#can’t tell if they’re just really terrible

[galaxymagitech]

A Passing Grade in Trust Issues

(Whumpuary 2025 - Day 5)

Summary:

“Do you trust me?” Bruce asks.

The answer is no, then it's yes, and then, after one betrayal too many, it's no again.

Characters: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson

You can read it here or on AO3.

“Do you trust me?” Bruce asks.

The answer, of course, is no. Tim is training as Robin because he doesn’t trust Batman. But Tim is aware that this is a test, and in order to pass, he has to say yes, and in order to become Robin, he has to pass.

So, he steels his voice, holds the communicator close to his lips, and lies to Batman for the first time.

“Yes,” Tim says. “Of course I trust you.”

“Hn,” Bruce grunts. “Then turn off the comms and cowl stream. This conversation needs to be unmonitored.”

Tim’s hand hovers over the button. Turning off the comms would leave Batman without backup—as terrible of a backup as a half-trained Robin is. It’s horribly against procedure, and dangerous to boot. But—

But this is a test, and Tim intends to pass.

“Turning comms and stream off,” he says, and presses the button, watching the batcomputer screen go dark. Tim sits alone in the Batcave and waits.

***

“But don’t you trust them?” Tim wonders as he stares at Bruce’s contingency plans. He gets plans to take the Justice League down in case of mind control—it’s certainly a common enough problem—but Bruce has made predictions of his fellow heroes actions and then planned his own reactions to take them down. This isn’t about a mind-controlled Justice League. This is a series of plans to take down Bruce’s colleagues. His friends.

“No, Tim, I don’t.”

“But it’s Superman. And that’s Wonder Woman. And—”

“Trust is a weakness, Tim. We’re human. A single hit can take us out. All it takes is one moment where we let our guard down, and that’s it.” Bruce shakes his head. “Trust is what gets us killed.”

“Is that what…” Tim trails off, his gaze falling on Jason’s memorial case. “Okay, Bruce.”

***

“Do you trust me?”

Tim stands on the edge of the burning rooftop, looking at the long fall below him. Batman is nowhere in sight, off fighting Firefly a few blocks down.

Tim tries to trust Bruce. Ever since he’s become Robin, Bruce has always had his back. But it’s hard, when he’s so far above the ground and Bruce is asking him to—to jump. Tim doesn’t want to die, okay? He knew it might happen, but—he’s not going to literally jump to his death.

And yet, this is Batman asking. Batman always has a plan.

“Yes,” Tim says, and it’s not really a lie this time. “I trust you.”

He spreads his arms wide and takes a leap of faith.

Falling through the air, Tim closes his eyes and hopes that his thoughts don’t go blank. His heart races, and he knows the ground is getting closer, closer, clo—

Somebody’s arms wrap around Tim’s torso, jerking him into an upswing. Tim’s eyes snap open and he sees Dick smiling down at him. Oh, Tim thinks. So Bruce did have a plan. Really, Tim was dumb for even doubting in the first place. Bruce would never tell anyone to jump to their death. What was he even thinking?

“Sorry about that, Baby Bird,” Dick says as he deposits Tim on a nearby rooftop. Below, firefighters begin to extinguish the flames. “Firefly’s got a hacker on our comm frequencies, and B couldn’t tip him off that I’m in town.”

“Right,” Tim says, feeling like an idiot. Next time, he won’t make the mistake of questioning Batman’s judgement.

***

“But I trust them!” Tim protests. “They’re literally superheroes.”

“This is not a discussion,” Bruce says harshly. Tim winces. “Your secret identity is your life, and you must guard it like such.”

“Then just one of them, at least,” Tim says. “You can even choose which one. Please, Bruce. Can’t someonemy age know? Dick had the Ti—”

“The Titans were a mistake.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Dick is too trusting. He should never have revealed his identity to them. It put him in terrible danger—that Markov girl could have done so much damage.” Bruce shakes his head. “I thought better of you, Robin.”

“I—”

“No,” Bruce says. “I’m disappointed that you even suggested this, let alone continued arguing. You barelyknow those children. It’s ridiculous to trust them.”

Tim wilts under the force of Bruce’s glare. “Okay, B.”

“It’s for your own good,” Bruce says.

Tim’s team members don’t even know his name, and Ives and Zoanne don’t know that he’s Robin. He has two sets of friends, but he’s more alone than ever.

And yet, Bruce is the expert on secret identities. If he says not to tell, Tim won’t tell. He trusts Bruce.

***

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Tim says, without hesitation, without doubt. He is Robin, and this is Batman.

“Then don’t tell Dick about this. I can’t have him interfering in this case.”

Tim doesn’t understand. Dick—Dick deserves to know. This is about his weird archenemy, after all. But, well… “Alright, B,” Tim says.

Three days later, and an injured Dick and an extremely frustrated Bruce are having their monthly screaming match. Tim sits in the corner of the Batcave and tries to ignore it. He could go upstairs, could put on headphones, could do any number of things to keep from hearing the words they’re hurling at each other. But he has to know what they’re saying. He caused this, after all.

(Dick isn’t angry at Tim. He doesn’t even know Tim was in on the secret. But Tim is guilty nevertheless. Dick is hurt because of him.)

***

“Question everything,” Bruce says.

When does it end? Tim thinks.

Bruce says this was training. Says that it’s a good thing Tim questioned the character of his friends, questioned his own memories.

This isn’t training.

When does training go too far? Tim wonders. How’s that for a question, Bruce?

***

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Tim doesn’t allow himself to think about the question.

“Then don’t follow me.”

Tim follows Bruce anyway and ends up saving his life.

Bruce lectures him for not following orders.

***

“Trust is the enemy,” Bruce says, as Tim sits on the medical cot, shivering. The chills alternate with an unnatural warmth that feels like it’ll burn him up from the inside. “You need to learn to doubt your senses.”

Tim’s teeth chatter. Whatever Ivy and Crane cooked up together really sucks, even with the antidotes. “’m not in the mood for a l’cture, B,” Tim says, tugging on his blanket and trying to cover himself entirely with it.

“You could have avoided that fall,” Bruce says. “You knew you were hallucinating, but you still trusted that the ground was where it seemed—”

“Stop,” Tim says, closing his eyes. Every inch of him feels unbearably cold. “Just stop. I get it.”

“Do you?” Bruce asks. “Because you keep making this mistake, Tim. You could have died.”

“I know,” Tim says. “I know, B. I know.”

(And he does think he knows, this time. Because sitting here, shivering in the well-heated room with Bruce sitting next to him, he feels utterly alone.)

***

“Do you trust me?” Bruce asks.

Bruce had wanted Tim to stop trusting, is the thing. He’d pushed and pushed and pushed, all because he thought Tim was too trusting. 

To Bruce, trust is a weakness, a failing, an enemy. And now that he’s pressed that belief into Tim, well…

It’s wrong, it’s disrespectful, it’s horrible. Bruce was only trying to make Tim stronger. Bruce wants what’s best for him.

But you reap what you sow. So, Tim looks at Batman and can’t help but tell the truth.

“No,” Tim says, “I don’t.”

Instead of being angry, though, Bruce gives him an approving nod. “Good.”

Oh, Tim thinks. I finally passed the test.

[oddyseye]

I cannot stand the idea of Athena and Odysseus as a couple.

It's disgusting, it's weird, and honestly, it's the biggest insult to brain cells since mortals started thinking they could sail without checking the stars. But — and this is a big, glorious, golden but — the headcannon of every other Olympian thinks they’re lovers? That’s comedy gold. Athena, the eternal virgin, the impenetrable fortress of logic, brought low by the rumor mill of her own family. Hera: Alright, Athena, let’s talk about the wedding. So, for the dress—or should we go with a suit? Athena: Wait, what? Wedding? Who’s talking about a wedding? Hera: Oh, don’t play coy. You and Odysseus? It’s practically written in the stars. I’m thinking something classic, maybe a gown— Athena: Married?! I’m not marrying anyone! Hera: You can’t hide it forever, darling. A goddess like you deserves a big, beautiful wedding. Athena: Wedding? Hera, what in Olympus are you talking about? I’m not marrying anyone, let alone Odysseus! Zeus: She’s right, Hera. This is ridiculous. Athena marrying Odysseus? Over my dead lightning bolt. Hera: Zeus. Zeus: Uh… or… or maybe it’s a great idea? Love is beautiful. Yes, beautiful. Proceed. Athena: WHAT?! I’m not even in a relationship! Odysseus is a mortal man, and I see him as a son! A son! Aphrodite: Oh, spare us the dramatics, Athena. Everyone knows you’ve got a soft spot for him. You’ve been “mentoring” him for how long now? Athena: He’s my student, Aphrodite. I teach him. That’s it. Poseidon: I hate Odysseus. And I hate you for even considering this. But if you’re hell-bent on it, I suppose it’s your disaster to manage. Athena: I am not considering this! I— Dionysus: I’m here for whatever, as long as there’s wine. Athena, if you’re going through with this, I’ll make sure the reception’s lit. Athena: Dionysus, I am NOT getting married! Stop encouraging this! Dionysus: Hey, I’m just offering a little fun. You’ll need it after dealing with that guy. Right, cutie? Apollo: We are NOT friends, do NOT talk to me. Hermes: Athena, come on, you don’t want to marry a mortal? This mortal? You’ve spent so much time with him. Maybe you’re just too proud to admit it. Athena: Hermes, I will smite you where you stand— Hestia: Everyone, calm down. Athena, they’re just teasing you. But if you ever did want to settle down, it’s not the worst thing. Athena: It is the worst thing. This conversation is the worst thing. Hades: Marriage isn’t so bad. Persephone and I have made it work. Persephone: Exactly. And that mortal of yours is resourceful. That’s not a bad trait to have in a partner. Athena: He is not my partner! He’s a mortal — a mortal that I’m mentoring! Demeter: Mentoring. Sure. You keep telling yourself that. Athena: Demeter, don’t start. I mean it. Artemis: I don’t see why she has to marry anyone. Athena, I’m with you. Stay single. Keep your dignity. Athena: Thank you, Artemis. Artemis: But if you did marry him, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. He is brave. Athena: Artemis?! Zeus:....I still think this is a terrible idea… Hera: Zeus, sighing: Fine. I love it. Best idea ever. Carry on. Ares: He has to fight me to prove his worth! Athena: This conversation is over. Athena can’t even walk into the room without someone winking at her or asking how “her mortal boy toy” is doing. Zeus, king of being gross, looking genuinely scandalized for once. Hera planning her “totally hypothetical” wedding. What really gets me, though, is the idea that none of them even care about her protests. She could swear on the River Styx that she sees Odysseus as a son, and they’d still be like, “Sure, sweetie. Your son.” Meanwhile, she’s losing her helmet over it, and it’s just... chef’s kiss. Peak entertainment. I hate the ship, but I love the chaos.

[crownofgildedlilies]

ORBIT - 2, the park

satoru gojo x fem!reader wc: 4.1k [prev] - [full series] - [next]

THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE START OF YOUR FOURTH YEAR AT JUJUTSU HIGH, APPROXIMATELY ONE YEAR EARLIER.

It’s loud in the airport. Hundreds of people talking, walking, existing. There’s a constant din to your surroundings, and maybe you would have found it comforting to be encircled by so many signs of life if your companions had let you have a moment of peace. 

“It’s not too late to cancel, you know. Spend the last year with us, like I know you want to.” Shoko teases, and you know she’s just moping because you’re leaving her with the other two morons in your group. 

