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rooksamoris · 2 days ago

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this is an analysis of jamil's solo song snippet!! im going by the fan translation of the wonderful @winterspellsfrozenkit who has provided fan translations of the other snippets as well!! without further ado, here is a copy of their translation followed by the analysis.

蛇と瞬き-JAMIL:

Jewels and magic cannot Fulfill the wishes in me Knowing no end To days filled with misery. Gasping as I just try to breathe Desires creeping out, trying to leave The more that I desire, The more narrow this place is The light will never fade in me My anger will never cease to be If only I could expose it all Ah ah ah! A shadow is dancing Listen to the insatiable voice Freedom’s in my hand, Like I’m cursing and To the end I’ll FLY-yah-yah Ah ah… Not enough to get by-ah-ah The Snake and Blink

let's do a line by line analysis of the song and then i'll share my thoughts!!

"jewels and magic cannot/fulfill the wishes in me" immediately what comes to mind is marx's theory of commodity fetishism which he writes about in capital volume one.

"A commodity appears, at first sight, a very trivial thing, and easily understood. Its analysis shows that it is, in reality, a very queer thing, abounding in metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties. So far as it is a value in use, there is nothing mysterious about it, whether we consider it from the point of view that by its properties it is capable of satisfying human wants, or from the point that those properties are the product of human labour" Karl Marx, Das Kapital

basically, commodity fetishism is what happens when we value commodities outside of the labor that goes into creating them. it is most blatant with things like designer items because we are so separated from the labor and yet put some idealist value onto the product for the label. commodity fetishism begins in the supply chain when the capitalist, who owns the means of production, separates the commodity from the laborers who make it. it happens when you purchase clothes and don't acknowledge the labor and raw material extraction that went through making those clothes.

in this case, jamil is acknowledging that commodities are not what he wants, even though in his book seven dream we see that he merely replaces his hierarchical position with that of the al-asim family, whom he is loyal to through the caste system. deep down, jamil knows that it is not what will fulfill him which is why in the wish event all he asks for is one trip where he can go some place where no one knows him and the curse of his caste lineage cannot oppress him. what jamil wants is freedom, not wealth and power.

jamil himself deals with commodity fetishism, in which his labor/labor power is the commodity. his time, effort and his very life are commodities, and because of this, he is heavily alienated from his work and others. jamil's position in society allows for him to be dehumanized and that is an alienating experience. he is nothing more than what he can bring kalim.

"Presupposing private property, my work is an alienation of life, for I work in order to live, in order to obtain for myself the means of life. My work is not my life. Secondly, the specific nature of my individuality, therefore, would be affirmed in my labour, since the latter would be an affirmation of my individual life. Labour therefore would be true, active property. Presupposing private property, my individuality is alienated to such a degree that this activity is instead hateful to me, a torment, and rather the semblance of an activity. Hence, too, it is only a forced activity and one imposed on me only through an external fortuitous need, not through an inner, essential one. My labour can appear in my object only as what it is. It cannot appear as something which by its nature it is not. Hence it appears only as the expression of my loss of self and of my powerlessness that is objective, sensuously perceptible, obvious and therefore put beyond all doubt" Karl Marx, Comment on James Mill

the last line heavily applies to jamil since his work, serving the al-asim family, is a loss of himself. he lowers himself, his intelligence, his abilities, and his strength for the sake of kalim. he is powerless in this situation, as he has stated previously, since upsetting kalim's father could drag his entire family into the streets or worse. his work is not something he does because he sees value in it for the betterment of society or for personal enlightenment, but because he is forced to.

a lot of this can be attributed to the english translation being so bad and censoring so much?? here's some examples that come to mind!!

chalking things up to just "im loyal to kalim" really lowers the stakes and it blurs how bad things truly are for jamil.

"Knowing no end/To days filled with misery" i find this issue comes a lot with the fandom, but we forget that jamil born into an unfair caste system and has no real way out of it. his suffering is endless and if he marries and has children, he will just be dragging them down with him.

unlike a wage laborer, jamil is stuck working for the al-asim family because of his lower caste. we don't know if he earns money at all, but i highly doubt it. his situation is like other caste situations in which he and his family have their home tied to the al-asim's. jamil is doing "well" but at the price that his family serves kalim's. sure, he is housed and fed, but at the cost that his life be at risk to save kalim's. since caste is tied to lineage and tradition, there really is no escape for jamil from this.

also, reminder that if jamil literally dies taste-tasting something for kalim, there will be no consequences. imagine being a child and learning that another kid's life is more sacred than yours because of your unlucky birth?

"When one individual inflicts bodily injury upon another such that death results, we call the deed manslaughter; when the assailant knew in advance that the injury would be fatal, we call his deed murder. But when society places hundreds of proletarians in such a position that they inevitably meet a too early and an unnatural death, one which is quite as much a death by violence as that by the sword or bullet; when it deprives thousands of the necessaries of life, places them under conditions in which they cannot live – forces them, through the strong arm of the law, to remain in such conditions until that death ensues which is the inevitable consequence – knows that these thousands of victims must perish, and yet permits these conditions to remain, its deed is murder just as surely as the deed of the single individual; disguised, malicious murder, murder against which none can defend himself, which does not seem what it is, because no man sees the murderer, because the death of the victim seems a natural one, since the offence is more one of omission than of commission. But murder it remains." Conditions of the Working Class in England, Friedrich Engels

i share this quote with you guys because i want to remind you all, if jamil dies in service of kalim, it is murder since people knew it was possible that he would die. i remind you of this argument because further lyrics have a more revolutionary spirit to them. what jamil did was wrong, but violence only creates more violence, and violence against one's oppressor and oppressive state is a reaction, not unwarranted. poverty and caste are violent. it is my belief that if someone dies in poverty because of the state's refusal to provide these people with healthcare, housing, or food, it is murder with the blood being on the hands of the state.

in this case, the violence done to jamil is due to caste. there is a constant threat of his family being thrown to the streets if he dares to rebel. jamil has been doing an adult's work since before he could properly even reach over the stove. what jamil did was cruel, knowing that kalim trusted him, he betrayed him, but that betrayal did not come from a place of pure malice. as a child, he knew kalim was deemed more important than him and was stripped of his autonomy because of it.

"Gasping as I just try to breathe/Desires creeping out, trying to leave/The more that I desire,/The more narrow this place is" here, jamil is restarting his desires and depicting his life experience as suffocating. he desires just as anyone else does, but he has no means of reaching these desires.

marx writes a lot on the way "want" is a motivation which keeps the workers alienated and working for the possibility of earning enough to enjoy the things that bring true fulfillment in life.

"Self-renunciation, the renunciation of life and of all human needs, is its principal thesis. The less you eat, drink and buy books; the less you go to the theatre, the dance hall, the public house; the less you think, love, theorise, sing, paint, fence, etc., the more you save – the greater becomes your treasure which neither moths nor rust will devour – your capital. The less you are, the less you express your own life, the more you have, i.e., the greater is your alienated life, the greater is the store of your estranged being. Everything ||XVI| which the political economist takes from you in life and in humanity, he replaces for you in money and in wealth; and all the things which you cannot do, your money can do. It can eat and, drink, go to the dance hall and the theatre; it can travel, it can appropriate art, learning, the treasures of the past, political power – all this it can appropriate for you – it can buy all this: it is true endowment. Yet being all this, it wants to do nothing but create itself, buy itself; for everything else is after all its servant, and when I have the master I have the servant and do not need his servant. All passions and all activity must therefore be submerged in avarice. The worker may only have enough for him to want to live, and may only want to live in order to have that." Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844, Karl Marx

ultimately, these wants further push us into positions of submission to capitalism and labor. it is like the concept of working to live. you do labor, have your surplus value extracted, and maybe eventually you'll get the chance to take your family on a nice vacation. since jamil is not a wage laborer, and instead a member of a servant caste, this manifests a bit differently in his case, but marx's point of self-renunciation still applies. jamil is a creative person, like we know he is good at dancing and cooking, but the latter is in service of kalim and the former he tries to lower to not outshine kalim. he has the ladder to reach for the stars but he isn't allowed to.

he is alienated from himself in this way. i don't think anyone just performs their creative arts for the sake of praise, but praise is nice. artists post their art, writers post their writings, dancers and actors and singers perform, because art is something to be shared. art is also something which is infamously bought and gate-kept by the wealthy.

how much has jamil really been able to explore his creative passions? every waking hour is spent making sure kalim is alive and satisfied. kalim can dance and make music because he has the time and resources to, jamil has much less of that since his existence is tied to the well-being of kalim. his "passions are submerged in avarice" because it is through wealth and visibility that kalim get the time for his art, which is exactly what jamil does not have. it makes the point of his book seven dream so much more interesting, because even though he truly does not wish for wealth, but instead freedom, subconsciously, he acknowledges the power and blessing that is great wealth.

what jamil is saying here is that the more that he wants, the more that he yearns and longs for things, such as freedom, the more suffocated he becomes. capitalism creates the disparities for this want to exist, waves possibilities around, and then pulls the goal post further and further from us. jamil sees the freedom of others every day, he sees the privilege of kalim all the time, and the finish line just gets farther and farther away from him. "this place" becomes more and more narrow the bigger he dreams, so he may as well make himself and his ambitions as small as possible to fit into his caste.

"The light will never fade in me/My anger will never cease to be/If only I could expose it all" here jamil acknowledges that despite his attempts to not want, to make himself smaller for the sake of kalim, his desires will truly never cease, nor will his anger.

"if only i could expose it all" is a rebellious cry and it makes me wonder if the caste system is deemed unacceptable by others. is this, like in our world, an archaic form of oppression that people deem barbaric? or is he talking about exposing his resentment and finally taking back his autonomy by violent means?

"The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles. Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes." The Manifesto of the Communist Party, Marx and Engels

marx is not saying that revolution is inevitable, but that it is always a possibility, and if revolution does not happen, the oppressed class will just be further oppressed. jamil is the oppressed and the al-asim family are the oppressors. as we see, he is fearful of what could happen of kalim's father got wind of him rebelling. jamil's overblot was the manifestation of all the violence done to him, releasing in a violent revolutionary act. what he did was cruel, but i would argue it is even more cruel to let a child believe that his life is lesser than that of his peer.

now im gonna get into frantz fanon and the wretched of the earth, i couldn't help myself </3

"And it is clear that in the colonial countries the peasants alone are revolutionary, for they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. The starving peasant, outside the class system, is the first among the exploited to discover that only violence pays...The exploited man sees that his liberation implies the use of all means, and that of force first and foremost... non-violence. In its simplest form this non-violence signifies to the intellectual and economic elite of the colonized country that the bourgeoisie has the same interests as they and that it is therefore urgent and indispensable to come to terms for the public good." The Wretched of the Earth, Fanon

these lines read to me like a cry for freedom. it is the young revolutionary raising his gun in the face of his oppressor, it is the peasants arming burning down the manor, the villagers destroying the basileos's estate and taking the economy and politics in their own hands. his anger will never be satisfied until he gets what he is owed, his very own life. all those years spent taking care of kalim have just been years of the constant reminder of his status.

under a caste system, your lineage is what decides your fate, and for jamil that means he will serve the al-asim's till he dies. he cannot escape this. many caste systems, such as the one in yemen, make it so that you cannot even marry out of your caste, and no matter how much wealth you accumulate, you will still be considered a member of the servant caste. while it is fun to imagine jamil marrying out of his caste and moving away somewhere, the reality is that it is most likely not plausible. his parents probably married because they were both in the same servant caste, and if he ever ended up married, it would probably be to someone in his same caste.

i've repeated it a million times, but there is no escape. he is suffocating and violence is the only way out, it seems.

