#this took..........longer than anticipated!!!

[norristeria]

You're a Strange One ! LN04

SUMMARY 𝄡 Being Oscar's personal assistant is easy. However, you cannot help but think his coworker is the strangest man you've ever met.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 650.

NOTE 𝄡 This is just a little something I had in mind. This is more of a pairing exploration than a real one-shot. I don't know what to make of it, tbh. Do you think this couple has enough potential for a one-shot? <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

You never imagined that you'd end up working as Oscar Piastri’s personal assistant after getting your degree in communications summa cum laude.

If your parents had nearly had a heart attack upon seeing their daughter “reduced to a servant” after paying for one of the country’s most prestigious universities, you, on the other hand, had learned to bless this twist of fate.

Because it was indeed fate you had to thank for the way your life had turned out. People underestimated its power far too often, but you had come to cherish it and to welcome it back whenever it decided to reappear.

Fate made its grand entrance in your life one night in 2023, after yet another rejection from talent agencies and management firms. Internships, professional experience, glowing references—none of it seemed to matter to the big corporations. What mattered were connections, and you had none.

That night, you'd had two glasses of red wine, perhaps more, your cheeks streaked with mascara and frustration.

Fate, ironically methodical despite its name, had chosen that precise moment to show up in the form of a job listing on a website whose name you no longer remember. What you did remember, however, was how your eyes widened as you read the salary and perks.

One cover letter, three interviews later, and suddenly your life was split between racetracks, England, and Monaco.

Every day, you thanked fate for putting Oscar Piastri in your path.

He was easy to work with: a coffee without sugar in the morning, a calendar of sporadic appointments to manage—mostly concentrated on race weekends—and very few public appearances outside those. In short, a normal guy, refreshingly different from the awful clients you'd heard horror stories about since entering the strange world of celebrity.

The only blemish—though not quite that, more a curiosity you hadn’t anticipated—was that working for Oscar Piastri meant regularly crossing paths with Lando Norris.

And you didn’t quite know what to make of him, except that he was oh so very strange.

The first time he saw you, he tripped.

You hadn’t even had time to shake his hand, and Oscar hadn’t yet introduced you.

Your eyes met, the Brit blushed furiously, then went sprawling to the ground. You stood frozen before exchanging a baffled look with Oscar, who merely sighed and hauled his friend back to his feet.

The following encounters were no better.

By the third one, you concluded that Lando Norris must have some kind of speech impediment—he couldn’t seem to string two words together around you. Not even to answer simple questions like “How are you?” or “Do you know where Oscar is?”.

Instead, he’d stammer something utterly unintelligible, then vanish, leaving you to wander alone through the endless corridors of the McLaren Technology Centre in search of Oscar.

And now… now he stared. All the time. Without saying a word. You had never felt more awkward in your life.

Even now, you couldn’t escape those green eyes, burning hotter than the Bahrain sun. The McLaren garage was buzzing as the race neared, yet Lando remained still in one corner, eyes locked on you.

Too busy fetching cold towels and water bottles to cool Oscar down, you had ignored him at first. But now that the Australian had his towels, his bottle, his headphones, and his phone, there was nothing left to keep you distracted.

You finally looked up. Your gaze met Lando’s just as he took a sip of water.

Startled, he choked, spraying water all over his engineer—who shouted something you couldn’t quite catch. Lando floundered through an apology, cheeks crimson.

Your eyes met again.

He smiled—sheepishly, like it hurt—and turned around.

Before walking straight into a wall.

You frowned, shook your head and turned your attention back to the race schedule.

Yes. Lando Norris was definitely the strangest man you had ever met.

[literary-dolly]

girl dad boxer!jason x fem!reader

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

You’re exhausted. Jason’s been away for the past week for a title fight in Vegas, leaving you to handle your raucous four-year-old on your lonesome. Of course, he called every morning and night to check in, and had pre-arranged a few visits to the Manor with Alfred and Dick to gift you a few hours of peace - but it had done very little. Your little girl seemed to flip-flop between crying for her dad and jumping off the walls in anticipation of his return. Jason had assured you in times past that she was exactly the same when you left the two of them together, but you couldn’t help but feel that he was just trying to make you feel better.

She certainly was a Daddy’s girl.

The only thing that you’d found that seemed to appease her was old re-runs of Jason’s past fights and interviews. Bruce had a collection of all of them in the Manor library, and had kindly let you borrow them. They’d been near enough on repeat for the last 48 hours. As much as you absolutely adore Jason, even you were becoming tired of watching him punch people in the face on a loop. Your girl didn’t seem to share the same sentiment: biting her thumb anxiously when Jason took a mean punch, cheering when he threw one, and positively exploding with excitement when he won.

“Daddy, yes!”

The only things keeping you awake were coffee and sheer willpower - needless to say it had been a string of sleepless nights amongst the heightened emotions in your apartment. But it was much easier to admit that it was your daughter keeping you awake and not the fact that you too longed for Jason to return. It was a constant cycle of worrying, and even when Dick and Duke had come round to watch Jason’s current fight, unable to make it to Vegas on this occasion, you’d had to hide out in the bedroom far too anxious to watch the love of your life take a beating in front of your eyes.

He’d won, naturally. You’d never doubted him for a second. But his opponent was huge and mean, known for being a dirty fighter - he’d gone into it knowing he was going to leave with more than a few scratches. He’d called you afterwards he’d relayed his injuries, primarily a broken nose, dislocated shoulder and mild concussion. Otherwise unharmed, he’d said.

But he was due home any minute now, and it couldn’t come quick enough for both your sakes. Which is why when you can hear the rumble of Jason’s bike out the front of the building that both you and your daughter jump up in excitement, you scooping her up in your arms to look out the window amongst your giddy excitement. You made a mental note to chastise him later for driving so soon after a concussion, but you can’t find it in your heart to feel anything but sheer anticipation as you watch him make his way through the front doors.

“Go on,” you place your girl down with a kiss to her temple and a quiet laugh, “You know the rules. Go, hide now.”

In a thunder of footsteps, she beelines for her bedroom - no doubt going to hide under her bed for Jason to come find her, as she does each time he comes back home from a fight. It’s always under the bed, yet the look of surprise when Jason miraculously finds her time and time again never fails to bring a smile to your face.

As soon as you hear the jingle of the key in the door, you waste no time ripping it open rather than waiting even a second longer. Jason looks tired, and there’s a deep, swirled purple splotch creeping its way across his nose, seeping a yellowish green to ring around his eyes, but it does absolutely nothing to hide his rougish charm. The grin on his cheeks is a lazy one, lopsided and warm, and you’re in each other’s arms before even a second has passed.

