldn't be around people like them. He hissed as you felt his fingers dig into your shoulders as he pinned you harder and harder against the lockers. When you tried to lift your arms to push him, those tendrils returned, wrapping around your arms and slamming them against the locker. His hand slid from your shoulders to your waist. And now you're confused... "You're just a weak human remember that." He got close to your face grinding his teeth before using his limbs to throw you to the side.

It wasn't until he was gone that you noticed The pain in your wrist and blood dripping from the cut. You sigh as you decide to take a trip to the nurse's office if the devil's even had one.

They compared this school's other rooms to those in the disaster state. This one seems clean, untouched... Dare you say professional? The only one working was a baby blonde-haired man sitting at a desk, spinning around a pen between his nimble fingers. When he looked up he noticed the blood dripping from your wrist he shot up before you could even say anything He gently takes your hand. "Your hurt. come with me." Wrapping a hand around your waist guiding you to one of the beds in the nurse's office as if your cut was more dire than it was when he sat you down he immediately grabbed the bandages and started to wrap you up.

"You're the transfer student aren't you?" He asked which you only nodded. "Nice to meet you, I'm Lucifer I believe we share one class together?" Wow an actual introduction, All day you've gotten no introductions all their names you learned by word of mouth or other devils introducing them for you.

"Oh." Slipped from your mouth with more surprise than you wanted to, and Lucifer's Stern face curled up slightly. "Thought I was a teacher?" You just nodded your head. "I get that a lot. Not many students come here since they're all devils, so I got this place for myself. I don't even think we have a nurse; I'd hate to see anyone get hurt. " Huh That's sweet. From what you had been witnessing all day something like this was definitely a rarity. When he was finished wrapping your wrist he saw you out as quickly as you came in.

Belphegor

It wasn't even the end of the day yet and you were being yanked in every direction by everyone in the school devil's flocked to you looking at you with curiosity or hunger (You're not sure which one it was)

So you escape to the only place you know, where you constantly come up when you know you can be away from people. The rooftop. As you walked closer to one of the benches to sit down and eat, you failed to realize someone already held that spot who was sleeping soundly until he woke up with a yawn and a stretch. "Hrm?" He hummed, rubbing his tired eyes and looking at you as you just stood there frozen in place with enough awkwardness to kill a man. He pointed at you. "You c'mere." He said his voice low and husky. He made the motion with his finger. From your experience with being dragged around all day, You probably shouldn't accept this man's request as, knowing your luck, you would just get dragged into more drama or trouble. But you did interrupt his nap, and all things considered, he didn't look like he was in too much trouble. So you stepped closer. He left the bench next to him, and since there was nowhere to sit, It was your only option. As soon as you sat down, he laid back down, his head resting on your lap. Turning from his back to his side, he muttered, "You're comfortable. Stay like this fo'me, Would ya? " He asked you to fall asleep instantly. You don't know why, but this touched your heart, kinda a moment of tranquility as you place you eat your lunch, gazing at the world below. You were surprised to know how fast he went to sleep. Knowing your luck he was probably another Lord, And you could guess he must be the Lord of sloth. You know you shouldn't, but you couldn't help it. It's not like he would wake up to you running your fingers through his hair, reveling in how unexpectedly soft his locks were. Out of the hellish day you dealt with this, it was nice.

And it only got worse once lunch break actually rolled around as that's when Beelzebub Mammon and Satan saw each other and realized that they were after you as well to spend their lunch together.

Fun fact that you learned about devils when you had the displeasure of seeing your two classmates making out in the hallway while every student ignored them. Devils have no sense of shame or a lack thereof. They just do whatever they want when they want, which explains why the school rules about alcohol, weed, and other miscellaneous drug substances you have found throughout the day were so Lax. And another fun fact you learned about devils... It is that they are very territorial, apparently. You saw it first hand, as when Beelzebub wrapped an arm around you, Satan puffed up and hissed like a cat as he ripped him off you. You were lucky you escaped the scene, as when Mammon made a comment about How short Satan was, He exploded and tried to lunge at him.

Asmodeus

Was it too late to drop out??? You thought it was the end of the day, and you were beyond exhausted. And these lords did not stop either. You thought you could meet up with your dad if the bell rang. You wish you could call him, but sadly, that was off the table since your dear father had little to no interest in Mobile technology. The only one he ever had was a flip phone just to get a phone number. You swore a phone call with him was like torture as you had to listen to more static than his voice. Other devils told you and confirmed that he had his own personal office somewhere. If it wasn't for the big ass school, you would have been okay with trying to find his office, but sadly, you were already wandering around the school to stop now. When you walked by, you noticed the janitor's slightly open call. When you got closer, you snuck into the closet, and your eyes widened. A devil, no two devils... No three?? It's getting a little hot and under the collar in there. Grinding and bugging their hips against each other when you accidentally made a noise, the black-haired devil who was sandwiched between the other two noticed your presence. Your soul jumped out of your skin as you ran as fast as you could in the other direction. If he was another Lord, he was 100% the Lord of Lust, and you wanted nothing to do with him. But it seemed like he wanted everything to do with you as you kept wandering around the school, trying to purge that memory from your mind. You felt arms wrap around you. You shrieked and jumped backward turning to notice a familiar face. His smirk and disheveled clothes and hair shivered up your spine as your trembling voice fell from your lips. "Oh, it's you... What do you want?" Asmodeus giggled. "My, aren't you cute? I've never seen someone look at me with such frightened disgust."

He was practically undressing you with his eyes. Eye molesting... Whatever it was you didn't like how he looked at you. "Never in my thousands of years has someone looked at me with such... Such a 'curious expression.' You're Solomon's spawn? " At this point, so many devils have asked You throughout the day you just nod your head now in acceptance.

"I knew it. You even have his gorgeous eyes. And his sexier features that I've always admired from afar. "

What the fuck, please don't fuck my dad!? You screamed in your head. But since he was talking to you maybe he could tell you where he was since it looked like he would know a little too much "Do you-Do you know where he is?"

Their smirk only widened as he pulled you close against him. His body pressed against yours. You ground your teeth to stop from screaming as he whispered into your ear. "I do but what's my payment? You don't seem to have any on you..." He said his hands rubbing up and down the sides of your body. Before you could do anything else, you probably beat the shit out of him like you used to do with kidnappers when you were a kid. He pulls away and laughs like what he did was the funniest thing in the world.

"I'm just kidding sweetheart, You just look so cute I couldn't help but tease you. Yeah his office is on the next floor It has a purple rug can't miss it."

It's like the stress left your body as you sighed. You gave him a smile before leaving, but when you turned around, you swear to God you heard him say, " I think I'm in love..."

Bonus

You have to fight off tears when he mutters your name in a broken string of sentences, dreaming of the past when you were in diapers. You took his coat hanging from the chair and draped it over him before leaving his office

When you finally saw his office and walked inside, it looked like an old antique shop as all kinds of knick-knacks and antiques decorated the old wood shelves, and on his desk were stacks of paper, and your beloved father was caged between all those papers. Now you understand why he's always so busy as he was passed out on the desk. You are upset that you didn't get to talk to him, but you would probably get the chance tonight as you are living with him now, you understand. You never knew your mother, and to take care of you, He had to move out of the house and into an apartment, working his ass off day and night just to keep a roof over your head.

[theonlyonesora]

The Quiet Equation

Toto Wolff x You

The leaves had just begun to change—burnt orange and brittle gold curling at the edges of Harvard Yard—when he walked into your life like an equation that didn’t balance.

You were seated in the third row of Maxwell 202, your laptop open, fingers idly tracing the rim of your coffee cup. It was your first lecture of the semester, an advanced seminar on sports business leadership, a course you’d only taken because you craved something challenging. Something unfamiliar.

You didn’t expect him.

Toto Wolff.

He entered the room not with fanfare but gravity—like a planet arriving into orbit, unannounced yet impossible to ignore. Six foot five, dressed in a charcoal cashmere sweater and slacks that looked tailor-made for his long, deliberate strides. His accent curled around his words like silk-wrapped steel. Every student in the lecture hall straightened unconsciously. A few whispered. A few stared.

But he didn’t scan the room for admiration. No, he scanned for curiosity. For sharpness. For minds worth his time.

And when his gaze landed on you, it stayed there half a second too long.

You looked away first. You always did.

.

You weren’t used to being noticed.

At 27, you’d already earned your master’s in engineering, and now you were folding into a second program focused on organizational strategy. Most people thought you were a scholarship kid who studied too hard. Maybe you were. You liked silence, liked order, liked the click of logic falling into place. You liked data because it never lied.

But now, data had a voice, and it came in the form of a man twice your age with sharp eyes and a voice like dark chocolate and gravel.

And then came the email.

Subject: Extra Credit Assignment—Mercedes-AMG F1 Guest Lectures You were one of three students selected. Three.

To assist Mr. Wolff during his time as a guest lecturer.

.

The first time he said your name, it was late afternoon. The sun had begun to dip behind the old stone buildings, casting the seminar room in an amber glow. You had just finished walking him through an analysis of cross-market brand loyalty between Formula One and other global sports franchises.

“Brilliant,” he said, like the word meant something ancient and reverent. “But you already knew that.”

You swallowed. “It’s just data.”

Toto tilted his head, studying you. “No. It’s the way you see it that matters. You find meaning in numbers the way others find it in poetry.”

You flushed. You hated that. He was too perceptive. Too calm. You liked your walls. He was already walking through them like they weren’t even there.

.

Over the weeks, something began to shift.

He stayed after class longer. Asked you questions no one else would dare ask—about why you never raised your hand, about how you learned to think the way you did. About what you were really afraid of.

He listened when you spoke, not just with attention—but with intention. As if every sentence from you deserved space to unfold.

And you?

You began to crave it. That space. That steady, quiet pull of him. The way he stood too close without ever touching you. The way he would call your name lowly in passing—never inappropriate, never unprofessional, but still enough to echo in your stomach long after he left the room.

There was an age difference, of course. Twenty-four years. But it didn’t feel like that.

It felt like… depth. Like gravity finding gravity.

.

One night, well past midnight, you stayed behind after a guest seminar to help him with a data model. The others had left. The building was quiet, shadows climbing the bookshelves. The glow from his laptop cast him in silver light, jaw tense, brow furrowed as he reviewed your notes.

“You’ve done this before,” he said softly. “Built something and never taken credit.”

You looked at him. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you remind me of myself. At your age.” He paused. “Hungry. Brilliant. Lonely.”

That word landed like a pebble in still water.

You didn’t respond right away. Then, quietly: “I don’t mind being alone.”

“No,” he said, watching you. “But maybe you’d like someone who understands it.”

You turned your head to meet his eyes—and the room, the night, the world—it all shifted. Everything suspended.

His hand didn’t move first. Yours did.

And when his fingers closed around yours, it wasn’t the beginning of anything reckless.

It was the beginning of something inevitable.

.

You never told anyone.

Harvard whispered, as universities always do. But there were no scandals. No rumors. Just the quiet glances exchanged in the corners of classrooms, the subtle shift in your breath when he entered a room.

And on the last day of term, he handed you a folded note with only two lines written in his precise, deliberate hand.

You are the most elegant mind I’ve ever met. Come to Brackley this summer. We have work to do.

You stared at the signature beneath it.

Toto.

Not Mr. Wolff. Not Professor.

Just Toto.

And for once in your carefully structured life, you didn’t hesitate. You were already packed.

Maybe part 2 ?

[allebooklover]

Pssst op

He is shown having a statue in the ‘ever since we all started working panel’, its just 1) mixed in with the other students statues 2) it’s so stupidly tiny that its near impossible to notice on a first reading/skim through (I only noticed it on my third read when I decided to take my time staring at each page)

Super on brand of Deku to just avoid his own hero statue in favor of All Might’s statue tho lmao (gdi Deku)

Also, his class didn’t ghost him? They’re just having trouble meeting up as an entire class because of conflicting schedules. Which makes sense bc they’re a group of twenty one people who all have different shift hours, work areas and work schedules going on, and have to be constantly on call in case of emergencies. Pretty sure they still have smaller get togethers, talk over the phone, etc. (which is as much of an assumption as them ghosting him for 8 years, but one I’m more willing to believe in bc them funding the suit implies they wanted to keep him in their lives. Sure wish Horikoshi showed it instead of just implying it and leaving it up to reader imagination tho. Gdi Horikoshi.)

Edit: forgot to add that you don’t need to agree with this interpretation, it’s just that I found Horikoshi putting his statue so far into the background that it’s difficult to see both funny and frustrating and I figured knowing that it was there would help somewhat

"The funniest thing is how nobody gave him the recognition he deserved, not even a statue bro, the midoritas saved the world and it was like "ah ya", the romance with uraraka didn't develop, and his class ghosted him for 8 years kskskskss lol"

I'll just...leave this here...

[holmsister]

Kabru is sat next to this hot blonde in the blunt rotation at some party and they keep talking about random shit but they ARE hot and kabru is too polite to stop them so he's sort of listening with one ear and then like

L: AND THE ALPHA THING COMES FROM A POORLY-CONDUCTED STUDY ON WOLVES FROM SEVERAL PACKS FORCED TOGETHER IN CAPTIVITY AND-

K: *suddenly waking up from a mild slumber* oh its like the Zimbardo prison experiment.

L: the. What.

K: *talking at the speed of light out of fear Laios will stop him* in the seventies this psychologist called Zimbardo at the University of Harvard wanted to see how violence worked in humans so he enlisted students for a big behavioural study and divided them in two group - prisoners and prison guards - and gave the "guards" leeway in how they chose to enforce their authority on the "prisoners" which led to such a level of escalating abuse the experiment had to be stopped long before the agreed date and for decades this has been cited as PROOF humans will inherently take advantage of situations to abuse others but the experiments was demonstrably built extremely badly from conception and most serious researches dismiss it now but it STILL gets quoted all the time as proof humans are inherently evil and shit. Sorry.

L: ...why are you apologising.

K: I went on a weird rant on you.

L: that wasn't weird! That was super interesting actually. I didn't realise experiments on this sort were conducted on humans.

K: well. They usually aren't nowadays for a variety of- are you sure you want me to keep talking? You were talking about wolves.

L: oh but I actually want to hear so we can compare!

K: ...isnt it weird that I know so much about this sort of thing?

L: not at all!

K: *really hot for this stranger all of a sudden* uh. Ah. So. The behaviourist movement-

[starkwlkr]

love potion no. 9 | sebastian vettel

teenage!sebastian vettel

summerween series

Sebastian Vettel was a flop with the chicks. Every girl he talked to would ignore him and walk away. What was wrong with him? Did he have something stuck in his teeth or was it his braces?

He didn’t let it get to his head until he met Y/n L/n. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Everything about her was perfect. A girl like Y/n could never be seen with a nerd like me, thought Sebastian. She was the prom queen, everyone liked her, she had the best grades and she was most likely going to Yale or Harvard.