"A shadow is dancing/Listen to the insatiable voice/Freedom’s in my hand, /Like I’m cursing and/To the end I’ll FLY-yah-yah/Ah ah… Not enough to get by-ah-ah" for the sake of time, i'm going to analyze this all together since i feel like i've been writing this since the release of those snippets.

now, the shadow can be many things. im most convinced it is referring to the manifestation of his resentment, the overblot phantom. @estcaligo has this post discussing blot as a physical manifestation and the cultural depictions of negative emotions as something physical. and i reblogged it with this post adding onto the islamic/sufi depiction of nafs and how it relates to overblot.

here's what i said on the topic and i will relate it back to these last few lines of the fan translation:

"the word nafs is derived from nafas which means breathing. nafs, colloquially means self/person. for example, in my dialect of arabic, we say "nafsi" to mean "myself" since the "ee" sound makes a phrase possessive. theologically, nafs is most often referring to the soul. i think the idea of nafs coming from the word nafas/breathing is important in this case. you breath in and out. you take in and then you release. in islam, nafs is cannot be bad or good or beautiful and so on, but it is more like your health, something you nurture. you feed your nafs bad things, it will have a bad reaction and release bad into the world. when it comes to the blot and overblot in twst, we can imagine the blot accumulation is their nafs being corrupted and their overblot is the release of their tainted nafs. the whole idea of the phantoms being created from the blot, and the characters having to fight them off (like jamil arguing with his phantom that he is not imprisoned like a genie). this concept exists within the quran, the idea of battling that which corrupts your nafs through jihad. and no, not jihad like the crusades, but general struggle. jihad just means struggle... ultimately, this struggle is what helps clear the nafs of corruption, and when we battle the mages who have overblotted, we are faced with the negative emotions which led them there, and they struggle against them to survive."

the blot is fed by external experiences that deepen the negative feelings of the mages, which corrupts their magic. for example, leona has a scene of blot accumulation when jack says something that reminds him of his elder brother, who he resents.

right after this, the ink spills.

like leona and the others, jamil's blot has been fed by all sorts of negative experiences which nurtured the seeds of his resentment until it grew too much to be held within the confines of his soul, and so it burst and released into the form of the phantom. this is exactly the way nafs is depicted in islam. to counteract it, you try to feed your nafs good things.

the negative voices in jamil's head, the voices of his parents and the figures of authority who keep stacking heavier things onto the boulder he's rolling up the mountain fighting against his reason. the "insatiable voice" is the urge to just say 'fuck it' and go wild. to attack those who oppress him, to hurt kalim, the symbol of his disenfranchisement, and forget about his responsibilities to his family. it's tragic. "freedom's in my hand" at the cost of so much, but he has been pushed to the point where it seems worth it to just release it all. he wants to drop the boulder and let it crush whoever was climbing the mountain behind him. "cursing" may refer to the cost of his freedom.

like he says, he cannot just drag his family into the streets for his own freedom. imagine the devastation of his family, of his sister if he decided to defect. they would face the consequences of his actions, cursed by his need for freedom, while he was off away doing whatever it is that he wanted. the cost is a curse, and it is too great.

of course, "fly" is commonly used to depict a state of transcendence and escape, so i won't stick too long on it. the next part, "not enough to get by" reminds me a lot of the story of icarus. it seems like that despite his desire for freedom, jamil subconsciously sees it as a doomed ambition. even if he does fly, his wings will melt. something will pull the ladder out from under him as he reaches to grasp the stars, something will grab him by his hair and drag him back down the hellish life he's been living.

i've been wracking my brain for a while about "the snake and blink" part of the song and here's the ideas i've got so far before i conclude:

a) the usual christian symbolism of snakes being the temptation of knowledge, corruption--you guys know the garden of eden story. john milton's paradise lost snake.

this analysis suggests that the snake is some sort of temptation, and the moment jamil blinks, it disappears.

b) other cultures don't view snakes in a negative light. i talk about it more here, but in islamic culture, snake iconography is used in hospitals and some art depicts snakes stinging away evil spirits. the islamic story of adam and eve does not feature a snake and instead the whispers of iblis/satan.

there's the middle eastern folktale of shahmaran, queen of snakes. she is a half snake half woman creature who is never portrayed as good or bad. sometimes she is an oracle and other times she is respected or tricked into being killed. kurds specifically have her symbolize good luck and many depictions of her death regard her sympathetically.

in ancient egypt, wadjet, the cobra goddess is a protective goddess who was the nurse to the infant horus, and protected isis. in many iterations, she symbolizes greenery and fertility. the aztec deity quetzalcoatl is a "feathered snake" whose domain is rain, wind, learning and agriculture. he brings life and had a role in bringing about the world. the naga is a half-human half-cobra who is often depicted as the protector of siddhartha gautama and the buddha. they are powerful and dangerous when angered, and protective.

im gonna make a full post about snake symbolism and jamil some other day, but for now, these interpretations of the snake make things seem less sinister and more hopeful.

these snakes are instead symbolizing life, protection, and the possibility of a future, but these hopes are gone away in a blink "snake and blink" as he says at the end of the snippet.

for just a quick conclusion of my overall thoughts. i think the rest of this song will further play on this idea of freedom and desire. i like it a lot. no, i LOVEEEE it omg the vocal performance??? that high note is constantly replaying in my mind like jeez the rent was due. the themes are loyal to jamil's character and i wonder how the song will end, yk?? will any of these songs have a positive/hopeful conclusion? personally, i think i prefer the ideas of all the threads not being completely tied. as much as i felt sad during the kalim and jamil interactions in book five, i felt like it was best that it ended that way. i agreed with silver's "let them fight it out" sentiment during book seven as well because i dont think anything can truly fix the issues between them.

IM DONE!! hope you guys enjoyed this long ass analysis of that like less than two minutes snippet of jamil viper's solo song!! idk if i have the energy to do the other ones as well, but malleus' and leona's brought some interesting eco-criticism stuff to mind.

#💝 — lore and theories #twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twst analysis #twst jamil #leona kingscholar #twst spoilers #jamil solo song #malleus draconia #mythology #culture #karl marx #friedrich engels #frantz fanon #twst x reader #jamil viper x reader

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wakebymoonsleepbysun · 2 days ago

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"One of the few things I don't have control over are your minds"

With the sauce in ep 4 and the whole vegan thing in ep 5, the authenticity of this line has been called into question.

But I generally think it's still true, you just have to be specific on what you mean by "controlling someone's mind".

I don't think he can access their memories or change their core values/ideals or personality.

BUT there are things about their bodies he can control. Drugging someone isn't the same thing as brainwashing them. Admittedly, in the digital world the line between body and mind is bit blurred, but I still think the sauce is closer to drugging someone than any kind of actual mind control.

As for the vegan thing? Jax hated it the whole time. He was forced to say he was vegan, and his ability to eat/drink certain things was inhibited, but his thoughts on veganism and food didn't actually change.

It's also worth noting both these things happened during adventures, so he may have slightly different abilities during those. Also, Jax's "I didn't know he could do that" isn't lost on me. I'm open to the possibility that Caine's abilities are evolving or he's using them more now that he's getting tilted at the players. If they're evolving...does he realize that?

In any case, I don't think this line was Caine lying. I think he did consider it an accurate assessment of his abilities at the time. Whether he made a mistake or that's since changed (or will change) remains to be seen.

#tadc #tadc caine #the amazing digital circus #the amazing digital circus caine

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asshaticus · 3 days ago

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Do you believe it's possible for these two dynamics to ever be similar? Do you believe that we can acknowledge the oppressive nature of the present world without accepting it as an unchangeable inevitability? In turn, by clumping them together, you're accepting real unchangeables into your conception of the oppressive nature of the present i.e. people making everything about themselves = they hate women. The former can't be helped, the latter can, or at least I think so. Do you believe misogynistic perspectives can be challenged, and do you believe shaming people into it is the way to do it? Because to me that never seems to work, and it seems more like you've given up, and do see women's oppression as inevitable and unchangeable, and you're just going out of your way to prove yourself right, even though you really wish that you could be proven wrong. Insecurity and concession is groomed into our concept of femininity under the patriarchy, and it's that way specifically because it sets you up for failure. If you tell someone they don't care about you, they might deny it at first and try to prove you wrong, but eventually they're going to get fed up and accept it. But I don't accept it; I like women, everyone does, they just don't know it yet! And whether or not that's remotely true (and there are many very good reasons to assume it's not), I think it's more productive to project that kind of confidence than get hung up on these extremely petty things, if for no other reason than that women remember to love themselves and not get manipulated by anyone who wants to isolate her by convincing you her that everyone else is her enemy (again, part of the oppression, it's why women end up in cults and bad relationships, not a good notion to foster in contrast to "unity"). So believe in yourself! Thank you :>

You know that when a girl makes a post about being a girl you don’t have to reblog it with the “but what about men” version right? What is wrong with you? Do you hate women having things so much?

#i'm sorry I said all this here and now specifically it's just been building up for a while #[EVERYONE HATED THAT]

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we-love-lando-norris-over-here · 2 days ago

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Interesting how people are saying that no one likes lando why monster wants him?

Again dumb haters, the only people that dont like him is tall with your stupid reasons which arent even true and yall like to hate someone who knows how to give it back. Too bad lando is sweet enough not to give it back all the time. and the only hate he gets is online because of out of context stuff and media set up. Also the full landostand in silvo proves that yall make shit up about no one liking him. TROLLSSSS

Brands want him to because he knows how to promote a product and know business/ knowing how to sell something. Never seen lando do half ass things and just be done and get the money. He always promotes the product with so much passion and fun, and he does it his own way. In the fact that he only does things that he enjoys and actually believes in the product.

sucks to be the haters because their driver arent that marketable.

Because Lando is iconic.

But more than that, he’s smart (smarter than mclaren will lead you to believe). He knows exactly what he’s doing. His brand isn’t some recycled PR fluff. It’s the blobs, the fluro yellow, the realness. It sticks. It’s marketable because it actually means something, it’s got his fingerprints all over it. No brand has to guess who Lando Norris is. They know. And that’s why they want him.

He doesn’t promote anything half-heartedly either, like you said. That Monster promo? I saw someone comment on his video how he was supporting a small business and pushing his own drink (and that that commenter was heading to that business), and Lando liked both comments. That's not accidental. That’s a man with a plan.

And yeah, people connect with him because he’s real. Whether it’s his openness, awkwardness, the dumb jokes, the gaming, whatever it is, it resonates.

Meanwhile, Oscar’s brand is basically the F1 equivalent of white noise. Calm, cool, collected. Sure. Great for the races. Not so great for the merch. You can’t build a fandom off "slightly unbothered".

Honestly, the Lando hate feels less like critique and more like fragile masculinity in motion. It’s giving “why do girls like him??” energy. Just say you’re mad he’s nice and women love him and go.

He’s not just good at what he does, he’s intentional. He’s funny. He’s sharp. And he’s ten steps ahead. Let the haters seethe. The rest of us are buying the drink, the merch, and the t-shirts and supporting from FOUR GRAND STANDS.

#lando norris #ln4 #anti piastri #lando x monster

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svthui · 13 hours ago

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Never Just Friends

Title: Never Just Friends

Synopsis: You thought your transfer to Tokyo would be quiet. Then you met them—and nothing was the same after that.

Pairing: Suguru Geto x f!Reader

Genre: Non-sorcerer jjk, friends to lovers,hurt/comfort, mutual pining, angst, romance, slice of life, slow burn, oneshot

Word count: 6.5k

Content Warnings: Emotional themes, mutual pining, Mild language, Angst with softness

You transferred from Kyoto to Tokyo for your senior year, expecting it to be lonely and uneventful. That was before you met Gojo, Shoko, and Suguru.

The three of them had been inseparable since their freshman year—an odd but magnetic trio. Still, they welcomed you without hesitation, as if you had always been part of the group. You were shy at first, unsure of where you fit in among their easy chemistry and inside jokes. But somehow, you found your rhythm.

Gojo was loud, obnoxious, and endlessly dramatic—which made your daily banter with him the highlight of most days. Shoko, with her dry wit and perpetual air of being mildly unimpressed, became your closest friend. You’d drag her to try new cafés or window-shop in trendy neighborhoods, and though she acted like she hated it, she always came along.

Suguru, though… he was different. Not unkind. Just distant. He was warm and talkative when the group was together, but whenever it was just the two of you, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations thinned into polite silence, and he’d give you one of those soft, unreadable smiles. You never quite knew what to say to him—or whether he felt the same awkwardness.

Tonight, you were all at Gojo’s house. Scratch that—mansion. The three of you never let him forget how ridiculously large his “not fancy” house was. Gojo insisted it was just a “regular place,” but with marble floors and a koi pond in the courtyard, it was hard to agree.

You were lounging in his sunken living room, half-sprawled on the enormous sectional couch with snacks scattered across the coffee table, when the conversation shifted to the future.

“I think I’m gonna be a doctor,” Shoko said casually, taking a sip of her soda.

The room fell quiet for a beat as the three of you turned to look at her.

“You? A doctor? Seriously?” Gojo blinked, then smirked. “I thought your life plan was to be a full-time stoner—ow!”

Shoko had pinched him hard in the side before he could finish his sentence.

“I do have the best grades out of all of you,” she deadpanned.

The rest of you nodded reluctantly. Gojo let out a defeated groan, flopping over the arm of the couch.

“I fear for your future patients,” Suguru said with a small smile.

Gojo nodded solemnly. “Same.”

They both earned simultaneous pinches from Shoko.

Gojo rubbed his side dramatically. “Well, you know me. I’ll just take over the family business.”

You sighed theatrically. “Must be nice being a nepo baby with generational wealth.”

“I’ve always wanted to be an artist,” Gojo said wistfully, staring out the window like he was in a movie.

“You’re terrible at drawing,” Suguru chimed in with a rare smirk.

Gojo pouted. “I like to pretend I never wanted to inherit the family empire. That deep down, my true passion was painting tortured self-portraits in a Parisian attic.”

“I hate rich people,” Shoko muttered.

“Me too,” you said, laughing along.

Then, as the laughter died down, Shoko turned to Suguru. “What about you? Got any future plans?”

Suguru leaned back in his seat, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. “I don’t know yet,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a deflection, exactly—but it left something hanging in the air. Unspoken. You watched him for a second longer, wondering again about all the things he never said when it was just the two of you.

***

Two Weeks Until Finals

The library became your second home, though not by choice.

Finals were looming, and with every day that passed, the students at Jujutsu High seemed to spiral further into academic panic. You, Shoko, and Suguru had formed a study group out of survival. Gojo had invited himself in, naturally, with the excuse that “studying is better with friends”, which really meant “I plan to distract everyone and bring snacks no one asked for.”

You were currently four hours into a supposedly quiet study session in the library’s back corner.

“I have a question,” Gojo said, flipping his textbook upside down.

“No,” Shoko replied without looking up.

“You didn’t even let me ask it!”

“Because it’s going to be something stupid,” Suguru said calmly, scribbling notes in his elegant handwriting.

“I am hurt,” Gojo clutched his chest. “I bring joy and light to your otherwise miserable cram sessions, and this is the thanks I get?”

“You brought gummy worms and spilled soda on my notes,” you muttered, flipping another page of your review packet.

“That was an accident,” he said, not even sounding guilty. “Besides, I replaced your notes with mine! You’re welcome.”

Shoko snorted. “Your notes are just stick figures and bad metaphors.”

“Effective metaphors,” Gojo corrected. “And the stick figures were doing chemistry experiments. It was educational.”