They’re your closest friends. You can’t stand one of them. You’re so glad they came to the airport with you. 

“Really, you’re making the boring choice by leaving.” Suguru adds onto her statement, dogpiling in that subtle way of his. And he sounds so casual, like he’s just making idle conversation, but you heard what he said. Your hand darts out to the side to pinch his arm in retaliation and his laugh joins the cacophony of noise and life echoing in the airport. 

“Bor-ing,” Satoru repeats, huffing out the two syllables. In one swift movement, he turns his back to you and drops like he’s going to lean against a wall, except the wall is you, and you nearly topple to the ground under his weight. “You should just come back with us.”

“Gojo!” You hiss, shoving him off of you. Suguru chuckles at the interaction, and Shoko is so used to your annoyance with Gojo that she doesn’t even pay it any attention. “I’m not passing up on this opportunity, and you acting like a child isn’t going to change my mind.”

Yaga had found a sorcerer in North America that had the same cursed technique as you. It was a rare enough ability that the sorcerer was contracted to train you for your fourth and final year at Jujutsu High. It really was a fantastic opportunity. 

You were going to miss your friends terribly. 

Even Gojo, despite the way you acted. And it wasn’t all an act—the way you would huff and groan and roll your eyes at most of the words that came out of his mouth—but enough of it was fake and forced that the other two in your group ignored your complaining. 

“You hurt my feelings, you know.” Gojo whirls around to face you, dramatic pout on his lips. His palm is pressed against his chest, fabric bunching in his fingers in a rough approximation of where his heart is. When he finds the bored look on your face, utterly unaffected by the so-called pain he was feeling, he drags his dark sunglasses down the bridge of his nose so you could see just how serious he was. “Your words are like a knife to the heart.” 

“Shut up,” You roll your eyes, and Gojo releases another dramatic choked-off gasp like he’d actually been stabbed in the chest. “I think you’ll be fine.”

It’s then that you realize Geto and Shoko have stopped walking. You’re at the security checkpoint, and they can’t go any further. Your disappointment must have been visible—maybe in the subtle sag of your shoulders or how you chew on the inside of your cheek—because Geto and Gojo both nudge you with their elbows. A perfectly timed and executed attack that has you squealing at the sensation. 

It works well enough to distract you, but you wish they’d chosen a less aggressive method. 

“Jerks,” You complain, but you don’t mean it and any threat your words hold is completely lost as you tumble into Suguru’s open arms for a final hug. He’s like the annoying brother you never wanted—constantly teasing, always in your business, and scaring off anyone that tries to ask you out.

“You’ll do great,” He tells you, voice dipped low so that you know he really means it. You have to blink a few times to keep the gathering wetness in your eyes from slipping out. It feels like a vice is wrapped around your throat, tightening despite your best efforts to keep it loose. 

You want to go to North America. You have to want to go, if you ever want to move up the sorcerer rankings. 

But then you remember you’re leaving your best friends behind.

“It’s only one year,” Shoko’s hugging you next, and the words of encouragement somehow feel more like for her benefit than yours. Even if it feels like she has been reading your mind. You nod, not exactly trusting your voice, squeezing her tight enough to make it feel like when you let go, she’ll still be stuck to you. 

You’re a little disappointed that it’s not true when she finally steps back. 

Geto swings a casual arm around Shoko’s shoulders and they wish you one final farewell before turning back the way you all had just come from. You’re intimately aware that they just left you with Gojo, and some distant part of you wants to draw out this goodbye as long as possible. 

But you’re running late already, courtesy of Gojo insisting that he needed to go to the airport with you and his inability to arrive somewhere on time, so if you plan on making it to your plane, you need to hurry. 

Unable to put it off any longer, you finally turn to face the sorcerer standing before you. 

He has his phone camera raised to your face, and even through his sunglasses you can tell that he’s looking at the screen with incredible intensity. 

“Let me take a picture,” He aims the camera at you, like he’s always been a photographer and he knows all the best angles. And you just know that if you asked him, he’d tell you that he’s the best at taking pictures, because Satoru Gojo needs to be the best at everything. 

“I’m leaving for a year, not dying, Gojo.” You have to hand it to the man. All your previous melancholy about leaving has suddenly melted away with the arrival of his dramatic self. Satoru grins at you from around his phone, bright and wide, and for a split second you understand what his horde of fangirls seem to find so attractive about him. 

Then you shake your head and remember reality, and no part of you can—or should—find Satoru Gojo attractive.

“I need a new background. Smile!” He explains, and you remember who you’re talking to. Satoru Gojo keeps his phone background on a revolving list of models and celebrities he finds the hottest of the week. He never keeps the same one for more than a few days before he gets bored of them. 

You frown, flipping him off. And he giggles, snapping the photo regardless. 

You’re certain that if he does end up setting the picture as his background, you won’t last more than a few hours. 

“Bye, Gojo.” You hate the way the words feel, falling off your tongue in a final farewell you’re reluctant to give. There hadn’t been a lot of discussion about whether or not you would go to North America, only a talk about when, and you’re starting to wonder if that was intentional on Yaga’s part. 

Like the old bastard knew that you would limit yourself for the chance to finish out your four years at Jujutsu High with your friends, if given the option. 

“Man, you’re really going through with it?” Gojo huffs, and you know he’s referencing his earlier complaint about you being boring by leaving. Regardless, you hug him, very much aware of time ticking on and the quickly closing gap to make your plane. 

“One year.” You remind him as you step back. You’ve already checked your luggage, so you’re left with only your carry-on bag strapped to your back and a sudden lack of knowledge on what to do with your hands. 

You settle on using them to shove Gojo in the direction of the other two, then wrap your arms around yourself. It’s hard not looking back at them as you wait in line for the security checkpoint, but you know they’re waiting for you to disappear from view before leaving. You were pretty sure there was never a room Gojo walked in that he didn’t immediately control, and that fact made it so incredibly difficult to keep from letting your attention drift back to him. 

But finally, finally, you were cleared to pass through and given directions towards your gate. It’s only then that you risk turning around to face them, because you have the barrier of the security checkpoint to keep you from running back to their side. 

You’re not surprised in the slightest to see Suguru holding Satoru by the back neckline of his black uniform, and you can only wonder what he could have done to warrant the reaction. They’re teasing each other, you can tell from just the expression on Shoko’s face, and you once more chew the inside of your cheek to fight the urge to go back with them. 

You just need to get on the plane, and then you’ll be fine. Then you’ll remember all the good reasons for why you need to go. 

Waving once more, one final time, you commit the image of your best friends to memory. You know they’ll be fine, be amazing, actually, but you can’t help but wish you could be there with them. 

In seconds, they’re gone from your line of sight, lost to the crowd and hustling life that filled the airport. You’ll be fine, you know, once you get to your gate. 

You just didn’t realize that would be the final time you ever saw Suguru Geto as you knew him.

PRESENT DAY

Satoru Gojo is late, and you should have known better. 

You’ve only known him for, how many years? It should have been common sense for you to predict that he would be late. 

But you were on time, left sitting at the park on a bench while trying not to freak out. 

For not the first time, you were wishing you could breeze through life as careless as Satoru Gojo, even if his carelessness was feigned at times. But you were painfully aware of life and its accompanying expectations, and so you worried what others thought and showed up to places on time. 

You’re starting to regret agreeing to meet with Satoru. You could only imagine the kind of mess you were getting yourself into—Gojo, with two kids, that belonged to a dead hitman. The bench you’re sitting on suddenly feels as if it’s sucking you in, trapping you against the aged wood with each second that ticks by. 

You’re pretty sure you’re going to run far and fast as you jump to your feet, but you only get half a step away before you hear your name being called from behind you. 

Spinning, it takes only seconds for your eyes to land on the imposing figure of Satoru Gojo. Tall, handsome, dressed impeccably well—maybe a little too well for the park—every inch of Gojo demands to be seen. 

And though he already had a massive fan club of young sorcerers, you didn’t pay attention to any of Gojo and instead focused on the two young children with him. 

There’s a girl, you notice first. She’s got her hand clutched in Gojo’s though she seems to be the older of the two, and maybe six or seven. Her hair is done up in a horribly sloppy ponytail, and you just know Satoru did it himself. Despite the awful hairstyle, she looks clean and fed, like she had been well taken care of. 

It takes you a few seconds longer to notice the boy, but only because he seemed steadfast in not being associated with Gojo. Tiny arms crossed grumpily over his chest and dark hair askew, the young boy kept a few steps between himself and Gojo. And every time Gojo turned to make sure the boy was following him, turned his head away from your old friend in a very pointed display of defiance. 

It’s only after you assess the children, only when Satoru Gojo is nearly within arm’s reach after a year apart, that you finally lift your gaze to the man you’d promised to meet. 

There’s a smirk on his lips, like usual. It’s so common, and normal, after months of uncommon and abnormal that you nearly get sick at the sight. But you manage to keep it together, because he’s the one with custody of a professional murder’s kids, he’s the one who was there every step of the way on Suguru’s downfall. 

You don’t think you have any right to worry, but you’re also not sure what you’re even going to say to Satoru. 

“I knew you’d wait for me,” Gojo breaks the silence first, punctuating his sentence with a quick glance backwards to make sure the boy is still there—the boy, who is still ignoring him. But in seconds his attention is back on you, and even through the thick lens of his sunglasses you can feel his stare on your face as you huff and roll your eyes.

“Had to see for myself if you were telling the truth,” You counter, then tear your attention from him to the two small children. You smile now, warm and kind and absolutely freaking out. “Hi, you two. It’s nice to meet you both.”

The young girl smiles bashfully back at you, but the boy turns away as if you were as bad as Gojo. 

“This is Tsumiki and Megumi.” Gojo introduces, giving them your name. The girl, Tsumiki, smiles a little wider, showing off her missing front tooth. Instantly, you’re in love—and struggling to reconcile the image of such a sweet girl with a hitman for a father. “Why don’t you two crazy kids go to the playground? Leave us adults to catch up.”

“You��re barely an adult,” Megumi mumbles, and you don’t mean to laugh, but his unexpected sassiness catches you off guard. You snort, unflatteringly, and try to cover the sound with your palm. It’s futile, because suddenly Megumi is looking at you, and you’re just waiting for a barb to come flying your way. 

“Megumi,” Tsumiki hisses at her brother, and you don’t miss how her little stare flicks to Gojo briefly. The sight breaks your heart. You know she’s not afraid of Gojo—no, not with the way she held his hand and had herself half-tucked behind his leg, even while scolding her brother. 

But you can’t imagine she’s had an easy life so far. She probably wants to avoid any type of conflict, especially with Gojo, who had taken her in. 

Luckily, you excelled in conflict with Satoru Gojo. 

“That’s alright, Tsumiki.” You smile at her, tilting your head to the side almost as if you’re conspiring with her, like Gojo can’t hear you. “He is barely an adult.” 

“I haven’t seen you in a year and this is how you greet me?” Gojo gasps, his free hand clutching over his chest. So dramatic, as always. You roll your eyes, catching Megumi’s stare, and even though the young boy is frowning, you still wink at him. Like taunting Gojo is a secret game you’re inviting him to play. 

Not too far from the truth, actually. 

“C’mon, Tsumiki.” Megumi grumbles, not acknowledging your attempt at connecting to him. The young boy marches past Gojo without looking at him, frowning as he nods for his sister to follow him. She smiles bashfully, as if apologizing for Megumi’s behavior, and follows him. 

