#and i might be doing something with it... ;)

[gentleman-velvet]

Okay so bad news for everyone on YouTube right now

Starting the 13th, we will have an AI determine if we are children or not and if you are a child, than you are forced to send your ID, send a selfie or a credit card

This has the obvious cons of having your privacy being revoked from you and and in case there is a security breach, major identity thefts.

So what do we do in this scenario?

Well right now I have real idea as this is relativity new to me, but I do have two plans

Plan 1. Bug the shit out of them, send letters and send emails about how much of bad idea this is.

Include why the AI will mess up and target adults who watch cartoons, include privacy issues, censorship issues, anything you can think of that relates to this. I want you guys to bug the hell out of YouTube until they reverse this idea

Here their address for letters

Send a mass amount of letters on the 5th of August and than another mass amount on the 8th

Plan 2. Blackout.

Since the thing is coming out on the 13th.

The plan will be to completely avoid YouTube at all cost for that day (and beyond), no watching, no sharing, no uploading, no nothing.

Download videos before things go down, watch Netflix. Whatever you do, don’t touch YouTube.

That’s all I can say right now, I also want you guys to let YouTubers know of this situation cause if it’s important for everyone on the website to talk about this immediately

Spread this stuff around, let people know of YouTube’s upcoming policy and how it’ll hurt everyone

Edit: I have taken into consideration and I am going to agree that the blackout should be until the decision is reversed, this is so we are not out at risk as users and so YouTube doesn’t just ignore the original black out

I might have a more detailed plan posted later today, but it depends on everything goes

Another edit: just to remind yall to send in letters and emails about this to google to force their hands to reverse this decision

There is also the law itself, though I can’t speak much on it other than finding lawing bodies that can force YouTube to reverse this decision. If anyone can find a place to file or call for this, that will be greatly appreciated! (I heard maybe the FTC and or the California Consumer privacy right can be considered, but that needs more research)

BIGGER UPDATE: we have a new plan in motion, here is the updated plan for you all to see

and also here's a petition to stop the law that would help support this into becoming a thing

and also a tumblr post about it and how you can help further prevent this from being allowed in office

Don’t forget to send this fellow people outside of tumblr

YouTubers, Twitter users, send it through out and make sure you are heard

[luveline]

hiii can we have clark and his shy girlfriend who’s never had a boyfriend before, so she thinks she has to be ‘sexy’ for him and how he reacts? love

cw: mildly suggestive, fem “Can I come in?” 

“I’m peeing!” 

You’re inspecting a little bump on your leg, actually, that could be a zit but doesn’t really look like one. 

“Yeah, honey, I just need to grab my laundry. I won’t look!”

You roll your shoulders. You’ve been getting used to this with Clark very slowly —how easygoing his love actually is. Doesn’t care if you’re peeing, if you’re naked and unready, if you forgot to shave. Doesn’t mind the way your stomach gurgles at night laying under his arm, or the smell of your hair in the mornings; that not-quite-sweat dampness, he loves it, burying his nose in your neck every time without fail.

And now. You could have your panties around your ankles with a soft tummy roll and he doesn’t care. It’s perturbing. 

“Can’t wait two seconds?” you ask lightly, unlocking the door. 

He’s vaguely apologetic. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to rush you off the pot,” he says, moving you aside with a nice hand to your shoulder. 

“Oh, what?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at his weirdest phrase to date. 

“If you need to go–”

“Clark, stop. Stop, please.”

“Well, don’t be shy about it!” He pulls your slouchy sweatpants back up your hip and kisses your temple. Quick, chaste, and soft. “Got any laundry for me? I’m doing lights.” 

Later that night, after you’ve showered and he’s washed up, his neck still the tiniest bit red from shaving, he sits at the headboard in his boxers with his legs crossed. He’s reading a paperback against his thigh, the pages bent back in one hand. 

It makes your stomach warm. Zinging excitement all over your skin at the idea of being where his paperback is, under that same thoughtful stare. 

You check your reflection in the full length mirror. 

It is terrifying to want him like this, but you won’t be a fool. Clark can hardly be expected to match your mood if you crawl into his lap like a worm begging for a nice touch. No, you have to try to persuade him into amorousness. You check that your shift is falling nicely and move for the bed. 

