A Wandering Mind

Shay, 18, current fixation: blue lock, barely active, but feel free to chat about anime, art, music, & writing

[the5thnightjar]

Hello!!

Shay, she/her, 18

I'm interested in art, poems, recently got into writing fanfiction, and psychology. typology: INTP, 5w4 so/sp 584, ILE (ENTp)

I welcome discussions on anime and any advice on my art/writing.

Navigation:

Art (tag)

Poems (tag)

Fanfics (masterlist)

[zeraxes]

Feline Physics.

Masterlist.

Chishiya x Reader.

You're pleasantly surprised by a feline visitor in your apartment. You're even more pleasantly surprised by his owner.

I decided it was high time I threw a cat at Chishiya.

4629 words.

Lovely people who wanted to be tagged: @9jloo @kimsri @s0ffelip0ffeli @van1shiro

Comments genuinely make my day <3

Enjoy!

You’re grumpy and running on fumes after a long day of studying when you come home, kicking your shoes off before making straight for the kitchen, dropping your bag on a chair without even looking. You can empty it after you’ve eaten.

You don’t make it to the kitchen before you’re interrupted by an indignant mraow, making you freeze before looking back at the cat who narrowly avoided your bag.

“Oh I’m so sorry!” You drop to your knees, holding out a hand. “I didn’t see you! I’m sorry!”

The cat hisses at you.

You grab your bag back, pulling out your left-over lunch and hold it out towards the cat. “I’m sorry, see?”

The cat hesitates, before cautiously moving closer, sniffing at the rolled egg before deeming it acceptable, grabbing it gracefully from your hand and jumping back on the empty again chair, where he eats with a satisfied look on its face.

It’s only then you remember that you do not own a cat.

He’s light gray with darker stripes all across its body, blue eyes and it wears a sleek white leather collar, which somehow seems pristine.

Huh.

You do recognise the cat, he used to be a stray you’d slowly won over using scraps of food before he one day disappeared, leaving you worried over his fate.

Looking at his clean, kept fur and his collar, it seems like someone took him in.

Good. You’d wanted to do so yourself, but your apartment complex has a strict no-pets policy.

“Seems like you found someone who takes care of you.” You tell the cat. This time he lets you reach out as his egg is finished, and sure enough, there is a tag on the collar. “Cheshire.” You read out loud, ignoring the phone number beneath it. “Fitting. You look healthy.”

Suddenly, your mood is a lot better. You’re relieved; you genuinely had worried about the animal.

He seems to have forgiven you for the bag incident as he allows you to pet him. “How did you even get in?” You muse as he begins to purr. 

As he’s a cat, he does not answer.

You grant yourself a few minutes before you pull away. “I have to eat myself.” You explain defensively as Cheshire looks indignant at that.

You keep an eye on him as you heat up your ramen. Would it be considered against the lease to have an animal as a visitor? You certainly didn’t let him in.

Cheshire stays until you’re done with eating, and while he pretends to not pay attention to you, you bet he’d been hoping for a morsel.

“Too many spices.” You apologise. “This wouldn’t be good for you.”

Once he realises there is no more food for him to find, he struts over to your front door, and loudly meows to get your attention.

He slips out without looking back the moment you open it for him.

You smile. That unexpected visitor certainly made your day a lot brighter.

He visits more often after that. Even though he slips inside without your help just fine (seriously, you can’t figure out how he gets in), he always meows for you at the door whenever he desires to leave.

You don’t mind. Technically he’s not your cat, so you’re not breaking your lease (you’ve decided), but you do buy a bag of kibble for him. And a bowl. And some toys.

You might have a soft spot for the little beast.

One day, you realise that while he might have once been a stray, he very much does have an owner now. Who might like to know that their cat is being fed by a stranger.

You have a phone number, but that’s no fun. Instead, you tear a piece of paper from your textbook. Then you crumple it in a ball, dissatisfied with what you wrote. You go with your third attempt.

“Hello! To Cheshire’s owner: he’s been visiting me for a few weeks now.

I’ve been feeding him as he’s very persuasive. I realised you might want to know (:”

As you wrap it around Cheshire’s collar, you realise the tag isn’t the only thing attached to it. There is what you assume to be a tracker as well.

You get your answer a day later. There is a piece of paper, non-teared, on Cheshire’s collar the next day. The kanji is neat, the words as straight as if they’d been on lined paper.

“There is a phone number on the nameplate you read. What kind of food? Specify the brand.”

Even though it impolitely lacks a greeting and the words are curt, you smile. You can feel the sarcasm coming off of that first sentence.

“I know.” You write back. “This is more fun.” But you do add the brand of kibble you’d bought. Then you add another smiley face.

Cheshire just lets the wrapping happen, although he does flick his tail to show his displeasure.

The next day as you come home from your studies, there is a plastic grocery store bag hanging from your doorknob. The handles are tied together with a piece of string, where a piece of paper is attached to as well.

You take it off right there in the hallway.

“Don’t feed Cheshire that anymore. Use this instead. Please update me on how much he’s eaten.”

Sure enough, inside the bag are cans of catfood stored. Wet, high quality, expensive catfood. 

You take it inside after some hesitation.

“How the hell does your owner know where I live?” You demand from Cheshire, who’s innocently cleaning his fur on the chair he’s claimed as his own.

You open one of the cans anyway, causing Cheshire’s ears to perk up at the familiar sound.

You tear another piece out of your notebook as the cat begins to eat, but you take a long time before you finally decide on what to write. The tracker might’ve given it away, but you live in an apartment complex. How could they know which floor?

You decide to be direct.

“How the hell do you know where I live?”

As you wrap it around Cheshire’s collar, you murmur: “I really hope you haven’t gotten me a stalker, Ches.”

The reply comes a day later on Cheshire’s collar. 

“You might have noticed Cheshire’s collar has a tracker.” Yes. You did. “That’s almost enough for your location, only the exact floor is lacking. But it’s simply resolved by noticing which floor Cheshire waits for me each day at the end of my shift.”

Oh.

That’s… fair enough.

And cute.

“You wait for your owner's shift to end?” You ask a Cheshire who ignores you as always.

There’s more on the other side of the paper. “I’m not interested in you at all, if you’re worried about a stalker. If I had been, I’d know your phone number by now. Yet still we use this inconvenient way of communication.

Please do add what you’ve fed my cat this time.”

Strangely enough, while the words are a bit short and direct, they assure you. Whoever wrote this isn’t acting affronted or diminishing your concern. Instead they wrote facts. With an air of smugness, yes, but it’s better than if he’d filled the note with insincere assurances.

So you decide that, while you will keep an eye out, you won’t assume malicious intent.

And they seem like they care about Cheshire. Enough to strictly control his feeding. You glance at the cat. He’s at a much healthier weight than he was as a stray. So clearly the owner is doing it right.

When Cheshire later that evening meows at you at the front door, you quickly attach your new note.

“He ate one of your cans both today and yesterday :) dw you don’t seem like a stalker. Don’t change my mind on that. Btw, doesn’t that imply you live here? I thought the complex doesn’t allow animals. My lease at least doesn’t.”

You wonder if you have to change your mind when you receive a response.

“It’s not allowed. Blackmail brings one far.”

It’s a joke, right? Surely they wouldn’t put it on paper if they actually blackmailed the landlord?

“I’ll ignore that.” You write back. “I bought Cheshire a ball that rattles when he pushes it. He’s so cute. He ate another can today.”

“You seem naive.” You get as an answer and… well. This person really doesn’t pull their punches, do they?

You like it. You often overthink how people perceive you, but not with Cheshire’s owner. They clearly would just tell you if they have a problem.

…Maybe you do overthink the limited contact you’ve had if you assume those kind of conclusions already.

There is a blot of ink on the usually flawless paper, indicating they hesitated before their next words. “Have you bought much for my cat?” 

Why is that something they hesitated on? Should you not have? Or maybe it’s because it’s the first time they inquired you about something unnecessary?

“Just a bowl.” That’s reasonable, right? “And some toys. I just couldn’t help myself. And I’m not that naive. I did not tell you my name.”

“I know your name. It’s written on your postbox, like with all residents. You spoil my cat.”

…Oops. “Then it’s only fair if you tell me yours. Cheshire deserves to be spoiled <3.” After some consideration, you add: “I used to feed him when he was still a stray. I’m happy he found someone who cares for him, so thank you for that.” 

“There is no reason for me to tell you my name. Nor is there to thank me. The cat simply appeared inside my home and neglected to leave.

~Chishiya Shuntaro.”

You feel giddy at that one. It’s silly. Very silly. But what information you got from the few notes tells you that this is someone who doesn’t open up easily. Yet he (assuming his gender on the name) still told you a tidbit he didn’t have to. He still gave you his name.

The next weeks, his notes, short and stilted as they are, keep being something in your day to look forwards to, together with the feline visitor.

You’re open in your own messages, adding smiley faces and telling Chishiya about something Cheshire did, or, after a few weeks, telling him tidbits about yourself.

He very rudely tells you he can’t care less, yet he keeps responding, so you keep writing.

Cheshire is purring on your lap as you’re pondering what to write this day, when suddenly, your room lights up yellow, and you look up in instinct to see the source. 

There is a huge ball of yellow and orange and gray growing in the direction of centre Tokyo. You don’t have time to comprehend, to believe, what you’re seeing before the shockwave hits you.

You pull Cheshire to your chest as you make yourself small when the world trembles around you and glass shatters and furniture is pushed away.

For long moments the world is silent. Then sirens ring in the distance and Cheshire scrambles out of your arms, ears flat against his head.

What just happened?

Was that a bomb?

Who the fuck would bomb Tokyo?

You stare at your broken window in disbelief, before you realise you’re bleeding.

The next few hours are hectic. You clean the (luckily shallow) gashes the glass gave you, before subjecting Cheshire to do the same. All the while you’re frantically attempting to call your family and friends, but no call goes through. A small, logical side of your brain reminds you that likely everyone is attempting the same.

It’s only then that you remember television exists, and you turn it on hastily.

A meteorite.

A fucking meteorite.

You stare in disbelief as the reporter starts to name suspected casualties. Thousands of people at least. Many more wounded. They’re talking about containing the fires, possible evacuations…

You’re not in those zones. You’re so very thankful you’re parents live on the city’s edge. 

Some of your friends don’t.

You don’t linger on that.

You leave your apartment, glass shards still scattered over the floor, as you hastily make for your parent’s place, leaving Cheshire outside to go to his owner’s place.

It’s late in the evening when you come back, your parent’s luckily alright. You spend the day helping them clear up the glass and blocking the holes in their walls that used to be windows.

The moment you step inside your apartment building, you’re greeted by a frantic meowing.

“Cheshire?” The cat presses against your legs before you reach out to lift him into your arms, petting him in an attempt to calm him down.

A foreboding feeling fills you.

And sure enough, over the next few days, Cheshire leaves your place often but always returns quickly. The only notes he brings you are ones you wrote yourself, containing a simple “Are you okay?”

You don’t catch the name of Chishiya Shuntaro on the endless list of deceased, but you don’t listen to the reporter droning on names after one of your friends is named.

You sit in your apartment, Cheshire on your lap, staring at nothing.

It feels so… surreal.

It takes days before phones work again. The first number you call is the one written on Cheshire’s tag.

Voicemail. Cheshire’s ears perk up at the low male voice that boredly tells you to call back later.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper towards the cat. What are you supposed to do with him? Your landlord won’t have suddenly changed her mind. Maybe your parents could take him?

For now, you’ll use the chaos to keep him for a bit. Maybe, just maybe, Chishiya Shuntaro is one of the wounded. Maybe he’s just not currently capable of picking up the phone.

Maybe he’ll return.

You don’t believe it, not with how many people you know are suddenly gone. Your next weeks consist of many funerals. It's weird, whenever you're out on the streets. Everyone around you knows someone who's suddenly and violently lost. It's like the air itself is more heavy with the weight of what happened.

It’s more than a month after the disaster that your doorbell rings. Looking through the peephole, you don’t recognise the man.

He’s handsome, long blond hair and dark brown eyes, a mole beneath his left. He’s wearing a pristine white jacket.

There have been a lot of desperate people ever since the impact. While this man does not look like one, you’d rather not open the door.

Until you realise Cheshire is meowing at your feet, scratching the door frantically.

Oh.

The moment you open the door, Cheshire is gone, purring loudly. The man, now fully in view, slowly looks down at the cat pressing himself against his legs, hand in his pockets, before his face changes into slight fondness.

“You’ve missed me, have you?” He crouched down, pulling one of his hands out of his pocket to hold it up towards Cheshire who immediately pushes his head against it, purring even louder. 

“Chishiya Shuntaro?” 

He lifts his head to look at you, slowly taking you in, as if considering something, still staying in his crouched position. “That is me. I assume you believed me dead?”

So he is as brazen in real life as in his messages. You smile, a rarity in the past few weeks. “I did. Do you want to come in?”

He tilts his head. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

You lead him towards the couch, where Cheshire can purr on his lap before you disappear into the kitchen to offer him a cup of tea.

“I called you.” You tell him before you sit down opposite of him. “You didn’t pick up.”

That seems to amuse him. “So it takes a meteorite for you to use a phone.” His next words are as nonchalant as if he’s naming groceries. “I got pierced by rebar here-” his hand goes to his shoulder, “and here.” It lowers to his abdomen. “It took out my phone as well on top of inducing a cardiac arrest. But it seems I’m one of the ‘lucky’ ones.” The word lucky is clearly mocking.

“I’m glad.” You tell him. “Scratch that. I’m happy. Really happy. That you’re alive.”

His eyes are on you, considering you. “You really mean that.” He muses, interested as if you’re an anomaly. “That makes you the only one.”

You blink. That can’t be true, can it? Does he not have parents? Friends? That’s not exactly something you can ask. Instead you say: “That’s not true. Look at how happy Cheshire is.”

His gaze lowers from your face towards the cat as he gives him a single pet. His purrs intensify, melting into Chishiya's touch. “That he is.” Then his gaze is back on you again. “Did you get hurt?”

“Just some scratches. Long healed.” You gesture towards the now-fixed windows. “There apparently have been reports of glass shattering even outside of the city limits.”

“There have.” He confirms, his eyes roaming the room as if calculating how the damage might have looked. “Did Cheshire get hurt?”

You blush slightly as you remember how you protected the cat with your body. “Just a single scratch.” You dismiss. “He was more scared than anything else.”

“Good.” He nods. Then, changing subject: “Do you have any games to play?”

The man is scarily smart, you discover after you pulled your favourite boardgame from your closet. It’s a game you’re used to winning in, yet you don’t stand a chance against Chishiya. He claims it’s his first time playing, yet he comes up with strategies you haven’t seen before.

It only makes him more attractive in your eyes.

You can’t help yourself. You’d enjoyed the notes, sure. You had fantasised a bit about the person on the other side being attractive, as it’d be a great meet-cute. 

You hadn’t expected him to actually be your age. Nor to be handsome. Even less to be this clever.

Worse, Cheshire is still sitting in his lap, and so now and then the man absentmindedly gives the cat a single pet.

It’s attractive. Very attractive.

It might just be your brain grasping onto anything good after the catastrophe, but you can’t help yourself.

The feeling grows worse when, during the next few weeks, Cheshire isn’t the only one who shows up in your apartment whenever you come home. Chishiya isn’t cleared to return to his shifts as a medical student (even more attractive) so that apparently means lounging around your space. He doesn’t even always come to interact with you, instead simply taking his studying material with him, reading and taking notes at your desk.

When you ask him why, he simply responds smugly, knowing the answer: “Do you want me to leave?”

Obviously not. It’s nice, coming home to someone else. 

You learn about him. He’s cold, stand-offish and often sarcastic. He has no qualms in telling you when you’re wrong.

Yet his sarcasm makes you laugh. His cold demeanor just means you melt whenever he crouches down to pet Cheshire. And you’ve spent a lot of time around people who say one thing but mean another. You don’t have to play that game with Chishiya.

He confides in you. Apparently, he’s felt different ever since his cardiac arrest. He wants to stop wasting his life.

You don’t see how he was, but you keep that to yourself. When you ask him how you can help him, he dismisses you. “You already are.”

As he does not elaborate, you have no idea how.

Until you remember he told you you were the only one happy he survived. 

Is it the friendship you offer that helps him?

That theory gets blown away when one day he shows up with a tall woman next to him. For a moment, you’re overcome with jealousy. Unfortunately, Chishiya definitely caught that, the corners of his lips going up in amusement before he introduces you to each other.

“This is Kuina.” He tells you. “She’s been hounding me ever since we met in the hospital. She claims we’re friends.”

“We are.” Kuina corrects him, smiling boisterously at you. “He just refuses to admit it. You know how he can be. He promised to show me Cheshire, but apparently his cat resides at your apartment during this time of the day. Can we come in?”

You let them.

Kuina is fun. You like her. “Chishiya has told me a lot about you.” She chatters. “Well, not that much. But for him? Definitely a lot.” You like her even more when she starts talking about this ‘Ann’ she clearly has feelings for, causing Chishiya to sigh.