You let your gaze watch them as they march towards the swings, if only to prolong the conversation you knew was inevitable with Gojo. 

He’s not so concerned, it seems. You study him—your arms crossed and frowning like little Megumi—as he steps lazily around the bench you’d been stuck on for the better part of an hour and drops into a seat in the dead center. Long arms spread across the back of the bench, Satoru Gojo leaves you no room to sit without being in his reach. 

You don’t have to force yourself to keep standing. Your feet are rooted to the ground, lead weights you couldn’t even dream of moving. You’re pretty sure that you couldn’t move even if a curse attacked you.

“What have you been up to, sweetheart?” He asks so airily, casually, that your lead feet miraculously find the ability to move and you kick him in the shin. Your toe stops a few short inches from his pant leg, though it’s not from any hesitance on your part. 

His infinity. Shoko told you he’d mastered it, had briefly described that he’d taken to running it all the time, though he must have let it drop when Tsumiki was holding his hand. 

“C’mon, try and hit me again. I want to show you something cool.” He grins, tilting his chin up at you as if he could ever convince you that he’s really as unaffected as he’s trying to act. He’s still sprawled lazily across the bench, but you see his attention flick to the swingset where the kids were every few seconds. 

“Don’t tempt me, Gojo.” You huff, conceding a few hits to your pride as you perch on the very far edge of the bench. Instantly, his hand tugs at your hair, like he was trying to remind you that he could still reach you, no matter how far away you sat. All it did was remind you of how irritating the world’s strongest sorcerer could be. “You’re tempting me, Gojo.”

“I’ve always thought I had that effect on you.” His words are drawn out, taunting, and you can’t help but fall into his trap, head whipping to the side to glare daggers into the side of his face. From your angle beside him, his attention fixed on the two young kids navigating the playground with a hesitance you’ve never seen two elementary students have, you can see his profile. You’ve long been acquainted with the slope of his nose and the hard lines of his jaw, but you’re less familiar with what lies under his glasses. Snowy lashes and eyes so blue you’re not sure you could ever match the color. He’s enthralling, albeit a shit-stirrer. 

And despite your better judgement, you swing your arm around and slug him in the shoulder. 

His infinity protects him, of course. And your pride takes a second hit as your fist is left suspended in air only inches from its target. What’s worse, though, is the smug grin he wears like a badge of honor. 

“Show off,” You grumble, crossing your arms over your chest in a petulant pout. It’s incredibly apparent that while you’ve spent the last few months fretting over him, he’s only just been getting better. There’s a squeal from the playground, Megumi pushed Tsumiki too high on the swings, it seems, and you’re reminded about why you’ve been dragged out of the park. “Tell me about how you got the kids.” 

“I killed their dad,” He says flippantly, like he was talking about something as casual as who he ran into at the supermarket. You exhale deeply, trying to keep your cool, but Gojo was the best at everything—and that included driving you insane. 

“Not how it works,” Your voice is flat, your body shifting so that you are angled towards him. He still sat casually against the bench, arms loose across the wooden back and his stare fixed on the kids. You want to yell at him for being so nonchalant, but you know that at least part of his front is just an act, and that’s enough for you. “Custody goes to the next of kin—”

“The Zen’in Clan.” He interrupts, and your mouth snaps shut. 

For three seconds, you study the unchanging profile of Gojo’s face, hoping that he’ll grin and say just kidding! Like it’s another one of his not funny in the slightest jokes he always seemed to be in supply of. For three seconds you hope, and then you slump back against the bench in defeat. 

Now you study the children. They’ve moved on from the swings. You think you hear Megumi telling Tsumiki to be careful on the slide, and her begging him to go down it with her. They’re playing, like children, and you know without a shadow of a doubt you’d do anything so that they can keep playing like children for as long as they like. 

You weren’t a member of any of the clan families, but Gojo was. He had told you enough about what life was like growing up in them, and had taught you about the intricate dynamics that made up a sorcerer clan. 

And you knew they would never get to play like children again if they went to the Zen’in Clan.

Gojo’s hand tugs at your hair for a second time, forcefully pulling you from your tumbling thoughts. You’re used to a poke or a prod from him to keep you from overthinking, but for once you don’t try and retaliate. 

“Don’t tell me…” Your voice trails off, and you’re praying to deities you’ve never cared to mention that this story has a happy ending. 

“No,” He hurries to assure you, and you feel your chest loosen with his words. “The Clan never met the kids. It was easy enough to pay off the value assigned to them.” 

The thought makes you so unbelievably angry that you have to clench your jaw to keep your comments behind your teeth. The value assigned to them. You know they’re not Gojo’s words, because he’s more serious than he’s ever been when he says them, and it’s entirely the Zen’in Clans fault that you’re so pissed to hear them. 

What value did a group of elders assign to children they’ve never met? Children who lost their parents and fell into their custody? To you, they were priceless. 

To the clan, they had a numerical value. 

“Okay,” You break the tension that had been mounting with the single two syllable word. Megumi goes down the slide, begrudgingly, with his tiny arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his face. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, Tsumiki cheers for him at the bottom. “Okay. We can do this.” 

We. As in, you were joining Satoru Gojo in caring for a hitman’s kids. Kids that belonged to the Zen’in Clan, if you were to ask certain elders. 

“The kids are in school for most of the day, anyways.” He starts rambling, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from commenting on how out of character it is for him to do so. You nearly lose your mind when you notice his hand tapping almost anxiously on the back of the bench behind your shoulder. “I’d just need help at night, or when I’m sent out on missions. I can’t deprive the world of jujutsu from the strongest, can I? And I know you’re busy too, Yaga said as much, but—”

“Gojo,” You interrupt, and you reach out to knock against his infinity in place of nudging his arm. Except, you meet resistance for only a split second before you make contact with his arm, just below his elbow. You’re not sure what comes over you, or what made him drop his infinity, but you hold his arm as you meet his sunglass-covered stare. “I already said okay.” 

For three seconds, he studies you, and you could only guess at what he was seeing. But he finds what he was looking for, you assume, because his lips stretch out into a grin and you frown out of habit. Rarely had Satoru Gojo ever smiled so wide without following it with something to bother you. 

“You’re the best of us, sweetheart.” He teases, and you sigh deeply while letting go of his arm. You hadn’t realized you had still been holding it, but all of a sudden you were hyper aware of every inch of him. The nickname is new, though he’s already called you it twice in the past ten minutes, and you hope it doesn’t stick around. You hate the way it makes you squirm, but you figure that’s the joy he finds in it. “Besides me, of course.” 

“You’re the worst, Gojo.” 

You don’t mean it. Not when your attention is fixed on the kids he saved from the fate of a Clan. They’re poking at something in the mud by the playground—created by the recent onslaught of rain plastering the city since you’d returned—and you hope they don’t torment whatever insect they’ve no doubt found for too long. 

You don’t mean it, because if Gojo was the worst, then he would have left the kids to the fate of the Zen’in. 

taglist status: open

@moonchhu

[faces-in-unexpected-places]

ughhhh these training modules are dryer than SAND

[quietwingsinthesky]

i really do think the desire to paint ten as unambiguously The Worst™️ when it comes to his relationship with martha is out of this desire to uncomplicate their relationship. to decouple them as friends and people who profoundly impacted each other’s lives. it’s just an easier narrative to swallow: that ten was Awful to her and then martha kicked him to the curb when she realized she was too good for him. easier, maybe, then dealing with the troubles of unrequited affection don’t have to be anyone’s fault, or that ten shut martha out in a lot of ways but let her in in others that he wouldn’t let any other companion near, or that they were still friends, they still wanted to see each other and be around each other, even though it was messy and sometimes hurt. you know?

[lynxfrost13]

Hey do you guys ever think about HOPR’s gestalt and how she was probably a very lonely person for most of her life before volunteering to be a neural template donor

[voiceshearingyouloud]

Turns out my mum wants to divorce my dad except actually she doesn’t so I have to keep it a secret and she hasn’t thought to apologise for freaking me out like that because I’m her therapist and she doesn’t care about how I feel :)))))

[sailorsleepymoon]

Latest news in being a person with anxiety is wanting the same thing as someone else but being anxious about why they want it

[steviescrystals]

one more rant about my layoff in the tags and then i’ll shut up i promise

[xazse]

Warnings: Centaur!Suguru x Centaur!Satoru x female!reader + smut + size difference(ofc) + fantasyAu + big cocks + squirting + jerking off + big!men + notproofread + VERY NASTY!! + blowjob + lots of cum + cumming inside + Mean!Suguru + you may not be into this and that’s okay! Skip and wait for my other works, love you<33

Centaur!Satoru and Suguru are huge men, bigger than you they tower over you with broad chests and thick bodies that look sculpted Greek gods.

They found you passed out deep in the forest, No human had ever come this deep, they’ve heard of your kind but never actually seen small things like you, only the elders have seen humans and their terrible nature.

They’ve been warned countless times that they aren’t to be trusted. But what could a thing like you do to them? They could easily snap your neck should you become aggressive and so far you haven’t. They’ve been secretly nursing you back to health in a little cave they fixed up for you. With a broken ankle you can’t do much moving, they could let you ride on their backs but they’re curious things who want to know a little bit more about you, so they’ll keep you for just a tad bit longer.

You’re so sweet too, the stories about your kind don’t compare to your innate sense of kindness, you allow them to ask allKinds of questions no matter how weird or personal they get, Satoru had really gotten curious about your feet, how do you manage to balance on just two? He needs four to support his body properly.

You giggled so sincerely and explained that to him in the most make-a sense way possible.

You love touching and rubbing their hefty backs, when they lay down near you, your hand always finds a way to rub their soft fur, they seem to enjoy it. Things get a little weird when they find themselves unusually interested about what’s in between your legs, they asked and you obliged to let them see but not underneath your panties.

You shyly spread your legs and lift up your shirt, your fat clothed cunt on display for them to see, they stare for a little: intrigued at how different you are from their females. Then the touching begins, it goes from just looking at you to you allowing them to rub you through your underwear.

Suguru is the first to move closer to you to take his thumb and rub up and down, when he grazes your clit and sees the hitched breath you hold back he does it again, then again. Gaining even more cute reactions out of you.

Satoru is an impatient thing who wants in too, he slips his finger beneath your underwear and quickly pulls back: you’re wet, soaked in fact.

He slips his fingers back in, rubbing them inbetween your plump lips, he moves down far enough to feel where your wetness is more prominent, when he pushes inside that little opening you let out the lewdest moan you’ve had all evening.

Oh.

That spurs Suguru to also slip his hand into your panties, he rubs the little nub at the top whilst Satoru prods his fingers in that little twitchy hole.

Suguru being the most level headed is the one who’s bringing his hand to his own unsheathed cock, you get a glance through glassy hazy eyes at him: he’s thick and long, a nasty combo to have.

He starts stroking himself in tune with the way he rubs you clit, the way he squeezes himself looks like it hurts but he seems unfazed by the grip, he just keeps his eyes trained on your greedy cunt already taking two of Satoru’s fingers.

“Oh god… do it faster Satoru.” Suguru moans out so unashamed, asking for Satoru to give you more pleasure so he in turn can feel more as well. Satoru abides and further ruins your pretty pussy.

You’re suddenly being forced stomach down on a hefty rock, Satoru is the one mounting you, you think he’s forgetting just how massive he is that you can’t possible take his cock, even his tip looks to be too much.