Clark looks up when you kneel, his face quickly taken by a smirk. It looks funny on him, missing any of the smugness you might see when he’s Superman against one of his boggling villains. He seems boyishly pleased before you’ve so much as opened your mouth. 

“Are you busy?” you murmur softly. 

“Oh, never too busy for you,” he says, rolling it around in his mouth as he places his book upside down on the nightstand. 

“No? I don’t have to persuade you to put things down?” you ask. 

He really couldn’t look happier. Like, he’s ecstatic rather than lustful, though this is often how it starts with him. 

“Nothing in there could be as interesting as you are,” Clark says. He pats the bed in front of him. “Come here? There’s more than enough room for you.” 

You cannot crawl sexily, won’t kid yourself into thinking so, instead walking carefully on your knees until you’re in touching distance, settling quietly, carefully. 

“You’re such a treasure,” he says, more to himself than you as his fingers brush your knee. “Have you always worn stuff like this?” 

“The shifts?” you ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers. “No, not really.” 

“No?” 

“No. I bought a couple when we first started dating…” You flush at the idea of telling him something like this and then tell him anyhow, because you might be the shyest thing he’s ever seen, but you’re also undoubtedly in love with him, and craving to have him in confidence is a constant. “It was exciting, when you asked me to be your girl,” —that exact phrase— “I went online that night to look at babydolls and, uh, new panties and things, I never had to before. I liked thinking about it.” 

His fingers work further down your thigh. “Never had to?” 

“No. You’re my first boyfriend. You know that already.” 

Clark soothes away your puzzled tone with a big hand spread out over your thigh. Shaved again. He rubs at you searchingly, his brow slightly crinkled. “I’d have you in a sack, if you wanted that.”

You laugh. 

He smiles. “I would. You could wear full briefs to bed.”

“Yeah, cos that’d be sexy. Me in my jammies, you’d love that.”

Clark smarts, indignant. “I would.”

You laugh again, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist. “Sure.”

“Honey, I would. I’d love to see you in your pajamas. I didn’t realise you had pajamas, I– stupidly, I thought this was what you’d usually wear to bed.” 

“I’m supposed to be sexy.” 

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so abruptly. Clark wasn’t expecting it either, his lips parted enough to catch a slip of his tongue. Just as abruptly, his teeth snap and his mouth closes, both hands finding yours. “You are,” he says, his mouth such a serious line that your heart feels like it’s constricting in your chest for a moment. “Without trying, you are. With effort too, don’t get me wrong, I– I don’t think I’ve ever had so much blood in one place–”

“Clark,” you whine, unbidden. 

“–some nights, your dresses, those lacy skirts and stuff, that’s all beautiful. You’re beautiful. But don’t think you have to dress up every night for my benefit, huh?” Your face goes so hot you can feel it in your ears, ‘cos his voice is like satin, talking to you like you need it gentle. “I’d just as happily have you in one of my old t-shirts. Or your jammies.” 

“Why are you asking me about this?” you deflect. 

He closes his hands around your wrists with a light squeeze. “You won’t let me in the bathroom when you’re in there most the time, but every night you stand in the door in one of these lovely things and I was just… wondering, I guess. I can be really awkward. I wanted to know if I was overstepping with the bathroom thing, but. Anyways. I have my answer.”

“What? What answer?” 

“You have a complex. I’ve given you a complex,” he says decidedly. 

“You did not.”

“I did. Clearly, I haven’t made it obvious how much I want you at all hours, in anything, and you assume you have to dress up to earn my affection.” Clark dips his head forward, a sweet, dark curl kissing his forehead. “Tell me you like the lingerie, at least.” 

“I do.” You realise you can tell him more, and decide to trust him with a little more truthfulness. “I don’t love shaving my legs every night.”

“No?” His eyebrows rise. “Then don’t.”

“Yeah? You won’t care?”

“Of course I won’t.” 

You hold your arms toward him and he does the same, taking your hips into his hands as you begin the melding ascent into his lap. Clark folds you into him nicely. “And you really don't care if I stop wearing the lacy panties?”

“Honestly? I assumed you were spoiling me. I had no idea you thought I’d care about them otherwise. Wear anything. Wear nothing.”