Now you know why he brought her here: He, not so subtly, steers the conversation your way the moment Ann comes up. 

You fondly think of him an asshole.

“You could watch a movie with a sapphic couple in it to see her reaction.” You suggest when Kuina protests about simply asking her out, not even knowing if Ann falls for women. There’s something else she’s not saying that bothers her, but you don’t press.

Chishiya clearly has no interest in this, cutting Kuina off. “How about a deal? You ask Ann out and I’ll take her on a date.” He nods towards you.

You have to take a moment to make sure you processed that right, long enough for Kuina to answer. “In front of her? Really? That’s dirty, Chishiya.” Was that why they’d talked about you?

You hadn’t considered Chishiya being into you as well.

You’re proud of how even your voice is when you look at Kuina. “Please take that deal. I want him to take me out.”

Smugness radiates off of Chishiya. And sure enough, he turns up at your door a few days later, hands in pockets like always, and simply informs you he’s taking you to an expensive restaurant. Apparently Kuina successfully managed to ask her crush out.

“You’re not even asking?” You lean against the doorframe. 

“Why would I? You’d say yes.”

He’s right, of course.

The restaurant he takes you to is picture perfect, romantic with vines and candles. The food looks good, a wide assortiment of sushi is available.

You’d bet Chishiya did research. Or maybe Kuina gave him the spot. He’d never choose this place on his own.

As he’d hate it.

You know him well enough to recognise the hint of discomfort in his eyes.

You don't know him well enough yet to be sure as to what causes it. The other people? The setting? The date itself?

But you know he’s feeling it, so you get up from your chair. “Let’s leave.” 

He stills. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes. We’re both supposed to enjoy this. You clearly don’t. C’mon.”

He’s silent for a while as he walks behind you. It’s only when he sits down in the passenger chair of the car that he admits, his voice unusually low, “I don’t know how to do this.” You glance at him. His eyes are already on yours. “I’ve never even had a friend before you.”

“Dating doesn’t mean doing things you don’t enjoy, ‘Shiya.” You tell him, the nickname rolling off your tongue without a second thought. “Romantic settings are only enjoyable if we both enjoy them. How about we just get some take out? Our apartments are better than some cozy restaurant anyway. Cheshire is there.”

That hint of discomfort is gone, replaced by his lazy cockiness when he orders the food in the drive-through.

It’s only now that you realise how different he looks when not talking to you or Cheshire. You hadn’t noticed before how cold and empty his eyes can be.

Cheshire is waiting for the two of you at the door to the building, walking in front of you with an air that tries to suggest he’s just coincidentally going the same way.

“He’s supposed to be an indoor cat. Statistically indoor cats have a longer lifespan.” Chishiya confides in you as he opens the door to his apartment. “I haven’t managed to figure out how he keeps escaping.”

“Wait, really?” You step into his white and barren apartment. The only signs of personality are in the medical textbooks on the shelves, a single deck of playing cards on a table and some very out of place cat toys. “You can’t figure it out?”

Chishiya nods, closing the door behind you. “I put locks on the doors and the windows. There shouldn’t be anywhere else he could get out.”

You look at the cat, who blinks innocently in your direction. “I’ve never figured out how he got into my apartment either.” You admit. “I figured I was just overlooking something.”

“I’ll probably put up a camera.” He shrugs, putting the food on the table. “I would’ve done so earlier, but before the meteorite I was busy with my studies.”

He does not mention why he didn’t afterwards. “You don’t have to.” You start to unpack the food. “I enjoy him coming over. And I enjoy his owner following him.” You smile at him.

His eyes soften. “That doesn’t negate that there is a spot in my apartment I don’t know about that’s large enough for a cat to get in and out.” There is an undernote of humour in his voice.

You find the extra piece of salmon you’d ordered, feeding it to an expectant Cheshire while ignoring Chishiya’s tch. You innocently take a piece of maki yourself, as if you didn’t just feed the cat during dinner. “I don’t feed him human food for a reason.”

“He’s cute.” You argue. “I can’t say no to these eyes.”

“The fact that you ordered a loose piece of salmon meant this was premeditated.” Chishiya dryly states. 

“That only means I knew beforehand that I couldn’t say no to these eyes.” You shrug. Chishiya only clicks his tongue in answer.

You eat in silence for a while, simply enjoying each other’s company. It’s nice how comfortable it feels.

Chishiya is the one to break the silence. “I’m not a good person.” His tone is as casual as ever.

You blink. You did not expect that. “Not will I be a stereotypically good partner.” His eyes meet yours lazily. “I’m not romantic, and I have limited patience for touch or warmth. I’m certainly not particularly emotionally available.”

You frown. “Are you trying to scare me away?”

“No. I’d rather not, but you’ve only seen a limited side of me. It's better to lay the facts out upfront.” He puts his chopsticks down, his movements very carefully nonchalant.

You take his hand in your own, gently squeezing it. His head tilts, a curious look in his eyes as he observes you. It’s a similar look you’ve seen on Cheshire when the cat’s not sure what you’re doing.

“I might’ve seen only a limited side of you, but I really like what I’ve seen so far.” You run your thumb over his knuckles, enjoying the warmth coming off of his skin. “I don’t care whether you’re a good person, Chishiya. I care whether you’re good for me. Give me the chance to find out whether you are for myself. I have a feeling you will be. Flaws and all.”

Chishiya studies you. Then, slowly, he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your skin while maintaining eye contact. 

“Okay.” It’s all he says. Just a single, simple okay. But the soft look in his eyes, a stark contrast to the cold and empty look he’d given others earlier, is all you need to see.

Despite his words, you have a feeling this relationship will turn out just fine.

[if-loves]

say yes!

// vivien hugo x fem! reader

syn: the end of the france vs japan match has finally come, and in theory, you should be as distraught as the rest of the team. but somehow, despite the loss, you're still winning...?

wc: 1633

notes: fem pronouns / fluff / no y/n used / ooc hugo / some spoilers if you aren't caught up with the manga / miscommunication-ish / they're both still stupid your honor

a/n: now that the france vs japan match is finally over i can actually do sillier parts (jealous hugo anyone) / i used a translator for the french but if it's inaccurate/a better way to say it pls lmk!!

previous series masterlist next

your head was in your hands by the time the final whistle sounded, some parts mortified and other parts astounded. you weren't even playing and you felt like someone just poured a bucket of cold water on you and then laughed.

now, you're not exactly surprised that the score turned out as it did. it was blue lock after all, if they weren't winning by the skin of their teeth, then they would be losing by a painful margin. but you had faith in isagi to score an equaliser, hell, you're willing to bet that almost everyone watching was sure that he would've scored one too!

(yes, missed shots are one of the most common occurrences in football, but at such a crucial moment especially when there was already a high anticipation for a goal, who wouldn't be in shock?)

gone are your lingering thoughts about the Half-Time Incident™ (that is what you are officially dubbing it), instead there are only three words that remain: oh my god.

the unnecessary cherry on top to the missed goal is loki scoring another one all by himself with what little time that was left. if earlier was a public humiliation ritual, then you're not sure what this is because it blows out of the water by more than a few magnitudes. you just know that the locker room is going to be screaming bloody murder from all corners.

the egregiously large scoreboard hammers in the final nail to the coffin of the match, a blaring JAPAN VS FRANCE 2 - 4 rubbing salt in the fresh wound. would it be unprofessional of you to run away into the tunnel before the teams did?

as entertaining as the thought is, you are glued to your spot to watch the teams wave their final goodbyes. or rather, france waving theirs while japan hangs in despair. you can see loki yawning while hugo trails behind him, unintelligible words exchanged between them, no doubt about blue lock's shortcomings. in this state, you're not one to disagree.

isagi stops hugo from behind, an all too familiar look on his face that tells you he's far from defeated. sometimes you really wonder where he gets the audacity from, but that's blue lock's and by extension japan's poster boy, you guess. whatever words are being said result in what looks like a smile from hugo, and something about it makes you feel like you're seeing the eighth wonder of the world. when he turns around to follow the rest of his team into the tunnel, his eyes immediately search for you.

even among the crowd of people, he spots you within seconds, locking eyes with you. he's bathed in the afterglow of a win, the smallest smile on his face. his eyes seem to sparkle in the stadium lights, and… was hugo always this… pretty?

he doesn't approach you, of course not in such a public setting, but you can faintly see the movement of his arm as if he was trying to reach out to you. the distance between you however isn't one that can be overcome by the length of an arm, so instead his smile speaks for him. right before he enters the tunnel and disappears from your sight, his lashes flutter and the quickest wink is sent your way.

now, your face isn't warm from embarrassment anymore, but still warm from something else…

(must be the summer heat, you try to reason, but when you remember that cheeky smile, your face warms all over again.)

for some reason, hugo feels free in a way that winning a match hasn't given him in a long time.

he shouldn't feel this way, at least not to the extent that he does, after losing to isagi in a one-on-one. blue lock imploded on itself at the end, this much was to be expected, but that wasn't what has hugo feeling so… happy, is that the word for this?

ah, it must be because you were watching him, just like he wanted you to. and this time, you didn't run away.

hugo wanted to speak to you, to ask if he impressed you. to hear your voice call him, to see himself reflected in your eyes, to feel your hand in his again. quietly, he laments that he didn't get your contact.

the locker room is loud with celebration, everyone patting each other on the back and cheering loki's last goal. normally, he would at least participate, but this time, hugo can only sulk to himself. you were just here, he could've asked for your number…

"why do you look like you're sulking?" charles's voice pulls him back to the present, wide eyes staring at him with a towel hanging on his head, head tilted a little like a curious dog.

"…i'm not."

"you tooootally are!" the blonde giggles. "lemme guess why! hmm… it's cause you didn't get her number, right?"

"…"

"i'm right!" charles grins, before waving his phone in front of hugo's face. "weeeeeell… lucky for you, i have it!"

it would be a lie to say that hugo didn't perk up even just a little bit at his words. however, something in him said that asking for it from another person didn't feel quite so right.

"and i can give it to you for the low price of —"

"no thanks." hugo stands from the bench, phone in his pocket, and towel around his neck. charles's face morphs into one of surprise, and hugo can just about see the gears in his head turning, and mouth forming into an 'o' shape.

"you're gonna ask her yourself?!"

the answer is clear from the moment hugo stood up, and for some reason, his heart is pounding faster than it ever did for the entire match. only when he walked through the locker room's doors and into the tunnel did he realise that he, of all people, did not have a plan. first, for how he was going to find you, second, how he was going to ask you. what if you were in the japan locker room? there was no way he was going to check there, even he knows it would be insanely crazy if not disrespectful to do that. should he just wait outside like a weirdo…?

but just as destiny had planned your first meeting, destiny had predetermined this meeting too.

right outside france's locker room hallway, there you stand, outside of japan's locker room hallway. you have yet to notice him, engrossed in writing something on your tablet, so hugo takes this moment to admire you in your element.

your brows furrow in concentration, unconsciously chewing your bottom lip while your hand grips the stylus in your hand. small sounds of confusion from you are like music to his ears, and hugo can't help but think, wow, i really am in love with her.

apparently, hugo doesn't know that the connection between his thoughts and his mouth are but one in the same, and so those very same words he was just thinking of echo through the hallway.

"je suis vraiment amoureux d'elle." the words spill out before hugo even realises, and for a brief second he wonders who managed to read his thoughts. when it registers that it was in fact his own voice, his face suddenly feels a little too warm.

you stare at him, mouth agape. oh, the earbuds must've translated what he said…

"um, i wasn't wearing my earbuds… what did you say?" you ask timidly in english, hugging the tablet to your chest.

oh. so you didn't know what he said…

"don't worry about it," hugo dismisses your question, choosing to keep his thoughts to himself as they should have been in the first place.

"in that case, i'll be going…!" you make a move to walk into the labyrinth of hallways, but before you can, hugo catches your hand.

"don't go yet," he very nearly pleads, voice breathless. when it comes down to it, hugo is just like any other person; shy, and afraid of rejection from the one he loves.

you stop in your tracks, turning to face him. a sense of deja vu washes over him, and he's reminded of your first meeting.

"is there something i can help you, mr hugo?" hugo shakes his head in a wordless reply, still trying to find the words to properly say what he means.

"call me vivien." he murmurs, closing his eyes briefly, finally finding the words to say.

"i want to know you, far more than just this. so… could we exchange contacts?"

in hugo's defence, he's never done this before. (please go easy on him.)

"ah, um… o-okay…" hugo reaches for his phone at lightning speed, the keypad already open. you take it with nervous hands, typing in your number and handing it back.

now, you're both staring at each other, unsure of where to go from here.

"i gotta go… i'll see you around, hu— vivien." you correct yourself and give him the tiniest of smiles, disappearing behind the hallway corner. only after you leave does hugo let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

on the screen, your numbers stare back at him like the beginnings of a victory.

(when hugo went back into the locker room, charles pounced on him and immediately asked what took him so long and how it went. if the pink on his cheeks weren't enough to speak, then the way he held his phone to his chest was enough of an answer.

while you hid behind the corner of the hallway, desperately trying to calm your beating heart, and trying to figure out how you went from being someone he disliked to… whatever this is.

is this what they call psychological warfare?)

taglist (open! comment or send an ask to be added) : @thetwinkims @luffyloving @oh-miniso @mydearest1 @renchai @maryj0yy @j2yin @caravm @passionfruitenthusiast @90s-belladonna @kaaaaaaaaaaa @youseembored @h4zzel @notepadgirl14 @appalost @stal1n33 @z4ytoun @iheartshota @noyamlv @styx101

[bluespiderlily06]

The Apex Predator

Synopsis: Rin sacrificed you for the sake of soccer, and now he’s back after two years. But you were no longer the girl he’s known his entire life. While he’s too busy chasing goals, you’ve been busy chasing finishing lines.

TW: Rin Itoshi X F! Reader (Blue Lock) A bit of angst, happy ending, conflict, baddie (Y/n), racer (Y/n), yes racer like as in driving cars and stuff, this was very impulsive after watching the latest F1 races

Parts:

1 (When Goals Meets Finish Lines)

2 (Ego And Asphalt)

3 (No Brakes Past This Point)

4 (Parked Between Us)

5 (Crossing The Line Together)

6 (Built For Speed)

7 (The Apex Predator) You are here

By the time you had gotten back from changing, Hayashi had already directed Rin toward the viewing area overlooking the pit lane while one of the engineers guided you deeper into the pit garage itself. The atmosphere changed the moment the doors slid open behind you. It became colder somehow, quieter too despite the constant activity around you.

Mechanics moved around with frightening precision while engineers monitored glowing telemetry screens, conversations staying low and professional underneath the occasional sound of power tools and roaring engines from neighboring garages. There were many people gathered around, busying themselves with their jobs. Which confused you, weren’t you the only one supposed to take the test today?

But no matter, the only thing you needed to wrap your head around was the incoming race. And you did that, relaxing your muscles with the same breathing exercises that Rin taught you and used himself whenever he needed to calm down before a big game. It was going all well, all the training you had since childhood were coming back to you and you were feeling more pumped, until the moment your eyes caught sight of it, causing your breath to hitch in surprise. Your steps slowed to a stop immediately as you took a double look. Nope, actually you need to blink once again and rub your eyes in surprise.

Only then after that long ass sequence did you physically gasp. Parked beneath the bright fluorescent lights was the F2 car they had prepared for you, the black paint practically swallowing the light around it. The machine looked less like a car and more like some predatory animal crouched low against the asphalt waiting to lunge forward at any second. It made your old formula car look like a joke in comparison, to be completely honest.

The aura alone that the car gave off made you want to genuflect on your knees before it, and keep in mind, this was before they even turned on the engine. Yes, I know I was being very dramatic. But this engine wasn’t like any God you worshipped, this was a beast. A king more ferocious than any lion. It was more rabid and feral than anything on the top of the food chain, and a machine like that took guts to control.

The car represented the team it belonged to, very well. It was an Apex Predator. Its sleek curves wrapped around the carbon fiber bodywork while sharp aerodynamic edges cut through the air even while standing still. It looked dangerous in the most beautiful way possible. Honestly, it might’ve been more breathtaking than Mount Fuji itself, though maybe you were a little biased considering your unhealthy obsession with cars.

The formula car matched your track suit perfectly, almost like the entire thing had been designed together as one complete image. Matte black carbon fiber stretched across the body with silver linings accenting the sharp contours of the chassis, giving it an aggressive but refined appearance.And painted boldly along the sides was the Apex emblem, the scarlet red “A” standing out sharply against the dark bodywork.

It was stunning, the logo itself looked intimidating up close. The shape of the “A” resembled both a star and the silhouette of a speeding car at the same time, sharp and angular while the surrounding circular ring wrapped around it like motion frozen mid-turn. The red they used wasn’t bright or flashy either. It was deep and rich, almost the exact same shade as the red from Japan’s flag.