“Toru, calm down, she can’t take you right now.” Suguru telling satoru to calm down like the look in his eye isn’t excited at the thought of Satoru just forcing his entire length in, Suguru is still jerking off his slick cock in a rough manner.

“Mhn… a little- jus’ a little” Satoru rubs his tip against your pussy, dipping inbetween your lips just to cover it in your sopping wetness. You help him push his thick tip in a little, the stretch is something you’ve never felt before, it hurts so bad but it makes you want more.

He gets a little past his tip in, and starts rocking his hips agaisnt you, making you take anymore than this is off the table he’d seriously injure you.

Suguru can be heard, groaning when he sees you’ve squirted on Satoru’s cock, his tip remind you.

You’re left panting opened mouthed, filled leaky cunt and Satoru not even finished with you.

MORE:

He can’t grip you the way he wants with this position but he really needs you to stay still, he just needs to filt a little more of his cock inside then he’ll be satisfied, maybe.

Suguru catches on and makes his way to you, plopping his huge body near you, he softly coos to calm you down from that orgasm, this act quickly fades when his strong arms are gripping you down so you can take more, you don’t protest instead you let Satoru fill you just a little more.

It’s so hard for you not to cum around his cock again, though he begs and eggs you on so he can feel that feeling of you clenching so hard around him.

You’re so distracted by Suguru lightly decorating your face in hot messy kisses that when you feel empty for a split second, a whine makes its way up your throat-

“Guh-“ Satoru starts slamming into you, slamming into your sticky soppy cunt over and over, your sounds do nothing but spur on this dangerous man

“Fuck… fuck..” Satoru’s above panting like a mutt in heat, he hasn’t ever felt something like this before, the intensity that spreads through his body is subpar, pussy has never felt this good he thinks, he’s never been able to stick his cock in something but something so small like yourself made it worth the wait.

“Satoru… Satoru.. hurry-“ Suguru really can’t take this anymore he needs to get his dick wet, he can’t take his cock continuing to twitch wildly. Satoru’s face Is a deep shade of red and he has the lewdest expression on his face while he’s fucking his long cock inside of you.

“Such a tight pussy- fuck I swear.”

“M-gonna cum…”

Satoru’s pace starts slowing down, his cock starts getting more and more erratic and excited.

Satoru finally spills inside your little cunt, his thick fat load is too much for you to handle, it starts leaking out of your puffy lips. he has no time to admire his mess before Suguru is promptly grabbing your tired body and guiding you inbetween his legs.

He can’t fuck your cunt today but he sure will another day, he’ll settle for letting you suck his cock.

He relaxes his body and you get the memo, he’s just as big as Satoru, speaking of Satoru he’s completely out of it, simply laying in the grass catching his breath.

You suckle on the tip of his, Suguru definitely didn’t wait all this time for you to give him kitten licks, he reaches and grabs a tuft of your hair, guiding you to properly suck him.

You open your mouth as much as you can and try to take as much as possible, the rest you use your hands.

“That’s more like it- shit..”

You bob your head to the best of your ability, making sure to pay extra attention to his tip, you suck and lick up all the leaking pre-cum, making sure not to waste any, every motion you make makes your sensitive cunt throb, Satoru really did a number on you.

You jerk him off, and get as much spit as you can muster all over his cock, you can tell you’re finally doing a good job when all Suguru can do is groan with no shame.

You start messing with his balls and It doesn’t take long for Suguru to cum- he’s been holding back for a while, long ropes of cum land all over your face.

The two beautiful centaur men lay there as you stare ahead at them trying to get it together.

[moonstruckme]

hello mae! I had a request I’d like to give you. I was wondering if you could write a poly!marauders x reader where reader has never slept beside anybody before bc intimacy isn’t something she’s used to therefore she’s not used to being that close to anybody. everytime she shifts she’s afraid to wake up the boys, or she just doesn’t know what to do.

I know you have “first night with marauders” so if this is too similar I totally get it. 🖤

Hello sweetheart, thank you for your request!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 990 words

You’re terrible at this. 

Each of the boys is sound asleep. Sirius has his leg hooked over yours and one of his arms tossed over James’ chest, Remus’ hand has to be halfway numb underneath your pillow, and James is snoring softly on the far side of the bed from you. They’re all so obviously comfortable, practiced in resting like this, whereas you started to get stiff a half hour ago and you’ve been unable to make yourself relax since. 

Every movement takes a year, you’re trying so hard not to wake them. You feel like the girl in a movie who’s trying to sneak out of the bed of a one-night stand, all taut muscles and bated breath, except you only want to roll over. Slow, microscopic movements have to be the key. 

Your back crackles softly when you shift your weight onto your other hip, and a sigh escapes you before you can stop it. 

A low, croaky hum comes from just in front of your face. Your brain is a tempest of expletives. 

“Hey.” You can nearly feel the gravel of Remus’ voice buzzing against your lips. “You’re up.” 

Muddled with sleep, you can’t tell if his tone is reprimanding or simply observational. “Sorry,” you whisper regardless. 

“Wha’ for?” Movement under the pillow beneath your head, and then a long-fingered hand is nestling beneath your cheek. His scars and calluses slide familiarly over your skin. “Can’t sleep?”

Nope, and now it’s two of you. Guilt grows vines around your ribcage. Remus sounds more awake by the second. 

“I’ll be okay.” You press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, hoping to mollify him. “Go back to sleep.” 

Your boyfriend makes a half-aware disgruntled sound. “No, not without you.” 

As exhausted as you are, you have to bite down on a smile. When he’s uninhibited like this, Remus really is quite the flirt, all his dorky, sweet thoughts coming out before he can remember to stop them. He’s nearly as bad as James. 

You think he must see a hint of your smile in the dark, because Remus’ own lips tilt upwards. He leans closer to kiss the cool skin of your cheek, the only cold part of you thanks to a heavy duvet and the body heat of three lovely boyfriends. A kiss for a kiss. 

He leaves his lips there as he murmurs, “What’s wrong, dove?” 

Well, funny he should ask. What’s wrong now is the slight tickle of his stubble against your cheek, the hoarse quality to his voice in your ear. His breath warming your cold skin, and the hand he slides across the space between you to rest on your hip, layered in between the sheets and your pajama bottoms. 

But you know that’s not what he’s asking. 

“I can’t get very comfortable,” you confess, speaking so softly he wouldn’t be able to make it out if his ear weren’t two inches from your lips, “and I didn’t want to wake anyone up.” 

Remus hums, as though this is a prognosis he’d already reached and was merely waiting for you to confirm. You can hear Sirius’ voice as clearly as if he were awake: know it all. 

“They can sleep through anything,” he says. “One time the fire alarm went off, and James didn’t even stir. Don’t worry about them.” You must be emanating guilt, because he strokes his thumb over your hip pacifyingly. “And I don’t mind being woken up. I’m in and out of sleep all night anyway, it’s not hard for me to get back. You’re not used to sleeping with so many people, yeah?” 

Your face warms at his phrasing, though of course you know what he means. “Or with anyone,” you murmur. 

“Mm. I think I know what you need.” 

You don’t realize Remus’ plan until he’s already sat up. He reaches over you, rubbing James’ shoulder gently while you protest vehemently through whispers. 

James wakes with a yawn, taking Remus’ hand automatically and bringing it close to his face. “Wha’s’it?”

“Take her,” Remus requests drowsily. With his other hand, he nudges you forward. 

James starts to blink his eyes open, and you see no way out. You start climbing over Sirius as delicately as you can. “Sorry,” you whisper, to him, to them, to the room in general. 

Remus helps you out by tugging Sirius into your place. The other boy whines but settles quickly, rolling over to sling his leg over Remus’ instead. 

James welcomes you as heartily as his sleep-addled state will allow, adjusting the covers over you and smudging a few toothpaste-scented kisses onto your face. 

“Y’can’t sleep?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “Sorry.” 

He makes a soft dismissive sound. “C’mere, angel.” 

You refrain from telling him that you’re already here as his arms find their way around you, soft and firm in all the right places and deliciously warm. He starts to make slow, sweeping circles onto your back with his hand. 

“Jamie,” you murmur, grateful but embarrassed, “don’t stay up for me. Go to sleep.” 

“M’basically there,” he replies. “You first, yeah?” 

You can hear Remus’ breathing evening out behind you, syncing with Sirius’, and you’re suddenly sure that this is part of a routine he and the boys shared before you ever met them. That’s how he knew to hand you off to James, and how James knew exactly what to do. Something about that comforts you. And far be it for you to mess with tradition. 

You shuffle closer to James under the covers. He obliges you happily, adjusting his grip so he’s holding you more securely, with your leg resting against his and your forehead an inch from his nose. The shushing of his heavy palm on the material of your pajama top is the only sound in the world. 

You hear his breathing starting to deepen again, but James is right; you beat him there. 

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

REDAMANCY. 18+

pairing. logan howlett x fem!reader word count. 3915 summary. you often worry you can never keep up with your husband's continuous acts of love and care, your attempts always seeming to come up short. logan catches on and shows you that there’s nothing for you to prove. warnings. 18+ only!! reader has a moment of inadequacy at the beginning, logan being attentive<3 quick description of thigh riding but it's not proper, titty kissing, fingering, cum eating? (licks his fingers) pinv sex. angst start, fluff middle, smut ending. mdni a/n. #needthat

Feelings of inadequacy seem to follow you like a stray dog. The constant, repetitive thought that what you do or say or think or feel may never be enough. But it was silly really, to be afraid of the contents of your own mind, especially when you had no reason to feel that way.

You thought these feelings were controlled, contained even. But as you anxiously twist your wedding ring upon your left finger, you can’t help but slip into that prior mindset you believed to be packed away. You beside the stove, mindlessly watching the simmering pot of tonight's dinner, staring at the vegetables bubble around in the sauce. 

It was Logan’s favourite, and it was a token of your appreciation for yet another grand gesture of his love towards you – the thanks a slither of what he does for you on the daily. But as you watch over the chicken pie filling in the saucepan, you can’t help but notice something missing, something that’s supposed to be there but isn’t. 

And when you blink from your fixed, hazed stare, you see exactly what you need on the countertop. The chopped up pieces of bacon on the board —his favourite part— sitting there like it’s mocking you, telling you that you’re terrible for forgetting it. And it’s not like you can add it now, it would be horrible and ruin it completely. 

All you can do now is move on, move past it. Though now it feels like you can do anything but. The bacon a reminder of your apparent failures, inadequacies. It was silly to be caught up on missing meat, but it wasn’t just about that – it was like it was even more proof that you were out of your depth with Logan. That forgetting the bacon somehow made you a horrible, horrible person.

You stare at the board for a moment, trying so desperately hard not to let it get to you and then you see Logan walk past the window – a couple fresh chopped logs of wood under one arm, an axe and a bunch of wildflowers in the hand of his other. And somehow the sight made you feel nothing short of awful. His thought and care once again overshadowing your attempts.

You quickly wipe under your eyes, an act of precaution to make sure nothing had seeped from you while you beat yourself up over something so tiny. You follow the sound of the front door opening, the scuffling of his boots following shortly after as he places down the pieces of timber. 

“Smells fuckin’ good,” he compliments, the warm, homely smell hitting at his nose immediately. 

He walks over to you, right, flower-held hand tucked from your view as he moves to stand behind, free arm reaching for your waist the second he’s close enough. 