You press your nose to his neck, withholding a sound too close to a moan at his smell and general solidness beneath you. His arms are a vice around you that you’d rather die than lose. Especially now he’s letting you say goodbye to headrush-showers and the two hour delicates wash on cold. “Promise?” you murmur.

“I promise.” 

Clark proves it with a gift just a day later: a five pack of granny panties and pair of pajamas two sizes too big, for your ultimate comfort. He still finds a way to get you out of them, though, citing an intrinsic sexiness about you that you’re more than happy to oblige him with. 

[cloverapple]

How I entered the void in less than 5 minutes last night (If someone doesn’t shift with this, I’ll scream)

I wouldn’t be sharing this and putting myself at risk of sounding like a lunatic who posted one method, and is now posting yet another version of it, if I didn’t have a reason for it. Idk, gut feelings are hard to explain (I’m aware I sound insane right now)

But I’ve never been more excited to share something in my life, sooo that might attest to something.

This will work for everyone in some way. And I’ve never been more certain of anything ever. (Except for the time I pspspsps’d at a black kitty on the sidealk at night, which ended up being a trash bag, and I found out I had horrible eyesight—but that’s not the point here).

This isn’t anything brand new. It’s like my method people have been seeing results with, but stripped down to its bones. Simplified to the core, which I’ve learned actually makes it more effective.

(unless you’re someone who prefers something detailed and objective, then yeah, stick to my main method and ignore this)

This doesn’t care about your beliefs. Doesn’t care about your identity, your self-concept, your doubts, your contradictions. It doesn’t matter if you’re into non-duality, law of assumption, law of attraction, or don’t even have a belief system. This method does not give a single shit. And I say that with confidence, because when this worked for me last night, I was crying. Genuinely, majorly depressed. Everything I usually cling to, all my beliefs about shifting and consciousness and the nature of reality—I wasn’t mulling over any of it. I was flat out over existence itself, and it still worked.

The set-up:

• First, understand something: The screen of space you’re looking at right now—even if your eyes are closed—is the same screen where your DR, CR, the void, your dreams… all of it… will appear. That’s your canvas. Always.

• This works best with WBTB (wake back to bed), so set an alarm for about 3 hours after you fall asleep. You want to wake up just tired enough that going back to sleep is easy, but you’ll still have some control. (You can also do this as you’re going to bed, but it was 3 AM for me after I had woken up,,, so do with that info what you want).

• Now, get this into your head: You’re not entering the void or shifting from a place of calm or confidence. You’re doing it from pure exhaustion. You’re doing it from “fuck this shit, I’m doing it anyway.”

You can doubt. You can feel like shit. But the attitude that follows is “fuck it.” You’re tired of trying, and tired of being on this journey. So you’re just gonna do it. Fuck it.

What to do:

• Lie on your back. (I personally like my back, but I’ve done it on my side too, and it still works. Doesn’t matter. Don’t overthink it. This doesn’t matter)

• You can move. Just don’t care that you moved. After the next step, you won’t even be paying attention to your body anyway, and it’ll go numb naturally,, so the idea here is “fuck it, this doesn’t matter.”

• Now: Notice the black behind your eyes. Just that. The blackness. Don’t try to notice your awareness yet. Just focus on the black. Look at it. Really look at it. LOOK. Keep choosing to look at it again and again. Widen your eyes over and over again, and keep refocusing on it. This will keep you alert, but you’re not forcing yourself to stay alert, got it? It happens naturally, because you’re reeeeally looking at the black behind your eyes.

• Your body’s gonna want to fall asleep. Don’t fight it, don’t care about it, because the fact that you’re looking at the black behind your eyes will naturally keep you from falling asleep.

• You keep your mind locked on that black space, almost like you’re watching a movie screen, but nothing’s playing yet. What happens? You’ll keep wanting to fall asleep—but widening your eyes and choosing to watch the black will keep waking you up. You’ll be in this liminal place going: “Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. I’m doing this. Fuck it. Don’t care.”

(What I mean by “widening your eyes” even though they’re closed is: when your eyes are closed, don’t let them go slack like they do when you're falling asleep. Keep them wide and alert, like you're trying to watch something in the dark. You're not tensing them, just holding that sense of openness, like you're staring through your eyelids).