He presses a multitude of kisses atop your head, “Missed ya’, baby. You look shattered.”

“You’re one to talk, big guy,” you mumble into his sweater, “Look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Guess we could both do with some TLC, hm?” Jason pulls back, simply to stare at you. To drink in all the minute changes in your appearance in the last week that only he could notice. Yours are clearly much less obvious than his own.

It’s a cough that echoes through the peaceful moment, small and clipped. You and Jason instantly share a look, both breaking into toothy giggles as he places his bag down by the door, creeping forward towards your daughter’s room.

“Baby, where is she?” He calls out teasingly, “She was supposed to be here. You can’t tell me she’s grown up and moved out already.”

Jason makes a show of looking around the apartment, knowing exactly what’s visible from the crack in your daughter’s door. She makes no effort to hide her giggles, but Jason remains ‘perplexed’ nonetheless. Eventually, when he finds his way to the bottom of her bed, he pauses, and you watch as the little girl’s eyes widen comically.

“Gotcha,” he chuckles, pulling her up into his arms, “Ya’ sneaky little thing.”

“Daddy! Daddy!” She practically cries, wrapping her small hands around his head. You pretend not to notice his wince when she knocks into his clearly tender nose, instead coming to perch as Jason’s side as he wraps his free arm snugly around your waist.

“I’m home now, baby,” Jason pecks her forehead, “I heard you’ve done a great job protecting your Ma while I’ve been away.”

“I did! Nobody even tried to come and get us!”

“Well that’s because you were here, obviously.”

You opt to watch silently as Jason begins to meander around the apartment, picking up stray toys and plucking a few snacks out of the kitchen cupboard, all with your daughter glued to his side. It’s sickeningly domestic. There’s a part of you that finds it hard to reconcile the image of this Jason with the one you met all those years ago, all fists and fire, charging head first into every thing and everyone with nothing more than a devil may care attitude.

He meets your eyes for just a second as he sets your girl down on the couch, and there’s nothing but love pooling in pointed look in your direction and all of sudden, you don’t really care how it is you came to get here. Not when you have everything you need right in front of you.

Sorry about the lack of updates, 10,000 words worth of uni essays are absolutely kicking my ass. I had this one laying around in the drafts and finished it off, don’t love it and it’s not proofread but I wanted to put something out.

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.

[iamthatonefangirl]

bucky w insecure reader where they get all insecure during sex and he praises the shittt out of them please and thank youu

also can i be 🕷️ anon please? ☺️

(i love ur fics btw)