“I got’ya somethin’,” he whispers behind you, punctuating his sentence with a kiss under your ear – his neck peering round and over your shoulder. 

You turn into him, your back against the edge of the counter to see what you already knew to be in his hand. He pulls the flowers from behind his back, the stems cut neatly with the help of his adamantium tools. They’re beautiful, all hand picked from the surrounding forest around the cabin. 

He guides them to your hand, noticing your unusual hesitation as you stare at the bouquet. He, too, pauses, looking over your face to understand your silence. Did you hate them? You never usually hate them.

“Do you…” he hesitates, trying to find the words. “Hate them?”

“No,” you say, word soft as you shake your head, the motion just as gentle as your voice.

Logan cocks his head slightly, angling to meet your eyes but you only divert them again, turning away from his gaze as you reach for the bunch of flowers. Only now they’re out of your grasp, his hand to his chest. 

“You okay?” he asks, the withdrawal of the gift an attempt to make you meet his eyes. 

“Yeah,” you lie with a nod, a small, faint, smile accompanying the fib. 

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” 

You look over him quickly, expression bashful as you shrug. He hates when you lie to him, especially about these things. It was only a white lie really, just a small, teeny tiny mistruth to spare yourself from embarrassment. But your silence doesn’t last long.

“I messed up dinner,” you admit, the confession pried from you by his prolonged, patient silence. Your words are quiet as you avoid his eyes, instead staring down to his chest.

He glances past you and into the saucepan, seeing no such fault. He faintly shakes his head, features quizzical as he tries to understand.

“It looks good to me,” he says, with a slight, but genuine shrug – unable to see what you see.

You close your eyes with a sigh, the noise light and airy as your head drops, gaze lowering. 

“I forgot the bacon.”

His head cocks once again, the motion like he’s growing more and more confused. 

“Yeah?” he prompts, trying to get you to say more. 

But that’s all there is to say, you forgot the bacon – that’s it. It wasn’t like it was a pause or the beginning of some speech.

“It’s your favourite part,” you reply, defeat evident in your voice. 

“Uh-uh?” he guides you through your confession, still unsure of what the issue is. He knew there was more, he just had to ease it out of you. 

“It’s your favourite part,” you repeat, momentarily glancing up to meet his eyes. “It’s not your favourite meal if I forget your favourite part,” you cut yourself short as your voice begins to waver, a bubble forming in your the back of your throat. 

He holds onto your short eye contact, following your gaze when your head goes to turn. “Come on now, talk to me,” he offers his comfort, speaking like it was a plea.

“I feel like I can never keep up.”

“Keep up with what?” he questions, desperate to keep you talking. 

“With you,” you pause and place your hand over your opposite upper arm, the act a brief moment of self soothing. You exhale softly before continuing. “You do all these nice things for me— see? Look,” you point to the flowers in his hand. “Right there. You thought of me and you got them and they’re beautiful. Why can’t I do that?”

Logan opens his mouth to speak, though you’re keen to continue. The bandaid free and invoking all your feelings to come out at once. 

“I make you desserts, I make a mess. I buy you something, I buy the wrong thing. I make your favourite dinner, I ruin your favourite dinner,” you pause, your vision growing blurry. “Sometimes,” you pause once more, wiping your eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know if you know how much I love you. Like, I can never seem to prove it and I don’t—” you cut yourself off, stopping yourself from what you were about to say. You didn’t want to make a further mess of things. 

“You don’t, what?” he asks, his attention undivided as he listens to you. “You don’t, what?” he repeats, eyes boring into yours as he urges a response from you. 

“Want you to feel like you made a mistake,” you confess, voice quiet like you were ashamed for thinking such thing. 

“Do you think I made a mistake?” he questions, flipping your moment of insecurity back on you. Though his words hold no malice, no intention of hurt – just simply speaking like he was trying to figure you out. 

Your silence speaks louder than any words could. Your eyes quickly flickering over his face like you were anticipating what he may say in response. It could go one of two ways: irritated and angry or soft and hurt. 

“I haven’t,” he says, voice as firm as his eyes. “I know I haven’t,” he repeats, trying to engrain it into you. 

All you can offer Logan is a faint, flattered smile, fragments of disbelief just as evident within you as before. One thing about your husband you knew to be forever true, is his earnest nature. So you knew he wasn’t telling you what you wanted to hear only to spare himself.

Logan places the flowers on the counter to the right of you, laying the bunch neatly at your side. He keeps his attention on you, eyes fixed on yours as if he’s trying to prove his sincerity – his honesty. 

His head drops slightly as he rests his lips against your forehead. “Do you believe me?” he asks gently against your skin, punctuating his question with a kiss to where he just spoke.

You wrap your arms around him as you tuck your face into his neck, hands connecting in the middle of his back. “Yeah,” you reply, word muffling into him. 

It was a lie, a partial lie at that. You knew in your heart —deep, deep in there— that it was true, and that you believed it, but right now? You just couldn’t get it into your head. So you lied, not wanting to run around in circles with repetitive asks all evening.

But this is Logan, he knows your tells and when you’re lying. But he doesn’t poke any further, instead pressing another kiss to your forehead before pulling away, clearing his throat briefly. 

“Why don’t you go lay in the tub,” he starts, usual gruff voice now soft, speaking like he’s trying to soothe you. “I’ll finish that off,” he gestures with his eyes, nodding to the stove top on the other side of you. 

You turn to look at the ‘mess’ beside you and nod, accepting his help with no more deflecting or avoiding. And as you step aside, you stroke over his back where your hands laid just moments before, the act another one of your silent thanks.

His left, ringed hand brushes your left, ringed hand as you move from your placement in front of him, your fingers loosely entwining for a short, brief second before passing. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Standing in front of the dresser in your shared bedroom, you change from your towel and into something a little more comfortable – opting for a robe and slippers. You give yourself a quick glance over as you pass the mirror on your way out the room, though you don’t take too much notice, instead flicking off the light switch as you set off to the living room.

The bath helped. It helped massively, actually. 

Your slippers scuffle along the hallway of your cabin, the floorboards worn and creaky by it’s old age. Lingering in the doorframe, you look over at Logan on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the lit fireplace ahead – looking as though he’s lost in thought.

“Hi,” you start, capturing his attention.

His eyes flick up to you, a faint —his usual— smile welcoming you back. He clears his throat like he’s going to speak but instead he taps the empty seat on the couch beside him.

You look around the open space before your eyes land on the orange, warm light shining out of the oven and onto the tiles. The pie you started to make now sitting on the centre shelf. The rest of your messes cleaned and tucked away, all evidence hidden. And there he sits, asking for no recognition – no praise or approval for cleaning up after you. He’s just there, patiently awaiting you.

“How long’s it been in?” you ask, gesturing to the oven. “The pie,” you add, turning to look at him with a smile.

“Three minutes,” he reciprocates your warmth as he nods you over to him. 

“Did you let the pastry warm up?”

He nods.

“And the—” 

“Taken care of,” he interrupts, slipping his hand into yours. He guides you to stand between his legs, eyes honed in on you above. Like he’s anticipating you, he answers the question you’re about to ask – once again proving just how well he knows you. 

“Cooked it in ‘nother pan then added it on top,” he replies, speaking casually.

You stifle a laugh as you shake your head – it was really a simple fix. 

With his gaze still focused on you, he begins playing with your left hand, his thumb mindlessly grazing your ring – the fiddling an absentminded act. As if he’s reminding him and yourself of your marital bond.

“Thank you.”

He hums, the sound far more gentle than his typical rough ones. It’s like he’s acknowledging your appreciation without taking the credit for it.

You extend your free hand, reaching for the side of his face, touch light as you brush over his cheek. Your thumb traces under his eye, soothing over the tired skin as you take a step closer – silently instructing him to lean against the back.

Logan does as wordlessly asked, his hips rolling underneath himself as he repositions, sitting in a manspread for you. He follows your movements as you sit on his lap, straddling one of his beefy thighs, your arms briefly hooking around his neck as you do so. He looks up at you from your very, very slight height advantage, eyes keen as he gazes into yours – staring like he’s trying to read you. You seem far lighter, far happier than the last time he saw you. 

One hand rests on his cheek, the other grazing through the shorts of his dark hair – your hold gentle and dear as you press a string of soft, slow kisses across the stubble of his beard. One by one you get closer to his mouth, reaching his lips by the fourth. 

His hands move up you from behind, skimming across the cheeks of your ass until they’re resting on your hips, the presence of his hold noticeable through the robes' thin fabric. He begins a pawing – irregular, needy squeezes into you like he’s silently communicating his thoughts and wants, scoping out whether you feel the same. 

“How much time is left on the pie?” you quietly ask, speaking against his lips. Your question also an attempt to scope him out.

His grasp around you tightens, the slight force of his hold making your grind against his thigh. “Enough,” he prompts, murmuring into your mouth – lips not yet daring to connect.

He grinds you over your thigh, the motion slow and leisured as he holds you over him, working you up little by little. Gentle exasperated breaths from you caught between your closeness. 

Upon hearing those sounds he loves ever so much, he pulls you into him, wrapping you into a brief, momentary hug before turning and laying you on the empty space of sofa beside him. He adjusts, situating above you but to your side, weight anchored beside you. 

You look up at him sweetly, eyes flickering over his face in the same way he does you – specks of admiration and lust forming within each of your glances. You adjust under him, the act like you were trying to redirect him, guide him to above rather than to your side. Wanting to feel him graze up against you.

Logan brings his free hand to the side of your face, touch heavy and desperate as he thumbs over your cheek, holding you there as he presses a couple lengthy kisses to your lips – the contact anything but brisk. And with that hand around the swell of your cheek, he’s grazing it down your neck, trailing towards your chest. 

He parts the loose, flimsy material of the robe, parting the fabric so he can slip a hand inside. Cupping one of your bare tits, he pulls it out from underneath – the full weight of your breast held within his warm, large hand. All of it on display for him to marvel at from above. 

Angling his neck, he reaches for your tit, tongue swiping over the nipple just moments before his lips encompass it. The warmth of his mouth making your stomach tingle and fingers tighten in his hair, a jolt-like roll of your hips accompanying your desperate micro actions.

He holds himself there for a prolonged moment, keeping his lips to your nipple as his fingers begin a very slight pawing around the lower swell of it. The motion like he’s rolling you within his hold. A streak of residual wet being left behind as he pulls his head up from your chest.

You look down to him between your tits, his face just mere inches from yours. One of your breasts still within Logan’s manly hold, the pad of his thumb rubbing over your priorly sucked nipple — the act a soothing caress. 

“Where’d you want me?” he asks, voice quiet between your close distance. “What’d you want?” he adds, just as softly as before, speaking like his one goal is to provide service. Service to you. 

You make a faint, disgruntled whine upon his questioning, your mind whizzing with thoughts of him, ideas of him. The feel of his cock growing hard against your thigh only making your head race faster. 

He shifts above you, lips reaching for yours as his hand around your tit travels down and between your thighs. The warmth of his touch is nothing like your warmth. He slips behind the opening of your robe, his fingers itching to your bare cunt ever so slowly, moving like he’s trying to help you decide. Though he’s doing the complete opposite — making it all the more challenging to answer with your mind whirring like it is. 

He lines the crease of your cunt with the pad of his finger, brushing up and down with the lightest, faintest of touch — his lips resting against yours so he can swallow your jittery breaths. The strokes from him are almost mindless, brushing over you like he’s unaware of the effects he has on you. Still has on you after all this time. 