You could even smell it from way over here, that new car scent was driving you crazy. It smelled so heavenly that it scratched that specific itch in your brain at just the right angle. It made you practically drool, albeit at least not as bad as Rin does in his flow state. The numbering on the car had the same striking red shade with a 6 on the front hood and surprisingly it even had a couple of sponsor decals that almost made your eyes pop out of their sockets. They had many different brands backing them up, those specifically based in Japan, most notably Toyota, Mitsubishi, Nissan, and Honda. You had to physically remind yourself to breathe.

“… No way.” You spoke, but at the moment with how you were acting, you probably looked like a weirdo to everyone else.

The companies sponsoring Apex were monsters inside the automotive world. Giants. Rivals even! So why the Hell were these guys, who constantly competed against each other in different corners of motorsport and the automobile industry, come together to sponsor this academy?! This alone said more about Apex than any speech Hayashi gave earlier. It proved even more that this wasn’t some underground development program, they were the next coming Blue Lock Program.

This place was serious and they were just getting fired up. They had companies all over Japan pooling all of their resources, putting behind their pride and coming together to create the most perfect Academy to rival those World-class Europeans. Your heart started pounding harder in your chest from pure excitement alone as you forced yourself to move. You approached the car quickly, again forgetting that there were still engineers and mechanics around watching you. Though, you bet they wouldn’t really care as to what you did, because one thing for sure, you wouldn’t be in this paddock unless you loved cars. Surely they had the same reaction as you.

So you, treating this car like it was your first time ever seeing or driving such a magnificent beast, may actually not be the weirdest thing your team of mechanics and engineers have witnessed in their lifetime. The closer you got to the vehicle, the more details you noticed. The exposed carbon weave beneath certain sections of the matte paint, the silver aerodynamic fins, the impossibly low ride height, the slick racing tires were still spotless from preparation.

Even the smell hit differently in comparison to your old car. The fresh rubber, machine oil, and new carbon fiber smelled once again divine. It smelled like money, danger, and speed all mixed together into one intoxicating scent. You moved toward the cockpit almost instinctively, crouching slightly to look inside while your fingers lightly brushed against the halo structure.

It had admittedly been a while since you last drove a formula car and something with this much pressure— both literally and figuratively, on your shoulders, but your body still recognized it immediately. Years of drilling it into your brain and muscle memory was awakening. The shape of the steering wheel, the tight cockpit opening, the seating position, the countless switches and controls staring back at you. It was starting to feel like yesterday was when you first got in your first formula car.

You knew formula cars. You knew how sensitive they were, how violently they reacted to mistakes, how every tiny movement mattered once you were going at those kinds of speeds. You knew how hard it was to turn the steering wheel, how hard it was to press down on the brakes, and how hard the strain was on your neck when you’re going at speeds of around 335 km/h.

You remembered the pressure of sitting inches above the asphalt while the entire car practically became an extension of your body. But you weren't afraid or nervous, (you lied a bit on the nervous portion) you've been driving for as long as you could remember, you could probably even do it blind folded.

Ever since you gave up being in your old racing academy, you've been completely focused on dominating the underground racing scene. And though you don’t regret it, the moment’s come to back you back in the ass. You've haven’t been able to touch a formula car in so long that you’re not sure if you could produce the same results as you were before when you still hadn’t left the academy. But you had to try your damn hardest for this.

And God, you missed this more than you realized. A quiet laugh escaped from you before you could stop it, disbelief and excitement mixing together while you circled the car again like you were scared it would disappear if you looked away for too long. Somewhere behind you, one of the mechanics chuckled softly at your reaction while another continued adjusting something near the rear suspension.

You barely noticed them. Because standing in front of this machine, staring at the black carbon fiber body gleaming beneath the garage lights, something inside you settled with complete certainty. You belonged here. And though you were too distracted to notice a lot of things going on at the moment, your mind was still able to think critically. You were well aware of why they made you drive an F2 car, not a F1 or even a F3.

Driving a standard Formula 2 car was different from F1 in a lot of ways, and not just because of speed alone. An F2 was designed to be far more standardized compared to F1, but also because most of the cars used nearly identical chassis, engines, aerodynamic packages, and technical setups, which meant there was far less room for teams to rely on superior machinery to gain an advantage over others.

In F1, engineering played a massive role, the smallest technological advantage could completely change the outcome of a race. Teams spent millions constantly developing their cars, refining aerodynamics, improving downforce, adjusting suspension geometry, and finding microscopic performance gains that normal people wouldn’t even notice.

Formula 2 stripped most of that away. The cars were intentionally kept more equal so that the focus shifted heavily toward the driver themselves. Their racecraft, adaptability, consistency, braking control, throttle management, and mental composure became far more exposed once everyone was given machinery that performed similarly.

There was nowhere to hide in Formula 2. No massively superior car to carry sloppy technique. No absurd engineering advantage to compensate for hesitation. Mistakes became obvious almost immediately, especially because F2 cars were less refined and more unforgiving than F1 machinery. They lacked the overwhelming aerodynamic grip and technological sophistication that made Formula 1 cars feel almost inhuman at times.

F2 demanded that the driver wrestle control out of the car themselves instead of letting the machine smooth everything over for them. Which was probably exactly why Kurogane started you here. Because if F1 was the polished final stage of racing evolution, then Formula 2 was where drivers got stripped down to their fundamentals and exposed for what they truly were behind the wheel.

“So, if you're done aweing at the car, do you have any questions or want any small adjustments before you start?” A man wearing a standard mechanic suit with the Apex logo tapped on your shoulder from behind.

You finally tore your eyes away from the car and looked back at him. He looked around his late twenties, maybe early thirties, grease stains faintly visible along his gloves despite how clean the rest of the garage was. Compared to Hayashi’s sharp professionalism, the mechanic carried himself more casually, though the way he observed both you and the car made it obvious he knew exactly what he was doing. Your gaze shifted back toward the F2.

You crouched lower near the side of the chassis again, eyes narrowing slightly as you studied the setup more carefully now that the initial excitement had worn off a little. The suspension geometry looked aggressive. Low ride height. Tight setup. Built for maximum grip and precision. Too precise. You reached out, lightly pressing against part of the front suspension while mentally piecing things together from the setup sheet resting nearby.

“… So this is Kurogane’s setup preference.” You muttered mostly to yourself.

The mechanic raised a brow slightly. “You can tell already?”

“It’s stiff…” Your voice was also stiff

“In Formula racing that’s usually the point.”

“Yeah, but this feels like it wants to kill me the second I touch a curb wrong.” That earned an amused snort from one of the nearby engineers.

You stood back up fully now, crossing your arms as you stared at the car again, mentally imagining how it would behave once pushed near the limit. Fast corner entry. Extremely responsive. Sharp weight transfer. But unforgiving. Very unforgiving. That sounded exactly like something Kurogane Renji would prefer.

You’ve heard of Kurogane Renji’s name before this, anyone who was a part of underground racing would know if only they ask around. He was a myth in the community, the King of racing. Some people still talk about him, but no one really knows the whole truth of his story. It was said that people called him the Black Comet because whenever he appears in a race, he only shows up for a moment, destroys the competition, and leaves without a trace.

You weren’t sure how it happened but there were multiple rumors as to why he stopped racing. Some say he died in a car crash, others say he was scouted to go racing more professionally which obviously was fake. So no one really knows for certain what exactly went down except for the fact that in his most critical and important race, he lost. Resulting in it being his last ever race to be seen in.

“Can you soften the rear anti-roll bar slightly?” you suddenly asked, which made the mechanic blinked once, “And loosen the rear suspension compression just a bit.” You continued while walking toward the nose of the chassis, “Not too much. I still want responsiveness, just enough so the rear doesn’t snap violently during exit recovery.”

The mechanic stared at you for a few seconds longer now, clearly reevaluating you internally, “You haven’t even driven the car yet.” He pointed out slightly offended

You shrugged lightly, “Will it be done quickly?"

One of the engineers immediately began adjusting notes on the setup tablet while another moved toward the rear of the car, “And remove some steering resistance if possible.” You added, “Not completely. Just enough that I’m not fighting the wheel through every high-speed correction.”

“Do you prefer lighter steering?” The mechanic asked curiously.

“No...” Your eyes remained fixed on the car, “It just suits my driving style better..”

The atmosphere around you shifted slightly after that. The mechanics who initially looked at you with mild curiosity earlier now seemed far more attentive. Not impressed exactly, Apex didn’t seem like the kind of place that praised people openly, but interested. Because most drivers didn’t immediately request setup changes like that before even entering the cockpit.

After that, it was a blur, the team introduced themselves to you as they fixed up the last modifications to the car before pushing it out to the grid and strapping you in it. Giving you one last check up before giving the okay signal to start the race which will be timed based. Now this was it, the final minute before you make a big decision, do well and change your life or fail and stick to underground racing for the rest of your life. One thing was for damn sure, whatever happens, you’ll be giving it your all to fight for a future you could be proud of.

Your helmet felt stuffy against your skin, the tight confines of the cockpit pressing around your body while the heavy harness locked you firmly into place. The engine beneath you vibrated violently through the carbon fiber chassis, every pulse of the machine traveling directly into your chest. It was loud enough that you could barely hear your own breathing underneath the roar. But you ignored all of it. Instead, you focused on your heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Calm down.

You tightened your grip around the steering wheel slightly, your gloved fingers flexing once as your eyes remained locked onto the starting lights ahead. Beyond the halo, the entire world seemed strangely distant now. The pit crew. The engineers. The observation deck where Rin was watching from somewhere above. Even Mount Fuji itself faded into the background. Everything disappeared. There was no (Y/n). No Rin. No Takeshi. No Apex. Just a driver and the machine beneath her. Then above you, 5 red lights illuminate one by one at one second intervals, until the very last one lights up…

And then suddenly, all 5 red lights go out.

Your foot slammed down on the throttle almost instantly. The rear tires screamed against the asphalt for a split second before violently gripping the track, the entire car launching forward so aggressively that your body was shoved hard against the seat despite the harness locking you down. The engine roared behind your head like an animal unleashed from its cage while the scenery ahead immediately blurred into streaks of color and motion.

The acceleration was brutal. Formula cars didn’t ease you into speed gently, they forced it onto your body all at once. Your vision tightened slightly from the sudden surge of G-force pressing against your chest while your hands instinctively tightened around the steering wheel. The car shot forward down the straight at terrifying speed, vibrations traveling violently through the carbon fiber chassis and directly into your bones.

But you didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. The first corner approached impossibly fast, faster than normal road cars ever could. Your brain barely had enough time to register the braking marker before instinct took over completely. Your foot slammed onto the brakes with enough force to make your entire body jolt forward against the harness while the car screamed beneath you in protest.

Downshift.

Downshift again. The steering wheel fought heavily against your grip as you threw the car into the corner, the tires biting hard into the asphalt while the sheer lateral force tried to drag your head sideways. Your neck immediately strained from the pressure but you ignored it completely, eyes locked onto the racing line ahead while your body moved almost entirely on muscle memory alone.

The car was sensitive. Violently sensitive. Every tiny input mattered. A little too much steering and the rear threatened to step out. A little too much throttle and the tires protested immediately beneath you. There was no room for hesitation at these speeds, no time to second guess yourself once the car committed to a corner.

But somehow… God, it felt good. The moment you exited the first corner and slammed down onto the throttle again, something inside your chest ignited violently. The engine screamed louder as the speed climbed higher and higher, 180… 220… 260 kilometers per hour. The track stretched endlessly ahead while the world around you blurred into meaningless shapes.

And somewhere along the way, the pain stopped mattering. The pressure crushing against your body. The strain in your arms. The burning sensation slowly building in your neck from fighting the G-forces. You stopped noticing all of it. Because right now, the only thing that mattered was the next corner. The next braking point. Becoming the next apex predator was your goal. You pushed harder. Later braking. More throttle on corner exit.

The rear tires twitched dangerously beneath you as the car aggressively rotated through a high-speed section, but instead of panicking, your hands corrected instinctively. Small and precise. The exact kind of movement someone only developed after years of driving unstable machines at illegal speeds through mountain roads at 2 in the morning.

The F2 responded beautifully. Not perfectly, but oh so beautifully. Above the pit lane at the viewing deck, Rin stared through the observation glass almost speechless. The speed itself was terrifying enough already, but what unsettled him more was the way you drove. There was no fear in your movements anymore. No uncertainty. You looked completely different inside that cockpit, like the moment the race started, something else entirely took over your body.

He could feel his heart racing in fear for your safety, every time the black Formula 2 car disappeared into another corner at impossible speeds, his chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. Rin had watched countless intense matches before, had stood on fields where one mistake could cost everything, had experienced pressure so overwhelming that it usually made people crumble beneath it. But somehow, this felt different. Worse.

Because unlike soccer, there was no safe distance between you and danger here. One wrong movement. One late reaction. One tire losing grip at over 300 kilometers per hour. That was all it would take. Rin’s hands unconsciously curled tighter against the railing in front of him as his eyes stayed glued to the circuit below. That was his girl risking her life for a future she wished to see. And he was borderline losing it between deciding if he should be proud or fear for her life.

The black Apex car flew through another section of the track so fast it almost didn’t look real, the engine screaming violently as it cut across the asphalt like some kind of weapon barely being contained. Every corner looked dangerous to him. Every aggressive overtake of the racing line made his stomach twist harder.

And the worst part? You looked alive. You looked alive out there. More alive than he had seen you in years. Who knew you had this entirely new persona underneath, he was sure your ego was in action. You looked completely fearless. No hesitation or second thoughts as you drove like someone who trusted the machine beneath them with their life entirely and that realization terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

Because Rin knew you. He knew how reckless you could become whenever something truly mattered to you. The more pressure placed on your shoulders, the more stubborn you became about proving yourself, even if it destroyed you in the process. His jaw tightened slightly as the car disappeared briefly behind another sector before reappearing moments later down the straight, moving so fast it almost blurred together with the track itself.

And somehow that only made the fear inside his chest worse despite how proud and slightly excited he was for you. It made Rin feel unhinged. Because Rin finally understood something clearly now. This wasn’t some phase. This wasn’t some hobby you’d eventually grow out of. And he knew that, even before, sometimes he’d just hope it wasn’t real. Racing was stitched into your existence so deeply that taking it away from you would probably feel the same as ripping soccer away from him. It was the place where you felt the most complete, the place where all your thoughts sharpened into instinct and movement until nothing else in the world mattered anymore.

Just like him during a match. The realization settled heavily in his chest while his eyes followed your car entering another corner aggressively enough that even some of the engineers below shifted slightly in reaction. And despite how scared he was for you, despite how badly he wanted to tell you to slow down, to stop pushing yourself so recklessly, another part of him couldn’t look away.

Because you were beautiful like this. So terrifyingly beautiful. The same way lightning storms were beautiful right before they destroyed something. And so when the black F2 sliced through the circuit violently, attacking corners with an aggression that made even some of the engineers below pause from their telemetry screens briefly, it made Rin’s breath be caught in his throat. The rear of the car occasionally stepped just slightly on corner exits before immediately getting corrected again, not sloppily, but intentionally. Controlled instability.

This was Rin’s first time watching a formula race and he’d never had expected to be watching it in real life nor that you’d be driving it. He didn’t even know what to expect from this race or how the rules worked, usually he’d just ignore you when you have races playing in the background while you both studied in his room before, so Rin had been searching on google like crazy earlier trying to figure out the basics of Formula racing and how to tell if someone is going to crash or not.

And he didn’t fully understand racing even after that short research session he had earlier. But this was definitely going at faster speeds than he’d expected it to have gone, it seemed slower in the videos he watched somehow. But he was glad he brought the omamori that you gave him, those 2 years ago, not like he ever left it, it was always with him one way or another. He needed something in this moment to keep him grounded while you threw yourself at speeds he’d probably pass out on if he were the one driving. Rin actually carried the omamori in his bag wherever he went, especially when he had a match.

At first, he just kept it around as a goodluck charm. And though he views luck not as random magic, but as an active, mechanical element on the soccer field that rewards those with relentless resolve. It does help to ease his mind with having the omamori around, not because he believes in the luck it gives but because you gave it. It was like he was carrying a part of you with him through his hardships and yes, if you were wondering, it did help him feel a little less lonely in Blue Lock.

It was especially helpful when he first started out there, back when the scent of your perfume lingering on it was still strong, until it eventually faded out, Rin got grumpy and mourned for a few days because of that, which made the other boys wonder what got Rin so worked up. He treasured that small item secretly, making sure not to get it dirty or accidentally damaged it. And no one else knew it existed except for him and you, though he doubts you’d still remember giving him this. Your memory was really ass.

But going back, in this moment looking at you speeding away, even Rin could tell you were driving like someone trying to devour the track whole and he wondered if you were in a flow state right now just like he’d be in soccer. Meanwhile, down below near the pit wall, several engineers exchanged quick glances while telemetry data rapidly updated across their monitors.

“She’s overdriving the rear.”

“But she’s maintaining control.”

“Brake input’s aggressive.”

“… Her recovery timing is insane.”

