#anyway this is getting away from me but shut up brain!

[dadsbongos]

sockpuppet

act 1 - the day your life changed / act 2 (coming soon!) / act 3 (coming soon!)

7.5 k words / warnings - reader written as the eldest daughter of toji fushiguro

summary - before meeting his wife, toji had a firstborn; and if you thought he was a messy parent with megumi you're gonna hate being that first kid with all the responsibility.

~~~

Scene 1 - summer 2006

Shoko was yawning into a ceramic mug with ewes playing in watercolor daisies on the front. An unlit cigarette dangling between her fingers. One of her eyes fluttered shut as rising sunlight sliced over her face from the kitchen window. Trees swayed behind the glass pane.

In your hand was a beaten up flip-phone, and three hours away by plane Satoru Gojo also holds a flip-phone (much shinier and newer than yours, though).

“I’m serious, you’re too cocky. Even Sho’ thinks so.”

She moans, not quite sure what she’s agreeing to but too smitten with the taste of bitter black coffee to ask.

“Pfft,” Satoru drags the hissing sound before curtly replying, “Whatever.”

“You’ll get yourself and poor Suguru in serious trouble, you know? Sugu’s a sweetheart, don’t drag him down with your bad attitude.”

“Blegh! Stop whining about Suguru, he’ll be fine.”

“I bet if Yaga knew you two were just goofing off in Okinawa for an extra day, he’d be pissed.”

“Well, don’t tell him! Besides, Suguru and I are always acing missions. We’re the strongest, or did you forget?”

“I’m just saying...”

“And I’m just saying: don’t worry about us. We always come back in one piece.”

You sigh. Earning one from Satoru.

“How about this?” uh oh, you can hear the smile on his overconfident face, “If Suguru and I don’t mess up this mission -- you have to go on a date with me!”

That pulls an eye roll out of you instantly, “And when you do mess it up?”

An audible snort before, “Then, I have to go on a date with you.”

Your laugh is boisterous. A rude “ha!” breaking into Satoru’s ears, but he didn’t mind, he assumes the grin on your face is good-natured anyway, “Very funny, Satoru. I gotta go. Don’t get Sugu’ killed, okay?”

“Agh, stop worrying about him!”

With a harsh dig of your thumb, the line cuts -- an unimpressed glower leveling your face to which Shoko merely shrugs in response. Messy bob detangling between pale, lithe fingers as she strokes her bedhead. Cracked lips stretch around yet another ragged yawn from the girl.

“Jeez, Sho’, did you not sleep at all?”

Again, she shrugs.

“Can’t be as bad as Satoru,” you mumble, jerking open the communal fridge to peer at your friends’ boxed leftovers, “He sounded terrible. Like he was sick or something. Can’t imagine how Suguru feels, either.”

Shoko’s snicker echoes into her rapidly hollowing mug.

“Shut up!”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you snap, reaching toward the very back of the chilly box, “Just for that I’m snatching your noodles from last night!”

“I wasn’t gonna eat ‘em.”

Three hours away (by plane!), Satoru is drowsily thumbing the ridge of his silver cell. A faint upward impression left behind on his rosy lips. Suguru dozes off at his side, and Satoru doesn’t have the heart to rouse him -- after all, he can keep enough eyes on Riko by himself.

And closer to you than ever before, two men with dark hair sit in a car. Toji Fushiguro waits with closed eyes and a slouched back, though his brain is live and wired. Shiu Kong continuously mutters about how bothersome his cargo is, earnestly uncaring to the fact Toji can hear his every stilted word.

“Do you want to go out?” you hum around salty noodles, raising a brow. Shoko lays her cheek in her hand and continues, “I don’t feel like staying in all day. I’m pretty sure I could rope Haibara into carrying some bags if we went shopping.”

“Haibara would just be glad to get an invite,” despite the jab, you’re grinning fondly, “Yeah, I can swing a day trip today. Beats studying.”

“Studying for what, even?” Shoko shoots you a disbelieving glare, “Hard ass.”

“Huh?!”

“You heard me,” swinging back the rest of her coffee, Shoko clinks the ceramic mug to wood and blips out of the room with a muted call over her shoulder, “Getting Haibara now! Get dressed!”

“Ughhh,” you frown, looking down at your loose pyjama shorts with contempt. Strangely, the question of which clothes in your arsenal Satoru likes most pops into your head first.

When you remember you won’t see him again until this afternoon, your frown deepens with a huffier “ughhhh!” following. Quickly scarfing down more of your champion’s breakfast.

Once dressed, you set out with Shoko (a freshly lit cig now occupying her mouth), Yu and even a bleary-eyed, unenthused Kento being wrangled out the door by Yu.

“We’re gonna get Kento a nose ring!” Shoko barks, poking the blonde’s cheek.

“I’d rather not,” he grumbles.

As your quartet slithers out from under the torii gates, two parties grow closer.

Suguru stretches, hands above his tense head with an boorish groan. Riko has half a mind to roll her eyes. She eventually does when Satoru follows it up with a complaint, “I’m never playing babysitter again.”

“At least it’s over,” despite his lull, Suguru has a sick sense that it will not be over so soon. Whether it’s a sudden fondness for the girl or true intuition, Suguru is certain he’ll see Riko again.

Riko sops up a droplet of sweat with Misato’s handkerchief, eyes narrowing over Satoru just in time to catch the buttons of his shirt clattering across stone. Untailored undershirt tearing open. Hot crimson splatters out.

A startled scream is trapped in Riko’s jaw, Misato shoving the girl behind herself as Suguru lunges forward. Frayed brain scanning Satoru until the tow-headed boy jams an arm to bar the rest.

Satoru flashes gemstone teeth, tells the group to run along. He can handle a single man.

…

“Augh,” you kick frivolously at the coffee table, orange sun dressing the common space, “Typical Satoru and Suguru! Late as always!”

“I’m sure they have reasons,” Yu claps your shoulder in an attempt to placate your impatience.

“Yeah, starting with ‘Satoru’ and ending with ‘Gojo’...”

“That dink does like making Suguru late,” Shoko agrees, twiddling the pink lighter you gifted her months ago. Her name is bedazzled down either side with rhinestones.

Kento nods slowly, silently appraising the point with hands folded across his bloated abdomen. Yu offers him a slice of tiramisu he’d brought home, to which Kento wordlessly waves off. At the same time, Yu stretches the plate towards where you and Shoko curl together on a single recliner. You both decline, similarly stuffed.

“I don’t know how you’re still hungry, Yu,” you pout, “I’m about to melt into the chair, I can’t move.”

“His stomach’s basically a blackhole,” Shoko’s joke has no room to linger because her phone rattles against the center table as soon as it's out.

Eight eyes draw that way, observing. Disguising her confusion beneath several layers of cool, Shoko stretches around you to snatch up the buzzing device and flip it open and put it to her ear.

“What?” she opens boldly. Brows furrowed.

Cicadas croak outside. You blink at the brunette’s side profile and watch as the knot in her face tightens before unraveling completely -- entire face eerily lax regardless of her tone,

“What?”

She shoves your legs off her lap, making Yu sit up straight. Even Kento’s attention pinched.

“Sho’?” you call quietly.

“Okay,” she flagrantly ignores you, standing and dropping her lighter, “Yes, yes. Yes. I’m coming down.”

“Sho’!” she’s rushing out before you can finish questioning, “Sho’, what was that about?!”

“Those two,” Kento reasons, standing as you do. While you’re preparing to dart out after Shoko, Kento reaches for your arms and rubs soothing ovals into your bicep, “They must’ve gotten injured. Ieiri is the best there is for this thing, they’ll be fine.”