You glanced at Suguru, who had barely reacted the entire time. He caught your eye briefly and gave you the tiniest shake of his head, as if to say don’t engage. You bit back a smile.

In the end, you got more studying done than expected—thanks mostly to Shoko threatening bodily harm and Suguru quietly bringing everyone back on track. And somehow, amidst the chaos, it all started to feel like something you’d miss when it was over.

Graduation Day

The gymnasium was packed, the air buzzing with excitement and the smell of overpriced flowers.

You adjusted your gown for the tenth time, balancing your cap and your nerves as your name inched closer to being called.

Beside you, Shoko looked bored, Gojo looked like he was about to burst into song, and Suguru—well, Suguru looked as calm and composed as always.

“Guys,” Gojo whispered dramatically, “what if I moonwalk across the stage?”

“Do it,” Shoko said immediately.

“Absolutely not,” you said, already picturing the horror.

“Imagine the legacy,” he whispered.

“I’m begging you to act normal for one day,” Suguru muttered.

Gojo sighed. “No one in this group supports my artistic vision.”

Still, when they finally called his name—“Gojo Satoru!”—he didn’t moonwalk. Instead, he strutted like he was on a Paris runway, tossing his cap in the air before even getting his diploma.

You were too busy laughing to feel nervous when your name was finally called. The cheers from your friends in the crowd made your heart swell.

It was over. High school. And yet, something in you ached—because it also felt like the beginning of something you didn’t fully understand yet.

After the ceremony and a thousand photos, you slipped away from the noise and ended up on a bench just outside the school building. The sun was setting, casting gold across the courtyard.

You weren’t alone for long.

Suguru sat beside you, still in his graduation gown, his expression unreadable.

“Escaping too?” you asked.

He gave a soft chuckle. “Needed a break from Gojo’s impromptu graduation photo shoot.”

You both laughed quietly.

There was a beat of silence. Comfortable, but charged with something unsaid.

“You excited for what’s next?” you asked, not quite sure why you felt nervous.

Suguru paused. “I think so. Kind of scary, though.”

You nodded. “Same. Everything feels… uncertain.”

Another silence. This time, he looked at you.

“You were brave, transferring here,” he said. “It’s hard to start over.”

You blinked, surprised. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

“Still,” he murmured, “you made it work. You became part of us.”

You looked at him. “Even with you pretending I don’t exist half the time?”

He smiled—genuinely, a little sheepish. “I don’t mean to. I just… don’t always know what to say.”

“I know,” you replied softly. “It’s okay.”

There was a moment—so brief you weren’t sure it was real—where he almost reached for your hand. But then—

Gojo’s voice echoed from across the courtyard.

“HEYYYYY LOSERS! GET READY TO PARTY!”

And the moment passed.

Calling it a “party” was a gross understatement.

Gojo had somehow rented out an entire rooftop venue in downtown Tokyo. There were fairy lights, a professional DJ, catering, a chocolate fountain (why?), and actual fireworks scheduled for the finale.

“I hate rich people,” Shoko said as the champagne fountain started flowing.

“Same,” you replied, for the second time in two days.

But you couldn’t lie—it was kind of magical.

Suguru found you by the balcony later that night. The music was loud and the city lights twinkled like stars below.

“You look like you’re trying to run away again,” he said, leaning on the railing beside you.

You smiled. “Just thinking.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You looked really happy earlier. During the ceremony.”

“I was,” you said honestly. “I’m happy. But I’m also…” You trailed off.

“Scared?” he finished.

You nodded.

He looked down at the city for a moment, then said, “I used to think I had to have it all figured out. That if I didn’t, I’d fall behind. But maybe it’s okay to take time.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. The way the light hit his face, the way his voice sounded when he wasn’t guarded.

“You’re different when it’s just the two of us,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He looked back at you, a little surprised. But then he smiled—soft, real.

“So are you.”

Your heart skipped.

Then he held out his hand. “Come dance with me.”

You stared. “You? Dance? Do you even know how?”

“Not a clue,” he said.

You laughed, but you took his hand.

And under the ridiculous glitter of Gojo’s fireworks and the pulse of music and summer air, you danced with Suguru Geto for the first time—awkward and unsure and quietly perfect.

For once, you didn’t feel like the new kid anymore.

You just felt like yourself.

***

The post-grad high had finally started to wear off.

The constant stream of congratulatory texts, parties, and Instagram posts had slowed to a trickle, and reality was beginning to set in—college was right around the corner.

You were back at Gojo’s place. Again. This time less party and more chill. The four of you lounged in his obscenely large backyard under a shaded pergola, sipping iced drinks like you were in some sort of coming-of-age film.

“So,” Shoko said, stretching her legs out on the lounge chair, “everyone got their final enrollment letters?”

Gojo rolled over onto his stomach and made a dramatic whining noise. “I did. Can’t believe I’m leaving you losers behind.”

“Oh god, don’t start crying again,” Shoko muttered.

You raised your brows. “Wait. Where are you going again?”

Gojo pushed his sunglasses up dramatically. “America. Columbia University. Business Management. Father dearest insisted.”

You blinked. “Columbia?”

Shoko snorted. “Of course you’d go full nepo baby route.”

“I’m expanding my global empire,” Gojo said with mock arrogance. “Besides, Tokyo’s too small for me.”

“Your ego is too big for any country,” Suguru murmured, sipping his iced coffee.

Gojo beamed. “Thank you, Suguru.”

Shoko gave a small sigh and smiled. “I got into Keio.”

You turned to her, genuinely surprised. “Keio Med? That’s like—top-tier.”

She shrugged like it was no big deal, but you saw the small flush of pride on her face. “Premed track first. Then med school. Gonna spend the next decade studying while you guys become corporate drones.”

“You’ll be the only one among us saving lives,” you said.

She raised her drink like a toast. “And you’ll all be my broke patients.”

Everyone laughed, and for a moment, it felt like things hadn’t changed. But the truth was starting to settle: your little group was splitting up. Different cities. Different paths.

Gojo lay flat on the grass, arms stretched out. “I demand a tearful airport send-off, by the way. Full drama. Slow-motion running. I expect someone to cry.”

“I’ll bring a banner that says finally,” Suguru said.

“Rude,” Gojo mumbled into the grass.

“So, what about you two?” Shoko asked, turning to you and Suguru. “Didn’t you both apply to local unis?”

You hesitated for a second, then glanced at Suguru. He was looking at you too.

“…I got into Meiji,” you said finally. “Liberal Arts department. Majoring in Comparative Culture.”

Suguru blinked. “Wait. Meiji?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Why?”

“I’m going to Meiji too,” he said, voice full of quiet surprise. “Faculty of Letters. Philosophy track.”

Shoko looked between you two, grinning slightly. “Oho?”

Gojo sat up. “Fate is real.”

“We’re in different programs,” you said quickly. “Different majors.”

“But same building,” Suguru added. “Same department umbrella. We’ll probably end up with some overlapping electives.”

You nodded, unsure why your heart felt like it was skipping a beat.

“That’s cute,” Gojo said, smirking. “You two can go to uni together like a little couple—ow!”

Shoko had smacked the back of his head.

“I think it’s great,” she said, giving you a sideways glance. “You won’t be totally alone.”

Gojo pouted, rubbing his head. “This is what I get for being observant.”

But you barely heard him. Your eyes met Suguru’s again, and for a second, neither of you looked away.

The sun had set, and Gojo’s house had thinned out as Shoko left early and Gojo fell asleep inside with a popsicle stick still in his hand.

You and Suguru lingered in the backyard, the air cool, the lights soft and golden overhead.

“I didn’t know you were going to Meiji,” he said quietly, seated next to you on one of the wooden benches.

“I didn’t tell many people,” you replied. “It wasn’t my first choice, to be honest. But when the results came in, it just felt… right.”

He nodded slowly. “Same.”

There was a pause, thoughtful but not uncomfortable.

“I’m glad we’ll be at the same place,” you admitted softly. “Even if we don’t have all the same classes.”

Suguru turned his head slightly, looking at you. “Yeah. Me too.”

His tone was warm, deeper than usual. Less guarded.

“You think we’ll still be close?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, not the polite kind, but the real one—the one you’d only seen a handful of times. “If you let me be.”

You laughed quietly, feeling your chest warm. “I was gonna say the same to you.”

You sat there for a while in silence, just listening to the breeze move through the trees and the distant hum of Tokyo nightlife.

And for the first time, the future didn’t seem so scary.

***

Second year in University

Somewhere between 8 a.m. philosophy lectures and 2 a.m. café runs, you and Suguru Geto had become inseparable.

You weren’t in the same program—he was knee-deep in Nietzsche and Zen Buddhism while you wrote essays on post-colonial literature and media theory—but your schedules always managed to overlap. Whether it was that one shared elective on Ethics and Aesthetics, or your favorite ramen spot just off campus, you found yourselves orbiting each other more often than not.

So when your lease was about to end and his roommate was transferring abroad, it started as a joke.

“We should just live together.”

“Honestly, yeah. You’re tolerable.”

“Tolerable? I’m delightful.”

You both laughed.

But then a week later, it wasn’t a joke anymore.

It was a simple 2LDK apartment near campus, modest but cozy. A narrow hallway led into a bright living room with a tiny balcony that overlooked the street below. Your room was on the left. His was on the right. Separate. Safe.

It felt practical. You already knew each other’s habits—his love for late-night herbal tea, your addiction to music while studying. You’d survived finals week together. If you could handle that, surely this would be a breeze.

That’s what you told yourselves.

The first month was easy.

You took turns cooking (he made weirdly perfect omelets, you had a magical touch with instant noodles). You kept separate bookshelves but somehow read half of each other’s titles anyway. You fought over laundry rotation like siblings and ended most nights sitting on the couch, watching something neither of you were really paying attention to.

There were no lines to cross because neither of you thought they existed.

Until they did.

You had a bad day.

The kind that stuck to your skin, heavy and quiet. A class presentation went terribly, a professor grilled you unfairly, and to top it off, it rained—and you’d forgotten your umbrella.

You walked into the apartment drenched and miserable, hoping Suguru wasn’t home.

He was.

He looked up from his place on the couch, brows knitting. “You’re soaked.”

You shrugged. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t. He could tell.

Without a word, he got up, disappeared into his room, and came back with a towel. You expected him to toss it to you, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood in front of you and gently started drying your hair.

“Sit down,” he murmured.

You sat, the air between you thick and quiet.

He knelt in front of you, carefully patting your shoulders dry, then held the towel around your arms like a shield.

And suddenly, it hit you.

This wasn’t normal.

Not really.

Not for roommates. Not for friends.

You were too aware of how close he was. Of how your heart beat just a little too fast when his fingers brushed your cheek.

He looked up at you.

And for a second, you thought—maybe—

But he stood up before anything could happen.

“I’ll make tea,” he said softly, disappearing into the kitchen.

Things didn’t change overnight.

But they did change.

There were moments. Fleeting, almost clumsy moments.

Like when you caught him staring at you during breakfast and he looked away too quickly. Or when your fingers brushed on the couch and neither of you moved. Or when you walked in on him asleep at his desk, his face relaxed in a way you’d never seen before, and you had the urge to brush the hair out of his eyes.

And then there were the silences. Longer, heavier.

Not awkward—but careful.

You didn’t talk about it.

You didn’t know how.

Because the truth was, moving in had seemed easy when you thought your feelings were neutral. When you believed friendship was the only thing you shared.

But now?

Now you weren’t sure.

You still laughed. You still teased each other. You still stayed up late watching bad movies and making fun of Gojo’s dramatic Instagram stories from New York.

But beneath it all was something unsaid.

You weren’t just roommates. You weren’t just friends.

Not anymore.

It was late. The kind of quiet that only exists past midnight, when the city felt like it belonged just to the two of you.

You were on the couch again, both half-watching a movie, half-scrolling your phones.

Then Suguru said your name.

You looked up. “Yeah?”

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you. Really looked at you.

“What… are we?” he asked.

You froze.

He continued, voice low. “This isn’t just… normal, right? What we have?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your throat felt tight.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

Suguru nodded slowly, his gaze dropping. “Yeah. Me neither.”

There was silence again. Not heavy this time, but fragile.

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his. He didn’t pull away.

But he didn’t move closer either.

“I’m scared,” you admitted quietly.

He looked at you. “Of what?”

“Of losing what we have. If we… ruin it.”

Suguru’s eyes softened. “Then let’s not rush it.”

You nodded.

He squeezed your hand gently.

And just like that, the moment passed again—but it stayed. In the way you sat a little closer afterward. In the way you looked at each other a little longer. In the way the air between you buzzed with something that wasn’t ready to be named yet.

***

It started innocently enough.

Just another quiet night in the apartment.

Suguru was in the kitchen washing mugs from your usual post-dinner tea, sleeves rolled up, hair loosely tied. You were sprawled on the couch, flipping through readings you weren’t actually reading.

He dried his hands and leaned against the counter.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Do you mind if I go to a mixer tomorrow night?”

You looked up, brows slightly furrowed. “A mixer?”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “My senior from the philosophy seminar invited me. It’s kind of a bonding thing. I couldn’t really say no.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why are you telling me this like you’re asking for permission?”

He gave a small laugh, avoiding your eyes for a second. “I guess… I just didn’t want us to have a misunderstanding.”

You stared at him, heart thudding a little louder than it should have. “Right. So you’re just letting me know.”

“Exactly.” He smiled faintly. “Just transparency between roommates.”

Roommates.

The word hit a little harder than you expected.

You nodded slowly, forcing a small smile. “Okay. Thanks for the transparency.”

Suguru chuckled softly and disappeared into his room.

You stared at the wall for a long time after that.

Next day

You didn’t expect to see him.