And standing slightly behind them all with his arms crossed was Kurogane Renji himself. Silent and watching. Rin spotted him from the corner of his eyes, taking off his eyes on you for a second to see what he assumed to be your coach since the man’s vibes practically screamed that he runs Apex. Kurogane’s sharp eyes, which Rin noted were even sharper and more intense than Ego's, followed the black F2 as it flew across the circuit at nearly 300 kilometers per hour before diving violently into another corner with barely controlled aggression.

Most drivers approached Formula cars carefully during evaluations. You attacked it again and again relentlessly. And somehow, against all logic, the machine seemed to respond to you better the harder you pushed it. Your body screamed at you by the second lap. The G-forces grew more brutal the faster you drove, your neck straining painfully every time the car changed direction at high speed while your forearms slowly burned from wrestling the steering wheel through corners.

Sweat gathered beneath your fireproof suit despite the cold weather outside, your breathing growing sharper inside the helmet while your heartbeat hammered violently in your ears. But you ignored all of it. Because slowing down wasn’t an option. Not here. Not now. You had sacrificed too much already to hesitate.

The car launched out of another corner as you shifted upward again, your vision narrowing entirely onto the straight ahead while the engine screamed loud enough to drown out almost every coherent thought left inside your head. Faster.

You needed to go faster. Even if your body broke down trying. Even if you’d feel like blood was going to run down your nose soon. Even if your lungs were screaming at you. Push yourself beyond your limits, you’d only receive this kind of opportunity once in your life, so don’t waste it. Eventually the 5 laps were up and the first race with the formula car ended, you exited the vehicle full of sweat in your hair and took off the head mask.

1:27.843

The numbers flashed across the telemetry monitor brightly enough that even through the exhaustion clouding your brain, you immediately understood one thing. That was fast. Very fast. The reactions around the garage alone confirmed it. Conversations between engineers suddenly quieted while one of the mechanics actually leaned closer toward the monitor like he expected the timing system to suddenly correct itself. Another engineer quickly rechecked the sector times while muttering something underneath his breath, his brows furrowing deeper the longer he stared at the data in front of him.

Meanwhile you were over here trying not to collapse. The moment the adrenaline began fading, your body punished you for every reckless decision you made during those five laps. Your neck burned horribly from fighting the G-forces while your forearms felt painfully heavy every time you flexed your fingers around the water bottle one of the mechanics shoved into your hands. Sweat clung against your skin underneath the fireproof suit despite the cold weather outside while your breathing still came out uneven beneath the aftermath of everything you just forced yourself through.

And somehow… Even through all that pain, all you could think about was wanting to drive again. Which probably meant there was genuinely something mentally wrong with you. A shaky laugh escaped your lips while you pushed damp strands of hair away from your face, your eyes briefly flickering back toward the Formula car still sitting beneath the fluorescent garage lights. The black carbon bodywork gleamed beneath the overhead lighting while mechanics already swarmed around it gathering telemetry and preparing post-run diagnostics.

There wasn’t even enough time for the adrenaline from the Formula 2 run to fully leave your body before Apex immediately pushed you toward the next evaluation. The moment you stepped out of the F2 car, the mechanics already practically swarmed around it with frightening efficiency while engineers rapidly exchanged telemetry data across glowing monitors. It almost felt like the garage itself never stopped moving. Nobody lingered around celebrating your lap time and nobody praised you openly either. Apex didn’t seem like the kind of place that cared about impressive moments unless you could repeatedly prove them.

No long break. No proper recovery. Not even enough time for your heartbeat to settle completely. One of the engineers approached carrying another setup tablet while Hayashi calmly informed you that the GT division had already finished preparing your next vehicle based on your Formula telemetry earlier. Apparently Apex believed in throwing people directly into suffering before their bodies fully recovered.

Honestly, at this point you were beginning to suspect this academy existed purely to psychologically and physically destroy young racers. The moment you entered the neighboring garage, the atmosphere shifted entirely from the clinical precision of the Formula division. The GT side felt heavier somehow. Louder. More aggressive. The smell of heated rubber and gasoline hung thicker in the air while mechanics moved around the vehicle with quick practiced movements beneath the fluorescent lighting.

And sitting in the center of it all was the GT car. Black carbon bodywork stretched low against the ground while silver aerodynamic detailing cut sharply across the frame. The Apex insignia rested boldly against the doors while several sponsor decals reflected faintly against the growing rain outside the paddock. Compared to the Formula car earlier, this machine looked less refined and more violent. Like it wanted to fishtail through corners out of pure aggression alone.

But what immediately caught your attention wasn’t the car. It was the weather. That atmosphere outside only made your heart race harder. And unlike earlier, the weather had started turning against you. Well, this would be a little bit more than just being a slight problem.

Rain tapped steadily against the garage roof now, soft at first but gradually growing heavier with every passing minute. Beyond the paddock, dark clouds swallowed most of the sky surrounding Mount Fuji while the once dry circuit now reflected streaks of light across the wet asphalt. The colder air brushed sharply against your damp skin, making the exhaustion sitting inside your muscles feel even heavier than before.

Honestly, the conditions were terrible. The kind of weather that made grip inconsistent and braking distances unpredictable. The kind that punished hesitation immediately while rewarding reckless confidence just enough to trick drivers into making dangerous mistakes. Yeah, if you were a noob or hadn’t had much experience in these conditions, then you’d pretty much be screwed. But at the same time, even if you were used to it, it didn’t mean you’d be good at driving with these conditions. It was far too unpredictable and dangerous.

The reduced grip and longer braking distances sure made the situation difficult. Standing water beginning to gather near certain sections of the track. This was the kind of weather that punished overconfidence immediately. Which probably explained why your smile widened slightly the moment you noticed the rain worsening. It was a very unhinged smile if you couldn’t tell. Think positive you kept telling yourself, yes, gaslighting yourself was the best decision you could do at the moment.

One of the engineers handed you the setup tablet while explaining the modifications they already made to the GT car based on your Formula telemetry earlier. They changed it up to have a more looser rear setup. More aggressive throttle response. They also slightly altered the weight distribution to make the chassis rotate easier through corners. Apex had practically tailored the car around the exact way you drove and honestly, that realization alone almost made your chest tighten from excitement. They were already adapting to you.

You weren't given much time to ponder though, just like earlier they quickly strapped you in and began the second race. And the GT race itself blurred together violently after that. The moment the tires touched the rain-soaked asphalt, the car fought you constantly beneath the steering wheel. Unlike the Formula car earlier, the GT machine carried heavier weight transfer through corners while the rear threatened to break loose every time you accelerated too aggressively exiting turns. Water sprayed violently behind the tires while the engine roared through the wet circuit loud enough to vibrate directly through your chest.

But instead of hesitating, your instincts sharpened. Years of underground racing through mountain roads during storms had permanently carved themselves into your body. Despite the disadvantages the rain brought, you refused to let that push you down. You’d use it to your advantage as much as you could if possible. The moment traction disappeared, your hands corrected automatically before your brain fully processed it. You performed some tiny steering adjustments and controlled the throttle feathering. Deliberate oversteer through corners while the chassis danced dangerously close to spinning beneath you.

And while you were having the time of your life, somewhere above the pit lane, Rin genuinely thought he was going to lose his mind. By now he wasn’t even pretending to relax or be nonchalant anymore. His one hand remained tightly wrapped around the railing while the other stayed shoved deep inside his jacket pocket, fingers gripping the omamori you gave him years ago so tightly the fabric pressed painfully against his palm. Every time the rear of your GT car slid slightly through another rain-soaked corner, his chest physically tightened hard enough to make breathing uncomfortable.

He hated how he loved how fearless you looked. Not because it annoyed him. But because it terrified him. Yes, again and again, we keep talking about how Rin’s terrified of losing you but at the same time he loves you too much to stop you from chasing after your dream. But Rin simply can’t help how he feels, he’s just a guy in love, so who were you to blame him? He literally just got you back just this morning and now you’re acting like you’re trying to send yourself 6 feet under. Who wouldn’t have a heart attack from that?

The GT evaluation ended almost as brutally as it began. By the time the car rolled back into pit lane, rainwater clung heavily across the black bodywork while steam faintly rose from the overheated tires. The moment you climbed out, your legs nearly buckled underneath you from exhaustion before one of the mechanics quickly steadied your shoulder.

Your body hurt. Actually hurt. Your arms trembled slightly while your breathing came out ragged against the cold air, damp hair sticking against your forehead while exhaustion settled heavily into your muscles. But before you could even properly recover, Apex immediately pushed you toward the final evaluation.

The motorcycle division. At that point, even you started questioning whether these people were actually human. Maybe if you still continued your harsh training from back then, you wouldn’t be as fatigued as you are right now, but no matter, what’s done is done. The only thing you could focus on was the present, the superbike waiting beneath the garage lights looked just as aggressive as everything else Apex owned. Black carbon fairings reflected the fluorescent lighting sharply while rainwater slid slowly across the bodywork in thin streams. The Apex insignia stretched boldly across the sides while mechanics performed final checks around the tires and suspension.

By now your body was beyond exhausted. Your arms trembled slightly every time you moved them while your neck still burned from the earlier Formula evaluation. But the moment your hands wrapped around the handlebars, something inside you sharpened again. Because slowing down now wasn’t an option anymore. Not when you’d already made it this far.

Meanwhile above the pit lane, Rin genuinely felt like he was losing years off his life every single lap. When you came out with the motorcycle without taking any breaks in between. At that point, Rin genuinely considered going downstairs and physically dragging you out of the garage himself and booking a taxi or something to get home because like Hell would he let you drive right after looking like you’re on the brink of death.

His eyes remained glued to the track below while one hand gripped tightly against the railing and the other stayed buried deep inside his jacket pocket, fingers wrapped firmly around the omamori you gave him years ago. The familiar fabric pressed tightly against his mouth now, half tempted to start chewing on it to keep him grounded against the anxiety twisting violently inside his chest every time your car slipped through another rain-soaked corner.

Rin held the omamori tighter and tighter until his palms started turning white, every single time the motorcycle leaned lower against another rain-soaked corner. His heartbeat hammered violently against his ribs while the engine echoed throughout Fuji Speedway underneath the pouring rain. Watching you drive the Formula car earlier already terrified him enough. The GT race nearly killed him from stress alone.

Because unlike cars, motorcycles gave you absolutely nothing. No cockpit surrounding your body. No harness keeping you secured. No carbon fiber shell protecting you from the asphalt if something went wrong. Just you, the machine beneath you, and the rain-covered circuit waiting to tear you apart if you made one mistake.

And somehow… You still looked excited despite everything. Despite that terrifying reality, despite the worsening weather conditions and the exhaustion slowly tearing your body apart, you still pushed harder every lap like you physically refused to let yourself fail.

But because watching you throw yourself toward danger so fearlessly made him realize just how little control he actually had over protecting you here. On a football field, Rin trusted himself completely. He trusted his body, his instincts, his ability to adapt faster than everyone around him. But standing here watching you race at horrifying speeds while rain poured harder across the circuit, he couldn’t do anything except watch helplessly and pray you didn’t crash.

The motorcycle evaluation ended up being the shortest out of all three divisions, but somehow it felt the most brutal physically. Every turn forced your body to move alongside the machine while rain sprayed violently behind the rear tire at terrifying speeds. Leaning into wet corners demanded complete trust between you and the bike beneath you because hesitation at those speeds didn’t simply cost lap time, it could completely destroy you. At those speeds there was no room for fear. Only instinct and movement.

The moment you got out though, you refused to collapse. You took off your helmet and the rain began to wet it thoroughly, and your already damp track suit began to cling onto your skin in an uncomfortable way. It’s been a while since you’ve experienced pushing yourself this hard, the G force put a strain on your body that even you didn’t expect to be affected by that much. Rin stood up from the viewing deck and made his way to you, preparing himself for what's to come when you looked like you were on the verge of collapsing at any moment.

A/n: NGL guys this chapter took so long because of the technicalities and I’m just an automatic girly so I had to raw dog and bullshit my way through this. But I’m finally done, so hopefully you enjoy this and pls ignore any inaccuracies

Taglist: @x3nafix @p4rufeit

[pearly-whirl]

Oki so I can't get this off my head. Also HI( this could either be written as a oneshot, headcannon, scenario,etc)

So basically reader is one of Albert's biological siblings. Reader is the black sheep of the Moriarty family, always getting into trouble and are always fighting with their parents. Reader is also aggressive with people around them to, doesn't matter if it's a mere servant or even Albert. They're consider to be a lost cause by the parents and og William. Reader always ignores everyone including Albert despite trying to talk to his younger sibling. They don't feel like they belong in that family. Nobody understands them

Reader has the tendencies of sneaking out which probably saved them because the whole Moriarty Manor exploded. They saw the exact moment the manor explode and decided that they are not going back there.

Reader spend years living as a lower class citizen and changed their name. They even made friends. For once reader feels like they belong there, like no one is scrutinizing them.

But one day something happened. Someone died. Whether or not if someone reader knows is involved in this or not, William came to the place where the murder happened. It also happened to be that reader lives close to where it took place.

The Name You Left Behind

                        ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

The first time he stole a life, no one noticed.

Not the servants. Not the parents. Not the real William, asleep in his bed, dreaming whatever dreams a boy like him dreams. Only Albert knew. Only Louis. And then, later, you.

He took the noble clothes from Albert's room  fine fabric, tailored fit, the kind of clothes that cost more than most people earn in a year. He walked out the kitchen door, the same one you used, the same old lock, the same weak bolt. He walked into the London night.

And he became someone else.

He became your brother.

Not the cruel one. Not the one who slapped servants for breathing too loud, who tripped maids in hallways and laughed when they fell, who told lies to your mother until she dismissed anyone he didn't like. He became the version of your brother that never existed the one who stopped in doorways, who crouched down beside sleeping children, who spoke in a low, calm voice and gave advice to anyone who asked. He solved problems. He untangled knots. He was a ghost wearing a noble's face, and no one knew.

No one knew because the real William was homeschooled, rarely seen, a rumor more than a person. No one knew because the real William would never lower himself to walk among commoners. No one knew because the real William was asleep, dreaming whatever dreams a boy like him dreams.

And in the morning, the orphan would be back in his bed, face blank, hands clean, acting as if he had done nothing at all.

Only Albert knew. Only Louis. And then, later, you.

                       ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

You found out by accident.

The nights had always belonged to you. That was the one thing the manor could not take. When the house went dark and the halls grew quiet, you slipped out through the kitchen door the same old lock, the same weak bolt and London opened its arms.

You walked without purpose. Through wealthy streets where gas lamps flickered and the houses stood like monuments to greed. Through poor streets where the buildings leaned together like tired old men and the air smelled of smoke and river mud. You watched the city sleep. You watched the city never quite sleep.

No one looked at you twice. You were just another shadow. Another pair of feet. Another story no one would ever ask about.

This was freedom. This was the only freedom you had ever known.

And then, one night, you saw him.

It was late. Later than usual. You had walked farther than usual, near the edge of a wealthy district where the streets were cleaner and the gas lamps burned brighter. A figure moved ahead of you noble clothes, fine fabric, a silhouette that made your chest go tight because you thought it was your brother.

You thought he had woken. You thought he had followed you. You thought he had finally found a reason to make your life even smaller than it already was.

But then the figure stopped. Crouched. Placed something beside a doorway.

A loaf of bread.

You stepped closer. The figure stood. Turned.

Moonlight fell across a face you recognized, but not your brother's face. This face was paler. Sharper. The eyes were scarlet, not dark blonde. The hair was the same pale blonde but messier, less controlled. The orphan. The one Albert had brought home. The one who never spoke.

He stared at you.

"You're not supposed to be here," you said.

"Neither are you."

His voice was quiet. Calm. Nothing like your brother's.

"You're wearing his clothes," you said. "You're pretending to be him."

He did not deny it.

"Why?"

He looked at the doorway, at the sleeping child, at the bread he had left behind.

"Someone has to," he said. "He never will."

You stood in the street, the two of you, two ghosts wearing borrowed skins. The gas lamp flickered. Somewhere a dog barked.

"I won't tell," you said.

He looked at you. Those scarlet eyes were unreadable.

"I know," he said. "Because you're like us."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the dark like he was never there.

You stood in the street for a long time after he was gone.

You're like us.

You did not know what that meant. Not yet. But you carried it with you, a small warmth in your chest, as you walked back to the manor and slipped through the kitchen door before dawn.

                     ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

You did not tell.

You kept his secret the way you kept your own close to your chest, behind your ribs, somewhere no one could reach.

Sometimes, on your night walks, you saw him. You never spoke. You never approached. But you watched. You watched him give. You watched him help. You watched him become someone your brother would never be.

And you thought: Maybe this family can still be saved.

You were wrong.

                      ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

The night of the fire, you were not there.

It was April 1st. The real William's birthday. He was thirteen. The house had been tense all day your mother fussing, your father pretending to care, the real William demanding attention and gifts and praise. You sat through dinner with your jaw clenched, watching him slap a servant for pouring his wine too slowly. The girl did not cry. She had learned not to cry.

You ate nothing. You waited.

As soon as the house grew quiet, you slipped out. The kitchen door. The old lock. The weak bolt.

