#they could be yuki’s twin

[nanamiskentos]

SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

[rika-mmendmethings]

Against Blood & Water l Sylus

Chapter 4

Ch 3 | HIATUS! Returning June 11

Summary: Seventeen years ago, your life had taken a turn for the worse when your newborn twins were separated from you by a cruel twist of fate. The same fate had led you to the N109 Zone, to your children who were all grown up now. Reconciliation with your boys would've been slightly easier had they somehow not acquired a father figure over the years who wasn't letting them go anytime soon.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: mentions of guns, stalking and drugs/drug dealings, first meeting with the devil himself

Word count: 2.9k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: A long chapter as a compensation for lost time ;) Did you notice the parallels between Elysium's menu in the last chapter and this chapter? This story is for the Sylus girlies' who consider Luke and Kieran their babies. A little information on the timeline: in this story, the reader is 35 with Luke and Kieran being 17. Sylus never felt like 28 to me, so he's a hot-ass 39-year-old man (bear with me). The timeline is a bit confusing, I know, but soon it'll be cleared, too. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this series. ♥

Tag list: @babyx91 @pillarofsnow @beyond-the-stars-fairy @yuki-sama6 @sylviewrites @idiashusband @sadmonke @monophobix @lunarvolley @stxrrielle @fries11 @gremlinartstudio @lillycore @novthirty @animegamerfox @cathedralofaudra @nm4565natty @69-gojos-wife-69 @eolivy @namjoons-toenails @silverianni @nezuswritingdesk @beaconsxd @justpassingdontworry @ruyaya @browneyedgirl22 @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @sneakysnakeysstuff @midiplier @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @dana-nite @lazeriii @into-deepspace @nommingonfood @eden-axe @verysleepylilguy @lunia-likes-pomegranet @do-clouds-smoke-weed @sowntears @batgirliee @slovesyouuu @blythered @rievendell @larailorelei @owodi @eden-axe @some-gurl-idk @sarah22447 @belles-reads @kanjiharitama @astvriisk

You cursed inwardly at the absence of a peephole as you pressed yourself flat against the door. Gun raised in your dominant hand, you reached for the doorknob with the other, turning it with excruciating care. Then, without further hesitation, you yanked the door open, heedless of the risk — after all, you were armed. That should be enough.

Standing before you was a short, elderly man, adjusting his glasses as he squinted at a crumpled sheet of paper. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up and scratched his head. “Is this apartment number 404?” he asked, entirely unfazed by the weapon in your hand. Perhaps he was just another product of life in the N109 Zone, where paranoia and firearms were part of the décor.

You felt your heart trying to recover from the brink of cardiac arrest — all for this?

“This building only has three floors, mister,” you deadpanned, rubbing your temples in mild irritation.

He chuckled gleefully, apparently amused by his own mistake. “Oh, dear gods! My bad, young lady. Enjoy your evening,” he said with a carefree wave.

You forced a polite smile and shut the door before he’d even turned away. Shaking your head in disbelief, you set your gun down on the table and wandered back into the dimly lit living room. Collapsing onto the couch, you picked up the mechanical bird that had been silently observing you. Its eyes remained vacant, yet the long-range tracker beneath its talon blinked persistently in red.

You tried to scratch the tracker off to no avail. Frustrated, you fetched a fork and prepared to pry it out manually — but were halted mid-movement by the bird’s sudden, piercing cries of distress.

You sighed, rolling your eyes as you set the crow down beside you, your gaze drifting absently into the distance. You could feel the bird’s curious eyes fixed on you, and with a shrug, you turned your attention back to it.

“What?” you muttered. “Your creator probably embedded ten more trackers somewhere inside you. It's not like I’ll be able to find them all before my location gets compromised, so I’ll leave you be, birdie.”

The mechanical crow tilted its head and gave a subtle nod, as though it comprehended your reasoning — and agreed. It then began preening its artificial feathers with a calm efficiency that almost made you forget it was just a machine.

You studied it for a while, unable to suppress a flicker of admiration for the intricate craftsmanship. On impulse, you scooped the crow back into your hands, turning it over to inspect the fine detailing etched into its metallic body, ignoring the irritable caws it let out in protest. It fluttered in a futile attempt to escape, but its damaged wing kept it grounded.

A pang of guilt shot through you.

With a sigh, you stood and retrieved a pair of pliers. Holding them up, you addressed the bird, “I’ll try to fix your bent wing, if you’re willing.”

You were offering it the chance to back away — to refuse the aid of your untrained hands. But your lips curled faintly when the crow hopped forward, climbing onto your lap and settling with its wings spread out in quiet submission.

Carefully, you worked on its mangled wing, using the pliers to straighten the deformed metal feathers — casualties of the bullet that had nearly torn the wing off. When you were done, you gently set it down and gave it space.

With hesitant beats of its wings, the crow lifted into the air, wobbly and a bit unsteady, yes — but it was flying again. You watched with a quiet sense of pride, half-expecting it to head straight for the nearest exit.

Instead, it circled once, then landed beside your hand, staring up at you.

You raised a brow, amusement flickering in your eyes. “What? Not planning to report back to your master?” you teased, stroking a finger gently down its smooth, cold head. “Or maybe you’re sticking around to spy a little longer — just in case I spill something useful?”

The bird offered no response, no artificial chirps or movements. It simply settled beside you, tucking its wings neatly beneath its frame.

You exhaled, raking a hand through your hair as sleep overtook your senses, your body succumbing to the land of dreams.

The next morning, you woke with a well-devised plan already playing out in your mind as you freshened up for the day. It was simple, really: you'd visit a run-down bar named ‘Gemini’ where a man named Herald was waiting. He had promised to provide insider information on the drug lord’s upcoming deal locations — for a modest bribe, of course.

You were just about to head out when a familiar pair of glowing red eyes blinked up at you mid-popsicle bite. With a resigned sigh, you realized you couldn't risk leaving your most valuable lead unattended in the apartment.

You rummaged through the storeroom, still cluttered with leftover construction materials, until you unearthed an old rope. Returning to the living room, you grabbed the mechanical crow in one swift motion, ignoring its caws of protest. You secured the rope around its head and beneath its wings, fashioning a makeshift leash. A quick tug on your end confirmed it was neither too tight nor too loose — just enough to keep it in check.

The bird glared at you with unmistakable indignation, its metal feathers puffed out in defiance as it hopped into your path. You shot it a sharp look and warned coldly, “Get in my way again, and I’ll stomp on you so hard, even your synthetic feathers won’t know which direction to fall in.”

The mechanical crow appeared to understand the threat — albeit reluctantly — and, still a bit pissed, settled by your side as you locked the door behind you.

You made your way down the streets to the bar, the mechanical crow hopping ahead of you. You almost felt as if you were taking your pet crow for a walk — almost. Considering the bird was more of a hostage than a companion, and the aged rope barely qualified as a leash, the comparison felt far from accurate.

You made it to the club with a side-eye or two on the streets and searched for the burly man as soon as you entered. The interior was only sparsely crowded, making it easy to spot your contact. You took a seat across from Herald, carefully concealing your mechanical stalker beneath the table, its leash (rope?) still securely gripped in your left hand.

You handed over the promised payment, listening intently as Herald detailed the timing of the shifts between dealing locations. In a few moments, he passed you a hastily drawn map of the N109 Zone, the dealing routes marked with crude arrows and highlighted dots. You tucked the map into the pocket of your blazer as he left, and then made your way to the terrace of the ten-story building, a half-finished vegetable skewer in one hand and the rope (leash?) of your little stalker in the other.

Standing on the terrace, you gripped the cool metal railing, your fingers curled around it for balance. Your feet were perched on the narrow concrete lip running along the base of the railing, just elevated enough to allow you to lean forward slightly. The height gave you a better vantage of the ground below, though you found your mind wandering to the thought of what it would be like if you fell. You took a big bite of the vegetable around the skewer, concluding that you’d live but the injuries you’d face would be fatal. 

As you absentmindedly took another bite from the skewer, your gaze flicked toward the bar below. A customer had just entered, and you couldn't help but notice that the doors weren’t the traditional wooden kind. Instead, two tall, sturdy mirrors stood in place, perfectly aligned, each reflecting the other. The corners of the mirrors were adorned with delicate silver filigree, now chipped but still beautiful.

Twin mirrors facing each other…hm.

You took the final bite of your skewer, a strange sense of familiarity tugging at the edge of your thoughts. You couldn’t place it — but before you could dwell on it further, the mechanical crow began flapping its wings in a frenzy, thrashing and twisting as if desperate to escape the rope looped around its neck.

Startled, you tossed the skewer aside and hastily dusted off your hand, tightening your grip on the rope. But it was too late. With one final violent jerk, the bird slipped free, its tarnished wings catching the dim light as it soared to the adjacent railing and disappeared into the shadows.

Left with no other choice, you drew your gun from the holster beneath your blazer and aimed at the faint glint of crimson in the darkness. You muttered a curse under your breath — damn the N109 Zone and its perpetual gloom, even at eleven in the morning. You couldn’t risk letting that bird escape. You shifted your aim slightly, targeting the wing, intent on mangling the metal just enough to ground it.

You pulled the trigger.

But the recoil caught you off guard. A sharp, startled scream tore from your throat as the force knocked you off balance. Your feet slipped from the narrow ledge, and in one fluid, horrifying motion, your body tipped over the railing. You plummeted, arms flailing, the wind shrieking past your ears as terror clawed its way up your spine. Ten stories down. This was your end.

Then — everything stopped.

A thick, red-black mist coiled around your body, engulfing you. In an instant, it yanked you upward back to the terrace. Before you could make sense of it, you were back — kneeling on the terrace floor, your chest heaving. You wiped the sweat from your brow with a trembling hand, blinking rapidly to clear your vision.

You saw a shadow on the ground moving towards you and you whipped your head up. The first thing you saw was your stalker bird perched obediently on his shoulders making everything inside you still. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and measured, with a touch of amused disdain.

“Someone really ought to revoke your pistol permit, sweetie.”

Right at that moment, you saw a small bullet hole right in the center of his forehead and minimal blood splattered on his face. Your hand flew to your mouth not out of the knowledge of the fact that you had shot him when you were meaning to shoot the bird, but out of the realization that he was alive and walking around as if he owned the place — that the bullet hadn’t killed him, as if death had chosen to skip him entirely.

You rose slowly to your feet, gripping the gun tightly as you sized him up. The mechanical crow perched dutifully on his shoulder was all the confirmation you needed — this was the man who had sent it to track your every move. Your stalker. And yet, paradoxically, this same man had just saved your life. Then again, you wouldn’t have ended up in that kind of situation if his little invention hadn’t startled you in the first place.

You watched with thinly veiled curiosity as he dragged a finger across his forehead, the bullet hole sealing itself as though it had never existed. Calmly, he retrieved a small black handkerchief from the pocket of his blazer and methodically wiped the blood from his face.

“How is this even possible? How are you still standing—just who the hell are you?” you asked, finally finding your voice.

“A friend, sweetie,” he replied smoothly, returning the handkerchief to its place. Were your ears failing you or did you actually hear ‘fiend’ instead of ‘friend’? 

You chose not to voice your inner conflict. Instead, you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Friends don’t usually set their creepy little spy inventions to their so-called friends’ backs.”

He hummed in agreement, a low, velvety sound that matched the glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. They regarded you not with malice, but with the kind of knowing mirth that suggested he was three moves ahead — and quite enjoying it.

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” he began, voice smooth as silk. “Though, in my defense, necessity has a way of making choices for us.”

He stepped closer, the click of his boots against the floor deliberate. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he offered a name like it was a game piece laid on the board:

“I’m Sylus. Leader of Onychinus.”

The name landed like a stone in your stomach. You straightened instinctively, mind racing — Onychinus. That was who employed your children.

As if unfazed by your reaction, he produced a coin from his pocket and began flipping it lazily between his fingers, each spin catching the dim light. His tone remained conversational, almost indulgent.

“Onychinus has, regrettably, found itself under the radar of Linkon’s Crime Department. A tedious affair, really. The recent... activity spike within the faction hasn’t helped. Naturally, I’ve been searching for someone competent enough to handle a few inconvenient legal entanglements. Imagine my surprise when I learned that one of Linkon’s finest legal minds was wandering around the N109 Zone.”

He gave a subtle nod to the mechanical crow perched on his shoulder.

“So yes,” he said, lips curling into a smirk, “I sent Mephisto to keep an eye on you. Strictly for your… safety, of course. The N109 isn’t exactly a welcoming place for an outsider like you.” He paused, tilting his head slightly, that smirk deepening. “And, well… turns out that decision paid off quite nicely, didn’t it?”

You swallowed the sarcastic “no thanks” on the tip of your tongue and crossed your arms instead, tapping your foot with restrained annoyance, forced to keep your demeanor since you didn’t have knowledge of the extent of his powers.

“So what now?” you asked, voice edged. “Am I expected to sell my soul just because you showed up at the right time?”

His smile turned cryptic, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Something along those lines.”

You narrowed your eyes, about to respond, when he smoothly cut in.

“All I ask is that you lend me your legal expertise. Temporarily. Help me navigate a few… complexities. I’d say that’s a fair trade for pulling you back from death’s doorstep, wouldn’t you?”

If your department found out you were even considering this offer, they’d have your resignation letter written before you could blink. But then again, it wasn’t like your hands were clean. You’d tampered with major criminal cases before, manipulating outcomes with your probability evol — all while claiming not to be an evolver when you first joined the judiciary.

"What exactly do I stand to gain in return?" You jutted your chin toward him with defiance, finally easing your gun back into the holster beneath your blazer.

"You’re a shark," he commented, the corner of his mouth curling into the faintest hint of a grin.

"You should see me when there's blood in the water," you shot back coolly, your lips pressed into a firm line.

Sylus didn’t hesitate. "Protection in the N109 Zone. Especially when you're forced to wade through the mess that brought you here in the first place. Housing at my estate and most needs taken care of. No one will know you're working for me, and your position in Linkon’s judicial branch will remain untouched. Your expenses will be handled. You'll have regular access to Mephisto, Luke, and Kieran."

He let that last part hang, crimson eyes observing your reaction.

Your breath hitched as you heard him mention the names of your twins. That alone was enough reason for you to work for him. You’d see them again. Every day, even. You could rebuild something real, something fragile that had almost been lost eighteen years ago. Thank goodness that the little semblance of pride in you prevented you from bursting into happy tears right at that very moment. 

You cleared your throat, eyes flickering to a distant point as if searching for a reason not to give in.

"Alright," you murmured, gaze steady now. "I'll work with Onychinus—for the time being."

Sylus leaned back in his seat, exuding a quiet satisfaction. "Excellent." He extended a hand, his voice like velvet over steel. "Welcome to Onychinus."

You took his hand in a firm shake. His grip was tightened for a fraction of a second and you could’ve sworn you saw some kind of hostility in his gaze before it was gone.

"Why don’t you gather your belongings from your apartment?" he suggested. "We’ll head to the estate once you’re ready. I’ll drive."

You gave it a moment’s thought, then nodded. He gestured for you to lead the way, ever the gentleman with a predator’s patience.

Once your footsteps had faded and the terrace fell silent, Mephisto, perched nearby, cocked his head and let out a low, inquisitive caw. His gaze remained locked on the door you had passed through, the space where you'd stood, almost as if he were waiting for you to reappear. 

After a long pause, Sylus finally spoke, his voice a whisper that still managed to echo with dark resonance. "They say to keep your friends close..." He let the words dangle, his lips curling ever so slightly. "...but it’s your enemies you should keep closer… Close enough to feel the pulse of their fear, yet distant enough that they never see your blade until it’s too late."

He turned to follow you, Mephisto perching back on his shoulder.

Author's exclusive cuts episode 1:-

In Latin, "Gemini" means "twins." Gemini is a bar which was sponsored by Sylus himself, a year after he officially met Luke and Kieran. Most of the ornaments and even the architecture of the place allude to the general theme which is 'twins'. Additionally, the menu of the bar is everything that the twins' like. The bar is "run-down" as a result of the twins antics overtime.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty: daniel

word count: 6.5k (the longest yet!)

warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-nine | thirty | thirty-one

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

It hit like ice in the chest.

Lando didn’t flinch, but Max tensed beside him. Across the space, Yuki caught the movement, eyes narrowing.

“Something wrong?” Pierre asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t answer. His hand had already shifted slightly inside his coat, fingertips brushing the handle of the gun holstered at his side. His gaze swept the site—not panicked, but fast and sharp. Calculating.

He saw it now. The strategically lengthy tirades, the disproportionately coy smile, the knives hanging from Tsunoda’s belt. The very way Pierre had come crawling out of the woodwork so many years after the two of them knowing each other, bearing grand promises of riches and partnerships one random night as if by some happenstance of the universe.

It had been clean. Too clean.

They’d been setting him up from the start.

For a second, there was silence.

A beat where everything held still—where the unfinished beams of the club echoed with the sound of wind and the faint hum of construction generators. Where the world hesitated.

But the moment Oscar’s warning hit his ear, Lando knew it was already too late to leave clean.

And then—

Gunfire cracked through the air like a whip.

Chaos shattered the night.

He didn’t move a muscle—but Max did. A flicker of instinct. He reached beneath his jacket just as the first gunshot cracked like thunder, shattering a window high above them. Concrete dust rained down like snow.

Max Fewtrell was the first to move, shoving Lando sideways behind a stack of cement bags just as bullets ripped through where he’d been standing seconds before. Lando rolled, coat flying back as he drew his weapon, ears already ringing with the sudden roar of violence. He could hear yelling—Pierre barking orders in French, someone screaming from the upper levels, the grinding roar of an engine kicking to life from outside.

Max was crouched low beside him, already firing back.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, reloading with quick, trained hands. “This is a setup. Gasly sold us out.”

“No shit,” Lando snapped, voice tight. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, voice low but sharp. “Oscar—”

“I’m– I’m pinned,” Oscar replied, breathless, the sound of a sniper rifle clattering. “They knew I was up here. One on the roof, at least. Maybe two?”

The space proceeded to explode into chaos.

From the shadows behind the scaffolding, two men emerged—automatic rifles raised. Ocon opened fire, bullets chewing into the rusted metal frames just a few feet from Lando’s head. Max shoved him hard behind a steel beam, returning fire in tight, disciplined bursts.

Another shot. 

Closer this time. 

Sniper–?

No, two of them. 

Oscar was pinned.

Lando’s voice was calm in the comms. “We’re lit up. I want eyes on every goddamn angle. Now.”

Outside, Logan heard it and reacted instantly. Tires screeched as his car skid right to the construction fencing, engine still running as he jumped out with his Glock already in hand.

Pierre stood there, unmoved in the middle of it all, not flinching as bullets flew overhead. Just watching. A slow smile curling over his lips.

“I told you,” he said quietly, as Yuki ducked and slipped out of view. “Like old times, eh?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“You dirty fucking bastard. You set this up!”

Pierre shrugged, the smirk never falling. “Hmm, well, not all the credit is for me.”

From the mezzanine above, another figure emerged—calm, tailored, hair brushed back like a goddamn crown prince.

Charles Leclerc.

The bastard walked like it was a catwalk, not a warzone. Confident. Inevitable. Behind him, his two brothers flanked him like twin lions, guns in hand, their eyes on Lando.

Charles’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “You are not stupid, Lando. You knew the drugs were not yours to touch. You thought your little poison had wings? Thought Noxium would not be noticed, would not clip into our market?”

Lando’s blood turned to ice.

The Leclercs.

This wasn’t just about territory. It was a message, a reckoning.

“Lando Norris, you made yourself a Reaper,” Charles said, tone dropping to something low and sinister. “Now I’m here to remind you who builds the coffins.”

Then, all hell broke loose.

Blood already smeared across one cheek, Logan crashed through the door like a thunderbolt, gun drawn, firing clean and fast. He shoved one of the Leclerc brothers – the younger one, Arthur– near the scaffolding before yelling, “They’ve got snipers in the east lot too. I knifed one, but there’s another crawling the perimeter!”

Another voice cut in—Carlos, gritting into his own comm, “We are three minutes out. Hold your ground.”

“They brought a whole bloody army,” Max spat, ducking behind a crumbling pillar. “What the fuck happened? What– What’d we miss?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His mind, even under fire, was already stringing the pieces together.

Pierre—too smooth, too cooperative. That sly grin, the way he stalled in the beginning. He hadn’t been offering a deal: he’d been buying time.

And now… now Lando understood why — Charles Leclerc.

He didn’t look rushed or angry. He looked like he’d been waiting for this – like he’d dreamed of it, like vengeance was a dinner he planned to eat slowly.

“Lando Norris,” Charles sang, casual as if greeting an old friend, a gun loose in his right hand as he searched to see where the response would sound from. There was something gleeful hidden in those dark eyes as he smiled, his accent curling like smoke. “You’ve been trespassing.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t touch any of your shit. I kept my hands to m’self.”

“You used to,” Charles said, walking closer to the sound of the Brit’s voice, hunting him down. “Clubs, casinos, protection—yes, those were yours. I left them to you, quite generous of me.”

Lando and Max panted under their breaths, exchanging a glance as they hear the sound of vintage Italian leather shoes echoing through the structure.

They did not come here to die today.

“But the drugs, Lando? Your precious Noxium? That’s our family’s lifeline. That was supposed to be ours. You knew that.”

A beat.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

And just like that, the game changed.

This wasn’t about territory. This wasn’t business. This was personal.

Pierre hadn’t betrayed Lando for profit. He’d done it for Charles. – the two of them childhood friends, tied in blood and sweat and secrets.

The entire fucking meeting had been a blood-stained invitation.

A time and place for the Reaper to bleed.

More of Lando’s men were beginning to come into view—Carlos barreling in from the back alley with Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo at his heels. The air turned molten, full of dust and fire and bullet heat, as the fight exploded across the half-built club.

Lando didn’t flinch.