“But they’re- !”

Yu stiffles his own urge to question Kento in favor of pulling you into a hug. Rambling soft, shallow assurances into your ear as he squeezes.

They’re the strongest.

They’re separated.

Suguru under Shoko’s palm, and Satoru looming outside a political office.

“Are you for real?”

The corners of Satoru’s mouth almost begin aching his lips are split so wide. Thumb thunking into his sore temple, heart thumping so hard the red meat may be pushing through his ribs. Extremities somehow simultaneously hot and cold, nerves overwhelmed by righteous hatred. Gold rains over him, and murky shadow splays far ahead of him.

“I’m for real, real.”

Toji knows he should run. Yet remains static as the boy in front of him stretches open; Toji has a twist in his gut urging him far, far away.

But he is stubborn, so he lags.

Green eyes sear through the younger boy. Toji doesn’t know this Gojo brat personally, but he’s certain he hates the kid.

Cicadas mourn in the trees along the walkway, birds flap carelessly overhead. Leaves appear orange under the dying sunlight, and grass whistles lowly around them. Toji is barely sticky with sweat while Satoru is crusty with blackening blood. He almost wants to point that fact out while the teenager is running his mouth.

Toji’s attention is recaptured by swaying trees over Satoru’s shoulder -- a dazzling shade of green. The only flourishing shade not drowned by moldy orange.

Satoru’s breath hitches, “The reason you’re going to lose is because you didn’t chop my head off, and because you didn’t use that cursed tool when you stabbed me in the head!”

“Lose?” Toji cocks a brow, drawing his blade with a fresh drum of agitation, “Our fight is just getting started.”

“Oh? Is it? Yeah… Maybe so!”

.

.

.

Hours later, as the moon finally flutters above the skyline, you’re craned over Suguru’s sleepless body in the infirmary. He lies still with open eyes -skin peeling with jagged red lines and yellow-green bruises. If not for the even bob of his chest he could be mistaken for any of the frozen bodies in the morgue below.

“Suguru?”

Dark eyes flick your way. Empty. Vast. Swirling with only little black spots. His lips remain firmly in a line.

“What happened?”

He does not respond.

“Does your throat hurt? I can make you tea?”

He does not respond.

“Are you hungry? Or tired? Do you want me to go?”

He looks away.

Suddenly, he’s glaring down at the floor -- you follow his venomous gaze to find you’ve begun loudly tapping your foot on the linoleum.

“Sorry,” you swallow the bulb in your throat, forcing the nervous leg to halt, “Sorry, Suguru.”

He’s never looked at you with so much intensity. Nothing is written on his face, he’s excellently schooled his expression to a startling numbness, except for his eyes. Once -just days ago- there was broiling lava rock, burning and gooey at the edges with affection and now you only see hard stone. If you look into his eyes too long you might break your own heart.

“I’ll go, then… ?”

He does not respond.

You quietly, confusedly return to your dorm room, and Suguru stays in the infirmary.

.

.

.

Toji is incapable of getting out the biggest thing on his mind before collapsing into his own pooling blood.

But Satoru’s eyes are unbearably perceptive, so he’s already placing this Invisible Man’s face to an aged photograph at your bedside.

His first response is anger, the urge to call you and swear you out is overwhelming. That anger is seconds later eaten by pity and guilt -- he punches himself in the arm for even considering harassing you (the pain is nonexistent but at least he can say he punished himself)

He comes to your room that night.

Blood has cemented his torn undershirt to his body. Uniform jacket buttons ripped open and hanging by threads. And gone are his glasses, though he won’t look at you. Snowy lashes low and slickly clumped.

“Satoru…?”

He stumbles forward from your doorway, stops, and falls. You catch him.

His skin is warm and you can feel his breath against your neck. The meat of his cheek occupies your shoulder, arms wound around you tight. So tight you almost consider the chance he’s gone mad and is trying to squish air out of you like a toothpaste tube. You return the gesture when he refuses to loosen, clutching around his bent frame.

“Something happened,” you announce it as a whisper. Your first thought returns to that dreaded phone call, which races directly to Suguru. You squeeze him tighter. Nails digging out the scuffed back of his coat and you slicken him against your chest. Your next thought is that Riko girl he’d called you about and the side of your head falls into the junction of his exposed neck, “Satoru,” he tenses, “What happened?”

“I…” you can feel the sigh before you hear it. His breath against your neck. It’s Suguru, right? He’s just worried, right? But Suguru is okay, right? So why is he so shaken? His back is slumping and shaky knees collapse his whole weight upon you. Is it Riko? Tengen? His embrace squashes your ribs into paste. Suguru. Suguru. Suguru. The sound of relief never reaches your ears, “I killed him.”

Your name - your real name - falls from his lips and he burrows further into you. Hiding. Skittish.

Tengen?

“Tengen?” besides the fact you know he’s alive, Suguru would have to do something truly heinous for Satoru to lay a callous glance his way, “What happened to Amanai?”

He shakes his head, and you feel something. Warm. Wet. Water slips below the collar of your nightshirt as fast as it trickles down Satoru’s cheeks. You smell iron the longer he clings to you.

“I killed him.”

You feel the blunts of his nails sink into your skin. He whispers again and suddenly you feel cold. So cold you cannot help but shiver.

When all the manic grins fell and Satoru could think, Toji’s eased expression became familiar. Gentle frown and unstressed skin beckoning his memory back to a picture yellow with age and dog-eared at every corner. The picture he stares at now, on your nightstand and tucked under your lamp so it doesn’t magically float off.

You don’t feel that tightness in your throat that you think you should. Although you don’t feel relieved either.

You nod and pull Satoru closer. A bland “okay.” all you can spit out.

He inhales, stuttering in the base of his throat. His eyes crinkle shut and that unsmiling, unbothered face in yellowing vinyl is hidden from view, “Okay.”

You nod again, “Okay.”

It doesn’t feel like he’s told you a lie.

Strangely, it still feels like tomorrow you will wake up and everything will be the same. Tomorrow some man you don’t quite know will be off slinking through the shadows of Tokyo, finding his next woman to freeload off. Tomorrow, he will groan himself awake and maybe he will think about you, or maybe he won’t. And he will go see Shiu. And he will be detached from every person he meets. And he will hold things loosely. And he will intimidate men in the street. Except now, he’ll do none of those things.

Now, he’ll rot. Now, everything is different, but it feels the exact same.

No, Satoru is not a liar.

But no, you can’t figure how to take this as the truth.

“He had a boy,” you can feel the curves of his lips against your neck. The words moisten your skin, Satoru’s arms constrict you somehow tighter, “A little one. In a few years, he’ll be sold to the Zen’in clan.”

“What was your plan?” you turn, nose nudging his. Neither of you pulls away.

Baby blues pour into you, moonlight interrupting the color at every twitch in his gaze. Bright stare following you exactly, as if he could see through you so easily but chooses not to. Your imagination casts an opaque cerulean glow around his eyeballs. It’s as unsettling as it is captivating.

“I don’t think it’d be right,” and he’s not a liar, “I was going to take him.”

Slowly, you nod, “Okay.”

“Can I stay the night?” he murmurs, already expecting your four letter response.

You wake up that next morning to white hair feathered across your chest. You don’t know how to approach today after last night, so you settle for a casual facade. You don’t have to approach anything if there’s nothing odd or terrifying that needs approaching.

Shaking Satoru by the shoulder, you rub crust out of your eye corners with the other hand and hum softly, “Time to get up, Satoru,” when he fails to rise, you sit up and watch him roll limply off your chest to your mattress, “C’mon, Satoru. If I’m up, you’re up.”

