#but again that will be a whole other post

[cheftsunoda]

can I request logan sargeant x tattoo artist x oscar piastri..

(the tattoo artist is really into doing like fantasy / tv show / movie related tattoos)

tattooed and trouble — ls2 + op81

smau + blurbs

logan sargeant x !tattoo artist reader x oscar piastri

you’ve inked celebrities, rappers, and billionaires—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the day logan sargeant stumbled into your miami studio, half-drunk, grinning like a fool, and demanding a lightning mcqueen tattoo. apparently, he lost a bet. apparently, he is the real life lightning mcqueen, according to his friends. and apparently, that dumb little tattoo is what started it all. now, months later, you’ve got logan wrapped around your finger, a viral post that keeps resurfacing every other week—and just when things start feeling normal, his old friend oscar piastri shows up fresh off a grand prix win, quiet and annoyingly cute, and leaves your world flipped all over again. you should’ve known better than to trust men with fast cars. especially when they’re both a little in love with you. and each other.

fc : maggie lindemann

(a/n) : omg i loved this idea so much that i literally stopped everything to start writing it and working on it. I MISS MY LOGAN FALDUWJSND FUCK.

—

inked_by_yn

liked by logansargeant & 225,075 others.

inked_by_yn : bits and pieces of my last few days…ft the tattoo I gave the “real life lightning mcqueen”

—

view 35,072 other comments.

yourbff : slinky is underage. no wine for him

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↳ inked_by_yn : that didn’t stop you when you were underage 🥴

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↳ yourbff : shhhhhh

↳ yourbff : im just trying to be a good influence on my godson 🤧

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yoursister : baddddieeeee😻😻

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↳ yoursister : also is he cute????

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↳ inked_by_yn : i would say yes but i know he is lurking and i don’t want to inflate his ego

liked by yoursister and logansargeant

username00 : omg do you have anytime for walk-ins today???

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↳ inked_by_yn : had a last minute cancellation so if you can make it in, im ready for ya💋

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username10 : omg that is def logan and he is in the likes!!!!

logansargeant : tell them all how you said i was your favorite client 😁

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↳ inked_by_yn : lies. my fave clients don’t cry 😏

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↳ logansargeant : i didn’t cry. it was a single tear 🤧

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↳ inked_by_yn : whatever you say, mr mcqueen.

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↳ username15 : OMGOMG

—

The bell above the door jingled violently — more of a slam than a polite entry — and before you could even glance up from your sketchbook, someone shouted.

“WE’RE HERE FOR THE STUPIDEST TATTOO EVER DONE IN MIAMI!”

You blinked. Three guys stood in the doorway like they were filming a bad reality show— one of them already laughing, one looking mildly horrified, and the third — the loud one — grinning like a golden retriever. That one was Logan Sargeant.

You recognized him immediately. He was hard to miss — tall, tan, Florida-born chaos with a hint of washed-up F1 fame and a whole lot of boyish charm. The kind that made women roll their eyes… and then double back just to look again.

He sauntered in like he owned the place.

Wearing sunglasses inside. Naturally.

“Hi,” he said, leaning dramatically on the front counter. “I’m here to ruin my life.”

You didn’t look up from your tablet. “It’s Miami. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

His friends burst out laughing. One of them — a lanky blond who looked too sober to be here — muttered, “I told him this was a bad idea.”

“You also told me I could pull off frosted tips in 2021, so your judgment is forever in question,” Logan replied, peeling off his sunglasses and grinning at you. “Anyway. I lost a bet. And now I need Lightning McQueen. Like, the Lightning McQueen. On my arm. Forever.”

You stared at him.

“Do you mean… the Pixar car?”

“Ka-chow, baby.”

He said it with his whole chest. With conviction.

And when you didn’t laugh, he just looked even more impressed. “Wow. Cold-blooded. That’s hot.”

You set your pencil down and finally looked at him fully — tan skin, perfect teeth, too much confidence for a man requesting a cartoon car on his bicep.

“How drunk were you when you made this bet?” you asked, tilting your head.

“I was sober,” he said, smiling proudly. “Which makes this even more tragic.”

“Right. And you want this… where?”

“Dealer’s choice,” he said smoothly, rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt. “I trust you. Mostly because you’re hot, but also because your Yelp reviews are fire.”

“You read my Yelp reviews?”

He leaned in like it was a secret. “Only after I stalked your Instagram for 20 minutes and forgot what I was doing.”

His friends groaned in unison. “Bro, please. Let her live.”

You ignored them and stood up, walking around the counter toward your setup. “Come on then, McQueen. Let’s give you something to regret.”

“Oh, I already regret not meeting you sooner,” Logan said, following close behind. “You think I’m your hottest client so far orrrr…?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re certainly the loudest.”

“I’ll take it,” he said cheerfully, sitting down in the chair and flexing unnecessarily. “Wanna make it say ‘speed. I am speed’? Or is that too cliché?”

You snapped your gloves on. “You’re lucky I’m not tattooing slow. Across your forehead.”

He smirked. “Kinky.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. But your smirk said enough.

As you prepped his arm, Logan glanced up at you through thick lashes and said, quieter this time.

“Be honest. Do most guys fall in love with you while you’re tattooing them?”

You gave him a look. “Only the ones who say Ka-chow unironically.”

Logan smiled wider.

“Then I’m already halfway there.”

—

The buzz of the machine stopped, and Logan’s head popped up immediately.

“That’s it?” he asked, dramatically craning his neck to see his arm. “I survived?”

“You barely flinched,” you said, peeling off your gloves. “I’m shocked. I pegged you as a screamer.”

“Oh, I am,” Logan said instantly. “But I kept it together for you.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile as you wiped down the fresh tattoo. “Alright, Lightning. Wanna see?”

“Do I ever,” he said, sitting up straighter.

You turned his arm toward the mirror. The little red car sat perfectly on his bicep — bright, clean lines, smug grin and all. It was stupid. And hilarious. And honestly? A little iconic.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “That’s… incredible. Like, actually incredible.”

“I know,” you said, amused. “That’s kind of my job.”

Logan looked at it like he’d just been handed a masterpiece. “I’m not kidding — I think this might be the best decision I’ve ever made. Aside from choosing to be born in Florida. And now this.”

“You didn’t choose to be born in Florida.”

“Exactly. Which makes this number one.”

You laughed, cleaning your station as he gently ran his fingers near the edges of the bandage. “So, what now?” he asked. “You kick me out and never speak to me again?”

“Pretty much,” you deadpanned.

“Damn. Cold again. That’s fine. I like it,” he said, then added quickly, “But, hypothetically — hypothetically — if someone wanted to, I don’t know, repay you for the best Lightning McQueen rendering on the planet…”

He slid his phone onto your station.

“…would that someone be allowed to take you out for drinks?”

You raised a brow. “Is this your version of a tip?”

“No, this is me shamelessly flirting and praying you don’t already have a boyfriend who drives something lame like a Corolla.”

You snorted. “You do know this is Miami, right? The bar for car flexing is in hell.”

“Perfect,” he grinned. “Then I still have a shot.”

You picked up his phone without looking at him and typed in your name and number. Saved it. Handed it back.

He blinked, surprised. “Wait—actually?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you said. “You earned it.”

Logan lit up like a kid on Christmas. “Okay. Okay, cool. Chill. Totally normal response to getting a hot girl’s number after getting a Disney tattoo.”

You arched a brow. “That’s the bar?”

“Listen,” he said, pocketing his phone and standing, “I may have lost a bet, but I feel like I just won something way better.”

You handed him the care sheet. “You better follow the instructions. If that tattoo gets infected, I’m deleting your number.”

He took it solemnly. “I’d never hurt Lightning. Or disappoint you.”

You walked him to the door, and just before he stepped outside into the sun, he turned back one more time, already pulling his sleeve up to admire the tattoo again.

“Hey,” he called.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Ka-chow.”

Then he winked. And left. You stared after him for a long second, then shook your head and laughed under your breath. Fucking Florida boys.

—

Two days after his tattoo appointment, Logan texted you at 11:47 a.m.

so how much time needs to pass before I ask you to grab a drink without sounding obsessed

probably like 48 hours

sick so i’m early. wanna grab a drink tonight?

depends. are you planning on wearing sunglasses indoors again?

no promises

but i will attempt to impress you

oh honey

you’re gonna have to try really hard

i love a challenge

—

He picked a laid-back rooftop bar in Wynwood, the kind with overpriced cocktails, neon signs, and a DJ spinning remixes of Bad Bunny and Frank Ocean. He got there early — rare for him — hair done, sleeves rolled up, pacing slightly because okay, maybe he was trying to impress you. He leaned against a palm tree out front, texting his friend about “not being nervous, just hydrated,” when he heard the low, unmistakable purr of an engine.

Then he saw it. A matte grey 2025 Mercedes AMG GT63. Pulling up like it owned the street. Smooth, deadly. Sexy as hell.

“Holy—” he straightened. “No fucking way.”

You stepped out like you were in a music video — high-waisted jeans, cropped top, sunglasses, the glow of sunset bouncing off your skin and paint stained rings. He literally blinked.

“You good?” you asked, smirking as you shut the door with a click.

“I—I was gonna open the door for you,” he stammered. “But then you just… drove that here.”

You walked up to him slowly, amused. “What were you driving?”

He pointed vaguely. “A Jeep. It squeaks a little when I turn left.”

You laughed. “Charming.”

“I know. It builds character,” he said, trying to shake off the shock and falling into step beside you. “But like, I was gonna try to flex tonight and then you pulled up like a Bond villain.”

“I thought you liked danger.”

“I do. But now I feel like I should be the one buying you a drink and asking what it is you do for a living.”

You smirked. “Torture grown men for fun and money.”

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Marry me.”

The date ended up being easy — laughter over terrible cocktails, Logan telling stories about F1 chaos and you countering with tattoo shop disasters.

Every time you made a sarcastic comment, he grinned like an idiot. Every time he got flustered, you raised an eyebrow like you were collecting his weaknesses one by one. Halfway through the night, he said.

“You’re kinda scary.”

And you replied, “Only to men who can’t handle me.”

He let out a laugh, held his hand up. “Okay, fair. But for the record—I’m doing great.”

By the end of the night, he walked you back to your car, hands in his pockets, chewing on his bottom lip like he was thinking about something.

“You don’t kiss on the first date, do you?” he asked, hopeful and a little sheepish.

You leaned against the driver’s side door. “No.”

“Right. Cool. Me neither. Not unless it’s like… a really good one. Or I’m asked nicely.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying this was a really good one?”

“I mean,” he shrugged, grinning, “it wasn’t a Lightning McQueen tattoo level experience, but it was pretty damn close.”

You laughed — soft, unexpected — then leaned in just enough to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

Logan blinked, stunned.

“Holy shit.”

“Easy, Sargeant,” you said, sliding into your car. “Don’t crash on the way home thinking about it.”

He stood there like he’d just blacked out, watching as the AMG peeled out smoothly into the Miami night. Then he whispered to himself.

“…I’m so screwed.”

—

Logan had officially declared your third date The One That Counts. He had sent you a text earlier in the day.

i feel like the third date is when you either get ghosted.

or get kissed. or arrested. depending on how spicy it gets.

You left him on read for an hour just to mess with him. Then replied—

better bring bail money, lightning

So when he picked you up that night — yes, in the same squeaky Jeep, which he’d lovingly wiped down for the occasion — he was buzzing with chaotic hope and trying to play it cool. He took you to a late night taco truck near South Beach, the kind of spot that didn’t show up on Google Maps and probably violated several health codes. But the food was divine and the mood was perfect — casual, warm, wrapped in laughter and the ocean breeze.

Logan, in a gray tee and that same stupid grin, leaned against the counter beside you as you licked hot sauce off your thumb.

“Okay,” he said. “If I asked nicely, would you tattoo a taco on me?”

You didn’t even look up. “Do you want a taco on your body forever?”

“Only if it reminds me of this exact moment.”

You looked at him then — a little surprised, a little soft.

“You’re serious?”

“Half of me is always serious,” he said. “The other half is just desperate to impress you.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

After tacos, he drove you down to the water, parking the Jeep so it faced the ocean, radio low, both of you curled up in the front seats with a bag of cinnamon churros between you.

“So,” he said, turning toward you. “Am I ghosted now, or…?”

You tilted your head. “Are you always this impatient?”

“I’ve been very patient. I didn’t even try to kiss you last time.”

“You tried,” you said, smirking.

“I didn’t try that hard,” he defended. “I mean, I wanted to. But you had that look. The ‘touch me and die’ one.”

You chuckled. “That’s my default setting.”

He looked at you then — really looked. Less teasing, more open.

“I know I joke a lot,” he said, “but I’m not playing around with you. I really like you. I like hanging out, I like the way you talk, I like that you make fun of me but still show up. I don’t know, it just… feels good.”

You stared at him for a second, letting his words settle. Letting them mean something.

Then, quietly. “So kiss me.”

He blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

But he was already leaning in — not rushed, not cocky, just soft and a little in awe, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually been given permission. And when his lips finally met yours — warm, sweet, slow — the world kind of fell quiet around you. No jokes. No chaos. Just Logan. Just you. Just right. When he pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot.

“That… was worth the wait.”

You raised a brow. “You sure?”

“Oh, I’d wait forever for that,” he said, then paused, eyes flicking to your lips again. “But like… I really hope I don’t have to.”

You laughed, leaning into him again, churros forgotten, ocean breeze wrapping around you both. Yeah. This was definitely The One That Counts.

—

inked_by_yn

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri and 457,005 others.

inked_by_yn : somehow got talked into doing another lighting tattoo…this time for some grand prix winner 🙄

—

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oscarpiastri : this was a terrible decision but somehow you made it feel right

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↳ inked_by_yn : just think of it as a celebratory tattoo...done by the best tattoo artist in the world ;)

liked by oscarpiastri and logansargeant

↳ username15 : OSCAR? PIASTRI? TATTOO? LOGAN SARGEANT?

lando : i leave him alone for 5 minutes and he is getting tattoos like he is in a frat

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↳ oscarpiastri : you're just jealous. i have a fun tattoo done by yn and you do not.

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↳ lando : lowkey yeah

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logansargeant : this whole post brought out my feral instincts tbh

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↳ inked_by_yn : down boy

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↳ username7 : LOGANNNN

username000 : who is this girl and why r oscar, lando and logan in her comment section

↳ username17 : she is a miami based tattoo artist and she is RUMORED to be dating logan currently. but i think after that comment we can confirm.

yourbff : god you are so fucking hot. gimme a piece a dat.

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↳ logansargeant : MINEEEEEEE.

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↳ inked_by_yn : you can share logieeee

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—

The door to your studio slammed open with the same chaos as last time.

“YOUR FAVORITE CLIENT HAS RETURNED,” Logan announced, stepping inside, arms wide, smile feral, sunglasses absolutely unnecessary. “AND I BROUGHT A NEW VICTIM.”

You didn’t even look up from your station.

“I have pepper spray now,” you said calmly.

“Oh please, you love me,” Logan grinned, already walking in like he paid rent. “Anyway. I’m not the one getting tattooed today.”

That made you pause. Finally, you glanced up. Trailing behind him—somewhat reluctant, clearly annoyed, and very unfortunately attractive—was Oscar Piastri.

Fresh off his Miami Grand Prix win, still slightly sun-flushed, shirt rolled at the sleeves, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else except inside this exact room. You could tell from the way his brows were knit and his hands were stuffed into his pockets.

“I’m being hazed,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “You won a race. How is this your punishment?”

Logan clapped a dramatic hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Because he promised if he ever won my home race–he’d get a tattoo. And then he went and won the whole damn Grand Prix, so guess what, bro?”

He turned back to you with a devious grin. “He’s yours now.”

Oscar’s eyes flicked to you then—cool, cautious, amused.

“I didn’t realize I was being handed over like property.”

You smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. I take very good care of my things.”

Logan choked in the background. You stood and walked toward them, slowly pulling off your gloves, your eyes narrowing on Oscar.

“Alright, Piastri. Let’s see the canvas.”

He blinked. “The what?”

“Your skin, genius,” Logan said, already pulling up a chair like he lived here.

Oscar exhaled and started rolling up his sleeve, exposing a clean, tan forearm that definitely did not belong to a man who got spontaneous tattoos. He sat down, clearly unsure of his life choices.