You walked.

You did not know where you were going. You just walked through the wealthy streets, through the poor streets, past the doorways where the orphan left his bread. The moon was high. The city was quiet.

You sat on a low wall and watched the clouds drift across the sky.

You did not know that the manor was rigged to explode. You did not know that Albert and the orphans had set a clock to trigger a gun at three in the morning. You did not know that the real William was already dead, stabbed by his own brother's hand, left to burn with the rest of them.

You knew nothing.

You were just a child sitting on a wall, breathing free air for the first time in your life.

The sky turned orange.

You looked up.

The Moriarty manor was burning.

Flames climbed the walls like hungry vines. The roof sagged, then collapsed. Windows shattered one by one, each explosion a small death. The fire roared. The sky glowed.

You watched.

You did not run. You did not scream. You did not cry.

You sat on that low wall, in the dark, and you watched your childhood burn to the ground.

The sound reached you a moment later — a deep, rumbling boom that you felt in your chest, in your teeth, in the hollow space behind your ribs. Then silence. The kind of silence that follows something ending.

You thought about the orphan. His scarlet eyes. His quiet someone has to.

You thought about Albert. His hand on your shoulder. His please in the hallway.

You thought about the real William. His cruel hands. His sharp smile. The way he had slapped servants, tripped maids, made everyone around him small so he could feel large.

You thought about all of it.

And you felt nothing.

No. That was not true.

You felt free.

You stood up. You brushed the dust from your clothes. You looked at the burning manor one last time.

Then you turned away.

You walked into the dark London streets.

You did not look back.

                      ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

You did not go to the funeral. There was no funeral. Just ash. Just three survivors Albert, and the two orphans.

You read about it in the papers, huddled in a cheap boarding house across the city. Moriarty Manor Destroyed in Gas Explosion. Three Survivors: Albert Moriarty and William Moriarty and their adopted brother Louis.

The name sat in your chest like a stone.

For a while, you were curious. You scanned the newspapers for any mention of them. You read about the investigation, the inquest, the official ruling of accidental death. You wondered if they were looking for you. You wondered if they thought you were dead.

After a while, you stopped wondering. You stopped reading the papers. You let the past fade.

You had a new name now. Something common. Something that would not make people look twice.

You were no one.

And being no one, you discovered, was its own kind of freedom.

                       ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

Thirteen years passed.

You did not count them. You let the days blur together waking, working, eating, sleeping. The city became your home in a way the manor never was. You learned its rhythms, its secrets, its hidden corners.

You learned what it meant to be a commoner.

It meant waking up early. Earlier than you ever woke at the manor. It meant your back hurt and your hands cracked and your shoes had holes that you patched yourself. It meant the cold was not an inconvenience it was an enemy. It meant hunger was not a feeling it was a roommate.

But it also meant something else.

It meant freedom.

No one told you how to sit. No one told you how to eat. No one told you that your hair was wrong, your voice was wrong, your existence was wrong. You were just another face in the crowd. Another pair of hands. Another person trying to survive.

You belonged here.

                       ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

You made friends.

Maggie ran the pie shop on the corner. She had broad shoulders and a sharp tongue and she did not ask questions. You came in one day, half-frozen, and she pushed a plate toward you without a word. After a while, she stopped charging you at all.

"You're too thin," she said. "Eat."

You ate.

Tom worked the docks. His hands were cracked and calloused and he had the loudest laugh you had ever heard. You met him when a fight broke out at the pub, and you both ended up on the same side, backs against the wall. Afterward, he bought you a drink.

"You've got a mean left hook," he said. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"Brothers," you said.

He nodded like that explained everything.

Martha lived two doors down from your room above the tannery. She sold flowers on the corner small bouquets wrapped in brown paper. She had a laugh like bells and she always saved the bruised blooms for you because she knew you could not afford the pretty ones.

Her husband was a good man. Quiet. Hardworking. He fixed shoes for a living. He never said much, but he always nodded when he saw you, always tipped his cap.

You liked them. Both of them.

Elsie was Tom's child. Small and curious and utterly without fear. She asked questions that would make anyone else wince, and you found yourself answering, a little at a time.

She did not judge you. She just listened to the small things you revealed.

"Your family was mean," she said one day.

"Yes," you said.

"I'm glad you left."

You looked at her small, serious face.

"Me too," you said.

                      ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

The murder happened on a Tuesday.

You did not know it was a murder at first. You heard shouting always shouting, in this part of the city and you assumed it was another argument, another drunk. You pulled your blanket tighter and tried to go back to sleep.

Then you heard Maggie scream.

You were out of bed and down the stairs before your mind caught up with your body. Your feet were bare on the cold cobblestones. Your shirt was untucked.

The alley behind the pie shop was dark.

The body was darker.

A man. Noble's clothes — you could tell by the fabric, by the cut, by the shoes that had never touched mud before tonight. His throat was open. His eyes were open. The rain had begun to fall, soft and steady, mixing his blood with the water in the gutters.

Martha was kneeling beside him.

The man on the ground was her husband.

You knelt beside her. You put your arm around her shoulders. You held her while she shook.

                      ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

The police came first. Then the reporters. Then the curious, the morbid, the ones who had nothing better to do than stare at death. The crowd grew. The rain grew.

And then a carriage pulled up at the edge of the alley.

The door opened. A man stepped out.

He was beautiful in the way a painting is beautiful — refined, elegant, almost too perfect. His hair was pale blonde, neatly styled, not a strand out of place. His skin was pale, almost luminous. His eyes were sharp and narrow and a deep, unsettling crimson.

He wore a tailored suit. A cane. His posture was composed, precise.

He looked like he had never known hunger,but still thin.

But you knew better.

You knew what he was. You knew what he did. You knew about the bread and the blankets and the small coin purses left in the dark. You knew that he had walked the night streets in borrowed clothes, pretending to be someone else, doing good in a name that had only ever been used for cruelty.

To the world, he was the perfect aristocrat. A brilliant academic. A mathematical prodigy. A man who solved problems for those in need with a gentle and approachable demeanor.

Calm. Stoic. Unreadable.

But you had seen him in the dark.

His eyes swept the crowd.

They passed over you.

Then they came back.

They stopped.

For a moment — just a breath — something flickered across his face. Not surprise. He was too controlled for surprise. But something. Recognition. A crack in the mask.

He knew who you were.

You did not recognize him at first. Thirteen years had changed him. Had changed you. You stared at his pale hair, his scarlet eyes, his perfect, composed posture, and something tugged at the back of your mind. Something you could not quite reach.

Then he moved.

It was a small thing. A slight tilt of his head. A shift in his stance. Nothing anyone else would notice.

But you noticed.

Because it was the same tilt. The same stance. The same way he used to stand in the dark alleys, waiting for you to catch up, bread in his hands and coins in his pockets.

The first time he stole a life, no one noticed.

Only Albert knew. Only Louis. And then, later, you.

The breath left your lungs.

He was here. In your neighborhood. Standing over a dead body like he belonged here.

Maybe he did.

Maybe he always had.

He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then he looked away. He turned to the police, to the body, to the crowd. He became the perfect aristocrat again. The mask slid back into place.

But you saw it. The crack. The recognition.

He knew.

And now, so did you.

                      ✧ 🕯️ ✧ • ✧ 🕯️ ✧

The rain continued to fall.

The body was covered. The crowd dispersed. He climbed back into his carriage. The door closed.

Inside the carriage, he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.

"Something wrong?" Albert asked.

A long pause.

"Someone in the crowd," he said quietly. "They looked at me like they knew me."

Albert frowned. "Everyone knows your face."

"No," he said. His voice was strange uncertain in a way Albert had rarely heard. "Not like that."

Louis shifted in his seat. "Should we be concerned?"

He did not answer.

He was thinking about the face he had seen in the crowd. The face he had not seen in thirteen years. The face that belonged to the only other person in that house who understood what it was like to be an outsider.

You're like us, he had said once, in the dark. You don't belong here either.

He had been right then.

He wondered if he was still right now.

"No," he said finally. "Not yet."

The carriage pulled away. The rain washed the blood from the cobblestones.

And somewhere above a tannery, in a small room that smelled of leather and cheap soap, a person with no name and too much history sat alone in the dark with a crying woman in their arms and waited.

For what, they did not know.

But something was coming.

Something had already arrived.

And the fire that was supposed to be the end was only the beginning.

(should I make a second part?👀)

[sidus-noctifer]

<prev | next>

The first thing you noticed was the cloud of warmth enveloping you. It felt cosy, and for some reason your body seemed to be acting as if it had had the chance to relax so thoroughly for the first time in ages. You stayed wrapped up in that cocoon of sheets, trying to shield yourself from the morning chill and soothe a migraine. The air was freezing; could it be that the coldest season of the year had already arrived? You tossed and turned in bed, cursing yourself for forgetting to close the window the night before. A few rays of light filtered through the shutters, dimly illuminating the room.

The air rushed out of your lungs and your heart seemed to slow down as you looked around. This wasn’t your room.

Goodness, your room had never been so bare! Feeling your heart pounding, you leapt out of bed and threw open the shutters.

You were blinded by the light. The room was on the second floor, offering a view over some unfamiliar square. Pedestrians and carriages passed along the streets, then disappeared between the buildings and headed who knows where. You stood motionless, paralysed for what seemed like an eternity. Only when a maid in the building opposite opened the windows and looked at you with an equally bewildered expression did you hasten to close the window.

Were you really here? You could have sworn that everything you’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours was the result of alcohol and lack of sleep. You sighed, as a shiver ran down your spine. Why were you in an inn? What had happened last night that you couldn’t remember? What were that man’s intentions? The air seemed to turn to lead. Could it be that he had some interest in you? After all, it would have been a walk in the park for him to make you disappear. In that century, you didn’t exist; you were nobody. If you had disappeared, nobody would have noticed.

You headed for the door, making sure to keep your pace brisk and quick. You turned the handle, surprised to see the door open and the corridor deserted. Perhaps he didn’t mean any harm, you mused as you walked down the corridor. However, you had no desire to blindly trust a stranger, nor to stop long enough to find out whether your paranoia was justified or not.

But where would you go? What kind of world would you find outside those four walls? And how would it treat someone like you, who was clearly out of place? Pushing all rational thought aside, you crossed the corridor as quickly as possible and slipped down the stairs. Casting a quick glance at the dining area, you thanked your lucky stars that most of last night’s patrons were either absent or barely awake.

So you left, with no destination other than the desire to get away. Perhaps it was an irrational choice, or the remnants of an ancient instinct driving you to survive. Of course, you weren’t used to living without a home, and if that Moran had actually had good intentions, then you would have been a bit of a dickhead, leaving others to foot the bill. But despite this, you didn’t stop, neither in the face of the unease lingering in your heart nor even when you heard the innkeeper calling out to you.

On Friday mornings, the old man walked down Drury Lane. It was a fact nobody would have questioned: the grass is green, the sky is blue, and every friday at nine sixteen, that old man walked down Drury Lane with the precision of a Swiss watch. Not that anyone would have been interested in questioning it, nor in watching some old man’s morning stroll for more than a few seconds. 

That day it was rainy, with torrents of water pouring down on the city without any mercy. Normally, after running his errands, the old man would have gone straight home, but not that day. It so happened that, for one reason or another—perhaps due to roadworks or a strike—not a single carriage was to be seen that day. So the old man stood there, beneath a portico, as if waiting for something to happen.

“Ah, fuck” you sighed with a curse, crossing the road with quick strides and praying with the fragile hope that your foot wouldn’t sink into a fatal puddle. God, you knew the weather in England was awful—every media outlet, travel vlog or documentary kept mentioning it—yet you hadn’t expected it to be this bad now that the sky had suddenly gone from clear to bringing down the heavens.

Come to think of it, perhaps you should've thought things more carefully while wandering around the city or before tipping off Moran. But right now, as you were running along the cobbled streets, you couldn't afford to waste a single second crying over spilt milk—instead, you had to decide what to do.

You retreated beneath a desolate porch, home only to a tannery, a bakery and a few small shops you couldn’t quite make out. The place was deserted, in an almost surreal way now that most people had taken shelter indoors. You sat down on the ground, uncharactely indifferent to what you might find on the pavement of a Victorian street.

Despite the cold, the road was comfortable. Ever since you’d arrived in this place, in this timeline, you’d always been careful not to betray yourself, and now, after what had seemed like an eternity, you had the chance to lift that veil, if only for a moment.

It’s pleasant, almost comfortable as— a cloth? You blinked, and there really was a cloth a few centimetres from your face. In front of you, the fabric—or rather, the hand holding it—remained motionless, as if waiting. You looked up to find an old man standing before you. A few seconds of silence passed, so deep that your ears picked up the indistinct fragments of chatter three blocks away.

“… You’ll end up catching a cold, you know,” he explained, looking somewhat embarrassed at your questioning gaze. 

You took the cloth, muttering a quick thank you, and then rubbed its rough surface against your skin. The man in front of you seemed to hesitate for a moment. “If you’d like, I could accompany you home”

You shook your head. “I’m not from around here,” you replied, flinging the cloth vehemently onto your lap as if it had personally offended you.

The old man started. “Oh no, I meant I could call you a carriage and take you to your hotel,” he exclaimed, waving a hand in front of him with fervent vigour.

You blinked slowly, smiling awkwardly. “I’m not staying in a hotel.”

“Then to your hostel or, I don’t know, your home.”

“I don’t have either of those,” you sighed. Your smile turned into a grimace. “Look, there’s no address I can give you.”

The man’s expression shifted from confusion to a hint of compassion, though as soon as he noticed your glare, he was quick to hide it. “Don’t worry, anyway,” you added, swallowing your pride. If you really had to pass for homeless, then you’d see your act through to the end. “I’ll just keep wandering around the area then—”

“W-wait! You can’t do that! I mean, you’ll end up in a workhouse if the police caught you ” He hastened to explain after seeing the bitter note in your gaze. “Besides it’s a miracle you haven’t been arrested yet.

So that’s why people had been giving you dirty looks ever since you arrived here? At first you thought it was because of your clothes – after all, that was only natural, given that you were a time traveller or whatever. Seriously, it was only when you found yourself amongst those people that you realised just how ridiculous your everyday clothes must have looked to people of this era, being clearly too cheap and practical to belong to a bourgeoisie, yet at the same time too brightly coloured and expensive to be the clothes of a factory worker. With this concern on your mind, you had therefore snatched the first cloak that came to hand, displayed outside one of the many shacks in the neighbourhood. Those clothes were a curse, a target on your body. So who on earth would have said anything to you for acting out of necessity?

As your thoughts raced through your mind with the same frantic energy of a bird trapped in a cage, you heard a sound to your left. Glancing in that direction, you saw that the old man had moved closer to you and had slumped down onto the ground a few steps away. “Are you all right?” you asked with concern.

“Yes, I’ll keep her company for a while.” You didn’t object to that. “Goddammit, it looks like it’s never going to stop raining,” he sighed, probably more to himself than to you.

“Is it often like this, the weather?” you asked. In the distance, the storm continued to rage; raindrops kept pelting everything in their path, and occasionally thunder rumbled in the distance. In a way, you envied it. Sure, the wind was venting all its fury at that moment. But unlike it, you had no way of giving voice to the turmoil lurking within your soul.

You looked out beyond the porch, sighing. Setting the sentimentalism aside, this didn't change the fact that, right now, you had nothing to do.

“Not really, ” replied the old man. “This season is rather peculiar. I suppose you’re not used to this kind of weather.”

You opened your mouth to reply, you didn't know exactly what. No, you weren't used to it, given that you came not only from abroad but also from at least a hundred years in the future. Even if the geographical difference hadn't affected the climate you were used to, you were sure that climate change would've taken care of it anyway.

But before you could even blurt out the first lie that sprang to mind in a bid to get away with it, someone seemed to have other ideas. That someone being none other than your stomach.

A gurgle who intended to compete with the thunder broke the silence with the brazen temperament of one who is not afraid to be heard, only to be met by more silence. For a moment, in those quiet moments, you wondered whether you should say something or blame it on the storm.

“Are you hungry?” he inquired. You nodded solemnly, no longer trusting your own voice in the midst of such shame. Feeling the old man’s gaze upon you, you cursed for the first time in your life that an old man could still hear so clearly. “Let’s go and get you something to eat.”

Despite all your protests— Oh, I could surely have made it through the day without eating you didn't have to worry about me, you're too kind but I can manage without it after all I don't need it. And so, there you were in a diner once again, taking advantage of a stranger's kindness against your will. God, how could this old man be so stubborn? Seriously, you’d tried every trick in the book to get rid of him. You’d started with morality (‘Eh? You’re not hungry, you say? Come on, my ears still work just fine’) to financial practicality (’You can’t pay me back, you say? Come on, I’m not doing this for the money!’).

And so there you were, sitting at a table, staring at the plate that had been served to you as if it were forbidden fruit. You studied the old man, the room and the grain of the wood, as if to prove that your resolve could not be shaken. “No,” you said, pushing the plate towards him. “I’ve already caused you too much trouble; you take it.”