As he continues to lay there, your frustration inspires you to simply pinch him in the face until he whines, “Whyyy?”

“Get up, Satoru!”

“Already…?” he grumbles. Wiggling his face deeper into your pillow.

“I’m not tired anymore.”

“But I am...”

You don’t bother with more words before swinging off your bed and tugging Satoru by his leg. Still in a trashed uniform, Satoru allows you to drag him out of your room and into the shared kitchen.

Shoko and Suguru are the sight to greet you. Shoko flicking her lighter solely to watch the flame as Suguru pushes breakfast in cyclones around the rim of his bowl. Suguru is in the tasteless white tee and black lounge pants from last night while Shoko, similarly, hasn’t changed out of the white tank top and green shorts she wore when the phone rang. A slight upturn of the lips creeps over Shoko, momentarily dropping the lighter to wave -- then tipping her head toward you in approval,

“Hey, you got him up early for once.”

Suguru blinks down at his untouched food.

Nobody acknowledges the lingering stench of blood that follows Satoru’s disgraced appearance.

Your hand falls from its clutch around Satoru’s elbow toward his hand, index finger looping through his own.

“Are you feeling better now, Sugu’?” you step forward, stopped instantly as his eyes cut along your body. A harsh line from your socked foot to your face, fresh and dark discoloration beneath his eyes: wide like a puppy about to be kicked, “Suguru?”

He swallows nothing but spit, you see the muscles in his jaw fasten before he nods curtly, “Fine. Tired.”

Satoru’s mouth hangs open, a retort imminent. Then silence. And more silence. Satoru’s mouth shuts.

With the tense air stifling, you square your shoulders and shake out an unevenly whispered, “Let’s go, Satoru.”

He nods, dragging his eyes off Suguru’s haggard frame, “Okay.”

Scene 2 - summer 2007

Suguru enters quietly. So quietly you’re startled with the realization he’s willingly come into the same room as you.

Too preoccupied looming over the steel examination table to notice his intrusion, you stare into the drenched sheet below. Cold nipping your fingers, and head hung low. Blood dries on pale cheeks. Faint rot infesting your nose. Kento is slouched into a chair behind you with a towel over his eyes.

When the blonde grunts softly in acknowledgment, you finally spot Suguru. Wilted against the doorway, gaunt face angled just out of sight, his hands are shaking at his sides.

“We weren’t…” you sniff, the scent of meat filling your lungs, “I wasn’t fast enough.”

Kento shakes his head, “That was a local deity… that was a first grade case!”

“You couldn’t take it?” Suguru’s voice makes your shoulders jump, it takes a moment before you register he’s speaking to you.

“No.”

He doesn’t seem surprised.

You want to grab Yu’s hand, but you’re scared it’ll be as cold as the metal. You want to grab Suguru’s hand, but you’re certain he’ll pull away.

“You’re a first grade sorcerer now, you should’ve been more help, right?” Suguru pierces you with his stare, hard onyx needles lingering beneath thick, low lashes. He isn’t smiling and he isn’t frowning and you can’t possibly read the way he’s speaking, “Or maybe they just did that promotion for show. You’re very strong. It shouldn’t have mattered: if you were stronger, then Yu wouldn’t have died at all.”

You prefer his resounding silence.

“You were assigned to oversee their mission anyway. Even though you can barely use cursed energy -- you don’t even have an inherited technique,” an unspoken ‘just like him’ dies on the tip of his tongue when you lash back.

“He almost killed you, you know?” you snap, tempted to slap your chilled palms over your mouth until you remember all those fucking silences. The table’s edge is as frozen to the touch as the flat surface, but you grip that for purchase anyway, “He almost killed you, and the first time -- he did kill Satoru. You’re not one to talk about being strong so people don’t die, Geto!”

“I wasn’t strong enough then,” Suguru leans closer, he smells like his bedroom. Stale citrus air freshener and sweat. His hair is matted with bangs all grown out. And no matter how much he sleeps, those eye bags haven’t lessened a wink, “Now, I could kill your monkey of a father.”

His lips are parted with heated pants and many more words to say as water boils into your eyes, heat sizzling your face until your lips quiver.

“Satoru took care of that already,” if you weren’t so hyperfocused on the way he’d react, you could’ve missed his flinch at that name, “I don’t know what I did to you, Geto.”

Suguru leans back, miniscule expression relaxing back into that terrible nothingness. He blinks, and you can nearly pinpoint the exact moment his eyes truly focus on you rather than whatever’s behind you. Your hunched back, your trembling hands on the table, your fraught expression, your cheeks stained with cold tear tracks.

He sighs, digging the heels of his palms into his swollen eyes, “I don’t know, either.”

“He didn’t even know if I was alive,” you murmur, “It’s not like we were actually family,” lie, “I don’t even notice he’s dead,” lie, “It doesn’t matter,” lie, “I don’t want you to be another thing he ruins in my life.”

True.

Suguru’s eyes are split impossibly now, as if something has dawned on him, “You’re right.”

“I know!” you whimper, flinging your hands to your face in an attempt to bat tears away, “I know I’m right!”

He beats you to it -- cupping your face in both of his larger, warmed hands. He steps closer and glides the soft pad of his thumb under your eyes while purring an apology.

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, now fondly stroking your cheekbones, “He didn’t matter at all.”

Toji is one small spore in the world. One small thing growing invasively and infecting -leeching- every surrounding life: Riko and you and him and Satoru and you and his son and you and the people he’s killed and you and unknowing families and you and your mother and the boy’s mother and you and -God- he cannot bare thinking how many people that man ruined and abandoned. But, somehow, none of it matters at all simply because Toji is dead -beyond reconcile. Some day, another monkey may be allowed to fester just the same.

The heat of your body envelopes Suguru, arms twining around his waist and your cheek pressing into the swell of his chest. So intimate despite his cruelties. You hope to keep him together, to remind him that not all people are evil. Toji is one small spore of the world, and he’s been exterminated, so Suguru should look forward.

He does not, it’s just not what he’s best at.

Rather, Suguru is wondering how cruel of a person Toji was. To leave you and (apparently) your little brother and to take the life of an innocent high schooler. Over what? Jujutsu politics? Politics that had nothing to do with him in any case, politics started by monkeys trying to inspire a world they couldn’t possibly tame.

The evolution of Tengen, what a joke; for as much as Suguru’s beginning to lose faith in the wheel of sorcery, he understands more than those cultists could hope to.

The world would be better without this trouble. Without Toji and the people like him, permitted to grow and farm curses and create troubles that eat his friends alive.

“I’m sorry,” his body livens, though refuses to lift independently, one of his hands finds yours and entangles your fingers, “It wasn’t your fault,” he slackens against you, digging himself deeper into your hold, black tendrils tickling your face, “It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”

“I’m worried about you, Sugu’,” you whisper, “I think you should take a couple days and rest.”

More time to think might be the last thing he needs.

“I have a mission coming up. Some mysterious village deaths they need me to check out,” he sighs and straightens sluggishly, one hand still wound in yours against his chest. He turns away from the table completely, naturally you follow.

“After that, then,” you’re not usually so insistent, head falling against his shoulder, “I don’t want you overworking yourself.”

“Hm?” he yawns, “What would you know about that? You took a week off after Satoru and I were beaten.”

“I just didn’t wanna worry about you two while out on work,” you pinch his arm with your unrestricted hand, “I was very scared for the both of you, I’ll have you know.”

You expect a retort and are met with none, just the feeling of Suguru’s fingers tethering tighter around yours -- as if you were going to pull away.

“Alright,” he gives, nodding, “I’ll take a break after this mission.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Thank you.”