“What exactly am I getting?” he asked you.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked smug.

“Another Lightning Tattoo,” he said. 

You raised a brow at Oscar. “You sure about this?”

Oscar looked at you. Paused. And then—very calmly—nodded. “I think so.”

“Okay,” you said, already grabbing your tablet to sketch. “But I get to design it.”

Oscar’s mouth quirked. “What happened to dealer’s choice?”

You smiled, head tilted. “That is dealer’s choice.”

—

Logan sat across the room in a throne-like chair he clearly claimed as “his,” watching you prep Oscar’s arm with way too much interest. Oscar, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But his eyes kept flicking to you—your hands, your rings, your tattoos, your hair falling into your face as you leaned over his skin.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, almost like he wanted only you to hear.

“Not yet,” you murmured. “But I could make it.”

He glanced up at you, startled.

Your eyes met. The tension cracked—just a flicker—but it was there.

From across the room, Logan groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t start flirting. This was my bit.”

“I’m not flirting,” Oscar said quickly. “She’s literally stabbing me with a needle.”

“Respectfully,” Logan said, pointing, “you’ve never let someone stab you and looked that into it.”

You ignored them both and focused on the linework. But Oscar kept watching you—quiet, analytical, curious.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said eventually.

“Meaning?”

He paused. “Logan described you as scary hot with a mean right hook.”

You smirked. “That’s shockingly accurate.”

Oscar bit back a smile. “I didn’t think you’d actually be this good.”

You looked at him, not skipping a beat. “At tattooing?”

“...At everything.”

That shut Logan right up. Twenty minutes later, the tattoo was done. 

Oscar stared at it, then at you, then said, “I might actually like it.”

You smiled, unwrapping your gloves. “Dangerous thing to admit around here.”

Logan walked over, glancing between the two of you with squinted eyes. “Yeah. No. I hate this.”

You handed Oscar the care sheet, brushing your fingers across his as you did.

“Welcome to the club,” you said.

Oscar didn’t say anything. Just smiled���slow, unreadable—and nodded.

Then, as they left the shop, Logan called over his shoulder, “You’re playing with fire, Piastri!”

Oscar didn’t even turn around. Just said, under his breath.

“Maybe I want to get burned by her."

—

It had been a few days since the tattoo. Logan had texted you a couple memes, sent a picture of his dog in a Lightning McQueen costume, and ended it with.

you’re thinking about me, aren’t you

i’m thinking about your tragic life choices, yes

But there hadn’t been another date. No label. No talk. Just…vibes. Dangerous ones. So when the bell above your studio door chimed again, you didn’t even look up.

“Forgot something?” you called, assuming it was Logan, back to reclaim his throne and ego. But it wasn’t Logan. It was Oscar. Alone.

Fresh t-shirt, jeans low on his hips, and a very un-Oscar Piastri expression — calm, but calculated. Quiet fire under still water. You blinked.

“Well,” you said, setting your machine down. “Look who didn’t get peer pressured this time.”

He shrugged, shutting the door behind him. “I was… in the neighborhood.”

You tilted your head. “So you wandered into my shop?”

“I had a question,” he said, walking slowly toward your station. “About my tattoo.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I messed up?”

“No,” he said. “I think it’s perfect.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Oscar looked at you for a long moment.

“What are you and Logan?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You laughed under your breath. “You jealous?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

You turned, leaned against the edge of the station, arms crossed. “Logan and I are... friends. Sort of.”

Oscar looked at you again. Then stepped a little closer.

“Is that what you are?”

You paused. “What are you doing, Oscar?”

He tilted his head slightly, soft but deliberate. “Just trying to figure out if I’m wasting my time.”

“You came here to flirt?”

“I came here,” he said, “because I haven’t stopped thinking about the way you looked at me when you were holding that needle to my arm.”

You sucked in a breath.

He kept going. “You’re good at your job. You know that. But there’s a difference between being good at tattoos and making someone feel like they’re the only person in the room.”

Your voice was quieter now. “And what do you think I did to you?”

Oscar looked down. Then up. “You ruined me.”

That shut you up.

“I’ve been calm about it. Logical. But the truth is? I don’t know if I want to share.”

You swallowed.

“I only kissed him, twice.” you said.

Oscar raised a brow. “Hm.”

You stepped toward him. “Are you trying to stake a claim on something that’s not even yours?”

“I’m trying to find out if it can be.”

And then—without asking, without hesitation—he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing your inked wrist, his other hand lifting to your jaw. He didn’t kiss you. But he got close enough that you felt the option. Close enough that your breath caught. Close enough that you knew if you leaned in just an inch, everything would change. And maybe it already had.

“You shouldn’t have come here alone,” you whispered.

Oscar smiled, soft and sure.

“I don’t think I’m leaving that way either.”

You weren’t sure if it was a promise or a challenge.

But you were leaning into it. Into him.

You grabbed your bag, locking the tablet drawer with one hand and slinging your hoodie over your shoulder.

“So where are we going?” Oscar asked quietly.

You didn’t answer. You just gave him that look—the one that said follow and find out.

He was just reaching for the door when it opened. Hard. Loud.

And in walked Logan.

Sunkissed, tousled, cocky, with a water bottle in hand and a backwards cap on like he hadn’t just walked into a scene from his own personal worst case scenario.

He paused.

Took in Oscar’s proximity to you.

The way your fingers were still grazing the strap of his shirt.

“Oh.”

Oscar straightened just a little. “Hey, man.”

Logan blinked. “Don’t ‘hey man’ me like you didn’t just try to walk out of here with the girl I’ve been talking about for the last three weeks.”

You stepped in quickly. “Logan, it’s not like that.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, tone light but voice tight. “Looks a lot like that from here.”

Oscar didn’t move. “Nothing’s happened.”

“Nothing yet,” Logan snapped.

You raised a hand. “Okay. Stop. Can we not turn this into a competition over who gets to claim me like a fucking trophy?”

The silence was sharp. Then Logan let out a breath.

“You’re right,” he said, softer this time. “You’re not a trophy. But you’ve got us both acting like it.”

Oscar stayed still. Watching you. Watching him.

Logan stepped forward. “Look—I’ve been playing it cool. Flirting, joking, not pushing. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

You huffed a soft laugh, heart thudding.

“And now I come in and see him looking at you and touching you,” he added, gesturing at Oscar. “It’s messing with my head.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “Because she’s kind of impossible not to look at that way.”

Logan turned to him. “So what now, man? You just waltz in and take your shot?”

Oscar looked between you and Logan—something flashing behind his eyes.

“No,” he said slowly. “I think we’re all circling the same problem.”

You blinked. “Which is?”

He looked at you when he said it.

“I want you. Logan wants you. And I think maybe… you kind of want both.”

Your breath caught. And Logan—who’d clearly expected to storm in and maybe storm out—suddenly didn’t look angry anymore. Just confused. Intrigued. Turned on in a deeply inconvenient way. The tension in the room shifted. You bit your lip.

“I didn’t plan for this,” you admitted.

“No one ever does,” Oscar murmured.

Logan laughed once, dry. “Are we seriously about to have this conversation?”

Oscar met his eyes. “I don’t think it’s just a conversation anymore.”

You could feel it building—electric and heavy and dangerous. Logan stepped forward again, gaze flicking between your mouth and Oscar’s.

“I hate how into this I am,” he said under his breath.

Oscar raised a brow. “Then leave.”

He didn’t. You swallowed, heart pounding. “This is insane.”

“And yet,” Logan murmured, voice dipping low, “you haven’t told either of us to stop.”

The air went still. You could say no. You could say it right now and walk away from both of them. But instead— You stepped forward, just enough that your body brushed between theirs. And quietly said.

“Then shut the door.”

Oscar moved first. Logan didn’t blink. And when that door clicked shut behind them—the tension exploded.

—

The first thing you felt was heat. Not the overwhelming kind—more like the warm weight of a blanket that wasn’t yours and the slow drag of sunlight creeping in through half-closed blinds. Your eyes blinked open, bleary and adjusting, and it took a full five seconds to remember you weren’t alone. You were very much not alone.

There was an arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours. Two slow, steady heartbeats—one behind you, one in front.

You turned your head just slightly and saw Oscar, already awake, staring at you like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. His hair was a mess. His mouth was a little swollen. He looked... at peace.

Behind you, Logan was still dead asleep, one arm slung over your hips like he’d always slept like that. His breath warm against your shoulder, his presence grounding in a way that made your chest ache.

You were tucked between them like you belonged there.

And that was the most dangerous part.

It didn't feel wrong.

Oscar reached up slowly, brushing a piece of hair off your cheek. His fingers barely grazed your skin, feather-light. Like he didn’t want to break whatever this was.

“Morning,” he whispered.

Your throat was dry, voice hoarse. “Hi.”

He smiled softly. “Still real?”

You gave a tiny nod. He looked down. Then back up. “Okay.”

You didn’t say anything, because what was there to say? It was 7:42 in the morning. You were in someone’s bed—maybe Logan’s—wearing nothing but a t-shirt you couldn’t identify and the memory of the night before stitched into every inch of your skin.

Behind you, Logan stirred.

“Ugh,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

Oscar huffed a soft laugh.

You felt Logan’s arm tighten slightly, his face nuzzling against your back. “Okay but—if this is a weird dream, don’t wake me up.”

You turned onto your back between them, pressing your palms into your eyes. “What do we even say right now?”

Oscar propped himself up on one elbow. “Nothing.”

“You don’t think we should, I don’t know, talk about it?”

Logan yawned, then said, “Let’s talk after coffee and a group therapy session.”

You laughed despite yourself. Oscar leaned over and kissed your shoulder. Gentle. Barely there.

Logan reached across and lightly flicked his forehead. “Don’t be a sap.”

Oscar didn’t stop smiling. “Too late.”

You sighed, sinking back into the pillows, feeling two different kinds of warmth pressed against you. There were still questions. Complications. Labels that didn’t exist. A hundred reasons this should be messy and reckless and maybe even a little stupid. But in this moment—soft sheets, soft skin, soft hearts— It just felt right. And that was enough. For now.

—

It had been a few weeks. A blur of half slept nights and stolen kisses, of Logan showing up at your place with a smoothie and no warning, of Oscar FaceTiming you after midnight from hotel beds in places that didn’t matter. There were no labels. No promises.

But the three of you kept orbiting each other like gravity had its own rules. And every time one of them touched you, looked at you, held your hand like it was second nature—it felt less casual and more like a truth no one was brave enough to say out loud. Until today.

You were cleaning up the studio late in the evening, humming softly with a brush between your fingers and the music low, when the door opened. You didn’t expect anyone. You didn’t even look up.

“Closed,” you called.

“I flew here,” a voice said.

You froze. Turned slowly. Oscar stood in the doorway. Dressed down, travel-worn, backpack slung over one shoulder and his eyes fixed on you like he’d been carrying the weight of you for miles.

You blinked. “What—Oscar, what are you—”

“I had to come,” he said quickly, stepping inside, door shutting behind him. “I couldn’t do another race week pretending I wasn’t thinking about you. About this.”

You set the brush down slowly. “You could’ve called.”

“I was scared if I called, you’d talk me out of it.”

You swallowed.

Then a voice came from the back—warm, easy.

“Hey, babe, where’d you put my—”

Logan stopped in the doorway, half-in, half-out, holding his hoodie, and froze when he saw Oscar.

Oscar blinked. “You’re here.”

Logan raised a brow. “So are you.”

You stood there, between them, like a live wire.

Oscar looked at Logan, then at you.

And then he said it.

“I’m in love with her.”

Your breath caught.

Logan didn’t move.

Oscar’s voice was lower now. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. Pretend it’s a fling, or fun, or whatever. But I’m not built for this kind of pretending. Not with her. Not with you.”

You stared at him. “With you?”

Oscar’s eyes didn’t leave Logan. “You think I don’t see the way you look at her? How you soften around her. How you get quiet when she says your name.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair.

Oscar stepped closer. “But it’s not just her. You’re in this, too. And I’m tired of pretending that doesn’t matter.”

Logan looked at you. At Oscar. Then back again.

Then—softer—he said, “I’ve never been good at saying this shit.”

“Try,” you whispered.

He let out a shaky breath.

“I like you. Both of you. It’s been messing with my head, trying to be cool, casual, whatever. But the truth is—when I’m with you, I feel like I finally shut up. Like everything just makes sense.”

You felt your heart cracking wide open. Oscar looked at you now.

“I didn’t fly across the world just to tell you I miss you. I came because I don’t want to do this separately anymore.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah. What he said. But, like, with slightly more panic.”

You laughed, tears in your eyes, but you weren’t alone. Oscar stepped forward first, his hand brushing yours. Then Logan. One arm around your waist, the other grazing Oscar’s shoulder in something tentative but real. You breathed in. It smelled like home. And then you whispered it.

“I love you. Both of you.”Oscar closed his eyes. Logan leaned his forehead to yours. And for the first time, it wasn’t a triangle. It was a circle. A closed loop. One where all three of you belonged. Together.

—

It started like most of Oscar’s big moves- understated, deadpan, and laced with dry sarcasm. You were in bed—legs tangled between sheets, the early morning Miami light bleeding through the blinds. Logan was on his stomach, half-asleep and snoring softly into the pillow. Oscar was in the ensuite, brushing his teeth and leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a grin that meant trouble.

“You know,” he said, spitting out toothpaste, “you two could just move to Monaco.”

You didn’t look up from your phone. “Right. Because international relocation is so casual.”

Oscar shrugged, wiping his mouth. “You act like I didn’t fly ten hours to confess my feelings in a tattoo studio. This is actually the less dramatic option.”

Logan groaned into the pillow. “Tell Oscar to shut up and come back to bed.”

“I’m just saying,” Oscar continued, walking back over and dropping onto the mattress beside you, his arm brushing yours. “We keep playing this long-distance game and pretending it’s sustainable. Monaco’s nice. Quiet. Sunny. And I have a killer espresso machine.”

You side-eyed him. “That’s your pitch? Love, stability, and espresso?”

Oscar smirked. “Did I mention the terrace overlooks the harbor?”

“I hate how good this pitch is,” Logan mumbled, voice muffled.

Oscar rolled over so he was facing both of you now, chin propped on his hand. “I’m not saying we have to do it now. Just... think about it. No more red-eye flights. No more FaceTime falling asleep. No more ‘wish you were here’ texts when I’m on the other side of the world.”

He looked at you, then at Logan.

“I want to come home and have that mean you two.”

The words sat in the air for a minute—heavier than the morning light, softer than the duvet wrapped around your legs. You weren’t sure who moved first. It might’ve been Logan, flopping dramatically onto Oscar’s chest with a groan. It might’ve been you, leaning in to kiss Oscar’s shoulder, your fingers lacing into his slowly like it was second nature. All you knew was that no one said no.

A Month Later

The Monaco apartment was light and clean and full of promise. Boxes still unopened, kitchen only half-stocked, Oscar was messing with the espresso machine while you sorted through sketchbooks and Logan struggled with couch assembly on the living room floor.

“This says step three,” Logan muttered. “But I feel like step three is a lie.”

Oscar called from the kitchen, “You skipped step one, didn’t you?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” Logan snapped back. “You left me with Swedish furniture instructions.”

You were curled on the floor nearby, flipping through swatches and laughing under your breath.

Logan looked at you suddenly, eyes soft. “Can’t believe we actually did it.”

Oscar glanced over his shoulder, espresso cup in hand. “I can.”

Logan raised a brow. “You’re that confident?”

Oscar walked over, kissed you on the cheek, then bent down and kissed Logan just behind the ear.

“I’ve always known how this story ends,” he said. “Right here.”

And just like that, with espresso foam on your nose, IKEA screws between Logan’s fingers, and Monaco sunlight pouring through the windows— You realized this wasn’t just domestic bliss. This was forever, and it had finally begun.

—

Your new Monaco studio wasn’t finished yet, but it was yours, and it already felt like home—even with Oscar and Logan very much making a mess of it.

“Okay, don’t hate me,” Logan called from the front. “But I may have ordered a neon sign.”

You looked up from unpacking your ink drawers. “What does it say?”

Oscar chimed in from the corner, grinning: “Some quote from the Cars movie.’”

You nearly dropped the machine in your hand. “Logan.”