And what did Sebastian have? The reputation of being the school’s biggest nerd. How could he ever be with the most popular girl in school?

It all started when a Halloween dance was announced at school. Everyone was excited for it especially since they could wear costumes. Most couples were already thinking about their couples costumes. Sebastian had nothing in mind. He could go as Beetlejuice or maybe Peter Parker (not Spider-Man, everyone dressed up as Spider-Man). His thoughts were interrupted when his dream girl sat across from him at the table. It was study hall and he spent it in the library along with several other students.

“Hi.” Y/n L/n said to him. “Sorry I didn’t ask, but is it okay if I study here? I can move if you want me to.”

“No!” Sebastian said rather loudly. “Um . . I mean you can stay. No one is sitting there.”

Y/n smiled at him then proceeded to sit across from him. She took out her books and notebook and began to study. Sebastian didn’t get much studying done. He kept glancing at her, wondering if maybe he could start a conversation with her. By the time he actually built up the courage to say something, the bell had rung signaling the end of study hall. Y/n was already gone.

“Stupid.” Sebastian whispered to himself.

The days leading up to Halloween dance were pure hell for Sebastian. He heard many rumors that Jason, the most popular boy in school, was going to ask Y/n to the dance. That couldn’t happen, no! Sebastian needed to take you to the dance. Since it was a costume required dance, he needed the best costume to impress you so he looked through his old yearbooks and pulled up the class pictures from grade school. He found her name and read over her likes and dislikes, hobbies, and what she wished to be when she grew up. Every kid had a page like that, some kids changed, no longer liking Barbie or toy cars, but Sebastian never did. He still liked comics, cars, old movies.

You never changed either.

Likes: Star Wars, the color pink, almond M&M’s

That’s it! Star Wars was his answer. It was pretty obvious that Y/n would chose to go as Princess Leia so Sebastian bought pieces of clothing to resemble Han Solo. He hoped that she would be impressed.

The day of the dance finally came and Sebastian was nervous. All around him people were dressed as witches, pirates, devils and angels and what was he dressed as? The captain of the millennium falcon.

He stood around hoping to spot Y/n, but there was no sign of her. Maybe she stayed home . . . This was a stupid idea anyway. Sebastian was defeated so he walked to the gym door and was about to leave when he bumped into Y/n in her costume.

“Holy shit! Han Solo!” She gasped when she saw Sebastian in costume.

“Princess Leia . . .” He cracked a smile. Y/n was dressed in Leila’s outfit from The Empire Strikes Back. “Hi.” He shyly said.

“Hi, Seb! I didn’t know you liked Star Wars? I love it! My brothers don’t so I really have no one to talk to about it, but maybe you and I could—”

“Y/n!” A friend of hers ran up to Sebastian and Y/n. “What are you wearing? We agreed to be cats!” She gestured to the fake drawn on whiskers and cat ear headband. “You look . . ”

“Pretty. She looks pretty.” Sebastian cut in. He really didn’t know where he got the confidence to speak up, but he was glad he did.

“Sure,” her friend rolled her eyes. “I don’t think Jason would like a prude for a girlfriend.”

“Well I’m not here with Jason.” Y/n stated. She then grabbed Sebastian’s hand and pulled him away from her friend. “You can have him!” She and Sebastian ran down the hall to god knows where. Sebastian didn’t really care in the moment. He could believe he was holding hands with her, especially dressed as Han Solo and Princess Leia.

Y/n and Sebastian ended up in the art room where they were laying on the rug staring at the painted ceiling.

“And don’t even get me started on all my ‘friends’! One of them called my dad hot! It was so uncomfortable so I stopped inviting them to my house.” Y/n revealed. She laughed it off knowing she was never going back to her friends.

“Oh god.” Sebastian chuckled. “I didn’t realize you knew my name.” He changed the topic.

“I’ve always known. We’ve been in each other’s classes since grade school!” Y/n pointed out. “You’re a really cool person, Seb, and I really like being with you.”

“You’re the only person who calls me Seb, you know. I like it.”

Y/n giggled. “Did you drink some of the punch?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Amber Marsh spiked the punch.”

So that’s where the confidence came from. Thank you Amber Marsh I guess, thought Sebastian. He couldn’t remember how many times he had gotten punch.

“Y/n?”

“Yeah?” The boy and girl continued looking at the painted stars on the ceiling.

“I like you.” He admitted.

“I know.”

That was the closest they got to their Han and Leia moment until a year later when Sebastian finally said ‘I love you’ to Y/n. She replied with the classic ‘I know’ line that made Sebastian’s nerdy teenage heart melt.

TAGLIST

@yannew @annieoncrack @stinkyjax

[ohtobeleah]

Was It Over? // Jake Seresin

-> Chapter Thirteen: [Panic Room]

Summary: Jakes darkest fears come to fruition when surgery doesn’t go as planned and the months to come bring a new reality he never saw coming.

Warnings: MAIN CHARACTER DEATH Sick!reader. Breast cancer diagnosis. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Angst, hospital & medical inaccuracies. SLOW BURN ROMANCE/ Inaccurate medical information. Relationship turmoil. Mentions of religion.

Word Count: 5.5k

Author Note: A big show of appreciation and love to @a-reader-and-a-writer (Vee) for constantly being ready and willing to help me with my writing. You have been the backbone I needed to get this done!

You guys will never know how much this series means to me. And in the same breath, you guys will never know how much your support truly means. Merry Christmas Eve Eve 2024 ya filthy animals.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Researchers say the average length of a dream is two to three minutes long. But many people experience their dreams as hours, days, or even years if they can remember them at all. 

The science of dreaming has been questioned for hundreds of years. Some hypothesise that dreams are our way of processing real events that occur when we’re awake. They also serve as an outlet for repressed hopes and desires. Neuroscientists introduce a new theory every few years. But honestly, no one knows why we dream. 

Or why we have nightmares. We just hope that after the dream, we wake up. 

“We’ve gone over all the risks, weighed up all the possible outcomes, dotted I’s and crossed T’s. Today is the day, Mrs. Seresin.” Doctor Morrison was hopeful in his consultation. The white coat-wearing man reassured you as he placed your chart back where it belonged. “How are you feeling?” 

The question went unanswered for a moment or two. You felt like you were in a state of shock. Unable to truly express how you felt just hours before going into what could be life-changing surgery. You were giving everyone in the room a thousand-yard stare. Mentally and physically, you had checked out. Like you’d been stuck in a nightmare that wouldn’t stop torturing you. 

“We had some bad news last night. A close friend passed away unexpectedly,” Jake answered on your behalf. “Is there any way–” 

“We need to do this now, Mr. Seresin, or we won’t be able to revisit this for a few months,” Dr. Morrison explained with an emphasis on the matter of now or never. “I understand personal circumstances may have changed. However, knowing everything you know about risk and recovery and survival rates after double mastectomies, I recommend we stick to the organised care plan.” 

“Can we have a moment alone?” Jake asked cautiously as his hand came to rest gently on your shoulder. You hadn’t moved from what could only be described as a catatonic-like state for the entire duration of the conversation. 

“Of course,” Dr. Morrison nodded. “I’ll come back after I’ve checked in on a few patients.” 

It didn’t take long at all for the oncology crew to exit the room. But the second they did, you felt like you could breathe again. 

“I can’t go through with this surgery Jake,” you begged. Fear of the unknown had taken over your entire being. “I can’t do this,” 

“You are the strongest person I know, honey, the kids and I really need you to do this.” Jake tried his best to comfort you as well as remind you why this surgery was so important. “We need you, yeah? We need you to stick around and this fucking cancer, this disease, is trying to cut that time short.” 

“But Jensen–” 

At the height of the Great Depression, Harvard scientists started tracking students in hopes of discovering the key to a long and happy life. They looked at participants’ mental and physical health over seventy-five years. It’s the longest study of happiness to date. Seventy-five years and all they did was confirm what we’ve known since the beginning of time. 

The most powerful predictor of health and happiness is the quality of our relationships. 

Strong relationships protect us. Loneliness on the other hand…can be deadly. 

“Would want you to keep fighting and have this surgery.” Jake could have said he thought Jensen was a coward. He could have said how angry he was at that fucker for leaving you alone in this world with no one to confide in who knew the struggle, who knew the feeling of being told you’re sick and need to get sicker in order to get better. 

Jake could have told you how he wished Jensen had survived so he could kill him himself. Jake could have responded with the fact Jensen was terminal and there was nothing on this earth that could have saved him from his illness. 

Jake could have told you that Jensen thought you hung the stars and the moon in the night sky every night just for him…but then Jake would also have to admit to himself and you that maybe, just maybe, you should have moved on. 

“What would he say right now if he was here?” Jake settled on that question just to keep himself sane. He didn’t want to open yet another can of worms right before your surgery. This was all one big giant nightmare already, he didn’t want to make it worse. If anything, Jake kept pinching himself in secret just hoping that maybe he’d wake up on the couch and this cancer saga would all be some sadistic subconscious dream of his. 

He’d always been deathly afraid of not being good enough for you. 

“He’d tell me to do it,” you sighed as you let your head rest against the upright bed. “He’d tell me to be strategic about the battle, the war is the endgame.” 

“Exactly, one battle at a time, step by step,” Jake agreed with a cheeky smile. That signature Seresin smile you so effortlessly loved. “You’re not gonna hand in the white flag before the battles even really begins, are you?” 

“Kinda want to if I’m being completely honest with you,” you responded knowing Jake would appreciate the honesty. “But I guess you and the kids really need me to stick around, huh?” 

“Oh, I can’t even begin to explain how much we need you to stick around, honeybee.” it was as honest and as sincere as Jake could be. He wore his heart on his sleeve for you. He exposed every nerve he had just so you could dance your feather-like fingers across the tender strings that made Jake, Jake. 

“I’m so scared of being alone in the operating room,” you admitted as Jake leaned in to leave a gentle kiss on your forehead. “I’m so scared they won’t see me as a person,” It was an explanation that broke Jake’s heart even though he believed his heart couldn’t be broken any more. “That they won’t remember I’m me, that I have a life and a family and people who will miss me.” 

Over the course of our lives, our relationships ebb and flow. We get together, break up, move away, or fall out of touch. It’s prolonged periods of loneliness and toxicity that wreak havoc on our health, our brain function, and our longevity. 

“You’re never alone,” Jake replied softly as tears threatened to spill over his waterline. “I’m always with you, the kids are always with you, Jensen, your mum, everyone will be with you during that surgery, we’re gonna be waiting on the other side.” 

“I love you so much, Jake Seresin,” you smiled brightly through a tight-lipped smile Jake wished he could save in his mind’s eye forever. “Let’s win this battle.” 

“And the war too,” Jake replied as he reached for your hand, gave it a soft squeeze, and brought your palm to his lips. “Let’s fucking do this, Y/n.” 

*************************************

Jake sat waiting by the vending machine as he picked at the small single service-sized packet of original Lays he’d nearly had to beg the machine to drop. His watch told him it was almost nearing the end of your surgery. He wasn't stressed, not when your surgeon had been so hopeful and calming. Jake had spent far too much of his time recently worrying about the what-ifs. He wanted to focus on the now. And that now was the fact you would have been nearing the end of your surgery. Which meant soon enough he’d get to see you again. 

The only thing that kept Jake on his toes was the ever-looming doubt that perhaps the treatment plan wouldn't be enough. He hoped that you had enough fight in you to make it through the journey. He needed you to have enough strength to fight. 

“She should be coming out of surgery soon–” Jake explained as he held his phone up to his ear and tried not to chew so loud. “The kids know that Rooster is picking them up to bring them home to Grandma Maz’s house?” 

“Yeah, Mum’s not too happy about it but she won't keal over about it,” Jasmine replied as she watched her brother's kids play with hers in the backyard she and Jake used to make mud pies in. “Rooster messaged about an hour ago saying he was close, he shouldn't be too far away now.” Jas continued in her own little world. Jake was used to not being able to get a word in with his youngest sister. “I can't believe Y/n has fucking cancer–does her side of the family have a history or…?” 

“Not that we know of, it's just really bad luck, Jas,” Jake sighed as he let his head fall back against the wall his chair was pressed up against. “But hopefully with this surgery and the chemo, she’ll be able to beat it.” 

“Well, you tell her that I’m pissed she gets a boob job before I do,” Jasmine tried her best to keep the situation as light-hearted as possible. “Make sure she gets a good rack, not too small or too big, like a good handful that's just right.” 

“I'll be sure to let her know,” Jake smiled, he really could count on his sister for that. “Oh, I gotta go, I see Y/n’s surgeon.” Jake sat up in anticipation as anxiety flooded his nervous system. “Tell the kids we love them for me.” 

“Have been every day,” Jasmine replied quickly knowing her brother probably had his phone down from his ear by now. “Bye.” 

Jake was quick to pocket his phone and wipe the crumbs from his shirt as he stood to greet your surgeon. However, something seemed off about the man who had seemed so confident before your surgery. 

“Mr. Seresin–” 

“How is she?” Jake asked. He didn't mean to interrupt, but he needed to know first and foremost before any medical mumbo jumbo. “My wife, how’d the surgery go?” 

There was a very telling pause that accompanied the sober look that Doctor Morrison wore, but Jake tried not to read into it all that much. He knew you would be fine. 

Right? 

“Mr Seresin, your wife's heart was weakened by the stress of her recent stroke,” Doctor Morrison began to explain as Jake stood there expecting good news. “She, unfortunately, went into a cardiac arrest–” the air around Jake disappeared. Almost instantly, he felt as if he were floating in space. “We tried to revive her for the better half of twenty minutes while she was on the table,” There was a pause. A telling moment where reality and fantasy were trying to battle it out. Who’s version of events would win? When Doctor Morrison saw Jake’s mind short-circling with an inability to process the magnitude of information, he felt as if he needed to continue explaining the severity of the situation. 

“It was catastrophic, and I'm afraid we've lost her.” Doctor Morrison had told far too many loved ones over the years that they had lost family members, but never in all his years had he ever seen such immediate denial written in the lines on someone's face. “Mr. Seresin, your wife has died.” The words Doctor Morrison was saying were not sinking in as Jake stood there completely blind to the reality happening around him. “I’m so sorry for your loss–” 

“Uh–” Jake frowned as the confusion kicked in. “I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. My wife was fine before she went in for surgery, she was fine.” 

“Yes, yes, your wife was fine, yes–” Doctor Morrison tried to keep his composure, but even after all these years the losses still hurt. It made him feel human to experience the emotions alongside the family members, but in the first few seconds of watching Jake Seresin spiral into a hole of denial that you were, in fact, gone, Doctor Morrison, knew this particular loss would haunt him for the rest of his career. 