• What happens next: Suddenly you’ll feel your awareness. You’re just awareness now. Naturally. You didn’t right off the bat try to pay attention to your awareness,, you just realized that you are it. Why? Because when you feel confined to that black space behind your eyelids like a coffin, with nothing else around you, there’s nowhere else to run to other than your awareness. Your body will be numb, and your surroundings distant, irrelevant. And you’ll think: “Wait… I’m just my awareness.”

• And then your brain might do what it always does: “Oh no. What if I’m overthinking? What if I’m messing it up?” And you remind yourself: “I’m literally awareness. I can overthink if I want. I’m awareness goddamnit. Fuck it.”

• You’ll start switching—back and forth—between two things (because there’s nowhere to run to):

1. Looking at the black behind your eyelids

2. Noticing your awareness itself

Keep flipping between the two like you’re flickering the lights on and off in a room, but don’t force this. You’ll look at the fact that you simply are, and you'll look at the black,, and you’ll think: “damn?? I’m just my awareness.”

• Then you’ll start to sink. You’ll feel the pull as hypnagogia grabs your hand and says “so where are we going, bestie?” From here, you can either:

A) Keep going as you feel yourself sink, and you’ll fall straight into the void state effortlessly.

B) As you feel yourself sink, you can choose to lucid dream, astral project, or just plain shift from here. To shift: affirm, assume, observe, do whatever you want. The way I shared that I like to do this is by observing my awareness in my DR, observing the fact that I’m aware there (just pretend you’re there, no need to try too hard).

The point is: whatever happens next, if it happens very very quickly, don’t panic.

Just to note:

If this somehow doesn’t work for you—though I genuinely believe it will work for someone—just know the reason I share so many things is because I deeply believe everyone needs different things. The core of shifting stays the same to me:

You are only awareness, and you observe your desired reality until all other options collapse.

But how you get into that is wildly personal. What works for me might not click for you, just like what works for you might not click for me, and that’s fine.

That’s why I keep offering options—not to confuse you, not to invalidate anything I’ve said before, but to give you more pathways of realizing how powerful you already are. If one method feels off, try another. My main method is still my go-to: observe my awareness in my DR, exist there, decide I’m there because where else would I be??—but I love giving variety because maybe this next one might be the one that opens it all up for you.

Edit: (this just came to mind) don’t place a time expectation on any method. This one worked in less than 5 minutes for me, but the next time I try it, it could happen in 10, maybe 20. I don’t know. So if you try this, and it doesn’t immediately work in the way you expect it to, take a deep breath and keep trying, because eventually something has to happen. Trust me.

[vylaris]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭….. 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒚 + 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒂𝒈𝒆 tags: fluff, meet-cute-ish?, fem!reader

simon, who eyes the box on his bunk like it might detonate in a second.

the box has his name on it. but it’s definitely not his.

a tiny heart over the ı in “s. riley” gave it away.

the base’s postal clerk didn’t comment. just handed it over without so much as a glance.

probably didn’t dare to ask.

simon, who rips the box open. either it’s a prank, or whatever’s inside will tell him who it actually belongs to.

the second the seal breaks, a feminine scent curls into the air. something that doesn’t belong in a room that reeks of gun oil and dried sweat.

besides the obviously-not-his-size sweater, hot chocolate mix, and a strawberry-shaped compact mirror, he finds a note.

just in case this doesn’t reach sierra riley, pls text me!

he grumbles, already planning to track down whoever this other riley is first thing in the morning.

but at 02:56, when sleep won’t come with that bloody comforting scent still clinging in the air, he types:

next time you send something, put a proper name on it. could’ve ended up in antarctica.

a flood of sheepish apologies lights up his phone when the sun rises. he leaves them on read.

simon, who tries to let the whole thing slip from his mind.

but somehow, the note ends up folded between the pages of the book he's reading.

and every now and then, he swears your scent still lingers in his room.

until one afternoon, gaz leans into the rec room doorway, eyes twinkling with far too much glee.

“LT, someone’s got a package for ‘riley’ here.”

he doesn’t look up from pouring his tea. “wrong riley.”