“What?” he said, dramatically offended. “This entire empire exists because I got a Lightning McQueen tattoo.”

Oscar raised a hand, still crouched beside the new display cabinet. “I got one too.”

Logan pointed at him. “See? It’s a movement now.”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “I should’ve tattooed something worse.”

Oscar stood up and walked over, smirking. “You love us.”

You tried to hide your smile, but failed miserably. The place was chaos. Boxes everywhere. Art leaned against the walls. Logan had somehow already found the studio speaker and was queuing a playlist. Oscar was fixing the lights above your workbench like it was his full-time job. Neither of them were helpful. Both of them were everything.

“You know what would really christen this place?” Logan said, hopping onto your work table like it wasn’t sacred.

“Don’t say it,” you warned.

Oscar grinned. “A tattoo.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m the artist.”

Logan wiggled his brows. “Artists can be canvases too.”

Oscar stepped closer. “We’re just saying… both of us have the Lightning. You started this chaos. You might as well join the club.”

You blinked. “You want me to tattoo myself?”

Logan slid off the table and took both your hands. “It would be iconic. Matching tattoos with your two boyfriends. The Monaco McQueen Trinity.”

Oscar deadpanned, “I want that on a t-shirt.”

“I’m going to regret this,” you muttered.

But you were already pulling out the stencil printer.

And there you sat cross-legged on your new studio chair, arm propped up, mirror angled so you could see the inside of your forearm where the stencil was placed. The number 95 — Lightning’s number — but done in your style. Sharp lines, delicate lightning bolts, tiny stars orbiting it.

Logan was literally bouncing. Oscar had his camera out, ready to document everything.

“Don’t pass out,” Logan warned.

“I tattooed you with zero whining.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t emotionally involved back then,” he said, overly dramatic. “Now it’s personal. Now you have to live with the consequences of loving us.”

Oscar added helpfully, “And of being chronically online. Because the moment you post this, it’s over for you.”

You smirked and turned on the machine. The needle buzzed to life. And then—quietly, carefully—you started. The studio fell mostly silent, save for the hum of the machine and the faint background music Logan had insisted on.  Oscar leaned against the table, watching you work. His voice was soft.

“You really do look the most yourself when you’re tattooing.”

You glanced at him. “Covered in ink and sweat?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Focused. Fierce. At home.”

You paused long enough to let that land in your chest.

Logan leaned in, watching the tattoo take shape. “She’s officially Lightning.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make me do a second one on you out of spite.”

“I dare you.”

Oscar snorted. “No more dares. That’s how we got here in the first place.”

Thirty Minutes Later

The tattoo was done. Clean, bold, tiny lightning bolts flaring out from the number 95 in delicate, shimmering ink. A perfect mirror of Oscar’s and Logan’s—your own take, your own skin, your own mark.

Oscar leaned down, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Now we match.”

Logan held up his arm beside yours. “Tattoo soulmates.”

You smiled, flushed and warm, letting them pull you in between them. The shop was still unfinished. The sign wasn’t even up. But in that moment, standing in your new Monaco studio with ink on your skin and love in your bones—It felt perfect. Home wasn’t the shop. It wasn’t the view. It was them. And now, it was official- You were Lightning-certified.

—

logansargeant

liked by oscarpiastri, inked_by_yn, lando and 5,700,005 others.

logansargeant : so happy that i lost a bet and ended up with a sick tattoo and these two.

—

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—

[kyri45]

✨Spicynoodles Bio Parents AU Q&A! 01/07✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach/Spicynoodles Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

@monkeyqueen2012 ha chiesto: So we get to see when Kai's grandparents absolutely kick the s*** out of the Ninja' villains? Or a scenario where Kai's family has to say him and the ninjas from the villains and get to see the villain s*** their pants?

we will get badass MK and RedSon protecting Kai, yes. Not really the rest of the fam for now.

@lulushadowpeach ha chiesto: I have a question so since Kai is Spicynoodles fanchild wouldn't that mean nya is Kai step sister?

in a way? but they are still sibling, full bio or not.

@jumpy-buggy-33 ha chiesto: I am curious who proposed: MK or Red Son?

RedSon, mostly because MK allowed him to cause he knew that would make him happy.

@cjtuy ha chiesto: Has red son and mk been on any cute dates yet like a movie night with their favorite snacks or a cute dinner date

oh yeah plenty. They prefer cozy dates where both are in bed, sorrounded by snaks and tv drama.

@lulushadowpeach ha chiesto: Question what do you think Mk and Red son will react when they see Kai their son again?

similar to HTTYD 2 in a way

@stonefox1130 ha chiesto: Okay, so, in your Bio Parents UA, have shadopeach officially said they love each other? Other than saying they forgive each other.

not on the comic, but off-screen yeah.

@pettrainer ha chiesto: Wu is peach, Mac is plum, and Ju ( don’t know how to spell the baby name ) is apricot. Does MK have a cute fruit nickname?

Mango?

@asexual-not-asexual-detective ha chiesto: How did the little monkey buddies on flower fruit mountain react to new baby apricot? Do they call her princess? How did they react to Macaque officially coming back as Wukongs mate? Is he their queen? Other King?

Yes they call her princess. Macaque coming back was like a long-awaited tv-drama character return, they all knew Wukong was still simping hard for him

@wolfsonic ha chiesto: Not me realizing Mk and Red Son are gonna have the same situation with Kai that WuKong and Macaque had with Mk. They don't see their son grow up. Like at least they get to spend however many years, so Red and Mk have his younger years with him, but if they ever see Kai again, he's gonna be a grown adult. Not the baby they remember. I know their situations were different, and Macaque and WuKong were not even equipped to handle a kid, but Mk and Red probably prepared for Kai, and then he's just gone. I'm so scared to learn what Mk and Red's reaction to their son just going missing.

yup, but MK more than anyone else will be understanding of his son situation.

@kingofthe7sins ha chiesto: Hey Kyri, what are your thoughts about Kai (through multiversal shenanigans) meeting over ninja teams, like the Ninja Turtles and their dynamics with each other? since the Four Turtles have similar personalities as Kai and the other ninjas

we aren't really going to that specific universe but i guess they would be bonding pretty quickly

@shortstack-pancakes ha chiesto: Hello!! I saw the ask about Kai’s demon features, so I have a follow up question if it hasn’t been asked before. If Nya is Mei’s daughter, would she have some dragon ish features or qualities/aspects?

yes and she already have experienced them all the times after she became a dragon, they aren't a permanent feature on her but they appear when she uses her power a lot, similar to Mei

@doggodonut12 ha chiesto: Hi! I just want to say I love your art- And ask a small question about future MK- like when Redson and MK have Kai- and even after that. Like what do they wear? Do they wear what they wore for the painting usually? I feel like MK would still wear some casual clothes with some traditional elements? I just want to know if their style would ever change in your au

They wear some hanfu and normal training outfit when at home, and their normal modern clothing when hanging out in Megapolis

@sierracarl ha chiesto: For the spicynoodles bioparents au, Kai would probably have a chinese birth name. So may I suggest... Jinfeng. Jin(金): meaning gold Feng(凤): meaning phoenix or wind I like the tie-in to Iron Fan with the wind thing. Thank you for your consideration. Also, your comic got me into LMK because it's so good and I wanted to know what was going on.💛

We are sticking to their canon name. Also Kai is a gender-neutral chinese name meaning victory (凯)

@cheshire61 ha chiesto: Why can my brain just hear Kai going to Redson and MK after a kid like steals a toy or something while at a park "Father, Baba, I crave violence." And MK is just like "No Kai, No Violence" while Red Son just really wants to say go for it?

they would answer at the same time opposite answer and then they would stare at each other like "what?"

@nica0509 ha chiesto: Mei and Lloyd as distant cousins? Perhaps the dragon father/mother of the first spinjitzu master had as a sibling a Mei ascendant dragon.

I mean.... there are tons of dragons, not all of them are related but yeah there can be the possibility

@darkshadow-lightpeach ha chiesto: This has me wondering… and I have a feeling that you already have a Mystic monkey design for Kai😭 or maybe a bull design? Like Redson? But it’s probably gonna be a mix of both and I have a feeling that it is a mix of both😭

yup, slightly more RedSon than MK but still a mix.

@estellardreams ha chiesto: Since your next series is gonna be Ninjago Dragons Rising x LMK I have a question... Are there gonna be ships from Dragon's rising in this or are you gonna keep that under wraps for now?

Not yet. I WILL keep a little bit of canon Jaya since in Dragon Rising is still relevant but other than that nothing too centered.

@shay-bug ha chiesto: How do you feel about the headcannon of kai adopting wyldfyre? Also, do you like wyldfyre? She's my favorite character!

I love wyldfire! even though I'm still in denial over the fact she already has a boyfriend. Like no. She's my baby. she's too young wdym

@amalgamorph ha chiesto: Was Kai's name always Kai or did MK and Red Son call him something different?

other than nicknames, they called him Kai.

[enwoso]

left with you | alessia russo x aussie!reader

due to popular demand by the people, here is a part two of right swipe, right time.

masterlist | read first -> right swipe, right time

alessia had timed it perfectly. or at least, in her mind, she thought she had.

the plan was simple, slip out of the changing room while most of the girls were still showering or dissecting tactics with the coaches, hoodie on, bag slung over her shoulder, eyes low and innocent.

the blonde looked casual. invisible. not like someone desperate to avoid being caught sneaking out for a post-training date.

alessia pushed through the side door into the open air and smiled, until she saw you.

you were already there, leaning against your car like some smug daydream, sunglasses perched on your nose which weren't really necessary as it wasn't the sunniest of days in london, one foot crossed over the other as you stood with two coffees in hand. roo sat half-asleep across the back seat, his back lying in direct hit of the sun through the window as his tail thumped lazily.

alessia narrowed her eyes, a small smile on her lips. "subtle."

you grinned the same lovesick smile you got every time you saw her. "i thought i was being subtle."

"you're literally posing like you're waiting to shoot an ad for oat milk." alessia got closer, your eyes scanning her outfit. her toned legs on show with the adidas shorts she wore paired with a crisp white t-shirt.

"maybe i am." you shrugged as you held out a cup. "iced latte, extra shot, one pump of vanilla. i figured you'd need the energy."

alessia nodding, a small pang in her chest at you getting her order spot on as she took the coffee, smirking. "you think i'm sneaking out to go nap?"

you leaned in as alessia took a sip of the coffee, just close enough that if there was anyone around they wouldnt hear your words. "i was hoping you were sneaking out to make out with me in your car."

alessia slightly choked on her coffee as she raised an eyebrow. "you really just say things, huh?"

"hey, blame your pretty face, russo. not me." you shrugged, a tight smirk on your lips. "i'm just reacting.”

"mhm i've noticed," alessia said, but her voice had gone all soft as she glanced down at the coffee, then back up. "you know this is the best part of my day, right?"

you tilted your head, pleased. "even better than scoring a screamer against chelsea?"

"i said what i said."

the two of you were close now, toe to toe, and alessia let herself lean in, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again. "you gonna kiss me, or are you just gonna keep standing there looking like you belong in a bad netflix rom-com?"

you grinned a small laugh leaving your lips. "babe, i am the bad netflix rom-com."

and just as their lips met. soft, a little cocky, a little finally—a voice broke through the air.

"are you joking?! that's her?!" "it's tinder girl!"

alessia nearly dropped her coffee as she turned just in time to see kyra stop dead outside the training building, mouth wide, finger pointed directly at the two of you.

behind the young australian, a few others all wrapped in their own conversations to even notice kyra's outburst. steph, caitlin, katie, and vic, all fresh from training and clearly having caught the whole show much to their unknown.

caitlin was the first to see what kyra was making a fuss about, her jaw dropping in shock. "now way. it's the tinder aussie?!"

steph was squinting, already walking over. "so less she's brought you coffee and a dog. yeah, she's real."

katie looked like christmas had come early. "russo. you've been sneaking out for this?!"

alessia groaned as she leaned her head against your chest as you stood with a smug grin, enjoying seeing alessia squirm just that little bit. "can i not have one private moment?"

vic smirked. "not when your standing in a public car park, no."

kyra was now practically vibrating. "okay so, we need introductions. like now."

you straightened, clearly enjoying yourself, and held up a hand. "y/n. from sydney. flat white enthusiast. owner of roo. in love with your star striker."

steph gave you an approving nod, like a proud parent. "you've got guts. i like it."

"she's hot," kyra whispered too loudly to steph as everyone there heard.

"oi," alessia warned, stepping between them and you. "back off. she's mine."

you raised an eyebrow, visibly amused. "mine, huh?"

"like you don't already know"

caitlin stepped forward, all business. "alright. so, when's brunch? because now that we know you exist, you're officially one of us. aussie crew rules."

kyra nodded. "there's a group chat for us that's in london. you're getting added"

you gave alessia a smug little nudge. alessia crossed her arms. "you realise this is all going in the group chat, right?"

katie had already pulled out her phone. "oh it's already in the group chat."

vic peeked over her shoulder. "and steph's calling it 'russo's soft launch."

alessia groaned. you leaned in again, lips brushing her ear. "if this is the soft launch, imagine what the hard one looks like."

alessia flushed scarlet as she tried to bury her face in your shoulder once again as katie let out a howl of a laugh "oh my god, she's wheezing."

you reached for the door and opened it, gesturing grandly. "shall we?"

alessia climbed in, but not before looking at her teammates, all of them staring, laughing, taking pictures and notes like this was the most entertainment they'd had all week.

"y'know what," alessia said, "fine. gossip away. but my girl brought me coffee and a dog and looks like that."

you winked, arm leaning on the open door. "you forgot the part where i'm amazing in bed."

"oh my god," caitlin choked as a few sniggers could be heard from the group.

steph put her hands up. "your a good egg, y/n. the aussie's are definitely having brunch."

alessia shut the car door before anyone else could speak, face burning, heart racing and couldn't stop smiling.

[lov3lycosmos]

Can I request some hongjoong fluff >~< you can decide on the topic idm I’m js so downbad for this man ,,

You Look Like My Type In That Sweater - K.H ♡

Genre: fluff

Pairings: Bf!Hongjoong x Gn!Reader

Warnings: just hongjoong being a loser in a beautiful man's body :3

Cosmos note: here go anon! I hope it's what you wanted!

my library!

You woke up to a quiet sort of brightness, the kind that made everything feel slower and softer. The room was warm under the covers, and the scent of your laundry mixed with something unmistakably Hongjoong: skin and cologne, a little citrus, a little sleep.

His arm was across your middle, flopped heavy like he’d passed out mid-snuggle, which—let’s be honest—he probably had. His face was buried somewhere between your shoulder and your neck, and you could feel the faint scratch of stubble against your skin. His leg was hooked over yours like a very needy, very clingy blanket.

You shifted slightly, testing the waters of escape.

He groaned. “Don’t move. I’m in a delicate emotional state.”

You huffed out a laugh, still not fully awake. “Your ‘emotional state’ is that you’re lazy.”

“I’m clinging for survival,” he mumbled into your shoulder. “If you leave, I’ll wither.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Correct.”

You tried again, this time actually sitting up. He flopped his whole body across your back like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Joong—”

“No.”

“Let me pee.”

He paused.

“Okay,” he said finally. “But come back or I’ll die for real.”

You snorted and pried his octopus limbs off you, dragging yourself to the bathroom while he flopped back on the mattress like a man betrayed.

When you came out, he was sitting up, hair a disaster, face puffy, one sock halfway on, and already rummaging through your drawer like it was his.

“I’m picking our outfits,” he said without looking up. “You don’t get a say.”

You blinked. “I didn’t even ask for a say yet?”

“Exactly. Preemptive fashion domination.”

He tossed a sweater at you. It hit you in the face.

“You’re violent,” you muttered, pulling it on anyway. It was soft. Probably his. Definitely smelled like him.

He held up a pair of cargos. “These too. We’re doing layers. I want us to look like we have a joint Pinterest board.”

“Oh my god.”

“Shut up, this is important to me.”

You raised a brow. “You planned this in advance, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I may or may not have mentally coordinated colors at 2am. The creative mind never rests.”

“You literally drooled on my arm at 2am.”

“And still had vision. Powerful.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and pulled the pants on while he started changing too—right there, no hesitation, shirt half-off while babbling something about beige being an elite neutral.