Speaking slowly, Doctor Morisson tried once more to explain what had happened in a way that Jake would understand. “The stress of the surgery along with her recent stroke…her body just couldn't handle the stress. Her heart experienced a cardiac episode and we unfortunately couldn’t revive her.” 

The immediate silence between the two men was all-consuming as it was telling. Jake’s heart was breaking in two. 

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Doctor Morrison tried to be as empathetic as he could be, this part of the job was never easy. The part where he was tasked with telling loved ones that the people they loved had passed on his table. They were few and far between, but the people he did lose would forever haunt him. He could name every single one and their family’s name too. Jake Seresin would be a name Doctor Morrison would remember for the rest of his life and into the next. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Jake pushed back almost immediately as he tried to wrap his head around what he was being told. This didn’t make any sense, you were just here. You were fine. 

“No, Mr. Seresin I–” Doctor Morrison tried to explain again, but it was to no avail.

“I–Okay, I think you must be mistaken,” Jake wiped his hand on his jeans as he stepped back. “I just need to ge–”

“Mr. Seresin, please.” Doctor Morrison tried to stop Jake from leaving the waiting area, but Jake just stepped further back with a frown of disgust and grief. He was still holding his packet of Lays. 

“No, no can you just, can you back up?” Jake nearly growled. “Can you leave me alone?” Jake looked around as he tried to remember how to breathe. People were staring at him like he was in a zoo. A caged and cornered animal begging to be left alone. “Can somebody get this person to just give me some space please?” It was as heartbreaking as it was cruel to watch Jake walk down the hall towards where he knew your hospital room was. 

“Y/n?” He called out hoping you'd be back by now. “You won’t believe this guy, honey. He just–” The moment Jake rounded the corner and saw your hospital room empty with no sign of you, he stood still. All the air had been sucked right from his lungs as his eyes scanned the room. Your Christmas lights weren’t flashing, your bed wasn't made, and your laptop sat open with a black screen, but just where you’d left it. You weren't back. 

“Y/n?” Jake whispered under his breath as his eyes continued to scan the empty hospital room just waiting for you to appear from out of the bathroom or sneak up behind him. But Jake knew you weren't about to appear even though he wished for nothing more. 

“Oh–” One step, two steps, three steps, four. Jake didn't know where he was but he was on the move. He couldn't stay here looking at an empty room. He had to find where you were. “Oh god, no, no no no no no, please no don’t take her away from me.” 

“Jake!” The woman's voice Jake had come to know over the last few days broke through the fog that was clouding Jake's mind. He continued to stumble blindly down the ward. “I just heard,” Lydia explained as she rushed up to the man who she had come to know as your husband. “I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting this to happen. I thought–” Lydia quickly reacted when Jake's knees buckled underneath him. 

“Woah! I need a little help over here!” Doctor Morrison was quick on the draw as he made his way over to where Jake now kneeled on the floor unable to breathe. 

“My wife–” Jake tried to talk as he hyperventilated. “Y/n!” he cried out for all to hear. “Y/N!” 

“She's gone.” Doctor Morrison had to make sure the fact was sinking in. 

“Oh Jake, I’m so sorry–” Lydia tried to console the six-foot-something man who had crumbled to his knees. “Your wife was an amazing woman.” 

Jake still couldn't believe it, he didn't believe it, and he wouldn't. The pain he felt inside his chest, the burning hot sensation was excruciating. He’d never felt such a feeling of grief mixed with denial and so much love. You couldn’t be gone. He was having a nightmare, wasn’t he? This wasn't real. He was dreaming. This was all one big dream. It had to be. It had to be a nightmare his subconscious had concocted. A nightmare where Jake lost it all. His biggest fears were realised. 

“I need my wife, I need Y/n,” Jake sobbed as Lydia kneeled on the ground in front of him just assessing his current state of shock. “I can't, she can't–no no no she's fine, please tell me she's fine.” 

“I'm so sorry, Jake,” Lydia confirmed what Jake wished so desperately wasn’t true. “She’s gone,” Lydia’s voice became distorted as she held the broken man in her arms. “You need to wake up before it's too late.” 

************************

Bradley Bradshaw was accustomed to losing the people he loved the most in this world. He’d lost his father, his mother, and his grandparents. For a while there he’d lost the only man who had ever slightly filled the shoes his dad left behind. But the loss of someone who was still there was something he’d never had to handle before. 

“Nat, he hasn’t gotten out of bed in days,” Bradley groaned as he cleaned up the kitchen. “The kids already lost their mother,” Bradley tried his best to keep his voice down, but the way little Lennox clocked Bradley from where he was sitting at the dining table made him realise he wasn’t one to talk on the quiet side. “They don’t need to lose their dad too.”

Jake stood just outside of Bradley’s eyeline, but he could hear everything the giant overgrown bird was saying. He couldn’t hear what Phoenix was saying but there was enough back and forth on Bradley’s behalf to easily fill in the gaps. 

“No. No, he hasn’t been down since the funeral.” Jake forgot how to exhale at the mere mention of your funeral as he hid in the hall. He couldn’t remember ever getting ready or speaking at your wake. He couldn’t remember who drove them or if the kids cried. He couldn’t remember hugging your mother or shaking your brother’s hand. Jake couldn’t remember any details about the flowers he’d organised or the people who were there. 

The anti-depressants weren’t helping. Nothing was. Nothing would. 

Until today, Jake couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. Without you, there was no point. He was begrudgingly okay with living a life in a world where you were still in it. But living in a world where you were no longer present wasn’t something Jake was willing to do. The kids would be fine with their grandparents. They’d be fine with Uncle Rooster. Lennox and Lucy and little Sammy didn’t need him. How was he supposed to look into their eyes and know he could never see the twinkle in yours ever again? 

“I’m really worried about him, Nat,” Rooster sighed as he held his phone up to his ear with his shoulder. He was working on making little Samy some banana pancakes. “As much as I want to, I can’t stay here forever, but he needs someone.” 

“No one is asking you to babysit me, Bradshaw,” Jake replied to the statement Bradley wasn’t expecting an answer to. “You can leave, trust me, I can drop the kids off with my mum.” 

Bradley stood stunned into silence as he watched Jake round the corner and into vision. He reluctantly reached for his phone and hung up as Phoenix questioned what was going on. 

“Hey man,” Rooster finally broke the silence as he watched Jake walk closer and closer to where Sammy sat in his high chair. “How you feeling today?” 

“Well, my wife’s still dead, so that’s something,” Jake replied with a sigh as he picked up Sammy and placed him on his lap. Lennox could see the look of pure admiration in his younger brother’s eyes as Jake hugged the smallest of the Seresin kids. “Seriously, you’ve done enough for us, I got it from here.” It was the biggest lie Jake had ever tried to tell not only himself but his best friend. 

“Uh,” Bradley wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure? I mean–I wanna stay as long as you need man,” Bradley tried to plead his case as Jake went about his business with Sammy. The business being nothing. Jake stood somewhat dazed and lost in the middle of the clean-ish kitchen. A kitchen he knew where nothing was. It wasn’t his. It was yours. 

“I think the kids should come back to North Island with me,” Jake opted to ignore what Bradley was saying. Instead, he decided to continue with a vague plan for what the future holds. A future he didn’t want to have with you. A future he didn’t care about. 

“You want the kids to uproot everything they know?” Rooster frowned as he looked over to where Lenny sat watching on. The kids were down, to say the least. Bradley could recognise himself in the permanent pout that had taken shape across Lennox’s face. The puffy eyes and saddened expression really tied the whole look of mourning together. They were just kids, they didn’t deserve any of this. “I don’t think you should be thinking about coming back to work anything soon either.” 

“I don’t need you micromanaging me,” Jake hissed as he held onto his youngest son, all the while his eldest watched on with concern for his dad. “I need you to go home, Rooster, we’ve got it from here.” 

“You don’t got anything, Seresin. Are you kidding me right now?” Bradley didn’t mean to come across as so defensive. But he’d seen Jake in this grief-fueled spiral long enough to know that his destructive and depressive mindset would end up causing more distress for the kids than intended. Jake was a good dad, that had never been questioned. Until now… Bradley wasn’t sure if his best friend could handle parenting three small children without a village to back him up. “The kids haven’t seen you in days–” 

“Would you rather them see me at my worst or not see me at all?” Jake’s grief was eating away at him. So much so that Jake began to wish each time he closed his eyes he’d get to stay with the version of you his mind had envisioned. “I’m fine, I’ve got it from here,” Jake sighed as he hugged little Sammy with all the strength that he had. “I wasn’t, but I’m fine now and I just wanna spend time with the kids.” 

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying right now man,” Bradley replied as he caught sight of Lucy coming down the hall. She’d been sleeping much like her father was. Great, all three Seresin children were present for their father’s impending breakdown. 

“Get the fuck out of my house, Bradshaw.” This hadn’t been the first confrontation Jake and Bradley had gotten into while Bradley had been staying in Rhode Island as the Seresin kid’s personal live-in nanny. And it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It was becoming an almost everyday occurrence. The only difference this time was the kids were here to witness it. “I don’t need you here–”

“You aren’t thinking straight, just–how about the kids and I go for a walk or something and you sort yourself out? Have a shower? Shave? Drink something other than alcohol for–” Before Rooster could finish his sentence, Jake was placing Sam on the kitchen floor with a haste that didn’t sit right with Rooster. Lennox was the first to move from his chair. He was the spitting image of his father. 

“I don’t fucking care, Rooster!” Jake shouted at the top of his lungs. So loud and with such rage that the veins in his neck were popping as his skin turned a nice shade of ruby red. He took fast strides across the kitchen until Jake was standing toe to toe with his best friend. The very friend who’d been taking care of his children since before your passing. “I have to live the rest of my fucking live without the woman I love, so, cut me some godman slack before I knock your smug ass head from your shoulders.” 

Bradley didn’t move. He didn’t retaliate. He watched over Jake’s shoulder how his three children all cowered on the kitchen floor, scared of how their father yelled. Jake was oblivious to his surroundings. He couldn’t see the kids were struggling too. 

“Jake?” Bradley sighed as he placed his hands on either side of Jake’s face. “When the fuck are you gonna get through all this?” Braley asked softly as he remained calm. “When are you gonna wake up?” 

“Wake up?” Jake repeated as he pulled his face from his best friend's grip. “Wake up? Bradshaw, I died with my wife! There is no waking up from any of this!” 

“Maybe–” Bradley shrugged as he walked over to where the kids had been huddled together. It was only as Jake followed Bradley’s trajectory that he realised how much he’d scared his children. Something he never wanted to do. “There's always hope though.” 

“Kids,” Jake sighed as his tears began to fall. He dropped to his knees right then and there in the kitchen he wasn't familiar with. In a house that was now cold and dark without your constant radiating light to keep it warm and bright. “Guys, I'm sorry, huh–Dad didn't mean to raise his voice, he’s just–” Before Jake could finish his sentence, little Lennox was finishing his father’s sentence for him. 

“You’re just sick, dad.” 

“What?” Jake frowned as the kids made their way over to where Jake was kneeling on the tiles. 

“I said you’re just sad, Dad,” Lennox replied once more as he gave his dad a hug. “We’ll take care of you.” 

************************

December 31st 

Jake Seresin tried his best to hide the wet tears that fell down his cheeks as he sat with his kids on the lounge of the home that he had tried his best to keep as tidy as he could. There was a lot of uncertainty, a lot of frustration, a lot of fear and unbelievable sadness that surrounded Jake and your three small children. The unknown was truly tragic, terrifying and treacherous, but Jake wasn’t about to let his kids see the way he so desperately wanted to cry. 

Things had changed since Jake fell mind, body and soul into an unimaginably deep hole of depression. So much so that days had become to feel like one long dream. A paradox of grief and manic love. Your mother had told Jake to feel every ounce of emotion he had locked away. Maz had told him that grief was just someone’s residual love with nowhere else to go. 

Once Jake was able to understand that the pain of losing you was his love for you, he understood why it hurt so deeply on a cellular level. He understood why it hurt to look at the children he’d created with you. He understood why the kids had wanted to sit and open the small, still-wrapped Christmas present Lenny had found in Jake’s bag when he was looking for his dad’s wallet. 

Because it was one of the last things you ever gifted someone. It was one of your last acts on earth. 

“What did Mum get you for Christmas, Daddy?” Jake held the small present in the palm of his hand, the present he had yet to open. The present he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It felt like something he’d held before, the weight felt all too familiar. It haunted him the more he carried it around, held it in the palm of his hand and contemplated the inevitable. 

“I dunno buddy, you reckon I should open it?” Jake asked as he kissed his son's head. “S’not Christmas anymore.” The Naval Aviator had recently shaved his head, it had been the closest to a number one he’d ever had. It was in solidarity, union. A decision he made in the blink of an eye but one he did not regent or ever would. 

“We haven’t taken the tree down yet,” Lucy added her two cents into the conversation as she laid her head on her father’s thigh. “Mum would be upset if you didn’t open it, Dad.” Jake knew that much was true, you probably would be pretty bent out of shape if he never opened it. 

“Alright, I’d better open it then huh?” Jake shook the small perfectly wrapped box he could hold in the palm of his hand. He heard what sounded like a rock rattle inside. His heart nearly exploded inside his chest. 

Fuck….Jake knew what it was and he really didn’t want to open it. 

“Hey, Dad?” Lucy’s voice sounded completely different to anything Jake had ever heard before. She was looking right at him yet her eyes were trained on something one hundred miles away. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jake replied just as he was about to open the present you’d given him before his life was turned upside down. 

“You need to wake up now,” Lucy’s voice sounded familiar, but it wasn’t her own. “You’ve had enough time here,” 

“What are you talking about Lu?” Jake frowned as he looked at his daughter. An extension of himself and you. “Lucy? Are you feeling okay?” 

“You’ll be a good dad soon,” Lucy smiled as she unwrapped the small ring box in Jake’s hand. The ring box that held what Jake assumed to be your engagement ring. But as little Lucy opened the wrapping, a blinding light burst through the cracks. A light so bright it forced Jake to squint. 

“Please wake up, honey,” Jake heard your voice clear as day as Lucy opened the ring box to send a piercing white light into the living room. Jake was completely captured by the light around him. So much so the entire room was drowned in a light so pure it was crystal clear. He couldn’t see a single thing beyond the all-encompassing white. 

“Please wake up for us,” again your voice was the only thing Jake could hear in the void he found himself in. 

“Y/n?” Jake called out into the void around him. He could feel his ribcage breaking like he couldn't breathe. Every breath he took was agony. “Hello?” Yet he could hear your voice. A voice he longed for. A voice he had to get back to. Jake had to get to you. 

“I’m here, you’re alright,” Jake once again heard your angelic siren song. His head began to throb. The feeling was agonising. Like there was no more room for swelling. 