He stood up from behind the scaffolding, straining his stance, eyes locked on Charles across the smoke with a gun pointed directly at his face.

“You made your point,” Lando said. “Now let’s see if you can survive it.”

Carlos burst in through a side entrance, firing clean and close-quartered, and with Daniel Ricciardo coming in hot behind him. “They’re on all sides! There’s more behind the loading dock—three minimum!”

Oscar’s voice snapped through the earpiece, breathless: “I’m compromised! This idiot came for the high ground first—fucking amateurs, but I got my hands full. Someone need to cover Lando!”

Max reloaded beside him, jaw tight, knuckles bloodied. “We’ve got five minutes if we’re lucky. Less if the Leclercs brought every cousin they’ve got.”

Logan dragged a wounded shooter behind a stack of pallets and pressed Lando’s spare piece into his hand. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Lando stood, finally—face unreadable, coat streaked with dust, his hand steady on the grip of his weapon. His eyes locked with Charles’s above.

“You wanted a Reaper?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You’re about to meet him.”

Gunfire erupted through the half-constructed club, lighting up the darkness like a battlefield. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the heavy, oily stench of fresh concrete and steel, filling the air with a metallic tang. Every corner was a potential trap, every noise a chance at death. Shadows flitted across the space, their movements quick and deliberate. The chaos was alive, its pulse thumping in time with the gunfire.

Carlos crouched low behind a hole in the drywall, his hands working fast and fluid as he reloaded, exchanging one clip for another. The sharp, precise motions were second nature—no hesitation, no mistakes. Daniel, grimacing in pain, leaned against a load-bearing column to catch his breath, blood beginning to stain his shirt.. Still, his finger never left the trigger, a smug grin permanently etched into his face, like he was still having fun.

Across the battlefield, Yuki’s voice crackled over the opposing team’s comms. The orders were clipped, cold, spoken in rapid Japanese. They were well-organized, methodical—an efficient machine moving in perfect synchrony.

But Lando’s men were just as sharp.

Lando finally backed Charles into a corner, smirking as he pulled the gun from his holster. Charles was a smart enough man with enough experience to recognize that glimmer in the obsidian of Lando’s eyes.

It was the call of death.

A sign of the true Reaper.

For a split second, everything went quiet. Around them, the usual chaos felt like it slowed, or at least faded into background noise. The silence was only a moment, a breath, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Lando’s neck rise. It was the calm in the storm, the strange lull that only ever happens in real fights—everything paused for that single heartbeat.

Somewhere around him, he could identify the distant sounds of Logan holding the line at the loading bay, steady shots ringing out from his position. Oscar, with what was probably a broken rib, was still picking off targets from above, his shots sharp and deliberate. Daniel and Carlos surveyed in overlapping circles, ready for the next of their attackers to come from almost any direction. Max Verstappen had his hands full, the sound of each merciless blow Pierre received echoing through the surrounding structure.

Logan. Oscar. Daniel. Carlos.  Max Verstappen.

Max.

Max.

Where’s Max?

That was when Lando Norris made his only mistake. He glanced beside him to check for Max Fewtrell – just a flick of his eyes, barely noticeable at all.

But it was enough.

From where he stood, Charles Leclerc saw it instantly. It wasn’t much—a small crack, a human moment, the briefest flicker of emotion. 

But it was too late for Lando to take it back.

“Go for him,” Leclerc barked, the command bellowing even from where the Monagesque stood cornered. “The one he looked at!”

Instantly, both Lorenzo and Arthur Leclerc turned and began flanking from the left. Yuki Tsunoda circled from the right. The rest moved like a pack of wolves, closing in with a singular focus.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“Shit– Fewtrell!”

Max had just ducked back into cover when he noticed the incoming attack. The men moved with precision, intent on isolating him, forcing him into a corner.

Without a second thought, Lando moved. He slid behind a piece of cover, coming up just enough to fire two quick shots— forcing Gasly’s rookie to drop to clutch at the new gaping wounds in his thigh. Lando sprinted, reaching Max just as bullets began to ping off the exposed rebar behind them.

Max coughed, wiping dust from his face. “Just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lando shot back, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him closer towards Logan’s position. “Get moving. Don’t stop.”

They barely made it to safety. Barely.

But Lando wasn’t done yet. He was hit—a baton crashing into his ribs. He hadn’t seen Lorenzo closing in. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, sending him crashing back against the cold concrete floor. Pain exploded through him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Bootsteps. One set, then another. 

They were too close.

Lando blinked through the haze of pain, looking up just as a shadow fell over him. The silhouette of a dark figure, the distinct profile of his Monagesque rival with his pistol raised.

Ready.

For a heartbeat, Lando’s world slowed. The figure took a fraction of a second too long, but it was enough.

Then, instinct took over.

With a brutal twist, Lando wrenched a utility knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s calf. There was no finesse – just raw, brutal violence. Charles screamed in agony, and consequently,  his grip on the gun faltered.

Lando knocked the weapon away with a vicious swipe, rolling to his feet, grabbing the gun as it fell. Two rounds rang out—straight into the man’s vest. Another figure lunged from the side. Lando ducked, the movement fluid, his elbow slamming into the attacker’s ribs before he shot him down, quick and efficient.

It wasn’t quiet enough.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal overhead, only narrowly missing Lando’s head. The noise echoed in his skull, ringing in his ears.

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood—his own, someone else’s. His arm shook, barely holding onto the gun, but he didn’t lower it. 

Not yet. Not until they knew.

Lando stepped back, firing two shots into the ceiling—loud, commanding.

The message was clear.

Back. The. Fuck. Off.

The remaining attackers hesitated, then one by one, they began to pull back, retreating beyond the skeleton of the unfinished building like rats scurrying for cover. Lando blinked, and Charles Leclerc was already gone.

Oscar’s voice crackled in his ear, rough and breathless. “They’re, uh– They’re clearing. We can pull back now.”

Slowly, carefully, the team began to regroup. Every move felt like a struggle. The adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, but they were all battered, bruised. 

Alive, if only just.

Even as they watched their adversaries disappear into the night, the air still crackled with the aftershocks of violence.

Carlos was the first to lower his weapon fully. His face was split open at the brow, blood crusting in a jagged line down the side of his temple. His shirt, ripped at the sleeve, clung to him like a second skin. He exhaled shakily, then staggered to one knee beside the busted crate he’d used for cover.

Oscar emerged next—limping, rifle slack in his grip, sweat-soaked curls stuck to his forehead. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes unreadable behind the dim flicker of overhead bulbs that hadn’t stopped buzzing since the first shot. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down against the nearest concrete pillar and pressed the heel of his palm into the ribs he’d likely cracked during the fight.

Logan was the last one in.

He slid in through the back corridor, bloody knuckles and bruises blooming along his arms like mottled paint. There was a cut just beneath his jaw that he hadn’t bothered to wipe. “I got two of ‘em,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Lost one. Maybe.”

No one answered.

Max sat crumpled on the ground, elbows propped on his knees. He kept his head down, hands open in front of him like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now. His shirt was half torn, the side of his face swollen and bruised. One of his fingers was bent at an odd angle, but he didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

Lando stood at the edge of it all, his black pistol still in hand, his shirt torn at the collar, his left cheekbone already beginning to turn a shade of yellow. His breathing was steady, but his pulse was loud enough to feel in his teeth. He hadn’t spoken since the last shot fired.

The silence between them was almost reverent, but it wasn’t quite relief yet.

Carlos coughed, winced, and forced himself upright. “Everyone—?”

Oscar glanced toward the far corridor. Then shook his head, once, sharply. “No one else came in after us.”  

Logan’s lips parted, but he didn’t ask the question they were all thinking. He didn’t have to.

There were five of them here.

Just five.

Lando still hadn’t moved. His eyes scanned the wreckage—the spent shells littering the ground, the smear of blood across the broken wall, the shape of his own shadow in the flickering light.

He finally turned toward the group. His expression was quiet and composed, his eyes dark. 

No one spoke for a while.

The dust settled like ash around them, and all they could hear was the distant thrum of city life bleeding back into the broken building—the sirens, the grind of tires, some fuckin’ bird chirping in the aftermath of what felt like a warzone.

Lando drew a breath, and it tasted like copper and regret.

His palm was still stained with someone’s blood. Maybe his, maybe not. Everything felt too wrecked to tell.

He turned.

Carlos was seated now, his head leaning back against the unfinished wall, his arm slung across his torso with a long-sleeve shirt acting as a makeshift bandage. His lip was split, those large brown eyes of his glassier than his boss had ever seen them. But he gave Lando a weak thumbs-up when their eyes met, and Lando didn’t have the heart not to give him a small smile back.

Carlos, who could’ve gone anywhere. NASA, Mercedes — any of the places that would’ve worshipped that brilliant mind of his. But he stayed—for his dad. He wanted to give the old man the life he’d always dreamed of, something to reward him for all he’s given up for a boy of the same name.

The Spaniard had definitely made Lando proud today.

Logan was also crouched nearby, his jacket torn, his knuckles split. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes kept darting, sharp and alert. He’d never let himself rest before the job was done. Lando remembers the kid he met years ago, straight outta Florida, all sunburn and bright eyes and nerves. The kind of kid who wanted to be someone. Lando had seen himself in that hunger. When Lando looked at him, Logan looked at him with a bright smile, eager to show how unaffected he was.

With their complementary shiners, Lando could see a bit of himself in Logan tonight too.

Oscar was still perched on the stairwell, holding his ribs. It seemed he preferred the higher vantage point, even now. There was blood on his shirt, darker closer to the part near the hem that covered his hip. Lando couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, but Oscar hadn’t let go of his rifle. He’d never even blinked when the chaos had hit. In fact, he was the reason they weren’t all dead.

Oscar was the reason Lando got the warning at all.

Then there was Max Fewtrell, slumped against the doorway as he pressed a cold cloth to the side of his head. He’d nearly been hit. No, he was hit—grazed across the temple, just enough to make Lando’s heart stop when he had seen the blood.

Fewtrell had always been different. It would be untrue to say he was just the same as the others. Even Lando knew, deep down, that he was different – not just a soldier, not just a friend. He was the only one who could get under Lando’s skin in a way that felt familial. He was the only one who could call him out on his shit and still get a small smile after. And today, Lando had almost lost him. 

All because of one second – one look. 

One look had almost cost Lando the only man he considered his brother.

He dragged a hand down his face, smearing dust into the blood on his skin, and counted again.

Carlos. Logan. Oscar. Fewtrell. Verstappen.

His gaze swept the room again.

Wait.

Where’s—

Where the fuck is Daniel?

He turned around, his eyes scanning the place again—back over the entryway, the busted scaffolding, the stairwell. He pushed himself to remember. 

Where had Daniel been when the shooting started? He was right behind Lando, wasn’t he? Left side?

“Anyone seen Ricciardo?” Lando asked.

No one answers. Max looked up, blinking. Logan shifted uncomfortably. Carlos doesn’t move at all. Oscar just swore under his breath.

And that’s when it really hit Lando.

He didn’t see it coming. He missed the trap. He was smarter than that, for fuck’s sake – he’d known there would be one. But he let himself get cocky, and now someone who mattered —someone who trusted him— might be gone. Because they’d gone for his soft spot, and once again, he didn’t even realize it was exposed.

He stares at the cracked floor for a second. The sharp sting in his lungs returns, but it wasn’t from the smoke.

It was guilt.

“Keep eyes out,” he mutters, and then louder, firmer, “Find him.”

They’d only just begun to search—Logan darting toward a side hallway, Oscar cautiously peering around a corner, Carlos gritting his teeth as he pushed himself upright—when a figure emerged from behind an unfinished stairwell.

“Daniel?” Max’s voice cut through first, rough and tight with disbelief.

The others turned, and there he was.

The Aussie was dragging one foot behind the other, his shoulders hunched, his arms limp at his sides. His shirt was torn, stained dark with blood and soot. Cuts lined his jaw and temple. His face was pale, slack with exhaustion. But he was there. Alive. Moving—if just barely.

“Daniel, where were you, mate?” Fewtrell was already beginning to approach closer, concern overtaking the limp in his own step. “We were all—”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Daniel mumbled, the words tumbling out slurred and slow. His eyes were wide and glassy, not really seeing them.

“What?” Logan called, squinting toward him through the dark and the dust that had yet to settle. “Daniel—what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know how to get it out,” Daniel said again, voice starting to hitch. His breathing was shallow now, labored. “I tried… heh, I tried—but, em,—”

Lando stepped forward, cutting through the rest of the voices. He moved fast, closing the distance and bracing Daniel by both shoulders, steadying him before he could collapse. His grip was firm, but his touch betrayed a flicker of fear—trying to keep Daniel upright, keep him here.

“Daniel,” he said, locking eyes with him. “What the fuck are you talking ‘bout, mate?”

Daniel wavered again. His knees buckled slightly, and Lando instinctively pulled him closer, adjusting his stance to hold him better.

And that’s when he saw it.

The hilt of a kris dagger protruded from between Daniel’s shoulder blades, dark metal glinting beneath the soot and blood. It was carved—elegant, almost ceremonial. A sickle curve, buried deep enough to split ribs and tear through anything in its path.

Lando froze, his breath caught hard in his lungs. The others hadn’t seen it yet, the wound still hidden from view. But he had.

Daniel was starting to sag forward now, strength draining from his limbs as his blood soaked through Lando’s hands. His eyes lost focus. His breaths came in short, wet gasps.

“Oh my god…” Lando whispered, arms tightening around him, desperate to keep him from slipping any further. “Daniel…”

Daniel blinked, as if trying to stay awake. His jaw trembled. “I didn’t know how to tell you, mate,” he whispered, broken and shaking. “Didn’t wanna ruin your win…”

Lando’s head dropped, throat closing up around the swell of panic. He shook his head, once, fiercely.

This didn’t feel like a win.

They didn’t go home.

There was nowhere to go. Not until they knew, at least.

So they dragged Daniel back to one of their safehouses, a cramped, peeling basement below a now-closed tailor’s. By the time they set him down, Oscar was already yelling for gauze and towels, trying to stop the bleeding that wouldn’t comply with his will. Carlos had the med kit ripped open before Oscar could even finish asking, and Max Verstappen pulled his navy hoodie off, balling it up and handing it over with a trembling hand that no one commented on like it was the only thing that might help.

Lando followed in silence, pale and smeared with blood all over. Even after he yanked that godforsaken blade from where it had embedded itself deep into the flesh of Daniel’s back, his hands never quite stopped shaking.

And Daniel? 

Daniel was still cracking jokes, sense of humor still just as intact as the day Lando had found the only mechanic on Monte Carlo who was open at 3 AM. The Brit had searched every nook and cranny of this city in hopes of finding someone, anyone, who could save his precious car – that first McLaren he’d ever bought with his own money.

Daniel always did know how to fix the unfixable.

“'S not that bad, right?” he slurs, eyes fluttering open. “I mean— m'still prettier than Max,” he quips with a bad wink in the direction where he has to assume his old friend is.

Someone laughed — maybe Verstappen. Maybe it was a choked sob.

It was hard to tell, really.

Oscar worked fast, just as he always did. But even he hesitated, just for a second, when he peeled Max’s hoodie back so he could get a better look at the wound again. It wasn‘t just deep—it was designed to stay. The kris’s path was cruel and clever, curved to tear what couldn’t be stitched.

Still, no one said it, because saying it would make it real.

Carlos hovered nearby, quietly wringing a rag in a bowl of water that had long since turned red. Max knelt by Daniel’s head, talking to him softly in English when the familiar Dutch didn’t stick. Logan paced the length of the dimly lit room like a caged dog. Oscar wouldn’t stop moving, fidgeting with his makeshift tools, his sleeves, anything he could reasonably reach.

Lando didn’t have the heart to tell the kid off.

Instead, Lando just sat there, his hands coated in Daniel’s blood, his jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

Every so often, Daniel would stir – breath hitching, jokes fading.

Then one hour became two. Two then became four. When Max stroked his curls away from his forehead where they were matted with sweat, he could feel his friend’s skin grow colder. The silences began to stretch longer.

But still—at least he was breathing.

That was the spark – that was what kept them from falling apart.

“He’s strong,” Max blurted out, the sincerity of his words making him sound younger, more innocent. “He’s– He’s fucking strong, alright? He’ll pull through.”

“His color’s holding,” Carlos added, cautiously optimistic. “This is good, yes?”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He’d seen too much to lie.

Lando refused to blink. In all the hours they spend there, he refused to sleep, refused to even think of a version of this scenario where Daniel didn’t wake up and make fun of them all for being so damn dramatic.

From his seat by the head of the table turned makeshift bed, Lando just kept whispering, “You’re fine. You’re fine, Danny. We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”

But everyone else knew what a wound like that meant, what a life like this meant for each of them. They all knew what Lando couldn't say.

It was only a matter of time.

They all knew what business they were in.

No one got into this line of work thinking they’d make it to fifty with a pension and a neat little garden. Nobody had gotten here by accident. Not a single one of them could claim ignorance. They were in the kind of game where exits came in body bags, and grief was a cost you factored into the ledgers. They were gamblers, all of them—risking limb and life on a daily basis, trading safety for control, comfort for power.

But Daniel was different. 

He always had been, really.

He knew the darkness, saw it clearer than most, in fact. But still—somehow—he stayed good, better, kinder. He always laughed harder, held on longer. Daniel Ricciardo carried hope like a flare he refused to drop, even when the wind howled and the rain came in sideways.

He was, despite everything, the best of them.

That made it worse. Because none of them were surprised that he’d gone down for them, only sickened by how easily it could’ve been anyone else. That it was him hurt in their place.

The truth was that, despite everything, none of them ever imagined it’d be Danny.

Not Danny Ric, with his crooked grin and dumb jokes and the kind of laughter that made you forget how goddamn dark it always was. Not Daniel, who remembered birthdays and brought back stupid souvenirs and called them all mate like it meant something.

He wasn’t soft—God, no. He was ruthless when he had to be. Everyone knew that Ricciardo could flip a man with a wrench and a grin and walk away whistling.

But still, he was hopeful. The great tragedy of Daniel Ricciardo was that he was the most hopeful of them all. He was the brightest, the one who cracked the darkest rooms open with his smile and made them forget, if only for a moment, that they were criminals. He knew the worst of them and still chose to be the best of them. He was the one who, even after watching what this world had done to people, still somehow believed they were worth saving.

So when he took the blade to the back—a fucking kris, curved and cruel and ancient like some sick ceremonial final blow—something shifted. Something broke, not just in his body, but in all of them.

He was light, in a world of shadows, and now, the light was flickering.

The way they moved—the urgency, the silence, the glances they exchanged—it was in the air like blood in the water.

Oscar got up to do the bandaging again. His hands were steady, but his jaw ticked with restraint. Max kept shifting on his feet like he wanted to hit something. Carlos leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes glassy but dry. Logan sat on the steps with his head bowed, silent.

Lando went to kneel by Daniel, stripped of the usual iron-clad armor he wears around his boys. There was no sharp grin, no cocky tilt of the chin – just open pain in his eyes as he watched one of his oldest friends fade in front of him.

Daniel’s hand was clammy in his. His lips parted, then closed again like he was trying to say something and forgetting what.

Lando leaned in. “Still with me?”

Daniel smiled, just barely. “Yeah, boss.”

It gutted him, that smile. 

That fucking smile.

Blood loss. Organ damage. Shock. Oscar had said the words without flinching, clinical and grim. But Lando saw the way his hands shook when he stepped back. The way Logan had to steady him without making it obvious.

Carlos sat with his elbows on his knees, silent. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed too tight, jaw locked. Even he looked like something in him was unraveling, thread by careful thread.

None of them were crying, but there was rawness in the air. This was part of the life. But that didn’t mean they had to like it.

Lando cleared his throat. “We’re gonna get them for this. Tsunoda’s gonna pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Yeah?” Daniel murmured, barely audible. “You better.”

“I will,” Lando promised. “Don’t you worry, yeah? They’re already dead.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a laugh. “Tell Leclerc I said… ‘fuck you.’ In French.”

Carlos smiled, just a little. “Pretty sure he speaks English too, mate.”

They all chuckled, but just a bit – if only because Daniel would’ve wanted them to, even now.

Max Verstappen stepped closer and crouched down beside him. “You remember the job in Monza?” he asks.

“God…” Daniel sighed. “The bar fight?”

“You did start it.”

“Yeah,” Daniel breathed. “But I ended it too.”

Lando grinned despite the ache in his chest. “Damn right you did.”

More stories followed after that, each of them giving a piece of their memory, something bright, something bold, something that felt like it’d live on in the stars even after tonight. Each anecdote was an attempt at trading grief for something warmer, at holding on with words when their hands couldn’t seem to do enough.

It was Lando who took charge, just as it always has been. So they each spoke to him now — not over Daniel, but to him. Around him, as though he were already halfway out the door.

He was still breathing, but it was slower now. Softer, like even his body knew it was time to rest.

Daniel coughed again—wet, weak, red trailing from the corner of his mouth—and Lando stood.

He moved like he wasn’t thinking anymore. The muscles of his body moved purely on instinct, some muscle memory he developed over the year, the rhythm that helped him embody his role.

The Boss. The one who made the calls when no one else could.

He crouched by Daniel’s side, his own hand firm on the older man’s shoulder. Lando’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, his voice steady as a dying star.

“Daniel,” he said softly. “Stay with us.”

Daniel’s eyes fluttered open. “M’trying.”

“I know.” Lando swallowed, glancing briefly at the others, then back. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked paler than he did a moment ago, almost sickly. “You did good. You hear me? You did everything right.”

Daniel gave the ghost of a smile. “Always do.”

Max huffed. “Liar.”

Carlos looked up. “Worst liar I ever met.”

Daniel laughed. It shook his whole chest and sent him into another coughing fit. Logan was there instantly, cloth in hand, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Daniel blinked slowly. “We… Did we win?”

Lando nodded once. “We’re alive. You did that.”