You watched, leaning against the wall, as he fixed his hair in the mirror with one hand and shoved on a jacket with the other.

“Why are you so pretty and so dumb at the same time?” you muttered.

“Balance,” he replied, fluffing his bangs. “Like yin and yang. Brains? Gone. Jawline? Sharp.”

He spun around. “Okay. Photo time.”

“What?”

“You. In that sweater. Window light. You look like the main character of a song I haven’t written yet.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, but he was already grabbing his film camera.

“Don’t be weird about it,” he said, already dragging you to stand by the curtain. “Just… do your face.”

“My face?”

“Yeah, you know. Your normal one. The cute one.”

You made a face.

“Okay not that one. You look like you’re about to bite someone.”

“I am about to.”

“Hot.”

You laughed and shoved him lightly, but stood where he wanted anyway. The light really was nice—warm and soft, haloing around your face. You glanced at him just as he took the photo.

He peeked at the camera. “Yup. That’s going on Instagram.”

“You never post.”

“This is worthy.”

He came over and wrapped his arms around your waist, forehead pressed to yours, swaying a little like there was music only he could hear.

“God, you’re so cute it actually hurts me.”

“You say that like it’s my fault.”

“It is. You woke up and chose violence.”

You grinned. “Alright, your turn. Stand over there. I’m getting revenge.”

He handed you the camera with a dramatic sigh. “Capture my essence.”

“You’re about to get captured looking like you lost a fight with a pillow.”

“And still hot.”

He posed half-seriously, one hand in his jacket pocket, giving you that lazy model-off-duty stare that made your knees feel wobbly.

“Wow,” you said, adjusting the focus. “How does it feel to be God’s favorite?”

He smirked. “Honestly, exhausting.”

You snapped the picture just as his smile turned into a grin. Click.

“I’m framing that one.”

“Put it in a museum.”

“Put it in my wallet.”

He walked over and tried to steal the camera back, but you held it above your head.

“Give it.”

“No.”

“Give—babe—I swear if you make me climb you like a tree—”

You cackled and backed up until he grabbed your waist and spun you, laughing against your neck.

“You’re so annoying,” you gasped.

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He kissed your jaw, soft and lingering, then rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Can we stay like this forever?” he mumbled.

You reached up and played with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Like what?”

“Waking up late. Being dumb. Looking hot.”

“God, your priorities.”

“I’m consistent.”

You turned and kissed him, just once, slow and warm.

“Now I’m really keeping the photo,” you whispered.

“Put a heart on it.”

You did.

He let go of you long enough to go poke at his face in the mirror, muttering about under-eye circles and deciding on lip balm instead of tint.

You just watched from the bed, pulling your socks on and feeling the ridiculous weight of happiness settle in your chest like sunlight.

He came back, smug.

“Okay, I’m ready to receive compliments.”

You gave him a once-over. “Hmm.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m dating a hater.”

You stood, grabbing your keys. “You’re dating someone with high standards.”

“And yet you still picked me.”

“Bad decisions are part of life.”

He laughed and grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together like it was muscle memory.

As you stepped into your shoes, he pulled you close again—less dramatic this time, more quiet, more him.

“I really do love you, you know,” he said, like he was saying something stupid and obvious.

You looked at him. Messy hair, sleepy eyes, camera around his neck, your sweater hanging off your frame.

“I know,” you said, smiling.

And that was enough.

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[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, masturbation, edging, whiny sub!nerd Felix, post-orgasm overstim, felix is kind of a creep and he knows it.

notes: (queued post) anon request felix solo smut i hope this is what you wanted 😭😭

His room is dim—just the glow of his laptop screen and the faint hum of his desk fan filling the silence. Felix sits on the edge of his bed, boxers already shoved down to his thighs, cock flushed and twitching in his hand.

He’s pathetic. He knows it. But he can’t stop.

Not when your bikini pic has been burned into his brain since the second you posted it. Not when he’s zooming in on your sun-kissed skin, your thighs, the little glossed pout of your lips like you know what you’re doing to him.

You probably don’t even remember leaving your lip gloss behind after class. Tossed in your rush, left half-open on the desk. But Felix remembers. He saw it. Picked it up before anyone else could.

He’s been keeping it in his drawer ever since. He shouldn’t have. He knows he shouldn’t have. But it smells like you. Strawberries and heat and something sweeter, something you.

And now it’s in his hand. Cap already twisted off. His cock leaks against his fist as he looks from the tiny tube to your photo on his screen. You're smiling—eyes soft, skin glowing—and he groans.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty…” he whispers, voice shaky.

His hand works slow at first, jerking his cock with a rhythm that’s way too familiar, too practiced. He’s done this so many times. Over so many pictures. So many versions of you in his head.

But this one’s different.

Maybe because the bikini shows a little more. Maybe because you liked one of his photos last week and he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

Or maybe because he’s holding your lip gloss like it’s some kind of relic. Holy. Forbidden.

He pants harder, hips twitching, and his breath catches as he lifts the gloss—just a little smear on his fingertip. Just enough.

Then he’s rubbing it right on the head of his cock, gasping at how slick it is, how good it smells, how fucking wrong it feels.

But god, it’s the closest thing to your lips he’ll ever get.

He moans—sharp and broken—hips bucking as the gloss coats him, thick and shiny, like you kissed him there. Like you licked him. Like you sucked him off with that same pretty mouth and looked up at him all wide-eyed and innocent like you didn’t even know you’d ruin him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he chokes out, fingers flying now, messily dragging more gloss over the length of him. “Gonna come, baby, fuck, please…”

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He gets close—so close—hips stuttering, thighs tensed, his whole body begging for it…

And then he pulls his hand away.

“Fuck—” he whines, voice high and cracked, head falling back against the wall. His cock jumps helplessly, drooling onto his stomach like it’s crying for him. “I-I was gonna—fuck—I was right there…”

He blinks up at the ceiling, dazed, sweaty, lip trembling. His free hand fists the sheets while the other hovers midair like he’s scared to touch himself again. Like if he does, he’ll unravel too fast.

But he wants it to hurt. He wants to suffer for it.

It’s what he deserves, right? For being such a fucking creep—jerking off to your Instagram, sniffing your lip gloss, pretending your mouth is on his dick.

He lets his hand fall again, slow strokes, feather-light. Barely any pressure. Just enough to keep him gasping. Teasing himself like you would. In his head, it’s your hand. You’re the one edging him. Sitting pretty in his lap, pouty and sweet while you ruin him on purpose.

He groans, dragging his fist down again, wrist sticky with gloss and precum. His legs spread wider, thighs trembling.

“‘M such a loser,” he whispers. “You’d never—fuck, you’d never touch me…”

But he imagines you would.

He pictures you smirking, dragging your glossed lips over the tip of his cock just to watch him squirm. Maybe you’d coo at how hard he is. Maybe you’d slap it. Maybe you’d tell him he can’t come yet.

“Please…” he chokes, voice barely there now. “Please let me… just wanna come—wanna come so bad…”

He strokes faster, sloppy now. Hips off the bed. The gloss is half gone, smeared down his shaft, slick and shimmering like lube. He can feel how close he is—his balls pulled tight, abs flexing with every twitch.

And then—on instinct—he grabs the gloss tube again.

Twists the cap one-handed.

Smears the rest of it right over his flushed, leaking tip—pressing hard, dragging it down like he’s painting your kiss on him.

And he breaks.

“ffff—fuckfuckfuck—fu-ck—!”

It spills out of him like it’s been caged for hours. Like he’s been holding it back all week, saving it for this exact moment—saving it for you.

His hips shoot up once, twice, stuttering helplessly through the orgasm as thick ropes of cum spill over his fingers, down his wrist, soaking the waistband of his boxers. It’s so much. Too much.

And he’s loud about it, too. Whimpering. Sniffling. Shaking.

He grabs the nearest pillow and shoves it over his face, burying the noise. But it doesn’t help.

His thighs twitch. His toes curl. He’s still leaking, oversensitive and flushed and humiliated by how hard he came. How quick. How he ruined himself to the idea of your mouth, your lip gloss, your bikini picture on Instagram that probably wasn’t even meant for him.

He turns his face to the side, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes now. Guilt mixing with the pleasure, the crash, the ache in his chest.

“‘M such a loser…” he whimpers again, barely audible. “So fucking gross—fuck…”

His voice is wrecked. Throat raw, lips parted and swollen from biting down on them too hard. His heart won’t slow down. His stomach’s sticky. His cock’s still leaking, twitching in the air like it doesn’t get that it’s over.

But his brain—his brain is worse.

Because in the haze of it, you’re still there. Hovering behind his eyes. Not a bikini pic anymore—no, you, in real time, sitting on his lap with your glossed mouth parted and your voice all syrupy and cruel.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” you’d murmur, smiling down at him like he’s nothing. “Touching yourself with my lip gloss like a desperate little perv.”

He whines again into the pillow, hips jerking like he might get hard all over just from that thought alone.

You’d laugh at him. You’d straddle him and not let him inside. You’d slap his hands away every time he begged to come and ride his thigh until he was nearly in tears.

He grinds helplessly into the mattress at the thought, sensitive cock brushing the sheets. It makes him gasp, toes curling.

He’s gonna do it again. He knows he is.

He’ll come again tonight. Probably twice.

He’ll stare at your bikini pic until he’s hard again. He’ll sniff the empty gloss tube like it’s laced with something. He’ll rut against the pillow and pretend it’s your cunt.

Because he’s a loser. Because you’d never touch him. Because this is the closest he’ll ever get.

[nhmkhnh]

rumi's headcanons.

rumi x fem!reader || fluff ;; partly nsfw ;; dom!top!rumi ;; sub!bottom!reader ;; mention about overstimulation.

rumi can’t sleep unless you hum

rumi doesn’t admit it, but ever since you softly hummed a lullaby that one night—when she came back bloody and shaken—she can’t sleep without it anymore. she’ll never ask. she just lays her head in your lap, closes her eyes, and lets you hum as your fingers thread through her violet hair.

“you don’t have to.” “i know,” you smile, “but i want to.”

she orders drinks she hates if you like them

rumi has no tolerance for sweet things. but whenever the group goes for boba or café stops, she’ll silently get your favorite drink alongside hers—even if she makes a face every time she sips it. you catch her one day:

“you don’t even like taro milk tea.” “…but you smile when you see two of them.”

she holds umbrellas for you, not herself

rumi’s always been the type to walk in the rain without flinching, but the first time it pours and you rush to cover your head, she quietly opens an umbrella and walks behind you, shielding only your side. she gets soaked. you panic. she shrugs.

“as long as you’re dry, i’m fine.”

cold hands, always. you’re her warmth.

rumi runs cold. her hands, her shoulders, even her heart—until she met you. now she steals your sleeves. she takes your gloves. she grabs your hand under the table and clings like it’s a lifeline.

“rumi—your fingers are freezing—” “…then don’t let go.”

she watches you in the mirror when you get ready

there’s this softness in her eyes when you do your makeup or fix your hair—like you’re a light she doesn’t deserve to stand near. you catch her gaze through the mirror.

“what?” “you’re so… ordinary,” she murmurs. “but you shine brighter than any demon i’ve ever fought.”

she leaves you notes instead of saying “i miss you”

whenever the team’s on a mission, she leaves little post-its on your nightstand.

“don’t sleep without locking the door.” “eat. i’m serious.” “i dreamed of you. i woke up wanting to come home.” and when she returns, she doesn't say anything. she just holds you until her heartbeat slows.

rumi flinches when you call her “baby”—but melts

she’s not used to pet names. she stiffens the first time you casually go, “thanks, baby.” but you catch the twitch in her lip, the way her ears go pink.

“…say it again.” “baby?” (she looks away.) “…i like that.”

she needs you close to sleep soundly

it takes weeks for her to fall asleep next to someone, but when she finally does—it’s like unlocking a whole other rumi. she sleeps like she’s safe, breathing steady only when curled around you like a lifeline. if you move even an inch away?

her sleepy voice: “don’t leave. you make the monsters quiet.”

smut headcanons

quiet but commanding — her voice is enough to ruin you

rumi doesn’t yell. doesn’t growl. she whispers. she orders with a calmness that sends shivers down your spine. her voice dips lower, almost dangerously soft:

“hands. up.” “don’t look away.” “open wider, baby. that’s it.” and god, you listen. every. time. like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore—just her quiet authority.

control isn’t about force. it’s about how still she can keep you.

she doesn’t need cuffs. you stay still because the look in her eyes tells you not to move. her hand just lightly rests on your thigh, her breath brushes your ear, and you’re already trembling.

“you want me to touch you?” “beg without whining. you know i hate noise.”

she’s obsessed with overstimulation, but never lets you come easy

rumi will press you open with her fingers until your legs shake—but stop right before the edge, every time. her lips brush your neck while her pace slows down on purpose.

“you’re too eager.” “again. from the start.” “you don’t get to finish until i say so.” she teases not to punish, but because she loves seeing you melt—watching you fall apart and still beg for more.

she worships your body—by breaking it apart gently

for someone so distant in public, rumi becomes so intense in private. she traces every inch of your skin like it’s sacred, only to mark it up right after. kisses turn into bites. fingers turn into bruising grips. she holds you down like you're hers — and her eyes never leave your face.

“you’re beautiful like this.” “don’t hide. i want to see everything.”

she stays silent after you come—until she thanks you

aftercare with rumi is almost reverent. she doesn’t say “good job.” she doesn’t tease. she just wraps you in her arms, gently wipes you down, and whispers:

“thank you for trusting me.” it never fails to make you tear up a little—because even when she dominates you, she always makes you feel loved, safe, and worshipped.

[iwonderwh0]

Let's not act like other short term formats like texts or memes are any better. Perhaps I come from a different part of the internet but people's hatred for tiktok (which, here it just says short-form videos but often times for some reason people have higher acceptance of instagram reels or YouTube shorts as if they're somehow better) undermines the fact that rage-baiting textposts and memes as unit of information collected in a really politically charged channels like 4chan boards or subreddits have existed and radicalised people for years prior and still do to this day, possibly in even more insidious ways, as especially memes operate under recognisable templates that solidify stereotypes and other mental shortcuts, harmless or not. And long form content like those on YouTube is at this point infamous for its algorithmic alt-right pipelines.

I think there's a much bigger problem than short-form content (which can be Anything, including something completely harmless outside of any political context) and it's passive consumption and blind trust in the platform to show you adequate, factually correct and relevant information that's in your (and not someone other's) interests to see with adequate representation of opposing counter-points if it's conveying some thought as opposed to an echo chamber. Does anyone remember Cambridge Analytica? It happened on Facebook, but it could have happened anyplace with large enough user-base, and I bet the essence of it happened again on twitter on a much larger scale. Incel ideology? Image boards, only text and pictures. Tiktok (or short-video format as a whole) is not special, and video content isn't much different than what we have here. Here also you'll see viral posts going around about some news or studies with only a screenshot of the headline or a link that barely anyone at all clicks on to verify its actual content, source and validity. It's not just short videos or other forms of short-content thing or isn't even necessarily short-form at all thing (like there are really long YouTube videos like "alpha male" podcasts that are essentially part of the same problem), it's passive scrolling, consumption and unconditional unchallenged trust in your info-bubble that feeds you majority of the information you receive in a day. Be it Tiktok, YouTube, any of the Facebook landfills, Twitter or yes, Tumblr too.

I'm the biggest champion of critical thinking skills you'll meet but what scares me is that all the critical thinking skills in the world only do so much when you're bombarded by new information faster than you can process it. That's why constant exposure to short-form video is so insidious in a way even other social media is not.