“Where are you?” Jake called out as he stumbled in the light. The smell of burning flesh mixed with jet fuel overcame Jake’s senses. His need to get to you was more powerful than the deep bone ache he could feel in his legs. There was nothing on earth or beyond that would stop Jake from getting to wherever the hell you were calling him from. His entire body ached with a pain so unimaginable it sent him to his knees. Crawling, Jake cried out for you just one more time. 

“Y/n!?” Jake called out once more in a desperate attempt to find you in the void. “Kids?” 

“Here he comes,” Bradley’s voice echoed out as Jake looked up towards where he assumed the sky would be. The glare was too much. Jake placed his forearms over his forehead to soften the brightness. “Come on Hangman, don't leave us out to dry.” 

Some people spend their whole lives trying to make a dream come true. They set a goal and make a plan on how to achieve it. It works for some people. But for others, it’s not so easy. As hard as they work toward the dream, it can feel like the whole world has plotted against them. 

As someone gets further and further away from the dream, people begin to cling to any sign of hope. And the longer it takes and the more it costs…you start to consider whether you should give up. Do you find a new dream? Or do you stick to the one that started you on this journey in the first place? 

For Jake, things weren’t as black and white. 

As Jake closed his eyes and took one painful last breath in, he felt as if he’d fallen from cloud nine. When he opened his eyes, the light was still there….But he wasn’t.

Jake’s eyelids fluttered, the faintest hint of light creeping through the haze of his mind. He tried to move, but his body felt foreign as if it wasn’t entirely his own. The weight of unconsciousness clung to him, reluctant to release its hold. Slowly, he became aware of the sounds around him—

“Jake, It’s me, can you hear me?”

**********************

Tags: @blindedbythelightt @starset21 @tayl0rhuynh @marvelogic @itsmytimetoodream

@maverick-wingman @kodzukenmaaa @eternalsams @seitmai @nota-professional

@jessicab1991 @hardballoonlove @senawashere @withahappyrefrain @dizzybee03 @maisie-rebloging-blog

@a-reader-and-a-writer @sunlightmurdock @shelbycillian @memoriesat30 @accioprocrastination

@the-aspiring-fanfic-writer @athenabarnes @eternallyvenus @emma8895eb @kmc1989 @avengersgirllorianna

[winterrrnight]

Rafe x bimbo!reader yes but what about Rafe x scholar!reader who’s literally an academic weapon. And not Rory Gilmore type of academic weapon; Paris Geller type of academic weapon. She has it all decided. She knows where she wants to go. She knows how she’s going to do it. And she is already two steps ahead of her plans. And not only is she book smart, she’s street smart. Rafe doesn't know how he bagged her, but he did and he’s damn proud of that. He’s her biggest supporter, always being so proud of her when she tells him her insane test results. He drops and picks her up from the library, and always awaits her with her favorite pastries. And you best know he is cheering for her the loudest when she gets the title of ‘valedictorian’. It isn’t “oh my god babe you did it!”, but it’s “of course you did it, if not you, then who? I always knew you could do it.” He’s always showing her off to his friends. “Oh my girlfriend? Yeah she’s in town on semester break. Which college you ask? Harvard, where else?” If she’s staying up late at night to study, he’s staying up with her too. “Babe, you need a break?” “Just ten more minutes…” “Alright bub I’m waiting for you yeah? Don’t overwork yourself please.” He always helps her test herself, hiding his face behind her flashcard as she tells him her answer confidently, and then peering at her with the biggest grin as he kisses her cheek. “Yes, that's absolutely correct babe!” And you best know he’s holding her tight when she feels like she can’t do it anymore, and it’s all too tough. “Oh baby don’t cry yeah? You are so strong and so intelligent, you just need a break. And when you’ll get back, you’ll get back stronger. And you’ll do it. There’s no one I have more faith in than you.”

Bonus: if she’s doing a course which has more male students than female, she’ll come back home grinning telling him she scored better than all the guys in her class. “Of course you did! They’re all little dumb boys, but you, you’re my smart, intelligent girl.”

(wrote this mostly to motivate me 🥲 I am not an academic weapon but unfortunately an academic victim) moodboard inspired by this post!

send me any of your drew/rafe/zach thoughts! (sfw only!)

[goblin-jr]

PHASE III: REINTRODUCTION PROTOCOL

=============================================== CONFIDENTIAL – GOTHAM PSYCHOSOCIAL RESEARCH UNIT   CASE FILE #: JX-1989   DOCUMENT TYPE: Postmortem Longitudinal Trial Summary   TRIAL NAME: A Character Study in Grief   TRIAL MASTERLIST: A Character Study in Grief   TRIAL DESIGN: Three-Phase Emotional Disruption Model   STATUS: Closed   SECURITY CLEARANCE: ALPHA+   ===============================================

Study Brief

 Subject B re-entered Subject A’s life under concealed identity. Initial interactions were indirect, progressing to sustained proximity and emotional reinforcement.

Subject A developed attachment under misidentified parameters. Full identity disclosure occurred under emotionally heightened conditions. Results indicate unresolved grief, enduring attachment, and high volatility.

Read full report below.

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(click on links to access log)

🎙️ [ACCESS: STUDENT BROADCAST ARCHIVE — HARVARDRADIO.COM] Podcast Transcript | The Crimson Hour Ep. 68 | “She Said No (And That’s the Problem)” | Host Commentary

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📎 [ACCESS: UNIVERSITY CORRESPONDENCE — HARVARD.EDU] Termination Notice | Financial Aid Rescission & Enrollment Discontinuation | Issued October 14 | Confidential Addressee

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🚌 [ACCESS: TRANSPORTATION RECORD — GOTHAM COACHLINES] One Way Bus Ticket | Boston to Gotham | Purchased October 16

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🏚️ [ACCESS: HOUSING CONTRACT — GOTHAM CITY RENTAL BOARD] Lease Agreement | 1448 W. Park Row, Apt #4B | Signed October 19 | Tenant: Y/N

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📘 [ACCESS: EDUCATION RECORD — GOTHAM CITY ADULT LEARNING CENTER] Enrollment Confirmation | Bridge Track Program | Issued October 24 | Student: Y/N

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💼 [ACCESS: EMPLOYMENT LOG — GOTHAM CITY UNIFIED LABOR DATABASE] Multiple Positions | Service & Gig Work Ledger | Active Record | Employee: Y/N

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Subject A: Age 21 Subject B: 3 years, 4.5 months post-resurrection April 27

Jason arrives early.

For once, he’s calm.

No adrenaline. No ghost-rage in his blood. Just nerves.

The rain started earlier this year.

Jason was already at the grave when it did—hood up, hands in pockets, the crowbar long gone. He’d showered. Put on clean gear. The plan was simple:

Show up. Say hi. Let her see him. Let her believe it.

He practiced it all in his head—what he’d say, how he’d say it, how he’d wait until she smiled before falling apart.

10:45 p.m.

She shows up early.

Jason sees her silhouette first, cutting through the fog. Slower than usual. Shoulders hunched. Hoodie sagging under the weight of rain and long shifts.

Her shoes are soaked through. No blanket. No bag. No book.

Just her. Exhausted. Smaller somehow.

She stumbles once stepping over a root. Doesn’t even curse. Just keeps going.

Jason’s breath catches as she hits the clearing.

Something’s wrong.

She doesn’t talk to the grave right away. She just touches it—soft. Like she’s asking permission. Then lowers herself to her knees like her bones weigh more this year.

“Hey,” she says quietly, forehead brushing the stone. “Sorry I’m early. I couldn’t go home first.”

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just listens.

“I had a shift. Then another one. Didn’t think I’d make it if I sat down.”

A long breath.

“I got kicked out,” she says flatly. “Harvard. Rich boy temper tantrum. He made some calls. They pulled my scholarship.”

Jason’s hands spasm. His body cannot decide whether to clench or let go.

“I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t.” A pause. Her voice drops. “Didn’t want him- Bruce- to be right about me.”

She talks for a while.

Tells him about the bus ride back. The coffee shop job. The night classes. The leak in her ceiling. The time she had to eat a granola bar for dinner and pretend it was fine.

She doesn’t cry. Not once.

She just talks.

Soft. Matter-of-fact. Like reading off damage reports.

Jason’s whole body buzzes with the wrongness of it. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to joke. Tease the stone. Curse Darcy and flirt with ghosts.

But tonight?

She just… fades.

After about an hour, she stops talking.

No goodbye. No inside joke. No “see you next year, dumbass.”

Just silence.

She curls up beside the grave. Hood pulled over her head. Shoes still wet. Breath fogging in the cold.

And sleeps.

Jason had been waiting for this all year.

She showed up soaked, empty, too tired to fake it. No jokes. No book. Just her knees in the mud and her pride holding what was left of her together.

And he knew— She would hate this.

She would never want him to see her like this. Not exhausted. Not unraveling. Not defeated.

She would rather die than be pitied.

So Jason stayed in the dark.

Because tonight wasn’t about him.

And love meant not crossing the line.

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🕵️ [ACCESS: PUBLIC THREAD ARCHIVE — REDDIT.COM/r/GothamSightings] Community Report | “Red Hood in Southside Again???” | User Submissions Logged 

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📣 [ACCESS: CUSTOMER FEEDBACK LOG — YELP.COM] Review | Bean & Gone Café | Reviewer: Chad R. | Entry Updated May 8

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💳 [ACCESS: TRANSACTION RECORD — LOCAL MERCHANT TERMINALS] Receipts Logged | Excessive Tips Flagged | Bean & Gone / Munchie Mart 

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🧾 [ACCESS: LANDLORD CORRESPONDENCE — DELVECCHIO PROPERTY MGMT] Maintenance Confirmation | Pest Control Approved | Unit: Apt #4B, Tenant: Y/N

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Y/N snapped the tip drawer shut harder than she meant to.

Again.

The register beeped like it was offended. JoJo didn’t even flinch—just looked up from her phone with that deadpan stare that meant she was either judging her or waiting to help bury a body.

“Another hundred?” JoJo asked, not even blinking.

“One-fifty,” Y/N muttered. “On a twelve-dollar order.”

JoJo whistled low. “Okay, but at what point do you find your mystery billionaire and marry him for healthcare?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She grabbed the bills, shoved them into her apron, and stalked toward the back.

That night, she emptied every envelope under her mattress. Every absurd tip. Every impossible number scrawled on receipts. Every crisp, creased bill she couldn’t bring herself to spend.

$4,329.72.

In cash.

No name. No signature. Just guilt.

She sat on the floor and stared at it for a long time.

And then—like a switch flipping—her hands started to shake.

Of course. Of course.

Bruce Wayne.

That smug, shadow-lurking bastard must’ve found out she was back. Working double shifts. Eating gas station ramen. Sleeping under a flickering ceiling light with duct tape around the base.

And instead of calling— Instead of knocking— Instead of saying one fucking word—

He sent money.

She found an old envelope in the junk drawer. Dumped the cash in, fast and angry. Grabbed a pen. No flourish. No flourish was needed.

keep your guilt money.

She folded the note once, sharp. Taped it to the envelope. Stared at it like it had cursed her bloodline.

It was after midnight when she left.

She didn’t take the bus. Bus costs cash.

She walked.

Across half the city. Past busted streetlamps and cracked sidewalks and three of the corners she used to sleep near in high school. Past the bakery that always smelled like disappointment. Past the train station she’d once left for Harvard from.

She didn’t stop.

By the time she reached Wayne Manor, her feet hurt and her coat was damp and her fingers were numb—but her spine was made of fury.

The gates loomed in front of her, tall and polished and exactly as she remembered.

She stood there for a minute. Just breathing.

Then she crouched. Picked up a rock from the edge of the path. Slipped it into the envelope.

Weighted.

Final.

And then—without a word— She threw it over the gate.

It landed with a thunk on the gravel drive.

Y/N turned and walked away without looking back.

Let him read the note. Let him choke on it.

She didn’t want his money.

She wanted to be left the hell alone.

--

BATCAVE — May 22, 2:13 AM

Status: Debrief in progress Subjects Present: D. Grayson, T. Drake, D. Wayne, J. Todd, B. Wayne

“So, are we just not gonna talk about the fact that Killer Croc was wearing Crocs?” Dick asked, toeing off his boots near the console. “I mean, that’s commitment to the bit.”

Tim didn’t look up. “I already filed it under ‘mental warfare.’”

Damian scoffed from the corner. “You’re all idiots.”

Jason ignored them. Sort of. He was leaned back against the armory wall, picking at the edge of his gloves like they’d personally wronged him.

Until—

ALERT: PROJECTILE DETECTED. PERIMETER BREACH. LOCKDOWN SEQUENCE INITIATED.

Every screen in the cave lit red.

“Who the hell throws something at the manor?” Tim muttered, already flipping through the camera feeds.

“Someone with a death wish,” Damian deadpanned.

“Someone stupid,” Bruce corrected, stepping forward.

Jason just moved toward the screen. “Pull Sector 12. Zoom in.”

The exterior cam locked on. Gravel path. Gate lights. A single envelope lay on the drive, still spinning slightly from impact.

Not a package. Not a threat. Not a warning.

Just a rage-fueled piece of paper addressed in sharp black ink:

TO: BITCH WAYNE FROM: GO TO HELL

Underneath that, written in all-caps and vengeance:

KEEP YOUR GUILT MONEY.

The envelope had torn slightly on impact. Caught on the gravel. A few crisp bills peeked from the split. One hundred dollar note folded clean. A rock the size of a fist visible inside, for weight.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

It was his money. Every tip. Every envelope. Every silent drop at her register or mailbox or door.

He thought she hadn’t noticed.

Turns out, she had. And she walked it all the way here just to give it back.

A beat of total silence.

Then—

“…Wait,” Tim said slowly. “That’s your money?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Dick turned. “Dude. You’ve been funding her anonymously? For months?”

Jason crossed his arms. “I wasn’t trying to be anonymous.”

Damian snorted. “You failed spectacularly.”

Bruce stared at the monitor, unreadable. Still. Barely blinking. “She thinks it was from me,” he said finally.

“She would,” Tim said. “You’re the obvious choice for unsolicited financial intervention.”

“And she still threw it back,” Damian murmured, almost impressed.

Jason crossed his arms.

“I mean… you guys saw that, right?” he said. “She didn’t keep it.”

Dick smirked. “She chucked it with incredible form. Like varsity softball form.”

“Yeah,” Jason muttered. “She’s pissed.”

“You sound proud,” Tim said slowly.

Jason turned away from the screen, tugging his gloves tighter.

“Oh, I’m so proud,” he said. “Bitch Wayne got a rock in the mail. From my girl.”

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Bruce said, not impressed.

Jason ignored that.

He looked at the envelope one last time, then at the gate, then—somewhere no camera could track—toward her.

“…New plan,” he muttered.

Tim looked up. “New what?”

Jason cracked his knuckles.