Silence fell again. Then Daniel sighed, a long, low exhale like he’d finally finished something. His eyes slid closed again, lips parted. Still breathing, but lighter now, quieter.

“Is this it?” Logan asked quietly, not to anyone in particular.

But they all looked to Lando, because that’s what they did. That’s what Daniel had always done, too. They trusted Lando to lead.

Perhaps that was Daniel’s fatal mistake.

Instead of looking back at them, Lando stood slowly, his gaze on Daniel and his face unreadable. A long moment passed, Lando taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Let him rest.”

They knew what that meant. None of them argued. None of them begged or made some desperate play for hope. 

Instead, they took turns stepping forward. Each of them said their piece in quiet tones, fragments of affection, of memories. Carlos pressed a kiss to his forehead. Max Fewtrell squeezed his uninsured shoulder in a gesture that he could only hope conveyed everything he could barely bring himself to say — a lifetime of gratitude and camaraderie and unspent love in a single gesture.

Oscar took off his watch and set it beside him—the same way Daniel had done once, years ago, after Oscar’s first mission went sideways. Max just sat down beside him and said, “Thanks for being better than us, Daniel.”

Logan lingered the longest. The young boy held his hand, told him a joke that made absolutely no sense, laughed for both of them, then walked out without a word.

In the end, it was Lando that remained.

Lando stayed until the others were gone, until it was just him and Daniel and the silence that pressed against the windows like night fog.

He crouched down again, brushed back a curl from Daniel’s sweat-matted hair.

“I’ll take care of them,” he told him. Even though he wore a smile, his voice was raw now, lower. “I swear to God, I’ll take care of all of them.”

A pause. Then—

“I’ll miss you, mate.”

He waited.

No reply came — just the smallest, shakiest breath.

“Alright, mate. It’s okay now.”

Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, the last spark of awareness lingering. Lando raised his hand, pressing it to his forehead gently.

“Sleep.”

And so, Daniel did. As he complied with his boss’s command one final time, he finally sank into a long, long sleep, and the room, once full of ghosts and grit and blood and noise, fell silent.

Lando stood, let out one long, shaking breath and walked out the door.

Behind him, Daniel Ricciardo lay still at last.

He didn’t remember the turns he took to get there.

The streets blurred past in streaks of black and neon, headlights beaming through the fog, buildings bleeding into one another like a watercolor left in the rain. The ringing in his ears hadn’t yet stopped since the ambush, low and echoey. Blood clung to what remained of his button-down in thick patches, sticky where it soaked through the torn fabric at his ribs. His knuckles were raw, the skin rough and dark, and the gash at his eyebrow had reopened, leaking warmth down the side of his face.

But still, somehow, he made it.

His hand shook as he raised it to knock. He missed the first time, fingers grazing the metal plate: 307. He tried again, firmer this time. The wood felt solid under his palm. He leaned on it, barely upright.

When the door opened, she stood in the frame like a ghost from a better life—oversized hoodie, messy bun, the kind of comfort he didn’t deserve. Her eyes went wide. She didn’t move.

His name—the wrong one, but right enough for now—fell from her lips in a cracked, breathless whisper.

“Oh my god! Liam—!”

He swayed, shoulder bumping the frame. That was all it took to snap her into motion.

“Here– Come in. Just, come in—”

She reached for him instinctively, one arm around his back, the other catching his wrist. He let her guide him inside, his weight leaning heavy on her as she pulled the door shut behind them. The lock clicked into place, and for the first time all night, something inside him uncoiled a little.

She was already scanning him with wide, panicked eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

Her fingers ghosted over the edge of his shirt, where the blood was streaked all across his side. “Are you—oh my god, are you shot?”

“No.” His voice was wrecked, low and frayed. “Not really. Just… tired.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the pinch of her brow. But she nodded, just once, and steered him toward the couch. He sank into it like a man unspooling, body slumping under the weight of pain and adrenaline finally running out.

She crouched beside him, her eyes rapidly tracing every scrape, every bruise, every place he flinched when her touch came too close. Her hands hovered, unsure—his temple? His ribs? The blood at his collarbone? Where was she supposed to start–

He caught her wrist gently.

“This was the closest place, and I…”

“And you...?” she asked softly, worry swirling in those eyes he hadn’t seen in so long.

He swallowed, his voice shaky for a different reason entirely when he looked up to answer her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

a/n: and so there it is — my pièce de résistance! this chapter is probably my favorite that i've written so far lol. i'd love to hear what you guys think!

[vmlnrzmp4]

heyyy!!! Can I request a family dinner w bllk dad's and their daughters (possibly w their future partner???)

𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥.

—turned out more angsty than i thought.

itoshi sae

when kai had gone abroad, sae genuinely thought the distance would make natsuki's and kai's feelings for each other disappear. he was wrong. the distance only made them yearn more for each other. especially when sae accompanied natsuki at the airport to welcome kai, sae felt...sad when he saw how the kids ran towards each other and secured each other in an embrace. here at the dinner table, natsuki and kai thought they were slick, holding hands under the table but sae noticed. obviously he did. he's sae. he exhales, putting his chopsticks down, making everyone's attention go to him. and he asks the question—if kai actually has feelings for natsuki. and without hesitation, the words leave kai's mouth—i love natsuki. you could already sense sae's heart paining. honestly, you felt the same, not on sae's level however. but the atmosphere seemed to lighten when sae called out them for their pda and warned about it. but atleast, he approved.

itoshi rin

on one side, there was rin. on the other were souta and shouma. and then between all this? were poor sakura and hiro. if looks could kill, hiro would be dead thrice now. you noticed ofcourse, and that was it for you. you stepped up, glaring at the three—rin, souta and shouma, telling them to cut it out. the twins tried to reason but you shut them up by saying that they're still too young to be like this. it was disrespectful considering that sakura and hiro are older than them. then you turned to rin, your expressions even colder now as you scold him, saying how because of him the twins are getting this behaviour from him. rin was about to argue. but he decided to shut his mouth, considering that's a better option than to face your wrath. you then scolded the three of them together saying that you knew they were protective over sakura but it is sakura's relationship, they should not butt in. and with that, you exhaled. and you smiled as if you didn't make the three almost piss their pants.

isagi yoichi

compared to the other families, isagi household was thankfully calm and peaceful. as for yoichi and kaito—no father and brother wanted to imagine their daughter and sister dating. but kaito, who was initially very overprotective(just like his papa) over yuki—was now all buddy buddy with kazuki. and yoichi who initially had a beef with painting(only because it was kazuki's hobby) was now impressed by kazuki's art skills. the dinner was wholesome with yoichi(and kaito) actually communicating with kazuki. sharing stories and jokes and laughing over them. (very domestic kazuki marry yuki already—). at last, you were just thankful the night ended on a good note.

michael kaiser

the tension was legit suffocating. you might think that alex would be regretting falling for the michael kaiser's days daughter. no. alex didn't regret one bit. and michael knew that. and michael hated that. like any other dad, michael was not ready to see his little girl grow up have get a lover already. but she did. which did cause a lot of chaos. but now the chaos was silent. like mentioned before—suffocating. you and alex were talking about pretty mundane things. anne would include herself here and there. and then there's her papa. cold and silent. and michael hated that too. he envied you. how you could casually talk to alex. but how could he even initiate? not when he literally told alex to get lost before. so michael thought it would be better to shut up. and that's why alex spoke first. "sir...i know your first impression of me wasn’t great," which was when he had called anne past midnight, "but i mean every word i say..." and that is—"i love anne," alex confesses, "i always have and always will." michael scoffs, but it's all amusement, "got a smart mouth huh?" "i mean every word, sir." "and i still don't approve," michael declares, as per him, his logic is that alex has to earn it. it cannot be granted. not when it comes to his princess.

a/n: hello darling! i apologize, it took a while to complete your request, but here you go🫶🏼

taglist: @anyaminz @luciddre @kongkhoi @illyriakrasniqi2007 @passw-0-rd @x3nafix @levihanmyotp @vellichorira @sapph1r3x @tamashithe2nd @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 [open]

[slutforpringles]

As someone who spent way too long analysing data and nerding out over Daniel's driving style throughout his McLaren and AT/VCarb stints, people like this that tweet total nonsense about subjects they clearly have no understanding of annoy the absolute shit out of me (especially since Daniel's driving style has been so thoroughly discussed on about a gazillion reddit threads, a thousand articles and hundreds of youtube videos so a quick google search would have corrected this for you). But since apparently the internet has decided that facts no longer matter; no Daniel doesn't brake early, no he doesn't drive in a similar way to Lawson and no Yuki doesn't drive similarly to Max.

"While it would be dangerous to try to simplify Ricciardo’s 2021 cause to a single issue, it did often come back to how he attacks a braking zone and tries to rotate the car. Despite being famously adept at late-braking passes, Ricciardo’s preferred style in normal conditions is to brake slightly earlier, with less pressure, and roll the speed into the corner. That requires a positive front end to get the car rotated. At medium and low speed, the McLaren was ill-suited to this technique. Team-mate Lando Norris was much more effective with a later, harder brake that facilitated a sharper rotation and allowed him to get on the power again quicker. Ricciardo could not quite drill that technique into himself, even though he got better at it through the season. But the reason he couldn’t is probably twinned with the reason he didn’t know what his strengths were as a driver: this is something baked into him from an early age, the kind of technique that comes subconsciously to top-level athletes."

Ricciardo drives the car very differently to regular driver Yuki Tsunoda, but also to Pierre Gasly - who was AlphaTauri’s spearhead for several seasons. They prefer a later-braking approach with a sharp, later rotation - the V-style we often hear drivers talk about, and that Ricciardo wanted to move away from at McLaren but couldn’t. The way Ricciardo brakes and approaches a corner puts very different demands on the car and tyres, and requires (and instigates) a different kind of car behaviour. What you saw in Mexico was the result of AlphaTauri really adjusting the car to that for the first time. Ricciardo prefers to carry more speed through the corner by making it more of a ‘U’ shape. To do that he needs a little rear instability on entry to turn in, and enough grip to rotate the car mid-corner without the rear breaking away. The McLaren had a lot of peak downforce but it was not always usable, making the car unstable and inconsistent to drive in certain corners and conditions. That was murder for Ricciardo’s preferences. And even now, in a McLaren regularly scoring podiums, Lando Norris says he wants to ‘U’ a corner but has to ‘V’ it off because the car can’t handle that. “One of his big limitations has been the front end,” says Eddolls. “So the [new set-up] directions have been able to improve the front end of the car for him, accepting the stability compromise and how that impacts the tyre temperatures through the corner and through the lap.” It may sound surprising given this was his Kryptonite at McLaren but what Ricciardo has been clear on from the start at AlphaTauri is that he could live with a bit more rear instability. There were signs of this right back in Hungary, where Ricciardo drove the car for the first time. There, and in his second race in Belgium, there was some under-rotation in the car. While the AlphaTauri lacks the aerodynamic peaks of what Ricciardo was driving at McLaren, it seems to have a more stable platform. It’s consistent, and understandable. So Ricciardo actually found that he could cope with some more rear instability than it had, to help give him the front end he needed, without it prompting the kind of inconsistency in car behaviour that he could not handle the way Norris could at McLaren. The key to understanding the difference is to consider that not all rear instability is the same. AlphaTauri has battled some specific corner entry trouble all season, mainly when its drivers were braking late into heavy braking zones. Given he generally struggled with rear instability at McLaren, it was initially a concern that this might be an issue for Ricciardo. But with the way he drives compared to Tsunoda, Ricciardo didn't counter the same issues with the AT04. Instead, Ricciardo knows what to expect from the car and is able to take it to its limits more comfortably. Since Ricciardo’s early races before the summer break, the team has added a bit more aero load through upgrades, and the new set-up direction has now unlocked an even more Ricciardo-friendly balance. In Mexico, Ricciardo was able to use the stronger front end to rotate the car through the corners more to his style - braking a little earlier but riding it a little longer, giving him the grip to turn the front in mid-corner and carrying speed through. The result was being at ease with the car in qualifying, visibly leaning on the front and throwing the car around more.

I'm not saying that Daniel would have necessarily jumped into the Red Bull and been 100% comfortable straight-away or been right back to his absolute best. But I do think given the way he has demonstrated (even throughout his struggles at McL) that he can drive a car as long as it has the strong front end required for him to then be able to use the rear instability to rotate the car through the braking phase of corners, and that he can live with a great deal more rear instability than a driver who brakes later like Yuki or Pierre, that he had a much higher likelihood of success in a Red Bull car than most other drivers. I'm not even saying that I don't think Yuki deserves a chance in the second RBR seat, but I do think the team continuing to throw drivers in with very little thought to how their driving style compliments what is clearly a tricky car to master is stupidity personified. For Yuki's sake, I hope he manages to make it work. 🫠

quotes via: one two

[babybearnation]

now i've read all of the books beside your bed

⎇f1 drivers x gn!reader - you're a bookworm (reactions) ⎇contains: alex albon, arthur leclerc, charles leclerc, dino beganovic, george russell, zhou guanyu, kimi antonelli, lance stroll, lando norris, liam lawson, logan sargeant, max verstappen, mick schumacher, ollie bearman, oscar piastri, paul aron, pierre gasly, yuki tsunoda ⎇author's note: im a massive bookworm so this was fun!! some of these are inspired by this post from the lovely @thekoalapastriesbakery (kofi for long fics) ⎇content warnings: n/a ⎇word count: 3k

alex albon:

alex thinks it's pretty cool that you're a reader. your collection may overwhelm him at first (how many fucking books??) but he comes to love it because you love it and isn't that all that matters? he'll try and read some of the books you suggest, but he's just not interested at all in reading. he prefers to go fast.

when you start tearing your luggage apart, he's pretty confused. it's not until you turn to him and tell him you forgot the sequel to the book you're reading that he starts to understand. he'll find the nearest bookstore and take you to it when he can, happily buying you the next book in the series.

alex is gonna be a bit grumpy if you ignore him because you're reading. what book could possibly be more interesting than him? he tries to protest and you just shush him. when he sees how close you are to the end of the book, however, he'll accept it and just not-so-patiently wait for you to finish up.

arthur leclerc:

arthur does not understand what is so exciting about reading. he's constantly chasing that thrill of going fast and fast and faster even still, so he doesn't understand what's so enchanting about reading books. he's got shitty imagination (twins) so he just can't do it. but he'll admire you and your dedication to reading.

uh oh. you forgot the sequel. arthur realised before you did after you'd sent him to get you book #2. he doesn't find it, he finds #3. he has to shyly confess what happened and you are just horrified because what are you supposed to do now? and then he remembers the fact that bookstores exist and he's running off to go and get book 2 to make you happy again.

as outlined above, he doesn't understand why people read. so now that you're reading and ignoring him because of it? nuh uh. no can do. he won't allow it. he'll snatch the book from your hands and keep moving it until you snap and demand he give it back because you have one chapter left. he can wait that, surely? no, no he can't.

charles leclerc:

charles is a bit more understanding of why people like to read but he still personally doesn't like it. he loves watching you read though, because he thinks you look so peaceful and calm and happy. if you start crying though, charles will panic and offer you a hot drink in the hopes of calming you down.

you might've forgotten to bring the sequel on holiday, but charles didn't. he'd spotted the book last second and tucked it into his carry on, already anticipating the moment he'd get to sweep in and play hero. so when you start going through your bags, trying to find book 2 because book 1 ended on a cliffhanger, he triumphantly pulls it out of his bag for you. yeah, he's a bit dramatic.

charles loves watching you read (unless you're crying) so if you ignore him whilst reading, he's not gonna be too bothered about it. he'll sit there and watch you read, maybe pulling out his phone to wait until you notice his presence and answer him. he's really not bothered.

dino beganovic:

the first time dino saw you reading, he honestly didn't know what to think. he's gotten used to it now but that first time.. you read?? why? when you explain to him all the reasons you love reading, he soon finds himself falling in love with it and he'll start carrying one or two books with him when he goes to races.

you're reading the end of this book to dino in between free practice and qualifying and you get to the end and you're ready to start book 2... and it's not there. it's not in your bag. it's not in his bag. it's gone. dino, thinking fast, decides to buy the ebook and read it to you. yeah, that's a new thing you two do now.

dino will not care if you ignore him when you're reading. if it's urgent or he needs to leave, then yeah, he'll be upset, but if it's just a normal, everyday question? he's not bothered. in fact, he's abandoning his question to instead cuddle up to you and (attempt) to read over your shoulder.

george russell:

george will read the occasional thing here and there, but it's nothing compared to how much you read. he loves getting book recs from you even if it takes him for-fucking-ever to read them because he's so busy. he just wants to (try and) stay up to date with your reading!

george definitely packs extra books for you when you go on holiday just in case. so when he spots the abandoned sequel, he'll pack it for you. you won't even realise you almost left it because he'll slip it into your bag before you can notice it's gone.

he might get a bit annoyed if you ignore him because you're reading but when you finish up the book and wordlessly hand it to him, he'll quickly understand why. the book was so entrancing and now he has to read. and then he reads it and oh, he's ignoring you now. whoops?

zhou guanyu:

he loves the peace that reading can bring and he thinks you'll be the exact same and then he sees you launching a book across the room and quickly realises, no, not all reading can be peaceful. you'll have to explain the plot to him so he can understand why you threw the book otherwise he's gonna be so confused.

it's a nightmare. book 2 ends on a cliffhanger and there's no fucking book 3 in your suitcase. you could've sworn you packed it. you tear through all your luggage and end up having to call guanyu (who's out picking up food for you two) because you can't find it. turns out you did pack it... in his suitcase. oops?

guanyu gets it. he really does. sometimes books or other forms of media are just so enrapturing and intense that you can't help but zone out everything else and only focus on what you're consuming. if its urgent, he might gently push your book down, but he's not too bothered about it otherwise.

kimi antonelli:

he may be incredibly smart and have an insane memory, but this man hates reading. when he discovers you love reading, he's actually not that surprised. he'll use his excellent memory to help prevent you from forgetting any details if you're reading a sequel ages after you read the first book.

when kimi comes back from showering to find both of your suitcases completely torn apart, he's a bit confused. what did you forget to pack? when you share that you forgot the sequel to your book, he decides that you and him will find the nearest bookstore to go and buy a second copy because he's refusing to let you be grumpy over the cliffhanger lol.

yeah, no, kimi ain't letting you ignore him for no book. he has no qualms about tearing a book out of your hand until you answer his question. if he just wants your attention, well, good luck. he's stubborn and won't let you have your book back until he's content.

lance stroll:

he may not be into reading but he really likes listening to you recap the stories and books you read because he finds them so interesting. eventually, he'll end up shyly asking you to read to him because you are the best storyteller ever so he wants to consume all books through you.

you're on holiday, somewhere nice and warm, and the book ends and... there's no book 2. you'd left it at home. lance, noticing your lowkey grumpy nature about this, decides to take you to a bookstore so you can buy another copy of the sequel. you can also buy some other books in the process because he doesn't want you to run out of reading material.

lance will be a bit grumpy if you ignore him whilst you're reading only because you could be reading to him and you're not. he'll push his face into your view as he pouts and you'll very quickly learn that he wants you to read to him. he ends up hearing random handfuls of chapters from different books every now and then because he falls asleep sometimes.

lando norris:

if you think this man reads, i have news for you. he doesn't. he really doesn't understand how you like reading, to be honest. if he catches you reading f1 romances? he's demanding to know how accurate they are. the first time he found a book in your bed (it jabbed his rabs), he almost burned it (that's a half joke).

when you pout at lando and tell him you forgot the sequel to the book you've been reading all holiday, he'll aww at you and hug you, but he's celebrating the second your back is turned because now he can have all your attention. lando keeps you so busy and distracted, you forget about the book until you get home and see it on your shelf.

oh come on, you and me both know this man isn't letting you ignore him in favour of reading. the amount of time he's snatched books from your hands and flung them across the room is insane (he always replaces any books he damages though). the only way to placate him is to offer to read to him because he loves your voice so much.

liam lawson:

he might read the occasional comic book series or something like that, but full novels aren't really his forte. he very quickly learns how passionate you are about books and reading, however, and he starts to come to love and appreciate the conversations you two will have about whatever book you're currently reading.

liam is gonna be clueless on what to do when you're on holiday and you tell him you forgot to pack the sequel to the book you were reading. you're not sure you'll be able to find the book in any local shops so you reluctantly admit defeat. but don't worry, liam will cheer you up with silly theories about what happens in book 2.

honestly, liam won't care if you ignore him whilst you're reading. he understands what reading means to you and he knows how easy it is for books to capture your full attention so he'll just carry on as he was before. if he really needs you, however, he'll offer a snack as a peace offering when he interrupts you.

logan sargeant:

he's not really interested in reading but he loves listening to you talk about books. he retains absolutely no information about which series is which and who is who, but he knows your faves and he's always willing to listen to you vent about a shitty read, so that's always fun.

logan pulls the puppiest of puppy eyes when you tell him you forgot to pack the second book in the series you're reading. he isn't sure what to do and he's about to apologise and offer something else for you to do, but then he remembers the wonder of ebooks and offers to buy that for you. up to you what you say, tbh!

logan isn't too bothered about being ignored whilst you're reading. if he has a question, he'll ask you it, but if he just wants attention, he'll choose to cuddle up to you instead of taking you away from your book. he's always content to just be in your company!

max verstappen:

this man has publicly admitted he's only read like... 4 books in his life. he's honestly positive that you won't change that. and you don't, but he does learn more and more about books and sometimes references books you've told him about without realising. it's cute.

max is stressed because you're stressed because you forgot the final book in the trilogy you were reading. he's not sure how because the whole thing came in a box so why didn't you just bring the box but soon enough he's seeking out the nearest book store to get you a replacement.

yeah, no, you're not allowed to ignore him in favour of reading. if he's feeling really needy, that book is taking flying lessons. he once accidentally threw one out the window and, in return, you told some of the other drivers about it. he's never lived it down.