[spideyanakin]

james 'bucky' barnes - fic recs

other fic recs | navigation

works by @danysdaughter

the soldier and the vixen ➾ 40s!bucky x 40s!fem!reader & winter!soldier x hydra!reader & post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader, once comrades bound by war and affection, two soldiers-turned-weapons are reshaped into monsters by hydra, their humanity fractured and memories blurred. now free but haunted, they struggle to untangle love from programming, grief from guilt, and healing from the wreckage of who they used to be (THIS IS MY FAVORITE BUCKY FIC EVER. I took this to my mind palace so many times im sobbing. I love it so much)

cетка ➾ civil!war!bucky x widow!reader, when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other. (HOLY SHIT!!! the whole start where they meet and its just them rediscovering life together and hanging out is insane. like I could bathe in that all day, and then the ending!!?? like babes this is brilliant)

works by @buckysleftbicep

bent and bruised (series) ➾ new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader, you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. (HOLY SHIT. HOLY SHIT, HOLY SHIT. THIS THIS THIS this is brilliant, this is magic.)

cradles and chaos ➾ new avenger!bucky x pregnant!fem!reader, you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos. (the banter and character dynamic have me CRYING. in love with this, I could read it 500 times)

high for this ➾ new avenger!bucky x fem!reader, during a mission, you and bucky are exposed to a gas meant to strip away restraint. he resists, and well, you try. but when the heat fades, it’s not the mission that haunts you both, it’s what happened behind that door. (I needed a good cold shower after this, holy crap)

for better or for worse ➾ new avenger!bucky x fem!reader, you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next. (I- this whole series had me HOOKED. the tension. the yearning, the banter, the angst? obsessed)

works by @buckyseternaldoll

seargant's magic mouth ➾ you thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. then you overheard steve teasing bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. bucky gets flustered. you get curious. a week later, he proved he’s still got it. (THE DYNAMIC? the yearning? im here, im sold. I love this)

five seconds, five years (series) ➾ bucky barnes proposed just days before the world ended — afraid he might never get another chance. Then he vanished in Wakanda. Five years later, he’s at your door — unchanged, while your whole life has moved on. Some love survives time. But what happens when life doesn’t wait? (stop this made me cry- genuinely on the edge the whole time, loved it)

other works by amazing writers

lessons in lovemaking (series) by @artficlly ➾ bucky x blackwidow!reader, you and bucky barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned. (WAAAAAAAAAA, STOP THIS IS A MASTERPIECE IN EVERY WAY POSSIBLE, SOBBING CRYING THROWING UP)

manchild by @houseofhyde ➾ bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. (HOLY COW, the yearning? the pinning? the LAYERS, the banter? the slutting out on the floor of her kitchen while repairing her sink? yes. amen.)

come back to me by @peterparkive ➾ post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did. (OH MY GOD. the yearning??? the angst?? im living for it. Yelena being a menace, and the whole dynamic!!?? crying sobbing throwing up!!)

[farfromharry]

The Mario Kart Championships

Summary: Every Christmas the Norris siblings take part in a Mario Kart Championship. This year they have a rookie joining them who happens to be an exceptional player. In other words, how Oscar ruined Christmas…

Oscar Piastri x Norris!Reader

w/c 2484

a/n inspired by the sonic video mclaren posted. idek what this is but it was fun so 🤷‍♀️

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

The hardest thing for Oscar to adjust to when integrating into the Norris family was just how competitive they were. There were 5 siblings, all rather close in age, who had grown up competing with one another. It was in their blood.

Y/N had warned him before he came home for Christmas. Every Christmas without fail, they held the Norris sibling annual Mario Kart Championships. The middle child was currently the reigning champ 3 years running. She intended to keep her streak going. Lando was going to make sure that didn’t happen if it killed him. For at least a month he had been shit talking, adamant he was going to take the trophy this year. The trophy being a horrible homemade thing Flo had made when she was 8.

Oscar was moving in silence, but he too was planning to dethrone Y/N; take the glory away from his own girlfriend.

Their flight was long. Straight after the season ended, Oscar and Y/N had flown to Australia to have somewhat of an early Christmas with his family. It was nice, a needed break after such a long season. Plus, he always enjoyed spending time with his family seeing as he didn’t get to do it often. Then after 2 weeks down under, they headed over to Somerset to spend the remaining holidays with the Norris’.

It was a slight shock to the system, going from such a hot Christmas to such a cold one, but at least it was cosy.

The trash talking started almost immediately. Y/N was the last sibling to arrive, so she had missed a good portion of it. Almost all of it was aimed towards her now, and the newbie.

“Hope you brought the trophy back because that’s mine this year.”

She rolled her eyes. “You wish, mate.”

Lando was just about to open his mouth again when their mum called for them to be quiet. It was clear how much they wanted to get things started as soon as they walked through the door, but as per Cisca’s rules, they had to at least spend an hour or 2 with their parents before they let the games begin. The anticipation was killing them.

Usually she would try to spend as much time with them as she could considering how little she saw some of them during the year, but they were quickly getting on her nerves. Within an hour she’d had enough. “Okay, go play your stupid game.”

There was a chorus of cheers. The eldest and the youngest rushing to set it up. Lando kissed his mother’s cheek dramatically. “Thank you, love you!” And then he was gone from sight too. Oscar watched them all scurry away in disbelief. He didn’t believe Y/N when she had said this whole thing was very serious.

“It’s game time, Piastri.”

The older woman rolled her eyes, giving Oscar a look that said she pitied him. “Good luck.”

Things moved fast. Faster than he anticipated. Oscar and Cisca were up first. They selected their characters, modified their cars, picked the tracks and then they were off. It was best of 3. Most points wins and moves onto the next stage.

Sort of as expected, Oscar won. A clean victory. All 3 games were his to win and poor Cisca was left pouting, handing her controller over to her sister. The Aussie wasn’t a boasting winner. He congratulated her efforts and shook her hand. Everything a good sportsman should do. But Cisca was still a sore loser. She was the baby after all.

She crawled into Y/N’s arms with a frown, muttering something about her boyfriend being mean. The elder of the 2 just laughed. He was fitting into the family just fine.

Another victory for Oscar meant he would be in the final, with his opponent yet to be decided. This win wasn’t as easy. Flo won the first round in a shocking twist after a rather rude red shell was thrown (she wouldn’t admit it with her). Neither won the 2nd, but Oscar placed better, evening out the playing field a little. But in the end he won the final race after she struggled, securing his overall win. He was starting to see why they all enjoyed this so much. He definitely expected more arguments though. Him and his sisters would have been scrapping on the floor by now.

Ollie and Lando were up next. Only due to an intense match of rock, paper, scissors between Y/N and the oldest to see who would race Lando.

When she lost she huffed. “Next time, Norris.” And that could be taken as a threat.

Irritatingly. Lando won all 3 rounds against his brother. It only inflated his ego more. They had all really thought Ollie would have put up more of a fight. He certainly wasn’t happy about having lost. “Fucking rigged,” he muttered.

Then it was the round she had been waiting for. Her vs Lando. She was out for blood.

“You’re going down.”

He did nothing but hold up a middle finger in her direction. If only their mother could see. He would be disqualified immediately.

They picked their characters. The same ones they’d had since they started this Championship back in 2010. Lando as Koopa Troopa. Y/N as Princess Peach. This was a match that usually ended in tears for someone.

Lando held out his hand to shake hers. A ‘promise’ to race clean. Only when she went to place her hand in his, he quickly ripped it away. It was something he would do as a child and clearly he had never grown out of the habit. She rolled her eyes. Even after all these years, when she would probably consider them friends, he still managed to get under her skin. He might be a world famous athlete, but he was always an annoying older brother first.

There was a chorus of ‘oo’ and then a quick pep talk from Oscar. “You got this, baby.” He squeezed her shoulders and she let out a breath. She was gonna kick his ass.

Round 1 was neck and neck. Full of nudging, thrown shells and muttered insults. In the end they came first and second, with Y/N just coming out on top. It was a wonder they hadn’t crossed the line at the same time with how close together they were.

Round 2 was much of the same. Until Lando got a sudden lead out of nowhere. She wasn’t happy, understandably. She had a reputation to uphold. A blue shell fell into her hands at just the right time.

The evil smile on her face was seen by Oscar first, who then nudged the youngest Norris beside him.

“Uh oh. You’re in trouble, Lan.”

The briefest of glances towards his sister was his downfall. As was the shell she fired towards him that slowed him down a few seconds. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to allow her an overtake.

She sat up in her seat, beginning to grow excited at the idea of winning a second race in a row. Crossing the line in 1st, with her brother ending in 3rd was a victory like no other.

There was an eye roll from him. He knew there was no chance of him winning now, but he was delusional enough to try anyway.

She was enjoying it far too much. “It’s okay to give up, Lan. You’ll be brave if you just admit defeat.”

The curly-haired man scoffed. “Yeah, not a chance.” He pressed play on round 3 before she even had a chance to laugh.

This round, he wanted to win. One win was better than none. He was going to do everything in his power to get that win. At one point his methods included reaching over and shoving the controller in her hand. Understandably she almost dropped it. Which apparently justified her standing on his foot.

Their referee stepped in at that point. Playing dirty had been banned in the Championship for years now. A particularly nasty incident during Christmas ‘14, saw Y/N with a couple broken fingers and Lando with a concussion after an angry tussle. Their mother had stepped in at that point and insisted either they played clean and safe or she was putting an end to it entirely.

“Hey, no out of game sabotage. You know the rules.” Ollie sounded very ‘oldest sibling’ right now.

The only current finalist found it rather amusing that there was a whole set of rules they must have laid out at some point, probably after far too much cheating. Lando was a big culprit. He didn’t even need confirmation, he just knew.

It felt like only seconds before she was winning the 3rd race. She felt nothing but pure joy. What feeling was better than beating your sibling at something?

“Lost again, Lando!” She was overjoyed. He might be a world class, full time racing driver, but he was so shitty at Mario Kart that his baby sister could beat him and that was all that mattered to her. “How many years in a row is that now?” She held her hand up to her ear in wait.

The man grumbled. Cisca wasn’t the only sore loser in the family. “Whatever. You’ve still got to go against Osc yet.”

Her gaze fell to her boyfriend, who was just getting up to take his teammate’s place in the hot seat. “I’ll go easy on you, lover boy.” Her win streak had her feeling extra cocky.

Oscar didn’t say anything, just smiled and sat up a little straighter. That should have been a sign. He wasn’t going easy on her. This was the final. He was in it to win it. That trophy was going to be his.

And he didn’t even break a sweat. His demeanor remained calm. Unbothered. Meanwhile Y/N was pouring everything she had into these 3 races. She had beaten Lando with such ease. Yet she couldn’t seem to even worry Oscar. He had too much confidence in his ability. He knew he was going to win. And she was probably never going to let him play this game with her again.

3 races. 3 wins. An overall winner.

Oscar Piastri had just won the Norris sibling Mario Kart Championship upon his debut.

He tossed the controller onto the couch and threw his arms up in the air. ”Ha! Yeah. Suck it, loser.”

All 5 of the siblings stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. They had never seen Oscar so expressive. All because he was rubbing his win in his girlfriend’s face. The whole time he hadn’t said much. Had played fair, hadn’t trash talked, congratulated those he beat regardless. It was all coming out now. Clearly he had cared more than he let on. No one really knew what to say.

It wasn’t until he realised all the attention was on him that he stopped. His cheeks flamed and he sort of shrank in on himself.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” He sat back down, shuffling awkwardly in the silence. If only the ground would swallow him up so he didn’t have to keep living this moment. Time travel would be the only thing that could save him from this embarrassment.

Lando was the first one to break the silence, laughing loudly. Everyone else jumped at the sheer volume of it. “That was brilliant.” He didn’t know if he was happier because Oscar had finally gotten lost in the moment instead of his head. Or because someone had brought his sister’s reign to an end. Dethroning her himself would have been more satisfying, but at least it was done. Her trust had been betrayed by someone she loved. It was evil but it was amazing at the same time. “You sure told her, mate.”

“I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

The damage was done in Y/N’s eyes. Not only had he stolen her trophy and title, but he had rubbed it in too. She thought he loved her.

She said nothing, just got up and left the room. The siblings had seen all of this before. If he thought Lando and Cisca were sore losers, he had another thing coming with her.

He turned to them with a desperate look in his eyes. “What do I do?”

Lando patted his back. “Nothing. You’re fucked.”

There were nods from other parts of the room. “I’d consider yourself single now.”

By the time they went to bed that night, Y/N still hadn’t said a word to him. He was outright terrified.

Laid in bed, side by side, he found himself missing her touch, their closeness. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to talk mindlessly about anything that came to mind. The silence was killing him. What else was he meant to do?

“I said I’m sorry.”

She grumbled, shrugging off the affection. Now that the embarrassment had died down, he could see the funny side to it. He never knew she was such a sore loser. He grinned, nosing at her cheek as he silently asked for a kiss. There was zero chance he was getting one.

A sigh, followed by more silence. Oscar couldn’t believe how seriously she was taking this defeat. The handmade trophy sitting on her desk, not for her this time, definitely wasn’t helping the situation.

There was no way he was letting her fall asleep while she was still angry at him. His only other option was to be so annoying that she physically couldn’t ignore him. So he climbed on top of her, putting almost all of his bodyweight onto her.

She huffed. “Get off.”

She might be stubborn, but he could be just as bad. “Nope. Not until you talk to me, or forgive me.”

With a big exhale, she turned on her back. Her eyes darted to him with somewhat of a glare. “You cheated. I can’t forgive a cheater.”

“At Mario Kart?” Oscar scoffed. “I did not cheat.” He knew that for a fact. She just didn’t want to admit he had been better. “I won fair and square.”

This side of Y/N was new to him, but he knew he was going to enjoy bringing it out of her more often. Much like her brother did.

“Fucking child racing prodigy,” she mumbled.

Oscar laughed loudly. A full, belly laugh. Some people might find such competitive behaviour annoying, but it only made her more attractive to him. He adored every inch of her. “Oh, I love you.” Sometimes it was overwhelming.

Her eyes rolled. “Whatever.”

She was still so bothered that it made him chuckle. “Love you.” His voice was louder this time. More amused. There was a smile creeping onto her face that she was desperately trying to stop.

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

[yap-city-population-1]

We have to stop treating the “Who’s the best Robin?” debate as a question with any definitive answer. Your favorite Robin depends entirely on what you want, narratively, from Batman and Robin.

You want Robin as a necessity, a symbol, an idea that keeps Gotham going? I’d suggest Tim Drake, that boy’s whole reason for becoming Robin was he didn’t want the legacy to end. You want the dynamic duo, Batman and Robin as a united front? Dick is the classic choice, I’m also partial to Damian for this purpose. You want Robin as a comedic relief, a way to keep Batman fun and light? Again, Dick is an excellent option, but I’d also suggest 80s era Jason. You want a Robin that will challenge Batman, that will poke holes in his rigid moral code and point out his hypocrisies? Jason, Steph, and again, because he’s so versatile, Dick all have great examples of this! I could go on and on and on.

Even if you do chose your favorite Robin based on skill alone, which skills are we talking? Detective skills? How good they are with civilians? Trash talking? Ability to think on your feet? Raw strength? Flexibility? Tactical ability, combat technique, field experience, etc etc—

There is no definitive answer to the “best” Robin because Robin is simultaneously a character, a symbol, a narrative tool, a legacy, and a superhero all at once. Robin is just too many things for there to be a definitive “best Robin.” I mean by all means, write an impassioned post about why your favorite Robin is the best, I find them delightful to read. But let’s not get into dumb arguments with each other pretending there’s a real right or wrong answer to this question.

[haruka-passtimes]

So, Marketing college graduate. Apologies for the long post, but I felt it was necessary to point out how wrong this all goes, and I need to stress one thing about what I was taught during my 3 year program is that Marketing is a tool to help drive sales. A lot of people hear that and think that its all about sales, all about growth, and all about how we're able to help build better business. Its not. If anything its just another way to get people interested in a company/product/service/etc that's being offered.

My program coordinator wanted us to think critically about how we're supposed to help a business either expand into a certain field that they've specified, or what you can do to help managed/automate some functions for them to focus on other aspects of that business. So yes, the website, SEO, ad placements, etc. are important functions, but that needs to be measured with "what does the company actually need?". She wanted us to think about what would be beneficial to both the client and business. Hence why all my major, semester-long projects, across all classes, were done with thought put forth that you need to consider what is important to the client.

As an example, we had to help Carlington Booch, a local kombucha brewery, expand sales through online orders for kombucha (he had already implemented a subscription service for the website), have a full makeover of his website, help securing sponsorships from local businesses in the city, and help boost his social-enterprise. The client also ran a non-profit called Ashes to Rubies, and its meant to help combat drug addiction and homelessness in the city. So the kombucha business was meant to help pay for all the non-profits' activities and events. He would even hire on being that were on their way to beating their addictions. So we had to think about the overall impact that our suggestions would have, and whether or not they were even worth encouraging to pursue.