“I make contact.”

--

The plan wasn’t complicated. Jason liked it that way.

He knew the alley behind her building was dirty, damp, and full of rats—human and otherwise. He also knew a low-level dealer had been working the block for weeks now, pushing light stuff to drunk college kids and the occasional night school burnout.

It wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t worth the suit. Wasn’t worth the attention.

But it was behind her apartment.

So Jason made it urgent.

He didn’t dig too deep. Didn’t check security. Didn’t run a full recon of the building. He didn’t want to know how bad it was. Not yet.

He showed up just before sundown.

Climbed up to her window. Plopped right down. Moved like smoke. Didn’t let himself look through her window—just paused long enough to slide a folded note through the small crack in the pane.

“Temporary stakeout. No danger to you. Lock your windows. —RH”

He noticed the broken latch right after. Rusted. Hanging by one screw. He made a mental note to have a second chat with her landlord. Maybe something about a crowbar this time. Or a window.

Jason repositioned on her fire escape. Cross-legged. Still. Watching the alley below like he’d done it a thousand times. He felt calm. Capable. Like this was right.

She’d come outside.She’d see the note. She’d see him.

And then, she would feel their undeniable connection, open the window, and profess her love. It was foolproof. 

Y/N got home around midnight.

Her backpack was heavy. Her jacket soaked. She had a paper bag under one arm and her keys already in hand before she even reached the stairwell.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the note. Read it. Sighed. Crumpled it in one hand.

Then, with the kind of exhausted precision Jason had only ever seen on grieving people and nurses, she reached for the curtain—

And closed it.

Not angrily. Not dramatically.

Just… done.

Lights off. Lock turned. Curtain drawn.

Jason stayed on the roof.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure what to do next.

--

STAKEOUT — DAY FOUR

This was officially the worst stakeout of his life.

Jason had done rooftop surveillance during hailstorms. He’d staked out mob hideouts in January without gloves. Once, he ate an entire protein bar that turned out to be six months expired just to avoid blowing his cover.

None of that compared to this.

Because at least in those cases, he had a target. A mission. A job to do.

Here? He was just... loitering.

Loitering outside the window of a girl who hadn’t looked at him in two days. Not since Day Two, when she peeked through the curtain for exactly 1.5 seconds and then closed it like she was doing pest control.

He hadn’t moved since sunset.

He’d counted exactly four rats, two alley cats, one dealer (still mid-tier, still boring), and zero signs that Y/N had any interest in acknowledging the helmeted vigilante nesting on her fire escape.

He was starting to take it personally.

His back hurt. His patience was thin. And his coffee had gone cold sometime around 9:00 p.m.

He was just about to call it—just about to tell himself he’d leave in five minutes, tops—when the window creaked open.

Not a curtain. Not a crack.

The full window.

Jason sat up straight, instantly alert.

Y/N leaned out.

Arms crossed on the windowsill. Hair pulled into a messy knot. Hoodie two sizes too big and sleeves pushed to her elbows.

She looked directly at him. “Listen,” she said, voice still dangerously even. “If this is about Gerald, I’m gonna stop you right there. Because Gerald literally ties his drug pouches with ribbons. He once left a baggie in someone’s mailbox with a thank-you note.”

Jason stared.

“I know this,” she continued, getting started now, “because I taught that man how to do cursive T’s a few months ago for a hundred bucks and a stale Pop-Tart. He paid in exact change and said, ‘Thank you, miss.’”

Jason opened his mouth.

She did not let him speak.

“Gerald,” she said, gesturing like she was introducing a sitcom character, “is not a threat. Gerald is a part-time dealer with a Yelp rating and mild anxiety. I could break his kneecaps in under two minutes and still make it to night class.”

Jason made a noise—could’ve been agreement, could’ve been fear.

She narrowed her eyes. “So unless there’s an actual cartel hiding in the bodega freezer, you can stop loitering on my window like a sad gargoyle and go bother someone else.”

Jason scrambled. “He’s… connected.”

Y/N tilted her head. “To who?”

Jason waved vaguely. “Bigger cartel. Out-of-town operation. Could be gun-running. Definitely not cursive.”

Y/N looked unimpressed.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Well, if you’re gonna keep lurking out here, just don’t scare the cats.”

Then she closed the window.

Didn’t slam it. Didn’t storm off. Just… shut it. Quiet. Final.

Jason stared at the glass, stunned.

So much for the moment. So much for the bonding. So much for the water.

Still—he smiled under the mask. She offered to commit acts of violence for him. 

The plan was working. 

--

💚 [ACCESS: VENDOR NOTICE — GERALD’S GOODS / PUBLIC MARKET BULLETIN] Store Update | Continued Operation Approved | Restrictions Applied

--

STAKEOUT — DAY ELEVEN

It was getting bleak.

Jason had been camped out on her fire escape for eleven days. Eleven. He’d missed two minor muggings, skipped one whole safehouse rotation, and was now on a first-name basis with three alley cats and one concerned mailman.

Y/N had spoken to him exactly three more times since the Gerald Incident.

None of them were what he wanted.

Day Six: “You left food on my window ledge. That’s how raccoons get in.”

Day Eight: “Could you stop tapping on the railing?, I have work in 4 hours”

Day Nine: “Stop feeding Gerald. He keeps offering me coupons.

He’d pivoted his strategy. Brought better food. Left sticky notes with dumb jokes. Tried being helpful. Nothing worked.

She hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t invited him in. She hadn't even asked his name.

So on Day Eleven, just after midnight, Jason gave up all pretense of having a plan.

He knocked on the window once, then leaned in slightly and said the dumbest possible sentence:

“…Can I use your bathroom?”

Y/N blinked at him. She was sitting on the floor with a mug in one hand and a book in the other, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, expression unreadable.

A long pause.

Then she said:

“Are you serious?”

Jason shrugged. “I’ve been out here for, like, two weeks.”

She stared. Jason stared back. Internally panicking.

Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But if you bleed on my bath mat, I will kill you.”

She opened the window.

Jason crawled inside like a very polite burglar and immediately forgot how to function.

The place was small. Lived-in. Clean in the chaotic way that meant she was too tired to fake being put together. Books stacked everywhere. Couch slightly lopsided

She pointed to the bathroom and didn’t look at him. “There. In and out. Don’t touch my stuff.”

He nodded, heartbeat in his throat.

Once inside, he immediately did not pee.

He closed the door. Locked it. Turned to the sink.

The bathroom was small. Clean. Faintly pink. The kind of space someone maintained out of habit, not vanity. The light above the mirror flickered when he flipped the switch, then steadied. There was a hair tie looped around the faucet. A half-dead succulent in a chipped mug by the window. Toothpaste cap missing. A towel slung over the back of the door with an embroidered flower on it that looked like it came from a clearance bin at Target.

Jason stood in the middle of it, helmet still on, and breathed.

Then—slowly—he reached up and took it off.

The air was cooler on his face than he expected. The mirror caught him in full: tousled hair, dark circles, and that look he always got when the silence stretched too long—like he might flinch from his own reflection.

He looked awful. Not in the way he usually did. Worse.

Like a guy who hadn’t been sleeping. Like someone who’d been sitting on a fire escape for eleven nights hoping a girl who read Pride and Prejudice to gravestones might eventually say hi.

He stared at himself for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then splashed water on his face. Twice. Rubbed his palms over his jaw like it would help somehow.

It didn’t.

There was soap in a tiny ceramic dish shaped like a shell. Glittery, pastel pink. He stared at it for a full three seconds before muttering “what the fuck” and using it anyway.

The water smelled like coconut and something warm. Maybe vanilla. Maybe whatever scent meant “someone lives here and it isn’t you.”

He dried his hands on the towel. Realized too late it was her towel. Hung it back up very gently like it might press charges.

And then—because he was already spiraling—he started looking.

Not like a creep. Not really. Just... glancing.

There was a cup full of bobby pins. A near-empty mascara tube. A jar of Vicks vapor rub. Painkillers. A pack of gum. One very battered razor and—

Her shampoo. 

He picked it up like it was evidence. Opened the cap. Took a quick sniff.

Then froze.

Yep.

That was her.

Citrus and something warm. Something he couldn’t name. Something that smelled like sleep and soft laughter and the back of her hoodie after she’d been walking all day.

He blinked.

Stared at the mirror again.

“This is insane,” he said, out loud, to the drain.

The mirror agreed. Silently. Cruelly.

He didn’t stop snooping. 

His hand reached for the chapstick next. Pink. Untwisted halfway. Sitting like a loaded weapon on the shelf. He hovered. Pulled back. Reached again.

Nope. Nope.

He could not mentally survive indirect lip contact tonight.

Instead, he turned on the sink again, splashed his face a second time, and looked around.

Panic.

He hadn’t flushed.

If he walked out without flushing, she’d know. She’d definitely know. And then what? She’d think he didn’t pee? That he had a shy bladder? That he was snooping?

Which he was.

But not in a weird way.

Just a tragic, emotionally stunted way.

He flushed.

Waited.

Washed his hands again. Overcorrecting. Citrus soap. Same towel. Same careful dry.

He stared at the door. Helmet back on.

Then—deep breath—he stepped out, greeted by the sound of rain pattering against the living room windows. 

The rain was biblical.

One of those Gotham storms that sounded like it was trying to peel the skyline off the bones of the city. Thunder in full surround sound. Water hammering the roof like it was holding a grudge. The alley behind her apartment was already pooling into something that looked vaguely like a swamp.

Y/N stood at her window, hoodie sleeves pushed up, coffee mug empty, expression flat.

She stared down at the alley like she was waiting for it to apologize.

Then, without turning her head:

“…Yo. Gerald dipped.”

Jason, stepping into the living room, gave a dignified response . “What?”

She nodded at the alley. “Lace parasol finally gave out. Rain probably took it clean off his stupid little head.”

Jason craned his neck. She was right. Gerald’s usual folding chair was empty. The cooler full of whatever he sold was gone. A crushed Monster Energy can rolled through the runoff like it was fleeing the scene.

She turned after a moment. Raised an eyebrow. “You planning to just crawl back out there and rot?”

Jason blinked. “...Kinda?”

She sighed. Loudly. Like she was annoyed at the concept of him existing in space.

“I can’t afford the liability of you slipping off my fire escape,” she muttered, walking toward the kitchen. “You fall, you sue, I end up selling a kidney. That’s not happening.”

Jason just watched her.

She didn’t look at him when she said it—just opened a cabinet, pulled out a can of generic brand cola, and set it on the counter without ceremony.

“You want to sit for a while?” she asked, like it physically pained her.

Jason nodded. Too fast. Too eager.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. I can—uh. Thanks.”

She walked back toward the window and flopped down onto the couch like gravity won a bet. Jason followed, cautiously, perching on the very edge of the opposite cushion like a man trying not to disturb a wild animal.

Then he realized the problem.

The soda was still on the counter.

And he had his helmet back on.

Y/N glanced over at him, then back at the can. Then—without a word—she stood, grabbed it, opened the drawer, pulled out a bright pink curly straw, jammed it into the can, and handed it over like this was normal behavior.

Jason hesitated.

She stared. “You gonna take it or what?”

He did. Very carefully.

And then, with all the dignity of a man in full tactical armor drinking diet cola through a Lisa Frank accessory, he took a sip.

They’d been sitting in silence for maybe five minutes when she asked, “You affiliated with the bats?”

It wasn’t aggressive. Just flat. Tired. The kind of question that didn’t come from curiosity, but muscle memory—like checking the lock twice before bed.

Jason didn’t move right away.

He could feel her watching. Not suspicious. Not fearful. Just... waiting. Like someone who’d been burned before and had learned to ask the hard questions first.

He set the soda down slowly. Let the pink straw curl on itself like a secret.

“No,” he said.

It was the truth. And a lie. Both, kind of.

But it was what she needed to hear.

He could see it happen—the slow loosening in her jaw, the unspooling tension in her spine, the way her fingers relaxed against the fabric of the couch like she’d been bracing without noticing.

“Good,” she muttered. “Those freaks never told me he died.”

The room was quiet after that.

Jason didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He just let the rain fill the silence. Let it hum against the windows like white noise. She didn’t look at him again for a long time.

When she finally spoke, it was softer.

“Sorry. That was... blunt.”

“You’re good.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes flicking back to him.

“You don’t seem like one of them anyway.”

Jason shrugged, watching her carefully. “Yeah?”

“You loiter. You drink soda through a straw. You’d trip in a cave and die instantly.”

“I’m an apex predator.”

She rolled her eyes. “You brought me dumplings in a shoebox.”

He raised the can again like it was a toast. “And yet, here we are.”

She didn’t smile. Not fully.

But the corner of her mouth twitched. And for now, that was enough.

She didn’t ask for his name. He didn’t offer it. They just sat there, listening to the storm try to peel Gotham open.

Eventually, she stood. Picked up his empty can. Tossed it in the recycling like it didn’t mean anything.

--

By the third week of the stakeout-that-wasn’t, Jason had a rhythm.

He came by every few nights. Always late. Never announced. He didn’t knock. Didn’t text. He just appeared on the fire escape like a guilty habit, boots scuffed, helmet fogged, and body language trying not to look like it needed a place to rest.

And somehow—without ever being formally invited—he started staying.

Y/N never asked why he came. He never said.

She just opened the window.

Their nights followed a strange kind of pattern. Jason would crawl in like a very large, heavily armed housecat. She’d be in her usual hoodie, curled on the couch with her laptop balanced on one knee and a heating pad strapped to her lower back like a battle injury.

The apartment wasn’t really built for guests. The living room was also the kitchen, which was also the dining room, which was also just the room. But she made it work. Kicked a blanket off the couch. Cleared a corner of the table. Pretended this wasn’t weird.

At first, they just sat.

Sometimes she put on old episodes of Chopped and yelled at the screen. Sometimes he read the crime blotter and gave her commentary like a feral news anchor. Sometimes they didn’t say anything at all. Just sat. Breathing in the same room.

She never asked who he was. He never offered. And that silence between them felt sacred. Like a ceasefire they didn’t dare break.

Then—one night—he brought food.

Takeout. Thai. Still warm. He said it was extra from a thing. Didn't elaborate.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Just pulled two chipped plates from the cabinet, set them on the counter like she did this every night.

Jason hesitated. Hands still full of the plastic bag.

“I already ate,” he said.

She didn’t look at him. “That’s fine. I haven’t.”

Next time, it was shawarma. The time after that, dumplings. Then pizza. Then stir fry. Always with the same line:

“I ate already.” Or: “Can’t really eat in the helmet.” Or: “Not hungry.”

And every time, Y/N would split the food between two plates. Hand him one. Sit on the floor. Eat in silence.

And every time, he wouldn’t touch his.

On the fourth night, she snapped.

“If you’re gonna sit there like a haunted statue and watch me eat, you can leave.”