mick schumacher:

he probably enjoys a good book here and there so when he discovers you're a bookworm, he's happily asking you for recommendations. he may not read as much as you, but he does truly admire that you have something so enchanting in common.

darling angel baby mick schumacher would never let you forget a single book behind, even if you're just going to his parents' house for the weekend. not a single chance in hell you've forgotten. if you've somehow miraculously forgotten it, he's buying you a second copy before you can even tell him not to.

mick doesn't mind you ignoring him whilst you're reading. he gets it. he might sometimes ask you to read to him, but most of the time he'll just snatch up his own book and come join you. spending time with you is one of his favourite things, no matter how you two pass the time.

ollie bearman:

this boy don't read. he's too chaotic for that. he might listen to you talk about books occasionally, but honestly, he has no interest. you owning a large amount of books will leave him totally stunned and he'll constantly pull random books off your shelf to ask if you've read them.

ollie is terrified. you'd just finished crying over the ending of the 2nd book and then you burst into tears all over again because you didn't have the third book. he isn't sure what to do and eventually decides on offering you a different book he's "interested in" in the hopes it'll take your mind off of the missing third book.

contrary to the above, ollie isn't all that bothered about you ignoring him in favour of reading. he sees you looking cozy with a book in your hands and his first (and only) thought is: that's the perfect napping spot. yeah, nine times out of ten, your reading session is very briefly interrupted by a sleepy bear sliding into your lap. enjoy!

oscar piastri:

i think oscar would try and read but he'd never get very far and he'd end up leaving a trail of unfinished books behind him. when he finds out you're a reader, however, he tries to use that as motivation. it doesn't work but he's very supportive of your hobby nonetheless!

oscar just sighs and googles the nearest bookstore when you come to him complaining about forgetting to pack the sequel to the latest book you read. he knew you'd forgotten something so he'd already been prepared to have to rebuy something. to him, this is very tame.

isn't bothered at all that you're choosing reading over him. he'll either take this as an opportunity to nap (cuddled up to you, of course) or he'll ask you to read to him. you might have to play catch up if you're in the middle of a book or ask him to wait for you to start the next one, but he's really not that bothered.

paul aron:

another member of the might occasionally read gang. paul prefers watching stuff to reading, but a good book can easily capture his attention. he loves listening to you talk about books and if you ever want to lend him a book, he will read it cover to cover, even if he hates it, because you gave it to him.

paul isn't sure what to do when you tell him you forgot to bring the sequel of a book with you on holiday. you don't want to buy another copy because what's the point, but you're also dying to know what happens next. paul eventually decides to get the ebook for you and hopes you can make some progress with that version of the book.

this is where paul gets into his baby girl side. you're not allowed to ignore him, that's just rude. he won't tear the book away like some of the other drivers would, but he's definitely gonna call your name over and over until you answer him. it's annoying, sure, but it works 100% of the time.

pierre gasly:

he's not really a reader but the first time he discovered you were, he asked you to read to him and now he's obsessed with books... only if you narrate them. it's a bit silly and he'll never tell anyone lest he be teased horrifically for it, but he's a biiiiit sappy.

another one who knows instantly to find the nearest bookstore and get you a replacement copy when you tell him you forgot to pack the sequel to the book you're reading. he'll even offer to let you get a few more books as well to avoid this issue happening again. it's charming, really.

you're his personal audiobook narrator, remember? you physically cannot ignore him whilst you're reading. he will push his way into your personal bubble and impatiently wait for you to read the book to him. again, it's a bit silly, but you go along with it because you still get to read at the end of the day.

yuki tsunoda:

yuki's probably read a few manga here and there whilst growing up, but he's not really a novel reader. if you read manga, he might ask to borrow your favourites, but he'll let you keep the long, wordy books to yourself. feel free to read him to sleep though!

when you tell yuki you've forgotten the sequel to the book you just finished reading, he's a bit awkward. does he offer to buy you another copy? or does he try and push you towards reading something else? by the time he's made a decision, you're already halfway through your next book.

you're not allowed to ignore yuki ever, let alone when you're reading. he'll bully his way onto your lap and pout at you until you put the book down and give him a sufficient enough amount of kisses. its over 100 kisses btw so i hope you weren't in the middle of a chapter!

© all rights to babybearnation 2025.

[jesswritesthat]

Miya Atsumu: VBC

Fandom: Haikyuu!! — [ Masterlist ]

Summary: -1.8k, fluff

• Joining the Inarizaki volleyball team isn’t what you expected, but maybe someone can help with that.

Warnings: fem!reader, curses

>>>>——————————>

In honesty you were ecstatic to transfer to Inarizaki High for second year, it gave you the opportunity to reconnect with your best friend Yuki, and you'd heard amazing things about the volleyball club there.

The key word being 'were'. It wasn't until you'd arrived did you understand the misconception - you had every intention of joining the females VBC despite your friends' discernment. Upon passing the advertising for afterschool clubs, you noted their sales pitch wasn't exactly suited to one's passion for the sport.

"The main reason to join is for the Miya twins!"

It was rather a passion for the boys.

"But this is the girls team." You'd deadpan stated, as if this resolved everything.

Alas the promoter and captain disagreed with a gleaming smile that suggested she'd been begging to elaborate on such things.

"Yes exactly! Atsumu and Osamu are interested in volleyball, meaning the boys team are liable to play us during training. Giving us a chance to spend time and learn from them~"

"Great, I'm all for the competition but—"

"If you're lucky you might even end up with a hot boyfriend!"

Instantly the leaflet in your palm was scrunched, a huff of disappointment escaping you.

"Then I'd rather find somewhere else to play." You curtly responded, the girl taken aback but cheerfully calling after you anyway.

"We— We're showing around potential recruits after school if you change your mind!"

Once reaching your newly assigned classroom, the balled up paper was dumped on your friends' desk who only looked up to you with a raised brow.

"That's why you were evasive about me joining the volleyball club Yuki."

She released a tired hum, like she'd been expecting this conversation, Hamada Yuki and yourself had been on a team together in middle school.

"Told ya (Y/n), as a member of the so-called 'Inarizaki Girls Volleyball Team', it's more of a damn fan club at this point." Yuki seethed, shooting the flyer into the bin across the classroom.

"I could tell. Is anyone serious there besides you?" You questioned once sitting at your desk beside hers, the setter shaking her head thoughtfully.

"A few. We're vastly outnumbered by fangirls though, we practice and they do whatever - sometimes asking us about terminology to impress certain people of course."

On that note, you figured it'd be worth seeing what the fuss was about later, and if what Yuki had told you was true.

Lo and behold, it was exactly like Yuki described. However, the second you'd reached the boys practice, the surrounding group of girls came to life with unadulterated adoration for the players. Squeals and cheers erupting when they'd take shots or score, meanwhile you'd analysed the plays with a degree of knowledge.

It was then you'd locked eyes with the charismatic setter, only for a second, before his shift in focus sent your fellow potentials into a frenzy.

That's enough. You walked out.

———

So the girls team wasn't your cup of tea. That didn't mean you'd cease playing the game you enjoyed - the nearby community centre hosted volleyball sessions regularly, and you were able to book time slots with Yuki and some of her teammates.

It meant you were settling into this new environment, even if it wasn’t perfect. As an Inarizaki tradition, and a volleyball fan, you naturally ended up watching a few of the boys games out of support. They were talented too, deserving of their recognition even if part of it was linked to their attractiveness.

“Ya came to the game huh, transfer?” He caught you as you were about to leave the gym in the midst of students fussing over them, an apologetic hand immediately retracting from your wrist where he’d reached for you.

“Yeah, apparently it’s a tradition or something since you guys are the pride of Inarizaki.” You’d spoken casually with a shrug which he seemed somewhat defeated by considering the recent victory.

“Oh really…?”

“Mhm. You played well though, Miya.”

“It’s nothin’, all thanks to training and my team y’know?” It appeared he’d reignited, a sudden enlightenment about him due to your praise.

“Keep it up then. See you around.”

“I— uh— yeah hope so!”

———

Today, you'd ventured to the centre, court doors open to allow a soft breeze to freshen the area. As well as a perspective viewpoint for curious passers-by, one that captured the double back of a certain blonde.

Finally, spike!

"Hey I know ya!"

Faltering, awry angle leaving you landing awkwardly but your hit was seemless. Still, you shot a dangerous glare to the intruders, finding Atsumu holding the door he'd previously slammed wide open and Osamu who also seemed tired of his twins' spontaneity.

"No, you don't Miya."

"Yer from class. The transfer.” Atsumu proudly replied to your dismissal, walking in with a wave alongside his brother who facepalmed with an agitated mutter.

“Their name is (L/n) (Y/n).”

“Well I never asked ‘em!” Even though you’d spoken a few times and it’d been nearly two months, this remained true.

"Okay, and?" Your lack of acknowledgement left Atsumu pouting slightly, but he was more intrigued by your choice of venue considering the fully functioning gym and team currently training at Inarizaki.

"And yer here playing volleyball instead of at school! Yer good, the girls team would be glad to have ya."

"I'd rather play for the community centre." You immediately responded a matter-of-factly, facing him now and spinning the recovered ball between your hands.

"But they don't get to enter high school competitions." It seemed he wasn't entirely convinced, having not discovered the answers he was politely fishing for.

"I know."

"Alright! I just wanna know why yer here? I’d get to play against ya if yer were apart of the school team." Atsumu argued again, more direct this time.

"Because the girls team is a damn fan club for you guys, the only score they're interested is scoring a date with you!"

"Huh, I mean..."

"Why bother joining a team like that when hardly any of them are there to actually play volleyball." You'd rolled your eyes, emotion present when explaining your point and Atsumu seemed to empathise.

"I get it. That'd piss me off too."

"Agreed." Osamu added, an understanding nod toward you.

"Then you have your answer."

With little more to say, the twins shared a sceptical look, before returning their focus to you once more.

“Would ya mind if we joined ya then?”

The question caught you off-guard, darting between them as if searching for some ulterior motive only to find none.

“I guess not.”

“Thanks (L/n).”

“Yeah cheers!” Osamu and Atsumu respectively threw their thanks and removed their jackets ready to play.

———

It’d been a week since that escapade, and you’d found the twins sharing gestures of greeting if they saw you around the school but nothing out of the ordinary. At least not until now…

"Psst (Y/n)!" Yuki came dashing in, evading desks until she'd reached yours with a devious look. "Guess what."

"You actually got an A?"

"Rude." A scoff. "No, Miya Atsumu came to practice yesterday."

"I am so sorry for your loss of concentration, I imagine your fangirl teammates couldn't take their eyes off him." Sarcasm flowed like an effortless river, one that normally fuelled Yuki, except she held a scheming tone when responding straightforwardly.

"He eradicated over half of the club."

"What?" You shock was evident, you’d heard he could be critical in games and a bit of an ass but this was unexpected - Yuki far too happy to extend.

"Yep. Miya comes in and gives a whole speech about ‘if you're not serious about playing then quit’. Said if they’re here for the boys team, he'll ask to open a practice for them to watch - and something about how being apart of this club isn't gonna catch his attention because he already likes someone.”

"Woah." It was all you could muster considering that this whole thing might've been linked to your conversation the other day. He wouldn't do that for such a trivial reason though, right? But if was to protect the sport he loved then it made sense.

"So... wanna join the team and play as my precious Spiker again?" Yuki persuadingly started when clasping your shoulders, earnest gratitude and glee lacing her voice.

"Seriously?"

"Yes! Remaining members want to progress and I want my middle school ace by my side again so we can kick ass and go to Nationals!"

"Then I'm in, but isn't there a trial or—" You matched her contagious energy, until she cut you off holding up an already filed applicant form.

"Just approval from the captain." Yuki smirked, that evil one she wore when she had something over you. "Me."

"You?”

"What? Once the chief of the Miya fan club quit along with the others, the team needed a serious captain.” She struck a model pose. “Who better than the reliable setter right?"

"I agree with the setter stuff, but uh can I talk to (L/n) for a sec?" The pair of you looked to the confident origin, finding none other than Atsumu walking toward you.

Yuki gave a little teasing wave and left you two to talk.

"I think ya should give the girls volleyball club a chance y'know." He’d held a hand to the back of neck, a lopsided grin on his lips regardless of the underlying awkwardness he harboured.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Went there yesterday, no fangirls in sight - just the makings of a solid team. Maybe ya were wrong about it."

"Maybe I was. Captain Yuki did personally invite me, so the least I could do is try it out." You paused momentarily, meeting his auburn eyes with mischievous ones of your own. "Considering all your hard work Miya."

There was a guilty look crossing his expression ever so briefly, the blonde shaking it off with a cocky smile.

"No idea whatcha talking about. Whatever, do what ya want!"

———

The Inarizaki girls VBC was a brilliant one now it'd been fortified, you got to play alongside your best friend once more and were surrounded by a team of talented individuals who you could hang out with as friends too.

Due to improved team cohesion, there were even joint training sessions alongside the boys VBC, sessions which the third years had said were more frequent than they ever had been before.

They couldn't help but think all the beneficial changes recently were all down to a single catalyst. Said catalyst apparently trying to impress a certain someone who'd captured more than his attention. The same one who he’d been too nervous to ask for a name numerous times when sparking conversation. The same one he’d look for during games and throughout the school corridors.

Unfortunately the certain someone was oblivious to such signs and thought nothing of it when Inarizaki walked into the gym - their prodigal setter immediately laying eyes on who everyone knew to be this certain someone.

"Hey (Y/n), can I set for ya?"

<——————————<<<<

[ Masterlist ]

[cheriladycl01]

My love, is mine all mine - Max Verstappen x Norris! Reader x Charles Leclerc Part 3

Plot: Norris' Twin sister is also a driver in the 2021 line up and is in her rookie era. Not only do the commentators struggle to now talk about the pair in the race, but they also struggle to talk about talent. What happens when two drivers find her eye-catching.

After the Charles incident you didn’t really know what to do. The next weeks to come you continued straight on from France into 2 rounds at the Red Bull Ring. Of course everyone was looking to Max for the wins as this was the home for the team.

Practice hadn’t gone well, and it was completely your fault.

You’d gone 12th fastest in FP1, however when your best friend from home surprised you at the track you had the time to confide in her.

You told her all about what had happened with your twin and with Charles and Max. She was just as shocked as you were.

You showed her everywhere while you guys went to get some snacks to bring back to your drivers room.

You ended up bumping into some of the drivers, but the one you stuck around the most was Max, he asked you how you were after the post France fiasco and you’d asked him to drop it.

He ended up changing the conversation to your friend asking who she was and you guys all spoke about that instead which as a delight for you.

Eventually Max needed to go for some kind of Red Bull test, and he left you two to get back to the McLaren Paddock.

You guys gossiped like two little girls until Zac and Nico your race engineer came into your drivers room telling you it was time for FP2.

After having that pep talk from Y/BF/N you went 2nd fastest only 0.3 of a second behind Max himself. You were glowing when you came out the car. Everyone was congratulating you and the McLaren admins were taking pictures and videos of you happily getting out of the car!

However, when you turned your head looking towards the garage entrance you couldn’t see Y/BF/N anywhere. You finished up your media duties, talking about the pace of the car and how your head was clear on the flyers you did in FP2.

You spent ages looking for you friend, you assumed she’d stay in your hotel room with you so you were looking for her all around the track.

You eventually gave up sending her a text instead asking where she was to which she sent a short reply explaining she was back at her own hotel.

You went back to yours, laying awake thinking of qualifying and how tomorrow would go.

You thought you’d have a really good day today, you woke up extra early having a nice hotel breakfast and going to the paddock in a really nice outfit from one of your clothing sponsors Versace.

But when you got the the paddock seeing Y/BF/N kissing Max Verstappen’s cheek you were confused. He handed her the jacket she’d been wearing yesterday and you couldn’t help but think the worst.

You wanted to confront him, but with FP3 coming up you knew it was about time you’d have to get ready so you try to ignore it as much as possible. However it was the only thing on your mind.

Max had been so nice to you in your first season. And you always fell for the nice guys, who turned out to be twats. But you didn’t think he was a twat.

If anything you were more upset at the fact that Y/BF/N had potentially lied to you about where she was, and you didn’t know why she would feel the need to do that.

FP3 was awful, and you went 17th fastest a stark contrast from yesterday. Mick in the Haas was faster than you and if that wasn’t a wake up call you don’t know what was. The only comfort was that your brother was P19, so it wasn’t just a you thing the car wasn’t at peak performance.

Come qualifying your cars performed better, especially Landos where he went all the way to Q3 taking second row in P4. You on the other hand only made it to Q2 and was left starting next to Sebastian Vettel behind Yuki Tsunoda and Carlos Sainz. You were hoping the Ferrari could give you a slip stream and you’d be able to move up to go for an overtake on George.

You started off really well, doing exactly as you said. You dived in between Carlos and Yuki, both distracted attacking and defending each other you managed to get ahead.

You stormed through the field overtaking Lance and George consecutively, your gotten yourself to P9, left to take over the Alpine and then make a move on Charles. However, Lance came up too close behind you going into turn 4 your car spinning out because of how he hit you in the side.

The car went straight into the barriers not stopped by the gravel and the car was buried. There was no way for recovery.

"Are you okay Y/N?" Nico asks and where you are so winded you don't reply for a second.

"Y/N are you okay?" Nico asks again, you have a little shake of your head now that you breath is back and not caught before you reply.

"Yes. I'm okay. I don't know what happened i was turning on the inside line and Lance was just in the side of my car and I spun out" you say, looking at your hands waiting for Nico to reply.

"Stewards are reviewing footage now, come back to the garage and we'll see you in medical" Nico says.

You switch everything off chucking the wheel out the car onto the gravel before pulling yourself up over the halo. Lance had managed to continue his race but would need to put for wing damage. You came back with a Marshall to the McLaren garage profusely apologizing to Zac who had come to see you from where he had been sat on the pit wall.

"It's okay Y/N! This is your first DNF, there's no need to worry okay? This wasn't your fault at all!" he tells you rubbing your shoulder. You nod and watch as he shows you the decision made by the stewards. Lance was being made to do a stop and go 10 second penalty.

The race ended with your brother up high in the points making up for your unfortunate end to the race and getting the team the much needed points.

All the post race interviews you were asked about the incident with Lance and whether you were happy with the decision made by the Stewards. You kindly explained that you trusted the FIA in their decision making and the penalty clearly paid off as Lance was kept out of the points.

As Lando had done really well, you agreed to take him out to dinner that night. You'd asked Y/BF/N if she wanted to come but she said she'd be staying at the hotel because something in the McLaren hospitality hade made her sick so she'd be having plain toast at the hotel.

You and Lando dressed up really nice as you were taking him to a fancy restaurant so you didn't have to deal with the agg of the media or fans as the crash had really taken a lot of your energy.

You were seated at a central table one where you both had a view of the whole restaurant which was perfect as you could both people watch and comment on all the funny things people were doing. It was a little past time you and Lando had since you were kids.

Where it was one of the nicest restaurants in Austria, you guys saw some of the other drivers. Lewis, Sebastian and Valterri came in, and sat 4 tables down from you both, then Charles and Pierre came in together and sat in the seats behind you.

You were just served your starter when you looked up to thank the waitress, when your eyes locked on Max Verstappen walking in with Y/BF/N.

“Y/BF/N?” You ask in shock, where you ask loud enough for them to hear both their attention is now on you and the rest of the people sitting in your vicinity also look up.

“I thought you said you were to sick to come celebrate with Lando and I?” You ask offended that she’d ditched your for someone else and not told you, you wouldn’t have had a problem if she’d told you.

Not only that but it irked you she was with Max and you didn’t know why.

Did this mean that she had in fact been with Max when she said she was in her own hotel room? Did she even have a room?

“What are you guys doing here?” She laughs awkwardly before looking up at Max who now looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“I told me Lando and I were going out for dinner, to celebrate?” You say as if trying to jog her memory.

“Yeah but let’s be for real it’s you and Lando, I would expect your celebratory meal to be McDonalds and class it as cheat day for your insane diet!” She exclaims making you recoil a little.

“Is that why you said no? Because you didn’t think we’d take you someone nice, so you went with the person that had the better offer?” You ask looking up at Max who was trying to avoid all eye contact by looking everywhere but you.

You couldn’t believe it, was your childhood best friend about to admit she was only your friend for the money?

“Y/N that came out wrong. Looks let’s just enjoy our nights out, and we can talk about this on the plane home tomorrow!” She offers reaching a hand out to you.

“Im not going home tomorrow, I have another race here next weekend. Me and Lando are staying here because it’s cheaper. I told you that the other day” you voice before going back to sit down with Lando and enjoy your meal.

The hostess guides them to the other side of the restaurant, as they didn’t want any more disturbances so both Max and Y/BF/N are out of sight.

“Hey are you okay?” You hear from behind you making you turn round to see Charles turned round on his booth seat looking at you, Pierre also sending you a kind smile.

“Im fine, why wouldn’t I be” you smile but it really is the furthest thing from the truth.

You try to enjoy your night, but it’s constantly playing on the back of your mind.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @the-fem1n1ne-urge @21stcenturytaegi @dark-night-sky-99 @spideybv28 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @kapsylia @laneyspaulding19 @lazybot @malynn @cassielikereading @viennakarma @teamnovalak @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @jlb20416 @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @seomako @urdad-hot

[anestofmuses]

@muses-in-my-closet asked:

Sergei had finally heard the news that Yuki went into labor. It took a second for him to register what had bene told to him, but he was soon up on his feet, rushing to his love's side. Even if he couldn't be a bigger help during he process, he swore to himself he would be there for his twins and his love. There was a bit of panic rushing through his veins, but it all came with the "new parent" territory, didn't it?

The good thing about the two sharing a home is that Safiya could easily guide Sergei to Crowe's car and Yuki's side. With Crowe driving as fast as the lega limit allowed. Sergei could witness the entire thing, safe in the hospital. Though he'd have to do some waiting as per Yuki's wishes to avoid as much dysphoria as he could, the delivery would ne just him and the materinity staff.