insecure - nsfw bucky barnes

oh I love this bc I am a soft insecure sap. also this is longer than I anticipated.

~~~

he laid you down so gently, keeping an arm around your waist and a hand behind your head as though afraid he might break you. he held you close, your bodies pressed softly together.

he hovered above you, carefully watching your facial expressions, acting intentionally with every movement he made. he thought about every little thing: how much weight to put on you without crushing you, how tight to hold you without hurting you, and most of all, how badly he wanted to worship you like the goddess you were.

you smiled at him, a little nervous, but mostly hopeful as you brought your hands from his shoulders to the back of his head. you gently tugged at his hair, feeling how soft it was under your fingers, just like you'd always imagined it would be.

he slowly leaned in to kiss you once more, still holding a hand behind your head even while you were now laid against the pillow. perhaps it was just a protective instinct, his need to keep you within his grasp and not let you go.

you nodded, and he pressed his lips to yours once more. it was so different than anything else, the feeling of you below him, all splayed out and vulnerable for him.

he kissed you softly, slowly, the way he imagined he would once he got you into his bed. he planned to pull out all the stops, treat you with nothing but the utmost care and respect that he had for you. he wanted to take you apart one piece at a time and watch the look on your face as he did.

he took his time, sensing the tension in your body slowly ease, feeling every time you would pull him a little closer. he wanted you good and ready for him, eager for him.

you couldn't help the little noises bubbling up in your throat, letting them out with your mouths still pressed together. it made his heart beat faster, his hands hold you a little bit tighter.

he took it as a sign to keep going, moving his hand from around your back to rest at your side, slowly thumbing at the hem of your shirt.

you tensed and pulled back, avoiding eye contact, looking over to the lamp.

"can we turn that off?" you asked, indicating to the light on the nightstand.

he watched your face again, frowning at the thought of it. he was ecstatic to finally have you, have the chance to pleasure you, and he wanted to see every part of you while he did.

"why, baby?" he whispered, trying to understand.

you felt the knot in your stomach tighten. you didn't know what to say.

when you don't respond, he takes it upon himself to continue.

"can I see you? please?"

you shake your head immediately.

"you don't want to see me, Buck," you respond, chuckling anxiously, all while still avoiding eye contact.

he sees your hesitance, and his heart breaks. he opens his mouth, trying to find the words, but none come. it takes him a few beats before he continues,

"nothing will change the way I feel about you. how much I want you," he reassures, and you finally meet his eyeline once more. he looks into your eyes for a minute before requesting for the second time, "can I see you?"

you fight back your reluctance and nod your head.

if he hates what he sees, your heart will break. but at least you're prepared for it.

he takes his hand from under your head and brings it down to your side, both hands gripping the hem of your shirt. as he begins to pull it over your head, you bite your tongue and hold your breath.

but you refuse to close your eyes. you have to see his reaction, you have to be able to see the look on his face. you have to.

you take a hesitant breath once he tosses your shirt off the side of the bed, noticing the way he looks you up and down. you wait for his face to fall.

it doesn't.

"fuck," he growls, "let me touch you. please, baby, I might die if you say no," he admits, and he's never sounded so...

"please," he repeats, voice hoarse, looking up into your eyes. all you see in him is pure desperation and want.

"yes," you whisper, and his hands are on you, touching your skin, holding your waist. he brings his mouth to your chest, running his tongue over your collarbone, and he's fucking whimpering.

it's the hottest he's ever looked.

his fingers roam over the plush of your stomach, attempting to touch every part of you as his lips come to where your breasts are exposed above your bra. you gasp sharply when he nips at you, and your legs press together unconsciously.

"I didn't think I could want you any more than I already do," he tells you, barely pulling his face away from your skin. you feel his nose on your flesh, the movement of his lips against you as he continues, "you're so perfect. so perfect, doll. goddamn," he curses, and he feels his entire body jittering from his need for you.

"let me take off your bra, baby, please. I'll do anything, just let me see you," he asks, looking up at you, resting his cheek against you.

you look at his face, the puppy dog eyes he's flashing you, and you nod your head 'yes.'

he leans back to carefully draw the straps down your arms before bringing his mouth to your neck. he begins to suck a mark into your skin while his hands reach underneath you to undo the clasp.

you let out a cry when you feel his lips wrap around your nipple.

god, he feels like heaven.

he moves away to look at you, and your automatic instinct is to cross your arms over your chest.

"baby, no," he whines, putting his hands on your arms and gently moving them away so he can see you. "I think you know you're so pretty and that's why you're trying to hide from me," he teases you.

"no, Buck, I'm really not," you try, but he's not having it.

"you are the prettiest, you hear me? can't even believe you're letting me see you like this, touch you like this. it's a fucking honor," he says, bringing his mouth back to your skin, making you moan out into the quiet room.

you bite your lip and try to muffle your noises, but he goads you on. "come on, my pretty girl, you can do it. can you make those little noises for me, yeah? yeah. I know you can, cause you're such a good girl," he coos, planting his lips on you again.

his words make heat pool in your stomach, your thighs clenching tighter, punctuated by a broken whine from high in your throat.

this time, he feels the movement.

"you feeling like you need something, pretty girl?" he asks, now thumbing at the hem of your pants. "I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me what you want."

you pause. you want so badly to feel his fingers, his mouth, whatever he wants to give you. but you're still apprehensive.

"I want you to be comfortable with me. I want you to trust me," he tells you firmly, looking into your eyes. "if you don't want this, I want to know that, too."

"I do," you murmur, but the knot in your stomach hasn't gone away.

you wish it would. you wish you could be carefree, and sexy, the kind of girl he should be with. the kind of girl that's in his league.

your breathing starts to quicken as you start to get in your head again.

this is a bad idea. you need to put your clothes on and leave. this is a bad fucking idea.

"baby, what's wrong? talk to me," he encourages, bringing a hand to your cheek to direct your gaze back to him.

"Buck, I-"

"I want you more than anything. but if you don't want this, just tell me," he pleads.

"of course I want you," you tell him honestly, the knot moving to your throat, your eyes getting warmer. "but-"

"there is no ‘but’. you're what I want. what you want is what I want," he admits, "so let me give you what you want."

the knot tightens, but regardless, the words come out before you can stop them.

"I want you to think I'm pretty," you whisper.

he smiles at you and looks at you in awe. you are the most perfect, most gorgeous thing he's ever laid eyes on.

"I have never found anyone as beautiful as I find you. please, let me show you."

you see the sincerity in his eyes, hear the authenticity in his tone.

you crack a broken smile. you believe him.

"I want you so badly," you whisper.

he nods fervently and pulls you in, kissing you so softly you have no choice but to believe every word he’s saying to you.

you let him lay you back down, and this time, you don't hesitate when he moves to take off your pants.

"my girl. you gonna let me make you my girl? let me prove how badly I want you?" he asks, hands trailing up and down your thighs.

"yes, Buck," you respond, telling yourself to shake your nerves and let yourself have this with him.

"spread your legs for me," he whispers. you will your muscles to make the adjustment, and he doesn't give you the chance to get in your head about it. he moves quickly, pressing his tongue over the fabric of your underwear, already soaked through. you react loudly, your moans filling his ears, encouraging him.

he doesn't wait another second before yanking the damn things off. he wraps his hands around your thighs and closes them around his head, pressed up against his ears, and mouths at you with determination.

all your thoughts finally pause, the knot in your throat dissipating as you feel the urgency with which he nudges at your clit, dipping his tongue inside you to finally taste you.

he's imagined this moment forever. being able to put his mouth on you, to make you feel so blissful. that's all he wants to do for the rest of his life.

you feel so uninhibited when you thread your fingers in his hair and grind your hips up against him. you whine and whine because you just can't help it, and he knows he's harder than he's ever been, straining against his pants and rutting against the bed. he wants you to do as you please, to feel comfortable letting go and giving into your desires.

your whines get higher out of nowhere, and he doubles down on running his tongue over your clit, and fuck you're *so* done for.

you're coming before you can stop it, all over his face.

was that good for him? was I too fast?

when you look down at him, he doesn't look at you. his face is soaked, and he's leaning back, unwrapping your legs from around him.

he finally looks up at your face, his cheeks pinked up.

"that was..." terrible? horrible? "...absolutely amazing, I, uh..."

he leans back some more, bringing a hand to palm at himself, and you see it.

and you fucking celebrate.

he came in his pants, untouched.

"fuck, I'm sorry," he chuckles, embarrassed, crawling over you again. "you're just so goddamn sexy, you know that?"

every thought is out the window. you grab him and yank him down to kiss you, hurriedly grabbing at his clothes.

"that's so hot," you say between kisses, "take your fucking clothes off, please-"

he does as you ask pretty quickly, his clothes gone in an instant. the thought of you being so excited to see him naked gets him worked up again quickly.

"yeah? you like that?" he asks you. "you like knowing what you do to me?" he smiles.

you smile back at him. "oh yeah, I do."

"you're perfect. stunning. so good for me," he says, spreading your thighs for him once more. "already so hard for you, again."

"I'm ready, Buck, please," you tell him.

"when I take you for the first time, I want you to say my name. my real name," he says quietly.

"James," you all but purr, and his eyes roll back in his head.

"just like that, you sound so good, my girl," he murmurs. "you ready?"

you nod.

and then he's pressing inside you, and it's everything.

"you're so tight," he groans. "you feel so fucking good, baby. you're taking me so well."

his voice sounds so broken, like it's gone up an octave.

"you're my pretty girl, you know that?" he says, giving an experimental thrust, and you reach for his ass, trying to pull him in again. it makes him groan, and he does, pushing even deeper in this time.

"my good girl. you look so perfect under me. I want to be the only one who gets to see you like this."

you nod. of course he is.

"I trust you, James, fuck, I think I love you," you blurt out, shocking yourself.

he lets out a noise like no other.

"I love you, baby, fuck. I love you too," he tells you. "you're perfect, you know that? and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know how much I love every goddamn piece of you."

~~~

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[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty-six: peek-a-boo

word count: 4.3k

warnings: this chapter contains themes of psychological manipulation. reader discretion is advised.

thirty-five | thirty-six | thirty-seven

The car rumbled beneath him, low and steady as the rain smeared against the windshield. Lando adjusted the dial on the heater, elbow propped against the door, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. He was driving steady at some unknown speed, needing the hum of the engine to help him untangle his thoughts. There were so many moving pieces in his head, so much white noise.

He was interrupted from his own thoughts when his phone buzzed against the center console: Logan.