Jason blinked. “What?”

She set her fork down. Hard. “I’m not doing pity dinner.”

“It’s not—”

“Then eat.”

“I can’t—”

She stood up. “You can’t or you won’t?”

Jason opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I’m not your project,” she said, voice low now. “You don’t get to show up here, drop off food like some sad vigilante DoorDash, and act like that counts as caring.”

His stomach twisted. “I do care.”

“Then sit your ass down and eat something.”

Jason stared at her.

She stared back.

He sighed—quietly—but took it.

Then came the blanket.

He kept it by the window now. A faded throw with frayed corners that smelled faintly like her shampoo and dust. Jason threw it over his head with practiced ease, tucking the ends under his chin so his face stayed hidden and his hands stayed free.

Y/N called it “his little cryptid cloak.”

He couldn’t talk with the blanket on—no voice mod, no helmet, no disguise—so he didn’t. He just sat there. Eating silently. A ghost in tactical gear, chewing sesame chicken like it was sacred.

Y/N, however, did talk.

She talked the whole time.

Mostly to fill the space. Sometimes to punish him.

“…so then my boss says we can’t wear sneakers anymore, like it’s a ‘professionalism issue,’ but I know for a fact Jo-Jo showed up last week in flip-flops and nobody said a damn word.”

Jason hummed under the blanket. She took it as agreement.

“And this girl in my psych class keeps saying ‘let’s circle back’ like we’re on Zoom in 2020. I swear to God, if she says ‘let’s unpack that’ one more time I’m going to commit tax fraud on her behalf.”

Jason nodded. Fork to his mouth. Still silent. Blanket bobbing.

Y/N sighed dramatically. “This would be less one-sided if you weren’t eating like the Phantom of the Opera.”

Jason flipped her off.

From under the blanket.

She snorted. “Okay, rude.”

He kept eating.

She kept talking.

It was the most peace either of them had felt in weeks.

--

📄 [ACCESS: INTERNAL OPERATIONS LOG — WAYNE FAMILY DIVISION] Mission Report | Subject Missing Post-Injury | Filed November 25 | J. Todd (Red Hood)

--

Y/N’s fork scrapes the bottom of the takeout container.

It’s the last of the noodles. Cold, borderline questionable. Hood dropped them off two nights ago and she meant to finish them sooner, but time’s slippery lately and grocery money’s been tight. She’s sitting on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles, heating pad dead beneath her, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the room.

She doesn’t bother with music anymore. She misses Spotify Premium.

She’s halfway through another bite when it happens.

THUMP.

A sharp knock—no, a thud—against the windowpane.

She freezes.

Head snaps toward the sound. Fork clatters to the plate.

For one wild second she thinks it’s a bird. A raccoon. Gerald, reincarnated.

But then she sees it. The shape.

Helmet. Leather. Bulk.

She exhales sharply. Stands. Walks to the window and pulls it open with more annoyance than alarm.

“What—”

Then she sees the blood.

His whole right side is soaked. The dark of his jacket is darker still, and there’s a sharpness to the way he’s standing—angled, braced, like the wall is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hood,” she breathes. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t answer.

He stumbles forward—tries to step in—and her hands shoot out automatically, catching his arm. He’s warm. Too warm. His breath fogs the glass behind him.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, voice rising. “Sit. Sit down—now.”

He doesn’t resist. Just slumps, knees buckling like he meant to collapse. She guides him down to the couch—his usual spot—and watches, horrified, as he leaves a full handprint of blood on the cushion.

She kneels beside him.

“Where are you hurt? Hey—hey, look at me.”

He doesn’t lift the helmet. Doesn’t move. Just leans back against the armrest, breathing shallow.

“Okay,” she says, standing. “Fine. Stay there. Bleed or don’t, I’m getting the med kit.”

She’s already halfway to the bathroom.

She returns with the med kit and a clean towel she’s been saving for emergencies. Turns out this qualifies.

He hasn’t moved.

Still slouched against the couch, right leg extended, gloved hand pressed loosely to his side like that’ll keep the blood in. She kneels beside him again, tosses the kit open, and gently lifts his shirt to reveal his ribs.

His breathing hitches. She ignores it. She can’t stop shaking.

“I—I don’t know how to stitch,” she says, voice raw. “I’ve never done this. I can’t—”

“You can,” he rasps, barely audible through the modulator. “It’s just thread. You’ve sewn buttons, right?”

“This is not a button.”

“Still got holes.”

She wants to punch him. She wants to scream. She wants to cry.

Instead, she grabs the suture kit with fingers that won’t stop trembling and tries to remember anything she’s ever seen in a movie.

“Talk me through it,” she says.

Jason shifts, barely. “You cleaned it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Pinch the skin together.”

She does.

“Anchor the first one deep. Just push. Don’t think.”

She pushes.

He flinches. Hisses. But doesn’t stop her.

She stabs the needle through again, then again, lips parted, breath shallow.

“There. There. Keep going,” he mutters, slurring a little now. “You’re doing fine.”

“This is fucked,” she says.

“Totally,” he mumbles.

She gets through five stitches before she realizes he’s stopped answering.

Her head snaps up.

“Hood?”

No response.

“Hood. Hey—hey, come on—”

She reaches out, touches his faceplate. Cold. Still.

He’s breathing, but only just. Out cold. Head turned toward the back cushion, body slack, arm limp at his side. The moment she’d been dreading—being alone with this—has arrived, and it’s not cinematic. It’s not brave.

It’s awful.

“Shit. Shit, shit—”

She finishes the stitches with her whole body shaking. Wraps gauze with teeth clenched. Mutters every curse she knows under her breath. When she finally leans back, her palms are slick with blood and sweat and something else she refuses to name.

She wipes the blood off his helmet with the hem of her shirt.

Pulls a blanket over him.

And sits on the floor beside the couch like a kid trying not to look at the monster in the room.

She can’t sleep.

Not with him breathing like that.

Not with the way it hitches every few minutes, shallow and wet and wrong, like his lungs are trying to argue with his ribs. Like his body hasn’t decided whether it wants to keep going or not.

The helmet is still on.

She thought it was fine. He always wore it. Said he needed it. But now, in the silence of the apartment, with the storm finally passed and the fridge humming like it knows something she doesn’t—she’s terrified.

What if he can’t breathe in there? What if he suffocates and she sleeps through it? What if she wakes up and he’s just—

She bolts upright.

Back in her room, she throws open the dresser drawer and rummages blindly until her hand hits something soft and familiar—an old sleep mask. Faded pink. Fraying elastic. One of the eye patches has a cartoon sheep on it.

Stands there for a second, breathing hard.

Then she walks back out.

He hasn’t moved. Still sprawled across the couch, chest rising in slow, irregular beats. One arm fallen off the cushion. A streak of blood drying across the side of his neck.

She kneels again. Pulls the mask on.  

Her hands find the edges of the helmet. “Don’t die,” she whispers. “Okay? You’re not allowed.”

Then—carefully, slowly, blind—she lifts it off.

It’s heavier than she thought. The inside slick with sweat. It makes a soft, awful click as it comes free. She sets it down on the floor beside her and reaches up—still blindfolded—and cups his face with both hands.

He’s still breathing. Better now. Less noise. More air.

“Okay,” she says, to no one. “Okay.”

She sits there like that for a while, hands still on his cheeks, thumb brushing a raised scar near his jaw.

Eventually, she lets go of his face . She doesn’t take off the mask. She just curls up on the floor, forehead resting against the edge of the couch.

And listens. To his breathing. To the radiator. To the silence.

And when she finally lets herself sleep, it’s with one hand still reaching up—just in case he stops again.

--

Morning comes slow.

It creeps in through the smudged windows, casting pale gold across the floor, the peeling radiator, the crumpled takeout bag on the counter. Everything smells faintly like ginger and sweat and blood.

Jason wakes with a start.

His ribs scream. His side aches. His mouth tastes like metal and dust.

And his helmet is gone.

His eyes fly open.

He’s still on the couch—blanket twisted around his legs, shirt halfway undone, gauze taped awkwardly across his stomach. The light’s too bright. His heart’s too loud. And his face is exposed.

Panic claws up his throat.

Where is it? Where’s the helmet? How long has it been off? Did she see? Did she see?

He tries to sit up too fast and immediately regrets it, pain flaring sharp under the bandages. He swears under his breath, scanning the room, chest heaving—

And then he sees her.

Y/N is curled up on the floor, still in blood stained pajamas, limbs tangled awkwardly against the side of the couch. Her head is tilted back slightly. She’s breathing soft and slow.

And over her eyes—

A sleep mask.

Cartoon sheep. Frayed elastic. Still on.

Jason freezes.

She shifts slightly in her sleep, fingers twitching near her face. Then, as if pulled by some unseen thread, her hand drifts across the floor, brushes against his boot, and pauses.

She jerks awake.

Slow. Groggy. Like the world is coming back in pieces.

Then she sits up, stretches, and reaches beside her without looking.

The helmet’s right there.

She picks it up. Holds it out.

“Put it on” she mumbles, voice hoarse. “You scared the hell out of me, by the way.”

Jason doesn’t move.

She keeps holding it.

“I didn’t look,” she adds, quieter now. “Just… heard you struggling. Figured you’d breathe better without it. Blindfolded myself. That’s all.”

Jason still says nothing.

Just takes the helmet from her hands like it’s made of glass.

Their fingers brush. He grips it tighter. Puts it on, turns the voice modulator on.

“…Thank you,” he says.

She shrugs. Leans back against the couch again.

“Don’t die on my watch, Hood. It’d really mess up my Tuesday.”

Y/N finally pulls the sleep mask off.

Blinding light. Crick in her neck. Her whole body feels like it got into a fight with a vending machine and lost. But Hood’s still alive. Still sitting upright. Still breathing.

She exhales.

“Let me see,” she says, already kneeling beside him again.

Jason stays quiet. Tilts to the side slightly so she can peel the blanket back. The gauze is still holding. The stitches are—surprisingly—not awful. A little uneven. A little swollen. But clean.

She stares at them for a second. Nods to herself.

“Not bad,” she mutters. “For someone whose only medical training came the guy getting stitched.”

He doesn’t respond.

She pretends she doesn’t care.

“Don’t pull them. No jumping off buildings for a while. No cartwheels. No gunfights unless it’s urgent.”

She stands again and heads for the kitchenette.

The fridge greets her with its usual charm: One half-empty bottle of ketchup. A jar of olives. A single carton of milk.

She opens the cabinet. Cereal. One box. Crushed.

She does the math in her head. Stares into the abyss. Then grabs a bowl.

It’s just enough for one.

She pours it. Adds the milk. Doesn’t hesitate.

Walks back over and hands it to him.

Jason stares at the bowl like it might explode.

She shrugs.

“You almost died. You get the Cheerios.”

He eats slow.

Careful.

The sound of the spoon scraping the bowl is soft, muffled beneath the low hum of morning and the fabric of the blanket he’s thrown over his head. She doesn’t watch.

She ducks into the bathroom instead.

Ties her hair up with one hand while brushing her teeth with the other. Swaps out the hoodie for her “functional” shirt—stained, slightly oversized, halfway tucked into her jeans. Her socks don’t match. One of her boots is damp from last night’s rain.

It’s fine.

She’s used to leaving chaos behind.

She grabs her bag from the chair, keys already in hand, and opens the front door halfway before she turns back.

He’s still there. Sitting in her living room. Still under the blanket. Still clutching the empty bowl like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll be back by six,” she says, voice casual, like this is normal. Like this happens every day.

He doesn’t answer.

She clears her throat. “You can stay. If you want.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, a nod.

Small. Barely there.

She closes the door behind her. Locks it with a click. And lets the day begin.

--

🧾 [ACCESS: PURCHASE RECORD — ROTHMAN'S / SUNDOWN GROCERS] Home Furnishing & Grocery Delivery | Buyer: J.T. | Delivery: Unattended Drop

--

Y/N unlocks the apartment with the usual two jabs and a kick.

Her shoulder aches. Her feet are soaked. Her last customer of the day tried to return a sandwich after eating it, and Gerald had the audacity to wink at her in the alley like they were co-workers.

She just wants five minutes to breathe.

She pushes the door open—

And stops.

Her bag slips off her shoulder.

She sees the couch.

Brown leather. Low-backed. Wide-seated. Big enough to drown in. Soft enough to hold you when you can’t hold yourself.

She stares at it like it might vanish. Then she drops her bag, walks straight up to it, and presses both hands flat against the armrest.

It’s real. Soft. Cool to the touch. The kind of expensive that doesn’t come from pity.

And that’s when she laughs.

A full-body sound, unexpected and too loud for the apartment. She laughs like someone who hasn’t had a real reason in months. Laughs like she’s going to scare the silverfish out of the drywall.

Then she spins. Right there, in her socks, on the peeling tile. A full circle. Like a rom-com idiot. Like she’s seven.

Because she knows what this is. She remembers.

“Hear me out,” Jason had said once, the morning Bruce took him away. “The penthouse. “Oh god,” she’d groaned. “The couch is leather. Brown. Like rich people brown. But not ugly. Real classy.” “No. Velvet,” she’d fired back. “Deep green. With gold buttons.” “Velvet stains.” “I won’t spill.” “You’ll definitely spill.”

It had been a joke. A fantasy. A nothing-future built on soda and sarcasm.

But now—years later— Here it is.

She’s dizzy when she sits down. Breathless. Tears on her face before she even registers them.

And the feeling hits her like thunder: This is permission. This is Jason—her Jason—telling her it’s okay to be happy again from beyond the grave.

The couch is the sign. The Hood is the messenger.

He sent her someone.

She presses her forehead to the armrest.

“You son of a bitch,” she whispers, smiling through it. “You sent me a friend.”

The couch smells like new beginnings. The lamp glows like a pulse. Her apartment—normally cold, narrow, gray—is warm now. Lived in. Soft.

Safe.

She curls up under the new blanket, legs tucked beneath her, heart still spinning in her chest.

And for the first time since he died, She doesn���t feel alone.

--

The next evening, Jason stood on the fire escape with a bag of food in one hand and a heart full of static.

He didn’t know what he expected. An eye-roll, maybe. A sarcastic comment about boundary-crossing vigilantes and unsolicited furniture. A quiet “you didn’t have to” said in that voice that meant don’t do it again.

He definitely didn’t expect the window to open before he even knocked.

Y/N stood there, framed in the fading orange light, hair pulled back, hoodie sleeves rolled to her elbows. She looked at him for a long second. No smile. No sarcasm.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

It was careful—not rushed or needy—but firm. Real. Like something being set down that had been carried too long.

Jason blinked. His arms didn’t move at first. He just stood there, stunned, feeling her heartbeat against his chest through layers of armor and hesitation.

Then he let out a breath and hugged her back.

Slow. Gentle.