“This?” he whispers against your mouth while his finger trails up the slit of your pussy, grazing over your folds.

You nod against him in response, the motion gentle and careful.

Logan teases over your cunt’s lips, collecting the slight build up of slick to smear and trace over you — spreading your arousal with his light touch. Working you up the and more. He pulls away to look over you, wanting to watch your face. 

And when your eyes find his, that’s when he slips his middle finger into you. Holding onto your gaze as he presses inside with the utmost of ease. 

It was what you needed, not what you wanted. And he could tell — the knitting of your brows and slightly unsatisfied crumple of your nose telling him before you even got a chance. And as you open your mouth to speak, mere milliseconds away from asking him to add another, he’s already lining his ring finger up with you, slipping it inside to accompany his middle. 

The steady rocking of him further blurs any sense of coherency in your mind, the slow massage-like fucking of his fingers against your g-spot loosening you up nicely for him. 

Your hand in his hair moves to the side of his face, grip desperate as you hold him there, muffling incoherent words of thanks — each murmur being overshadowed by those blissed noises he can never seem to get enough of. And while you keep his face to yours, your other hand is reaching for his arm between your thighs, fingers struggling to enwrap the meat of his upper wrist. 

The pumping of his fingers into you is steady, each graze of him from the inside coming from a place of leisure, like the concept of haste is the furthest thing in his mind. 

Though, he’s only human and there’s only so much he can take. Especially when you’re squirming under him like you are. The clicking of his fingers in your pussy only making it harder on him. 

So, he slowly retracts from the wet warmth of your cunt, strings of your cum remaining connected to him, until they don’t. And as he pulls himself away from you, he licks over his knuckles, lapping over the milky white band you left around him.

Logan sits on his heels between your thighs as he unbuckles his jeans, his dry hand tasked with the job of unbuttoning. He gives the band a hasty tug down, the act nothing short of pure desperation. 

He digs down the front to grab a hold on himself, grasp tight around his dick as he pulls it out over the top of his jeans. Cock hard and heavy within his hold. And as he gives himself a few preparatory strokes as he leans back over you in his prior hovered position — weight anchored on his free arm beside your head.

Guiding his cock to you between the opening of your robe, he pushes his head through your lips, collecting your arousal like it’s his personal, endless supply of lube. And only when he deems himself ready, he’s lining up with you, the tip of his dick pressing up against you for a brief moment before he’s easing in. Slowly but surely feeding himself into your cunt. 

Upon the entry of his thick, heavy cock, your hands fly up to his face, holding either cheek to keep him close, lips skimming like they did just minutes before. Breath being caught in your throat, the air almost trapped as you feel him sink further and further inside, filling you entirely with himself.

He stills, keeping the whole, full length of his cock plugged inside, the motion of his hips non-existent as he gives you a quick second to get reacquainted with his size. He lowers his head, pressing his forehead against yours while he catches his own breath, the suction-like feel from your cunt having the same effect on him as he does you.

You squirm underneath him and your knees cling to his sides, keeping him glued to you.

“Move,” you whisper, the word like that of pure need. “Come on.”

His lips straighten against yours, a subtle smile forming. “Thought’ya liked the buildup,” he speaks quietly. 

The hand that was around his dick, feeding into you, now rests on your face — carefully manhandling you and keeping you put. Logan nips at your lips quickly, pressing a chaste kiss to them as he rolls his hips into you, bumping his cock up.

“That’s what you wanted?” he teases, pressing a kiss just under your chin, making you tilt your head back. Hand moving with the motion of him, palm grazing to rest at the base of your throat. “It is, ain’t it?” he continues with his teasing, muttering between kisses along your jaw. “Hm?”

You hum, the noise sounding like a whine amongst your other blissed sounds. The concept of formulating coherent speech seeming to be far too difficult with the way he feels inside of you. All you can do is squeeze your eyes closed and nod, unable to do anything more than that – just lay beneath him, taking his tender, loving fucking. 

Logan’s one true goal: to replace all prior feelings of pain with pleasure, wanting to make you forget about your upset from before. And with the way his dick is winding into you, he’s getting closer to that goal. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

including the moodboard bc she’s cute

[ellecdc]

Forbidden love, has to hide it from everyone around them, likes doing the nasty in places they could get caught (quite the thrill) and they end up getting caught

Could this be a prompt for any of the ones you are currently writing or future ? 🫡🙏

mhm, mhm, mhm, loved it - give me 14 of them. [I knew I wanted to do this pairing for it, and finally got around to it!] also, since we're obviously fluff-city and happy-ending central over here, it's low on angst

Remus the Sibling Stealer

poly!moonwater x Potter!sister who need to find better hiding spots [1.2k words]

CW: first part is mature/18+, NSFW, oral (m receiving), professing love, sibling dynamics

You felt vindicated in your efforts when you chanced a look up at the boys above you and were gifted with the most beautiful image. 

It seemed Regulus was only still upright thanks to Remus’ grasp around his middle; scarred hands resting languidly at Regulus’ bare hips thanks to the fact that his trousers were currently situated around his ankles. 

Regulus was wrecked; his head thrown back and resting on Remus’ shoulder and his mouth hanging open in a silent moan as Remus worked another love bite into his neck.

“You’re missing quite the show, Reg; our girl looks gorgeous from up here.” He murmured into Regulus’ shoulder, earning him a pitiful whimper as Regulus’ neck appeared incapable of lifting the weight of his head.

“Come on, pretty boy; look at her.” He encouraged, placing his palm at the back of Regulus’ head and positioning it so that his face was pointed resolutely at you.

The sight was almost too much for you; Remus looking down at you like you looked good enough to devour whole from above Regulus’ shoulder, his hand roving the expanse of Regulus’ waist, and Regulus’ red and teary face looking down at you like you were both his salvation and damnation. 

“Fuck, fuck, I can’t. I’m- I can’t, I’m gonna-”

You responded simply by taking his cock further into your throat and humming in acknowledgement as you felt him tense.

“Fuck baby, I’m-”

And you swallowed; your throat constricting around him as he fell over the edge, coming with a cry.

You fell back onto your heels as you caught your breath and looked up at the pair; Remus petting Regulus’ hair down from its rather rumpled state as he, too, caught his breath. 

“Merlin, you’re bloody good at that.” Regulus breathed at last, causing Remus to bark a surprised laugh.

“Is that how you say thank you, Black? We’ll have to work on your manners.” Remus taunted as he patted his hip.

“I thought you Sacred 28 children were raised to be gentlemen.” You teased as well.

Regulus grumbled miserably as he bent down to retrieve his pants. “I’d appreciate it if you refrained from speaking about my parents while my dick is out, amour.”

“Did Reggie just say dick!?” You squealed in laughter. “How terribly uncouth.”

“Would you lower your voice.” He hissed at you then; tone harsh but face dutifully lovestruck. “Lest you wish our brothers to hear.”

“Lest.” You snorted as you went to stand; Remus quickly at your side to help you up. 

“We really need to tell your brothers soon, you two.” Remus added solemnly, causing both you and Regulus to groan in unison.

“Listen, if they find out, it’s me they’re going to castrate.”

“And?” Regulus asked as he buttoned his trousers. 

Remus glared at him. 

“But they’re so dramatic, Rem.” You whined as you sat on an overturned crate.

Was the secret passageway between Honeydukes and the castle an ideal place for canoodling with your brother's best friend and your brother’s best friend’s brother?

No.

But when you had brothers like Sirius and James, who had a charmed map of the entire castle that told them exactly where everyone was at any given time (thanks to your horribly stupid boyfriend [boyfriend? Could you call Remus that when the three of you only ever met in private? You’d have to ask him] who helped create said map), options were limited. 

“I don’t like lying to them.” Remus argued then.

“You think we do?” Regulus asked, to which you and Remus answered ‘yes’ quickly. “Yeah I do.” He relented. 

“I really don’t feel good about it guys and…I, I don’t know, I love you guys and I want to be able to love you all of the time, not just some of the time.” Remus admitted softly then.

You and Regulus each seemed completely dumbfounded by both the admission of love and the vulnerability of your [yup, you were definitely going to start calling him your] boyfriend.

“Well how the hells am I supposed to argue with that?” Regulus spat with no ire as he pulled Remus in for a kiss. 

“What do you say, dove?” He asked you as he and Regulus pulled apart. “Do you have an argument for that?” 

Yes.

You had plenty.

First of all, you didn’t want to share this with your brother because he would react in one of two ways: he could either a) be horrified and try to forbid the three of you from seeing one another or [and perhaps more disturbingly] b) be so overjoyed at the idea of love that he becomes a unwelcome quasi-fourth in your relationship.

But Remus loves you. Loves.

And perhaps more importantly, you love Remus, and this was important to Remus.

Son of a bitch, “Fine.” You harrumphed. 

“Yeah?” He asked hopefully around a laugh, Regulus smiling at you as they came to stand above you.

“Yeah.” You breathed out as Remus took both sides of your face in his hands and brought his lips to yours.

“My sweet girl.” He murmured reverently.

You smiled up at him as Regulus pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“So are we really doing this? Are we actually going to tell them?”

“Tell who what?” James’ voice echoed through the passageway; the three of you whipping your heads towards the sound to see James and Sirius coming around a corner. 

And it appeared that, despite your best intentions, none of you were quite willing to actually share the news with your brothers/best friends.

But apparently, you didn’t have to.

Apparently, your well rumpled hair from Regulus’ hands, your swollen lips and smudged mascara, Regulus’ belt hanging loose and his uniform shirt still untucked from his trousers, and Remus’ awkward shift in an attempt to hide his bulge which was still at half mast (though falling quickly now) said it all.

“Wha-” Sirius started, though the question died on his lips as he continued scrutinising the three of you. 

“I…I don’t- I don’t understa- I….” James tried then, also to no avail. 

Peter - the bastard - took that moment to appear around the corner then, lifting his head from fiddling with his wand to see the three of you standing there being stared down by James and Sirius like you were in some off-brand western standoff. 

“Oh? Oh! Oh… are you guys shagging?” He asked ineloquently. 

That seemed to restart your brothers’ brains as they both shouted “my brother!?” and “my sister!?” in unison. 

“Rem, it’s been nice knowing you and your bollocks.” You murmured solemnly. 

“Seconded.” Regulus agreed before the two of you took off in a sprint down the passageway and away from your brothers, boyfriend, and Peter.

“Merlin, Moony; you really know how to pick ‘em…leaving you to the wolves like that.” Peter laughed as he carried on ahead; slapping a hand on Remus’ back as he passed whilst Sirius and James continued standing there with their mouths agape. 

“Does it make it any better to know that I’m absolutely head-over-heels in love with them?” Remus asked cautiously then.

“Minutely.” James gritted out then, earning him an elbow in the gut from Sirius. 

“I expect to be allowed two weeks of moping and muttering.” Sirius bargained.

“One week.” Remus countered.

“Nine days.” James tried then.

"Eight?"

"Eleven." Sirius countered.

"Nine." Remus backtracked.

James and Sirius shared a look before James turned his gaze back to Remus. "Deal."

“Fuckin’ hells.” Sirius griped as he ran a heavy hand down his face. “This was not on my bingo card this year.”

“Sorry mate.” Remus offered then, earning him a glare from his best friend.

“No you’re not, you brother-fucker.”

This was going to be a long nine days.