Lando picked up, pressing it to his ear.

“Talk.”

“Are you alone?” Logan’s voice was lower than usual.

No nonsense. Good.

“For now.”

Logan’s voice came through, crackling slightly through the speaker. He was breathless, but there was an edge to it — anticipation, maybe, or dread.

“You’re gonna want to hear this.”

Lando sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Spit it out already.”

A rustle on the other end. Oscar’s voice chimed in next, calmer — more clinical. The Aussie always could be trusted to get straight to the point. There was a reason that Piastri was the one Lando trusted to keep a pulse on everything – and perhaps more importantly, to balance out Logan.

“You remember that Tuesday — the one where you said you were being followed? When you cut through the back streets and ended up at the girl’s café?”

Lando’s jaw flexed, not saying a word. Oscar took the silence as clearance to continue.

“There’s CCTV. Six days before Margot’s death. Someone was loitering across the coffee shop around closing, basically the same time that Y/N locks up.”

“And?” Lando’s voice was smooth, detached. But his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, once, twice.

“We couldn’t get a clear shot of the guy’s face in those stills,” Logan interjected, “but the build’s familiar. He looks slight, stands with his shoulders back. Kinda twitchy, and probably around my height. We thought it could be Enzo, maybe Arthur.”

Lando exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the window. “Enzo’s been in this business a long time, he knows better then to pull some shit like that. I may not like him, but evn I know he plays by the rules.”

He stopped for a moment to consider the alternative. “And if we’re thinking Arthur… Well, the kid’s not cocky. He wouldn’t be that bold, showing off like that. That’s more like Charles’ style.”

“No,” Oscar considered, “you’re right, he’s too new to confidently pull something like that…”

There was a moment's lull while he tried to piece together what he felt like he already knew, just needing to connect the ideas in the right order. 

“But…” Oscar continued suddenly, a lightbulb going off in his head. ”Maybe he isn’t that cocky, but maybe he is that stupid. You remember that day you thought you were being followed?”

“I led them to her,” Lando muttered, mostly to himself. “Fuck.”

Logan jumped in again, eager to add to the discovery. Everything was beginning to make much more sense than it had in weeks. “Osc and I also pulled traffic cams from two nights before the shooting. Guess who was seen three blocks out?”

Lando didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

“Arthur.”

Lando exhaled slowly through his nose. “Arthur Leclerc?”

“Yup. Clean shot of him walking with a duffel bag. Same red jacket from the pier photo. Ballistics haven’t matched yet, but…”

“It’s him,” Lando stated, quiet and certain. “It has to be.”

A beat passed. The rain only intensified.

“And Margot?” Lando finally asked.

Oscar hesitated. “Ballistics came back — clean match to a weapon registered to the Leclercs' private armory. Restricted, but not unique. Guess who last signed it out?”

Lando didn’t answer. He already knew.

“Arthur.”

His grip on the wheel turned his knuckles white. “How long were they watching?”

“Hard to say. Maybe days. Maybe longer.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?” His voice dropped, more lethal than loud.

“We didn’t have the link until today, Norris,” Logan snapped back. “We’re not sleeping out here, Norris. You’re not the only one who cares.”

Lando didn’t respond. He couldn’t. That knot behind his ribs had already begun to burn.

“There’s more,” Oscar added carefully. On the other end, he shot Logan a wary look, knowing full well their boss wasn’t going to take this next information well. 

“We’ve been monitoring a few encrypted comms going out from the Leclerc side. There’s chatter about a meet tonight — late. Supposed to be a small crowd. Not security, more of an off-the books thing with just the key players. I think it’s some kind of negotiation with a new supplier.”

Lando’s gaze sharpened. “Where?”

“South Docks, the warehouse off Pier 17. The new guy – some supplier apparently – he goes by Nemo. Logan double-checked and he doesn’t show up on anything except a few old import documents and a long-dead crypto chain. Whoever he is, he’s new blood — and very careful.”

Lando scoffed. “Calls himself Nemo? Bit dramatic, innit?”

Logan laughed dryly. “Yeah, pretentious as hell, for sure. Probably thinks he’s being clever. Like, No one? Come on, like, at least be creative, right?”

Lando ignored the question entirely. “And you’re sure Arthur will be there?”

“No,” Oscar said firmly. “But someone will be. Someone who can confirm it.”

Lando’s mind sharpened like glass under pressure. Everything inside him was already whirring, buzzing, calculating all of the possible angles, risks, proximity. Tonight could very well change everything.

As Lando became occupied in the chamber of his own thoughts, Logan took the opportunity to ask, “Hey, Boss. You want us there?”

“No. No, you’ve done enough. I need this one to be quiet. Not much to it, yeah?” He clicked his blinker, merging left as the rain picked up once again.

Oscar’s voice softened just slightly, but his words were blunt, accented with his trademark directness. “You’re not gonna to do anything reckless, are you?”

Lando smirked, humourless. “What about me makes you think I ever play it safe?”

“Careful, mate. You’re almost starting to sound like the old you.”

Lando didn’t deny it. “I’ll be fine. I’ll handle it.”

“You’re just not the same without—”

Lando cut him off. “I said I’d handle it.”

Silence.

Then, after a beat, Logan added, his voice an octave quieter this time, “Don’t be late.”

The call ended.

Somehow, they were on the floor. Again.

Not the couch, not the bed, not even the worn armchair that creaked when she curled into it. No —  tonight, it was the living room rug, some half-fuzzy thing she'd thrifted ages ago, the kind that caught lint and comforted bare feet. A quiet movie played on her laptop, propped up on a stack of books. The living room lights were off, save for the soft, amber glow of the standing lamp.

Y/N’s body was sprawled across his like it belonged there, like an octopus’s tentacles draped lazily across its favorite rock. 

It’d be kinda cool to be her favourite rock, wouldn’t it?

She hadn’t even asked this time. She’d just flopped onto him like he was her designated mattress, letting out a content sigh that made his chest do that annoying flutter thing he kept pretending wasn’t a real feeling. 

It was quite inconvenient, really.

He wasn’t sure when it started — maybe the first time she fell asleep curled up against him while they watched their daily episode of some home renovation show she’d found on Netflix. But somewhere along the way, she’d somehow ended up creating a habit of using him as a nap surface. Couch, bed, armchair — it didn’t matter. If he was still, warm, and breathing, she was probably half-draped across him within the hour.

Right now, she was lying across his chest on the living room floor, the carpet flattened beneath them, both too full and too lazy to move after the impromptu pasta night they’d cooked together. Her cheek was pressed to his collarbone. His fingers toyed absently with the ends of her hair.