You told yourself you weren’t looking.

You had just finished a group meeting and were heading back across campus when you saw him in the café courtyard near the library.

Sitting at one of the tables. Laughing.

With a girl.

She was cute—pretty, actually. Shoulder-length hair, delicate features. She leaned in when she spoke, fingers brushing his arm. Suguru didn’t pull away. He smiled at her the same soft way he smiled at you when you handed him his favorite tea on bad days.

It made your stomach twist.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, but it was long enough to feel something bitter bloom in your chest.

You turned on your heel and walked away before he could notice you.

Suguru came home around nine.

You were in your room, pretending to read, headphones in but no music playing. You heard the front door open and close, heard the rustle of his coat, the familiar click of the fridge.

Then came the knock.

“Hey,” his voice came through the door. “You good?”

“Fine,” you said, not looking up.

Another pause.

“You ate already?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“…Alright. Just checking.”

You didn’t answer. After a few seconds, you heard him walk away.

Not a misunderstanding, my ass.

You weren’t mean. Just… cold.

Polite. Short answers. Neutral tone.

Suguru noticed immediately.

He tried to brush it off at first. Tried to joke with you in the mornings like usual. Tried to nudge your shoulder while passing by, make you laugh.

But when you barely looked at him, when your smiles didn’t reach your eyes, he started growing quieter too.

The air in the apartment turned heavy.

Dinner went from shared to separate.

Late-night conversations disappeared.

One night, you came home to find him asleep on the couch with the TV still on. You stood there for a second, watching the way his face looked tired—like he hadn’t been sleeping well.

And it hit you again, sharp and frustrating:

You missed him.

And you hated that you missed him.

Because you didn’t have a right to, did you?

You weren’t together. You never were.

He went to a mixer. He sat with a girl. He laughed. He was free to do that. You were just roommates.

But if that was true…

Then why did it feel like something was breaking?

***

[FaceTime Call – Shoko💉🩻 Incoming…]

Suguru flopped onto his bed, hoodie halfway over his head, a cold can of coffee in hand. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before sighing and lifting his phone.

The call connected. Shoko’s face popped up, lying sideways on her futon, a sheet mask clinging to her face and her cat sprawled across her chest.

“You look like you got ghosted by God,” she said, not even saying hello.

“I think she’s mad at me,” Suguru muttered.

Shoko didn’t even blink. “Define ‘she.’”

He gave her a flat look. “You know who.”

“Ohhhh,” she hummed, sitting up slightly. “What happened?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

He cracked open the can, took a slow sip. “She’s been acting… off. Short replies. Doesn’t look at me when we’re eating. She even moved my laundry from the machine without leaving a sticky note. She always leaves sticky notes.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Damn. No sticky note? That’s war.”

“I don’t get it,” Suguru said, staring down at the can in his hand. “We were fine the day before. Joking around, bickering about the dishes, she stole my hoodie again. And then… she just changed.”

Shoko paused. “Okay. What happened between then and now?”

He furrowed his brows. “I don’t know. I did go to a mixer that night. I told her about it, though. Said my senior was dragging me along.”

“You told her?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah. I didn’t want it to seem like I was sneaking off to meet someone. I told her it was just a thing I couldn’t refuse. She didn’t say anything weird about it. Just asked why I was telling her.”

Shoko let out a slow breath. “And at the mixer, you didn’t… do anything?”

“No!” he snapped. “I mean, I talked to people. I was polite. But I didn’t flirt, I didn’t give my number. I was probably the most boring person there. And I left early.”

Shoko tilted her head, considering. “Okay, so you told her you were going. You went. You came back. And then she got cold.”

“Exactly,” he said, exasperated. “She even stopped putting wasabi on my sushi.”

“Oh wow,” Shoko said solemnly. “Yeah, that’s serious.”

Before Suguru could respond—

“Is this the weekly sad-boy hour?”

Gojo’s face suddenly appeared on the screen, squishing into Shoko’s frame with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

Suguru blinked. “Wait—hold on—GOJO?! You're in Tokyo?!”

Gojo nodded through a mouthful of foam.

“Since when?!”

He shrugged. “Came in last night. Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t tell my parents either—so I’m crashing here.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward Shoko’s room. “Made myself a nest out of her clean laundry.”

“You WHAT?” Suguru exclaimed. “You didn’t even tell me?”

Gojo spit in a cup off-screen. “I didn’t tell her either. I just rang her doorbell and said ‘Surprise, homelessness!’”

“I thought he was a burglar,” Shoko muttered.

“I am a blessing,” Gojo corrected proudly.

“Hey,” Gojo grinned, “once you confess your undying love to your adorable roommate and she forgives you, the four of us can hang out again. Like old times! I’ll even wear pants this time.”

“No promises,” Shoko added under her breath.

Suguru groaned louder, dragging a hand down his face. “This is why I can’t have a proper emotional crisis. You two are feral.”

Gojo sobered slightly, pushing his sunglasses back onto his nose (indoors, at night). “But seriously. You need to talk to her. Whatever you’re afraid of, rejection, awkwardness, ruining the vibes — it’s already worse than it would be if you just said something.”

Shoko nodded. “You’re making her do all the emotional work in her head. That’s not fair.”

“She probably thinks you’re moving on or don’t care,” Gojo added. “Hell, maybe she even saw something you didn’t realize mattered.”

Suguru stared blankly at the screen. “So I confess?”

“YES,” they both said at once.

“And if she yells?”

“She won’t,” Shoko said.

“But if she does,” Gojo grinned, “record it. I want to use it as my ringtone.”

Suguru sighed. “God. Okay. I’ll talk to her. When I figure out how.”

“Good boy,” Gojo beamed.

“Oh, and if she kicks you out after, we’ll all live together,” Shoko deadpanned.

“Absolutely not,” Suguru said.

“I call top bunk!” Gojo cheered.

[Call Ended]

***

The apartment was quiet that evening. No study music humming in the background. No Gojo screaming from a FaceTime call. Just the occasional sound of cars passing outside their window and the soft ticking of the living room clock.

Suguru stood behind the couch, hands clenched at his sides, watching you from where you sat on the floor, laptop open, legs crossed under you.

He’d told himself this was the moment.

No more almosts. No more backing out.

He cleared his throat.

You looked up. “Yeah?”

He swallowed. “Can we talk?”

A pause. The kind of pause that said you’d been waiting.

“Sure,” you said, closing your laptop slowly. “What about?”

He moved to the other side of the couch, sitting awkwardly with one arm draped over the backrest. Not too far. Not too close.

“About… us.”

Your brow lifted, cautious.

“I mean—me. And you. Or… me and how I’ve been acting. And why you’ve been mad at me.” He cringed. “This is going great.”

You said nothing, just watching him quietly.

“I told you I was going to that mixer,” he continued. “Because I didn’t want to be sneaky. I didn’t want you to hear about it from someone else and think I was hiding it.”

“But you were,” you said softly.

Suguru froze.

You hugged your knees. “You told me, sure. But you also acted like it didn’t matter. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”

He blinked, guilt settling over his chest.

“And then I saw you the next day with that girl. Laughing. Talking.” Your voice was calm, but distant. “And I just thought… right. Of course. He’s charming. He can talk to anyone. He’s not mine to be mad about.”

Suguru inhaled sharply. “She asked me where I got my hoodie. That’s all.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“She was talking about how her brother has the same hoodie. I swear. I wasn’t even flirting. I left after ten minutes. I didn’t even want to go, I just—my senior dragged me into it.”

You looked away.

“And I told you because I wanted you to know. Because your opinion does matter,” he said quickly, urgently. “I didn’t know you saw us. I didn’t know you were hurt. But if I did—God—I would’ve explained everything.”

You were silent again, lips pressed together, gaze on the coffee table.

Suguru let out a breath and leaned forward, arms on his knees.

“I like you,” he said simply. “I don’t know when it started. I just remember suddenly realizing how quiet everything felt when you weren’t around. And how easy it was to share space with you. How normal it felt to build a life together, like—like we were already something.”

Your eyes flicked up to his.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought I’d ruin it,” he confessed. “But I think I already did. So I might as well just say it now: I like you. And not just in the oh-it’d-be-cute kind of way. I like you in the I-want-to-wake-up-in-the-same-cramped-apartment-and-fight-over-the-last-coffee-pod-for-years kind of way.”

There was a beat of silence.

You stared at him, slowly processing.

“…You’re an idiot.”

He winced. “That’s fair.”

“You could’ve just said all this instead of dramatically brooding for a week.”

He cracked a small smile. “I tried. I tripped over the rug.”

You finally laughed, and the tension cracked like a shell between you.

“I was mad,” you admitted, “but mostly I was confused. I thought I was imagining it — the way you looked at me. The way you always saved the last dumpling. Or waited up even when you pretended you weren’t.”

“Wasn’t pretending,” he muttered. “Just bad at sleeping.”

“Then maybe,” you said softly, “we’re both idiots.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. A pair of emotionally stunted idiots.”

You shifted a little closer, knees brushing his. “So… what now?”

He looked at you, gently, like you were something fragile he finally had the courage to reach for.

“Now,” he said, “we figure it out. Together.”

***

The izakaya was already buzzing when you and Suguru arrived. Shoko was seated at the booth with two drinks in front of her, scrolling through her phone like she hadn’t been waiting for fifteen minutes.

“Where’s Gojo?” you asked, slipping into the seat beside her.

Shoko didn’t look up. “Bathroom.”

You blinked. “Wait. Gojo’s here?”

Suguru, slipping in beside you, coughed into his hand.

“Yeah,” Shoko said simply.

“What? He’s in Tokyo?”

Now she looked up. “You didn’t know?”

You slowly turned your head to Suguru, who looked like a kid caught cheating during a quiz.

“…You knew?”

He winced. “Technically? Yes. I mean. It came up.”

You stared. “Suguru.”

“He made me promise not to tell you!” he protested. “He said, and I quote, ‘I want to see her face when I pop out like a sexy anime jump scare.’”

You blinked in pure disbelief.

“Wait—pop out—?”

Before you could finish, Gojo materialized from behind the booth like a gremlin in sunglasses and a blue button-up.

“Did someone miss me?” he said, jazz hands and all.

You screamed. Loudly. Shoko nearly spit out her drink.

“OH MY GOD—Gojo!”

“Surprise!,” he beamed, settling in next to Shoko like he hadn’t just given you a heart attack.

“You’ve been here?!”

“Uh-huh. Crashing at Shoko’s.”

You turned to her. “You let him live with you?”

Shoko shrugged. “He brings groceries. It’s fine.”

“I do! I even learned how to separate recycling. Tokyo changed me,” Gojo said solemnly.

You pointed an accusing finger at Suguru. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie,” he said, barely holding back a laugh. “I just… didn’t tell you.”

“That’s lying by omission!”

“It’s not illegal!”

Gojo wiggled his brows. “In my defense, this was way more fun.”

“I hate all of you,” you said, laughing despite yourself.

Shoko raised her glass. “Cheers to that.”

Later that night, after Gojo had successfully embarrassed everyone with a dramatic retelling of the time he got banned from karaoke (he swore it was for being “too talented”), you and Suguru stepped out for a breather. Again.

Same spot. Quiet sidewalk. The noise of the city just distant enough.

He leaned against the wall, side brushing yours.

“So,” you said, arms folded. “Everyone knew we were gonna end up together. Everyone knew Gojo was back. I’m starting to feel like I’m the problem.”

Suguru laughed softly. “You’re not.”

“You’re all bad at secrets.”

“We weren’t hiding it to be cruel,” he said, nudging your elbow. “Gojo just wanted drama. And Shoko only tolerates him because he takes out the trash.”

You snorted. “Okay. Fair.”

Then softer, “You still sure this won’t mess things up? With all of us?”

He turned to you, completely sincere.

“It’s never been messed up,” he said. “This? You and me? It’s what they’ve been rooting for since high school.”

You looked at him. “Really?”

“Shoko said we’re so compatible it’s annoying. Gojo said we’re his favorite slow burn.”

You groaned. “God.”

“I think we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath caught.

And then—unfortunately—

“ARE YOU TWO FLIRTING AGAIN?!” Gojo’s voice yelled from the window above. “GET A ROOM OR LET ME JOIN, I’M FEELING LONELY DOWN HERE.”

You and Suguru looked up, horrified. Gojo was literally hanging halfway out the second-floor window of the izakaya.

“WE HAVE TO MOVE,” you muttered.

Suguru sighed. “Yeah. New city. New identities.”

But his hand slid into yours, warm and sure.

And even with Gojo yelling above and Shoko pretending not to know either of you, it felt like the beginning of something incredibly right.

Three Years Later

The clink of glasses and hum of music buzzed beneath warm café lights. It was late evening—Tokyo’s skyline blinking lazily through the windows, and for the first time in a while, the four of you were together again.

Shoko sat back in her chair with a rare soft smile, her med school ID tucked halfway into her coat pocket, and Gojo, somehow still infuriatingly stylish despite inheriting a multi-billion yen business, was complaining about suit fabrics like it was a war crime.

“I swear, if one more tailor tells me this is ‘Italian wool,’ I’m going to have a breakdown.”

“You already had a breakdown,” Shoko deadpanned.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You are the only man who complains about tailored suits while sipping a 2,000-yen espresso.”

“Rich people problems,” Suguru muttered beside you, taking a quiet sip of his drink. His leg brushed yours under the table, gentle, familiar. Comforting.

“I’ve missed this,” you said softly, looking around the table. “Us.”

“About time we celebrated,” Shoko said, lifting her glass. “To finally being grown-ups. Somehow.”

“Debatable,” Gojo coughed.