[httpsserene]

𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 & 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢

summary: you know a thing or two about baking, because you’ve baked a thing or two.

pairing: lando norris & oscar piastri x fem!black/poc!reader (in my head? there’s no physical description of reader.)

content warning: fluff. attempt at banter. dialogue heavy. c0vid lockdown mentioned. baking soda vs powder plagiarized from reddit; thank you redditor fowler311.

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ qatar, you were magnificent until you weren't. this post alone is me putting good energy in the atmosphere for the boys in abu dhabi. is this platonic or not? idk, it's up to you—i just happened to write it. (college semester is over !!! i will be so active you'll wish i never came back xxx) no part two requests, pls 🥺 enjoy reading, loves < 3

⌕ join taglist | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

you grocery shop on saturday night because no one else living in monaco would consider doing the same. usually.

as you’ve been grabbing items off the shelves, you occasionally stumble across two young men—they’re the only other customers in the store with you this evening. 

the first time you shared an aisle with them, you offered a polite smile before redirecting your gaze to the various shapes and brands of pasta. the second time, you shyly murmured an “excusez-moi” and they apologized immediately while stepping out of the way, allowing you to grab a pack of chocolate chips. the third time, your polite smile widened in amusement, as you watched the man drowning in an oversized hoodie shadow-box his friend, who remained unfazed at the whooshing fists as he inspected a carton for any cracked eggs.

the fourth time, you realize that the two men are lando norris and oscar piastri—the driver lineup of the mclaren formula one team. and, they’re arguing about the difference between baking powder and baking soda, very loudly. in a carrefour. in aisle three. at eight in the evening. on a saturday night.

surely, these two have more interesting plans for their weekend besides grocery shopping.

“they can’t be that different, can they?”

“hmm. once is soda, and the other is powder. that’s quite different, i reckon.”

“yeah, but, they both start with ‘baking,’ so, i figure they’re more similar.”

“if they’re similar, why would they make two different products?”

“greed? consumption—oh, no, wait—consummate? no.”

“consumerism?”

“consumerism! that’s it.”

“i would agree, but i don’t think that’s the case with these two.”

“well, think harder. it’s freezing in here, osc.”

“i think you’re iron deficient.”

“what?”

“never mind—look, mate, this is your fault, really.”

“woo-oooow, i can’t believe this! so, you’re blaming me now?”

“you wrote the list, lando! how is your handwriting so terrible that i can’t tell if you wrote ‘baking soda’ or ‘baking powder’?”

“first of all, you told me to write the list! nobody writes grocery lists anymore, grandpa! secondly, why would you make the dyslexic kid write the list? it’s cruel and unusual—you know i can’t spell for shit.”

“lando. the word ‘powder’ has two more letters than ‘soda.’ i know that you know that. how did you make—whatever the hell that says—look like it could be either one?”

“osc, you’re hurting my feelings. are—are you saying i’m stupid?”

“i literally never said that. the word ‘stupid’ didn’t even come out of my mouth, you muppet—“

you bang the front of your cart into the end-cap of the aisle, sending a few rolls of bagels to the floor. your cheeks warm as their banter halts and heads snap over to look at you awkwardly rushing around to pick up the floor bagels. the last package rolled unbelievably far to knock against lando norris’s shoe. aren’t you just lucky?

you see lando press his lips together to avoid laughing (you appreciate the effort), and he dismisses your apologies as he scoops the bagels off the floor and moves to help place them back on the shelf.

“uh, t-thank you,” you stutter, as oscar piastri walks over just in time to catch a roll that was eagerly looking to return to the supermarket floor. the two men offer smiles in return—lando’s wide and gap-toothed, oscar’s boxy and toothless.

“soda spreads and powder puffs,” you blurt out, because you left you brain-to-mouth filter at home. maybe they sell replacements here. in the aisle furthest away from the two formula one drivers, preferably.

“what?” lando questions, a matching look of confusion plastered on his teammates face.

“sorry, i overheard your conversation,” you shrug, trying for nonchalance, “baking soda influences spread and browning, whereas baking powder provides puffiness and lift. they’re both leavening agents but, baking soda is sodium bicarbonate and baking powder is a mixture of sodium bicarbonate and an acid. soda needs and an acid to activate but powder needs moisture and heat. so—i guess which one you need depends on what your trying to make.”

you think you failed to portray nonchalance, if the perplexed expressions the two stare at you with are any telling.

oscar blinks, “…we’re trying to make chocolate chip cookies. i tried to convince him to buy cookie dough but he wanted to make them from scratch, even though neither of us can bake.”

“it’s more fun if we do it from scratch,” lando crosses his arms huffily, “you didn’t have to tell her that we’re absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, though.”

“i reckon she already knew that from overhearing our lack of knowledge about baking ingredients, lando,” the australian chuckles quietly, shifting the shopping basket from one arm to the other.

“do you have the recipe on you?” you ask kindly.

oscar hands the scorned grocery list over without complaint, “it’s my mum’s recipe. sorry if it’s hard to read—you’ll have to blame him for that.”

lando scoffs in indignation, “you’re exaggerating, oscar. my handwriting isn’t that bad, is it?”

you feel them watching as you decipher the hieroglyphics that are lando’s letters. you bring a finger up to trace underneath the scrawl, eyes squinting to force the words into focus—oscar snorts and lando sighs in played-up dejection.

“i can understand what you’ve wrote just fine,” you smile at lando, “i’ve seen worse. you know, my younger cousin’s handwritting is miles more dreadful than this.”

the brit knocks his shoulder against oscar’s teasingly, “hah! maybe you just can’t read, osc. have you thought about that?”

you tap your finger against your chin in thought, “—but my cousin is like, five-years-old, with terrible fine motor skills. so, i wouldn’t say that’s a fair comparison.”

the two are caught by surprise, laughing delightedly at your ribbing. the sound of their amusement is contagious enough for you to crease with your own giggles.

“i didn’t expect to be bullied in a carrefour’s on a saturday night by a stranger,” lando says with a grin, after he’s calmed down.

“sorry,” you shake your head playfully, properly introducing yourself before continuing, “i forgot you usually spend your time here arguing about baking soda. which—by the way, your mum’s recipe calls for both baking powder and soda, oscar. which is very smart and unique! in most cookie recipes, most people usually opt for baking soda alone, for the spread of the batter. but, your mum must’ve liked her cookies puffier and fluffier as well! anyways, that explains why it looks like lando could’ve written either word here—because he meant to write both.”

they thank you profusely for helping them overcome the challenge of lando’s handwriting, oscar returning to the aisle to place each ingredient in his basket.

“sorry, could you grab me one of the baking soda, as well?” you ask, “that’s the last thing off of my list tonight.”

“we’re all done, too,” the australian walks over with your box, hesitating briefly before you gesture for him to drop it in your filled cart.

the duo walks towards the registers with you, lando asking, “are you a baker?”

“no,” you chuckle, “i had a phase during lockdown.”

“ah, i should’ve known,” he teases, “i mean, that’s how you know that baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber—“, oscar echoes his teammates ‘sodium carbon-fiber’ with a soft smile, “—just a baking phase, right. makes sense.”

“oh, come on, lando norris,” you scold him jokingly, “baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber and an acid. keep up—we’ve been over this already.”

you separate from the two as you near the registers, unloading your cart onto the conveyor belt and exchanging polite conversation with the cashier as you hand over your stack of reusable bags. you don’t realize that they’ve waited for you until you start to think about the logistic of carrying all of your groceries home.

“uh,” lando pushes oscar forward with a firm hand on his back, the tips of the australian’s ears are reddening, “would you like help with those? we don’t mind holding a few.”

“would you mind?” your shoulders sag in relief, “i do this in one trip routinely but i don’t think that’s happening tonight. i only live about four blocks over—my doorman will help me get them all up to my flat, so i won’t be keeping you longer than necessary.”

that’s how you find yourself walking home, on a saturday night, with two formula one drivers holding the bulk of your groceries in their arms. you’re going to the casino directly after you put the groceries away because your luck is too good to miss out on right now. your doorman heads inside to grab a cart as soon as he catches sight of you. your two helpers exchange a glance in your peripheral vision as you come to stop in front of your building.

“well, this is me,” you start, pausing to thank your doorman, gabriel, as the boys carefully unload the bags onto the cart, “thank you for the assistance, you are both too kind.”

“mr. norris and mr. piastri are always kind,” hums gabriel, winking at the two men, before rolling the cart inside.

“wait, what? you live in the same building as me?” you’re flummoxed. you knew the rent was too expensive, but you didn’t think it was formula-one-driver-expensive.

“i live here,” lando reveals, holding the door as he lets you and oscar walk inside, “osc doesn’t. i feel like i would remember your face if i’ve seen you here before. what floor are you on?”

“i don’t know if i should tell you that,” you side-eye them flippantly, “i fear for my safety.”

“well, i shouldn’t have told you that i live here,” lando sniffs.

“gabriel blew your cover, mate,” oscar rolls his eyes, “also, she would’ve found out anyways. we would’ve had to follow her in to make the cookies in your apartment.”

your doorman squeezes into the first elevator with your groceries, while you and the boys opt for the second. oscar’s hand hovers over the button while he waits for you to clue him in, pressing lando’s afterwards.

lando clears his throat as the elevator begins to rise. “seeing as your thrilling saturday night activity of grocery shopping is over, what are the rest of your plans for tonight?”

scratching at the nape of your neck, you say, “don’t judge me anymore than you have tonight…i was thinking about watching the entire how to train your dragon trilogy.”

oscar gasps quietly, his eyes bright, “i love those movies.”

“would you like to come up to my flat and make chocolate chip cookies from scratch with us? and watch the movies, too?” lando’s question is sweet, and his eyes are earnest.

“i feel like it would be very dumb of me to visit the apartment of a man i just met in the grocery—formula one driver or not.”

“sorry, i can see how it’s weird. better safe than sorry, i know. i promise we’re not like going to try anything, or we’re not, like, serial killers or anything. oscar’s too polite for that, and i’m too squeamish. seriously, it would be just for the cookies. we didn’t have a baking phase in lockdown like you did, so we’re lost on a lot more than the different between baking soda and powder. sodium carbon-fiber and acid, or not. if it’s uncomfortable for you, that’s fine. maybe we can plan for another day when you know us better.”

“yep,” oscar offers in support of lando’s statement.

you smile, “you remembered about the acid this time.”

the elevator dings before softly jerking to a stop on your floor. the doors begin to slide open, “honestly? i think i’m more afraid about you guys possibly burning our building down rather than killing me in cold blood.”

you step out of the elevator, seeing gabriel waiting by your door with the cart.

turning back to face the two men, you survey them with a serious gaze before breaking into a grin, “don’t turn on the oven without me. that part requires adult supervision. let me put my groceries away and then i’ll be right up.”

general taglist (ask to join):

@saintslewis/@cherry2stems/@lorarri/@mindless-rock/@biancathecool

@barnestatic/@darleneslane/@lovingaphroditesworld/@smoothopz/@vetteltea

@tallrock35/@spideybv28/@loomiscorpse/@hiireadstuff/@namgification

@gg-trini/@multi-fandom-rando/@landoslutmeout/@love-simon/@iloveyou3000morgan/

@rexit-mo/@oscahpastry/@sweatrevenge5436-blog/@bokutos-babyowl/@oliviah-25

@evermoreandroyalblue/@riveristhebest1/@xylinasdiary/@ashiekins/@flowergirl1134

@hearts4robs/@c-losur3/@bloodyymaryyy/@awritingtree/@lammys-thinking

@nikfigueiredo/@bbreezyxoxo/@catreadsthings/@princessminjikwon

© httpsserene - do not repost. photos in header from pinterest.