Not because she was fragile. Because she wasn’t.

“…Hey,” he said, voice low in his helmet.

She gave a soft little huff of air. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

Then she stepped back just enough to look at him.

Her eyes were steady. Clear. Tired in a way that went deeper than sleep, but still soft.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Two words. No qualifiers. No jokes. Just… gratitude.

Jason didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t think he’d need to. But she just stood there, letting the silence speak for both of them.

Then she glanced at the bag in his hand.

“Are those dumplings?”

He nodded.

She opened the window wider.

“Well. Don’t just stand there. Come in.”

He climbed in, boots hitting the floor with a thud. She locked the window behind him and flicked on the lamp.

Warm light. Soft couch. Two plates already out on the counter like maybe, just maybe, she’d been hoping he’d come.

They sat. Ate (Him under the blanket). Talked about nothing. Argued about whether Gerald was a criminal genius or just terminally polite. Laughed until their stomachs hurt.

And somewhere between the last dumpling and the first yawn, they stopped being ghosts.

They were friends.

Real ones.

At last.

--

🟥 [ACCESS: SUIT DIAGNOSTICS LOG — WAYNE TECH MONITORING] Biofeedback Report | Non-Combat Physiological Spikes | Subject: Red Hood (J. Todd)

--

🟩 [ACCESS: TERMINAL HISTORY — GOTHAM PUBLIC LIBRARY, #17] Search Record | Subject A - Flagged Queries Logged Feb 12 | Accessed via Public Network | Surveillance Filter: Active

--

APRIL 25

She didn’t look at him when she asked.

She never did when it was something that mattered.

Jason was sitting on the floor beside the couch, helmet still on, fingers fidgeting with the strap of his gauntlet like it might reveal the answers to every stupid thing he’d ever done. Y/N was above him, curled sideways, eating cereal from a mug because she refused to do dishes before midnight. The lamp flickered.

“You doing anything the 27th?” she asked, casually.

Jason’s heart dropped.

He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t press. Just took another slow bite, metal spoon clinking once against ceramic.

“It’s kind of a thing,” she said after a moment. “Not, like, a party. It’s personal.”

Jason made a noise in his throat. Neutral. Encouraging. Safe.

Y/N stared down into the last third of her cereal.

“I go somewhere. Once a year. Same place, same time. Every year since I was sixteen.”

He already knew where. Of course he did. But hearing it in her voice still made something crack.

“I bring a blanket,” she went on. “And coffee. And Pride and Prejudice, because I’m a walking cliché. I stay until morning.”

Jason felt like the helmet was too tight. His breath fogged up the inner HUD. He didn’t dare move.

“I don’t usually bring people,” she added. “Not ever. But I was thinking… if you wanted to come. You could.”

Jason’s head snapped up before he meant it to.

“You don’t have to,” she said quickly. “It’s dumb. Just me talking to a piece of rock for a few hours. But—” She hesitated. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had since he died. I figured… maybe you should meet him.”

Jason forgot how to breathe.

For a second, all he could hear was blood. Not in a poetic way. Literally—his pulse roaring in his ears, chest aching like something was trying to claw its way out.

Friend. She said friend. But the way she said it—quiet, steady, true—it was like being handed something breakable and sacred and entirely undeserved.

He couldn’t speak. Not yet. Just nodded once, sharp.

Y/N smiled, small and crooked. “Cool.”

She set the mug down on the floor beside him. Not on the table. Right next to his boot.

Then she flopped back down onto the couch and pulled the blanket over her face.

Conversation over.

Jason sat there, unmoving, watching the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

His helmet’s readout buzzed softly—elevated vitals. No shit.

She wanted him there. At the grave. Not as a soldier. Not as a name in her search history. As him.

And he said yes. And he meant it.

God help him.

--

Subject A: Age 22 Subject B: 4 years, 4.5 months post-resurrection April 27

She walked ahead of him, as always.

Jason let her.

The graveyard was quieter than usual—just the hush of wet grass under boots and the low, steady patter of rain trying to decide if it wanted to commit. Y/N didn’t bring a blanket this year. Or coffee. Just her hoodie, her voice, and him.

Jason followed in full gear. Hood up. Helmet on. Silent as the grave.

Literally.

When they reached the headstone, Y/N stopped. Took a breath. Then another. The kind you take before walking into a room where a version of yourself still lives.

She crouched beside the stone and brushed her sleeve across the marble like she always did. Her fingers lingered at the carved name.

Jason Peter Todd. Beloved Son.

Then she leaned forward and kissed it.

Jason looked away so fast his neck cracked.

“Hi, dumbass” she whispered. “The train was late. But I’m here. I brought someone, too. Hope you don’t mind.”

She turned slightly—looked over her shoulder, toward the shadow behind her.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Jason moved slowly, each step feeling too loud. The rain got bolder. He knelt beside her but didn’t touch the grave.

Didn’t breathe.

“This is Red Hood,” she said, gesturing between them like they weren’t already shoulder-to-shoulder. “He’s… my friend.”

She smiled at the stone. Then at him. Y/N kneeled, and pulled him down as well. They sat cross-legged facing the stone. 

“The first one I’ve had since you.”

Jason thought he might die again.

“He’s kind of awful,” she added. “But he keeps showing up. And bringing food. And I haven’t wanted to punch him in two whole weeks, which is saying something.”

The rain thickened without warning—sheets of cold cascading from the sky like someone up top had finally lost patience.

Y/N looked around, squinting at the sky. “Shit. I forgot the umbrella.”

Jason, who hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes, reached into his jacket and—wordlessly—pulled out an umbrella-adjacent object.

Y/N blinked at it.

“Is that… Gerald’s lace parasol?”

Jason shrugged. “He left it in the alley. I picked it up on the way here. Thought we might need it.”

Y/N snorted. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

Then she opened it halfway and dragged him under it without asking.

It was immediately clear that it was not built for two people—especially not two people in armor and emotional ruin. Her damp sleeve pressed against his jacket. Their knees knocked. Her hair was sticking to his cheek plate, and she didn’t even bother fixing it. The lace was already soaked through; water dripped through every delicate stitch, pooling at the rim and falling in uneven plops around their shoes.

They looked at eachother.

And then—cracked. The kind of laughter that came fast and real, unfiltered and soaked through. Y/N doubled over, face buried in the crook of her elbow. Jason shook silently beside her, shoulders trembling, the sound muffled behind the helmet.

Gerald’s parasol sagged.

They kept laughing anyway.

She looked at the grave. Then at him. Then back again. 

“I brought him,” she said slowly, easing out of laughter, “because I think you’d want to meet the guy who’s making me happy.”

Jason’s throat closed.

Y/N glanced up at him, voice dropping to a laugh-soft murmur. “You’d probably curse him out for cuddling with your girl over your grave. But you’d like him. Maybe.”

Jason couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Then—

“I love him,” she said.

The words hung in the rain like smoke.

She turned to him, expression open. Real.

“I don’t know when it happened. I just know I look for him now. In the quiet. In the space between days. I like the way he shows up. I like the way he listens.”

Jason didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The rain hit harder.

She blinked at him under the parasol. “If that scares you, it’s fine. You don’t have to say anything.”

Jason didn’t move for a second. Then—

“Don’t be mad,” he said. Quiet. Rough.

She tilted her head. “What?”

He swallowed. Inside the helmet, his hands had started to sweat. “Promise me. Don’t be mad.”

“Red—”

“Just—just promise.”

Y/N hesitated. Her brows furrowed. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I promise.”

Jason closed his eyes for a half-second. Exhaled through his nose.

Then reached up and took the helmet off.

It was quick. Clean. No ceremony. Just a click, a lift, and suddenly—

There he was.

Her Jason.

Older. Sharper. Jaw clenched like it might break. Hair longer (is that a white streak?), damp with rain, curls flattened to his forehead. The same look in his eyes. Tired. Terrified. Hopeful.

Y/N stared.

Her brain went blank. Then full. Then blank again.

She opened her mouth and made no sound.

Jason flinched. “Y/N—”

“WHAT THE FUCK,” she blurted.

She lurched to her feet. The umbrella wobbled violently. Jason scrambled up with her, hands out like he was trying to keep her from bolting.

“No—no, it’s me, I swear—”

“You’re dead,” she said, pointing at the grave. “You DIED. This is YOUR GRAVE.”

“I got better?” he tried.

She made a noise like a boiling tea kettle.

Her hands clenched and unclenched three times. She spun in a circle. Muttered something. Took a breath. Shook her head. Stared at him again.

“You—you were dead,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re real.”

“I am.”

She reached forward—touched his chest, right over the armor. “You’re breathing.”

Jason nodded, too scared to blink.

Then she did something he wasn’t ready for.

She laughed.

Wet, broken, stunned. One huff, then another. And then, she flung her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

He froze.

Then melted.

Jason wrapped both arms around her and held on like the world was still ending.

She was shaking. Laughing and crying at the same time. His hoodie was soaked through now. So was hers. Neither of them cared.

“You’re such an asshole,” she whispered. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“I’ll die happy” he said, smiling into her hair.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her hands framed his face like he might disappear again if she let go.

“You’re real.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice wrecked.

“That’s all that matters.”

--

 PHASE III — REINTRODUCTION PROTOCOL: COMPLETE. CASE FILE #JX-1989 SUBJECT A: [Y/N] SUBJECT B: [J. TODD] STATUS: RESTORED

Final Investigator’s Note:

Subject A, long believed to be mourning an unresolved loss, made direct contact with Subject B seven years post-mortem under highly unorthodox conditions involving emotional confession, weather anomalies, and a formerly owned drug-dealer parasol.

Subject B removed helmet under extreme emotional duress. Subject A speedran the five stages of grief in under 60 seconds. No fatalities. Minimal property damage. Full romantic implosion.

Both parties appear to be fully alive. Fully in love. And fully ridiculous.

----

taglist : @4rachn3 , @mercuryathens , @the-halloween-jack , @milk-unleashed , @inkedinheels , @wonderbat385 , @feralwolfkat, @kasarian

[storiesofsvu]

Meet Me At Midnight

Pt 1 of Lavender Haze Rita Calhoun x Rafael Barba (soon ft reader) warnings: language, alcohol, smut mentioned, teasing/flirting, talks of threesomes, sexual themes, they're literally at a sex club lol, lots of talk, it's just the set up, y'all know what to expect by now lol. 3.1k

The lights were low, bass lightly thumping throughout the space as people flitted from room to room, flirted over small tables or threw back shots at the bar. It was different from your normal nightclub, not quite as loud, not as many flashing lights, just the right ambience for the vibe they were going for. More mature than a place for college kids to play beer pong in the basement and with a higher brow collection of top shelf liquor. It was discreet, private, members and their guests only and all of these things were why Rita liked it so much.

She’d been coming here for years, her membership a twenty-second birthday present from a college professor she probably shouldn’t have been sleeping with. Though Lillian had waited until Rita was graduated, no longer in her class and not so impressionable when she made her move. The woman came from old money, moving to New York from the San Francisco Bay Area when she got the teaching job and made the city her new home, her new playing ground. She had plenty more than just pre-law knowledge to share that Rita had been eager to learn. Sure, she’d done her fair share of having fun already but she’d been a straight A student, focused on classes, grades and studying as much as she could. Lillian taught her to relax, how to let her type-a personality take the back seat for a while so she could actually unwind and realize what real pleasure was. That she could still be in control but this time in a different way, how to retain that power while in varying situations, even if it seemed like she wasn’t the one in control. Once she was sure she had passed along her wealth of knowledge, she urged Rita out of the nest as it were, letting her spread her wings on her own.

After graduating Harvard and returning to the city Rita took the opportunity to share the club with Rafael, bringing him as her guest for a weekend to see how he liked it. Turned out not only did he enjoy it on his own, together they absolutely dominated the scene, quick to become club royalty where everyone knew of their personas and the reputation that came along with them. 

And that was nearly twenty years ago.

They both came and went over the years, sometimes together, sometimes solo. Other nights they’d catch the other’s eye across the bar, a knowing glance, arched brow, perfected smirk as they hadn’t made plans to meet up but the club was still where they ended up to blow off steam. Work was stressful, tedious and a place where no one really knew who you were was the perfect place to disappear into the darkness for a while. Their personal relationship seemed to ebb and flow just like their attendance to the club. They never exclusively dated, never called the other their girlfriend or boyfriend while ‘partner’ remained a term only related to the office. But they still spent plenty of time together, rumours flying around the courthouse about what their true relationship was to one another. Plea deals made over lunches, debriefing over cocktails, rainy nights cozied up at Rita’s Tribeca apartment or spur of the moment hook ups on the Upper West at Raf’s. Over the years they’d shifted closer to each other, eventually living in the same building, but having their separate apartments for personal space, no one having to sacrifice décor or style for one another. These days they ended up in each other’s beds more often than not, mostly out of companionship, some nights they came home, cooked dinner, ate together, caught up on shows while actually catching up on work then when the yawns came it was time for bed. Only thing was beds were in different units; they were together but not together and that was where they thrived the most. 

Tonight a playlist of sultry lo-fi beats echoed through the club, bouncing just enough off the walls to make it hard to hear conversations you weren’t supposed to be eavesdropping on. Rita was perched at a high top table in the corner, back to the wall so she had perfect view of the entire floor, gaze dancing through the crowd to see if anyone caught her eye right off the bat. She couldn’t help but smile when Rafael stepped into her sightline with their drinks in his hands, he looked exceptionally good tonight. Just enough salt and pepper scruff dusting his jawline, crisp white button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and enough buttons undone to get a peek of chest hair. He felt her eyes on her and looked up, lips curving up into a grin when he found he was the sole benefactor of her attention currently, it made his ego boost, knowing that most of the eyes in the club had been on Rita. He couldn’t blame them, green silky fabric clung to her body, a slit in the skirt daring to come all the way to her upper thigh, a gold chain connecting the two sides of the dress. It was a semi-modest neckline, curving just low enough to see the swell of her chest, the straps the same gold chain, connecting cris-crossed down an open back. She’d kept her makeup relatively neutral, simply adding a liner and darker shade of lip for the evening, her hair swept off to the side, half pinned up while loose, brushed out curls draped over her shoulder. 

He slid the martini across the table to her and she thanked him with a proper kiss on the cheek, her hand sliding onto his thigh as he settled in the small, curved booth beside her. Rafael took a sip of his scotch, a relaxing sigh moving its way through his entire body as the alcohol sunk down his throat. He squeezed at Rita’s hand gently, watching the way her shoulders dropped and her jaw finally unclenched as she drank her liquor. It had been an extremely tedious week and she needed this, they both did. Drinks they didn’t have to make themselves, a night out where they knew they weren’t about to run into a coworker, a place where they could simply just slip into the shadows and exist on the horizon, watching the crowd and feel not like themselves for a bit. It didn’t even matter if they ended up not picking up some fun.  