Haibara’s blood stains the white sheet behind you. Kento stares at the ceiling. Cold toned light bulbs fuzz with a faint, sickly green. A green that burns brighter the longer you hone on it.

Scene 3 - brother: one

“If I choose them, what happens to Tsumiki?” you’re unwilling to admit how jealous you are that your brother would consider the Zen’ins over you -- it’s too embarrassing. He looks down, “Will she be happy?”

Satoru opens his mouth, but you draw first, “Absolutely not.”

Megumi flinches, hands flying to the straps of his backpack, “Uh- !”

“The only thing guaranteed about you joining the Zen’in would be that she is miserable,” behind you, Satoru snorts at your coldness, “They’re no place for non-sorcerers. Or women. She doesn’t belong there.”

Megumi glares up at you, “Then I don’t have a choice.”

“Not really,” your eyes float to where the little brown-haired girl watches from their porch overhead, she’s so adorable you’re set in the thought that clan would maul her, “I’m your best option.”

When all Megumi does is continue scowling, Satoru claps his hands and cheers, “Okay! Now it’s on me to make all the hard parts actually work out!” he rustles Megumi’s hair, “Leave the rest to me!”

Megumi continues to give you that ugly little wrinkled face, and you’re not above giving one back.

A blessing. This son with no manners is a blessing?

This son that looks just like Toji. That has a permanent claim to his status. He has many blessings and it looks like grace is not one of them.

“I’ll come back tomorrow morning. Be packed,” a reply is hot on his tongue, and you interrupt, “As your technique developes, you’ll need to learn more about jujutsu; getting stronger and keeping up with the bigger kids is going to be your main goal, you know?”

“And Tsumiki?”

An abundance of sudden softness honeys the boy’s voice. His hands strangling his backpack straps and it reminds you of every morning you had to brave school by yourself. Megumi stands taller than you did. Maybe that’s the brown-haired girl’s doing. Maybe whatever preference Toji had for him has given the boy more confidence than a child should have.

It’s going to be grating. You can barely stand looking at him now.

You kneel at eye-level, smoothing out a wrinkle in his shirt like Mikoto would, “Tsumiki will be loved, and I will try to make her happy,” you smile, but it wavers so you try again, “And I will try to make you happy despite everything. We don’t know each other, but I’m still your older sister and it’s my responsibility to look after you. Both of you,” straining best you can to look maternal and sweet and all things Mikoto did. You’re sure you just look like you popped a hernia, though, “I promise.”

Slowly, he nods, grip on his straps loosening until his arms hang like dead weight on either side, “Okay. We’ll go.”

As if he had a choice.

With great grace and humility, however, you don’t say that aloud.

Instead nodding quickly and sighing quietly as you rise, “Sorry for my temper. I’ll work on that,” you roll your hands into fists, the reality of these two lives now fully burdening your shoulders, “I don’t know how to do this, but I’ll work on that, too.”

Just then, it dawns on you: Kid should know what happened to his daddy, right?

“Uhm, about our dad…” you have to duck Satoru out of sight, swallowing hard around the itty bitty three letter word like it’s actually hard to say.

Megumi cuts you off now, “I don’t care. Whatever happened to him isn’t something I’m worried about.”

Satoru laughs, shock numbing him to how rude the outburst is. He looks at you expecting a similar guffaw.

You look pissed. He clamps his jaw.

“You don’t care? You know he’s the reason you’re set up so nicely, right?”

“He left,” Megumi snarks, “Why do you care? Didn’t he leave you, too?”

“Brat!”

“You’re the brat!”

Satoru spins you by the shoulder and waves the two kids goodbye, pushing you ahead to avoid another ear-splitting shout, “We’ll see you tomorrow, then! Be packed ‘cuz you’re never seeing this dump again!”

Next morning, before the sky is waxing blue, you and Satoru are stuffing shoddy boxes and trash bags into some underpaid assistant manager’s trunk while Megumi and Tsumiki sit inside on nice leather seats. They babble to each other, occasionally earning a muffled reply from the driver.

“Just think, since he already hates the old man he’ll just be extra loving to you!” Satoru beams, “Once he actually warms up to you anyway.”

“Satoru- !”

“On it,” he pretends to zip his mouth shut. Briefly breaking the seal just to yawn.

Scene 4 - brother: two

Your body is twisted sideways at the table. Cold wall supporting your back and knees upward to cage Megumi in your lap. His knuckles are white from gripping the yellow crayon in his hand, he traces the characters you lined in pen. Eyebrows scrunched towards the middle of his forehead and the tip of his tongue peeks out from the corner of his lips.

Megumi unsurely lifts his crayon from the paper, covering his work with a fatty toddler arm as he re-examines what he’s done. Then, he proudly beams up at you with a single missing tooth -pudgy hands crinkling the paper he now jams in your face. Squiggly, messy work, you know, but it’s a lot better than yesterday’s practice looked.

“Very good,” you hold the paper into the light, grinning faintly at the impossibility of reading your brother’s tracing, “We should probably use a different color next time.”

“I like blue.”

Chuckling faintly, you cup Megumi to your chest and lean across the table to retrieve a blue crayon from the box, “Right, right. I should’ve just started with blue, huh?”

“Yeah…” he agrees passively, “That’s okay, though.”

“Oh, you forgive me?”

He shrugs, taking the blue and eagerly trying to scrawl his name by himself -- no pen to trace over, “Yeah. I forgive you.”

Satoru and Tsumiki giggle from Satoru’s kitchen where Tsumiki is showing him how she prefers to make sandwiches.

.

.

.

“I’ve never been to a theater before!” Tsumiki was excitedly bouncing at your side, jangling your arm in her hold, “Thank you, thank you!”

“Heyyy,” Satoru whined, “Who’s paying for the whole thing?”

He’s promptly ignored as your group takes a step toward the concession counter. You squeeze your sister’s hand, then your brother’s, “Two small popcorns. Four sodas, and…” your eyes drift off to Satoru, “Candy?”

“Yes, candy!” he eagerly taps the glass, though no fingerprints are smeared across the display -as if he’s not there at all. Rattling off various boxes and plastic wrappers that catch even a hair’s interest.

Megumi taps your thigh with his spare hand, furrowing his brows up at you, “Can I get caramel?”

“Hmm? Like what? Candy?”

He shakes his head, pointing over the counter toward the popcorn station. Three silvery handles beside the large popper -buttery, extra buttery, and caramel.

Tsumiki leans her face on your hip, eyes wide in exaggerated shock, “What, ‘gumi? I thought you hated sweets!”

Megumi shrugs and looks away, “Nevermind.”

“Stop being a brat,” you scoff, squeezing his tiny hand again, “Just admit you wanna try it.”

“We’ve had it before,” he murmurs.

“When?” Tsumiki tilts her head.

“Your mom made us some.”

She frowns, reaching up to twirl a lock of brown hair, “I don’t remember that…”

Megumi’s head hangs, he kicks at a peeling tuft of lobby carpet, “I liked it.”

“Can I try it, too?” Tsumiki grabs onto your arm with both hands now, bottom lip puffing out, “I don’t remember that popcorn at all, it sounds yummy -I wanna try it!”

“You hated it…” your brother grumbles.

“I don’t even remember it!” Tsumiki barks over your lap.

“No arguing, please?” you kick the pair apart, a sudden ache burdening your temple, “You can both get the caramel.”

“Not even my kids and I’m paying for them…” Satoru pouts at you. Long arms full of snacks you’re sure won’t survive the previews. He wanders toward a gray side table with straw and lid stands and napkins and trash spilling onto the floor. You follow with said kids at either side, they jump up and clammer for their little popcorn buckets. And Tsumiki is already quietly asking if she can have some of his gummies.