Some checks later and Sergei could see both his love..and their daughters. Teo healthy, beautiful daughters. With lottle tuffs of har, one had brown..or darker hair, the other black. Yuki was holding them, exhausted but oh so happy.

"They're perfect" He whispered, before looking up at Sergei with a happy yet teary expression. They made these lottle angels.

[st4rsdoyoulikedem]

Part two of my drivers/junior drivers of a team having things in common series:

Red Bull/Racing bulls

Family picture!! Now, to be a red bull (junior) driver you must be one of two things; either you must have blonde hair or dark hair. (I know this just sounds really basic but trust me on this one)

Group 1: the blondes

From top to bottom, left to right: Max Verstappen, Tim Tramnitz (F3), Sebastian Vettel, the twins Oliver Goethe (F2) and Liam Lawson, Emely de Heus (F1academy 2024), Chloe Chambers (F1academy 2025), and Pierre Gasly.

Commonly paired with a dark-haired counterpart as their teammate, and always serving cunt these are the blonde red bull drivers. I cannot be the only one who noticed that Tim and Liam look like they could be family, right? Even matching backwards hat is giving brothers.

Two of these blondes are both Dutch icons (I might be a bit biased🧡🌊🇳🇱🦁🚲💪) always honest, slaying and staying unbothered . If you weren’t aware I’m of course talking about Max and Emely.

Idk if Chloe and Emely’s hair is naturally blonde or not but idc🤷‍♀️

Group 2: the dark-haired

From top to bottom, left to right: Pepe Martí and Isack Hadjar (F2 2024), Arvid Lindblad (F3 2024), Mark Webber, Sergio Perez, Daniel Ricciardo and Yuki Tsunoda, Nikola Tsolov (F3), Carlos Sainz, Alex Albon, Hamda and Amna Al Quibaisi (F1academy 2024).

These dark-haired icons are lightly brushed by melancholy, have a big bomboclatt and are usually drawn to a cunty blonde by an unknown force. It’s so iconic that one pairing in the foto are literal family, and that an other driver on this fotogrid looks like he could be their sibling imo; I’m obviously talking about the Al Quibaisi sisters and Arvid.

These baddies have a rep of getting the short end of the stick, some say this is because they are not blonde and white, I’ll leave that up to you to decide for yourselves.

Down here I’ll just leave some family pictures for you guys to admire:

In the next part I will share the similarities between the junior academies of the other teams. For now: thank you for listening to my Ted talk and I hope you’ll look for my next post:)

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

CHRO Reader x Higuruma Hiromi

Snippet -Gojo grinned. "Nanami? Working. Someone’s gotta fund couples’ therapy." He leaned back, laugh-rich. "Kidding! He’s suspended like me—so these days he reads about pregnancy, cooks nutritionally balanced meals, day trades and lets our wife cheat in video games. Very sexy, very domestic." WormTakeTheWeel: GOJO, BLINK TWICE IF NANAMI HAS A GUN. As if summoned by his sins, you appeared in the doorway. Gojo lit up like a kid handed a lifetime supply of sweets. "Wifey! Hi!" Unaware of what he was sharing in the stream, heavily pregnant in Nanami’s sweater, you balanced a tray of snacks. “Here,” you murmured—strawberry slices, chocolate-covered crackers, strawberry Pocky milk. The kind of effortless care that came from loving someone past the point of sanity. Gojo melted, feeding you a grape. You hummed, patted his head like a misbehaving puppy, and waddled out. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he crooned. The chat imploded. MechamarusLeftKnee: WAIT, THAT’S HER?? SHE'S SO CUTE??? SuguruForgotCondoms: HOW DID U TWO LAND HER? SHE’S LIKE ‘RICH’ RICH. NonConsensualForeheadStitches: BRO, SAY SORRY AGAIN, WTF? DO NOT FUMBLE A BADDIE, BRO!

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage. Chapter Summary: Gojo Satoru has two settings: ‘Unhinged God’ and ‘Emotionally Constipated Golden Retriever.’ Nanami Kento is a spreadsheet with a pulse. Their wife? A heavily pregnant, introverted CEO who’s one Sims murder spree away from filing divorce papers in triplicate. Featuring: Parisian apologies, cursed twins rewriting reality, and a group chat that’s 47% memes, 53% war crimes. Love is stored in the passive-aggressive barista. Some smut. A/N: Sorry for the delay, besties—I was spiritually kidnapped by capitalism and the brainrot gods, but this chapter wouldn’t exist without WhatDidIJustRead on AO3/ @blackrimmedrose on Tumblr (who slid into my DMs like a reverse curse technique to beta this mess). I was out here lost in the void, vibing with my last two brain cells, when she showed up like an exorcist asking, "Hey, wanna be normal?" And I said, "Absolutely not." She beta-read, supporting my Sukuna x Nanami delusions, and told me to go full K-Drama Kaisen (which, btw, may or may not foreshadow a tragic villain(not human or living thing) in the story ahead. Who's to say? 👀). For this chapter: read the usernames (yes, they mean something, no, I won’t elaborate), tell me your favorite scene (because I know it’s long but I believe in your attention span—barely), and get ready because we’re in the endgame. Three more chapters and then we either crash and burn in angst or soft-launch a happy ending. Choose wisely. Also, special-grade Nanamin incoming (read that in Yuki’s voice), and CHRO should be read as another reader. Can you guess their backstory? I can bet, it's more unhinged than you think. Also I was kinda thinking what if in this fic the husbands look like the header. This chp is only happening the way it is bcs I may or may not be ovulating rn :P Had to break this chapter in two posts bcs Tumblr won't let me post it. Link to the next part at the bottom.

Previous Chapter 19 (alt ending 2.10) - The Anatomical Weight of Neglect in Infinite Drops - Part 4 (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 20 (alt ending 2.11) - The Fault Lines: The Honored One’s Guide to Fumbling the Bag (And Other Love Languages) - Part 1

Discovery #1: Gojo Has Been Emotionally Waterboarding Himself for Fun—and Maya Is Into It (Professionally)

Maya swirled the questionable contents of her chipped coffee mug—definitely not coffee—and leveled Gojo with a look that could curdle milk. "You know what's hilarious? I actually thought you'd take this therapy seriously. My mistake."

Gojo, sprawled across the couch like a discarded prom dress, grinned. "Maya, darling, when have I ever taken anything seriously?"

"Point taken." She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the predatory interest of a scientist observing a particularly fascinating train wreck. "Now explain why you spent last night watching old home videos of your wife and pausing on frames where she looked happiest."

Gojo blinked. "Is that... not normal?"

Maya's smile was razor-thin. "Oh, sweet winter child. That's not nostalgia—that's psychological self-flagellation. You're emotionally waterboarding yourself. For fun." She took a sip of her mystery drink, which smelled like industrial solvent. "Were you trying to break yourself like a CIA intern?"

Gojo adjusted his sunglasses. "Not intentionally."

Maya's clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. "YOU ZOOMED IN ON HER HANDS AND STARED AT THEM FOR TWO HOURS, GOJO."

"They are so small. I was appreciating them!"

"YOU'RE SIX-FOOT-THREE. EVERYONE'S HANDS LOOK SMALLER COMPARED TO YOU. EVEN KASHIMO'S. AND I CHECKED."

Gojo's brows furrowed. "Wait, why were you—"

"FOCUS." Maya's cheeks flushed—vodka or Kashimo-related trauma, unclear. "Then you fell asleep listening to an AI voice read her old emails."

Gojo perked up. "Wait, you can do that?"

Maya exhaled through her nose. "Do you understand how normal people process guilt?"

Gojo beamed. "Not even a little."

Maya lit a cigarette directly under the NO SMOKING sign.

Discovery #2: Nanami Has Been Micromanaging the Apocalypse—Maya Approves (Almost)

"I want it on record that I don’t want to be here," Nanami said, posture stiffer than a starched collar.

You rolled your eyes while Gojo was busy sniffing your new shampoo.

“Freud would eat you alive.” She leveled Nanami with a smirk. 

Nanami adjusted his cuffs (and your ovaries did the thing). "Freud was a hack."

"So are most of my methods," Maya said cheerfully. "Now explain why you’ve been running a full intelligence operation on your wife."

Nanami didn’t blink. "It’s meal planning."

Maya slid a photo across the table. "You sent me a risk assessment on her caffeine intake."

"She exceeds the safe limit."

"You hired a private nutritionist. He’s disguised as a barista."

Nanami’s expression didn’t flicker. "Efficiency."

Maya’s eye twitched. "You tagged him 'P.N.' in her contacts like a Cold War spy. The man was in her Uber eats app."

Nanami sipped his tea. "It was a suggestion, not a command."

Maya stared.

Nanami stared back, deadpan.

For a brief, terrifying moment, Maya looked impressed. "And the sleep journal?"

"Observational research."

"You logged her REM cycles and fetal heartbeat counts without telling her."

Nanami’s lips thinned. "She was fidgeting in her sleep."

"You are insufferable." Maya cackled like a woman who’d just lost a bet. "You’re also scarily good at this. Ever consider corporate espionage?"

Nanami blinked. "I’m not sure you should be suggesting that."

Maya shrugged. "Neither does my license but here we are."

Nanami’s eye twitched as Maya continued, "Nanami. You’ve been tracking how many times she turns over in bed."

"Sleep quality is important."

"YOU GAVE HER A WEARABLE MONITOR WITHOUT HER KNOWLEDGE."

You and Gojo turned very, very slowly to look at him.

Nanami didn’t meet your eyes. "I didn’t want to wake her."

"THAT’S NOT THE PROBLEM."

Nanami narrowed his eyes, the human equivalent of a spreadsheet glaring back. "Would you rather I didn’t care?"

Maya massaged her temples. "No. But I’d like you to behave like a human man and not a passive-aggressive government drone."

You bit your cheek to keep from laughing. Gojo was already on the floor, wheezing.

Discovery #3: Wife Is Weaponizing Spite Like a Professional—Maya Finds It Charming

Maya turned to you with the weariness of someone who’d seen too much and drunk too much about it. "Now you."

You blinked. "What?"

Maya grinned, all teeth. "Explain the sabotage."

You sipped your water. "Is that bad?"

"Oh, sweetheart," Maya crooned, "it’s art. You’ve been unplugging Nanami’s alarm by exactly three minutes every night."

You shrugged. "Interesting."

"And Gojo’s autocorrect? Changing ‘baby’ to ‘bankruptcy’? Inspiring."

Gojo gasped from the couch. "Wait, is that why my texts sound financially threatening?"

Maya cackled. "And The Sims?" Her eyes sparkled with something unhinged. "You made their Sims, made them cheat on you, then made them suffer."

"That’s just called gaming."

"YOU LOCKED GOJO’S SIM IN A BASEMENT AND MADE NANAMI’S SIM WATCH THROUGH A WINDOW."

You smiled. "Sounds like a Tuesday."

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW UNHINGED THAT IS?"

"Maya," you said patiently, "have you ever played The Sims?"

"THAT’S NOT THE POINT."

"Then what is?"

Maya sighed. "You’re deliberately making yourself angrier instead of addressing your pain."

You shrugged. "It works."

"No, it’s therapy-adjacent." Maya winked. "Illegal in couples therapy, but therapy-adjacent." She narrowed her eyes at Nanami's PPT. "Wait. Why do you own ten pairs of noise-canceling headphones?"

You hesitated.

Maya pounced.

"YOU STOCKPILE THEM BECAUSE YOU THINK PEOPLE WILL LEAVE, AND YOU NEED TO DROWN OUT THE SILENCE."

You stiffened.

Maya leaned in, voice softening. "That’s not a normal purchase pattern, sweetheart."

---

The Verdict

Maya slumped at her desk like a woman who’d seen the abyss and found it lacking. "After careful consideration," she announced, "I’ve reached a conclusion."

Nanami rolled his eyes. "Which is?"

"That the three of you should never have been left unsupervised."

Gojo beamed. "Thanks!"

Maya turned to you. "And you—do you ever process emotions like a normal person, or is it all silent suffering and revenge Sims scenarios?"

You sipped your water. "That feels like a loaded question."

"YOU MADE A POWERPOINT TITLED ‘THINGS I WILL BRING UP IN A FIGHT IN FIVE YEARS.’"

Nanami side-eyed you, hard.

You coughed. "I have hobbies."

"NO, YOU HAVE A VENDETTA."

Gojo clapped.

Maya threw a pen at him. "AND YOU—" She whirled on Nanami. "Mr. ‘I Will Prove I Love Her Through Spreadsheets and Covert Ops.’"

Nanami frowned. "That’s reductive."

"No, it’s accurate. You’re micromanaging her entire existence instead of facing your guilt. How many meals have you prepped this week?"

"Forty-one."

Gojo blinked. "Bro."

"She’s pregnant," Nanami said flatly.

"SHE’S NOT SEVEN PEOPLE, NANAMI."

"SHE’S CARRYING TWINS, MAYA."

Gojo whistled. "Ouch."

"Satoru, shut the fuck up."

Maya took a deep breath. "New plan. We’re fixing this."

Solution 1: Gojo—Sit in the Void Like the Man You Are

Maya gestured with her cigarette. "Your diagnosis is ‘terminal avoidance with god-tier deflection.’"

Gojo grinned. "Sounds serious."

"You’ll survive." She snuffed the cigarette out on her desk. "You’re going to sit with your feelings. No jokes. No memes. Write them down."

Gojo blinked. "I don’t like that."

"I don’t care."

"But it’s bad in there, Maya."

"Then fix it. You’re the strongest, right? Fight your demons."

"Maya, be fr, my demons do MMA."

"Or I’ll have Kashimo babysit you."

Gojo paled. "No, no, not the gremlin."

"Then behave."

Solution 2:  NANAMI—Stop Being a Passive-Aggressive NSA Agent

"Nanami," Maya said, flipping a page, "controlling her life isn’t an apology."

Nanami frowned. "Your suggestion?"

"Cold turkey. No trackers. No secret baristas."

"Impossible."

Maya shrugged. "Then prepare to be waterboarded by me. Emotionally ofcourse. Or worse—Kashimo."

Nanami sighed. "Fine. What else?"

"Tell her one genuine thing you love about her. Every day."

Nanami stared. "That’s manipulative."

"You’re manipulative. This is called emotional availability."

Gojo snorted. "Nanami, buddy, you’re fucked."

"Satoru, I will kill you."

Solution 3: YOU—YES, YOU—Quit Playing The Sims In Real Life

Maya leaned in. "You. You’re the worst."

You raised a brow.

"You avoid intimacy like it owes you money. You set people up to fail so you can say ‘I knew it.’"

You scowled. "I don’t do that."

"No? You casually bring up old betrayals at dinner?"

"Maybe."

"You pick fights right before things get vulnerable?"

"Potentially."

"YOU PRETEND TO BE FINE THE SECOND SOMEONE TRIES TO APOLOGIZE?"

You smiled. "That one’s a cultural reset."

Maya sighed. "You self-sabotage like a trained assassin. You’ve convinced yourself you don’t want to be loved."

You blinked. "Thank you. It works."

Maya smirked. "Until it doesn’t. You’re going to stop. No more preemptive strikes. No more exit strategies. Let these disasters love you."

Nanami and Gojo nodded in unison. "Agreed."

Maya groaned. "You all deserve each other." She waved a hand. "Now get out. I have a date with poor judgment and worse liquor."

---

Mr. Gojo “My Wife & My Husband” Satoru

After discreetly evacuating the women flirting with your husbands—and Megumi had handled your mother and Nanami’s Tokyo-sized crater—the internet’s first lesson about Gojo Satoru was clear: Never let him near social media.

The second? His wife was far too good for him.

Gojo wasn’t a streamer. He wasn’t even a social media guy, unless you counted hacking Jujutsu High’s alumni page to memeify Geto’s Oily Hair Era (RIP) with a pixelated shrine emoji.

But after the incident—after he and Nanami stormed a corporate office like rom-com leads gone feral (hospitalizing security, yeeting a man into a cactus, and letting Nanami fold a salaryman like a lawn chair)—the world had questions:

Why attack a gaming office?

Why panic like a golden retriever at the vet?

WHO IS THIS WOMAN???

It was his wife. The mortal who’d reduced the Honored One to a knees-bent, apology-babbling mess. The one whose existence made Gojo Satoru—arrogant, untouchable, walking calamity—drop like a marionette with cut strings the moment she turned her back.

He wasn’t famous, not in the way of streamers, influencers or athletes.

He was known, but in the way natural disasters were known—whispered about in legal documents, feared by politicians, mentioned only in hushed tones.

A quiet, bureaucratic, private nightmare.

But the corporate world had cameras, and those cameras had gone viral.

So now, here he was—perched in front of your gaming setup, Nanami’s reading glasses upside-down on his nose (purely for spite), streaming PUBG to 3,000 baffled strangers who had not signed up for this level of intimacy.

The stream title, “🔥LIVE NOW: DILF Gaming 🚀 PUBG Duos w/ Nanamin! (HELP WIFE STILL MAD AT ME!)🔥”—was a war crime. It lured normies, lost souls, chaos enthusiasts, and three vengeful ex-sorcerers—including Utahime, halfway through a wine bottle and seething.

PandaIsMyTherapist: IS THIS A CRYPTID???

NanamisTieStrap: WHERE’S THE BLONDE DILF??

CurseTheseNuts: Sir, this is a Wendy’s.

SixEyesNoBrain: Wife’s a QUEEN dump his ass. 💅

Gojo was a man of many talents: strongest sorcerer, Six Eyes wielder, government-toppler before breakfast.

And yet—

67 minutes into this dumpster fire, the chat raged with “Who’s Nanamin??” and “Is your wife single??”

And more.

RatioKingKenthoe: Bro, who even are u?

IWasNanamisTrueAwakening: IS THIS THE GUY FROM THE VIRAL OFFICE VIDEO???

"Okay, okay, listen," Gojo drawled, tilting his headset. "I know what you’re thinking—Gojo, why are you like this?—and the answer is: Love." His in-game avatar promptly ate a sniper round. "See that? Forty-seventh death today. This is love, okay?!"

NanamisSecondBiggestRegret: How’s your wife?

Gojo exhaled, smile bittersweet. "Radiant. Brilliant. Currently incubating two gremlins who already hate me. Also? Merciless. Actively Googling how to jail husbands internationally."

He popped a grape into his mouth and chewed.

TojisLeftSandals: So she still hasn’t forgiven you for the whole… office rampage thing?

"Uh, no?" His laugh frayed at the edges. "Formal apologies to: the eighteen guys Nanami hospitalized, the dude I yeeted into a cactus, and the intern who saw Nanami fold a man like origami. Special shoutout to the guy I threw into a marble wall and the soul who watched me kick down a boardroom door like a divorced dad on Christmas. In my defense? Panic. As for Nanami?" He shrugged. "Zero defense. He was just pissed."

LegallyNotaKaori: THIS IS WHY MEN SHOULD BE LOCKED UP.

TojisUnwashedBoobies: Apologize properly????

"Fine—shoutout to Kenjiro Tsuda from Voice-whatever-department! Sorry about the cactus! And, uh… sorry Nanami turned Dave into abstract art!"

InumakisVoiceCrackASMR: His name was Dan.

Gojo waved a hand. "WHATEVER. Therapy’s expensive, folks! Donate to the Wife Forgive Me fund! But not really because I’m VERY rich."

SukunasToenailClippings: Is your wife single now?

Gojo clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. “MODS. BANISH THIS HERETIC.”

SixEyesNoBrain: Why’d you even attack her company??

“Because she left.” His face went eerily still; then he groaned, slumping over the desk. “She just… vanished. And I know my wife. If she’s avoiding us, she’s drafting divorce papers in three languages.”

GetosMissingPantaloons: So are you guys still living together?

Gojo stretched, smug. “Technically. She’s on maternity leave, so we’ve… reintegrated ourselves into her life like stray cats she can’t evict. She’s mildly tolerating it.”

MahitosLeftTesticularTorsion: WHERE’S THE BLONDE ONE?

Gojo grinned. "Nanami? Working. Someone’s gotta fund couples’ therapy." He leaned back, laugh-rich. "Kidding! He’s suspended like me—so these days he reads about pregnancy, cooks nutritionally balanced meals, day trades and lets our wife cheat in video games. Very sexy, very domestic."

WormTakeTheWeel: GOJO, BLINK TWICE IF NANAMI HAS A GUN.

As if summoned by his sins, you appeared in the doorway.

Gojo lit up like a kid handed a lifetime supply of sweets. "Wifey! Hi!"

Unaware of what he was sharing in the stream, heavily pregnant in Nanami’s sweater, you balanced a tray of snacks. “Here,” you murmured—strawberry slices, chocolate-covered crackers, strawberry Pocky milk. The kind of effortless care that came from loving someone past the point of sanity.

Gojo melted, feeding you a grape. You hummed, patted his head like a misbehaving puppy, and waddled out.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he crooned.

The chat imploded.

MechamarusLeftKnee: WAIT, THAT’S HER?? SHE'S SO CUTE???

SuguruForgotCondoms: HOW DID U TWO LAND HER? SHE’S LIKE ‘RICH’ RICH.

NonConsensualForeheadStitches: BRO, SAY SORRY AGAIN, WTF? DO NOT FUMBLE A BADDIE, BRO!

SwallowedByKenjaku: THE WAY SHE JUST… BROUGHT SNACKS. I’M WEAK.

MommyYukis_YearOldMilk: SAY SORRY AGAIN OR I SWEAR—

MonkeyWithDaddyIssues: TELL HER YOU LOVE HER RIGHT NOW.

JogosFinalFumes: GOJO, APOLOGIZE ON YOUR KNEES OR I WILL.

JunpeisType_YourMom: THIS IS ENOUGH TO MAKE A GROWN HUMAN WEEP.