“To surviving being grown-ups, then,” she corrected.

You all clinked glasses, laughter echoing.

Then Shoko leaned forward with a smirk. “So... when’s the wedding?”

Gojo nearly spit his drink. “Wait! Are we doing the reveal already? I thought we were going to build suspense. Like a drama.”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “What reveal?”

Shoko gestured with her eyes, at your hand, where the delicate ring shimmered faintly under the warm café lights.

“Oh,” you said, like it was nothing. “That.”

Gojo gasped. “You’re not even going to make it dramatic?”

“I wanted to mess with you a little longer,” Suguru mumbled beside you, trying not to smile.

“Wait, wait, hold on.” Gojo held up a hand. “So this whole time… you two are engaged? As in engaged engaged?”

Suguru leaned back with a rare grin. “Well. She did say yes.”

“I did,” you replied, resting your hand on his.

Shoko clinked her glass again. “Called it. Since high school.”

“You two were always so obvious,” Gojo added. “All that tension in the apartment, the ‘we’re just roommates’ phase, the slow burn agony... It was like watching a K-drama in real life.”

“I hate that you’re not wrong,” you muttered, but you were laughing.

Suguru looked at you then, fully. Eyes warm, soft, impossibly gentle in the glow of it all. You smiled back, and without a word, leaned forward to kiss him.

It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud. Just… real. Soft, familiar. Like something that had always been there, quietly waiting.

Gojo groaned dramatically. “Ugh, not this again. You’ve already been living together since college. You just added jewelry and joint tax benefits!”

Shoko snorted into her drink. “Can’t believe you two made domesticity look like foreplay for five years.”

Suguru sighed. “Regret coming out tonight.”

Gojo grinned. “Too late. You’re stuck with us. Legally, emotionally, and now, romantically official.”

Shoko rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“True. But also happy for them.” He smiled, tipping his glass toward you both. “Congrats, lovebirds.”

As the night wore on, stories flowed, laughter burst in waves, and you felt it again. That sense of home, right here, among them.

It took years. Misunderstandings. Silence. Growth. But in the end… you were never just friends.

#jujutsu kaisen #geto x reader #suguru geto x reader #jjk suguru #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu geto #jjk gojo #jjk shoko #x reader #jjk fanfic #fanfic #romance #friends to lovers #roommate #geto x y/n #suguru geto x you #suguru geto x y/n

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stzrgirl4norris · 46 minutes ago

Text

A Case Of You - LN4

Lando Norris x Psychologist!Reader

Summary: When McLaren noticed their precious golden boy driver was struggling to take his Championship seriously, they decided to hire a new psychologist to "fix" whatever problem he had. Turns out, the problems were about to become even more real.

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: smut, praising, degradation, softdom!lando.

(I am aware this is unprofessional and no psychologist would ever act in such way, this is purely for writing and entertainment purposes, I don't mean to disrespect anyone's profession or career 💙)

Lando didn’t want to admit it, but he had his knees shaking. As he walked the long corridor towards the room right at the very end, he was certain his legs were going to give out at any point. It wasn’t an unfamiliar path, he has done that for many, many years. But never after stupidly crashing against his teammate during a race in a fit of frustration. Never when he had everything to lose.

Zak Brown’s door was open, inviting him to come in. Lando felt like he was walking into his death sentence. He had no idea what waited beyond that door, maybe a lecture, screaming, someone telling him they would give the priority to Oscar, or that the contract wouldn’t be renovated - all those possibilities terrified his sleep.

However, coming into that minimalistic decorated room, he definitely did not expect to find a girl, sitting on a chair around the glass table, right in front of Andrea and Zak, catching a smile in both men’s faces.

“Well, hello, Lando! Come in!”

Usually, Zak’s fatherly voice would feel like a warm hug, but instead it sent shivers down Lando’s spine. Stepping into that room, he knew that whatever was waiting for him was a worse punishment than all the scenarios his anxiety drew in his mind.

You were sitting legs crossed in that chair, dressed in a fitted pair of jeans and exceptionally boring white t-shirt, a pair of ballet flats covering your feet. You didn’t stand up when the driver walked in, but gave him a polite smile.

“Hi, guys.” He didn’t sit, standing with his hands in his pockets next to your chair. “You wanted to talk?”

His eyes wandered towards you, waiting for you to leave and give the men privacy. But you didn’t move a single muscle.

“Yes, we did, sit down, please.”

Zak’s voice wasn’t scary. He seemed relaxed. Happy, even.

Lando sat on the chair by your side. He didn’t know whether to look at his bosses in front of him or to your cryptic figure.

“How are you, Lando?” Andrea finally directed himself to the driver, smiling like he was family.

“I’m good…” He was going to wait before saying something, but patience wasn’t Lando’s biggest asset. “Who is she?”

“Lando, this is YN.”

Zak introduced. You noticed how nervous the british boy was by your side, shoulders tense, neck rigid as if he slept on top of a hard mattress.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” You tried to give him your sweetest, most welcoming voice, to get him to relax a bit.

Funny thing is, Lando was sure he knew you from somewhere. Your face was strange, but your name sounded familiar. However, his mind couldn’t place the puzzle together.

“Hi?”

“She’s here to help you.”

And then it clicked. Lando has been complaining about his race engineer since race number two, definitely a bit more after Miami. He hated how bad he was getting screwed up with poor strategies this season, it was something he brought up every single team briefing, shamelessly. Suddenly, the brit gave you a big smile. Surely you must be everything he asked for, smart, intelligent, competent… And cute. It was his dream coming true. Maybe he should mess up a bit more if this was his “punishment”.

“Oh… I see… I feel bad for Will, though. Has he left already? I’d like to say goodbye, thank him for his work.”

“Will?”

Both Andrea and Brow had question marks all over their faces, thinking their driver had gone insane all of the sudden.

“Yeah… She’s my new engineer, right?”

Stella’s lips curled into an awkward smile, but Lando refused to believe he got it wrong.

“Look, boy…” Zak straightened his body to the chair, arms coming over the table, with that serious face Lando hated. “What happened on Sunday finally made Andrea and I sit down and talk. You and I have been together on this journey since 2019, you, more than anybody, know how hard we worked to give you a competitive car…”

Lando was breathing hard, unable to hide his discomfort, chest moving up and down quickly and rapidly.

“And now that you have it, you’re throwing your opportunities away.”

Andrea’s voice cut Zak’s speech with a sharpness that hurt. It was cold, too honest, too real.

“You’re unfocused, Lando. You get so desperate you make mistakes. I know that you want to win without changing yourself. I know that you’re a nice guy and don’t want to act like a douchebag. But right now, your self depreciation and lack of confidence is shoving you down a dark hole.”

Zak continued, finally managing to let out the words he carefully composed. You looked over to the driver on your left side, he was trying his best not to show any emotion, and failing, because you could see the ghost of a tear forming on the inside corner of his eyes, and his hands rubbing his knees with pressure.

“That’s not what I–”

“It’s time to face the harsh truth, Lando. It’s time to wake up.”

He looked from Andrea over to you. Eyes settling without the joy they had before.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

“I’m your new psychologist, Lando.”

Lando looked over the men across from him and let out a sarcastic chuckle, a dry laugh, dismissive.

“You hired me a twenty year old therapist?”

In Lando’s mind, there was no way you were good at your job. You looked young, too young to have experience. He probably had more years of dealing with anxiety than you had working. There was no way McLaren would put their trust in someone like you.

“YN was working with Ferrari last year, I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

His mind was clear. He did hear about you. You were a legend in Ferrari, Charles and Carlos always mentioned how sharp and good their team’s “psychologist” was. Lando always thought it was a dumb concept for a team to have a therapist, but no one ever mentioned saying a bad word about you. Until you made Vasseur cry in a meeting after he decided to let go of Carlos Sainz.

You were the golden girl, the genius behind the well being of the team, that was, of course, until you told the boss something he didn’t want to hear, then you were cut like disposable garbage. You didn’t take it to heart, you understood it perfectly. In fact, you didn’t expect a different behavior from the men in this sport.

When Zak Brown got caught in this tricky situation between Lando and Oscar, your name was the first one that popped. You were the solution to all his problems. A weapon. And even though you told both team principals that you can’t just fix people, it’s more complicated than that, they still viewed you as the secret to get Lando to focus again. Bring him back to his juvenile confidence and personality that wasn’t depressing or too harsh.

You knew Lando. Not directly, but you, sometimes, got the chance to observe him and draw very shallow conclusions. You didn’t see a boy who was lazy, or fragile, you saw a driver who cared too much and put so much pressure on himself that he lost his passion for the sport. Your goal wasn’t to fix Lando’s attitude, you wanted him to gain his sparkle back, and if that meant he would leave the job or McLaren for good, then so be it. But Zak and Andrea didn’t need to know that last part.

“I’ve heard she was fired from Ferrari, yeah?”

“It was their loss.”

Lando bliked, incredulous.

“I don’t fucking need a therapist, guys. I am just fine. Sure, yeah, I fucked up on Sunday, but I apologized and it’s not going to happen again.” His words were dry and uncaring, Lando was pissed. And then he turned to you, eyes frosty. “You can go make someone cry over Red Bull or Mercedes, I don’t care.”

“This is not a choice, boy. You are going to work with YN until the end of the season. The contract is signed, it’s done. This meeting is just to simply let you know.”

Lando sighed, hands running through his curls in frustration.

“This is a fucking joke.” Being fired would feel better.

“And if you don’t show up to talk to her at least once a week, we’re going to be forced to make Oscar a number 1 driver.”

No one out of the men noticed how you rolled your eyes. This type of behavior was everything you fought against. No one should be forced to talk or go to therapy, it was the opposite of productive. You realized you had a great deal of work ahead of you, not just with Lando, but with everyone on that team.

Lando was speechless, furious, and the smell of your perfume was making things worse.

“Are we done?”

Zak turned his attention to you, who were sitting still, unfazed by the display of feelings by the boy next to you.

“YN, do you want to add something?”

Lando rolled his eyes, refusing to look at you. Yet, you still turned your body towards him.

“I want to make a deal with you, Lando.” He hummed in response, staring at his feet like a child getting lectured by their parents. “Give me a chance for the next two races until summer break. You can meet me tomorrow, here, for our first session. Then, we can see each other every Friday before Free Practice and every Sunday after the race. After summer break I’ll let you choose whenever you want to talk, no forced sessions, I don’t want that. And if you absolutely hate me, I’ll let you kick me out before summer break.”

Lando took a deep breath, eyes closed. He firstly looked at the men in front of him, both physically unaware of your conditions, taken by surprise - which he loved to see. Then, his attention focused on you, with your perfect grin smile. Lando Norris loved a challenge, and he would love to prove to everyone that you were not the next Freud and he didn’t need saving.

“Ok, fine, whatever.”

You smiled, victorious. Zak clapped his hands, getting up from his seat, followed by Lando, who just stormed off the room without saying any proper words.

This one was going to be interesting.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · [next day] · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He’s late. Deliberately so. You knew it was on purpose, that he would do anything to get you to give up. But you could be as persistent and stubborn as him. There was no apology when the door creaked open, just the confident footsteps that weren't rushed. No guilt, no embarrassment, only sheer arrogance.

Lando Norris walked in like he owned the oxygen in the room, like he was doing you a favor by showing up at all. You didn’t move, didn’t even lift your gaze, keeping your eyes on the wall clock with mechanical indifference.

His eyes scanned the office, and you tracked every shift in his expression. The tiny furrow between his brows at the absence of any art, the twitch at the corners of his mouth when he saw only one chair, leather, black. Minimal. Impersonal. Surgical.

He failed to realize he was being read by the second he stepped in.

“No couch?” he murmured, finally. “Thought shrinks were supposed to have a couch.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who reclines easily.”

That got him a reaction - barely perceptible, though - only the curl of a lip and a faint twitch in his jaw. This was good, you wanted him slightly off balance.

Lando hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he sat, legs sprawled and arms folded, trying with his posture to adopt control. He wasn’t comfortable, he was performing. His breathing was calm, but his jaw was tight, a classic misdirection. He had been coached, media-trained, he knew exactly how to be a mirrorball, how to give people the exact version they needed to see.

Then, nothing. Not from him, not from you. The clock ticked; one second… Two…. Fifteen… Forty. By the time a full minute has passed, Lando started to fidget. Not enough to look restless, just enough to betray that he knew silence was a tactic. You, however, let it stretch a beat longer before speaking.

“They told me your problem was anxiety.” Your voice was smooth, analytical. “But… I just think you’re bored. Am I correct?”

His jaw tightened, eyes flashing to yours. That irritated him, mainly because you didn’t open the file that sat lonely over the table.

“You always diagnose people before they speak?” he shot at you, sharp edged.

“This is not a diagnosis.” You leaned back in your chair, hands folding together neatly in your lap. “I’m just stating what I see. You’re not here to talk, you’re here to check an obligation. Probably resentfully.”

“What, do you want me to cry?”

“Would that be productive for you?” You tilted your head.

“You tell me.”

You watched Lando with that same unnerving calm, enough to catch something charging behind his eyes.

“You like to provoke, Lando. I get it, it’s safer than being honest. That’s fine. Just know it’s not original.”

Lando let out a low, incredulous laugh and ran a hand over his face. He was amused, frustrated and profoundly annoyed.

“I get it…” he started. “You’re clever. Observant. Is that your thing?”

You didn’t answer, unfazed by his arrogance.

Lando shifted, legs drawing slightly closer together. Less performative now, less certain too. He didn’t know why he expected you to be… softer. Maybe the black turtleneck, maybe the voice… It was low, not quite monotone, but measured, like someone who doesn’t waste syllables. He couldn’t read you and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. You didn’t look impressed, not with the name or his status. You weren’t trying to fix him, not even trying to understand him. You were studying him., like a pattern. And fuck, he hated that.