My group and I came up with a redone website that incorporated a storefront to it, instead of going to a separate website. We also provided him a better social media plan to help boost both parts of the social-enterprise, and bring awareness to the non-profits' activities. Including pointing him towards events where he could network and get possible sponsorships. It was a great project, and I honestly love the fact that my whole class not only gave him a lot material to work from, but after our semester was over, were told that he was implementing a lot of our suggestions to his business. It felt really good to know that we were able to help a local business achieve what they wanted.

That's what Marketing is to me, and should be for anyone that studies it. Its a form of communications, and its one that can be used for both capitalism and general, everyday functions. At its core, its function is to communicate to the larger populace about events/activities/cause, and potentially get people to participate. That's why I said we were told up front that its a tool for sales, not the main driver of them.

The problem with the marketers in OP's main post is they're the main problem that I have with capitalism; the never-ending drive for endless growth and expansion. There's never been a a need for something like that. When you focus on just that, you miss out what the grand picture is. The ACTUAL reason why people enjoy doing what they do. I wouldn't have suggested to the kombucha guy to go out and focus on door-to-door sales in an effort to get more people to visit their brewery and events. Nor would I suggest getting them to go around and sell their products in stands on random corners of the city. Its something they could do in the grand scheme of it all, but is it really the best use of time and resources? 'Cause once you realise that all the tools you have in the toolbox have a function, its then that you realise there's a lot of more nuanced use cases.

Again, apologies for the long post, I just get really urked when I see stories about people doing really stupid things despite going to school and learning about how to and not to do things.

My dad raises grass-fed beef cattle and I help him sell it, mainly by maintaining an online presence. For a while, I kept having the most ridiculous conversations with people who I assume were marketing students. I didn't want to be rude so I'd try to let them down gently but this one guy just kept insisting that with his magical marketing skills he could grow our business.

What he could not seem to comprehend is that we could not grow our business, at least not without significant time and monetary investment. Cows take two years from pregnancy to the size that you can sell. If we buy adult cows, our margins become razor thin or even negative. Even if we somehow could acquire some cows, our barn and hay fields are already near maximum capacity. Renting another field would be relatively easy, building a bigger barn not so much.

Cows are living animals, they aren't widgets that can be produced infinitely. Besides that, many businesses inherently cannot grow, because if they do they'll become something else. The delicious bakery down the street cannot produce much more than they do, if they began mass marketing and production they'd eventually be selling the equivalent of Twinkies. We grow grass-fed, organic beef, if we expanded how long would that last? Eventually we'd become the very factor farms that we hate. Some things can only ever be made on a small scale and they are usually the best things.

But also, what are they teaching them at marketing school and how is it so disconnected from reality?

[formulafanfics13]

Nipple Play with Max Verstappen because I'm kind obsessed with the theory that he had a nipple piercing 😭

Pierced Obsession - MV1🔥

Masterlist

Summary: She discovers Max Verstappen has a nipple piercing by accident — and once he realises how obsessed she is with it, he uses it to drive her insane. What begins as teasing turns into something far deeper, as she learns the one place on his body that makes him whimper, beg, and unravel completely.

Warnings: Includes nipple play (receiving), oral teasing, begging, light dominant/submissive dynamic (f dom / m sub), overstimulation, marking, grinding, soft degradation, worship, and themes of vulnerability, obsession, and using sensitivity as power. Consensual, filthy, and emotionally intimate.

The first time she noticed it was by accident. A flash of silver under his shirt as he pulled it over his head, post-training, flushed and glistening in the low Monaco light. Just a glimpse, barely a glint. She didn’t even say anything at first. She just stared.

“Something wrong?” he asked, casual, towel rubbing through his hair. He was shirtless, smug, stupidly hot in the way that made her furious.

She blinked once. Then again. “You have a nipple piercing.”

Max froze. Mid-rub. Then slowly dropped the towel and looked down. “You weren’t meant to see that yet.”

“You-you weren’t meant to be that hot when I did,” she muttered under her breath.

His eyes lifted. That half-smirk. “You like it?”

Like wasn’t even the right word. She ached for it. And once he knew that, once Max really understood how obsessed she was with it, he weaponised the fuck out of it.

It became a thing. They could be watching a movie, she in his lap, soft kisses down his neck, and his hand would snake up her shirt first,like it was reflex. His mouth all hot against her ear, voice low and rough. “You gonna touch mine too?”

“Touch what?” she teased, playing dumb.

His hips rolled up against her, slow and heavy, already hard. “You know what.”

She did. And she always gave in. There was something about the way he moaned when she touched him there. Something so involuntary, so addictive, so unlike the Max the world got to see. Max, the stone-faced predator on track. Max, the chaos demon in press conferences. Max, who didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought.

But when she rolled the little silver hoop between her fingers, when her tongue circled it just once, he whimpered.

And fuck if that didn’t make her feral.

They were in bed, late night, lights low, bodies already wrecked from round one. She was laid across his chest, kisses dragged lazily down the side of his neck, hips pressed against his thigh. “Babe,” he said softly. Voice hoarse. Need curling at the edges.

She looked up.

He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head toward his chest. “Please?”

It was pathetic. Ridiculous. Insane that Max Verstappen, who could dominate an entire Formula 1 grid with one look, was begging like this. For that.

But she moved slowly, deliberately. Straddled his waist. Kissed her way down his chest until she hovered just above the piercing. His breathing changed. Chest rising faster now. Anticipation vibrating under his skin.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered.

His hands gripped the sheets. “Mouth. Please. Just-fuck, please.”

And when she finally took it between her lips, slow, wet, deliberate, Max lost every ounce of control.

His hips bucked. A deep, broken sound left his throat. “God-fuck. Do that again.”

She sucked softly, then harder, letting her teeth scrape just enough.

He twitched beneath her. “Fuck, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

She didn’t stop. She licked and sucked and played, until his whole body was thrumming, until he was grinding up against her, desperate for more. Until he was nearly crying with it, one hand in her hair, the other gripping her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.

When she switched sides, teasing the other nipple, the unpierced one, he shuddered hard.

“That one doesn’t feel the same,” he gasped.

“Still good?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “But that one-” his fingers touched the ring, “-that one ruins me.”

She smiled. Dark and slow. “Good.”

Because she wasn’t stopping until he broke.

[riddlemelater]

Last Call - M.R (Part 4)

masterlist | nav | part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

warnings: alcohol use/"dependency", mentions of war, death, depiction of injury/blood, darker themes, post-war vibes, implied trauma, Mattheo is being a little shit part 2, reader is rightfully losing her mind...

w.c: 5k

summary: Mattheo Riddle was sharp, charming, and haunted. Now he’s just a shadow at the bar—drunk, quiet, unraveling. You don’t know why you care. Maybe it’s who he used to be. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he doesn’t expect kindness anymore. But one things certain: you won't turn your back on him, not like the rest of the world already has.

a/n: finally part four is here! special thanks to the lovely @i-await for proof-reading, and dealing with my crash-out whilst I tried to write this <3 love u angel

You groaned as you shifted onto your side, the blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Early morning sunlight was already bleeding through the curtains, cascading across the floor with a warmth that gently kissed your skin.

It was too bright and too early to be awake, you quickly reasoned, squinting so as not to be disturbed further.

That, and you could've sworn when you'd crept up the stairs last night— wand drawn and ready to pounce on the unknown intruder— that the curtains had already been drawn. But you could barely recall arriving home at all, let alone falling asleep.

You rolled over, turning away from the window with a heavy sigh. It was your day off. The day you could very well shut yourself up in your flat and ignore the rest of the world. You had plans to sleep in, to do absolutely nothing, and maybe even feel like a normal witch for a few hours.

But your body had other ideas. No matter how much you tried, you couldn't get comfy. The bed felt wrong. Like the cushions were too firm in the wrong places, and your spine ached like you’d slept funny. You shifted again, reaching to adjust the pillow, still in that sleepy bubble on the cusp of being awake.

You froze rather suddenly as it dawned on you. You blinked blearily. The couch. The thin, decorative pillow beneath your head. The scratchy throw blanket tangled around your legs. This was not your bed. Not even close.

You sat up slowly, dread crawling its way into your stomach, and your head turned cautiously toward the bedroom door.

No, no, no.

You’d dreamt it. That’s all it was. You’d been exhausted, tipsy—your mind had stitched together some elaborate fantasy, fabricated from memory and guilt. You had to have imagined it.

Rooted to the spot, your eyes fixed on the closed door, barely breathing, waiting for your heartbeat to slow. Your ears focused on each and every little sound that echoed through your flat, listening intently for any sign of life.

Then, very quietly, tentatively, you stood.

Your feet padded across the floor as you assured yourself that Mattheo Riddle wasn’t really in your bed. That he couldn’t be. That the whiskey Albion gave you must’ve knocked you sideways, and you'd hallucinated the whole thing. That was the only explanation.

But when you pushed the door open, sure enough, there he was. Sprawled out under the covers. Fast asleep. Soft snores rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest.

You stared, then took a step back like you'd touched something hot.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, a hand clapping over your eyes in disbelief.

Quickly, you eased the door shut again, cheeks burning with some odd sense of embarrassment at seeing him so unguarded. The latch clicked softly into place, and you turned your back on your bedroom door. As if ignoring its presence would magically fix the fact that he really was asleep in your bed.

Your hand rubbed at your face, trying to clear the fog in your head long enough to rationalise what in Merlin's name you were supposed to do. In a flurry of agitation, you walked back to the couch—limbs heavy, mind reeling— and sank into it like the wind had been knocked out of you.

Memories of the night flashed before your eyes, Mattheo drunk, bleeding. Fresh off the wrong end of some curse, no doubt. And then he'd just passed out. Like it meant nothing that in his most vulnerable state, he'd come crawling to you.

Like this was normal.

You exhaled. Slower this time. Let your head fall into your hands and tried once more to stop your racing heart. You stayed that way for a while. Not thinking. Not feeling. Just waiting.

You weren’t sure what to do. What to say. Whether you were more angry at his blatant intrusion or at yourself, for not being surprised, for not kicking him out.

For letting him crawl into your bed like it was his, for being relieved that he wasn't lying half-dead in some dungeon like your dreams had suggested.

You rubbed your jaw, then pressed your fingers to your temples. It didn’t help the headache blooming behind your eyes.

A part of you— a small, stupid part—had hoped that by morning he’d be gone. That you’d open the door to cold sheets and silence, and you could write the whole thing off as exhaustion, whiskey, and a bleeding conscience.

But he was still here. In your room. In your bed.

With a low groan, you stood and wandered into the kitchen, moving on instinct alone. You filled the kettle, set it to boil, and waited. Picking at your nails intently, like the answers to all your troubles were buried in your nail beds.

You’d been sitting there for nearly an hour, doing nothing but trying to pretend that Mattheo Riddle wasn’t asleep in the next room. That it wasn’t all you could think about. That you weren't so conflicted by the entire thing that you couldn't decide which way you were leaning on the matter.

When he stirred, made a noise— groaned, shifted—you didn’t go to him. Didn’t knock. Didn’t dare speak.

You held your breath.

Just in case he came staggering out and you could no longer get away with pretending it wasn't happening. What would you say? Would he remember? Would he even know or care that he'd landed at your front door?

You didn’t know. And that terrified you more than anything. So you sat, swaddled in the thin couch blanket, legs curled under you, and a half-cold cup of coffee resting in your lap.

Your fingers twisted, picking and pulling at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions. Much like the threads that held the cushion together, your brain was unravelling with each tug, and each new worry had your teeth sinking further and further into your bottom lip.

Time felt slowed, stretched even. And with every creak of the bedsprings, every breath from behind the door. You weren’t sure if he was still dreaming or waking—and honestly, you didn’t know which one would be worse.

Your first coffee had gone cold, and you’d moved on to Earl Grey by the time he stirred. A tired yawn sounded through your small flat, and everything fell silent once more as you glanced toward the door.

“Argh…fuck,” came a voice. Rough. Groggy. Confused. “Salazar, save my serpent soul,”

You didn’t move at the whispered curse, not even a wince. Just tightened your grip on the throw you'd wrapped yourself in, hugging it tighter like it could protect you from the pending conversation.

There was a rustle of movement. A soft thud echoed, one that sounded like a wand hitting the floor, followed by a string of muttered curses and the familiar creak of your bed shifting. Then back to silence again. Long enough to make you wonder if he’d passed out again.

You sighed, unable to prevent the inevitable, and finally rose to your feet. It couldn't be ignored for another second; you'd burst if you had to sit any longer, waiting for him to wake.

You knocked and pushed the door open gently, feeling uneasy at just walking in without warning. Strange, considering it was your bedroom, in your own house. He was sitting up, just barely, propped on one elbow, the other hand pressed to his temple like he was trying to keep his skull from splitting in two.

“You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that Riddle.” you said flatly, leaning against the doorframe. Your arms folded across your chest, your hair thick with knots from carding a hand through it repeatedly all morning.

You hadn't exactly intended to go in, all wands blazing. You'd actually spent most of the morning trying to work out what in Godric's name you were going to say to him. But the second your gaze fell on him, the second you noticed the bloodshot eyes, and the faint yellowish bruise that littered his cheek, you'd gone to pieces.

Mattheo blinked blearily at you, like he didn't really even hear what you were saying. He was groaning irritably under his breath, and the moment your voice reached his ears to ask if he was even listening to you, he shushed you with a wince and an outstretched palm.

“Not so loud… firewhisky headache,” he muttered loosely, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Your jaw gritted. Silent, not because he asked, but because you were still half in shock. Peering over at his crumpled frame that lay tangled in your sheets like they were his own.

His eyes scanned the room, then landed back on your face, slowly connecting the dots. Like he’d only now realised he wasn’t somewhere familiar. His face paled slightly, just enough that you noticed.

“Fuck," his eyes shut for a moment, exhaling shakily like he was trying to compose himself. "Can you block the sun out? Or at least lend me a pair of sunglasses?" He groaned, eyes squeezing shut as the heel of his palm rubbed at them.

"Oh, conscious and making demands. That’s progress from last night, I suppose." Your brows raised, glowering. Stern. You’d still lowered your voice, though.

"That’s the greeting I get after a near-death experience?” His voice rasped, but his expression was cool. Chuckling away to himself as his head shook, “Charming.”

"Mattheo," you hissed, fingers twitching, controlling the urge to snap at him. This wasn't funny; the state he was in wasn't something to be laughed at. You’d spent half the night convinced he was bleeding out somewhere. The other half wondering what he’d done to need a hiding place.

“You broke into my flat. Why?” You pinned him with an accusatory stare.

He glanced around, head sinking back against the pillow and groaning once more. “It's nothing personal, love, the wards were sloppy." He shrugged, then glanced up with a lopsided smirk, "Mm, lovely room— by the way, bed's dead comfy.”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed, floored by the arrogance.

The night before, he’d barely been able to lift his head from the pillow, yet now he sat like he owned the place, and if he did have a shred of self-awareness hidden beneath his untidy curls, he certainly wasn’t showing it now.

He waved a hand limply, shrugging off any real responsibility with feigned indifference. “Doesn’t matter. Next time I’ll collapse somewhere more hospitable, I assure you."

You stared at him, incredulous, biting down on your cheek to stop yourself from hexing him. He wasn’t even looking at you. In fact, he seemed to be actively avoiding your eyes.

Your eyes narrowed. You caught the flicker—his gaze lifting just slightly from the sheets, skimming over you like a reflex. Slow. Not as subtle as he probably thought it was.

“You broke into my flat. Passed out in my bed—fully clothed, by the way—and I’m supposed to what?” You tilted your head, voice low and laced with frustration. “Break out the chocolate frogs and butterbeer?”

Your tone was sharp, measured. Pissed.

He stared idly, eyes hooded and puffy like he’d not had a decent nights sleep in months. And from what you knew, he probably hadn’t, especially if Tolliver had been telling the truth.

"Come off it, Mattheo. What the hell is going on?" You demanded, arms crossed and jaw set, like a parent scolding a child.

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. He looked bored, like facing the owner of the bed he was currently half asleep in was the least of his priorities.

“Look, as far as bad days go, I promise you mine wins. Alright?"

You rolled your eyes, his apathy grating like sandpaper across already frayed nerves. And still, he wouldn’t meet your gaze. You exhaled harshly, and he flinched, almost imperceptibly, fingers twisting at the bedsheet like he was trying to anchor himself to something.