Satoru hands over the whole packet with a mournful sigh and you laugh; then taking two cups and handing them to the children.

“Get your sodas, and don’t spill!”

Tsumiki chirps, “yes, ma’am!” at the same time Megumi rolls his eyes, “duh”. They scramble towards the bulky fountain and whisper to each other about what either should get. Occasionally throwing curious glances over their shoulders, you wave and they wave back.

“Can’t believe this is the first time you’re letting me take you to a movie,” the man at your side huffs, “We can’t even do anything.”

“Shut up!” you smack his arm, face on fire with embarrassment, “We aren’t together -you can’t say those things, you know?!”

Satoru smiles, evidently proud of himself, before mimicking a zipper over his lips.

“Tsumiki mixed sodas…” Megumi crawls back, casting a judgmental glare at the girl, “I told her it’s gonna be gross…”

“It’s good!” she shoves her cup toward your face, “Try it! Cola and strawberry! It’s delicious!”

“I believe you, ‘miki,” you politely press her soda back down, “What’d you get, Megumi?”

“Water,” he answers blandly.

“Ick,” Satoru unzips his mouth.

“Nothing else sounded good.”

“No time to bully him,” you prod your siblings forward by their shoulders, “We gotta move before the actual movie starts, yeah?”

“Should I not have got water?” Megumi flings his head back to look up at you, trusting blindly that you’ll guide him straight.

“Did you want water?”

“Yeah…”

“Then you should’ve gotten water,” you wave off.

“Wet blanket,” Tsumiki teases, adding not even a second later, “Just kidding, ‘gumi.”

“I’m not,” Satoru ruffles the boy's hair, “Live a little, jeez!”

“I like water!” Megumi smacks the man’s hand away with a scathing scowl, “You’re not my dad anyway!”

“Damn, okay…”

“Sis,” a hesitant squeak snakes into your ears, followed by a shy tug on your jeans, Tsumiki shamefully holds her popcorn bucket in front of her crumby face, fingers shiny, “I don’t like the caramel…”

“I told her!” Megumi scoffs. Taking her bucket, “I’ll finish it.”

“You’ll give yourself a stomach ache,” you snatch the treat and cradle it against your chest, “Satoru will finish it.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m the family garbage disposal, huh?”

“Shut up.”

He drags that imaginary zipper back over his lips with a sure nod.

.

.

.

“Teachers had everyone make them!”

Two circular, gritty, white mounds sit in either of your hands. A small pink handprint dented into one and a slightly smaller blue one pressed much more messily into the other.

“What’s the holiday?” you mutter, mostly sarcastic. In your head you’re sure it was an art project to make the board look engaged in extracurriculars.

Megumi pointedly stares out the car window, navy backpack in his lap. His kicking legs don’t even skim the back of the driver’s seat so you choose not to chastise him. Tsumiki, however, proudly has both of her longer legs stiffly out and against the passenger’s seat… but nobody’s sitting there anyway so you won’t lecture her, either.

Tsumiki is also staring up at you, unlike her brother, and she giggles, “Mother’s day!”

The auxiliary in front throws a glance your way through the rear view.

“No shit?” you lay the handprints in your lap, cradling them there, “Uhm. Tsumiki, your mom- well. She’s… alive, yeah? Did you wanna send it out?”

The auxiliary clicks her tongue awkwardly.

Tsumiki blinks herself sober of whatever dewy excitement previously possessed her. She slumps back into the seat and throws her shoulders up indifferently.

On your other side, Megumi curses, “We didn’t make them for Tsumiki’s mom.”

Uneven marker scrawls of their names stain beneath their handprints. FUSHIGURO printed so obviously. You flip them over again and re-read the inscription on the flat sides: THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF ME is on both of them. You flip them back around and are somehow once again jarred by how small each print is.

“Teacher said we didn’t have to make them,” Megumi still doesn’t look your way, “We could’ve skipped it and worked on homework.”

“But we didn’t want to,” Tsumiki twiddles her thumbs.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI FUSHIGURO TSUMIKI

Gently, you reach out and take one hand from each kid -- Megumi’s palm is stained like cornflowers while Tsumiki’s is the color of strawberries.

“We got to pick the colors,” Tsumiki’s voice returns chipper, “Do you like them?”

Megumi watches you through his peripherals.

You squeeze their hands and let go, holding the plates carefully on your thighs. It takes a moment to recollect your voice before you croak, “Yeah. I like them.”

“I wanted to write my own name but the teacher wouldn’t let me,” Megumi flops into your side and away from the window, drawing his index finger over his name.

“Boo,” you jeer, “Your teacher’s lame.”

“Mine let me write my name,” Tsumiki adds unhelpfully.

You shake your head sympathetically, “Your teacher’s extra lame, ‘gumi.”

“I know,” he grunts, annoyed.

.

.

.

“Gojo says I look like Dad,” Megumi has no recollection of what Toji looks like. You’ve hung no pictures and you don’t intend to. You have one piece of solid evidence that your father existed, and it’s too fragile to crack out for display.

“You do,” you say simply, watching the way his chubby cheeks puff up in a pout, “It’s not like that’s a bad thing. Just… a thing.”

“Just a thing?”

“Can’t change it,” you shrug and think back to how Mikoto would preen and coo over what little resemblance you shared with Toji, “Why be mad about it?”

“I don’t want to look like him,” he crosses his arms, still pouting stubbornly, “I don't want you to think I look like him.”

Because Dad hurt Mabu, didn’t he? That’s why she doesn’t live with Dad, like he and Tsumiki didn’t live with Dad. Why would Dad have Mabu just to leave her? And why would Dad have Megumi just to leave him? Does Mabu see Dad every time she looks down at Megumi? Megumi doesn’t like Dad -- not at all.

“You still look like your Mom,” you crouch down and scrub a hand through Megumi’s untamed hair. It flies up in ways that Toji’s didn’t -and it’s a handful of shades lighter, too, “‘m guessing, anyway. I never met her, you know? But you definitely don’t look like him as much as you’re thinking, Satoru just likes being mean.”

“You’re saying that…”

“No, seriously, Dad’s hair was all flat,” both your hands settle atop Megumi’s head, smoothing down his hair and watching your brother’s nose wrinkle when it’s laid against his ears. But even so, with the same aggressive fringes and strong bridge of his nose and big ears and pale skin, it’s only Megumi. Megumi, your sweet baby brother. He blinks up at you, awaiting your judgment, “You don’t look that much like him. Satoru’s being mean.”

“You promise?”

“Uh-huh,” you stand back up and snicker when his hair bounces back into place, if a little frizzy, “You’re nothing like him anyway. So don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I looked like you,” he blurts.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then how would we know who your dad is, hm? I don’t look like that guy at all.”

“I don’t care if people know he’s my dad,” he donks his forehead into your knee, “I wish I looked like you!”

“You’re adorable,” you poke his puffed cheek, “Who knows? Maybe some day when you’re grown up, you’ll suddenly have my nose.”

“How would that work?”

“Dunno.”

“Ugh…”

Scene 5 - summer 2004

Three faces in front of you, plus one at your side. The sun blares between dusty window slats. Cicadas die outside and the overgrown grass sways to a calm breeze. Green ponds ripple beneath the wind, you think it's a shame you’re locked inside.

A foot taps anticipating your introduction, the girl -medical marvel Shoko- watches between glances out the broken blinds. She tatters a nail against her rickety desk but stops when she catches you staring, mouthing a lazy ‘sorry’ and resting her chin in her palm.

Similarly posed and less polite, the Gojo heir with snow white hair and a toxic radiation glow to his blue eyes. He’s sneering and you haven’t gotten to speak yet. His nose already pointed into the air.