She’d been doing that more lately—using him as furniture. Neck tucked into the crook of his shoulder, arms folded beneath her like a cat. Her head pressed to his chest, slow breaths syncing with his. Not quite a relationship. Not quite not. Not exactly cuddling. Not not cuddling either.

Just her weight against him, warm and familiar, like trust.

“Christmas is coming up,” she said suddenly, her voice soft from the edge of a half-yawn.

He looked down at her. “Is it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you absolute grinch. We should do something.”

“What, like presents n’ shit?”

“Yeah, silly,” she said, sitting up just enough to poke him in the ribs. “It’ll be fun! We can make dinner and decorate cookies, and– oh! You’d look so lovely in a little Christmas sweater.”

His grin pulled, slow and smug. “Little? Sweetheart, there is nothing little about me…”

“I– Oh my God, you are so gross!”

He laughed as she smacked his arm with a throw pillow.

“And yet you keep me around anyway,” he said with a grin, nudging her gently. “C’mon, admit it. You love me—”

“Right, that’s it.” She sat up suddenly, just enough to start halfheartedly pushing at his chest. “Get out. Go on. Out the door.”

She began pushing at his shoulder dramatically, trying to shove him toward the door despite his zero cooperation and significantly greater body weight. He laughed, but caught her wrists before she could fully dislodge him.

“Oi! Okay, okay,” he said, laughing, hands up in surrender. But something in his chest flinched — small and sharp. Not real panic, but something like the memory of it. He cleared his throat, eased his voice low. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Happy?”

She stopped mid-push, flopping back down onto him with a huff of faux exasperation and a smile like sunshine peeking through curtains. “Very.”

He let his hands drop, and she settled back beside him — not quite touching this time, but close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. They had switched to some Hallmark movie now, the screen playing some generic rom-com snow scene where everyone wore matching scarves and nobody paid rent.

Somewhere between reaching over to fidget with the laptop’s volume and adjusting the blanket, her head found its rightful place against his shoulder again like it had always been there. Her eyelids fluttered once, then settled. He let his hand rest gently at the bend of her knee, warm beneath the blanket.

For a while, it was just soft TV noise and the patter of rain. Her breathing slowed. Her hand drifted to rest just under his collar, fingers curled gently into the fabric.

Minutes passed by like that — soft, unrushed. Her eyelids began to droop after a while. Even though she’d promised not to fall asleep before the end of the film, he could feel her beginning to nod off again.

Just as he’d begun contemplating pausing the movie for them to continue some other time, he heard her voice, barely above a whisper: “Li?”

He hummed in response, eyes still on the muted screen.

“Do you think we could have a real Christmas this year?”

His eyes flicked down to her. His heart stalled a little. “What d’you mean?”

She hesitated, eyes still closed. “Like in the movies. I always wanted a Christmas like that.”

His voice gentled. “How d’you mean?”

“With lots of people. And laughter. And food.” Her fingers twitched lightly in her lap, like she was tracing something only she could see, fingertips chasing a figment of a lingering dream. “Y’know. Like a real Christmas.”

She said it like she didn’t think she’d ever had one.

Lando swallowed something bitter in his throat. He thought of his own fractured memories—winters spent under broken street lamps and makeshift roofs, his knuckles raw from cold and fights. Holidays were just colder days with louder sirens.

He looked over at her, curled small now against the side of him.

“Don’t you worry about it, princess,” he said softly. “We’ll have us a nice Christmas, yeah?”

She didn’t answer right away. But then she smiled sleepily, her eyes still closed. 

“...We will?”

“Yeah. We will.”

“Okay,” she whispered, something soft and sacred, as her body settled in closer. Sleep found her just seconds later, slow and sweet. With the pattering of the rain, the hum of the heater, and the steady beat of his heart as her lullaby, she fell asleep against his shoulder, warm and content.

Lando let his head rest against the cushion again. He stayed like that a while — watching the water droplets race down the side of her windows in the faint blue light of the screen against the endless backdrop of the dark night sky, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, and wondering what it would feel like to deserve something like this.

Something warm. Something real.

Something like a Christmas worth remembering.

Half an hour after Lando was semi-successfully able to peel the warm body practically glued to him (he’d had to resort to leaving a misshapen, him-shaped lumb made of blanket in his stead, and even then she’d grumbled in discontent), Lando was pacing the length of the warehouse rooftop.

He proceeded to occupy himself with every other minute, mind-numbing task he could think of.

Checking his watch. Scanning the perimeter. Checking his watch. Listening for potential footsteps. Checking his watch.

Unclipping his mag, tossing it in the ait, catching it with his backhand, and clipping it back in, all in one smooth motion.

And checking his watch again.

Finally, it had been over an hour.

For fuck’s sake.

Yet still, the docks below were quiet. 

Too quiet.

Lando paused, steadying even his breathing to ensure he was hearing correctly.

Yup.

There was no chatter. No footsteps. No approaching headlights. There was just the sound of the sea slapping against rusted shipping containers and the occasional creak of metal in the cold night.

He’d gotten here well before the meeting time, and yet still — nothing.

Logan had gotten the tip two nights ago – overheard from a slippery supplier with a penchant for whiskey and oversharing. He’d then confirmed it from a second source, a friend of a someone who knew one of the Leclerc Palace guards – the Leclercs were scheduled to meet the shadowed figure still known only as Nemo, supposedly a foreign manufacturer who liked to operate offshore, both literally and figuratively.

It had sounded promising. 

Too promising.

Looked like someone had perhaps tipped them off to Lando’s little visit.

Fuckin’ hell.

He’d been circling smoke for days.

A flash of license plates in CCTV. A glint of silver paint from a trailing car in the corner of a café’s security footage. A warehouse employee’s offhand remark about shipments being rerouted through “Il Predestino’s” docks. All roads that once led somewhere now suddenly led nowhere.

Every time he thought he had a lock on Leclerc, the bastard vanished like a ghost, leaving behind nothing but cold cigarette stubs and the distinct sense of being watched.

Lando was seething. The kind of slow, volcanic fury that sat in his spine and burned all the way to his fingertips. He hadn’t stopped moving. Had barely slept. His hands smelled like gunmetal and bitterness. His eyes were bloodshot, but clear – clearer than they’d been in weeks.

Every safehouse he checked, every pier he scouted, every pub he frequented,  he looked for them, but the truth seemed to be that the Leclercs had vanished.

Daniel was gone. Margot was gone. And Leclerc was still breathing.

Oscar had called it "a string of bad luck." Logan called it the signature of “il predestino.”

Bullshit.