“Merlin's sake." You hissed, walking towards the window with an irritated sigh. You glanced back at him over your shoulder, still groaning faintly, an arm thrown over his eyes haphazardly.

With more force than necessary, your fingers grasped the curtains, yanking them open so the sunlight could spill through. Mattheo made a noise, somewhere between a groan and a whine, body twisting away with his eyes still covered.

"Are you always this dramatic in the morning?" he grumbled in a dry voice.

If he hadn't been in such a state, you'd have thrown him out already— Or, at least, the thought crossed your mind.

You sucked in a breath, trying not to rise to his provocation. "Oh, forgive me if I'm not thrilled that you broke into my flat," you snapped. “I was terrified. Still am, if you even care!”

That made him flinch — barely, but enough.

He hesitated, jaw ticking. His eyes stayed on the sheets. “I didn’t exactly plan it,” he murmured, finally.

A beat passed. You shifted onto the other foot, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t have many options left, alright?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Didn’t want to go to Theo. Or Draco. Or anyone, really.” His voice dropped to something rougher, like it scraped the back of his throat on the way out. “Besides, didn’t want them to see me like this.”

Your gaze softened, just slightly. "You scared the shit out of me, Mattheo." you swallowed, head tipping back as you exhaled a deep breath. He didn’t reply. Just half nodded and stared down at the sheets twisted in his lap.

“I thought you were dead,” you said quietly, and he finally glanced up, watching you, the smallest flicker of guilt in his eyes. "You disappeared, Mattheo. Without so much as a goodbye. And then I hear you're dead, from some drunk wizard in the pub nonetheless!"

Mattheo swallowed dryly, jaw tense as he rubbed at bloodshot eyes. So silent, so unwilling to give you a straight answer, never mind an apology, that you felt the anger swelling in your chest.

“And then you just show up, looking like death personified in my flat!” Your voice cracked slightly at the end. Your arm gestured uselessly through the air, like there weren’t words strong enough for the rest.

He stared at you for a moment, his lips pressing open and shut a few times, like he was trying to find the right words to explain.

"Well, for starters," he cleared his throat, "I'm not dead, evidently." The hand that wasn't holding him up gestured towards himself.

"Can't say I don't look it, though." He added, half-smirking at his own joke, like he was waiting for you to drop the act and laugh.

You only blinked at him, mouth tightening into a thin line. He chuckled sheepishly and ran a hand through his hair. You wanted to hex him. Badly.

"Right. Too early for jokes. Loud and clear." He held a hand up in surrender. "How about a glass of water, though?"

You were going to hex him, you thought decidedly. Your fingers twitched to reach for your wand. You'd blast him through the bloody wall if it meant he'd stop skirting around the truth.

Instead, you inhaled sharply. Muttered some half-arsed curse to yourself and turned to leave, ignoring the fact that he was still sprawled in your sheets with great difficulty.

"I'll be in the living room, when you've decided to stop being an arse." You called over your shoulder, striding out of the room and letting the door click shut behind you, with a louder bang than you'd quite intended.

The moment you were out of sight, you exhaled, exasperated, and pinched the bridge of your nose. You lingered in the hallway, the faint creak of your bed sounding like he'd just collapsed back into it with another sigh. A headache throbbed dully at the base of your skull. But the urge to scream into a pillow was only just outweighed by the fact that the bastard in your bed might hear it.

Head spinning, you ventured back into the kitchen, brewing another cup of coffee that definitely wouldn't help your headache. But, it was that or pass out on the couch again, and your spine certainly wasn't thanking you for last night's sleeping arrangements.

Your hand hovered over the cupboard where you kept your potions, nothing extravagant, mostly draughts of dreamless sleep and day-to-day healing brews. You sighed again, cursing your inner Gryffindor as you grasped a Pepper-up potion and a small tub of murtlap essence.

You weren't happy with him. But, at the very least, you'd help him ease the hangover, if only to get some answers.

Returning to your spot on the couch, you sank into the pillows. Your gaze focused on one spot, too caught up in your own thoughts to focus on anything else.

You were unaware of how long had passed—ten minutes, maybe twenty— until finally you heard the soft click of the bedroom door. Bare footsteps on wood. A quiet groan. Then a sigh.

You didn’t look up right away. Not until the couch dipped beside you and you caught a whiff of the cologne that still vaguely lingered on his clothes, dulled now by blood and smoke and whatever godforsaken alleyway he’d dragged himself through.

He didn’t say anything either. Just sat there, loose but not relaxed, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together like he was steeling himself for something.

You watched him through your peripherals. Watched the tension pull at the corners of his mouth, the thin scab that was incorrectly healing at his cheekbone, the shadow in his eyes that hadn’t always been that dark.

Wordlessly, he reached forward and drank the pepper-up you'd purposefully left in plain sight. He stayed far away from the murtlap, you noticed, following his movements as he placed the empty glass down with a soft clink.

"Thanks," he said in a raspy voice, clearing his throat sheepishly.

"Yeah." You nodded, took another sip of your coffee. Grateful that this time you'd remembered to cast a warming charm on the cup. "Slept in my bed, raided my potions—might as well start forwarding your post here too." You shrugged sardonically.

Mattheo huffed a laugh. "Alright. Point well made," he conceded, still rigid and perched on the edge of the couch.

You nodded, finally turning to take him in properly. He was still wearing his dirty clothes, but his hair looked slightly less messy. Like he'd at least tried to tame it before he faced you.

The silence hung between the two of you, thick and tense. You refused to break it first, staring over at him with a surprisingly level expression. It had taken most of your willpower not to take a calming draught, but ultimately you'd decided against it.

The responsibility to ease your frayed nerves lay with Mattheo.

"I'm sorry for calling your wards sloppy," he said eventually, looking down at his hands as he picked at some dry blood underneath his fingernails. "Nearly had me sleeping against your front door, if it means that much to you."

You didn't reply to his apology. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it did. And if you opened your mouth, something sharp and bitter might come out. So you let the silence stretch.

Mattheo shifted beside you, resting his forearms on his knees again, staring at the floor like it might offer him a script. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

“I shouldn’t have come here. I know.” His fingers were clasped together tightly, like he was trying to keep himself together.

You frowned, confusion twisting in your stomach. His words weren't aligning with his actions, and you didn't know what to think anymore.

“Then why did you?”

His jaw tightened. “I meant it when I said I didn’t have anywhere else,” he muttered, bitter honesty leaking through his words. “Not many people want Voldemort’s son bleeding on their sofa, shockingly."

His face soured for a moment, as if realising what he'd just said, then fell back to a blank stare. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume that he'd occluded.

It was quiet for a moment, and you stared at him, unimpressed, and scoffed. “That’s bollocks and you know it. Nott looked terrible when he came in looking for you, y'know?"

The anger had ebbed. What was left felt messier, less simple than just pouring him another whiskey and putting it on his tab.

Mattheo’s eyes dropped to his lap guiltily, his eyes bore into the floor like he was trying to find the right words. “That’s different. Theo, he’s…” he started, but his voice cracked on his name, and he trailed off.

"Even Malfoy—for all his faults—would’ve had half of Wizard London on high alert if you asked him to." You murmured, letting out a humourless chuckle. “They’re your mates, Mattheo. They’d be there for you, if you'd asked.” You spoke, voice softer now, tentative.

"I know," he said eventually, head bowed like there was more to it than he was letting on. "I should go. I should never have dragged you into this."

Blinking, you watched him rise to his feet, shaky and like his knees were about to buckle underneath him. You were frozen still, watching as he made a move to leave. You almost let him, but it seemed the inner lion still remained.

"Sit down, Riddle." You sighed, the words taking you quite by surprise, even as they tumbled from your mouth. "You're in no fit state to be wandering around London yourself, never mind the fact that you owe me a proper explanation."

Mattheo glanced at you, an argument already on the tip of his tongue. But clearly he needed your help more than he was willing to admit, because he hovered for a moment and then lowered himself back down. Eyes focused on anything that wasn't you.

You swallowed hard, composing yourself before asking the question. "What're you going to do?"

Mattheo didn't respond, just let his head fall back against the back of the couch and took a deep breath. He didn't try to offer a plan, just sat there, deep in thought. You knew then that he needed all the help he could get, whether he admitted it or not.

"It's blood magic, isn't it?" You pressed, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, gaze fixed firmly on his face.

That got a reaction. His head snapped up, and he looked towards you like you'd slapped him across the face. His jaw clenched, and his shoulders tensed.

"How..." he asked, cutting himself off with a shake of the head. "Who told you that? Has someone been asking around in the pub? Anyone you've never seen before?"

He didn't admit it, but you knew by the tone of his voice that you were right. That gut feeling you’d felt just a few weeks ago was real. Knockturn Alley and Mick Tolliver weren’t for nothing. Your dream... You shivered and tried not to spiral.

“You came in nearly every day, Mattheo. Did you really expect me not to notice that you’d vanished without a trace? Just go about my day like nothing had happened?”

That seemed to throw him, brows knitting together. Like he wasn’t used to being noticed anymore. Like it'd been a long time since someone had shown up for him, beyond just saying that they cared. The notion made your heart shatter.

“That doesn’t explain how you know that.” He said, firmer this time, his jaw set tight as his eyes met yours. He looked different, less dead behind the eyes than you were used to. Like something was pooling in them, something he didn’t quite understand.

Your teeth toyed with your bottom lip, eyes trailing over his thin frame with trepidation. He was skinnier than you’d ever seen him, a shadow of his former Quidditch days. He’d been one of Slytherin’s beaters, strong, muscly arms that half the girls in your year swooned over in hushed gossip circles.

The Mattheo Riddle who sat before you now was nothing like his teenage self, save for the arrogant edge that he seemed to wield defensively, like he'd spent his entire life running.

He murmured your name in a harsh whisper when you didn't reply, sliding closer to you and meeting your gaze with wide eyes. His head tilted slightly, waiting.

"I... I went looking one night. In Knockturn." You swallowed, feeling a wave of sudden embarrassment wash over you, "I overheard that someone there knew what happened. And, well, I had to find out for myself."

Your cheeks burned as concern flashed across Mattheo's face, and he leaned in closer and turned towards you attentively. Fingers grasping at the edge of the couch, knuckles white.

"Who?" He asked slowly, dragging the question out enough that you knew this was serious. You could hear it in his voice, the slight growl to it as he stiffened.

"He has a stall, stolen goods by the looks of things. His name was Mick, Mick Tolliver." You stammered, aware of how his gaze burned sharper at the mention of the dodgy wizard.

"Tolliver?" Mattheo's reaction was instant, his head turning away from you in outrage, hands thrown up in the air carelessly. He fell back onto the couch and ran a hand across his face, which only further unnerved you.

"Bloody useless tosser..." Mattheo muttered to himself, snorting bitterly. Head shaking as he pinched at the bridge of his nose, "He had one job— one!"

Mattheo rose quickly from the couch, pacing across the room with a newfound nervousness that made you queasy. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing like they wanted to grasp something. He muttered faintly, mostly curses, as he paced back and forth across your living room.

You felt yourself pale at his reaction, your knee bouncing anxiously as you perched on the edge of the couch cushion. "Mattheo?" you worried, staring up at him with wide eyes, "You're scaring me, what's wrong?"

Mattheo scoffed, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he did tight circles around your coffee table. His jaw twitched, the muscles tightening so much you could almost hear the strain. It was like a switch had flipped; he was no longer the bruised Mattheo you'd found half asleep in your sheets. No, this was something else entirely.

Something that felt a lot like life or death, literally.

"That sleazy git was meant to tell everyone I was dead!" He grunted, lifting a foot to kick at the side of your couch in frustration. "Fifty galleons and he can't keep his trap shut!"

You stared, brows furrowed as you tried desperately to understand what exactly he was saying. Fixed on each deep, slow breath he took whilst a shaking hand carded through his hair. He was still treading back and forth along the carpet. Peering out the window like he was waiting for something to happen.

“You faked your death?” You blinked, incredulous. “And what, decided my flat was the perfect place to rise from the grave?”

Mattheo huffed. A half-breath of a laugh that didn’t quite make it. He opened his mouth, probably to snark back something equally as sardonic— but nothing came out.

Instead, he looked at you. His usual mask of indifference slipped for a moment, and you saw a flicker of raw exhaustion in his eyes, a shadow deeper than mere tiredness. He swallowed hard, and his throat worked once, twice, like he was trying to steady himself but wasn’t sure he could.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, chest tight with a frustration you couldn’t quite swallow. You bit it back, the urge to snap dying in your throat. Instead, you cleared your throat, fingers worrying the rim of your mug.

“Look, Mattheo…” It felt like speaking across thin ice—every word a risk, too heavy and you'd fall through, too soft and they'd never reach him. "I don't know what's going on, or what I can do to help. But I want to, I know that."

Mattheo's head shook, ready to interject but you only spoke louder, voice less shaky as the words flowed.

"So next time you find yourself breaking and entering into my flat, maybe just... use the Floo like a normal wizard, yeah?" It came out softer than you expected—half-laugh, half-plea—wobbling on the edge of a smile that said I’m furious, but I’m not turning you away.

For a beat, he only blinked at you, surprise breaking through the anger. Then the corner of his mouth twitched—an almost-laugh he tried to swallow but couldn’t. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.

You pushed the spare pillow toward the far end of the couch. “Crash here until you can stand without wobbling, at least?"

You could see him deliberating, eyes torn from yours and staring at the pillow like you'd just undone something in him he’d spent years trying to keep sealed shut. Finally, he nodded, slower this time. But his gaze drifted toward the window like he wanted to say something else. Something heavier.

You waited. He didn’t speak. And that silence, though softer, held teeth.

It was like the fight had drained right out of him. Sinking down into the cushions next to you, his hand grasping at his side. You noticed the wince, the subtle sign that underneath his filthy clothes lay much worse than a poorly healed bruise.

For a moment, you debated asking. Eyes flitting down to the space between you, but you knew he'd only avoid answering, probably try and leave once more. And right now, the last thing he needed was to be alone.

So you stayed. You didn't say another word, didn't ask him for a plan. You just nodded and sank back into the couch, exhaling shakily and sipping your coffee like this was normal.

Whether you'd done the right thing or not, you weren't sure yet. But you were certain that from now on, Mattheo had to learn to trust you.

©️riddlemelater. 2025.

[ygodmyy20]

Master Terumob Fic Recs - Part 1

This has been on my to-do list for ages, and took me nearly three weeks to finish! When I first got into mp100 and into the fandom, I found some fic rec lists and they helped me a lot in finding fics.

I have wanted to make my own terumob fic rec list for some time.

This list is just some of my personal favorites. You may have your own and please please reblog with them!! I would love this list to be something anyone can enjoy and add to.

There are a few classic terumob fics I have not read (looking at you And Nearly Letting Go and and a "slightly more miraculous miracle"....I know you are amazing fics but I have not read you yet. and I will. I WILL)

These are in no particular order but I will try and add some categories to them.

Majority of these authors have MANY terumob fanfics. I couldn't include every since one, and tried to keep it to my fav fic from an author (or a series) that I could just to not make this like....the longest list ever haha So please check out the other fics of many of these authors because most of them have many many terumob fics

Also since it is so long putting it all below a cut.

Long Fic

Older TeruMob (my personal favorite type of TeruMob)

Old Habits Die Hard and Picture me Better by PrimaryBlue

Teru lost all of his connections after high school. Ten years later, Mob re-enters his life.

One of my favorite fics of all time. Read it and then go read it again.

Post Manga TeruMob collection by @toastytoaster22

A collection of fics from confession to marriage to adoption to intimacy. I adore these fics with all my heart (and not cuz I also love the writer hehe Hi toaasty). They are wonderful fics and I recommend each one.

married terumob beloved <3 by @highabovethecloudssomewhere

A collection of fics of married Terumob. Some of my absolute favs they just feed what I want to read so well. I have gone back to these many times

An Egg Hatches by Marina (@sodasexual)

22 years ago, Shigeo and Teruki decided it was time to adopt a child. In the present, their son Saitama tell the story of how that came to be to Genos with Ekubo's help.

My babies, TeruMob family. I love this AU so much. You don't have to read OPM, though it does help.