Finally, the modest Geto, Suguru (the one with the bangs, is how you remembered he existed). Born from a normal family in a normal, slow, rural town outside of Tokyo. He introduced himself the most sanely -- stating his name and age and that he was excited to work with everyone. His smile is tight, no doubt a ruse to hide his annoyance at how long you’re taking to speak, but still he’s smiling.

Yaga clears his throat and encourages you on with a simple brow raise. No matter how desperately you begged he was insistent you engage in the few normalities of his schooling. Unfortunately your family was not well enough known as Satoru Gojo’s, where he simply stood from his chair and gave double peace signs with a ”yo~”.

Suguru was the only one unsure of who he was, meaning Yaga forced him to genuinely introduce himself while you and Shoko laughed. Now it's Satoru’s turn to laugh at you. May as well get it over with soon, then:

“Clan history’s a bit muddy, and I don’t like my name, so just call me Mabu while we’re here.”

Satoru’s whole nose crinkles with cringe, eyes slitting at you, “Blegh! Edgy.”

“Drop dead,” you scoff.

“Hey,” Suguru raises his hands as if he could manually divert the tense energy, “No need to fight, we’ve all just met.”

Attention sufficiently snagged, Shoko snickers to herself, vision drifting between you and Satoru, “Nah, this could be interesting. Kinda want to see where they take it.”

Holding Satoru’s glare for a few prolonged, dreadful seconds, you sigh and retreat from his unsettling, crystalline eyes, “Whatever. Not like I came here to get along with you all anyway.”

“Edgy!” Satoru accuses, louder this time, “It’s hurting just to listen to!”

“Drop dead!” you repeat yourself, fingers coiling into a fist.

“Well, I tried…” Suguru murmurs.

Yaga sighs, pinching away the stress behind his forehead, “Yes, thank you, Geto. Gojo, enough antagonizing. And Mabu,” flinching under his brutish tone, you slowly peek back toward your mentor, “You do sound terrible.”

“Whatever,” again, you repeat, but this time the words are caked with a childish pout.

Overly familiar, Shoko pulls you into the seat beside her by your uniform sleeve. Then gliding that same hand up your arm until it finds leverage on your shoulder, careening into your personal space with a lollipop stick hanging carelessly through the corner of her lips, “How about you drop the tough act? I think you ‘n’ me could really be friends.”

“...whatever…”

Satoru cackles in the seat on your other side, wriggling fingers teasing to tug at your shirt collar, “Yeah, we should be friends!”

Your mouth opens to revise your favored two-word catchphrase, until Yaga wittingly clears his throat, you flounder before shrugging, “As long as you learn when to shut up.”

The boy crosses an ‘X’ over his heart with a curt nod. You smother the sight of your grin behind a raised hand.

[pizzaqueen]

But whyyyyyyy do I have to be so self conscious about the kind of fic I enjoy writing??? 😫

It can’t just be me who gets like this right? I live for fluff but sometimes I’m embarrassed that it’s all I write ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(Okay that tag is meant to say romance but I’m on mobile and I do not want to write them all again 🙄)

[bunnihearted]

being too weird and unlikable and off putting and always being shunned and turned into an outcast everywhere i go and not having felt the connection and healing friendship has on you for so many years has really done a number on me

[bleaksqueak]

While i work I've been listening to an LP of the Telltale Walking Dead Games (the ones with clementine, I do not care about the others lmao). Ages ago when I played these I was well aware/amused that part of season 2 takes place in Parker's Crossroads/Parker's Run because I grew up right next to it and the detail stood out to me. But I never caught the line of "We'll head to parker's run. It's just up the road from here" until just right now. So I had a sort of "wait, where the fuck are they supposed to be right now?" (search)

ARE YOU SHITTING ME LMAO So by process of elimination, since it's the only city with anything even remotely resembling a large home supply store, that would mean they're in my literal hometown. My tiny hometown in the middle of nowhere that's never in anything that barely anyone knows of. How in the fuck lmao

[cryolyst]

~

[itspileofgoodthings]

also I had a breakthrough today that I had in fact overthought a Specific Problem to Death and that I had created a monster in my own mind and that’s why it felt like I was being eaten alive every time I tried to solve it.

[palms-upturned]

.

[youremyonlyhope]

why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up

[ban-joey]

sending laser beams to my professor with my mind. kenneth you said midterm grades would b up by this afternoon. it is officially TONIGHT and guess what? kenneth i would love to not be clenching my teeth in my sleep tonight. kenneth i will be sending you a bill in the mail. yes i know its probably a TAs responsibility but i blame you personally. i hate school

[tafadhali]

I would have just cleaned my kitchen tonight if I’d known my brain would just keep me awake playing out in detail the steps of cleaning my kitchen from the moment I conceived the plan until, apparently, dawn

[eledhrim]

:^)

[definitelynotwinter]

When is life supposed to get better again? When does it get easy? When will I wake up without everything worrying me...and when will I snap back into reality and feel light again. Without any fear, with the ability to know I'm secure and loved. To have my health no longer be failing me and to not care what others think.

Idk I'm just a miserable bitch and life will always be as horrible as it ever has been,

But God am I trying so hard for it to not be

I just wish I had a break so I can be...light. just for once.

[29121996]

.

[satoruxx]

thinking about since canonically Geto is more popular with girls than Gojo he’s gotten used to them looking past him to get to Geto but what if Gojo and Geto are out for drinks with the other teachers one night and he gets approached by the reader but he thinks she’s just coming over to ask him for Geto’s number and so he prepares his ‘responsible best friend’ act and then SHE ASKS ABOUT HIM INSTEAD, ALL BLUSHY AND STUFF BECAUSE HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS GONNA BRUSH HER OFF

AHH I LOVE HIM SM 😔😔😔

pairing: gojo satoru x reader | 1k words summary: fluff, pining, reader is a simp but same, satoru is a good wingman but he needs attention too, au ig bc suguru's alive LMAO, idiots in love? rheya's note: oh my god shut up this is so cute and YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT??? i can just imagine that he's gotten so used to judging whether or not the person is even worth suguru's attention before deciding to pass on his info...and after a while his brain just defaults to thinking that everyone wants suguru but he FORGETS that there are gojo girlies out there (me asf) !! thanks for the ask nonnie babes i love this idea so so much <33

OK SO

it's obvious that there are quite a few women at the bar eyeing the group. young, attractive teachers spending an evening trying to relax and take their minds off of the stress of jujutsu work. nanami is in deep conversation with shoko about something while ijichi quietly listens. further down the table utahime is quietly sipping her drink while mei mei orders another. shoko makes a comment and suguru bursts into unabashed laughter.

the flush of alcohol dusts over each of their cheeks, but satoru remans the only one who has barely touched his glass, the sting of the bitterness a little too harsh for him to enjoy. he opts for instead letting his eyes roam over the faces in the crowd, taking little notice of all the eyes and smiles sent in their direction.

well until he notices you anyway.

you're already looking in his direction curiously, face illuminated by the dim lighting of the bar as your friends giggle around you. when his eyes lock with yours, you immediately tear your gaze away, trying to play it off by immediately delving into conversation, though satoru can tell that there's a flush crawling up your neck now.

he doesn't look away though, too caught up in the crinkle of your eyes and the smile lines that grace your face as you laugh at something. a minute later you're looking back in their direction, and when you catch him staring, you turn away yet again.

satoru glances to his side, knowing that you're probably watching suguru take a sip of his drink and most likely falling for his charming smile.

typical and so predictable.