Rita let out a soft sigh, placing her martini down before her eyes shifted to Rafael. Reaching out her hand fiddled with the collar of his shirt, smoothing it out, her fingers tickling along his exposed skin for a lingering moment. He grinned, a puff of air escaping his lips in place of a laugh.

“So that’s how the night’s gonna be.”

“What do you mean?” She replied with her own chuckle, her hand dropping back to his thigh.

“We’re sharing.” He shrugged a shoulder, picking up his drink.

“Do you have enough energy for that after this week?” A brow raised in his direction and he shook his head at her. “Didn’t think so.” Her lips formed around the rim of her glass and she let out a hum when she swallowed, “nothing’s piqued my interest anyway, it may be a dud of a night.”

“Don’t think that yet,” he picked up her hand in his, his lips brushing across her knuckles, “you had the attention of the entire bar when we walked in.”

She laughed, practically rolling her eyes, “don’t aggrandize. Their attention means nothing if I don’t reciprocate.” Over another sip of gin her eyes slowly swept through the crowd, lingering on each group of people so she could read body language and micro expressions, trying to get a read on the vibe in the club tonight. She let out a soft sigh, her eyes returning to the drink in front of her, “besides, it seems like most people came already paired up tonight.”

“Well if you’d like me to leave you alone to sulk…” He offered with a tease in his voice and she scoffed, her fingertips digging into his thigh.

“Before I even finished my first drink? Here I was thinking you were a gentleman Rafael.”

With a laugh he leant in, pressing his lips to the side of her neck and she couldn’t help the small groan at the new sensation of his scruff brushing against her skin. “I believe you’ve known me to be quite the scoundrel.” 

She laughed, this one truly reaching her eyes as she swatted his side, “alright, go.” She shooed him away from her, “do a lap. See if anything entices you.”

Smiling softly Rafael leant in, leaving a kiss on the corner of her lips, squeezing her wrist before he scooped up his scotch, sauntering away from the table.

Rita kept her gaze on him for a while, unsurprised when he turned more than a few heads on his walk up to the bar. He kept it tame, casually glancing around while catching up with their favourite bartender, his laugh carrying through the air, dancing alongside the music as it made its way to Rita’s corner. She sipped at her martini, watching as he was approached by a much younger man, a laugh leaving her lips when he was politely turned down less than a forty-five seconds later. 

Rafael was more than well aware of his popularity with the much younger crowd but it was never something he’d heavily lean into. If the connection was right and felt genuine then he might explore a little bit, but this one certainly wasn’t it. Besides, on a night like tonight he wasn’t going to let Rita leave the club alone, she was either going to find someone, or they’d head back to the apartment together, sharing a nightcap and perhaps a movie before going their separate ways. He knew she was slightly off this week, perhaps reaching burnout or coming down with a cold, it was about time for their annual spring vacation after all. Normally she was the one scouring the crowds, sashaying her way between tables, catching eyes, sending drinks to potential suitors and then just waiting either at the bar or their table for the magic to happen. 

Rita’s attention was pulled away from the bar, a glittering in the corner of her eye that she couldn’t quite pin down where it was coming from. There was a private booking room up three steps, tucked away in the opposite corner and the door had blown open exposing the gold shimmering light from inside. She assumed it was usually booked up with higher brow clientele who didn’t want to be seen at the club but still wanted to indulge, opting to watch the crowd through the two way mirrors and have staff escort whoever held their interest into the suite. Tonight it appeared to be some form of party, sparkling decorations strewn from the ceiling, gold balloon bouquets clustered in each corner and a very impressive champagne fountain in the center of the room. She couldn’t quite pick out what the special occasion was, but was certain the blonde with the sash around her mini dress was the guest of honour. Her mind couldn’t help but wander back to her first night at the club, it had been much more subdued, a booth along the wall while Lillian walked her through everything and she got adjusted to the idea. She couldn’t imagine having a boisterous party like the one she was peeping at as her first experience here. As much as she knew she drew the attention, she didn’t like being the center of it, she preferred her little corner booth, able to pick her prey long before they even noticed she was there. 

She was so focused she nearly jumped when a hand appeared in her peripheral vision, sliding a fresh martini onto the table, swiftly getting rid of the empty glass. She said a polite thank you, soft smile on her cheeks before she returned her gaze to the bar. Rafael was now occupied with a man much closer to his own age, a glimmer in his eye as they chatted. His eyes very briefly darted over the man’s shoulder, latching onto Rita’s and she raised the drink in thanks. His head tilted just slightly before returning his full attention to the man. To an outsider the two of them could have been having a professional yet casual leaning conversation. Attention was on the other man, close enough to hear each other, but not touching, nothing too over the top to reveal that they were flirting. 

Rita let out a gentle sigh, her elbow resting on the table as she perched her chin in her hand, watching the two of them. The man was well dressed, suit nicely tailored and colour complimenting his complexion, clean shaven and from what Rita could tell, drinking an old fashioned. Considering he’d approached Rafael, all things pointed to the man having good taste. ‘Good for Raf’ she thought, her free hand lifting her martini to her lips as she continued to watch them for a moment. She knew he needed the stress relief; he’d been complaining of migraines what felt like constantly over the past week and a half. He always did well at the club, his charming side became his full personality, the little curve of his lips, the gleam in his eye with just a hint of the cockiness she was used to dealing with in the courtroom. One night when she’d complained about the sheer volume of people who had approached him versus the single drink she’d been bought he laughed, reminding her just how intimidating she could come off. It wasn’t that didn’t have the admirers, it was that they found her almost unapproachable, especially after hearing the rumours that she would be the one to choose what she wanted and she would go out and get it. She didn’t like to admit it, but those rumours certainly were true. 

It was just a shame they didn’t seem to be coming to fruition tonight. 

So she bided her time, watching the other club goers, making up stories about their pasts, how they’d found the club and why they were there tonight. She enjoyed playing a game with Rafael of guessing the sexuality, taking playful bets on it, loser buying the next round. Occasionally her eyes flicked back to him, making sure he didn’t need reinforcements or had disappeared, leaving her totally to her devices. She accepted a shot of Clase Azul from a table three rows down from her; though she declined the gesture to join them, filling in their empty seat. She was about to check her phone when Rafael suddenly slipped back into the book, pressing a kiss to her cheek and sliding her a fresh drink.

“What? You’re not taking off with Casanova?”

He chuckled, “I wouldn’t leave you bored and alone.” He flashed a business card, “I’ve got a number, said we’d make plans over the next couple of weeks.”

“How interested is he?” She raised a brow before draining her previous drink.

“Casual fun, maybe a dinner or show on the weekend’s kind of type. Said he’s relatively new to the city so he doesn’t have a lot of people to go with.” Raf reached up, fixing a piece of her hair, tucking it behind her ear, “and he unfortunately has a complete and utter disinterest in cunt.”

Rita laughed, shaking her head “he was cute. I wasn’t about to pounce on him or anything.”

“He did congratulate me on having a stunner for a wife though.” He replied, picking up her left hand, “I didn’t bother to mention the shame it is you’ve never let me put a ring on your finger but at least we know he’s got good taste.”

This time she did roll her eyes, twisting her hand in his so she could pinch his chin, “he set his eye on you, of course he’s got good taste.”

The two slowly surged closer to one another as Rita’s hand slid up his cheek and Rafael’s found a home on her thigh again. The door to the private room burst open once again causing them both to jump, settling back in their seats.

“Any idea what’s going on in there?” Rita asked, reaching for her martini.

“Some politician’s daughter,” he replied with the minimal knowledge he got from the bartender, “birthday? Engagement party, I can’t be sure. They booked them in there partially for their own privacy and partially for ours.”

“I take it a few non-members in attendance then?”

“Mmhm.” He nodded, lips around the rim of his drink, “Jack said they had a limo coming to pick them up around eleven.”

Rita twisted her wrist to check the time, “I wonder if that means things will pick up in here or die off.”

“Who knows.” He squeezed at her hand, “did you want to take off?”

“I’m not going anywhere when there’s a full drink in front of me.” She countered and he chuckled, relaxing into the booth, watching as her eyes continued to survey the room. 

With Rafael back at her side the two of them played a few rounds of their usual games, watching people flit through the room between tables or groups. Trying to guess who would end up leaving with whom or making up stories to occupy the time. Rita had finally taken the last sip of her martini, gently placing the glass down on the table when Rafael’s hand encased hers.

“Ready?” He asked, starting to slip out of the booth. Rather than a reply he was met with the dead weight of Rita not moving, her eyes were locked in on the bar, her head tilting in a way that Rafael knew all too well. 

“What’d you say to one more round?”

He followed her gaze, landing on a woman at the bar who hadn’t been there before, deep blue cocktail dress hugging her frame, hair loosely curled around her shoulders. She smiled softly at the bartender, thanking him for what looked like a glass of water, followed by a mojito. The girl’s smile dropped as soon as his back was turned, a sigh sagging her shoulders as she played with the straw in one of her drinks.

“She looks the part.” He muttered.

“She looks bored,” Rita mused, her eyes narrowing for a split second, “and lonely…” She slid out of the booth, picking up the empty glassware before pressing a firm hand to Rafael’s chest, “stay here.”

-----------------------

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[alphajocklover]

Hi! How about if a nerd, or maybe a science teacher gets a bush by the jock of the school and he realizes a bit too late that his body is changing. It hits him that the sport teams didn’t have a coach for a while now, but that couldn’t be what’s happening, right?

Ned Stanson had hated highschool. The entire 4 years were absolute hell. He, having been an incredibly nerdy chemistry prodigy who everyone could easily tell wasn’t entirely straight, was constantly harassed by the popular jocks. They’d mock him, push him down, stuff him in his locker and perform incredibly cruel pranks. The jocks at his school weren’t smart or clever, but they were thorough. It was constant. He never felt safe, not for a moment, even outside of school. He didn't relax a moment until he was off to Harvard, and even then he was way too busy getting his double major in chemistry and education to really do anything except study. So why, after the years of torment that Ned had been through, that he still hadn’t gotten over, did he ever think it was a good idea to go back to his old highschool?

Ned put it down to desperation. A college degree, even with a double major, didn’t go as far as it used to, and he had no prior experience. He needed a job, badly, and his old highschool, Luther High, was eager to have him back. He expected it was because it made for good publicity more than anything else. The famous chemistry prodigy who went to Harvard, coming back to his old high school to teach a new generation. That, plus the general prestige of having a Harvard graduate working at your school, would do wonders for the small town highschool. So, drawn in by the surprisingly large salary, Ned forced himself to go back to his old school. He tried to tell himself it wouldn’t be the same, that as a teacher he would have all the power. He wouldn’t have to be afraid of jocks and athletes anymore. He could even help a few nerds the way he had once wished his teachers would help him. Things would be different.

He was right. Things were different. Maybe too different. Ned had found that teaching high school level chemistry was actually quite nice. He had always enjoyed teaching, it was just that he had pictured himself teaching college students, going over more advanced material. But something about going over the basics, introducing young minds to the world of chemistry, was thrilling. He felt amazing. Powerful even. Maybe a little too powerful. He wasn’t doing it consciously, and he felt like crap whenever he noticed it but… he found himself being especially hard on the jocks. They hadn’t done anything to him. He hadn’t even seen any of them bullying nerds like the jocks did back in his day. But some sadistic little part of Ned couldn’t help but pick on them. He’d give them harder questions, offer less help, and he even found himself being downright cruel and mocking them.

He knew he should stop but it felt so… cathartic. It was like he was getting his revenge, after all these years. Maybe that was why the kid he targeted most was Dylan Cooper, the little brother of his worst tormenter growing up. Ned knew it was wrong. A teacher bullying a student was way worse than a student bullying another student, no matter how bad the harassment he went though had been. But every time an opportunity to humiliate the legacy jock came up, he found he just couldn’t resist. After a few weeks of this he knew it couldn’t continue. He asked Dylan to stay after class so that he could explain himself and ask forgiveness. He knew he might be reported to the school board and fired, but… he couldn’t deal with the guilt anymore. As he sat at his desk, Dylan across from him, he tried to find the right words. Dylan spoke before he could, his voice cocky and confident.

“I know what you’re gonna say teach. You’ve been treating me like crap because my big bro used to beat your nerdy ass when you went to school together.” Dylan said with a slight smirk, shocking Ned. How did Dylan know about that? Did his father tell him? Dylan continued, a strange look on his face

“… look, what my bro did to you was shitty. I used to be a bit of a bastard myself till my old football coach set me straight. But you know taking out old grudges on students is fucked up. I can tell you do. You get this guilty look on your face whenever you talk to me.” Dylan said, shocking Ned further. Ned remembered hearing about the football coach. He had been let go shortly before Ned was hired. Everyone said good things about him, and Ned had kind of wished he had met the guy. Finally he spoke, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Dylan, I am… I am so sorry. You’re completely right. I’ve acted completely unprofessionally. If you want… I’ll resign.” Ned offered. Dylan smiled slightly

“No need for that teach. I’ll forgive and forget everything. But you have to do something for me.” Dylan said. He took out what looked to a plastic whistle on a chain “The football team needs a new coach. I’m not asking you to say yes. Just… try on the whistle. See how it feels. Then tell me.” Dylan said. Ned hesitated. Something about this felt wrong… but Dylan was being so forgiving. How could he say no? He took the whistle and slowly slid the chain around his neck. Suddenly the world spun around Ned, his vision blurring. He felt like his entire body was stretching as his mind burned. He ended up blacking out, only for Dylan’s familiar voice to cut through the darkness.

“Coach… Coach… Coach!” Ned sat up with a start, looking around. What… What had happened? He looked over at Dylan, confused.

“What happened kid?” Ned asked, his throat feeling strangely rough. He stood up and stretched his arms, his incredibly large muscles flexing slightly as he tried to recall what had just happened. Dylan replied before he could truly get his bearings.

“We were talking about the team and suddenly got weirdly dizzy. Are you not drinking enough water? You’re the one always telling us to drink a bunch after every workout.” Dylan said with a slight teasing smirk. Ned grinned back at Dylan confidently. Dylan was a cheeky kid, he had been even back when Ned first met him. Ned was an incredibly athletic and popular teen, the classic jock, and had been best friends with Dylan’s older brother all through highschool. Because of that Dylan was almost like a little brother to him too, and getting the chance to teach Dylan was one of the reasons Ned was so eager to accept his new job as gym teacher and football coach. He playfully slapped Dylan on the arm and smirked confidently

“I’m alright kiddo. Just lost my concentration for a moment. You should worry about yourself lil bro. I’m gonna push you hard at practice today.” Ned said with a smirk. As the studly coach and quarterback strut out towards the field, Ned grinned widely. He had loved highschool, and now he got to work here and inspire a whole new generation of manly jock bros. It fucking ruled.