You shamelessly threw yourself into it, tucking into a hearty meal after what had felt like a lifetime. And just like that, the fantasy vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Alas, what could you have said? Despite your stubbornness, you were weak in the face of temptation.

“So why are you here, anyway? he suddenly asked halfway through the meal.

Your mind snapped to attention, having long since forgotten he was there. Did he really have to ask these questions without any warning? “Where here?” you asked, hoping to buy yourself a few more nanoseconds so your brain could come up with something.

“Here, in London,” explained the old man. “The city has become quite popular in recent years, but... well, you don't look like a traveler,” he added hesitantly after a brief pause.

...Do I really look that much like a homeless person? “Well, I was here on a trip, but some incidents happened...” In your mind, you applauded yourself. Although you didn't answer anything, you admired your own confidence. You glanced quickly at the door, praying to a higher power that your ordeal would end soon. What could you do now? While you believed your lies were credible enough, you certainly didn't trust how you'd deliver them.

So you sat there, feeling like a condemned criminal on the gallows whilst hoping for the best. You recounted many things to him, such as how your mother had apparently given birth to you at sea (which is why there are no documents about you basically) and how, after losing your parents at a young age, it was your grandfather who raised you in the countryside, before you decided to set off for London and ended up being pickpocketed. 

You spoke, blending your longing for your era with your sense of loss, weaving truth and falsehood the best you could. He seemed to take it in his stride, showing you compassion—though he wasn’t very expressive—and offering you some comfort when he could. You felt guilty for lying so shamelessly to someone who was clearly good-hearted, but there wasn’t much you could do about it at that moment.

Slowly, the conversation shifted moving on to more mundane topics.

He told you his name, what he did for a living, and how long he’d been in town. You talked about London, your homelands, and his love for cats. For a moment, it felt as though you’d returned to your everyday life, as if you were catching up with an old acquaintance rather than a stranger.

The bell at the shop's door rang. You glanced quickly at the door, having caught a fleeting movement with the corner of your eye.

You felt your blood run cold; your eyes darted to the now-empty plate. No, no, no—what were the chances that this could happen?

You swallowed in vain, trying in vain to quell your ever-growing anxiety. Should you run away? Or pretend nothing was wrong? The only thing you knew was that you didn’t want anything to do with anyone from this era.

Your eyes returned to the old man, finding him staring at you in confusion. “I’m… I’m fine,” you cleared your throat. How much of your panic had he seen? Given your state, you hadn’t even noticed.

Footsteps approached before a shadow loomed over the table, undisturbed amongst the plates and crockery.

As the silence deafened you, you prayed that fate would be on your side, at least this once. And thus, your last hope was shattered.

"You..." The newcomer scrutinised the old man, seemingly asking him some kind of question. "What are you doing here?"

(A/n): AHHHH thank you everyone for supporting this fic, it really means a lot to me! I didn't really expect people to like this silly fic so much😭 I'm sorry if this update was pretty delayed but I decided to rewrite half of this since I thought it was too cliché. Anyways, I know that this chapter is really slow paced but trust the process🔥🔥

@aika-3

[tokyoproxy]

富士山 Mt. Fuji by Masayuki Nozaki

[emwheezie]

🌈🌈🌈🌈

[itsonlystatic]

I’m a couple episodes into Sins of Kujo

I need the Mibu fanfics in my life, can’t wait for the fanfic writers to sink their teeth into this morally grey man.

I may think of something to write too though-

[swagathaharkness]

cosmic princess kaguya got it so right because the only force in the universe powerful enough to rewrite the tragedies of ancient folklore and build a truly happy and fulfilling ending despite them is lesbian yearning

[claudeq]

WANT MASTERLIST. ( yandere! jujutsu kaisen x zenin (will be fushiguro later on)! reader )

summary : in which, after your uncle took you along with him after he left the clan. you got entangled with some individuals who, for some reasons, started to get really attached with you.

O1 : THE UNCLE AND THE NIECE

O2 : A MENACE HAS ARRIVED

O3 : UNCLE HATES A LIAR THE MOST.

EXTRA SCENARIOS :

O1 : ZENIN FAMILY MASSACRE

O2 : MEGUMI BECAME SUKUNA'S VESSEL

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

[mordag-waterworld]

[falalalablog]

Part 2 of texts between itoshi brothers and their younger sister who's completely unaware of everything that happened between her brothers and assumes they just don't get along. Sae is her fav big brother.

Part 1

[falalalablog]

I always wonder about Rin And Sae Having a younger sister who's completely in dark about everything that happened between her brothers and none of them bother telling her either so she just assumes they don't get along. Sae is her favorite big brother. Here are some text messages between them.

Part 2

[bluespiderlily06]

No Breaks Past This Point

Synopsis: Rin sacrificed you for the sake of soccer, and now he’s back after two years. But you were no longer the girl he’s known his entire life. While he’s too busy chasing goals, you’ve been busy chasing finishing lines.

TW: Rin Itoshi X F! Reader (Blue Lock) Angst, like a lot of angst but nothing too bad, happy ending, conflict, baddie (Y/n), racer (Y/n), yes racer like as in driving cars and stuff, older brother who calls you his little doll but it’s nothing sexual, illegal street racing, betting, possessive Rin, scene based off heavily from Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift

Parts:

1 (When Goals Meets Finish Lines)

2 (Ego And Asphalt)

3 (No Brakes Past This Point) You are here

People arrived and filled up the top lot quickly, they surrounded Rin but didn’t pay him any mind. All of their attention and phones were directed at the intense race, one more level and Takeshi would arrive shortly after. And he did just that, the car skidded in front of you and stopped right before it could hit you.

“Your turn doll, I got here first. So you better move that ass. And pray that I don’t find any boys in your room or else. And that includes Rin.” Takeshi got out with a deadly expression on his face while pushing you inside roughly, clearly still annoyed with your threats earlier, “Win or I’m taking your phone away.”

“So mean to me.” You whined as he forcefully put on my seatbelt for me and shut the door behind him.

Before Ryuji even arrived, you adjusted the seat, sliding it forward until your legs bent just enough and your grip on the steering wheel felt right. It was a small adjustment, but you’ve always been particular about things like that, especially when it came to driving. If something felt even slightly off, it would show later when it actually mattered. Because small things like these always mattered more than people thought.

Getting into a car was one thing, anyone could do that. Driving it the way it was meant to be handled was different. The moment your hands rested on the wheel, your focus sharpened almost instantly. The noise around you faded into the background, the crowd, the voices, even the tension in the air, none of it mattered anymore. Emotions felt numb and the only thing you could focus on was the steering wheel and the road. Takeshi… Rin… Everyone else didn’t matter at this moment.

All that mattered was how the car responded under your touch, the slight vibration of the engine, the weight of the wheel, the way everything felt steady and familiar. Your hand rested on the wheel for a second before moving down to the ignition. The moment you turned the key, the engine came to life beneath you, low at first before settling into a steady idle. The vibration ran through the seat and up your spine, familiar enough that it didn’t distract you, if anything it grounded you.

You gave the accelerator a light press, just enough to raise the revs slightly, not overdoing it, just enough to feel the response. Then slowly, you eased off the clutch, controlled and steady, feeling for that exact point where the car wanted to move. It wasn’t something you looked for, it was something you felt, that subtle shift where everything aligned and the car responded without fighting you. The moment it caught, the car rolled forward smoothly, no jerk, no stall, nothing messy about it. It moved exactly how you expected it to, like it always did. You didn’t rush it, didn’t push it yet. A second passed by and the right time came, now you could push it.

Now it was time to shine and prove to everyone to not underestimate you just because you were a girl. Quickly you pressed the clutch in fully, your other foot hovering just slightly over the accelerator as your hand moved to the gear shift. It slid into first smoothly without resistance, something you didn’t even have to think about anymore. You’ve done this too many times for it to feel new. Outside, the noise hadn’t died down at all. Engines revved, people shouted, it echoed across concrete, but none of it really reached you the same way. It all dulled into background noise the moment you settled in properly.

The moment the car rolled forward, you didn’t head straight for the ramp like everyone else would’ve expected. Instead, your grip on the wheel shifted just slightly as you pressed down harder on the accelerator, the engine responding instantly as you turned in sharper than necessary, letting the rear slip out on purpose.

The tires screeched against the concrete as the car spun into a tight, controlled circle, smoke beginning to curl from the friction as the crowd reacted all at once, voices rising, people stumbling back to give you space. But despite the scary scene you displayed, everyone didn’t even stop recording and it was funny to see them tripping over themselves with their eyes still stuck to the screen.

The turn itself wasn’t messy, it wasn’t accidental, every inch of the movement was deliberate, the radius clean, the speed consistent, the kind of control that didn’t come from talent alone. You widened it just enough. Just enough for the car to loop around Rin and Takeshi.

Circling around them like a predator eyeing its prey. And for a brief moment, the two of them were cut off from everyone else, standing right in the center of your circle as the car moved around them like a boundary you decided to draw. The engine roared louder with that single turn, the smoke hanging low enough to blur the edges of everything outside of it.

“Show off.” Takeshi rolled his eyes at you and gave you the middle finger

Takeshi was your typical older brother, loving you in a way that sometimes felt closer to how a parent would. You used to joke that you were his “practice baby,” the one he got to mess around with before ever having one of his own. He never denied it either, always rolling his eyes but never actually correcting you.

He had this strange, unspoken rule when it came to you—no one else was allowed to give you a hard time. If someone so much as looked at you the wrong way, he’d be the first to step in without hesitation. But at the same time, he was the biggest menace in your life, the one who teased you relentlessly, annoyed you on purpose, and never missed an opportunity to get under your skin.

It was contradictory, but that’s just how he was. To him, you were off-limits to everyone else, but never to him. He’d push you, challenge you, piss you off just enough to get a reaction, but never enough to actually hurt you. And if anyone ever crossed that line for real, he wouldn’t even think twice about stepping in. There was no negotiation, no second chances—just that same sharp look in his eyes that made people back off before things could escalate. It was his way of looking out for you, even if it came wrapped in insults and threats half the time.

Meanwhile when you were drifting around the boy, you focused your attention on Rin. Your eyes flickered toward Rin through the windshield, and this time you didn’t look away. You held it for a second longer than necessary, the corner of your lips lifting into the slightest smirk, not playful, not soft, but something sharper. There was no hesitation in it, no attempt to soften what it meant.

You weren’t asking to be noticed anymore. This time you were making sure he couldn’t ignore you. To take back all the time where you felt Rin had placed his brother first before you always. For a slight second, Rin’s eyes widened in shock as his eyes watered from the smoke entering them, he hadn’t expected you to do such a thing. He took it as a warning that he may be here now after two years, but you’ve never forgiven him yet for his deed. And indeed, he was correct.

Then just as quickly as you drifted around them, you broke out of it. The wheel straightened under your hands as you shifted up smoothly, pressing the accelerator down as the car shot forward toward the spiral ramp without a second glance back. The tires caught for only a fraction of a second before you pushed it again, entering the first turn faster than anyone reasonably should in a space that tight.

The rear kicked out immediately as you initiated the drift, the car sliding along the curve of the ramp while still carrying speed downward. Your hands moved without hesitation, countersteering just enough to hold the angle while your foot balanced the throttle with practiced ease, keeping the motion controlled instead of letting it spiral out.

The structure seemed narrower the faster you went, the concrete walls echoing every movement of the engine as each level came faster than the last. The open sides of the parking deck let flashes of city lights bleed through your peripheral vision, but you didn’t spare them a glance.

Everything you needed was right in front of you. The car responded exactly how you expected it to, every shift in weight, every turn, every adjustment lining up with instinct rather than thought. You pushed a little harder on the next curve, letting the car slide wider before pulling it back in, the tires gripping just enough to keep it clean.

If Takeshi drove fast, you drove faster. And where he was controlled, you were just on the edge of recklessness, pushing the limit in ways that made it look like you shouldn’t be able to recover, only to snap everything back into place like it had never been at risk to begin with.

Behind you, another engine roared to life, Akira. He entered the ramp not long after, his car cutting into the descent with precision, his line clean, almost surgical as he tried to close the distance you’d already built. He didn’t waste time, pushing immediately, his movements sharp and calculated, but there was a tension in it now, something tighter than before.

He was chasing. You took the next turn even tighter than the last, pushing the car just a little further than what most people would consider safe, the rear sliding out at a sharper angle before you corrected it with a quick, controlled countersteer. The timing had to be exact, and it was. It always was.

Akira tried to match it, you could hear it in the way his engine strained behind you, the way his turns came just a fraction later, his corrections just a fraction heavier. He was fast, undeniably so, but his driving followed a pattern, clean, predictable, something that relied on perfection.

Meanwhile, yours didn’t follow any line at all because bullshit to that. Instead you created it. Another turn came and you didn’t ease off as much as you should have, letting the car slide wider again before snapping it back in, the tires catching just enough to keep the momentum without losing control. It looked like too much, like something that should’ve ended in a spin, but it didn’t.

Because you already knew exactly how far you could push it. You were an accumulation of all the skills and experiences you’ve gained throughout the numerous years of driving. By the time the lower levels started coming into view, the gap between you had only grown.

Akira pushed harder to make up for it, his movements sharper now, less composed than before, the precision still there but strained, like he was forcing it to keep up with something that didn’t follow the same rules. There was a hint of panic in the way he handled the next turn, subtle, but enough.

You didn’t need to look back to know that you were already ahead. And he wasn’t catching up. You felt it now more than ever, the tire was worn from Takeshi earlier. He hadn’t calculated how much he was pushing the car to its limit without considering he’d lose grip. You could feel how much harder the car was to control and how it had trouble driving straight, you could take advantage of the fact that this track mainly had curves which was why you could easily put distance between you and Akira. But for the last portion of the race would be a straight line to the finishing line.

You were going to kill Akira for not changing the tires last week. And it didn’t help how you were also pressuring them, wearing them down even further. The straight came into view sooner than you wanted it to and you could already feel the shift the moment you began easing out of the last curve, the way the car didn’t settle as cleanly beneath you compared to earlier, the slight resistance in the wheel that forced you to pay more attention than before. It wasn’t enough to throw you off, but it was there, subtle, persistent, something that would matter the moment you no longer had corners to rely on.

Your grip tightened just slightly, not out of panic but out of awareness, adjusting to it the same way you always did, instinctively, without overthinking it. Behind you, Akira’s engine roared closer and louder than ever before. Akira had been waiting for this. On paper, your car should’ve dominated. A GT-R like yours carried far more raw power than a stock Supra ever could. But Akira was never the type to leave things stock.

His wasn’t just a Supra anymore. It had been tuned within an inch of its limits—bigger turbo, upgraded fuel system, reinforced internals, ECU tuned to squeeze every bit of power out of it without blowing the engine apart. You’d heard rumors about it, seen glimpses of it during previous runs, but hearing it now from behind you, the way the engine climbed so aggressively, so smoothly, it confirmed everything.

He’d pushed it past four hundred. Maybe closer to five. And more importantly, he knew how to use it. The gap you created through the corners started shrinking the moment the road straightened. Not all at once, but steadily, enough that you could feel it without even needing to look. His acceleration was cleaner now, no corrections, no wasted movement, just pure forward momentum.

You pressed down harder on the accelerator, but your response wasn’t as sharp as it had been earlier. There was a slight delay, just enough to force you to compensate instead of relying on instinct alone. That was all he needed. In the rearview mirror, his headlights grew larger, the outline of his car sharpening as he closed in, his approach controlled, almost patient. He wasn’t forcing it. He didn’t have to. The straight favored him now, and he knew it.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, forcing your hands to stay light on the wheel despite the tension creeping in. Overcorrecting now would be worse than hesitating. Every small adjustment had to be precise. The finish line was coming into view.

The crowd ahead was already reacting, people leaning forward, phones raised, waiting. The distance between you and Akira had narrowed enough that it barely felt like a lead anymore. His car was right there now, just behind you, threatening to overtake the moment you lost even a fraction of control.

You felt it again, that slight instability under your hands. For the first time in the entire run, the car didn’t feel completely yours. The wheel tugged just enough to remind you that this wasn’t a perfect run, that one wrong input here would undo everything you’d built from the start. But you didn’t panic, you couldn’t not be right at this crucial moment. Instead of forcing more speed out of it, you adjusted.

You eased off the accelerator just slightly, just for a fraction of a second, letting the weight of the car settle before pressing down again, smoother this time, more controlled. Not chasing speed, but preserving what you already had. The car responded—not perfectly, but enough. You held it steady.

Akira pushed harder behind you. You could hear it in the pitch of his engine, feel it in the way he committed fully now, confident that he had closed the gap enough to take it at the end. But that was the difference between the two of you. He drove by the line. You drove by feel. And so the distance didn’t widen, but it didn’t close either and in a race like this, that was all that mattered.

You didn’t need to look back to know that he was gaining, you could hear it in the way his acceleration climbed, smoother, more stable, the kind of driving that thrived in a straight line. All that distance you created on the curves started to shrink, not all at once, but steadily, enough to make it obvious to anyone watching how quickly the gap was closing.