He wasn’t interested in fate. Only facts. And facts meant leads.

So when a tip finally came in about the rescheduled meeting with Nemo — the elusive third-party manufacturer Leclerc had allegedly been courting — he didn’t even hesitate getting back in his car and speeding over to the given coordinates.

Dock 17. Midnight. An abandoned dock. No cars, no guards. Just cold wind, stale seawater, and silence so loud it made his teeth grind. 

He had arrived early. Waited in the shadows. Boot pressed to the pavement. Heart steady, hand on his gun.

Midnight passed. So did twelve-thirty. By one, he knew.

The warehouse was empty.

He stalked inside anyway, boots echoing against the concrete. He had expected shadows. But all he had gotten was a whole dockload of nothing. There were no crates and no men. There weren’t even any whispers of movement. All that he found was just a small, thick paper envelope left where a beam of moonlight caught it like a spotlight. Lando might’ve almost missed it entirely, if not for the flicker of white catching in the corner of his eye.

He opened it. Inside, he discovered a single flash drive tucked inside the weatherproof casing of a nearby buoy, like all this was some kind of goddamn scavenger hunt.

He should’ve known.

He did know. Somewhere beneath all the desperate hope that tonight might bring him one step closer to vengeance, something in his gut had already clenched the second he saw how still the water was. 

Still water. Still air. Still nothing.

He jammed the drive into his phone with shaking fingers. It played instantly.

The video was grainy, a rough silhouette standing in front of what looked to be the bottom of some old, grandiose painting. However, the voice was unmistakable — Charles Leclerc’s smooth, cruel tone curling with arrogance and smugness.

What I wouldn’t do to–

“There is no Nemo, Norris. Clever of you to figure that out. Latin… it is not dead yet, eh?”

He appeared to find his own joke quite funny, holding a palm to his chest as he took a moment to laugh at his own supposed cleverness before finally speaking again.

“Ah Lando,” he smiled, all boyish and handsome and charming before it dropped into something darker, more sinister. “It is like this, oui? I know what you want. You want to hear someone say it, don’t you? Alright then. All this blood is on your hands. Yours.

Lando Norris, you knew what you were doing the second you brought her into your world. And the second Margot opened the wrong door. You knew what would happen to them!”

The smug bastard had the audacity to laugh then. He laughed.

Lando was going to kill him.

The video was not yet finished. It seemed that the Monagasque still had more to say. 

“So chase me, if it makes you feel better. Set the whole goddamn city on fire. I do not care. I will still be ahead of you, Lando Norris. Always.”

“Sleep well.”

The video ended.

Taking the small thumb drive out of his phone, Lando stared at it for a full minute.

Then it hit him.

Nemo.

No one.

There was never going to be a meeting.

No manufacturer. No shipment. No allies. Just Leclerc pulling his strings and probably watching from some gilded corner, laughing himself hoarse. He’d fed Lando a ghost chase, and Lando had swallowed it whole. He could feel the bile rise in his throat.

“You son of a bitch,” he whispered.

Lando didn’t realize his hand was clenched so hard that the drive cracked in two.

He stood there too long, the wind needling through his jacket, face blank with rage. He crumpled it up even tighter in his fist, letting its uneven and jagged ends dig into his skin like some kind of penance for the foolishness he felt twisting in the pit of his gut, the shame and fury that sparked alongside it.

The whole damn thing—this entire wild goose chase—had been another breadcrumb on a leash. A show of power. A taunt.

Charles Leclerc had played him.

Lando laughed. Just once, sharp and humorless.

Then he crushed the drive to pisces in his fist, turned, and threw it into the water with such force his shoulder popped.

Charles Leclerc was playing him like a goddamn fiddle. And he’d let it happen, like a puppet dancing to strings of grief.

"Fuck," he rasped under his breath, the word tight and hoarse.

He could feel his pulse in his temples. His breath came short. His throat burned with something animal.

Then—

He screamed.

Loud. Wordless. Raw. His voice echoed off rusted shipping containers and oil-stained pavement, carved through the cold like a blade. He kicked the nearest crate so hard his boot cracked against metal. He punched a wall and left blood behind.

He could still hear Daniel’s laugh.

Could still see Margot’s smile.

He'd been played, toyed with, outpaced by a ghost in a fucking tailored suit.

The blood isn’t mine, he wanted to scream. It’s yours. Yours!

He didn’t even realize his hands were shaking until he got back into the car and gripped the steering wheel like it had personally betrayed him. His phone buzzed—probably Oscar or Logan again, with another non-update—and he chucked it into the passenger seat. 

Blood on his hands? The bastard didn’t get to say that. Not after Margot. Not after Daniel.

No—he wasn’t going to keep circling this game like a trained dog.

The entire damn meeting had been a setup, a trap designed to make Lando look like a fool. A distraction. A calculated move to keep him running in circles, while Leclerc played his hand behind the scenes.

Lando’s chest was tight with fury. He could feel his blood heating, his pulse hammering in his temples. He wanted to throw something. Punch something. Rip apart the docks until nothing was left. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let the anger cloud him, not when he was so damn close.

The only thing he could hear in his mind was the sound of his own voice saying, I’m done.

The bastard had been playing him all along.

And now Lando was done being played.

Lando was sitting in his car, the engine still idling, his fingers drumming rapidly against the steering wheel, furious and restless. He was tempted to text Oscar, or Logan, or anyone who could give him a chance to see reason, to talk him out of committing bloody murder. 

But he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want anyone to tell him he was overreacting. And most importantly, he didn’t want anyone to stop him.

The only thing he could hear in his mind was the sound of his own voice saying, I’m done.

His eyes narrowed as the thought hit him. He knew where Leclerc would be next.

There was only one place that mattered now. The only place so sacred that even he’d never thought to take the fight there before. 

After all, Lando Norris was many things – a thief, a killer, a liar, a con. But even despite all these things, he was still a man, and even criminals had codes. 

There were personal ones, sure, but there were also fundamental rules to this life just as there were rules to war. They were not moral or good or kind. They weren't just, and they were barely fair. But these rules were the only things separating the madness from destructive chaos, acting as the thin line between simple business and unparalleled, boundless bloodshed.

And of the most basic of these rules? 

A man’s house is his castle.

Their house is not to be messed with, no matter the dispute. Personal or professional, no sane man would invite the carnage that would come from taking the fight to the doorstop of a man to whose home you have arrived uninvited. There was little sympathy for a fool who knowingly walked into an enemy’s den unwelcome and then expected civility.

But at the moment, The Reaper was all out of civility.