LawAndOrderTheseTittiesHiromi: I’d let her step on me.

“Aww, look at her. So into me.” He turned to the camera, eyes starry. “Bringing me snacks. I love her so much. She’s sweet even when plotting my demise. Nanami, though?” He snorted. “I brought him coffee this morning, and he said, ‘I don’t accept offerings from traitors.’”

MeiMeisCrows: Why’s she still letting you live there if she’s so mad?

His grin faltered. For a heartbeat, vulnerability flickered.

“…Because she still loves us.” His voice softened, raw. “She’s just… hurt.”

TojisChildSupportNotice: Do you think she will ever forgive you two?

Gojo hesitated. The silence stretched.

“…I hope."

Then, his fingers drummed on the desk. “Anyway, therapy’s great. Nanami takes notes. I make jokes. Wifey fantasizes about our double homicide.”

His hands flew across the controller—reckless, frantic. He kept dying for it.

“I CAN DO THIS.” Gojo gritted his teeth, strangling the controller like it owed him rent. “I AM THE HONORED ONE. I DO NOT LOSE.”

You’d seen this before. The thing about Satoru? He mastered anything he focused on.

This could not stand.

Meanwhile, across the penthouse building in Megumi’s penthouse, Haibara grinned at his screen. "Ohhh, this is too good."

In your penthouse suite, just in a different room, you logged into your gaming account and cracked your knuckles. “Let’s wreck him.”

Haibara whooped. "Operation: Divorce Speedrun is a go!"

Back on stream, Gojo’s character respawned. “Alright, this time, I’m gonna—”

An enemy player materialized and obliterated him.

Gojo blinked. “…Huh.”

Then it happened again.

And again.

“I AM LOSING MY MIND,” Gojo howled as his pixelated corpse hit dirt. “WHO ARE THESE DEMONS?”

“The second he figures out the mechanics, it’s over,” you muttered to Haibara on discord. “If we don’t stop him, he’ll come back tomorrow on ultra-hard mode. I refuse to live in a world where Gojo beats me at my own stuff.”

Haibara cackled. "Damn, you’re a great wife."

"I know."

Gojo had no idea.

[TittyFucker69 set fire to HeadshotHubby’s hideout and stole their resources.]

[HaibaraWasHere sniped HeadshotHubby from a cliff.]

“WHY IS EVERYTHING ON FIRE?!” Gojo wailed. “I’M JUST TRYING TO LIVE. THEY WON'T EVEN LET ME GET A GUN.”

TakahashiTheRaccoon: THEY GOT HIS ASS. 😂😂😂

Then he squinted at his killer’s username: TittyFucker69.

"... Wifey."

GojosRestrainingOrder: LMFAOOOO HIS WIFE’S DOING THIS?

JogosFinalSmokeInhaler: Bro’s getting cyberbullied by his own wife.

And then—

A notification appeared.

[QuietlyCalculating has entered the server.]

You froze.

From the trees—a shadow moved. Silent. Precise.

[QuietlyCalculating has sniped HaibaraWasHere.]

[QuietlyCalculating has dropped rare loot near HeadshotHubby.]

"No." You narrowed your eyes. "It can’t be."

Gojo’s voice crackled through the chat: "OH MY GOD, WHO IS HELPING ME?!"

And then—

Nanami’s voice, dry as aged whiskey, filtered through the mic, no video. “You’re embarrassing us, Satoru.”

“Nanamin!!!!”

HeavenlyRestrictedManMilkers: WHY IS HIS TEAMMATE HOT??

SingleAndReadyToJujutsu: WAIT, HE’S GOT THE SEXY ACCOUNTANT VOICE.

Menace_Flakes: No, because WHO tf is playing against them? Why are they so good??

GetosWorstNightmare: His name is Nanamin?? How does a man named Nanamin sound this fine?

Then the kill feed lit up.

[TittyFucker69 killed HeadshotHubby.]

Gojo’s screen went black.

"NOOOOOOO."

Nanami sighed. “You should’ve used cover.”

Gojo, mumbling passive-aggressively, started a new game.

The Discord VC hummed with quiet menace as Haibara, you, and now Megumi coordinated your next assault through stream snippets.

"Place your bets," Haibara's grin was audible. "How many more humiliations before he rage quits?"

"He's Gojo," you muttered, lining up your shot. "He doesn't quit. He stays suffering."

Megumi adjusted his scope with deadly precision. "Then we'll make it memorable."

[TittyFucker69 threw a Molotov cocktail at HeadshotHubby.]

[Player_Unknown shot HeadshotHubby in the kneecaps.]

[EldritchHorror69 ran HeadshotHubby over with a jeep.]

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! KENTO, HELP!" Gojo's voice cracked mid-scream.

CorporateSorcererOfMyPanties: LMAOOOOO IS HIS WIFE SICKING HER DEV TEAM ON HIM?!!

SugurusLeftEarring: HE JUST CALLED HIS TEAMMATE KENTO??? IS THIS ILLEGAL??

Gojo spun wildly in-game, spraying bullets at phantom enemies. "SHOW YOURSELVES, COWARDS!"

Your smirk was weaponized. "With pleasure."

[TittyFucker69 knocked HeadshotHubby out with a frying pan.]

"I AM GOING TO SCREAM."

Nanami's sigh crackled through comms. "Stay down. I'll revive you."

"Took you long enough," Gojo pouted.

Nanami ignored him, focus unbroken.

The chat collectively short-circuited.

SixEyesNoThoughts: NOT THE DEEP-VOICED TEAMMATE SAVING HIM.

InfinityAndBeyondDumb: omg he’s so patient; he’s gotta be his husband and used to it.

NanamisTrauma2TheElectricBoogaloo: Is this real life???

CertifiedFeralBitchSukuna: HIS VOICE IS SO FINE, HELP. (NO HOMO THO.)

"Kento," Gojo whined as Nanami healed him, "I'm being cyberbullied by our wife."

"You deserve it," Nanami deadpanned.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE ON MY SIDE."

"I am. That's why I'm ensuring you suffer productively."

SealedLikeaTupperware: lmfao, look at his Face. You cryin Gojo? 😏

SukunasTaxReturns: Sucks to suck. 🤡

Haibara's cackle echoed through Discord. "Alright Fushiguro. Wanna deliver the coup de grâce?"

Megumi exhaled through his nose. "Fine."

[Player_Unknown headshotted HeadshotHubby.]

[Player_Unknown killed QuietlyCalculating.]

NanaminHater69: NOT NANAMI BEING OBLITERATED. 😭

HeianEraFuckboy: WAIT, WHO TF IS THIS NEW ASSASSIN??

Megumi’s low voice came through on the live stream: “You both should quit now.”

MeiMeisCrowFood: Megumi?? AS IN FUSHIGURO??

YutasSimpArmy: Isn’t that the CEO guy??? WTF IS GOING ON?

TodousType_Dead: His wife is playing against him. His teammate is a DILF. His enemy is a CEO?? Is he living in an Indian daily soap???

Gojo slumped back, controller dangling. "This is my 13th reason."

Nanami typed a private message: [You're on your own.] Then vanished from the server.

As if scripted by cosmic comedy:

A new donation popped up in Gojo’s chat.

[BodySnatcherSupreme_MilfSuguruWhoDLC donated $5]: GG loser. Get better. Your wife outclasses you.

MegumisAbandonmentArc: Peak content.

SukunasIRSProblems: PLS MAKE THIS A REGULAR SERIES.

DeadbeatWithBenefits: NO BC WTF DID I JUST WITNESS?

SukunasToeJamCollector: ARE THEY IN A POLYCULE OR A TERRORIST ORGANIZATION? I CAN’T TELL.

Final death count: 72. The internet had crowned its newest disaster polycule.

The next morning, your PR team ambushed you via Slack. "We weren't supposed to do this but—just look."

The screen displayed Gojo's smirking face: "Nanami's the responsible one, our wife's scary, and I'm the hot one. That's balance."

“They love you guys,” the PR rep emphasized, scrolling through comments. “Your marriage is trending. People are calling your relationship ‘the most insane but oddly wholesome thing they’ve ever seen.’ ‘Protect this weird fam,’ ‘Wholesome insanity.’ Japan wants… merch.”

"...I'm defecting to Antarctica."

"Too late." The junior rep winced. “Marketing made hoodies. ‘DILF Grade’ with Mr. Gojo’s face.”

Gojo’s voice carried from the hall, “make mine a crop top!”

---

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅 Horny, Helpless, & Heavily Pregnant

(Inc: You, Shoko, Maya, CHRO)

Postmortem Baddie: How’s it going?

Perpetually Horny: Terrible. He made me sit through a movie marathon.

Postmortem Baddie: What’s the issue?

Perpetually Horny: All three Shrek movies.

Postmortem Baddie: Ah.

Perpetually Horny: He acted out the dialogue. Every single line. He knows them all by heart.

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: Hahaha

Postmortem Baddie: I… I’m sorry.

Perpetually Horny: At one point, he turned to me and whispered, "You know… I’m like Shrek."

Postmortem Baddie: And you said?

Perpetually Horny: "Because you’re big and scary?"

Postmortem Baddie: 😭😭😭

Perpetually Horny: No. "Because I have layers."

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: In my professional opinion, both your husbands combined bring the IQ of an onion to your marriage.

Perpetually Horny: I know. 😔

---

Nanami noticed it first.

A flicker at the edge of his vision—a hairline fracture in the air. The world stuttered, reality peeling back like burnt film.

One moment: morning light gilded your cheek as you sat across from him, fingers curled around a mug with Gojo’s face. The next—

Your hometown café. Coffee-stained walls. Burnt espresso and cloying vanilla.

This wasn’t real.

But there you were—older, weary, pregnant—standing where you’d stood years ago, demanding to pay for your first date. Your hand pressed to your temple, veins stark as the twins’ cursed energy warped the air like a heat mirage.

Nanami tried to speak.

Does it hurt?

Do you remember?

Can you hear me?

His throat sealed. Iron bands cinched his ribs. The twins’ power folded time into origami cranes with razor wings, slicing the present into shards of memory.

A memory rewritten with teeth.

A memory repainted with present horrors.

Rewritten. Repainted.

This—this was a cruelty he hadn't expected.

A nightmare stitched from his deepest dread: losing you.

Your eyes met his—wide, disoriented—then dropped to your stomach, where the twins kicked not against flesh but the fabric of the moment itself.

You laughed, frayed. “Well… this is new.”

He reached for a napkin, pulled his ever-present pen, and wrote with clinical precision:

I’d choose you every time.

Your finger traced the words. Another laugh, brittle. “You’re such a dork.”

He wrote faster, ink bleeding:

I know.

The world ripped.

Now he was in Shoko’s infirmary, the day of the lynch mob. Gojo crashed through the ceiling, grinning through a bloody nose.

“My babies are menaces. I love them.”

Shoko didn’t glance up. “Get out of my morgue.”

Walls twisted.

Colors leached. Machines gurgled like dying throats.

You gripped a cracked glass, trembling. “It’s getting worse.”

Nanami lunged—

Night. Kitchen. Empty air.

Gojo dangled upside-down off the couch. “Welcome back! I just won—”

“Where is she?” Nanami’s voice flayed.

“Bathroom. Threatened to drown me.”

The door stood ajar.

Black static curled through the crack—the twins’ energy, hungry, wrong.

You sat on the tub’s edge, cursed energy coiling like serpents of smoke and grief.

Nanami knelt. A glass pressed into your grip.

You drank. Shuddered.

“…Still choosing me?”

“Every time.”

Outside, unnoticed, Haibara slipped a plastic bag on the doorstep. Inside—iced tea. The kind you’d mentioned once, casually, about your grandmother making it for you when you were sick.

He didn’t knock. He knew Nanami would find it.

But Haibara didn’t care about anything else, only that you must have been craving something from childhood, something that wasn’t tainted, something yours.

Awakening: 4:03 AM

Nanami woke choking.

Cold sweat. Racing heart. Empty bed.

He fumbled for his phone—

[Haibara, 2:14 AM]: Left iced tea on the step. Her grandma’s recipe.

His pulse hammered. She’s gone. She’s gone.

Gojo answered on the second ring, his voice sleep-heavy. "What? Nanamin, it’s... Jesus, it’s 4 AM."

Nanami could practically see him—half-asleep, limbs tangled in the blankets, face buried in the crook of your neck.

"Is she with you?"

“Of course she’s here; where else would she be?"

Nanami heard the shift of blankets and Gojo’s low curse.

And then—your voice. Faint. Sleep-muddled. "...What’s wrong?"

Gojo's voice softened as he nuzzled you closer, rubbing your now-taut stomach. "Nanamin's being dramatic, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

You sighed, melting back against Gojo’s chest.

Nanami said nothing.

Gojo was already passed out again, arms loosely coiled around you, utterly unaware of the weight pressing on Nanami’s chest.

He hung up and stared at the ceiling, shadows dancing along the intricate plaster.

By 4:30 AM, Nanami was at the gym.

It was empty.

Or—almost.

Haibara Yu and Megumi Fushiguro were already there in the predawn gloom, the only other souls insane enough to be lifting weights at the ass-crack of dawn.

The gym at 4:30 AM was a cathedral of shadows, iron, and sweat.

Nanami’s shirt clung to the ridges of his abdomen, damp with the kind of sweat that came from running from something, not toward it. Special Grade wasn’t just a title—it was the way his muscles coiled like live wires, the way his gaze could strip a curse to its marrow.

Tonight, though, his discipline frayed at the edges.

Haibara, swayed from the pull-up bar like a panther testing a rotten branch, all coiled menace. The nursery rhyme curled off his lips wrong—London Bridge is falling down. Falling down. Falling down—each note flatter than a surgeon’s blade. Former MI6, current serial killer headache moved with the lazy definiteness of a man who’d gut you mid-laugh.

He dropped soundlessly, boots whispering against concrete. Every motion carried that same contradiction—the indolent roll of shoulders, fingers flexing like he missed the weight of a garrote. Discipline had long curdled into pandemonium here: the clatter of Megumi’s water bottle “accidentally” kicked across the gym punctuated his sets, a metronome to his amusement, because that’s what Haibara came to the gym with Megumi for was-amusement, mockery. Nanami counted three fractures in the plastic. Haibara counted the seconds until Nanami’s patience snapped.

When he grinned, it wasn’t an expression. It was a trapdoor.

His gaze scraped over Nanami, amber eyes dissecting tendon from bone with the clinical interest of a taxidermist. “Look what the guilt dragged in.”

Megumi, CEO of too many corporations at this point and the spitting image of Zenin Toji with a cursed technique—if his father had traded high-profile assassinations for boardrooms—hoisted 700 kg with brutal clarity, probably less than his usual. The bar groaned under the weight, his shadow pooling at his feet like ink stirred to life. No suit here: just a sweat-soaked tank top, corded muscle, and the kind of focus that could split atoms.

Nanami didn’t need a cursed technique to read him. Every lift was a silent snarl, the clang of iron a substitute for the crack of bone. Megumi’s eyes stayed locked mid-air, as if envisioning a skull beneath the barbell.

Not friends. Never friends. Just two predators sharing a cage at dawn.

He didn’t acknowledge Nanami.

Nanami ignored them.

He needed the burn of iron, the scream of muscle—anything to drown out the static in his skull.

He plugged in his headphones, trying to drown it out.

It didn’t work.

Not today.

How had Gojo felt when he wasn't with him and you?

Nanami tried not to think about it—the sleepless nights resulting in dark circles under Gojo’s eyes, the empty space where he should have been, the 3 AM texts, the subtle, desperate offerings left outside the penthouse door like Gojo was some stray cat who didn’t know what else to do but leave gifts and his hope.

Nanami had hated it.

The pettiness. The possessiveness. The weakness of it.

Now, he missed it.

He even missed the insufferable smirk he’d wanted to punch every day.

Nanami exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on the barbell.

Pathetic.

He was losing it.

And worse? He was scared.

Not of Haibara’s cursed technique—though even now, Nanami couldn't pin it down beyond the fact that it was wrong, like a joke that lingered too long after the punchline.

Not of Megumi’s shikigami—deadly, obedient, and always watching.

But of the twins.

What if they had time-affecting abilities?

What if they inherited Gojo's Infinite Void?

What if they inherited Nanami’s own Domain—Fractured Eternity?

Or—what if they were worse?

That was the part Nanami couldn't stomach.

Not because of the obvious horrors—time manipulation, reality-bending infants, diapers vanishing from existence—but because he was ill-equipped.

He was Special Grade, yes. But what did Special Grade matter when your own children could, theoretically, rewrite the laws of causality during breakfast?

Gojo, for all his recklessness, could handle it. He had infinite void; he could probably stabilize it. He could make it fun, like a game.

Nanami?

Nanami followed rules. Nanami needed rules.

What did rules mean to toddlers who could rewrite them with a giggle?

The thought settled in his stomach like lead.

Gojo would be better at this.

Gojo, who could handle nonsense, who saw power like a second language. Who, even at his most irresponsible, was still more capable of raising gods than Nanami ever would be.

The thought tasted like betrayal.

Haibara slid onto the bench beside him, grinning like a shark.

“You look like shit.”

Nanami didn't flinch.

Across the room, Megumi froze mid-lift, eyes flickering toward them.

Nanami finally met Haibara’s gaze. “What do you want?”

Haibara tilted his head, wolfish. “Just wondering—when she finally leaves you, think she’ll let me babysit?”

Nanami’s fist clenched.

Megumi’s shadow curled under his feet like it was alive.

Haibara laughed as he stood, unbothered. “Relax. I’m joking.”

He wasn’t.

“You’re tense,” Haibara said, rolling his shoulders to hide the fact that he was observing Nanami like a guinea pig, his grin sharp like a switchblade. “Worried she’ll realize she married the wrong disaster?”

Nanami’s grip tightened on the barbell. 685 kg. He lifted it like a sacrament.

“Or is it the twins?” Haibara’s voice dropped, velvet and venomous. “Heard they’ve been rewriting reality. Cute trick. Must keep you up at night.”

730 kg. The plates rattled.

Megumi’s shadow twitched.

“Imagine,” Haibara continued, “explosive diarrhea turns into a time loop. Or naptime… poof. Voided.” He leaned in, breath grazing Nanami’s ear. “You’re not built for chaos, Kento. You’re built to break under it.”

Nanami slammed the bar down. The crash echoed like a gunshot.

Megumi paused, knuckles whitening around his own bar.

“Fuck off.” Nanami’s voice was calm. Too calm.

Haibara laughed—a sound that belonged in a back alley, not a gym.

They both knew he wouldn’t.

Haibara was a ghost. A paradox. A cursed technique even Nanami couldn’t parse—wrongness wrapped in a razor grin.

Nanami put in his headphones again and tuned out anything more that came out of Haibara’s mouth.

His mind circled back to the drain:

The twins.

Gojo’s children. His children.

What if they unraveled the world before they could crawl? What if their laughter cracked the sky?

Special Grade meant nothing here.

He’d built his life on order. On ratios. On the clean slice of his blade through flesh and bone.

But this?

Chaos with their eyes. Chaos with Gojo’s smile.

He’d seen Gojo cradle your belly last week, grinning as the twins warped gravity into a kaleidoscope. “Cool, right?”

Nanami had almost vomited in the ensuite.

Haibara laughed again at something Megumi said. Nanami didn’t care.

He missed you.

He missed Gojo.

He missed Takahashi.

And worse, he was terrified.

So he headed straight home; he didn’t care about rules right now, or he’d end up with matching hair as Gojo by breakfast.

On his way, he thought about how he became a special grade sorcerer—something he honestly never even dreamed off.

He had been in his early twenties at the time—

The sky had been the color of a rotting bruise that day—the day he was supposed to save some children and get them to safety instead of staying to save one singular person.

The special-grade curse hadn't even been human-shaped.

Nanami had exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip on his sword. His uniform had been torn—jacket missing, sleeves rolled up, dress shirt stained with things he hadn't been thinking about right then.

The thing in front of him had pulsed.

It hadn't been a curse, not entirely. Something older. Something hungrier. He had been able to feel it under his skin, the same way a man could feel a spider crawling across his bare chest in the dark.

Nanami had seen plenty of horrors since becoming a sorcerer, but this—

This had been wrong.

The battlefield had been quiet. Too quiet.

Nanami had rolled his shoulders, his body aching with exhaustion, his cursed energy flickering like a dying ember. His technique could only do so much when the thing in front of him had refused to obey the laws of physics, of logic, of anything.

It should have been Gojo there.

Gojo should have handled it.

He had been the strongest, hadn't he?

And Gojo had been there—unconscious in the rubble.

Nanami had swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth.

He remembered the children's screams from earlier that day—innocents he'd walked past without hesitation because thirty meters ahead, Gojo had been bleeding out.

Japan's shield.

The man who carried the weight of their entire world.

The choice had calcified in his bones before he'd even registered making it: let the weak die to save the essential.

Gojo hadn't been weak.

He hadn't been fragile.

But even he—especially he—had had limits.

And when this thing had tried to devour him, Nanami had made a decision.

A stupid one. A reckless one.

But Gojo had been a light, hadn't he? The kind that burned too bright, too hot—always throwing himself into danger because he had known he would survive.

But sometimes, light had needed something to block the worst of the storm.

And Nanami had always been the type to stand in the way.

Blood had dripped down his forearm, pooling at his wrist before hitting the ground in soft, rhythmic splatters. His vision had blurred for a moment, the exhaustion creeping up his spine, curling around his throat like a noose.

He had been about to die.

The realization had settled in his bones like a quiet, unshakable truth. He had had nothing left.

No more clean cuts. No more weak points to exploit. No more cursed energy worth a damn.

But this thing couldn’t come out of this alive.

It had been a thought that hadn't felt like his own.

Nanami had inhaled.

If the children died, Japan would mourn.

If Gojo died, Japan would burn.

If I die here, Gojo will live.

That had been enough.