You pressed down on the accelerator more, pushing the car forward, but it didn’t respond as sharply as it did earlier. There was a slight lag, a fraction of hesitation that you had to work around instead of relying on. That was enough.

In the rearview mirror, his headlights grew larger, the outline of his car becoming clearer as he closed in, his movements composed, controlled, nothing wasted. He wasn’t rushing it, he didn’t need to, not when the road now favored him. You exhaled slowly, forcing your hands to stay steady on the wheel as you made small corrections, keeping the car straight without overcompensating. The worst thing you could do now was fight it too much and lose control completely.

The finish line rushed toward you, the noise of the crowd rising all at once, and you pushed just enough, squeezing every last bit out of the car without tipping it over the edge. Akira was right there. Close enough to win. The finish line wasn’t far, it kept growing the closer you both drove to it. It was close enough that the crowd was already visible ahead, people leaning forward, phones raised, waiting for the outcome. The distance between you and Akira had narrowed to the point where it barely felt like a lead anymore, his car now just behind yours, threatening to overtake the moment you slipped.

Really, Akira was just right there, close enough that you could almost feel it. But he hesitated. Not in a way most people would notice, especially if you weren’t racing him. But Akira was always the type to drive safely, he didn’t like recklessly throwing away his life even in situations like these. That’s why despite having the skills and resources to go professional, he never chose to. Even now, his hesitation and fear to go beyond what he was capable of will always be his downfall.

And that was all you needed. You pushed just a little more, squeezing everything the car had left without overdoing it, holding the line as the finish drew closer, the noise of the crowd growing louder, the distance disappearing faster than it felt. The gap between the two of you didn’t widen, but it didn’t close either. Pedal to the metal, you knew what your car could handle better than anyone, it gave you many victories and you’ve never doubted it once.

The wheel pulled slightly under your hands for a split second, not enough to lose control, but enough to remind you that one wrong correction here would send everything sideways. The car didn’t feel as forgiving anymore, and for the first time in the entire run, there was a brief moment where things didn’t feel completely in your control. Okay, maybe you did begin to doubt your car a bit here. Sweat clinged onto your forehead but you didn’t dare wipe it at this critical moment. That adrenaline rush of not knowing who’d win surged through your body.

Silence came from the crowd, even Rin and Takeshi who did their best to run after you were holding their breaths. Watching with intense attention on who’d cross the line first, Rin was nervous, he believed in you 100% that you’d win this competition but at the same time, it looks like it was cutting close. When you managed to shake off Akira earlier with the curves and help with gravity it boosted his confidence in you. But then again regardless if you won or not, Rin would be proud of you always. But he did know how your competitive side got when you were in the zone.

Both cars made it to the finish line, at first everyone was silent then they erupted in cheers. You managed to cross first. Not by much, not in a way that made it obvious, but enough that it didn’t matter. The moment you passed the line, you eased off immediately, letting the car slow down as the tension in your body finally released, your grip loosening slightly on the wheel as everything settled back into place.

Behind you, Akira crossed seconds after. Close, too close. Maybe if Takeshi didn’t wear out the tires and you had replaced them last week, you would have been able to further widen the time between crossing the finish line. But what’s done is done and what’s important is that you won. Takeshi couldn’t use this race as leverage to take away your phone, annoying older brother.

You clicked your tongue under your breath, a small smirk forming as you leaned back slightly into your seat, letting the adrenaline fade just enough to think clearly again. Akira almost had you. Almost. Cheers erupted from the crowd as you skidded to a stop right in front of Reina. Getting out of the car, people chased after you, gathering and crowding you with congratulations.

Soon enough, Akira made his way to you pushing his way through the crowd with ease. His figure towering over you clearly annoyed with his loss against you but he wanted to congratulate you, you won fair and square afterall and secretly he was hoping to score your number.

But you completely ignored him and went up to Reina to claim your prize money, counting the bundle of cash immediately as she handed it over. She seemed proud of you as she brushed your hair with her fingers. A lot of people liked treating you like a kid, didn't they? It wasn’t anything bad at all though, you did have a tendency to act like one despite driving far from like one.

Counting the money took your mind off the events. It was such an adrenaline rush but at the same time a calming feeling. Was there even a word to describe that kind of feeling? This kind of high that beats all other kinds of high? If one needs a good stress reliever, they only need to go for a joy ride.

The money was good even after you’d need to split the winnings with Takeshi, it was more than enough to afford more custom upgrades to your Nismo while covering maintenance costs. Racing cars burn a hole through one's pocket, the racing fees, and repairing fees basically cost a fortune and you told your dad you would cover it since he was already paying for the academy.

Akira placed his arm around your shoulder, it was unlike him normally he would’ve left by now, “Hey, (L/n). Good game back there, your control was good even with the tire wear.”

You glanced at him briefly, taking in the height, the build, the same kind of quiet intensity you’d seen before. It almost made you laugh. You really did catch the attention of this nonchalant good looking emo. Perhaps you really did have a type after looking at Rin. The only difference between both boys were the sports they played, the age gap, and the way they approached you. Rin was more nonchalant and protective when it came to you meanwhile Akira knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to make his move. But you weren’t entertained in the slightest, you’ve been waiting two years to take the attention from the one you’ve always desired. You could wait longer, you didn’t need anyone else to give you the attention you’ve been deprived of.

“Thanks…” You responded, feeling awkward at the arm around you, he was a bit too forward for your liking and so you looked around the area, wanting Takeshi to save you already.

“I was wondering if y-”

“She’s not interested, can’t you see that. Move your lukewarm ass on..” That voice that you recognize in a heartbeat spoke and tore the arm off from your shoulder.

Akira stared at Rin with the same cold, unblinking intensity he carried on the track, the kind that didn’t waver even when challenged. There was no hesitation in his posture, no second-guessing, just quiet annoyance at being interrupted, like Rin had stepped into something that didn’t concern him.

But Rin didn’t back down, if anything, his expression only hardened, his brows pulling together slightly as he met Akira’s gaze head-on, like this was just another opponent standing in front of him. Different field, same instinct. He didn’t need to know anything about racing to recognize a challenge when he saw one. And that only fuels your affection for Rin as much as you hated it (Secretly you reveled in Rin’s protectiveness.)

“Who are you to decide that?” Akira repeated, this time slower, more deliberate, like he was testing him.

Rin let out a quiet scoff, the corner of his lip twitching in irritation. His hand hadn’t moved far from where he shoved Akira’s arm off you, still hovering just slightly like he hadn’t fully decided whether to pull back or not.

“Someone who can tell when you’re being ignored.” Rin replied flatly, his tone cutting, not loud but sharp enough to land, “Or do you need it spelled out for you too?”

The air between them shifted almost instantly. People nearby started noticing, conversations dipping just slightly as attention began to drift toward the three of you. It wasn’t loud, not yet, but it was enough. The kind of tension that didn’t need raised voices to be felt. Where the Hell was Takeshi when you needed him? Probably flirting with the ladies, that’s why he couldn’t get any stable relationships. Akira’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, not in anger, but in something more calculating. He glanced at you briefly this time, like he was reassessing the situation instead of forcing it.

“…Is that true?” he asked, directing it to you now, his tone calmer but still firm.

All eyes were on you now and you wanted to kill Akira at that moment for putting you on the spot like that. Rin didn’t look at you, but you could feel it, the way he went still beside you, like he was waiting, not for confirmation, but for something else entirely. Something he wouldn’t say out loud. You let out a small sigh and moved back, putting just enough space between you and him to make your answer clear before you even said it.

“He’s right.” You said simply, your tone not harsh, but not soft either, “I’m not interested.”

There was no room for misinterpretation. Akira held your gaze for a second longer, searching for something that wasn’t there, before exhaling quietly through his nose as the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly, not defeated, but accepting.

“…Got it.” He muttered, stepping back.

For someone like him, that was enough, he didn’t need to make a scene or push any further. Just a quiet retreat. But before he fully turned away, his eyes flicked back to Rin for a brief moment, that same unreadable look settling in again.

“… Be careful, if you screw up I’ll be taking your place” Akira said, voice low but certain

It wasn’t directed at you and it wasn’t about the race. Rin’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes that sharpened at that, something competitive sparking even in a situation that had nothing to do with soccer.

“…Try it.” Rin replied just as quietly

You guessed right, “Sorry, I got held up back there with the girls, doll. Seriously, they were a—” Seeing the crowd around you growing quiet when he arrived, they all knew Akira was fucked but Takeshi would also get an earful from you later for ditching you to hoe around, “What the hell are you both doing?” Takeshi glared at both men, immediately sensing what was going on, “Akira, get your pedophile hands off my little sister. Next time I see you trying to hit on her, I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass, you’ll be shitting out your dick.” He glared at the man and pulled you away from both boys.

Much to Takeshi’s disappointment, Rin followed behind the both of you. Akira left after that, disappearing back into the crowd like nothing happened, but the weight of that exchange lingered for a second longer than it should have. Only when he was gone did Rin finally shift, clicking his tongue under his breath before glancing down at you.

“…You attract weird guys.” Takeshi muttered, like that was the only takeaway he was willing to admit, “Anyways, let’s kill that vibe and celebrate our victory!” He grabbed me by the waist and lifted me onto his shoulder.

Before you could even react, he grabbed you by the waist and hoisted you up onto his shoulder in one swift motion, “Hey—! Put me down, you idiot!” You protested immediately, hitting his back lightly as the sudden movement made your head spin for a second.

Takeshi only laughed, loud and unbothered, weaving his way through the crowd like he owned the entire place, “What? You just won, at least act like it.”

“I am acting like it, now put me down before I throw up on you.”

“That’s fine, I’ll just drop you after.”

“You’re actually the worst.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

People started crowding around you again the moment they realized what was going on, cheers breaking out louder this time, a few whistles cutting through the noise as others called your name. Someone shoved a drink into Takeshi’s free hand, another tried to pat your shoulder as you passed, completely ignoring the fact that you were currently being carried like a trophy. But Rin, he stayed quiet with a slight smile on his face, he was proud of you and silently gave his congratulations. This was your moment to shine, Rin wouldn’t do anything to take the spotlight away from you.

“Oi! Careful with her, idiots.” Takeshi snapped half-heartedly, though there was no real bite to it, just his usual way of keeping people at a distance without actually pushing them away.

Reina appeared not long after, slipping through the crowd with ease, cigarette still between her fingers as she looked up at you with a small, knowing smile, “Big win tonight.” she hummed, tapping the ash off to the side, “Didn’t think you’d cut it that close at the end.”

You huffed lightly, crossing your arms despite your current position, “Don’t remind me.”

“She almost lost.” Takeshi added immediately, earning a sharp kick from you against his shoulder making him finally place you down

“I did not almost lose.” You tensed up

“You hesitated.” He shot back

“I adjusted because of my tires. I could feel them losing control.”

“You still hesitated.”

“I just wasn’t stupid.” You leaned down slightly, grabbing a handful of his hair just enough to make him hiss, “Also if you say that I hesitated again and I’m driving your car into the ocean next time.”

Reina let out a quiet laugh at the siblings' interactions, clearly amused. Eventually, Takeshi set you down, though not without a dramatic sigh like he was doing you a favor, his hand lingering briefly at the back of your head in a quick, rough ruffle before pulling away.

“Don’t let it get to your head.” he muttered, though there was a hint of pride he didn’t bother hiding too well, “You did good.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but the small smile tugging at your lips gave you away anyway. Across the lot, music had started playing from someone’s car, bass echoing through the concrete as people loosened up now that the race was over. Conversations overlapped, laughter mixing with the lingering smell of burnt rubber and gasoline, the adrenaline from earlier slowly settling into something lighter, easier.

Rin hated the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. He hated how all the fumes coming from the smoke would make his eyes water. But he didn’t hate you as much as he wanted to. He really did want to move on with his life and completely devote himself to soccer, but he simply couldn’t seem to find a future where he was happy, content, and satisfied without you.

Rin loved seeing all the passion and fire behind those eyes of yours. Just like him who uses a ball as an extension of his being, yours was an engine. So even if he was annoyed with you showing off earlier by drifting around him and Takeshi, he couldn’t bring himself to even call you an idiot or throw any insults. You were his treasure, his person. He just hoped it still wasn’t too late for him.

When you drank the Red Bull earlier, the way your head tilted back slightly and your throat moved with each swallow stayed with him longer than it should have. It was such a small, insignificant moment in the middle of everything, yet Rin couldn’t seem to shake it off no matter how hard he tried. It replayed in his mind in fragments, uninvited and annoyingly vivid, like his brain had decided it was worth remembering for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely.

But what stuck with him throughout this entire night was how much you’ve changed. He could excuse you changing up your fashion style and stuff for a phase, but he secretly hoped that maybe somewhere within this night, there was something from the past he could recognize. But what he found was that you’ve grown and adapted to the life he left behind. It didn’t help Rin’s conscience of thinking that you were drifting further and further away from him. To a place he fears he could never follow you.

The girl who used to linger just a step behind him, who spoke softly unless something truly mattered, who laughed easily and filled the silence without ever demanding attention, she was gone. Or maybe not gone, but changed in a way that made her feel almost out of reach. In her place stood someone sharper, someone who carried herself with a quiet kind of certainty that didn’t ask for approval or permission.

And irritated him, not because you had changed negatively, but because you had done it without him. Because somewhere in those two years, you had built something for yourself that didn’t include him, something solid enough that you didn’t need to look back. And Rin, whether he liked it or not, was the one who got left behind this time. Before he could remember how doting you were when it came to his needs, how you always made sure he ate properly and didn’t overdo his training.

Now? He doubts you’d make an effort to do all the things you used to do for him. Seeing you now this skilled with the wheel, practically took his breath away. Internally, he never felt that overwhelmed and desperate need to catch up with both you and Takeshi as he ran after you. In that moment, he was brought back to the night of how Sae changed and left him to fend for himself.

He wanted to see what you were now capable of but at the same time he feared it. What if all you needed now was racing? Would he still have a place in your life? If the answer was no, he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it well. 2 years of harboring all these guilt, regrets, and love for you kept swirling around in his stomach that it made him want to puke.

Blue Lock helped him in a lot of ways, like how he was the one running in front of the crowd. Easily keeping up with Takeshi who was surprisingly very quick at running and didn’t even break a sweat. Not only that, Blue Lock provided a distraction for his mind, a way to help him not think about his pains and keep him sane from staying away this long from you. Truthfully, having met you added you to his permanent routine.

And Rin loved his routines. He liked knowing what came next, liked the structure of it, the predictability, the control. Every part of his day had a purpose, every action tied back to something bigger, something that pushed him forward. That was how he functioned best.

But when he left you, that routine didn’t just adjust—it fractured. At first, he told himself it was necessary. That cutting you off was the right move, that distractions had no place in the kind of life he was trying to build. And for a while, it worked. Blue Lock filled every gap, every empty space that used to be occupied by you. Training replaced conversations. Competition replaced comfort. Progress replaced everything else.

It was easier that way. Easier to focus when there was nothing left to look back on. But standing here now, watching the streak of your taillights disappear down the levels below, Rin realized that what he built in those two years wasn’t something complete. It was something hollow that only worked as long as he didn’t look too closely at what was missing.

Because no matter how structured his life became, no matter how much he improved, no matter how far ahead he got. There was always something off. And now he knew exactly what it was. Rin’s gaze sharpened, his body already moving before the thought fully settled. His shoes hit the concrete hard as he followed after Takeshi, keeping pace easily despite the distance, his breathing steady, controlled. The echo of engines bounced off the walls around him, sharp and overwhelming, the smell of burnt rubber thick in the air, but none of it registered the same way it did earlier.

Because now, he wasn’t just watching anymore. He was chasing. Not just the car racing down below, not just the outcome of the race, but something far more frustrating to grasp. You. Every step he took felt like it was chasing after something that had already moved ahead of him long before he realized it. You weren’t the same person he left behind, that much was obvious. You had your own pace now, your own world, something you built without him while he was too busy convincing himself that leaving was the right choice.

And now he was the one trying to catch up. Rin clicked his tongue under his breath, irritation flashing through him, not directed at you, but at himself. He didn’t like this feeling, didn’t like being in a position where he had to figure things out as he went, where there was no clear answer, no guaranteed outcome.

But unlike before, he didn’t turn away from it. He leaned into it. Because if there was one thing Rin understood, it was how to win under pressure. Three weeks. That was all he had. Three weeks to undo two years of damage, three weeks to figure out how to close a distance that wasn’t just physical anymore. And standing here now, watching how easily you moved through a world that didn’t include him, Rin knew that whatever approach he used before wouldn’t work this time.

You weren’t going to wait for him. So he’d have to move faster. Not recklessly, not blindly, but deliberately, the same way he played on the field. Every move calculated, every action with intent. He didn’t need to rush you, didn’t need to force anything that would push you further away. What he needed was to understand you again. To find the version of you that still overlapped with his. And if that version didn’t exist anymore. Then he’d learn the new one.