He threw the car into gear, tires screeching against the asphalt as he peeled out of the dockyard and shot down the road. Every turn he made, every corner he whipped around, only fueled the rage simmering in his gut. He drove straight to the Leclerc estate, to the house that sat perched above the city like it owned the world.

He wasn’t going to stop until he got what he needed:

His pound of flesh.

The drive was a blur. He barely remembered the turns, the lights, the sound of tires screeching on wet asphalt as he tore across the city, past half-lit storefronts and shuttered windows. The Leclerc estate sat on the edge of old money and arrogance—a marble-clad fortress with ivy-covered gates, the kind of place that wasn’t a home so much as a monument to legacy.

He parked crooked on the curb like he didn’t give a shit about parking laws. When Lando climbed out, he marched straight to the intercom panel without so much as a pause.

It was late now, nearly 2AM.

He rang.

Nothing.

He rang again, this time holding it. 

Still nothing.

Somewhere in the shadows, a motion light flicked on. Lando barely blinked. His jaw was tight enough to creak, fingers still twitching from the adrenaline that hadn’t found a place to settle. 

He knew how insane this was – showing up like this with no backup, no guarantee the gates wouldn’t open to armed guards.

But rage had never cared much for reason.

Finally, he stepped back., just far enough to see the upper windows. From here, he could see one light on, maybe a hallway. Maybe someone was watching.

He raised his voice, shouting to any living soul that’d hear him.

“Tell your prince,” he bellowed, “I’m done playing.”

The light clicked off.

Lando didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there in the cold, breathing heavily, letting the wind bite through his jacket. The tension inside him wasn’t a scream — it was quieter, darker. It rumbled like the incoming storm, a pressure behind the ribs, crackling with promise.

He wasn’t backing down now.

Not even if it killed him.

a/n: hello im so sleep sorry if this is not edited properly my eyeballs are too tired. hupe you guys like it!

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Good To Be Home Part 2

Summary: Dean's trip back to Lawrence gets delayed for a while.

Warnings: Smut. Fluffy smut. Unprotected PinV sex. Brief fingering. Oral (f recieving). Nothing too outrageous. Fluff.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,279

A/N: So, I got a few requests to make Good To Be Home a little longer and include some fluffy, sexy times with Dean and his waitress. So, I've done that here. I'm calling this a part 2, but that's just to avoid confusion. It's really more of a continuation of the first part. In fact, I've included the first part (which is less than 400 words) in italics at the beginning of this fic.

I hope you all enjoy! (P.S. I got this out a day early - yay!! ❤️)

“Hey Soldier. Welcome home.”

Dean looked up as the soft voice spoke, and smiled. 

The woman, his waitress he supposed judging by the apron and little plastic name tag, was a sight for sore eyes. After years of war, this beautiful creature seemed like the cherry on the top of returning home.

He was sitting in the Long Haul Diner. It was Saturday. The sun was shining. The sky was blue; there was no smoke, no acrid scent of gunpowder, no frantically shouted orders, or terrified screams of civilians, no sick pit in his stomach at the carnage around him. The diner smelled of pine sol and pancakes, with notes of sticky maple syrup and bacon. 

He was on his way home. 

He’d hitchhiked with various truckers and good samaritans, all the way from New York to Kansas and when he left here, he’d try to grab a ride on to Lawrence. But he was close enough now that he could walk the rest of the way if he needed to. Wouldn’t take more than a day. Lord knew he’d traipsed all over Europe, he could walk a bit more to get home.

His pretty little waitress stood coyly next to his table still waiting for his response to her greeting. She had a notepad and pen in hand to take his order and she began to nibble on the end of the pen. He couldn’t help but notice the way the pen pressed into her soft pink, lush lips. Her skin was a bit flushed and her eyelashes fluttered as she looked at him and then away.

Her innocent flirtation stirred something in his belly that he hadn’t felt in a long time - desire. There was no time or opportunity for love, lust, or anything in between while a war raged. But now, here, as soft, dusty sunlight poured through the window, and the buzz of normal life sounded around him, it occurred to him that he could easily fall in love with the girl with the shy smile.

“Thanks sweetheart.” He answered finally. “It’s good to be home.”

A Few Hours Later

Her apartment was small, but warm, and it smelled like oranges, citrusy and bright. For ever after, the smell of someone peeling an orange reminded him of her and that night. 

She’d been shy when she asked him home after her shift. It meant delaying his trip home to Lawrence, but he was happy to; he had to kick around the little town aimlessly for a few hours till she was off, but it was worth the wait. 

It had been too long - too long since he saw a soft smile full of meaning, too long since he felt that rush of anticipation in his blood, and too long since he held something so precious in his arms. 

She seemed to be looking for something familiar and comforting as well. She told him she was a widow, her high school love gone off to war never to return; it was the same tragic love story being played out all across the globe, and Dean held her close while she wept softly.

She apologized but he brushed her tears and apologies aside and kissed her softly, hesitantly. When she returned the kiss more eagerly, it was Dean who pulled back slightly. 

“Are you sure, honey?” He kissed the tear tracks on her cheeks.

She nodded vehemently. “Yes, I’m very sure. I’ve been lonely for such a long time, and you look like heaven.” She breathed it against his lips and it was all it took. He swept her up in his arms and carried her through to her tiny bedroom at the back of the three room apartment. 

He stripped her bare quickly and wordlessly, but when she laid before him, wearing nothing but goosebumps, he stepped back to admire her.

“God, sweetheart, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a very long time.”

A flush swept her skin and she reached out for him, pushing his uniform jacket off his shoulders, and letting it hit the ground. He undid his tie and took it off while she rushed to unbutton his olive green uniform shirt and yank his white undershirt off over his head. When she had his torso bare, a little moan escaped her lips as she ran her hands up and down his broad chest and flat stomach. 

Dean unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants while she stroked his skin; he pushed off the wool pants and his cotton underwear and he was suddenly free. 

He was free of the uniform he’d worn for more than three years, free from the responsibility of the stripes that decorated his arm, free from the soldier he’d been, free from the things he’d seen and the things he’d done. He was only Dean Winchester once again, just a man standing in front of a beautiful woman, desperate for the comfort of her body and the solace of her welcoming heart.

He kissed her long and hard before pushing her back on the bed and climbing on top. It had been far too long for them both, so their first time was rushed and slightly chaotic, hot mouths and clinging hands, hard bodies slamming together, eager for the little death that came so quickly.

Afterwards, they shook in each other's arms as they tried to catch their breath from the frenzy of shared need. Dean pulled her close and kissed her slow. He relished the hitch in her breathing as he smoothed his hand over her breast and squeezed her gently. Now he could take his time.