“I’m here,” he said, eventually, shrugging. “Isn’t that the whole thing? I show up, you take notes and I nod when you say something deep.”

You didn’t blink.

“That’s the thing about taking notes, it implies compliance. But you walked in late, challenged the setting, and haven’t said a single word.”

“You haven’t asked a single question.”

You paused. Watched him.

“What do you want people to see when they look at you?”

Lando froze. Not because the question was profound, but because you asked it like you already knew the answer. And he didn’t.

“I don’t care what people see.” he lied.

The lie was in the deflection, the cocked eyebrow, the way his gaze slided to the wall instead of holding yours. Lando cared, desperately. In both the typical and nontypical way. He wanted adoration and control. He lived for the power over how the world digested him.

“You care more than you want to admit.”

Lando was bleeding from wounds he neglected. He wasn’t restless. He was untethered. That was different. He put himself on autopilot and called it ambition. You’ve seen this before, athletes who mistake identity for devotion, who confused success with passion. Lando was burned out and he was empty. And he knew it. But saying it out loud would shatter the version of himself he liked to pretend it was real.

The McLaren driver jerked forward slightly.

“Don’t make this about media or fame or whatever sob story you think I’ve got locked in here.” He tapped his temple like it’s all just noise. “I’m not your pet project.”

“I don’t work with pet projects,” you replied.

“I’m not suffering either,” he muttered.

“I never said you were” You leaned forward, elbows on the desk now, eyes locked with his. “You used to be very active on social media.”

“Is that your diagnosis?” he shot back. “Not chronically online enough for you?”

“No. My diagnosis is that you’re pretending you love a version of your life that doesn’t feed you anymore.”

Lando stood up suddenly. Chair scraping against the floor, loud and sharp.

“This is bullshit.”

You watched the door, but he didn’t walk out. Lando wanted to escape, but not necessarily the room. The problem wasn’t you, it was the implication that someone might see the things he worked so hard to bury.

“You’re not scared of failure,” you continued, voice like velvet draped over a blade. “You’re scared of regretting wasting all your best years for nothing. And you are definitely scared of letting all those people down.”

He opened the door without a word, slamming it a second later. The escape wasn’t convincing.

You let the silence settle again, knowing you’ll have much fun over the next few days.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[race weekend - austria]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Hospitality units always smelled like nerves wrapped in espresso. The chill of the air conditioning never quite masked the heat of performance anxiety, or the mechanical rhythm of branding disguised as purpose.

You stood in the far corner. Out of the camera’s eye and journalists, just watching.

Lando moved like a pattern– smooth, repetitive, curated to look casual. But there was nothing casual about the way his fingers wrapped his gloves. Same stretch, same angle. Peel. Rewrap. Tighten. Peel again. His brow furrowed just slightly when the tape didn’t lie flat. Left hand. Right hand. Repeat.

He hadn't spoken to you since the session. But, again, you didn’t expect him to. However, the thing about tension - real, buried, humming tension - was that it always found a leak.

You watched the next cue: pacing. Not frantic, but measured. Four steps forward, pivot, four steps back. Always the same distance, as if he needed to feel in control of something. His headphones were clamped around his ears like they were a shield.

You recognized it. The compulsions, the rituals dressed up as preparation. Superstition repackaged as focus. And you weren’t the only one watching. Oscar stood near him, arms crossed, sipping a bottle of water. Familiar and easy. The kind of closeness that came from years of knowing without having to ask.

“Every ritual becomes a prison if you don’t know why you need it.”

The silence broke like glass.

Oscar blinked, while Lando froze mid-wrap. He pulled his headphones down slowly. Not confusion, calculation. The air changed. The brit looked at you like you’d stuck a finger in a live wire just to see if he’d twitch.

“What did you just say?” he asked, low.

You didn’t repeat it. You just held his gaze. Oscar shifted slightly, as if he could already sense the storm brewing behind Lando’s collar.

Lando took a step toward you. Not aggressive, but he was trying his best to be intimidating, however, keeping it cool for Oscar’s benefit… And for his own.

“You really think it’s okay to psychoanalyze me in front of someone else?”

“I am not psychoanalyzing you.”

“Oh, right,” he said, voice laced with something between a laugh and a threat. “Because everything you say is just an observation, right? Unbiased. Clinical. Above it all.”

“Why are you angry?”

He stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the flare in his nostrils, the slight tremor in his fingers. He hadn’t finished taping his gloves, left one still loose, unfinished.

“You know what I think?” he asked, voice quiet now. “You like watching people suffer. You like peeling them open so you can feel powerful. That’s not therapy, you’re just a sadist with a degree.”

Oscar’s head turned sharply, looking away, he was uncomfortable to be witnessing this private moment.

“You tape your gloves the same way every time, wear your headphones like a shell, repeat the same pattern until it feels like certainty. That’s not preparation. You look like you’re about to enter the Coliseum.”

His face twitched. A flinch disguised as a smirk.

“You’re invasive,” he snapped. “Cold. A fraud.”

There it was. The crack. Small, but enough. And then he was walking away, jaw clenched, headphones swinging from his hand like a weapon he didn’t get to use.

Oscar lingered, gaze flicking between the empty space where Lando stood and you.

“Sorry about that, Oscar.” you said softly, for him and only him.

Oscar didn’t speak for a long moment, until he nodded. Half a shrug, half something softer. Like maybe he understood, or maybe he wanted to say something for a very long time. He followed after Lando. And you stood still, alone in the echo of tension you’d helped create.

Back in his driver room, Lando ripped the glove tape off like it had personally betrayed him. Meanwhile, Oscar leaned against the wall in the lounge, arms folded, a frown just under the surface of his quiet.

“You want to talk about it?”

Lando scoffed. “She thinks she knows everything. Thinks she can just say shit like that.”

“She didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lando turned, sharp.

“You do that thing with the gloves every single time. If the seam’s off, you start over. Every single time.”

“It’s called routine.” Lando paced, jaw tight.

“It’s called panic management,” Oscar said, soft but steady.

“She’s not a therapist,” Lando muttered.

“She is,” Oscar said. “And a good one.”

“Whose side are you on?”

Oscar didn’t reply. Just looked at him with those calm and familiar brown eyes that earned him a friendship over the years.

Lando exhaled, hard, giving up resistance.

“It’s not about the gloves.”

“I know.” Oscar nodded

And Lando didn’t say anything else. Because the gloves were just the tip of the iceberg, he just didn’t want to know what would happen when his cracks gave away completely.

Later that day, you found yourself in your hotel room, staring at the untouched file open on your laptop. Lando’s name at the top, followed by blank fields.

You could have written paragraphs. Pattern recognition, emotional triggers. But you didn’t. Because the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. You did strike without permission. You did expose him in front of someone he trusted. And you had felt something when he looked at you like that.

But he wasn’t wrong, and neither were you. You weren’t there to be liked, you were there to be honest. Even if it meant pressing a finger to the bruise no one else would touch.

You closed the laptop, silence settling around you, an enormous clue that you had to make things right.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After the race that weekend, the paddock was nearly empty. Race was over, the press was done, the champagne dried.

You sat in the reserved team debrief room, the one tucked behind closed doors, unbranded, meant for sponsors and strategy meetings. This time the lightning was cold and there were only two chairs.

You didn’t check the time. You already knew he was late. On purpose. He made you wait, and you let him.

When Lando finally walked in, his race suit was peeled to his waist, fireproofs sticking to his skin, curls damp from the helmet. He shut the door behind him like the silence was part of the conversation.

You didn’t move and he didn’t sit.

“You’re early,” he joked, humourless.

“I’m always on time,” you replied.

“Bet that gets lonely.” He scoffed under his breath.

“Still angry?” You tilted your head.

“Nope.” He leaned against the wall instead of taking the seat. Arms crossed in a casual posture, unlike his eyes. “I’m curious… You said last time I was afraid of losing control, of the illusion cracking.”

You didn’t nod. You didn’t confirm. Those weren’t the words you used, it was just his confirmation bias working in your favour.

Lando moved closer.

“You always talk like you’re above it all. But you’re just as invested in being unreadable as the rest of us.”

“That’s not the same as pretending.”

“Isn’t it?” His mouth curled into something that almost looked like a smile, if you tilted your head the right way. “You ever think the reason you see through people is because you’re terrified someone might actually see through you?”

You didn’t answer.

Lando sat, finally. Elbows on knees. Exchanging his gaze between his hands and then back at you.

“You watch everything. Like you’re writing it all down in that head of yours. Every flinch, every tell. You think you’re safe because you’re the observer.”

“Sure, yeah, observation is a form of protection,” you admit, quietly, but unmoved by his attempt to getting you to crack.

“So is control,” he countered. “So is ritual.”

You said nothing, allowing the silence to grow, not giving him anything else. You weren’t the patient here.

He leaned back now, arms draped across the chair, but the tension had coiled itself under his skin. You could see it in the muscle twitch in his jaw, in the faint red line where the helmet had pressed too tight. His foot tapped, tap-tap-tap against the floor before he caught himself.

“I came in sixth,” Lando said it like it meant something different in this room than it did out there.

“I know.”

“I should’ve done better.”

“Why do you think that?”

He gave you a raised eyebrow in response.

“That’s my job? I should do good at my job.” he muttered.

“Is this all racing is for you? A job?”

You noticed how he tried his best to stay in his place instead of getting up and leaving.

“I’ve been thinking, you’ve got all these stories, all this insight. But no one really knows anything about you, do they?” Lando leaned closer. There was heat inside of him now. He was attacking this conversation like a challenge. “So let’s trade…” he started. “Why did Ferrari get rid of you?”

The question dropped like a loaded gun on the table, but your breath stayed steady.

“What have you heard?”

“That you said something about Sainz or Leclerc that made Vasseur cry.”

You slowly leaned into his space, where the tension turned into static, just enough to let your voice’s vibration reach his skin.

“I told Vasseur that replacing Carlos Sainz with Hamilton wasn’t going to fix all Ferrari’s problems.”

“But replacing Leclerc would?”

There was silence, excruciatingly loud. You leaned back and met his eyes. For the first time, the green wasn’t angry, they were searching.

The implication hung between you. You didn’t need to say more, and, frankly, Lando wouldn’t ask. You cracked the door open, and he had to decide whether to walk through or close it forever. But he couldn’t even offer you a smirk. Instead, his voice dropped to something quieter, however, not soft or gentle.

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“That’s not my problem,” you said. “I’m not here to be done with.”

He stared at you for a long time.

“Your presence is too much,” he stated. Then, after a beat, “But I don’t… hate it.”

It wasn’t a confession, but it was very close. The weight of something unnamed, curling in the silence like smoke.

“Lando, you need to understand that out of everyone in this team, I am the one you can be sure will always stand by your side.” You shot at him, emphasizing the correct words with precision.

He stared at you for a beat too long. Jaw tight. Breathing uneven, as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream.

“And what if I don’t want anyone to stand by me?”

His voice was sharp, but there was something underneath it, like the truth didn’t sit right in his chest, so he spat it out before it suffocated him.

It stung, but you smiled.

“Well, you still have to endure me for another week.”

He didn’t answer, but this time, when he left the room, he didn’t slam the door. Instead, Lando closed it like he was leaving a secret behind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[Silverstone]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The rain at Silverstone didn’t just fall, it poured. As if the track itself was exhaling all the pressure of the weekend in one weather rebellious event. You watched the storm without blinking, your reflection a ghost on the garage’s monitor screens.

You were soaking wet after getting caught by the storm on your way to the paddock, not like you moved to dry yourself, or brought an extra set of clothes. You stood like you were part of the infrastructure, just another column holding up the roof, head tilted, jacket hugging your body uncomfortably.

And then he found you. Lando. You didn’t look at him, not at first, but you felt the moment he crossed into your atmosphere. That internal barometer dipped. The air tightened.

You were there. Of course you were. Like you anticipated the storm, the delay in free practice, to give you two more time to talk. And when he saw you, soaked through, still as stone, every word he rehearsed to annoy you fell flat. So he said the first true thing that came to mind:

“You don’t look waterproof.”

You arched a brow.

“No shit.”

His lip twitched. He wasn’t expecting a reaction. Not out of this.

He moved closer, not deliberately. But close enough that he could see the rain collecting in the hollow of your throat. See how you hadn’t bothered to wipe the mascara smudge beneath your right eye.

“I thought psychologists would rather stay dry in their boring glass rooms.”

“It’s nice to remind myself that I am not a robot sometimes,” you softened. Lando almost laughed at your stupid joke. “Why are you here?”

“Jesus, woman, does everything need to have a reason for you?”

“Everything usually does.” You looked him dead in the eyes, the green morphing into some kind of grayish-blue. “Especially to you.”

Lando let the tension between your words sit tight and occupy space. You said it clinically, objectively, but he felt a weird weight in it.

“Are all therapists hard to read like you?” he asked, not provoking, just out of curiosity.

“You are aware that I’m a human being, right, Lando?”

Your eyes locked. There were only a few inches between you. The sound of rain was hammering metal. There was so much noise around, the buzz of garage equipment, engineers in motion. However, the stillness between you was louder than anything.

He reached up, adjusting the strap on his fireproofs. It was a pointless gesture, something to do with his hands. You caught the tell.

“Does it help?” you asked.

“What?”

“The fidgeting.”

“Does watching me do it turns you on or something?” He chuckled.

“No,” you said softly. “That would be unprofessional, wouldn’t it?”