Nanami had never been sentimental, had never cared for heroics.

But if his death had meant the strongest would keep breathing, if it had meant the world wouldn't have to watch its brightest flame flicker out—

Then let him be the last person he protected.

The thing had moved.

Nanami had barely registered it before it had been on him, tendrils of something wrong wrapping around his limbs, his throat, squeezing like a vice.

Black spots had danced at the edges of his vision. His fingers had twitched.

Not yet.

Not when Gojo had still been lying unconscious in the rubble, too far to stop what had been coming.

Not when Nanami had been the only thing standing between the strongest and death.

The thing had let out a deep, wet shudder—like it had known he had been breaking, like it could taste the moment he would shatter.

Nanami had closed his eyes.

And then—

Something had cracked.

Not the thing.

Him.

The thing had been a tangle of twisting, sinewy limbs and jagged mouths, a writhing mass of hungry, shifting flesh. It had breathed, and the sound alone had made Nanami's skin crawl—wet, sucking, starved.

Not a curse borne of petty hate or resentment. No.

This had been something else.

A curse born from repetition.

From the same unbreakable cycle of exhaustion, of waking up to the same crushing reality every single day. A curse born of salarymen who had died faceless and forgotten, whose existence had been ground down into the pavement, leaving behind nothing but resentment towards time itself.

It had been a curse that had not just killed.

It had devoured.

And Gojo had nearly been its next meal.

Nanami's fingers had curled tighter around the hilt of his dull blade, steady despite the deep ache in his bones.

The thing had not spoken. It had not needed to.

Because it had understood him.

It had seen him—for what he had been.

A man who had once walked away.

A man who had once believed he could be free.

And a man who had returned, not because of duty, not because of honor—

But because he had had nothing else.

Nanami had inhaled.

He had had one strike left in him.

And it wouldn't be enough.

The thing had lurched, shadows stretching and curling around him, reality bending at the edges of his vision—

Nanami had moved on instinct. One last clean cut.

And then—

The fracture.

It hadn't been physical. Not like a broken bone, not like a severed limb.

It had been deeper.

A fundamental split—an unraveling, the careful stitching of his sanity giving way beneath the weight of inevitability.

And in that moment—

Nanami had stopped resisting it.

Cursed energy had erupted from his body, not in a surge, not in a flood—

But in segments.

Golden lines had cracked through the air like fault lines in glass, slicing through the battlefield, the air, even time itself.

Nanami had exhaled.

And the world had fractured.

It had been small at first, a fracture so delicate he had almost not noticed. But then it had spread—like glass spiderwebbing under a hammer, like bones snapping beneath unbearable weight.

Something in him—something fundamental—had broken.

And for the first time in his life, Nanami had stopped thinking.

It hadn't been a surge, hadn't been a flood.

It had been a detonation.

The curse had screamed.

Nanami had stood in the center of a domain that had not felt like a domain at all.

The world around him had been broken apart, shattered into an infinite gridwork of golden lines, each pulsing with controlled energy.

The battlefield had no longer been whole.

It had been segmented.

Divided.

And Nanami had been the only one who could navigate it.

The curse had tried to move—

It had tried to retreat.

It couldn't.

Time had stopped in certain places, its limbs frozen mid-lunge.

Nanami had stepped forward, and time had snapped back—only for the creature's own weight to work against it, limbs twisting in on themselves, bones shattering from the sheer imbalance of movement.

The curse had screamed in sheer agony.

Nanami had not blinked.

It had tried again—its shadow stretching out, seeking purchase.

Nanami had raised a hand—the one not holding his trusted blade.

The segment of reality where the curse's attack had existed simply had ceased to function.

Its own energy had been turned inward, redirected to itself, and the resulting collapse had crushed its ribcage before it could even react.

This had not been a battlefield.

This had been a machine, and Nanami had been the only constant inside it.

No chaos could exist there.

Only order.

His order.

He had moved, and the fractures had shifted with him, the golden lines bending to his will.

A blade of raw cursed energy had manifested in his hand—not just one. Multiple.

Nanami had raised them, eyes dull, distant.

And had brought them down.

Each strike had erased a portion of the curse's body, carving through flesh, bone, existence itself.

It hadn't been screaming anymore.

Because it had been divided too many times to remember what pain was.

Nanami had exhaled.

And then—

He had collapsed equilibrium entirely.

A single point of space where every force, every movement, every reaction had been allowed to break free at once.

The resulting detonation had rippled through the segmented air, shattering the remaining pieces of the curse into something smaller than dust.

Silence.

Nanami had stood alone.

And in that moment—

He had no longer been the same.

Like he had finally let go.

The thing had tried to retreat.

Nanami hadn't let it.

The next second he had stood over the corpse.

It had taken three slashes.

Only three.

The domain had faded.

The fractures in the air had smoothed out.

Nanami had blinked slowly, his vision adjusting to the return of reality.

His breath had been steady.

His hands had no longer ached—everything had healed.

The weight that had always been on his shoulders—the unbearable burden of duty, of expectation—

It had been gone.

Not lifted.

Just gone.

Nanami had exhaled.

And for the first time in his life, he had not felt tired.

He had not felt righteous.

He had not felt kind.

He had simply felt efficient.

A sound had caught his attention—something shifting in the rubble.

Nanami had turned.

Gojo had been awake.

He had been watching him.

Nanami had met his gaze, something unreadable passing between them.

And then—

Then Satoru had smiled.

It hadn't been cocky. Hadn't been smug.

It had been something else entirely.

Something that had felt like acknowledgment.

It hadn't been relief.

It hadn't been gratitude.

It had been recognition that he didn't have to be alone anymore.

Satoru had seen it.

The change.

Nanami hadn't looked away—held his gaze, unflinching.

His breath had been slow. Controlled. His hands had no longer ached. His cursed energy—

It had felt different. His hands were finally free of their constant ache. His cursed energy... it had transformed entirely.

Nanami had sighed, bracing himself, but the weight hadn't come back.

And today—now he was opening the door to his home.

The thought sometimes came unbidden—would he have ever met you if he hadn't ascended to Special Grade that day?

Well—what was there to wonder—he wouldn’t have, and Gojo would have either died or returned with you—his wife—from abroad, happy in your own world.

And Nanami would have died a thankless death, watching you both from a far. Never in. 

The penthouse smelled of caramelized sugar and recklessness.

Gojo Satoru currently stood shirtless at the stove, pancake batter dripping down his abs. “Nanamin! Perfect timing—I’m inventing the Unlimited Syrup Technique.”

Nanami offered his usual faint smile before continuing down the hall.

He found you in bed, curled under the duvet. Your belly rose and fell with the rhythm of life he couldn’t control.

He slid in behind you, his broad chest molding to your back. His hand settled over the swell.

The twins kicked.

Once.

Nanami’s breathing relaxed.

Then another.

Small. Insistent. Alive.

You stirred, sleep-soft. “Hey, stinky.”

His quiet laughter shook through both of you.

Haibara was right.

He would break.

But not today.

Today, he’d hold the line.

For you.

For them.

For the man humming off-key in the kitchen, syrup in his hair and limitless infinity in his veins.

Special Grade wasn’t a title.

It was a life sentence. You lived with it until you died because of it.

The only thing it really did was that it made one harder to kill.

Maybe he didn’t have the answers. Maybe he never would.

But this—this was more than he deserved.

Later, he gave you the iced tea Haibara had sent and asked for the recipe. From then on, he made it for you every day, even though Haibara had messed up the recipe, and it would never taste the same. But you still wanted it.

People often thought he regretted that day when those kids died because he never really talked about it.

But the truth was—

Nanami didn’t feel a thing that day.

No remorse, no regret.

Because it was better to save the one who would save the world than to die saving insignificant creatures.

And it worked out for him. Had he not saved Gojo that day, he wouldn’t be here—married to you, both with his and Gojo’s twins kicking against his palm as you lay against him. Nanami would make that choice every time. The children's ghosts could haunt him. The guilt could fester. But Gojo's mischievous giggling in the kitchen and your sleepy smile against his chest—these were the only absolution he needed.

That was efficient, wasn’t it?

Take a small loss to save the long-term investment.

---

Nanami was mindlessly staring at your company’s stocks when the next TikTok came.

"If your man doesn’t put together the nursery without being asked, he doesn’t deserve the baby."

Nanami’s eye twitched.

Then:

"Kento."

Nanami’s head snapped up. You were standing in the doorway.

"Did you finish the nursery?"

Nanami’s jaw flexed. "No."

"Interesting."

Nanami’s gaze sharpened.

Later that night, he stayed up until 3 AM assembling a crib while you fought your own demons.

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅 Horny, Helpless, & Heavily Pregnant

(Inc: You, Shoko, Maya, CHRO)

Perpetually Horny: Shoko. He’s building a crib. 🔨👶

Postmortem Baddie: Aww. 💖

Perpetually Horny: SHIRTLESS.

Postmortem Baddie: Oh. 👀😳

Perpetually Horny: He’s using a screwdriver. The muscles in his back are moving. Like I’m watching the Discovery Channel. 📺🍑

Postmortem Baddie: So…? 😏

Perpetually Horny: So I almost threw myself at him. [Send help.] 🥺🙏

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: Bitch. I’m too drunk. But if you let him hit. I’ll hit you. 🔪

Perpetually Horny: Is that who I think it is???? 👀

HR Baddie: Sucks to be you, loser. 🤣

                  Attachment: Blurry photo of a dark-haired man untying her heel strap.

Postmortem Baddie: Holy Shit!!!!

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: Respectfully, let's ignore him. Tell me what else did the idiots do. I need entertainment; Kashimo’s sleeping.

Perpetually Horny: He took me to a farmers’ market.

Postmortem Baddie: Nanami core.

Perpetually Horny: I pointed at some melons 🍈 and said, “Wow, those are big.”

                                Then, this man, without blinking, said, "I’ve seen bigger."

HR Baddie: What the fuk does that even mean?

Perpetually Horny: I’m scared. What has he seen.

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: You need to find out.

Perpetually Horny: No thanks.

Later in the night, there were other struggles going on.

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀 Anonymous

(Inc: Nanami, Gojo)

Father Time: She’s nesting.

Daddy: Did you see her reorganize the closet? At 3:40 AM?

Father Time: Yes. She put labels on the baby bottles.

Daddy: Yeah. She also labeled the spice rack.

Father Time: Do you think she’ll label us next?

Daddy: "Idiot 1" and "Idiot 2."

Father Time: Accurate.

---

A/N: OMG who do you think dark haired manz isss????? Three more chapters and then we either crash and burn in angst or soft-launch a happy ending. Choose wisely. (Comments fuel my Sukuna/Nanami agenda. Choose wisely.)

Next chapter 20 (alt ending 2.11) - The Fault Lines: The Honored One’s Guide to Fumbling the Bag (And Other Love Languages) - Part 2 - (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy @xx-tazzdevil-xx @unaaasz @thebumbqueen @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @whos-ruru @helo1281917

[rika-mmendmethings]

Against Blood & Water l Sylus

Chapter 3

Ch 2|Ch 4

Summary: Seventeen years ago, your life had taken a turn for the worse when your newborn twins were separated from you by a cruel twist of fate. The same fate had led you to the N109 Zone, to your children who were all grown up now. Reconciliation with your boys would've been slightly easier had they somehow not acquired a father figure over the years who wasn't letting them go anytime soon.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: mentions and drugs, stalking, first meeting with Mephisto

Word count: 2.1k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: New chapter every Thursday! The schedule for this and Interdimensional Epiphany has been switched! The reader comes across Elysium and its special dishes. Just who do you think could've sent that for her? This story is for the Sylus girlies' who consider Luke and Kieran their babies. A little information on the timeline: in this story, the reader is 35 with Luke and Kieran being 17. Sylus never felt like 28 to me, so he's a hot-ass 39-year-old man (bear with me). The timeline is a bit confusing, I know, but soon it'll be cleared, too. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this series. ♥

Tag list: @babyx91 @pillarofsnow @beyond-the-stars-fairy @yuki-sama6 @sylviewrites @idiashusband @sadmonke @monophobix @lunarvolley @stxrrielle @fries11 @gremlinartstudio @lillycore @novthirty @animegamerfox @cathedralofaudra @nm4565natty @69-gojos-wife-69 @eolivy @namjoons-toenails @silverianni @nezuswritingdesk @beaconsxd @justpassingdontworry @ruyaya @browneyedgirl22 @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @sneakysnakeysstuff @midiplier @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @dana-nite @lazeriii @into-deepspace @nommingonfood @eden-axe

“They work for… who?” You choked on your drink, one hand clutching your chest as you struggled to regain control of your lungs.

Ginerva didn’t even spare you a glance. She continued wiping the glasses with an air of aloofness, repeating herself with unnerving calm. “Onchyinus. Luke and Kieran work directly under the leader of Onchyinus.”

You could barely breathe. You clenched your fist against your mouth, brows knitted tightly, body rigid with tension. The initial shock had worn off, and now, panic began to rise like an insidious tide in your chest, relentless and consuming.

Your entire day had been spent combing through the N109 Zone in search of any scrap of information about your twins. Every time you mentioned their crow-themed outfits, or their apparent role as some kind of henchmen, people recoiled as if you had spoken of demons. Some were visibly shaken, others too frightened to speak. But one thing remained constant: no one would offer you any answers. Despite your best efforts — and an obscene amount of money — they dismissed you, fear clouding their expressions.

It wasn’t until one particularly kind soul directed you to a hidden intel hub masquerading as a bar — Elysium — that you finally felt you were getting closer. The cost was steep, but you didn’t care. You handed over the money without hesitation.

The woman behind the counter — Ginerva, you learned — seemed surprised by your inquiry, but she hadn’t dismissed you outright. She’d been more than willing to share what she knew, though you were beginning to regret your pursuit.

Now, you rubbed your temples as the beginnings of a migraine pulsed beneath your skull. With the haze of shock still clouding your thoughts, you managed to ask, “Are you absolutely sure this information is accurate?”

Ginerva paused her task, her gaze sharp as she turned toward you. Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. “I’ve run this place for years.”

You didn’t argue. After all it’s better to not tell a professional about their profession, you had plenty of experience on that. Leaning back in your chair, you swirled the last of your drink around in the glass, trying to gather your thoughts. “How long have they worked for Onchyinus?”

Ginerva seemed to deliberate for a moment. “I’d say one or two years. Before that, their history is unknown.”

Your heart constricted painfully, and you swallowed the remainder of your drink in one go. The bitter liquid burned its way down your throat, but it did little to extinguish the fire of dread spreading through your chest. You would’ve preferred to think of your children being under Onchyinus’s wing from the start — if only to imagine they had been protected from the horrors of the streets. At least there would have been food, shelter, some semblance of care. Whatever twisted morality they’d adopted under the faction’s influence would have been easier to accept than the thought of them suffering alone, vulnerable to the world’s cruelties.

You shoved the guilt, raw and uninvited, back into the darkest corners of your mind. Now was not the time to revisit your worst nightmares. You needed a plan, a way to infiltrate the damned place, to find them.

You were deep in thought when a plate was suddenly set down in front of you by a small girl — probably Aislinn, Ginerva's niece. She handed you a menu displaying the day's special and said, “Today’s special is for the lady, and none other.” With that, she left, leaving you both perplexed and curious.

Today’s Special: Friend’s Incentive

Midnight black sesame tart, cacao nibs, bourbon-infused syrup, Victorian-era rhododendrons, and twin mirrors facing each other.

Description: Read the opposite.

A frown creased your brow as you read the menu again, trying to make sense of it. Friend’s Incentive? The idea that today’s special had been sponsored by someone specifically for you made no sense. You didn’t know a single person in the N109 Zone. You glanced down at the dish in front of you, and sure enough, a midnight black sesame tart sat in the center, garnished with cacao nibs and a dollop of what you presumed to be bourbon-infused syrup.

Next to the plate was a small bouquet of four orange rhododendrons, but something about it felt off. Three of the flowers were wrapped in newspaper, while the fourth one was left exposed, not inside the wrapping and attached to the bouquet only by a white ribbon. You blinked in confusion. What an unusual way to arrange a bouquet.

You shrugged off the oddities and took a large bite of the free dessert. The bittersweetness hit your taste buds immediately, making you scrunch your nose in reaction. You set your spoon down after finishing the dessert, but something in the back of your mind kept gnawing at you. You looked back at the menu, staring at it intently. It was bothering you. The more you examined it, the more it didn’t sit right.

Your mind, trained in law, began to analyze the situation more critically. A strange arrangement of flowers, a dessert meant only for you, and the vague description of the dish — there was something hidden here. One thing at a time, you told yourself. You needed to figure out what the description meant.

“Read the opposite.” But which word was the opposite? It couldn’t be the ingredients themselves, so it must be the title.

What, then, was the opposite of “Friend’s Incentive”? You pondered this for a moment and quickly pulled out your phone to check the most accurate antonyms for each word. For “friend,” the options were: enemy, nemesis, rival, and... fiend. For “incentive,” the antonyms included: damper, curb, hindrance, and... deterrent.

You paused as the realization hit. In this context, the most fitting opposite to “Friend’s Incentive” would be “Fiend’s Deterrent.”

Was this… a warning? Someone sinister could have sent you this to dissuade you from your path. The dessert, bittersweet, seemed to speak volumes. Could it imply that someone is sweetly telling you to step away before their patience turns bitter over a prolonged time? The odd arrangement of the flowers — one stray blossom hanging outside the wrapping, yet still tethered to the bouquet by a white ribbon — might suggest a complex message: they don’t want you to be part of something you are already entangled with, yet the bond remains, reluctantly. And the choice of flowers being rhododendrons — those flowers that, in Victorian floriography, symbolized danger, warning, and caution — was a direct message, a harbinger of something more ominous.

But what of the twin mirrors facing each other? What did that mean? Something connected to your children, perhaps, but it remained unclear, slipping just beyond your reach.

It somehow felt like it was all pointed to Luke and Kieran.

But who, exactly, was trying to steer you off course — and, more importantly, why?

You caught a glimpse of Aislinn walking past the corner, and instinctively, you called out to her. "Aislinn, who sponsored today's special?"

The little girl paused, shaking her head, her eyes downcast. "We aren’t allowed to disclose any personal information about our sponsors. Sorry." She offered a quick, apologetic smile before skipping away with her empty tray.

You sighed, folding the menu neatly and tucking it into your pocket. You snapped a few photos of the eerie bouquet, certain you'd need them as evidence to add to your ever-growing conspiracy board.

As you walked down the musty lanes of the street, the occasional sound of a wing flapping tickled your ear, followed by that unmistakable sensation — one which usually occurs when the opposition lawyer drilled holes in your head or in simpler terms, when you were being watched.

The events of today have only sharpened your caution and given the times you’ve been chased by goons of wealthy criminals so that you’d give up their cases — you were willing to take any measures for your safety if danger arose any moment now. You took shallow breaths, increasing your pace. Each step was deliberate, each turn smooth, as you made sharp corners, trying to lose the stalker in a maze of alleyways.

You had been running for a while when it became clear: your pursuer wasn’t human. It was most likely a drone or some mechanical contraption, a tool sent to monitor your every move. This deduction meant that actually catching said-stalking-object had very slim chances. 

You ducked behind a small billboard and pressed your clasped hands to your chest. In a matter of few seconds, you felt the familiar sense of clarity in your mind as your evol influenced all the possible outcomes, manipulating probabilities in your favor. 

A strained caw broke the silence, and your eyes immediately snapped to the source of the sound. There, perched on a streetlight, was a crow — except it wasn’t a crow at all. Its metallic sheen and erratic movements betrayed it for what it was: a mechanical bird.

You reached for your gun, drawing it with practiced ease, aiming at the strange creature. Your palms tingled as you steadied your aim and squeezed the trigger. The crow dropped from its perch in a graceful, fluid arc, landing with a muted thud.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slipping the gun back into its holster beneath your coat. You moved toward the fallen mechanical bird, your mind racing with questions about who would send such a thing after you.

Perks of having a probability evol was altering all chances of any kind of event in your favor and the bird at your feet, broken and twitching with its damaged wing, was a testament to that. 

You carefully picked up the mechanical bird, examining it with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. The bullet had torn through its left wing, but it still whirred faintly, as though alive and with the way it was cawing, you almost felt bad for the insentient being. But then again, someone had planted it on your back, intending to keep tabs on whatever you do, so you couldn’t brush this off easily. 

Without further hesitation, you stuffed the damaged bird into your handy tote bag and made your way back to your apartment. Once inside, you immediately locked all windows and doors, ensuring your sanctuary was secure.

The first thing you did after that was duct tape the bird to your newly constructed conspiracy board. As you affixed it with care, you added the unsettling polaroid of the bouquet and the menu you had pocketed, the items now firmly part of the growing puzzle you had yet to solve. You double-checked the bird, making sure it was securely taped in place, though you knew it wouldn’t be going anywhere with its broken wing.

After freshening up, you hurried back to your conspiracy board, a steaming bowl of cup noodles in hand. As your gaze fell upon your previous board — the one centered on exposing the infamous drug lord — you felt an undeniable wave of guilt cloud your thoughts. You had been supposed to gather enough evidence and bring the case to court as soon as possible, to deliver justice to the victims’ families. But here you were, tangled in a web of your own problems, dealing with something far more personal — your children.

On days like this, you couldn’t help but resent your profession. It never allowed you the luxury of selfishness. You rubbed your face in frustration, tears threatening to well in your eyes. Maybe you could juggle both cases? Pursue whichever lead came your way first? Surely, that could work... right? It had to.

You shoved your emotions aside and paced the room, your mind racing. Occasionally, you found yourself locking eyes with the mechanical bird — its red, beady gaze a constant reminder of the unknown forces circling you. After walking laps around your couch, an idea hit you like a lightning bolt. Without hesitation, you rushed to the bird, ripping it free from its tape restraints and inspecting it closely.

You noticed a small red LED light blinking beneath its talon. Years of experience told you immediately that it was a long-range tracker. 