And he did.

He let his tongue skim across her skin and savor the saltiness; he pulled her nipples into his mouth and sucked on them like strawberries. He let his fingers slide down and slip into her body, plucking at her and watching the way the ecstasy flitted across her face and caused her to shiver. 

He relished every moment he held her on the brink of release, and felt the heat surge through him again as he pushed her over the edge and felt the way her core muscles squeezed around his fingers, the way her back arched off the bed. He buried his face in her wet heat and feasted as he hadn’t in years, enjoying every tug of her fingers in his hair and every keening moan that left her throat.

Finally, when he was once again hard and aching, he climbed up her body and then flipped her onto her stomach. He sank his fingers into her hips and pulled her up to her knees before notching himself at her entrance and then grabbing hold of her hands. He entwined his fingers with hers and pressed them down into the mattress as he slammed himself home in one hard, swift thrust.

She exploded around him instantly. He bit into her shoulder as he continued to slam himself deep, deep inside her; it felt as though he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough. He wanted to consume her fully, wanted to let her consume him. 

Finally he sank every last inch of himself inside her, and she squeezed him so tight that, at last, he spilled inside her, roaring out his pleasure before falling on top of her, spent and exhausted. They both shifted just enough that he wasn’t crushing her and then fell immediately to sleep.

They woke several more times through the night, reaching for each other and finding heat and light, familiarity, fascination, and comfort in each other’s embrace. 

Dean wasn’t sure what would happen in the future, but he knew he was home again in her arms.

@lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused @jzackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya

@arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry @ladysparkles78 @kr804573

@whimsyfinny @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world

@aylacavebear @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl

@hobby27 @waywardcheshire @livya99 @k-slla @leigh70

@eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

@fanfic-n-tabulous @traiitorjoe @lastcallatrockysbar @b3autyfuld1sast3r

[luckyashes-art]

[PJSK Monster AU]

Took a lot longer than anticipated but I had a lot of fun drawing over the card 🫡 So I may do more...

Original Card:

Haruka 4* - The Future I Wish for With Everyone

[kanasmusings]

[ENG Subs DL] Identity V Stage Episode 4: "Phantom of the Monochrome"

Hello, hello~! I'm back with more Identity V Stage~! After Episode 3 wrapped up, I thought we wouldn't be getting anymore IDV Stages, but I'm so glad that not only did we get Episode 4, we also got Episode 5! The cast additions have been really wonderful, and I'd honestly be up for more episodes~

Episode 4: Phantom of the Monochrome focuses on Luca Balsa for the Survivor Side, and Wu Chang for the Hunter Side. The overall atmosphere and pacing definitely feel different from the first three, but I'd say it was really good and compelling in its own right! The Hunter Side story definitely hit me hard. (///￣ ￣///)

In any case, thank you so much for everyone's patience with me regarding these subtitles! It took a lot longer to finish than I anticipated, but I'm really happy to have been able to work on them~

For those who want a copy of the Blu-ray and are able to buy, here's a purchase link: CDJapan (International cards and shipping available)

Episodes 1-3 and Thanksgiving Festival Subtitles + Troubleshooting Guide Masterpost here: WordPress

Notes, disclaimers, and link under the cut, enjoy~! (´• ω •`) ♡

NOTES:

※ THE FILE IS SUBTITLES ONLY, VIDEO IS NOT INCLUDED!

All songs and lyrics were translated by me. A bit of creative liberty was exercised to fit context and for smoother word flow.

RULES:

[MOST IMPORTANT] Please DO NOT re-post the subs and the link outside of Tumblr! If you want to share outside, please, please DM me about it and link my blog to your post. That’s all I ask.

Please DO NOT remove my credits.

Please DO NOT re-translate without permission.

SUBS DL LINK: GOOGLE DRIVE

Folder includes:

Survivor Side Main Show + Special Comedy Performance Subs

Hunter Side Main Show + Special Comedy Performance Subs

Original songs lyrics + translation PDFs

General reminders, disclaimers, and translation notes

※ Please only DM me if there is a problem with the subtitles. I cannot help you if it’s related to the videos.

[eydilily]

For the reqs, any pearls or gems ? I love them in your style <33

a gem and a pearl! <3

[alkallier]

Mini Comic-cover snippet for @prlssprfctn story

[kamapon]

Mersault break, behind the scenes 🤭

[rudyklownn]

fords conflicting shoulder bills

[bizarrelittlemew]

PROUDLY PRESENTING:

The Unofficial OFMD AO3 Wrapped 2024

sponsored by my love of fandom community, a passion for data presentation, more hours in photoshop than I am willing to admit, and inspired by the Good Omens AO3 wrapped

images used are either official stills or screencaps from episodes and the Vanity Fair lie detector video. everything edited by me :)

a few additional stats:

79 works had more than 100k words, with an accumulated 16 million words, meaning 1% of works accounted for 21% of words

At a reading speed of 300 words per minute, it would take 174 days and nights to read all of the OFMD fic from 2024 - or, if you read for 11.5 hours every day for a year, you'd be able to get through it all!

The most tagged sex acts for explicit fics were (in order): Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Anal Fingering, and Hand Jobs

271 works were tagged "Art"

details about data collection and analysis ⤵️

All data was collected on January 1st, 2025. I limited search results within the fandom tag to works updated between 2024-01-01 and 2024-12-31. Works started earlier but updated in 2024 are therefore included. Works added and deleted again during the year are not accounted for.

I manually typed data from the AO3 search into Excel, so there may be errors and inaccuracies due to the limits of the AO3 search function, authors' tagging choices, and typos (sorry lmao). There is probably an easier way to do this but idk I was bored and didn't mind. Graphs were made in Excel.

For the total word count estimate, I collected the exact word counts of all works above 100k, then gathered data on the number of works within pre-selected word count intervals and multiplied the number of works with the average of the interval (for each interval). The total sum and cumulative graphs for both number of works and word counts are presented above.

I made posts on tumblr and bluesky asking people to nominate their favorite tags from 2024, and included as many as I could.

This is just how I chose to present the data - I hope it makes sense and I'm open to questions!

[eemamminy-art]

My half of an art trade I did with @fuerrziah !! :3 The softest guys ever 😊

[0-cloud-puff-0]

Fanart for @morningstarwrites ‘s latest oneshot!: Rest for the Wicked

I love this fic smmmm!!! Can’t wait for next Friday!

[personalshredder]

the most canon accurate I've ever drawn them

[eighttalestale]

A totally not belated birthday gift for my amazing friend @achirding ❤️⚔️🖤