Rin’s pace didn’t slow as he reached the lower level, eyes immediately locking onto the scene ahead, the crowd, the cars, the aftermath of something intense. His chest felt tight, not from exhaustion, but from something heavier, something that settled deeper the closer he got. He wasn’t too late.

But he was close. Too close to losing you in a way that had nothing to do with distance. And this time, Rin didn’t look away from that possibility. He faced it head-on. Because if there was one thing he refused to repeat. It was letting you slip out of his life without doing anything to stop it. And that was a promise he would keep to both you and himself. He made good with that promise the moment you got out of that car and won.

He was trying to approach you, trying to be the first one who’d greet you as he noticed a bunch of girls rounding up Takeshi and dragging him away. But then a crowd of people gathered around you quicker than he anticipated, he was pushed back and despite his efforts, he was cut off by Akira who literally blocked him by using his car and pushed through where the crowd was gathered around you. Rin had a bad gut feeling. And the moment he saw your uncomfortable face and Akira’s arm around your shoulder, he knew his instincts were always right.

After most of the crowd dispersed you were going to head home, all of you were in the car already drained from everything. But then a man in a suit appeared, the suit was a little disheveled but that didn’t deter him from looking very professional. He knocked on the window just before Takeshi was about to pull out of the parking deck.

“What do you want?” Takeshi rolled down the window and asked cautiously, suspicious of the man

“The girl who drove earlier, we’re offering her a spot in our team.” He pointed at you from the passenger side and extended his hand with a business card for you to take, “You’ve got some real skill, kid and we’re looking for new talents. I think you’ll do nicely.”

“… I’ll think about it.”

“Strictly speaking you either accept it now or not.” Takeshi grabbed the business card and read it

“What the Hell are you talking about? You need to give us time to think about this. And I’ve never heard of this Academy before. Get lost, loser.”

The man didn’t flinch at Takeshi’s tone, not even a twitch of irritation crossing his face. If anything, he seemed used to it. People like him probably dealt with hotheaded drivers all the time, the kind who thought instinct alone could carry them into bigger leagues without understanding what came after. His gaze shifted past Takeshi and settled on you again, more focused now and with more intent.

“I’m not here to negotiate with him.” he said calmly, adjusting the sleeve of his suit like this was just another routine conversation, “I’m here for you.”

The inside of the car fell into a strange kind of silence after that. The engine was still running, low and steady beneath you, the faint hum vibrating through the seats. The smell of rubber and smoke still clung to everything, to your clothes, your skin, your hair. It hadn’t fully settled yet, the adrenaline, the noise, the tension of the race still lingering in your system like something unfinished. Takeshi clicked his tongue sharply, clearly annoyed, one hand tightening slightly on the steering wheel.

“She already said she’ll think about it.” he shot back, his voice dropping into something colder now, less loud but far more dangerous, “So take the hint and move.”

The man didn’t move. Instead, he leaned slightly, just enough to meet your line of sight properly through the window, “This isn’t a casual offer.” he continued, his tone still level but carrying more weight now, “We don’t approach just anyone. You were already on our radar before tonight, but this…” his eyes flicked briefly toward the parking deck behind you, where the echoes of the race still lingered, “…this confirmed it.” Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap, not visibly enough for anyone to call out, but enough that you felt it, “You’re wasting your time here.” The man added, quieter now, more deliberate, letting the words settle instead of forcing them, “Underground races don’t build champions. They just burn them out. You’ve been in multiple academies but haven’t gone professional right? Been told that racing is a man’s world, right?”

That hit. Not hard, not enough to show on your face, but enough to land somewhere deeper. Takeshi noticed because of course he did. When didn’t he?

“What the hell do you know about her or what she wants?” he snapped, shifting in his seat now, clearly losing patience, “You come out of nowhere, throw some shady offer at her, and expect her to just say yes on the spot? That’s not how this works.”

“It is for us.” the man replied simply, unfazed, “The man in the back is Rin Itoshi from the Blue Lock Project, right?”

That caught not just Takeshi’s attention, but Rin too. The man’s gaze flickered briefly toward the backseat, acknowledging him without fully turning away from you.

“The project we’re working on is modeled after that concept.” he continued, tone still calm but sharper now, more intentional, “Japan isn’t doing so well in the racing division either. We plan on changing that.”

His eyes returned to you, steady, “Do you want to win the Grand Prix?” he asked, not like a dream, but like a challenge, “Something your father or your brother here would never get a taste of?”

The tension inside the car tightened. From the backseat, Rin hadn’t said a word this entire time. But he was listening and watching in anticipation. His gaze flickered between you and the man outside, sharp and calculating in a way that had nothing to do with soccer and everything to do with understanding what was happening in front of him. He didn’t recognize the name on the card, didn’t know anything about racing academies or how this world worked, but he didn’t need to.

He understood opportunity when he saw one. And more importantly, he understood what it meant if you took it. A step forward meant another distance created. Rin’s jaw tightened slightly, his fingers curling faintly against his knee before relaxing again. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the conversation like Takeshi did. Because this wasn’t his decision to make. It was yours.

Rin noticed something though, how you weren’t like yourself. You didn’t push back. Not at Takeshi, not at the man, not even at the situation itself. Normally, you would’ve said something by now, thrown in a remark, brushed it off with that same confidence you carried on the track. You weren’t the type to sit quietly and let someone else speak over you, especially not when it involved something you cared about. But now, you were still. Too still.

His gaze narrowed slightly, attention shifting more fully onto you instead of the man outside. It wasn’t hesitation in the usual sense, not fear, not doubt. It felt… heavier than that. Like you were holding something back, weighing something internally that you weren’t letting anyone else see.

And that didn’t sit right with him. Because if there was one thing Rin knew about you, it was that you didn’t hesitate when it came to what you loved. Which meant this wasn’t about racing. It was about everything around it.

His fingers flexed once against his knee before stilling again, his posture straightening just slightly as he came to that conclusion. The realization settled quietly, but it sharpened his focus even more. You weren’t unsure. You were holding yourself back and he wasn’t exactly sure why. But he wouldn’t let you.

The man reached into his pocket again, pulling out a second card and tapping it lightly against the edge of the window, “Last chance.” he said, voice steady, unwavering, but not impatient, “We’re leaving in 3 weeks, but if you’re serious about this, you must decide now, we’ve only have limited slots.”

There was a brief pause, then his tone shifted, not softer, but less rigid, “…Or,” he added, like he was giving you just enough room to breathe without losing control of the situation, “come down to Fuji Speedway tomorrow morning.”

That caught your attention more than anything else he’d said so far, “Show us what you’ve got on a proper track,” he continued, meeting your gaze fully now, “No pressure. No commitments. Just get a feel for it. Then decide.”

Takeshi let out a short, disbelieving laugh, though it lacked some of the bite from earlier, “Yeah, no.” he muttered, already reaching to roll the window back up, “Conversation’s over.”

But before he could, Rin interrupted, “Wait.”

The single word was enough to pause everything for a second, to shift the attention inside the car. Takeshi glanced back at him, brows furrowing slightly, clearly not expecting him to step in. Rin didn’t look at him as he kept his gaze on you. Steady. Focused. Serious in a way that cuts through everything else.

“…What do you want?” He asked, not the man, not Takeshi, but you.

There was no accusation in it, no pressure, no demand for a specific answer. Just a question, direct and unfiltered, like he was forcing everything down to the one thing that actually mattered. For once, Rin wasn’t trying to control the situation. He was trying to understand it. Rin didn’t look away from you. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften, didn’t retreat the way it used to whenever things got too complicated to deal with properly. There was something grounded in it now, something steadier, like he had already made up his mind about something long before you even noticed.

“…What do you want?” he asked again, quieter this time, but more deliberate, like he wasn’t going to let you brush past it so easily.

The question lingered between you, heavier than before. Because this time, he didn’t give you an escape from it. Rin exhaled slowly through his nose, his brows pulling together slightly, not in frustration at you, but at the situation itself. At how obvious the answer should’ve been, and yet you were still hesitating.

“You should be fighting for this.” he continued, his voice low but firm, each word measured, “It’s your future.” Takeshi shifted slightly in the driver’s seat, clearly caught off guard by that, but Rin didn’t look at him. His attention stayed on you, unwavering, “You love racing.” he added, and there was no doubt in it, no room for argument, like it was a fact he had already accepted even before you said anything, “I’ve seen it.”

Not just tonight, but in everything. In the way you moved, the way you focused, the way everything else around you disappeared the moment you got behind the wheel. It wasn’t something you picked up recently. It wasn’t some phase or passing interest. It was you. Rin’s jaw tightened slightly, like there were more things he wanted to say but didn’t know how to phrase without it coming out wrong.

“…So don’t hold back just because of us.” he muttered, quieter now, but still clear enough for you to hear, “Not because of him.” There was a brief pause, “…And not because of me.”

That one cost him a bit more, you could tell. Because Rin wasn’t the type to willingly remove himself from something he wanted, especially not when it came to you. But this time, he did. Not because he didn’t care. But because he did.

“If you want it,” he continued, lifting his gaze slightly, sharper now, more certain, “then go see it for yourself.” His eyes flickered briefly toward the card in Takeshi’s hand, then back to you. “Fuji Speedway.” he said, like he was already setting the next move in place for you, not forcing it, but guiding it just enough, “Tomorrow.” A beat passed, “…Decide after that.”

There was no jealousy in his tone. No bitterness. Just something frustratingly honest. Because as much as Rin wanted you close. He wanted you to choose something. And he wasn’t going to let you choose wrong out of hesitation.

The silence that followed felt different now, heavier, but clearer. And this time, you didn’t avoid it, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Turns out Rin was the push you didn't know you needed.

A/n: Sorry this was a bit late folks but midterms was a bitch and now it’s done so hopefully I’ll be posting more often.

[die-rosastrasse]

The Moon & Art by Théodore Gudin 🌙⭐

[sidus-noctifer]

Gn!modern! foreigner! reader (reader is implied to be a foreigner but no specific ethnicity is given)

(a/n): God, I can't believe it's been more than a year since i last published my writing on a site💀 I actually wrote this as a way of coping from the 'traumatic' experience of writing my first long original piece (which is stil at the first page, yaaay!🚪🚶) so I don't really know what am I supposed to do with this fic. Will I turn this into a series? Or slap this here before coming back after six months? Idk, but since I had this in my drafts for months ig I'll just leave this here lol. Anyways, I hope you'll enjoy this?

Part 2>

The pub smelled of all the things that any respectable person of honourable social standing did not want to feel. Not that you were paying attention, having reached the point where you were in. In fact, your confusion had now faded into an almost total state of apathy, leading your mind to detachment from all physical pain and, at the same time, from all other sensations. The air reeked of the cigarette smoke of some bourgeois who had stowed away and of the mould hidden behind the table benches. But you didn't pay attention, not any more at least. Slumped on the counter, using your arms as a pillow, you no longer seemed to care about the world.

"Sir what year is this again...?" Your voice came out almost like a whisper.

"The year 1879. Well? Are you drunk already?" Asked the guy next to you.

As you lifted your head to look at the glass of alcohol that had been offered to you more out of pity than anything else, you barely managed to stifle a groan. You hoped you were drunk, perhaps in such a scenario your current situation would have made more sense if interpreted as an alcohol-induced hallucination. But to your misfortune you were sober and in your full mental capacity.

"Sober" you lied, making sure to mumble nonsense sentences to make your point more truthful. It was far better to pass as a nostalgic drunk from the past than a time traveller, after all.

You again barely kept yourself from banging your head against the counter.

How could this happen? Never, not even in your worst fever dreams, did you expect that falling asleep in a train would lead to something like this. But after all, how could you be blamed? Usually in the worst case scenario something like this could have taken you to some unknown corner of the country, not anywhere this should have been.

You woke up in a dark street, with no idea where you were or how you got there. Had you by any chance been thrown off the train? Indeed, the conductor had a gruff air about him, he must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. But... of course this is a good theme park, strange that it hasn't been targeted by one of those "places that you must visit once in your life!" posts.

A carriage passed by on the street, drawing your attention to its size, as it was not wide enough for two lanes of cars to pass. It really was an amazing theme park; there were no signs of wires on the streets, and even the streetlights appear to be in the early 20th-century style.

You gritted your teeth at the memory. Hadn't been for the other patrons, you definitely would've given the counter an handful of punches. But at the thought of ending up back on those cold streets and being labeled neurotic, you refrained. At first, it was just a feeling—something inside you that kept whispering that something wasn't right.

Then there was some evidence: bizarre manners and costumes, old-fashioned everyday objects and an abstruse British dialect. Finally, when you found a newspaper dated 1879 on the streets, you felt yourself faint.

What kind of train did you board? How on earth was something like that possible? Seriously, even those written isekai had at least a shred of logic. But you? A train. At this point, you began to think you were having a fever dream.

When you finally got over it, you began wandering around in search of a secluded place. After all, you looked like a foreigner, and with the clothes you were wearing, you would've certainly attract some attention you didn't wish to receive. But on the other hand, you had no other option but to wander the streets. Should you have rented a place? You didn't have the money. Look for a job? Given the historical context, you didn't even try.

And so you ended up in a pub. A darn pub in a neighbourhood you didn't know in the middle of a city you didn't know. Luckily for you, this place seemed to be wealthy enough to not be falling apart but not quite elite enough to have anyone kick you out after you set foot inside. Wearing a cloak to cover your features and avoid everyone in the room staring at you, you looked like an unemployed person on the verge of a mental breakdown due to a recent dismissal. And what better place than a pub to have an existential crisis in the middle of the Victorian era?

Your only consolation at that moment was the fellow next to you. He seemed like a good drinking companion, you had to admit. At first, he had attempted to console you, but after noticing that his attempts had a fleeting effect, he seemed to have opted to let you stew in your own juice. And you appreciated that, especially when he listened to your telegraphic outbursts. 

You scrutinised the man from the corner of your eye. Judging by the way he spoke to the staff, he seemed to be a regular to this place. Hell, one of the barmaids even seemed to be looking at him with some interest. Not that you could blame her, he was quite attractive after all. Perhaps if you were in a different situation, you would have taken your time to observe him too. He was a man who seemed to be somewhere around his thirties, with sharp features and a strong build. But he seemed to be very tall—Christ, was something like that even scientifically possible? Even when seated, his figure appeared to tower over yours. You didn't know how—perhaps it was because of some of his features—but he seemed to have been wounded by his own experiences. But it's not like you wanted to go and pry into his business.

Your gaze shifted to the barmaid, then back to your temporary drinking companion. I feel you, sister...You took another sip from your mug as you felt your body begin to warm up. "Say, what was your name again?" 

"Sebastian Moran." He paused as a slight smile touched his lips. "May I ask yours?"

You gave it to him. After all, you didn't want to add an identity crisis to your existential crisis. Sebastian Moran... Moran... Moran Sebastian? Had you heard this name somewhere before? If he'd been a famous person, you might have been able to remember him somehow. Sebastian... a man from the nineteenth century...

As you continued to wonder, your eyes scanned him again from head to toe. Tousled hair, pronounced features, sunken eyes. No, you didn't recognise him. You were sure of that. After all, a face like that was impossible to forget. But how on earth did you know someone from the 19th century? Perhaps you had seen him in an art exhibition? Probably. That would explain how you knew his name and why his face looked a bit familiar. 

You felt most of your brain on the verge of having a black out. Never mind, you were slightly sober now and after everything that had happened, your mental state was not exactly at its best. Better not to tire yourself out too much, you agreed."

You don't seem to be from around here," he struck up a conversation.

 "I'm not." By now, you had reached the point where you didn't even want to go along with that statement, deliberately ignoring the fact that it seemed more like an invitation to give an explanation than anything else. "I only came here recently," you told him, giving him half the truth. After all, what harm was there in confessing it to a guy you would never see again after that night?

But you didn't pay attention to his reaction. Wasn't there a character with that name? Oh well, it must have been a coincidence. Since when did the existence of a name coincide with the existence of a character? Surely you were talking to someone with the same name. And what about the face? For all you knew, you could be experiencing some kind of Mandela effect.

There was a few seconds of silence. Only now did you realise how the place had slowly emptied. You had arrived around eight o'clock, and now the sky had darkened to the point that it seemed like it was past ten. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, protesting that it had only had a packet of crackers to eat, which had been forgotten in your bag.

"Say, have you heard about the new case involving the Lord of Crime?" Your ears picked up someone's conversation.

"Of course! It's all over the newspapers. Even that fossil of a boss of mine has heard about it."

"Ah, this country is no longer safe for us..."

"Yeah, right. as if the Lord of Crime would be interested in people like us."

You felt your head spinning at the familiarity of that name. Could it be...? No, no, no, it wasn't possible, this was probably a name used by some journalist to make an impact, given the reference to the novel. But was that the case? After all, all logical reasoning had been broken the moment you woke up two hundred years in the past. Your head was pounding and all your strength had left your body. You heard your name being called, perhaps to ask about your wellbeing or to bring you back into the conversation. You heard it, but couldn't understand the words. But before you could find out, the world was enveloped in darkness.

Part 2>