High School/Cannon Age

When there's nothing but the long way 'round

Summary:

If it were anyone else, his tone would have been teasing, and the thoughtful lift of his brow would have been playful, and the tilt to his mouth would have leaned closer to a warm smile. As it is, only bits and pieces make it through Kageyama’s careful repression, shining like irrepressible dawn through tiny cracks in a window shade, and Teruki blinks rapidly, something like sunspots dancing across his eyes.

Lovely fic that again, many have read haha It has sick fic, large uses of powers and is just a warm hug of a fic

Remember My Name by Philiah

Sometimes, Shigeo would find himself waking up with tears pooling out of his eyes. He wasn't sure why, but whenever he blinked his eyes open, he always had a sense of feeling that he had lost something extremely important to him. He couldn't remember exactly what it was, but the feeling would always linger for a very long time despite already long forgetting the dream itself. The toothbrushes in the cup started to float and he breathed in and calmed down. Think rationally, Teru. This is just a dream. He pinched himself. Once. Then twice. His whole arm had gone numb when he was finally satisfied with his answer. Okay, not a dream.

I LOVE this fic. It is based off Your Name and I just. Oh this just is a comfort read for me. I don't know it just is so cozy.

The Big Empty by sprinkles

In which Mob tries to teach Teru how to cook for himself and accidentally becomes his best friend.

Another great slow burn that feels very in character.

The Accelerated Velocity of Terminological Inexactitude by LogicalBookThief

Teru offers to fake date Mob in order to gain Tsubomi's attention. His own crush on Mob makes this plan somewhat problematic.

Another one that y'all have probably read since it is popular! I won't say much but it is beloved for a reason

Sword of Damocles by Orphan Account

Hanazawa Teruki is miserable and bored. At the age of sixteen, he has everything he could ever wish for. He comes from a rich family, goes to a fancy private high school and rubs shoulders with only the best of the best. And yet, something is missing from his life. In a moment of boredom, he makes a bet with his friends that he’d be able to charm anyone with his charisma alone and get them to kiss him without making the first move. When his friends point him to a random guy passing them by, he doesn’t expect much trouble.

Not sure what else I can say besides READ IT!!! I am not much of a no powers fan, but god this fic. Hurts. Me. I have re-read the final chapter so many times. The tension is just so intense.

A Good Year by menami

For one year, Teruki's life is dangerous and exciting, and it was all because of a boy to whom he gave the name Shigeo.

SUUUUCH a good AU. Alien AU my beloved I loved this fic

A Pictures Worth by @teruthecreator

You know what they say about pictures? Or: Teru's life, as told through a Hello Kitty Polaroid camera.

Wonderful fic, such a beautiful ride. Such a sweet fic

Short Fics

I have to be a bit self indulgent and give my own fic a lil boost!

Safe Space - Moving In Frustration

During their fifth semester at university, Teru and Shigeo finally move in together. Everything went perfectly, and Shigeo couldn't ask for a more equipped partner to be taking this next step in his life with. This is the start of their future together - their next steps as a couple. Moving in with Teru… Is easy.

An exploration of Teru and Shigeo moving in together and the struggles that come with that. Angst with a happy ending.

Kissing Practice by lunarblossoms

Kissing practice, Shigeo calls it. Twice a week, the two of them head to Teru's apartment after school and somewhere between homework and dinner, they situate themselves on Teru's bed and kiss.

I think I have re-read this fic at least....a dozen times at this point. Cute, sweet, angsty - it has it all. I would recommend all of Lunarblossoms Terumob because they are all delightful. Another one I love of theirs is Meant to Be. I am a sucker for soulmate storylines sometimes....

Spring Awakening by @sorachicken

Teru turned from his plot of flowers to face Mob. “Now I get it. I see the value in nurturing something. Giving it patience and kindness and listening to what it needs. In the end, the payoff is something beautiful and worthwhile.” Mob comes to realize Teru isn’t talking about flowers.

Delightful fic! It has Ritsu having a Bad Time (tm) a bit of a slow burn, but not too slow, and just wonderful TeruMob happiness.

wake by amaranthinecanicular

Your name is Hanazawa Shigeo, and when you are twenty four years old, you meet a boy. His name is Reigen Arataka.

I have a soft spot for Ageswap AUs and this one is angsty. But I really like it.

the vastness of space by popcornizuku

He… honestly doesn’t know why he came here. The sleeves of his coat itch at his arms, the weather not really calling for something this heavy, but he doesn’t dare take it off. His hands feel trapped in his pockets, a sense of dread pooling in his stomach. Why did he come here, of all places? He should have just gone home to his apartment. His quiet, empty apartment.

Another angsty and just...great lil ageswap terumob one-shot

Milkomeda by cloudkin

It's Mob's 21st birthday, and he's coming home for the weekend to celebrate with all his friends, though one of them he wants to see more than anything else.

This fiiiiic is such lovely older terumob. It makes me so happy. Short and sweet.

Off Button by @babovens

Teru had been working himself much too hard lately, especially ever since they began university. His perfectionism was getting the better of him yet again. It's a good thing Shigeo knows just what his boyfriend needs in times like these.

As someone who loves head pets this fic is so much my love language. I love this fic.

Catch Me, I'm Falling by spaceburgers

Mob has a date. Teru deals with it (but mostly, he doesn't.)

Oh another collage-age fic? I love them. I love them love them love them. I love this fic

I'll Spot You by orphan_account

Gym AU. Just guys being dudes. Lifting weights, holding hands, falling in love,

I LOVE this fic. It is so delightful. I normally don't do no powers au's (I am more picky with it) but gosh this fic is just. Delightful.

Then Nothing by @metukika

Shigeo has no idea where these moments come from. He has no idea where they go to, either.

Metukika has written a lot of amazing mp100 fics but this one is my fav. I just feel like it's paced so well and it goes through so much life for them. it is sweet and lovely and I just love how they are written

Gardens in the Summertime by thenotwriter

Teru reluctantly separates them and it takes Mob’s groggy mind a few seconds to remember it’s not socially acceptable to half sit on the lap of a boy who doesn’t know he’s your future husband yet. Mob moves back while watching Teru’s face carefully, looking for any sign, any shift of expression that would indicate he’s developed feelings for him. To Mob’s consternation, Teru’s face is the same as always with his affectionate friendly smile and flushed red cheeks. Hurry up and fall in love with me, Mob begs in his head.

This one is so so cute. It is one chapter and a long one chapter but gosh what a delight and cute fic this is. It makes me happy every time I read it

Auras Tell All by KittyKatyz009

Ritsu was almost certain something had changed between his brother and Hanazawa, but he wasn't sure exactly what it was. He's not quite sure he's prepared for the answer though.

I love a silly and cute Ritsu Hates Everything fic. And also auras. I love. Auras.

Slush by allthingsunrelated

With power like Kageyama's, Teru could peel back the atmosphere. And here Shigeo is, waltzing around in the snow and wondering if he could manage to light a candle. It's like contemplating molotov cocktails when you could create a supernova.

Short and sweet fic of Teru teaching Shigeo pyrokinesis

Breaking Point by Here_we_go

The thing is that Teru didn’t realize. He’s seen Kageyama lose control twice now, been on the receiving end of that power, but still he didn’t realize. He didn’t realize what it would be like when it was him.

I LOVE this fic. So much so that I have written my own "breaking point/100%" Teruki fics because I love thinking about this idea. Of what a breaking point would look like for Teru. I just re-read this recently.

Of Pawfull Sweet & Minty Fresh by @zephyrmelrose

Looking southward, Shigeo tries to uncover the offender of his sudden and sporadic jitters. He doesn't spot anything out of the ordinary—a leg haphazardly tossed over his knee; small drool spot at the corner of Teru's mouth—and both their shirts, he notes with a subdued snort—the early signs of matted down, messy bed hair, and a pliant cheek smudged as it rests against Shigeo’s abdomen. The typical adorable post-sleep display in progress, nothing unusual at all.

Just the cutest dang fic in the whole world.

Blossom Hills by @b4kuch1n

The disease raise like a wave and washed over them. They tried not to get caught in the flow, but it got them anyway, in one way or another.

I kinda love Hanahaki disease fics. I don't know why hahah they just always are the perfect angst for me. This one is angsty, hits your chest, but oh so good

ready at any moment to seize the moment by suitablyskippy

It’s difficult to be so badly in love with someone so dense he probably wouldn’t even float if he jumped into the sea wearing a lifejacket and inflatable armbands. Just to help coax him on the way, Teru adds, “But kissing girls is really just the same as kissing boys, you know.”

Does this fic even need me to add anything? You have probably read it, I have read it, WE ALL HAVE READ IT

A Little Pick-Me-Up by @wingsonghalo

Teru insists that Mob is really handsome. Mob becomes a master of pickup lines in the hopes that flattery will make Teru happy. Copious amounts of fluff ensue.

Every terumob fic by wingsonghalo is just so good. I love every fic of theirs. This one especially is just dripping with cuteness.

One For Me One For You by @fawnfiction

What’s it look like? Your soul?”

SPIRIT MOB MY BELOVED AND IT HAS ILLUSTRATIONS BY @mobroccoli it’s such a good good fic

Refrain Boy by roryka

Mob ends up with a little more than a scraped knee.

Shigeteru and ???%/Teru my beloved there are not enough fics with you

In Progress or Unfinished

Hanakotoba by @spiffystephie - In Progress

Two teenagers from completely different worlds had no reason to cross paths, yet one day they do, when popular highschooler Hanazawa Teruki enters a shop in search of a unique gift and runs into the quiet Kageyama Shigeo. Afterwards, their worlds continue to collide in ways neither Shigeo nor Teruki ever imagined. After their unexpected meeting, will the two boys blossom into something new — or wither away to nothing?

Absolutely wonderful fic that is just so.....so soft. Like a lofi playlist in fic form. It's just a warm hug, and great exploration of a No Powers AU. In Progress and I highly recommend!

Trapped inside you (literally) by @prettypistachio - In Progress

In 720 hours and 43,200 minutes, Mob learns that distance makes the heart grow fond and needy. Teruki reveals what 30 days of inappropriate yet romantic scheming looks like.

I adore the writing style of this fic. It has ???% moments and the way it flows is just hnnng so good. And Pistachio is re-writing and updating it and i lovvvve the updates so far. ALSO read all of Pistachios other fics. Our Life Together is also so good. Oh and Let the earth open up and swallow me. They are all. So. GOOD

Backdraft - In Progress - rosemint

Summary:

(noun): phenomenon in which the sudden introduction of air into a fire that has been depleted of all available oxygen results in an explosion. Teru confronts the reality that his relationship with his parents isn’t as rock solid as he thinks it is.

Backdraft is one of those fics that just grabs you and holds on. It is in progress, and not necessarily romantic terumob but my god it is SO so so so so good.

Carried on the Prevailing Wind by undoneshoelaces - In Progress

Summary:

Alternatively: an AU where Reigen finds Teru instead of Mob, and the cat Minori kills becomes an evil spirit.

This fic caught me by surprise and I am so interested to see where it goes. It really is a great story and I love how it explores all the characters through a new lens. It is a breath of fresh air. And I think the author nailed Teru and Mob's personalities.

[isagispuzzle]

you wake up to four missed calls and a voice mail from rin. it's been a year since he broke your heart, and eleven months since you last heard anything about him.

the memories flood back when you see his number in your call log—the number you've memorised by heart and the number you couldn't bear to block, so you settled on deleting his contact when the relationship ended. you remember the nights you spent in his arms surrounded by his scent, the unintentional jokes he'd crack, and the obnoxious neon turquoise post-its he'd leave around the house for you to find when he was out of the country for a game.

you remember the knife through your heart when he told you he didn't want to be held back by you any longer.

the voice mail sits heavy on your mind as you go about your day. it beckons your finger to tap on the notification bubble and tempts your ears to listen to what rin had to say at four in the morning, but you resist. it's nothing new to you, resisting every urge in your body to seek him out again, even when you know full well the relationship cannot be salvaged.

a whole twenty four hours after you received the voice mail from rin, your restraint crumbles. you're burrowed under your blanket, your eyes burning slightly at the light from your phone, and your thumb touches your screen before your heart is ready.

your entire body freezes over when it isn't rin's voice you hear. you don't recognise the voice, and the man on the other side of the line didn't seem too familiar with you either.

"hi, uh," the man sounds just as confused as you are. his voice is slightly muffled by the noise in the background, and your brows knit. rin hates parties, especially the ones with pounding music. the man goes on to introduce himself as rin's teammate. "i'm not sure who you are to rin, but i thought i should update you on his whereabouts since you're at the top of his favourited contacts. rin's really drunk and has been trying to call you, as you probably can see already. he's passed out now, though."

the man is interrupted by someone, and despite how long it's been, your ears perk up when you recognise rin's voice among the chatter.

"sorry," the man returns to the phone before you could make out what rin said. "since rin's responding to us now, i'll get his girlfriend to pick him up."

he goes on to say something about rin never mentioning your name before and he apologises if he was being rude to someone important to rin, but you're barely listening. all that registers before the voice mail ends is the man telling you that rin's in the good hands of his girlfriend.

rin's girlfriend, who wasn't holding him back from his football career. rin's girlfriend, who has been seeing him for god knows how long while he's kept your contacts at the top of his favourites.

[princessbubblecup]

Undead stan... ive seen a couple fics for them and i think the idea needs more attention

Like, sort of zombie mostly just. Immortal.

Stan accidently kills a guy/ witnesses a dude dying and gets caught up in it (whether trying to help or just is unfortunately in the direct area). Hes all, "oh no, this guy is dead. I am holding this dead guy, maybe even moving him so i can hide the body--" when BAM! Dead guy is not dead, and is wiggling around in his arms while stan screams.

Dont know how he gets infected, maybe the guy bites him in a fit of freshly revived nonclarity, maybe their blood mixes, maybe the guy is pissed at being killed and curses/"blesses" stan for either killing/attempting to help him. Idk.

Point is, stan cant die! Well, he can, but he comes back.

This goes surprisingly unnoticed by the people around him. The environments stan finds himself in dont breed a lot of concern for those dropping dead, enough so that people dont even notice his corpse long enough for him to revive, his body is actively hidden and left behind so it doesnt have attention brought to it, he is alone the whole time, or any witnesses get written off as drug addicts or insane.

This provides a few issues with his internal worth as a person, but overall, convienant to avoid being dissected in a lab or repeat murderers!

However.... you can only die so many times before it gets noticed.

NOW! i have two ways this could go.

Option one: it actually takes a while to revive, working from the inside out. Waking up and breathing is the step right before healing external injuries. This makes it hard to tell the dead guy is alive until hes wiggling around on your morgue slab. That, and maybe it takes a little longer after every death (seriously stanley, you die, like, a lot) to come back.

So, stan is FINALLY found as a john doe and brought to a hospital and then to a morgue. He stays dead long enough for fords number to be found on him and then called and then ford to come to identify him. Long enough for ford to come back at midnight with plans to steal a body. Long enough for ford to start sliding the body off the table, but NOT long enough to make it to the door.

Stan wakes up, starts wiggling and gargling in post- unmortemdem, and ford starts screaming and dropping him and looking for a weapon because ohhhhh my god thats a zombie, stan is a zombie, holy crap.

For funsies maybe ford stabs him to death in a panic and then immediately regrets it because damn, stan is dead again. Starts to steal him again and hopefully find an anti zombie charm at some point, the whole thing happens again on the drive home and stan manages to explain before being killed again.

Option 2: stan goes up to meet ford, postcard in hand, and-- youll never guess-- fords crossbow introduction ends with a bolt sticking through someplace vital in stans anatomy.

Ford starts screaming, apologizing, trying to stop the bleeding. Ford tries putting pressure on the wound, he tries to stem the bloodflow, he tries cpr for the life of him. He has a full breakdown, he tries so hard but stan chokes and gasps and bleeds and dies.

Its useless.

He sits in the snow, starting to have a full mental break as he starts crying to his brothers corpse all the things he needs to and would never say, its all very tragic and sad, and we know how it goes by now.

Stan wakes up mid soliloquy and scares the shit out of ford, yelling about the injustice of being murdered literally right when they see each other for the first time in a decade, while ford starts wailing all over again from relief.

Either way, frankenstan is rudely interrupted by stan just solving the issue himself. By being undead.

Uhhhh, where to go from here.... im not sure... yet.