[clesired]

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐓 | 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 !

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ! you miss one quidditch game, and somehow sirius ends up in the hospital wing!?

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ! no warnings, fluff, fem!reader, friends to lovers, second person pov, 1.6k words!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Stupid, stupid, man! You can’t help but think to yourself as you hastily make your way through the empty corridors.

Of course, it’s the one time you miss a Quidditch game that your best friend decides to go and get himself hurt. You swear he’s gonna be the death of you.

You’d already felt terrible having to tell him you couldn’t make it to the game today because you had to finish a paper for one of your classes. The look on his face when you broke the news had almost convinced you to change your mind, his puppy dog eyes your greatest weakness—something you suspect he is well aware of and uses to his advantage as much as possible.

And now that he’s been injured? You just know he’s gonna give you hell for not being there. You’re inclined to let him though, because after this—you’re never missing a game again.

You don’t even know how severe the injury is yet—Remus’ patronus message having only given you minimum context, but it really doesn’t matter. It could be a simple scratch and that would be more than enough to get you going.

The first people you see when you enter the hospital wing are Remus and Peter. As soon as they notice your arrival, they step away from the bed they’re surrounding.

Your eyes fall to Sirius, who immediately smiles as he locks eyes with you. And just like every other time he looks at you, the butterflies in your stomach begin to flutter enthusiastically.

“Bug!” He calls out happily, his tone affectionate as he immediately attempts to get out of the bed—pouting when Remus forces him to remain seated on the edge.

“Moony! Tell Poppy I don’t need anymore of those nasty potions, my bug is here!” He makes a stink face at the thought of said potions before he looks back at you and smiles once more. “And she’s all the medicine I need.” He says sweetly, causing Remus and Peter to chuckle softly as you blush.

Remus nudges Peter gently and then calls out to you two, “We’re gonna go catch the last of the match and come back with Prongs before dinner. You good here, Pads?”

He nods quickly. “Perfect.”

As they leave, you move to stand beside his bed, your eyes scanning his form—assessing the damage.

Sirius notices what you’re doing and lifts his left arm, which you only now realize looks a little…off. “Just a broken arm, love. Nothing a little Skelegro can’t fix.” He says softly, tilting his head back to continue looking at you.

You huff softly, moving to stand between his spread legs as you frown gently. Your hand moves on its own accord, cupping his neck as you feel him swallow softly and lean further into your touch.

“You’re not allowed to get hurt again.” You grumble quietly, causing him to chuckle softly as he uses his uninjured arm to wrap around your waist and pull you closer.

He presses his face into your stomach ever so gently before looking up at you once more, smirking cheekily. “And you’re not allowed to miss one of my games again.”

You’re just about to respond when you feel a pinch at your side, causing you to yelp softly instead. You immediately glare down at Sirius as he just smiles and rubs the pinched skin soothingly.

“That’s what you get for taking my good luck charm away from me, bug.” He says unapologetically, causing you to roll your eyes playfully as you shake your head in amusement.

He’s talking about you, of course.

When you two had met in first year, he’d found you holding a bunch of ladybugs in the middle of the courtyard, completely uncaring of the odd looks the other students were giving you.

His first instinct had been to poke fun, of course. Why in Merlin’s name would you be playing with bugs!?

You hadn’t been fazed by his taunting though. Instead, you’d explained that ladybugs signified good luck and placed one in his hand, sweetly wishing him luck in all his endeavors.

You’ve been his ‘good luck charm’ ever since, hence the nickname.

“Oh, how ever shall I make it up to you, Siri? I’ll do anything!” You say dramatically, thumb gently caressing the side of his neck as you giggle.

He looks up at you, a soft smile on his face as he watches you laugh. He squeezes your waist gently with his uninjured hand and pulls you even closer.

His thumb slips beneath the hem of your shirt to caress the skin of your hip as he swallows, his eyes falling to your lips before quickly looking back up into your eyes.

“Anything?” He repeats lowly, causing your breath to hitch ever so slightly. There’s a tension now, that wasn’t here just seconds ago.

You nod slowly, your eyes mirroring his movements as you focus on his mouth, your heart racing at lightning speed. “Anything.” You whisper.

The next moment happens so fast—one second you’re looking at him and the next, he’s got you locked in a deep kiss as he pulls you to sit in his lap.

You return the embrace readily, mindful of his arm as you card your hands through his hair and tug gently. The action pulls a groan out of him and you do it again, kissing him deeper.

His uninjured hand moves to hold you by the neck as he takes charge, getting a soft moan out of you before eventually pulling back to let you catch your breath.

His eyes are dark and heady with want as he stares at you, taking in your kiss-stung lips with pure satisfaction.

Still holding your neck, he squeezes gently. “I don’t think you’ve made it up to me yet, bug.” He says quietly, tracing the tip of his nose along the side of your neck.

You let out a little shiver, your breath hitching once more as your hands move to rest at the nape of his neck. “I don’t think I have either, Siri.” You agree softly.

His eyes darken even further as he begins pressing gentle kisses all across your neck and up your jaw.

Suddenly, the sound of a loud gasp causes you two to spring apart as you attempt to get out of Sirius’ lap—a fruitless endeavor, as he holds you firmly in place.

“Mr. Black, I do recall telling you not to put strain on your body while the Skelegro mends your arm.” Madam Pomfrey chastises, staring him down as she deposits a tray of new potions at her desk.

You blush in embarrassment, successfully managing to get off of Sirius’ lap this time as you look down, smoothing out the wrinkles in your skirt.

“I’m so sorry, Madam Pomfrey!” You apologize quickly, not wanting to get in trouble.

The older witch looks over to you and softens, smiling gently as she waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t fret, my dear. I’m well aware of Mr. Black’s stubbornness.”

Sirius clutches at his chest dramatically as he pouts at her. “You wound me, Poppy!” He pretends to shed a tear before looking at you.

He grabs your hand, pulling you back into his arms. “I think I need another kiss to make me feel better, bug. My heart is aching!” He puckers his lips.

You and Madam Pomfrey share a look before you both roll your eyes playfully.

Looking back down at him, you peck his lips softly but quickly and then straighten up, raising a brow. “There. Happy now?” You ask teasingly.

He just shakes his head and puckers his lips once again, making you giggle as you shake your head. “We’re in the hospital wing, Siri.” You remind him gently.

Now that Madam Pomfrey is here, you’re not going to risk it—the quick peck as far as you were willing to go.

It’s his turn to roll his eyes as he huffs softly. “Fine. You’ll have to make that up to me too, then.”

You smile, nodding along. “I’ll give you all the kisses you want later, I promise.”

But he just shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. S’not gonna cut it.” He mumbles, squeezing your waist once more as he sneakily presses a soft kiss to your hip before you can stop him.

You chuckle softly, brows raising as you tilt your head. “No?”

He shakes his head again, pressing another kiss to your hip.

“How should I make it up to you then, Siri?” You question with a smile.

He swallows softly as he slowly looks up at you then, sobering up some as he studies your face intently. His expression is so open and raw, so vulnerable right now that it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

You’ve never seen him look so nervous before and you try to keep your hopes at bay—not wanting to jump to conclusions just yet.

He inhales gently before slowly grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers and resting your locked hands on his thigh.

“Be mine, bug.” He says simply, soft and quiet—his words only meant for your ears.

The smile you give him is unmatched as you nod quickly, any thoughts of propriety out the window as you pull him into another deep kiss.

It doesn’t last long though, both of you smiling too much to keep the embrace going. When you pull back, he’s smiling contentedly.

“Finally my bug.” He says quietly, humming thoughtfully as he smirks softly. “And all I had to do was break an arm to make it happen.”

You do a double take. “Wait, what?”

He planned this?

You smack his uninjured arm gently as you glare. “You didn’t have to get yourself hurt just to ask me out, Siri!” You scold your boyfriend.

Merlin, he’s your boyfriend now! The thought makes you giddy and you can’t hold your glare any longer as you smile, blushing softly.

His only response is to return your smile and shrug as he pulls you in for a tender kiss and murmurs softly.

“Worth it.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ! wooh, first oneshot done!!! i hope you lovelies enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

©clesired - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

xoxo,

mila! *: ･🐚༄🫧*ੈ✩

[yerchokito]

haha I don’t know what to write (I hate this)

college au ft weirdo gojo!

warnings: not proofread, smut, meanish reader, terrible smuttyness.

satoru gojo is a massive nerd.

I mean, just look at the way he acts! digimon this, my little pony that, it’s way too obvious. sure he has looks or whatever, not like you would ever fall for that dork.. like totally.

how does he have friends? no one knows. he’s got this off-putting vibe around, yet somehow that managed to bag suguru geto and ieiri shoko, must be paying them off or something.

it’s not like you’re popular, but you’re definitely not jealous of some weird rich kid who’s probably a virgin and’ll never get his dick wet because he’s so freaky and weird with that snowy white hair and stupid wide blue eyes, god!

and it’s just your luck when you get assigned to a project with him, the world hates you, and you hate the world.

but to satoru, oh it’s like he’s died and gone to heaven!

he’s been praying for any god to grace him with just one chance with you. a total ‘dork on dork romance’ as his friends would call it. sure you’re not the most popular, probably because you’re pretty mean, but that’s what makes satoru fall head over heels for you! he knows you judge him, knows you loathe him, but god he loves your attitude.

his friends call him a pervert, and they’re right. but, you’re just so sexy! deep down, he knows you’re all hot and bothered for him too.

it’s a cold night when you invite satoru gojo over, dressed in nothing but your pyjamas.

‘just gotta finish this stupid project with an idiot, then home free.’ is the only thing that’s keeping you going.

in satoru’s mind, the only thing keeping him going is your skimpy clothing you call pyjamas. that permanent frown on your face makes his rising hard-on even harder.

with sexual tension suffocating the both of you, you could only imagine what happened in the next couple of hours..

“haa—hey! slu-slow down you prick—!” you angrily breath out. yeah, you may hate yourself for this but, jeez does this guy have an amazing dick.

you were right about him being a virgin, a virgin with a big dick. said virgin is now blowing your back and possibly your brains out, messily rubbing on your clit that it’s almost cute. almost.

“heh, th-thought you could handle it—fuck.” satoru whimpers, he’s vocal, like really loud. you groan knowing about the noise complaints you’ll get for his ass. might as well try to shut him up.

luckily with you laid on your back it’s easy access to his mouth. now to shut him up.. sigh.. might as well.

cupping your hand around the back of his neck, you tug him toward your nipple, he happily accepts it like a freak. greedily sucking like a baby. it makes you cringe at the new sensation, clenching around him even tighter. he moans against your tit, rutting into you faster, balls slapping hardly against your ass.

then, he cums.

it happens fast, one moment he was happily humpin’ into you now he’s spurting out his icky seed into you! didn’t even make you cum! typical.

“hm..m’sorry forgot to.. pull out..” satoru apologetically whispers. half-assed apology, he’s luckily your on the pill.

“never.. tell anyone thi-this..” shame falls upon you. fucking icky satoru gojo who can’t even make a girl cum!

hm..

“hey..” you speak, softly to him for once. “wanna go round 2?”

eh, you’ll just have to teach him so he’s not even more loser-y