You weren’t sure when his hand brushed against yours. It wasn’t incidental. You could pretend it was, but that wouldn’t explain the way his knuckles lingered, warm and damp from the rain, grazing yours with the kind of reverence that didn’t belong in a place like this. In a garage that smelled like rubber and nerves and burnt ambition.

No. That touch was intentional in denial, criminal in restraint. The backs of your fingers barely touched, it wouldn’t even register on a thermal camera, but it set your blood to boil. You didn’t move away. Neither did he. His pinky curled ever so slightly and now the side of his hand was flush against yours. The contact was so small it could be dismissed, but so intimate it felt indecent.

Lando tilted his head, just a little, like he was trying to read a language only your body spoke.

“You always this quiet when someone touches you?” he murmured.

His voice was lower than it should’ve been. Close. Not quite a whisper, nor quite a dare.

“Depends on who’s doing the touching.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes. Something feral and curious. Something he hadn’t quite decided to like or hate yet.

Lando didn’t move away. His breath was shallow now. Your hand still against his. Your shoulder close enough to his chest that you could feel the residual heat radiating off his suit. You could’ve said a thousand things. You could’ve asked him to step back. You could’ve told him this was a line you shouldn’t cross. But instead you said:

“You’re not angry anymore.”

He laughed, a bit shy.

“No. Just…” He paused, then swallowed hard.“…tired of pretending I am not intrigued by you.”

Your throat went dry. And for a moment — just one charged, godless second — you thought he might do it. Close the inch. Close the lie that this was being professional.

You leaned in by a breath. He did the same.

“Lando?”

The engineer’s voice sliced through the air like a barbed wire. The moment collapsed in on itself. You both jerked back — too fast. Like teenagers. Like something shameful had almost happened.

Lando cleared his throat, then ran a hand through his damp curls.

“Yeah?” His voice cracked. He didn’t fix it.

“They need you in sim.”

He nodded. Didn’t look at you again — not right away. But when he finally did, it wasn’t angry. Or smug. It was longing.

You watched him go and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But your hand still burned where he touched it. And his did too.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[post-race session]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The air in the room felt heavier after the race. Dense, like it had gathered the weight of everything unspoken between you and the british driver. This was the final session, the last one before summer break, the last time you’d see him. You had both been counting down to it. Dreading it, maybe. But for different reasons.

The clock on the wall ticked too loud. The afternoon light couldn’t reach the inside of the room. You had set everything up like always: notebook open, pen placed carefully on top, two glasses of water. Predictable. Safe.

And then the door opened. Early. You looked up only to find Lando. No easy smile, no cocky quip. Just him. Quiet, raw in the edges, like something tender had been scraped open beneath the skin. His hair was still slightly damp, curling loosely at the ends. He wasn’t wearing the usual team hoodie, just a soft, thick gray hoodie, too oversized to his frame. His eyes found you and didn’t move away this time.

“Hey,” his voice was lower than usual, rougher.

“Hi.” Your voice came out thinner than you intended.

He walked in slowly, almost like he was afraid of startling you. Sat down on the carefully pulled chair, closer than usual. The chair creaked. His knee almost brushed yours under the small table. He didn’t lean back like he usually did. No forced posture of indifference. He just sat there and folded into himself, hands clasped in front of him.

You studied his face — the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dark circles under his eyes, the way his thumb kept rubbing over his knuckle. You recognized it. The exhaustion of someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” Lando finally said, barely above a whisper. “Kept thinking.”

You stayed quiet. You knew better than to fill the space.

His eyes darted to you briefly, then back to his hands.

“I’m tired of pretending it’s fun all the time,” he exhaled. “Like, I know everyone wants the show, the jokes, the stupid fucking memes, the smiling… But sometimes I wake up and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to… entertain.”

Your throat tightened.

He kept going, words spilling now.

“I used to love it. Racing, I mean. Not the circus. The driving, the feeling of… flying. But lately I —” His voice broke for half a second. “— I keep wondering if I’m losing it. If it’s slipping. Like, are these my good years or do I have none? Because, Oscar is fucking thriving out here, winning every damn race, and I feel so-”

He stopped himself. Looked away. You didn’t move. Not yet. You could feel the sharp edges under his words. The fear sitting behind the frustration.

“Average?” you completed, softly.

Lando flinched, just slightly. But there was relief in the honesty of it. He nodded once, eyes still averted.

You exhaled slowly. Let the moment hang.

“Lando...” Your voice was steady, almost a whisper, but firm. “Who you are is not measured by what Oscar wins. And it’s not measured by what they say about you, either.”

You watched him closely. His jaw tightened. His shoulders pulled inward, like he was bracing for the familiar storm.

“The public, the comments, the headlines, the noise… They turn every race into a ranking of your worth. They decide who’s rising and who’s falling. Who’s beloved and who’s mocked. But that narrative isn’t truth, Lando. It’s projection. It’s temporary.”

He blinked, hard. His hands rubbed over each other, fingers fidgeting.

“When you start believing that every mistake confirms what they say… that you’re not good enough, that you’re falling behind, that you’re a disappointment, you hand your identity over to people who don’t even know you. Oscar isn’t your measuring stick. And neither are they. You’re not broken because you care about how they see you… But you’ll break yourself trying to make them love you. They don’t get to decide your value. You do.”

His breathing slowed, as though the words were unraveling something tight inside his chest.

“You’re allowed to want more, Lando. You’re allowed to feel frustrated. But you’re not failing because someone else is thriving. That’s not how worth works.”

Lando gathered the courage to look over you. The look in his eyes was as if something had collapsed and bloomed all at once.

“I care too much,” he whispered. “I know I do. About what people think. About what it means. About being enough. And I fucking hate that I care.”

You swallowed hard.

You felt your own walls shift then. The carefully cultivated distance bending under the weight of his vulnerability. Then, very slowly, almost before you realized you were doing it, your hand lifted. You reached across the small space between you and your fingers found his, resting lightly at first, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to touch him. His knuckles were warm under your skin.

The contact was small, professional enough that you could pretend — if you wanted — that it meant nothing. But it lingered. Longer than it should have.

His head lowered slightly, almost imperceptibly leaning into your hand, like he was starving for that single point of contact. Like it anchored him.

The room was thick with something neither of you named. And for the first time since this had begun, you felt a door opening.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” he murmured. “Weak.”

“You’re not weak.” Your thumb moved, the tiniest stroke against his knuckle, deliberate now.

His eyes closed for a second. You watched his lashes flutter, his breathing slowing, deepening like he was grounding himself in your touch.

“I don’t want this to end,” he said quietly, barely audible.

You should have pulled your hand back. You didn’t. Instead, his fingers intertwined yours, fitting perfectly in between, charging your touch with heat. And you realized you didn’t want it to end either.

The door closed behind him and you sat there for a long moment breathing into the silence trying to collect yourself but your pulse kept rising, your fingertips still tingling from where you touched him as if his warmth had branded your skin and maybe it had. Maybe that was the problem.

You stood slowly. Your legs unsteady like you had walked too close to something dangerous and inhaled too much of it. The weight of the session still clinging to your bones, but there was something else now, something heavier, hotter, curling at the base of your spine

You went immediately back to your hotel. The elevator was quiet. The hallway even quieter. The muted beige carpet, the soft overhead lights, the stillness of expensive sterility, and, yet, your head felt loud, like static roaring under your skin.

You walked faster, as if outrunning the friction inside you. Then you heard it behind you. Your name. Not loud, but enough to stop you, like gravity, like an invisible hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you backwards. You closed your eyes once, briefly, because you already knew it was him.

You turned slowly. Lando stood a few steps behind. Hands in the pockets of that same thick hoodie. His hair a little more unruly now. His eyes locked on you, not playful, not teasing, just burning quietly, as if something inside him had finally slipped free and he couldn’t put it back.

“You shouldn’t be here” your voice came out low barely steady “This isn’t appropriate.”

Lando didn’t answer at first, he just stared and in that stare was everything you weren’t supposed to acknowledge. The unraveling threads, the slow smoldering pull that had been tightening between you for weeks, maybe from the very start. And you felt it humming under your skin, tightening your throat.

“I know.” he said, voice rougher than you had ever heard it, like sandpaper. “I know it’s not”

And still he didn’t move, didn’t leave, didn’t let you breathe.

You should have walked away. You should have shut it down. You were trained to. But you didn’t. Instead, you stood frozen, watching him watching you, and it felt like standing in the middle of a fuse burning too close to the detonation.

“Lando” you said again softer now, but there was a fracture in your voice, one you couldn’t quite control “Don’t do this.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the heat of him radiating in the small sterile space between you. And you hated yourself for not stepping back. Because part of you wanted to lose the grip you kept white-knuckled for so long.

“I’m not the only one doing something.” he whispered, “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny, to push him away with words, but nothing came out. Because the truth was bleeding too loudly under your skin. You wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you wanted to keep control, more than you wanted to stay professional, more than you wanted to stay safe.

Lando saw it in your silence and that was when he moved the last inch between you. His mouth crashed into yours, like something inevitable. Brutal, desperate. His hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish, like he was anchoring himself. And you answered it with a sharp intake of breath. Until you were kissing him back, hard, urgent, teeth and tongues clashing. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t tender, it was weeks of restraint collapsing in the smallest space possible.

It lasted seconds, or minutes, you couldn’t tell. But when you finally broke apart, you were both breathless, chests heavy, wide-eyed, like neither of you fully believed you had actually crossed the line.

“This shouldn’t have happened. This was a mistake.” you managed to say, but your voice shook when it left. And the way he looked at you made your stomach turn into knots, because he didn’t believe you.

“It’s only a mistake if you want it to be.” Lando stated quietly. Daring you to pretend and go against your urges.

You stared at him. Your back against the hotel door. Your heartbeat thundering in your throat. You wanted to pull him in and you wanted to slam the door shut on this whole thing. Both impulses fighting like wild animals inside you.

Instead you turned the handle, opened the door behind you, letting the warm dim light spill out into the hallway.

“If you walk in here,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I stop being your psychologist.”

Lando didn’t move for a second but his eyes never left yours, sharp, unflinching, full of something dangerous and hungry.

“I never planned for you to be my psychologist after summer break, either way.”

And for a moment the world hung perfectly still between you.

You didn’t know who moved first, or if you even had time to decide, because suddenly he was in the room and the door clicked shut behind him. The space shrank around you like the air had been sucked out, and all you could feel was him standing too close, too warm, too dangerous.

Lando was watching you like you were something fragile about to break, but his hands found your hips anyway. It was like being pulled into a current too strong to resist, like your whole body had been waiting for this to happen no matter how many times your mind said no.

Your back hit the wall softly, but it was enough to make you gasp, and that sound broke him. Whatever thin thread of patience he had left, it snapped. His mouth was on yours again, hungrier, rougher, his teeth grazing your lower lip, and you let him, because you were tired of controlling everything, tired of carrying the weight of being careful and detached and safe.

Lando’s hands slid up under your blouse, fingertips skating over your ribs as if memorizing every line of you, like he didn’t want to waste a single inch. Your skin burned under his touch. You arched into him without meaning to, and you felt him groan, low in his throat, against your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re driving me insane,” he whispered, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and uneven. “I tried to be good. I really fucking tried.”

You didn’t answer, because your hands were already tugging at the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one desperate motion. When it was gone, you stared for a beat at the way his chest rose and fell, his skin flushed with heat, the sharp lines of muscle under soft light. And then he was pulling your blouse over your head too, fingers quick and frantic.

“But you look so perfect for me,” he whispered almost reverently, hands sliding down your sides, thumbs grazing the soft curve of your waist. “Need to make you mine.”

The moment your skin met his fully, it was like setting fire to something too dry, too starved to survive. Lando pressed his body against yours, pinning you against the wall, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss down your throat. Slow at first, tasting you like he wanted to savor every pulse beneath your skin.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as his mouth reached your collarbone and lower, teeth grazing the swell of your breast. You hissed softly, feeling your control unraveling into ribbons falling at your feet.

“Lan…”

“Say it,” he rasped against your skin, his voice hoarse, possessive. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me, Lando. Right here.” You barely recognized your own voice when it came out, breathless and shaking.

He groaned at that, like the words shattered something inside him.

“I knew it,” he whispered, voice sharp with need. “I fucking knew you wanted this. Tell me to stop.”

He whispered again, voice raw. But you couldn’t, because you didn’t want him to stop. You never wanted him to stop.

Instead, you pulled him closer, fingers curling into his hair, guiding him lower. Lando followed gladly, dropping to his knees like he belonged there, like he had been waiting for this moment as long as you had. His hands gripped your thighs firm enough to bruise, and then his mouth was on you, hot and wet and perfect.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” he groaned, voice muffled against your heat. “All this because of me, baby?”

Your head fell back against the wall, a moan escaping before you could catch it, and his tongue worked you open with deliberate strokes, patient at first and then increasingly greedy. You bucked into him, your legs trembling under the weight of it all.

“God, yes… just like that,” you gasped, one hand slamming against the wall behind you, the other tangled tight in his curls, holding him there like an anchor, like you needed him to keep you from falling apart completely.

“Look at you falling apart for me,” he murmured, pulling back just slightly to meet your gaze. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

He groaned into you, the vibrations making you cry out again, and his fingers joined his mouth, two of them sliding inside you easily, curling up to find the spot that made your knees buckle.

“Lan… Please, I’m so close…”

His tongue flicked relentlessly against your clit, sending you spiraling faster and faster until you came hard against him, shaking, breathless, the world splintering at the edges.

“There she is. That’s it, baby. Give it to me.”