some time passes like this. you'll look, and turn away, and satoru will watch you do it over and over again. it isn't until a while later that satoru catches your friends pushing your shoulders and giggling, and he knows that they're urging you to come up and ask about suguru. you're shaking your head, the nervousness clear as day as your brows pinch. but eventually you succumb to peer pressure and stand up from your table, taking anxious strides towards him.

and usually, satoru will make a face or turn his back or do something to look as unapproachable as possible. because almost every person who comes up asking for suguru's contact info has been obnoxious as hell.

but you're quite pretty and you look sweet enough, and he doesn't think it'd be right to deter you.

suguru would probably like you too.

so satoru decides to let you try at least, and if you seem to be as nice as you look maybe he'd bridge the gap between you and his best friend.

you make your way up to him, and as soon as he finally gets a good look at you he's thinking you're a lot prettier up close.

dammit.

"hi," you say, face hot as you try your best to maintain steady eye contact with him. you look so nervous, fidgeting with the fabric of your clothes as you attempt to strike up conversation, and he doesn't have it in him to watch you struggle.

"yeah i can give you his number," he says, voice clipped as he tries to hide the disappointment in it. you watch him grab a napkin and begin scribbling something down, confusion clear as he hands you the digits.

"um…?" you look at the napkin and then at him. "sorry, whose number is this?"

satoru balks, lips parting as he mirrors your confusion. "uh…suguru's? the guy behind me?"

realization dawns on your face and you shift your weight from foot to foot.

"oh actually," you suck your teeth nervously, trying to hide behind an awkward little smile. "i came to talk to you."

satoru can only blink, cerulean eyes widening behind his glasses as he stares at you in surprise.

you take his silence as a bad sign, shoulders dropping and embarrassment settling in your frown as you look anywhere but his face. "s-sorry if that's weird. i don't wanna make you uncomfortable or anything so-"

he's grinning before he can stop himself, heart dangerously swelling with affection as he motions toward the empty stool next to him. "not weird at all."

the pleasant surprise on your face makes him bite back a chuckle, and you take the seat. "huh...i wasn't expecting you to be okay with it."

satoru raises a brow curiously, tilting his head. "why not?"

you shrug with a careless grin. "i had a feeling you were gonna brush me off from the moment i first looked over."

satoru winces, and he can practically feel suguru's knowing smirk on his back. he chooses to ignore that for now, eyes trailing over the mirth in your expression, and he can only smile helplessly. "no way in hell."

your laugh comes instantly, sweet and bright, and you take it as a sign to continue talking. satoru listens on, sipping his drink to hide his giddy smile and ignoring the sting of bitterness once again.

honestly, with the amount of sweetness he's just found, satoru would tolerate as much bitterness as he needed to.

[fangirl-dot-com]

☀️Sons, Sons, and More Sons

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader Genre: Fluff/SMAU Summary: Ollie, Leo, Liam, who's next Oscar? Oh.

inspired by @pucksandpower 😊

TAG LIST IS CLOSED

“CHARLES!”

The said Monegasque, who had been “innocently” snuggling his four-legged son, winced at the force and volume of your voice. 

He was currently going through everything that might have upset you in the past 20 minutes from when he got home to you just now getting out of the shower. Did he leave the toilet seat up again? Or did he forget to sort the laundry? Or maybe he didn’t clean up Leo’s toys from the bedroom? 

“Why is my Twitter blowing up?” 

Oh. That’s why. 

He whispered to Leo, “I’m in for it now.” 

And then in a louder voice he yelled, “Yes mon amour?” 

You rounded the corner of the hallway and stopped in the opening to the living room, crossing your arms. “Care to tell me why I’m getting tagged in almost every Twitter post about you adopting Oscar?” 

You wanted to break at the puppy eyes that your boyfriend was currently giving you, but you needed to stay strong. You needed to show that a man could not sway your feelings. Too bad that man was Charles Leclerc, the one that men and women alike fell to worship the ground beneath his feet. 

You couldn’t break. 

Charles brought his hand up to ruffle his hair, something he did to express some nervousness. 

“Cheri, it was just a joke. Oscar somehow finds heritage in a lot of countries. He just wanted to keep the joke going.” 

“So you decided to ‘adopt’ him so he can have another home race?” 

“Maybe?” 

“Don’t you already have enough sons anyway? I think four is too many or our house is going to overflow on family night.” 

Charles’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. “Four?” 

Now it was your turn to smirk. “Yes, four. Or are you too busy having fun with Leo to be a present father to your other two?” 

Charles tried to wrack his brain about who could be the other two. 

“Ollie?” 

“Bingo.” 

He leaned back into the couch, hands still gently petting Leo who had decided to fall asleep in the middle of his parent’s squabbles. The golden puppy was content on his dad’s warm chest, the rise and fall rocking him to sleep. 

The Ferrari driver sighed. “I don’t even know.” 

You waved your phone at him. “Twitter might be able to help you. I need to get dressed since I was rudely interrupted. I hope you find out before they get here for dinner.” 

Charles shot up making Leo yelp away from his nap. Now that he was really looking at you, he realized that you were just in a towel. A blush formed on his face, still having those boyish thoughts that he believed he was better than that. 

You walked over and bent down, face getting closer to his. 

Ah. You were going to forgive him and all would be right in the world once your lips met his. You wanted to laugh as you saw his eyes flutter shut, lips slightly puckering. 

Charles was wondering what was taking you so long when your finger touched his lips. His eyes shot open and he definitely did not whimper. You looked down at your fur-baby and gently picked him up, bringing Leo to your chest. 

“Twitter. Figure it out Leclerc.” 

Now a bit sullen, he watched you walk away. 

“Je t’aime!” 

He was responded to with a middle finger and the bedroom door slamming. A chuckle made its way from his chest as he brought his phone out. If there was one thing that you two did well, it was dramatics. 

Twitter was immediately opened once he got his phone out. He scrolled through all the tags before giving up and opening your profile. He winced at the sight of the white background, cursing his phone for updating and not keeping the dark profile. 

However, he couldn’t contain his laugh as he saw your new updated tweet. He leaned his head back, still giggling to himself. 

Charles knew that you two wanted kids at some point. But between his Formula 1 career and your business on the uprise, children really wouldn’t work well now. But deep down, he liked the idea of having a few grid kids. 

He took a minute to stop giggling before he continued his search. His eyes widened as he stopped on one of the family trees that some fan made. 

There was Leo, adopted by you and him. 

Then Ollie, who fans say that Charles conceived himself somehow. 

Oscar was newer, but still had the adopted dotted line. 

And then . . . 

Ooohhhhhhh, so that’s who he was missing. 

You took that moment to come out of the bedroom, hair now dry and fluffy from your Dyson. Leo was still in your arms, looking more awake than he had when he was with Charles. You sat down next to him, Charles taking the opportunity to put an arm around you, bringing you in closer. 

“You smell good amour.” 

You turned and smiled, leaning in to finally give him a kiss after a long day. 

“Thank you. It’s the lotion that you bought me.” 

He let out a low hum and just kept you in his arms. Leo was squirming a bit before he finally flopped over and settled in between your two bodies. 

“I figured out who our other son is.” 

Your head now rested in the crook of his neck. “Did you now.” 

“Yes. I am a stepfather to Liam?” 

Your shoulders shook with giggles. “Not the stepfather, but the father who stepped up.” 

“You spend way too much on Twitter.” 

You looked up at him, and Charles turned to look down at you. You leaned in closer to rub your noses together, giving him eskimo kisses. The Ferrari driver just closed his eyes and basked in the moment between you. 

There weren’t many times that he got something like this. So quiet and peaceful. His world was filled with so much noise. But here, he could melt into the quiet. 