That meant whoever had planted it on you knew exactly where it was at all times.

Before you could fully process this, a sharp knock at the door jolted you from your thoughts. Panic instantly flooded your system. You instinctively reached for your gun and inched closer to the door, heart hammering in your chest. Gods, was this it? Was this how it ended? And for all the legal battles you fought, you didn’t even have a will in place. 

Was fate going to rip you apart from your twins once again after all this time?

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[alocon]

Forever Irresistible [5/5] - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

written by alocon

Summary: Despite all hope, Lando never lost his feelings for his best friend's twin sister. However, he still hadn't acted on it. Well, that was until the party, which led you two into a long-term secret relationship

Warnings and Tropes: Fluff, implied smut (no actual smut though), final part

[Part One Here] [Part Two Here] [Part Three Here] [Part 4 Here] [Masterlist]

Irresistible - LN4 x Fem!Reader

“Can we get lunch together tomorrow to talk? Just me and you?”, the 12 words which had been absolutely overwhelming you for the past hour. Rather than give you an idea about what your brother wanted to talk about, Max had instead left you with an ominous “could go either way” message.

You see, it seemed like he was coming around after that family dinner, when he asked you to message him, but no. He instead expressed that he would not be talking to you for a while to work out how he felt about it. It's fine, you thought, a while may only be a couple of weeks. However, he instead decided that “a while” would be at least 8 months. That being said, it was now the day before you and Lando would fly out to Austin for the COTA grand prix. You would be meeting up with Max for breakfast instead of lunch and then would go straight to the airport to what might possibly be one of your favourite tracks. The atmosphere was great, the racing was fun, and there was only a tiny chance that you would manage to walk around the paddock without Daniel or Logan putting a cowboy hat on your head.

A lot had happened after the 2024 season. Lewis had, of course, gone to Ferrari. Nico Hulkenberg had left Haas, leaving an empty space that Checo filled in. And he had done surprisingly well, scoring Haas’ first ever win. By the power of magic? Who knows but that man had become a hell of a good driver to be able to do that. To bring a tractor to 1st takes some skill, especially with 2 Red bulls, 1 Mercedes and 1 Ferrari still in the race. 

Daniel had taken the Red Bull seat, of course, and Yuki was next in line for it. Liam had taken his place in AlphaTauri. Mercedes had seen a new addition to Formula One, with Frederik Vesti taking the Mercedes seat. It was meant to be Mick but after his Le Mans win, he realised that maybe he preferred world endurance a little more. Carlos had obviously left Ferrari with the addition of Lewis. However, instead of joining another team, he left F1 for a season to rally with his dad and would be driving again in 2026 when Valtteri was planning to do a Kimi and go do another type of racing for a couple of years. Other than that, the grid had remained the same. Max in Red Bull, George in Mercedes, Charles in Ferrari, Lando and Oscar in McLaren (Lando had signed a contract until 2027), Fernando and Lance were still in Aston Martin and were rocking it, Lance having got his first win and Fernando his first in like 10 years in 2024, along with 2 more for his collection. Pierre and Esteban still drive for Alpine, Nico for Haas, Zhou for Sauber, and Alex and Logan for Williams. Logan had done really well, too. He got a couple of podiums the previous season.

Lando still hadn't got his first win. Lots of podiums, but no wins. However, that was hardly his fault. The Red Bull, as per, absolutely ripped. 

Walking into the café, you were nervous. You had no reason to be, realistically speaking. Lan had proven to you that he had absolutely no intention of leaving you because of Max, as he had proven over the past 2 years and a few months. You saw Max already there when you arrived so you took a seat at the table with him. It was mostly quiet until you both had ordered your breakfast and drinks, after which you finally spoke up. “Why have you called me here, Max? After not speaking to me for like 8 or 9 months.”

“I miss you. I miss being your twin, having you to look up to and doing dumb stuff together. I miss being the iconic non-driver grid duo. I-”

You cut him off. “Max if you're going to tell me that and then say something about me breaking up with Lando, I will leave. I will walk out of the door right now.”

“You don't need to do that. I just miss you. If you and Lando being together makes you happy, which it clearly does, then maybe I was overreacting.”

“Maybe? Max, you told him he had to choose between me and you,” you said as you took a bite of your food. “You shouted at me for being with him. Made comments about how it wouldn't last because he doesn't love people. But he loves me. He has for years. And I love him. And I just want that to be okay for someone.”

Max nodded, understanding completely why you were upset with him. He looked at you, waiting a few moments before speaking. “I accept the relationship, just so you know. I think… I have for a while, it just upset me a lot that you didn't think that you could tell me for over a year so I freaked out.”

“I think freak out is an understatement, there. Now if that's all, I have a plane to catch.”

“Wait,” he said, placing his hand on your arm to stop you leaving straight away. “It sounds silly but there is a type of counselling/therapy for family members who want to repair their bonds. I've been going to individual therapy for a year, maybe we could give at least one session of the family therapy a go, see if it helps?”

You sighed, mentally weighing the pros and cons. “Okay. One session and we will see where that takes us. I seriously have to go though, Lando is here to get me.”

You stood up, quickly paying for both of your meals despite your brother's objection. You gave him a hug before you left. COTA here we come, you thought.

The journey to America was on a private jet with some of the other drivers. Lewis had, ever so sweetly, invited you and Lando on his jet along with him (obviously), Charles, Arthur (who was racing this weekend as Charles had badly sprained his wrist the previous day but still wanted to watch his brother drive), and George. The plane ride was great, as always, you all talked and played games, you humbled your boyfriend in many games of Uno and Mario kart, you and Lewis caught up, you and Arthur gossiped, overall, it was a great plane ride.

“And Lando Norris wins the United States Grand Prix!”

You don't think you'd ever cried as much in your life as you had watching your boyfriend cross the finish line. He had tried every single race and finally, for the first time, he had come first after so much bad luck. 

As the checkered flag waved and the roar of the crowd filled the air, Lando stormed across the finish line, the first-time winner of a Formula One Grand Prix. He could hear cheers through the radio from his pit crew, him equally excitedly screaming back. The euphoria of the moment engulfed him, but as he slowed his car to a stop in the pit lane, his mind was consumed by one thought: he had to find you.

In the midst of the chaos and celebration, Lando’s heart raced with anticipation as he tore off his helmet and looked towards the crowd of people waiting for him. He spotted you in the crowd quite quickly, your eyes filled with tears of joy and excitement. He didn’t hesitate to make his way to you, embracing you and lifting you off of your feet and over the barrier that separated you.

"I did it! I finally fucking did it!" Lando whispered, his voice trembling with exhilaration as he buried his head into your shoulder.

Your smile was bigger than he thought he had ever seen before as one of your hands gently played with the curls in his hair. “I knew you could do it, Lan. I’m so so proud of you,” you whispered back, your words filled with unbridled happiness as you gently rocked you both back and forth on the spot. You placed a kiss to the side of his head as you felt his tears soak through your shirt. You didn’t care, though. 

In that moment, amidst the chaos of victory, the blaring of the engines, and the cheers of the crowd, you and Lando found solace in each other's arms. Your love had weathered the turbulent journey of a competitive racing world, and now, in the exhilarating embrace of a triumphant win, you both knew (or more proved to those around you) that you were destined to conquer any challenge together.

As you stood together, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of victory and the warmth of love, Lando realised that this moment was not just about his first win; it was about sharing it with the person who had been his unwavering support for years, his pillar of strength, and (by far) his biggest fan.

“Am I even allowed to be over the barrier?” You inquired quietly as Lando stayed attached to you.

“I don’t know… or care.”

“Well, put me back over, you have to hug the rest of your team and go do your interviews.”

He groaned. Very dramatically. “I don’t want to, I want to stay with you.”

“I’ll be here when you get back, darling.” You looked at him as he sighed before lifting you back over, placing a long kiss to your lips and celebrating with his team before doing his interview. The second he was done with all the podium and media obligations, though, he was dragging you back to the hotel, wanting to cuddle before you all went out to party in the evening. 

Once inside the hotel room, you kissed him. His arms travelled swiftly back to your waist, guiding you backwards as he kissed back, you soon feeling your back touch the door as he crowded you against it. You deepened the kiss, hearing him groan softly as he pressed his body closer to you. His hands started to snake under your McLaren polo that you had “borrowed” from him the day previous, placing themselves on your bare waist. Your hands were in his hair, gently tugging at the curls every so often, making him let out quiet but obscene noises as you kissed. He then started moving you again, this time towards the bed. 

“Are you going to sit there and continue to eye fuck me, Lando?” You asked as you adjusted the bottom of the dress that you had just changed into for the party.

He leant his head back on the wall behind the bed. “I can't help it. You look amazing.”

You chuckled, walking over to him and placing a kiss on his forehead. He responded by pulling you onto his lap. You looked at him, seeing the familiar look in his eyes. “Don't start this again, Lan.”

“Why?”

“We have a party to go to. Wait until later.”

He sighed, pulling you closer into a hug. “You're the most beautiful person in the world, you know?”

The party went as normal. You and Lando both didn't drink much but everyone else did. As usual, there was a lot of chaos caused - mostly by Max, Checo and Daniel, you were convinced that Charles would end up with alcohol poisoning with the amount that he and Lewis drank together, and Logan, Oscar and Fred almost burnt the place down.

Everything seemed (almost) perfect as you laid in bed, in your boyfriend's arms, having just celebrated his first win. Neither of you were asleep yet. Lando could tell because your breathing pattern was different when you slept. Whilst running his hand through your hair, he took in the atmosphere. The way that you softened into his embrace, the little snores you did when you slept, every little thing you did reminded him of how much he loved you.

“Marry me.”

“What?” You said, head instantly snapping up towards your boyfriend.

He was already looking at you. “Marry me.” 

You sat up, him leaning over to switch the bedside lamp on. He returned to look at you, holding a ring in his hand. You were dumbfounded. “Lan.”

He looked into your eyes, placing his forehead against yours before beginning to speak, softly. “I don't want you to think this was the spur of the moment. This sounds silly but I've had this ring for like a year and a half. I've just been waiting for the right moment. And this feels like the right moment. If you don't want to, or feel it's too soon, I completely get it. But if you do, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He smiled, genuinely, watching as a tear fell down your face. “Please don't cry, it's okay.”

“Yes.”

“Yes as in yes you'll Marry me or you think it's too soon?” He asked, voice soft as he felt a glimmer of hope in his chest

“Yes, as in yes, I will marry you, Lando.”

Now everything was perfect.

instagram

youruser

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and others

youruser: My boy won his first race finally!! So so proud of him, so here's a Lando appreciation post ❤❤

tagged: landonorris

-comments limited-

landonorris: I love you xx

youruser: I love you too xx

----

landonorris

liked by youruser, mclaren and others

landonorris: Soulmate appreciation post because she's not the only one allowed to be sappy on the main. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with this beautiful woman ❤❤

tagged: youruser

-view all comments-

youruser: You're stuck with me now x

landonorris: Wouldn't have it any other way x

mclaren: Congratulations!! Welcome to the McLaren family officially (although you were already in it to us), future Mrs. Norris

youruser: My favourite sm admin, thank you x

-The End-

-Word Count: 2,230 (ish)-

Hi, Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this mini series x If anyone has any requests for one-shots, possible series, etc about drivers, please feel free to request. You can do so by clicking on my profile and there should be a requests/questions box. Have a good day x Alocon

[vmlnrzmp4]

hiii, I js wanted to send in a request if ur not busy or anything, but I wanna ask for the bllk dads!AU where the kids who r like 14 u could say, have their own insta acc which is set on private cuz even if they r children of football stars it’s much safer but anyways yeah, so I’d like to request where the kids r showing their parents like their story that they posted when they went out w their friends and like the parents (us and the character🤭) honestly like the kids’ aesthetic and like the kids reactions to that and they’re happy so ya

it’s also fine if u don’t wanna do it

ty

🫶🏽

a/n: hey darling! i altered your request a lil. hope you don't mind🫶🏼

itoshi sae

hardly active on instagram, the uninterested itoshi sae accidentally peeked into natsuki's account as they both sat on the couch. "what?" natsuki asks. "nothing," he shakes his head. natsuki only smiles at her old man, showing her account to him. later that day in the afternoon, sae and natsuki sat at the dinner table scrolling through their respective phones. "papa, your fans keep following me." "that's not a fan. it's me." "...what?" @/itoshisaeeee followed you. "what's with that username?" natsuki chuckles as sae says that rest other names were taken. natsuki then helps sae aesthetify his account and give him a better username.

itoshi rin

rin always kept up with sakura on her socials(not out of overprotectiveness)(...ok maybe just a little)she was an actress after all. but what surprised him was when he found out that sakura had a secret private account. and the worst part? "you...you two knew??" rin asks sternly to souta and shouma. the twins looked at each other, then at their papa sheepishly. "papa i know this is you." sakura says as she looks up from her phone when she gets a follow request from a blank account. to which, rin just responds with—"what are you talking about."

isagi yoichi

"no papa, you're not my friend. hence, i won't follow you back." papa yoichi who was pouting gasped. feeling so so betrayed. you just laughed, watching them bickering. "he's sulking." you whisper to yuki. "im not." he lies. "sure." you chuckle. "how is this fair??? you followed kaito! who's not your friend. he's your brother and yet you—" yoichi sighs, "y/n, tell her!" "sorry yo-chan. she's right." later yuki follows him so that grown ass man would stop sulking. she only had one post of when kaito was a baby. she's mostly active on stories and has a highlight of her friends(and kazuki). but she hid them from her papa.

michael kaiser

anne's account—both public and private were filled with her arts. the only thing was that her papa followed her on public but no matter how much he requested her from his fake account, she didn't accept. cause on her private acc, there were her personal favourite drawings(of her friends, you, michael—which all her papa was aware of. except where she would be making magnificent arts of alex.) he one day confronted her. she knew that fake account was her papa all along. "papa it's nothing." "if it's nothing then follow me back." "papa," anne sighs, "it's just my friends, ma, you and...yeah that it—" "it's alex, isn't it?" the silence that followed was loud, "i knew it," michael shakes his head, "im your papa. he's just some guy." "he's my boyfriend." "not for long if you don't let me in."

taglist: @anyaminz @luciddre @kongkhoi @illyriakrasniqi2007 @passw-0-rd @x3nafix @levihanmyotp @vellichorira @sapph1r3x @tamashithe2nd @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 [open]

[blahblahbih]

late night yapping turned essay✨

i could be responsible and do my work but instead i'm gonna make one of these posts because i love reading them on other people's blogs and the best form of procrastination is yapping

ahem ahem

my driver tier list for the 2025 season is divided as follows:

ride or die:

lando: my comfort person who is also the source of all my problems, i cannot put into words the joy this man brings into my life and how much he has made me love this sport and how he cares about his fans and quadrant and the vlogs and streamer lando and open with his feelings and mental health lando and ughhhhh i got lost in those ocean blue eyessss, BUT i can very much put into words how much pain he causes me on the daily. the emotional attachment is strong with this one but i don't know how much i can handle, stay tuned ig

max: cutie patootie who can do no wrong, literally the reason i got into the sport. i love the mad max, i love the cat dad unhinged max, i love sassy max, i love soft and sweet max

oscar: i feel like the only reason he's not my no.1 is because lando and max were here first but omg he's close to overthrowing them. competent, a beast on the track, hilarious (if you think otherwise we can't be friends), the hair swoosh, everythingggg. every time people/fans/the media pit him against lando i lose years off my life but hey this is sports what can i do

you're growing on me:

george: i didn't care for him at all at first i was like oh this is alex's friend but omg why is he growing on me so much. consistent solid results, kimi's big brother, i'm starting to get his sense of humor, what is going on?? his powerpoint origin story is also too funny

charles: also confused as to why he's growing on me, i used to think the environment at ferrari the last couple of seasons was so toxic (which like it was) and i feel like this year it's fresher? also he's not as depressed so maybe that contributes, idk sports are weird

casual enjoyer (in no particular order)

lewis: objectively the best (professionally and as a person), i think he's not in the ride or die category because i never got to really see him in his prime (i got a taste during silverstone last season) so i never formed that emotional attachment, i lowkey don't care for his 8th wdc BUT i do want to see him succeed with ferrari i think it's gonna be so special

alex: wholesome man, solid driver, 10/10 insta dumps, lily's wag, no notes, i just don't have the energy to add him into the ride or die list

yuki: solid, great entertainment, i really wish him the best in that spiraling team pray for this man

carlos: at first i LOVED him because carlando but the amount of fighting that was going on between his fans and leclerc fans was honestly exhausting like i don't have the energy for that, love to see him thrive in williams tho he needs a break, also lowkey my crush ok sue me, also team 55 is simply too funny like at this point they're the main characters and he's the wag

pierre: this man is too funny and also puts in some great drives, underrated in my opinion

liam: ok edit I can’t believe I forgot to add him even tho I had a list of the drivers pulled up. solid driver, he got thrown into redbull too early so I don’t hold the start of the season against him, did I cry when he replaced daniel, yes, but I also get it. as someone whose fav movie is ratatouille, I respect his loyalty to cars

i'm rooting for you twin:

kimi: omg the wonderkid i've liked him since the prema days he's just too wholesome. i've fully adopted him, he's my child now

ollie: wowed me with his performance in saudi last year, also liked him since prema, i really want him to do good

isack: hilarious cutie patootie, i wish him the best, also north african solidarity bb i don't care what flag he drives under

no hate i just don't care (also in no particular order):

fernando: i don't get the appeal, sometimes he's funny tho

hulk: i tried ok, the haasbands were funny and i want him to get that podium, but i just don't have it in me

lance: go girl give us nothing? i respected his return after breaking his hand that was impressive but other than that he's just so meh

ocon: don't really care for him but also don't like all the unnecessary hate this man gets

jack: it's not really his fault i just want franco back

gabriel: i just haven't seen enough of him, he has potential to move up to casual enjoyer

if anyone would like to make a case for these drivers i'm all ears give me your unhinged thoughts

[oscarpiastriwdc]

albums i would play for each driver on the 2024 F1 grid to expand their music taste

Max Verstappen: Graceland by Paul Simon - As a fan of classic and folk rock, I'd imagine Max has been exposed to Simon and Garfunkel and I think he'd enjoy the sprawling, detailed, careful expanse of Simon's solo masterpiece. Angels in the architecture spinning in infinity, etc etc

Checo Perez: Ramomex by Rebel'd Punk - One of the Mexican bands who pioneered punk music in the country, but Checo probably missed this release because he was too busy karting and moving to europe as a teen. It's never too late to have a proper angry punk phase, though.

Charles Leclerc: Ten Love Songs by Susanne Sundfør - Groundbreaking, life-altering pop music that pushes every boundary. This hits the sad songs craving and I think would interest him as a musician and burgeoning songwriter.

Carlos Sainz: Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey - daddy issues. I just know he'd vibe out to Brooklyn Baby.

Lando Norris: Destiny by DJ Sabrina the Teenage DJ - I dream of sitting him down and exposing him to actually good, interesting, fun contemporary dj music.

Oscar Piastri: Speaking in Tongues by Talking Heads - He has that certain David Byrne swag and demeanor of someone who'd love the Talking Heads if only given the chance.

Fernando Alonso: 10,000 gecs by 100 gecs - At first the old man would be extremely confused but once he was on board he would be blasting The Most Wanted Person In The United States all day every day.

Lance Stroll: Talon of the Hawk by The Front Bottoms - that post that's like the problem is men are making podcasts instead of forming midwest emo bands. but it's men are becoming f1 drivers instead of forming midwest emo bands. I think some TFB exposure could be the spark of inspiration for a great career pivot.

Lewis Hamilton: Maps by billy woods and Kenny Segal - I fear Lewis might have been too worried about Merc's performance last year to have checked out this fantastic collaboration that was one of 2023's best albums.

George Russell: Contra by Vampire Weekend - I just saw Vampire Weekend live following the release of the new album and at the show there was a guy a few feet ahead of me in the merch line who had the exact same energy as GR. The mix of prep vibes and world music would work into his taste while expanding his listening beyond coldplay.

Yuki Tsunoda: GLOW ON by Turnstile - 100% a selfish pick, I want to mosh with Yuki in the pit of a Turnstile pit.

Daniel Ricciardo: The Panhandlers by The Panhandlers - A country supergroup I return to time and again, wistful and nostalgic, making you yearn for West Texas no matter where in the world you are.

Alex Albon: Pelican West by Haircut 100 - Funky British jazz pop, perfect for dancing and vibing.

Logan Sargeant: Crying, Laughing, Waving, Smiling by Slaughter Beach, Dog - I fear Logie might be too young or too norm core to have had a proper Modern Baseball phase (it's never too late logie! listen to Intersection!) but Ewald's 2023 offering seems like something he missed last year that's perfectly up his alley.

Valtteri Bottas: Merriweather Post Pavillion by Animal Collective - Weird and complex, I think he should throw it on while on a long bike ride and let his mullet fly in the breeze.

Zhou Guanyu: God Save the Animals by Alex G - no you don't understand i need him to listen to Alex G he would love it

Kevin Magnussen: Heaven or Las Vegas by Cocteau Twins - Ethereal music he can feel and let wash over him in a wave to relax and transcend the horrors of driving for Haas.

Nico Hulkenberg: Supernatural by Santana - dad music but make it funky and good

Pierre Gasly: Sex Dreams and Denim Jeans by Uffie - A perfect twist on early 2000s French electronic music, I think it'd remind him of the club while sounding entirely new and make him want to pick up a side dj gig of his own.

Esteban Ocon: Lescop by Lescop - French indie pop-rock! His most recent album is fantastic, but Este should check out Lescop's 2013 debut first.

following a conversation with @liamlawsonlesbian and her definitive book rec list i'm doing something similar for music (she bullied me into posting this sorry). large range in popularity/mainstream-ness of artists depending on the driver and what i think they're already listening to.