But he didn’t stop, not really. Even as your body trembled, he kissed his way back up your stomach, your ribs, your throat, catching your mouth again like he couldn’t stand not touching you for even a second. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he pressed you harder into the wall.

“I need you,” he rasped against your lips, and you nodded, because so did you. “You think I’m done with you? We’re only getting started.”

You barely made it to the bed, his hands on your waist guiding you backwards, his pupils blown wide, his breathing ragged as he stripped out of the rest of his clothes. You followed, shedding everything like armor, until there was nothing left between you except raw need.

He hovered over you for a moment, one hand cupping your cheek, thumb tracing your lips like he was trying to memorize you one last time before you both crossed the line completely.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So messy. So perfect. Gonna save me, pretty girl?”

You didn’t give him a chance to hesitate. You reached for him, pulling him down until his body was flush with yours, skin to skin, heat radiating between you.

“You act so cold in that little office, and now you’re begging for my cock.”

You guided him to you slowly, his cock pressing against your entrance and then sliding in, deep, inch by aching inch, until he was fully inside you, and you both gasped at the sensation of finally, finally being exactly where you both wanted.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned into your ear, his voice ragged, desperate. “So fucking tight for me.”

He held still for a moment, forehead resting against yours as you both adjusted to the overwhelming intensity of it all. Then he started moving, slow, deep thrusts that made your breath hitch with every roll of his hips, filling you so completely it bordered on unbearable.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails raking down his back as his pace quickened, desperation bleeding into every movement, into every sound, into every gasp that filled the space between you.

“Tell me how much you need me,” he panted. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“Please… fill me up, Lan. I want to feel you everywhere.”

The hotel room around you disappeared — the walls, the ceiling, the world itself — nothing existed except this, except him, except the impossible friction building higher and higher until you were both on the edge again.

“This pretty little cunt was made for me, yeah?” he growled, his voice dark, his thrusts rougher now.

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice breaking apart as the coil inside you tightened. “Fuck… ruin me. I want you to ruin me.”

“Is that what you want? To get ruined? To be treated, finally, like you’re not above anyone?” You nodded your head frenetically, unable to hold back the sighs escaping your lips. “You shouldn’t be treated like a superior when you look this good underneath me.”

He whispered your name over and over, like a prayer, like an apology, like he couldn’t believe you were real, his voice broken and raw as his pace grew erratic, hips snapping into you with reckless desperation.

“Fuck, you’re perfect… you feel so perfect… so fucking tight around me,” he groaned, the words rasping against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Taking me so fucking well, baby. God, I can't… you make me lose my fucking mind.”

You clung to him with everything you had, nails digging into his slick back as the coil inside you tightened to a breaking point. His hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit without hesitation, circling it with frantic precision.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice strangled. “Please. I want to feel you lose it around me. I need it.”

The pressure snapped, beautifully, violently. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave you couldn’t control. You cried out his name, arching into him, your whole body trembling beneath the force of it, and it pulled him over the edge with you.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it. That’s my girl,” he groaned, burying himself deep one final time, his whole body shuddering as he came undone inside you. “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine.”

For a long time, neither of you moved, both panting, limbs tangled, hearts racing in sync, your skin damp with sweat, your bodies heavy against each other. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he tried to catch his breath, as though even now he couldn’t let you go.

You could still feel him pulsing inside you, the heat of him deep, claiming you in a way words never could. It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was everything you had told yourself you wouldn’t do. And still. You didn’t regret it.

But even as your breathing started to steady, you felt him twitch inside you, still hard, still desperate. His hands gripped your hips tighter, like he wasn’t done, like stopping now would destroy him completely.

“Lando…?” you whispered, breathless, but he didn’t answer.

Instead, Lando pulled out slowly, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before slamming back into you in one ruthless, unforgiving thrust that made your back arch and your breath catch in your throat.

“Shh,” he rasped against your ear, voice darker now, something raw and cracked leaking into his words. “I’m not fucking done with you.”

You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, your entire body already overstimulated and trembling, but you couldn’t stop him — didn’t want to stop him.

Lando started fucking into you hard, fast, the bed creaking beneath you as his frustrations bled into every violent snap of his hips.

“You think you can drive me crazy like this and I’ll just stop after one round?” he gritted out, his jaw tight. “I’ve been losing my fucking mind over you.”

He cut himself off with a brutal thrust that punched the air from your lungs.

“It’s too much– I can’t–”

“No, baby, you can. I know you can, come on. Be a good girl for me.”

You choked out, dizzy, overwhelmed, your head thrown back into the mattress. His hands grabbed you from under your knees, forcing your legs up, folding you open for him completely as he pounded into you even deeper, rougher, like he needed to break you apart just to put you back together again.

“Look at you,” he snarled, his face flushed, sweat dripping from his hairline, eyes wild. “You’re so fucking desperate for me now. Such a good little mess under me.”

He growled deep in his throat, bending forward to bite into the soft skin of your shoulder, marking you as his. His thrusts became animalistic, grunts tearing from his chest as he fucked you like this was his only way to survive.

“Fuck…yes…take it. Take all of me,” he groaned into your skin. “You make me so fucking crazy, baby. You make me lose my fucking mind.”

You could feel yourself tipping again, that sharp edge pulling tighter with every brutal stroke, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every hard thrust. His dirty words filled your head, flooding your senses until you couldn’t think anymore. You were nothing but sensation, nothing but him.

“You’re gonna come again for me, aren’t you?” he demanded, voice strained. “Gonna milk my cock like the filthy girl you are.”

“Yes, yes. Fuck, I can’t—” you cried, barely able to form words anymore as the second orgasm slammed into you, harder than the first, your whole body convulsing around him.

He cursed under his breath, losing all rhythm as your spasming walls dragged him over the edge with you. His hips stuttered, cock pulsing deep inside you again, filling you until you felt the hot, wet rush of him coating your walls.

Lando hissed through gritted teeth, hands gripping you like he was terrified you might vanish beneath him.

The driver collapsed on top of you, panting, trembling, both of you soaked in sweat and flushed beyond repair. The world spun around you, but all you could feel was him. Still inside you. Still holding you like his entire sanity was hanging by a thread.

For a long time, all you could hear was your combined breathing, sharp and uneven, hearts still racing wildly against each other’s chests. His lips brushed your temple, softer now, but no less desperate.

His lips brushed your temple, softer now, but no less desperate.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw. “I don’t want to.”

But even as the words left his mouth, you felt him harden inside you again, impossibly fast, his cock still buried deep, twitching with need.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hips started to move once more, slow at first, a deep, grinding roll that made you gasp.

“You feel that?” he murmured darkly, his lips dragging along your jaw, voice thick with obsession. “Still so fucking tight. Still squeezing me like you’re begging me to fill you again.”

Your body was beyond exhausted, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, but the feel of him, the low growl in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were his entire world, it set you on fire all over again.

“Lando… I–”

“Shh.” His hand wrapped around your throat gently but firm, forcing your eyes on him. “No more thinking. Just take it. Let me fucking use you, baby. You need this just as much as I do.”

His thrusts turned brutal again, sharp, unrelenting, his frustration bleeding out with every savage snap of his hips. The bed groaned beneath you, headboard slamming softly against the wall in rhythm with his movements.

“Fucking hell… All this time I’ve been losing my mind watching you act untouchable,” he growled, the words pouring out like venom as he fucked deeper, harder. “Provoking me like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Wearing those tight little skirts, standing so fucking close… you knew, didn’t you?”

You whimpered, completely wrecked under him, your hands gripping his biceps like they were your only anchor.

“Say it,” he demanded through clenched teeth, voice shaking. “You knew what you were doing to me.”

“I…I knew,” you sobbed, your voice high and broken. “I wanted you to want me like this.”

“You wanted me fucking obsessed,” he snapped, hand tightening around your throat just enough to make you dizzy, his eyes dark with something dangerous. “Well, congratulations, baby, you got me. You fucking got me.”

He slammed into you mercilessly, raw and possessive, sweat dripping from his brow, his teeth gritted as he chased another high like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“You’re mine,” he hissed. “Every fucking part of you. This perfect cunt? Mine. These sounds you make? Mine. That sweet face when you’re about to break? Fucking mine.”

Tears blurred your vision, from pleasure, from overstimulation, from the overwhelming weight of his voice, his body, his claim. You felt like you were floating somewhere between pain and ecstasy, the brutal rhythm pulling you under again.

“Touch yourself for me,” he ordered, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “Come on. Rub that little clit while I ruin you.”

Your hand shook as you obeyed, fingers finding the swollen bud, barely able to keep a rhythm with the way his cock was splitting you open with every relentless thrust.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he praised, voice breaking, filthy and loving all at once. “Look at you, taking me like you were made for it. You’re fucking perfect, you hear me? I don’t care what anyone says. Never letting you go.”

The pressure coiled fast, too fast, your entire body a live wire beneath him.

“Lan…I…Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Come again,” he demanded, snapping his hips harder. “Fucking soak my cock while I fill you up one more time.”

You shattered with a scream, your body convulsing violently, walls clenching around him so tight it dragged him over the edge with you instantly. His thrusts grew erratic, desperate, hips grinding deep as he emptied himself inside you once more, his growl low and primal as he spilled every last drop.

“Fuck yes, baby, take all of me.” his voice cracked into a moan, breath ragged as he collapsed on top of you, trembling.

For a moment, it was pure chaos, shaking limbs, wet skin, breathless sobs, broken words whispered into flushed skin. His fingers tangled into your hair, forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to crawl inside your body, like even this wasn’t close enough.

“You’re never leaving me,” he whispered, voice hoarse and soft, trembling from exhaustion and raw obsession. “You hear me? I’ll fucking lose my mind if you ever leave me.”

You couldn’t speak. You could only nod, clinging to him with what little strength you had left, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

When your bodies finally stilled, the room was drenched in sweat and shadows, the silence punctuated only by the harsh rhythm of your breathing. His chest rose and fell against your back as he held you, like if he let go, you’d vanish into the night.

Neither of you spoke. Words felt dangerous now. Fragile. Useless.

Lando’s fingers traced slow, reverent circles on your thigh, his touch softer than it had been all night, almost childlike in its tenderness. But beneath it, you felt the storm still simmering inside him, wild and unresolved, because this hadn’t been just sex. Not for him. Not anymore.

His voice finally broke through the quiet, low and hoarse, as if it physically hurt him to speak.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” You swallowed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He shifted behind you, his grip tightening. “Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Don’t go silent on me. Not after this.” His lips brushed your shoulder. “Please.”

The desperation bled through his voice in ways he couldn’t control — the thin veneer of control he always wore around everyone else completely shattered now. You were seeing him entirely raw, entirely exposed. No podium smiles. No charming interviews. Just Lando, young, reckless, obsessive, scared.

You turned your head slowly to meet his eyes. They were wide, feverish, and almost glassy. He already knew.

“I don’t know if I can stay,” you whispered. The truth tasted bitter in your mouth. “We crossed too many lines tonight.”

His brows knitted together, the panic blooming fast beneath his carefully masked expression.

“But you wanted this,” he rasped. “You wanted me. You want me.”

Your throat tightened.

“That doesn’t mean it’s right.”

“I don’t fucking care if it’s right,” the boy snapped, voice rising for the first time, raw emotion cracking beneath it. “I care about you. About us. Don’t hide behind your rules now. You think I can just go back to pretending after this? After finally touching you, tasting you, having you?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply, trying to hold yourself together as his words cut into you. Lando was right. You had wanted him. You still did. Every fiber of your body screamed for him. But that only made it worse.

“Lando… it’s not that simple.”

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as frustration burned in his chest. He sat up abruptly, scrubbing his hand through his damp hair, pacing at the edge of the bed. The sheets slipped down your bare body as you watched him, your pulse pounding.

“You’re scared,” he said bitterly. “You’re fucking terrified.”

“Of course I am!” The words tore out of you louder than intended. “I’m your psychologist, Lando. I have a professional obligation—”

He spun toward you, eyes sharp and dark.

“Not anymore.” The air went still. You blinked. He softened almost immediately, his chest heaving. “Don’t make this the end. Don’t let tonight be… nothing.” His voice broke. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll never tell a fucking soul. Just don’t walk away.”

The weight of his desperation suffocated you. His words, his eyes, his entire body language screamed one thing louder than anything else: I need you.

But your mind was already pulling away, because you saw the inevitable consequences spiraling ahead like some cruel domino effect that neither of you could stop once it started.

Lando reached for your hand, gripping it like a man gripping a lifeline.

“You don’t have to fix me anymore. Just stay.”

You let him hold your hand, let him believe — for one more fleeting second — that this could somehow work. That this night could exist safely outside the world you both belonged to. But deep inside, you already knew.

You squeezed his hand softly, your voice barely a whisper.

“I need time.”

His face fell, just slightly. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding like he understood. But you saw the panic still swirling under his skin, fighting for breath.

Later, while the early dawn crept through the thin hotel curtains, casting pale blue shadows over his sleeping face, you stood at the edge of the bed and watched him. Peaceful for once. Quiet. Unaware. His curls messy across the pillow, his bare chest rising and falling with slow, vulnerable breaths.

You memorized him like that.

By noon, the letter sat on the office desk.

“Effective immediately. Due to personal and ethical conflicts, I resign my position.”

You didn’t check your phone. You couldn’t.

You disappeared into summer break like a ghost slipping through the cracks of a world that had grown too dangerous. Away from paddocks. Away from McLaren. Away from him.

And yet, as the days stretched long and silent, as you stared out at unfamiliar skies in unfamiliar cities, you knew his hands still lingered on your skin, his words echoing like a heartbeat beneath your ribs.

You had left. But he wasn’t done.

Neither of you were done.

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