“We should have dinner here with the boys after the Grand Prix on Sunday.” 

“That sounds nice. I can make the food.” 

You sat up slightly, elbow bent on the back of the couch and head resting on your hand. 

“You want to show off your cooking skills to your sons to prove that you can cook.”

Charles huffed. “I am the provider chéri.” 

You cocked your head at the Monegasque. “Whose name is on the lease mon bebe?” 

A huff was the answer, which made you cuddle Charles closer still being aware of the little baby between you. A small nip to your fingertip made you pick Leo up, now holding him close to your face. 

“Were you getting a bit jealous of papa ma petit amour?” you asked the blonde dachshund in a baby voice. If Charles wasn’t already fully in love with you, his love would have been solidified in this moment. 

While watching, he suddenly remembered something. “Oscar wanted to meet Leo in McLaren hospitality this weekend.” 

You turned with a raised eyebrow. “Why not Ferrari?” 

“Eh.” 

It was as if you had a lightbulb moment. “Ohhhhhhh, right. That makes sense. I can stop by and let you know when I get there.” 

What you hadn’t expected was to pick up Liam and Ollie on your way to the now green outside of the McLaren hospitality. Leo was still curled up in your arms, eyes blinking every so often. You knew that if it wasn’t so busy, the little puppy would be sound asleep. 

“He’s so cute,” Oscar said, walking forward and hands outstretched. You gently gave him over to the “older brother” of the three. 

Ollie laughed. “I know right. He’s so cuddly.” 

Liam joined in, “I don’t think I put him down the entire time I got to meet him.” 

Oscar stared at you three for a moment. “Yeah, you aren’t getting him back.” 

You shook your head. “Speak to your father first, Oscar.” 

Chuckles erupted from all around, making you laugh as well. You took your phone out and took a quick picture of Oscar holding Leo to post later. 

“Is dad on his way?” Ollie asked after sipping on his water bottle. 

You rolled your eyes. “Should be. Ah, there he is.” 

Charles stepped foot into the room and immediately found you surrounded by his “kids.” His heart may have melted seeing Leo flopped in Oscar’s arms. He gave you a kiss on your cheeks before he greeted the three. 

“This is hilarious,” he said, making everyone laugh yet again. 

You rested a hand on your forehead. “We’re just missing Liam’s dad, and then we’ll be one big happy family.” 

The Kiwi crossed his arms, but a giant smile was on his face. “So much for having a present father in my life. I’m jealous.” 

Charles gripped your waist and puffed his chest. “I’m not the stepfather, but the father that stepped up.” 

“Charles, no you aren’t. Can’t even handle three kids.” 

You and Charles turned around to see Max now stepping through the door. The Monegasque raised his eyebrow. 

“And you can?” 

You raised a hand. “That’s my que to leave. I will not be in the middle of a Lestappen-father showdown. Boys, you can follow me.” 

“Yes mum.”

“Lead the way.” 

“Can I still keep Leo?” 

Charles and Max gawked as the three older boys followed you like ducks in a row. After he got over the shock, the Ferrari driver was left with a love-sick smile on his face. 

“Yeah. I’m marrying her.” 

“Gross.” 

“Max. Shut up.” 

y/n_l/n has posted

liked by y/nismother, charles_leclerc, liamlawson, and 1,304,295 others y/n_l/n look at my sons . . . pride is not the word I'm looking for

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y/nismother the mother is mothering

charliexy/n honestly, they all take after him so much. I need to go to twitter

olliebearman then what is the word you're looking for mom 🤨

liamlawson30 I knew she wasn't proud of us

oscarpiastri this is why dad is better

y/n_l/n I'm taking away all of your sims and ps5's

olliebearman I take it back, mom is the best

oscarpiastri81 this is the best thing to happen this weekend

charles_leclerc my family 🫶

maxverstappen1 you stole my son from me.

liamlawson30 they had free ice cream 🤷

y/n_l/n 😊

maxverstappen1 I'm taking pole then

charles_leclerc ☹️

lestappenlove I love the entire family your honor

leclerc16charles does Leo need another sibling? cause I can bark

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[tojirights]

I absolutely love your Alastor smut! Is there anyway you can make one where your Vox’s ex and Alastor decided to somehow show off to Vox how much reader loves his c*ck more?? A special broadcast maybe?? Please keep up the great work!

a/n: i love vox but if there's one thing i love more, its making him feel inferior to alastor 😍 this is soo good. REQUESTS OPEN! 🩷

tags: 18+ smut nsfw!

vox thought alastor couldn't get any worse, there was nothing that shit-for-brains demon could do to enrage him more. that was until valentino told him that alastor had a new pretty little thing hanging on his arm. "he WHAT?!" vox's voice cracks from the sheer force he puts behind those words. valentino snickers, watching vox run to his security room.

and there you were, locked arms with that fucking deer demon, walking down the street. you looked absolutely enthralled with that fucker! "you've gotta be fucking kidding me..." he growls, static filling his vision. as if alastor can sense that they're being watched, he winks at the camera and pulls you down a more secluded path. vox puts his fist straight through the screen before pacing around the room. it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before his ears pick up that voice, that shitty radio voice.

"good evening viewers!" alastor begins, making vox's head spin around. the tvs were blank, just audio playing through them. he's about to smash the rest of them when something catches his attention. he swears he hears a familiar noise, your noises specifically. then he hears you panting, and blood rushes to his groin first and then his face. "thank you for tuning into a very special late night broadcast." alastor's voice sounds... breathier.

"what the fuck is-" vox mutters to himself before his eyes go wide. "o-oh god." you moan, sounding far too sexy. and enjoying yourself far too much. "yes alastor, fuck. that's so good." your whines play out, filling the room and vox is just about to lose it. "is alastor fucking your ex?" valentino leans against the doorframe, a smug look on his face. "you’re so tight, my dear. your cunt was made for my cock just as i was made for radio." he laughs to himself, his hands finding your hips as he fucks you over his desk.

this little plan of his was working just as intended. he asked, of course, if you'd be interested in ruffling your exes feathers a little bit and you agreed. this special broadcast was only being shown directly to vox through his security. not a single other soul would be able to hear you but vox. it sent a certain chill up your spine, knowing that he was definitely listening. every thrust of alastor's cock presses you harder into the desk, bruises sure to form later in the evening.

"that's kinda hot, yknow-" "SHUT UP VAL." vox feels as though he's about to implode, anger coursing through him in a way he's sure he's never felt. "i am going to finish him. both of them. they won't live this down."

valentino covers his mouth to stop from laughing. "it sounds like they're about to finish each other." and he was right. your breathy little moans are a dead giveaway. "please, please your cock feels so good. g-gonna cum." vox paces the room, plotting your downfall but his cock is hard as a fucking rock in his pants.

"such a good girl, you are. you sing so pretty my dear." alastor grunts, pressing the head of his cock up against your cervix before he feels you clamp down around him. with every pulse of youe orgasm, alastor follows. "cum alastor, p-please fill my pussy." you gasp, riding out wave after wave of deep pleasure. vox should turn this off, he should walk away but he can't make his feet move.

and after alastor finishes deep inside of you, filling you to the point of it leaking down his cock, he lets out an almost sinister chuckle. "thank you my loyal viewers for tuning in for this one of a kind show! we hope you thoroughly enjoyed."

the room is silent after the broadcast ends. that is, until velvette clears her throat. "was that alastor fucking your bitch?" she raises a brow, a slow smirk spreading over her lips when she sees vox's face.

"no one talk to me. i have business to attend to." and with that, vox disappears, leaving valentino and velvette to themselves.

"bold move, i gotta hand it to him."