“nah, she said the grumpy one. figured that narrowed it down.”

a meek voice comes from behind gaz. “but i didn’t say—”

simon, whose head snaps up. neck creaking in protest at the speed.

price’s beard twitches over his mug. “you sure that’s the riley you’re lookin’ for, miss?”

despite the wide, panicked eyes, you quickly nod. hands tightening around the box clutched close to your chest.

soap whistles low, leaning out of the couch with far too much interest. “a lass actually seekin’ out for LT? christ, the world is endin’.”

simon steps forward. slowly. eyes fixed on you even when the others are trying to rile him up.

he never expected you to exist beyond a scribbled note and a faint trace of scent.

you offer the box with both hands, words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“sorry again for last time. sierra said you actually went out your way to find her and gave the box, so uh…i thought i should make one for you too. you know, for the trouble. since i was already dropping hers off anyway.”

a beat passes. the others watch the exchange with interest.

then simon reaches out, gloved hand brushing yours as he takes it.

but his hand lingers half a second too long. thumb brushing your knuckle in what might be a mistake. or not.

you don’t seem to notice.

but they do.

gaz blinks. soap’s mouth hangs open. price lifts a brow.

“...thanks,” simon says quietly.

and for the first time, maybe ever, he looks at someone like he’s not waiting for them to leave.

like he’s actually hoping you’ll stay for a while.

⤷ MASTERLIST

[cupidstrace]

You're having a baby. He's freaking the fuck out.

Gojo Satoru never wanted kids.

Too messy. Too unpredictable. Too dangerous.

All of the above if, god forbid, the kids pop out and end up like him. The idea of some tiny version of himself running around with cursed energy leaking out of their sticky little fingers has always made his skin crawl. Not because he couldn’t handle it – he could handle anything – but because the world couldn’t. Because he knows exactly how that story ends.

A kid like that wouldn’t get to be just a kid. Not with his blood or his power or his name. They’d be taken and dissected before they could be loved, worshipped before they could be understood or even understand how to. Thrown into a battlefield before they’d ever lose a tooth.

But worst of all – the fear that’s kept him up more nights than he’ll ever admit – is that they’d have his eyes.

Those unnatural, glowing, light-refracting things. A curse disguised as beauty. A beacon of danger. And what if his baby came out looking like him? What kind of life would they ever get to have?

No, he decided a long time ago: No tiny Gojos. No soft cheeks or first steps or lullabies. No cursed bloodline dragging another child into a war they didn’t ask for. He doesn’t want to leave a legacy.

He just wants peace.

So, of course, you had to go and ruin everything.

“You better not be crying,” you whimper from the hospital bed, your fingers squeezing his so tight he swears you might shatter bone.

“I’m not,” he lies. (He absolutely is.)

“You are,” you whine, breath catching in your throat as another contraction ripples through your body. “Satoru, I swear to– fuck! You’re not even the one pushing something the size of a watermelon out of your–”

“Okay, okay!” he blurts out, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand like it might soothe you. “I know, baby, I’m not leaving your side. Not for food, not for water, not even if Shoko threatens to kill me. Again.”

You blink up at him through bleary eyes, sweaty, furious, and glowing in a way that makes his chest ache. “I literally told you to get me ice chips five minutes ago.”

“Ignore past you,” he says solemnly. “Present you needs me more.”

You roll your eyes, the little curve in the corner of your lip sending a warm tingle spiraling from his heart to his fingertips.

He doesn’t know why someone like you could love someone like him. Much less want children with him. But you do, somehow.

The midwife says it’s time.

And when she tells you to push, you stare directly into your husband’s eyes like this is his fault – like your withering glare is some sort of karmic retribution for him cumming in you nine months ago (which is maybe not entirely untrue).

“Don’t look at me like that!” he squeaks, panicked, as you scream bloody murder and clutch at him like you want to take him with you. “You look so pretty all the time, especially when you're ovulating, I didn’t know it’d come to this–!”

But the words catch in his throat as a cry cuts through the room.

Small and sharp and alive.

The nurse is saying something, handing you something, but all Satoru can hear is the way the baby is crying. Loud and trembling and needy and pissed off. Exactly the way you cry and hide in his arms when you’re frustrated.

You let out a shaky sigh, settling down as you rock the little bundle in your arms.

There’s something in the shape of the face, the tilt of the nose, the set of the lips, that is all you. Undeniably, irrevocably, painfully you–

Oh.

It opens its eyes.

And for a second, he forgets how to breathe.

They’re bright blue. Too bright. His. The kind that twist the light around them into something gleaming. But there’s something different, too, something soft. Something gentle.

They shimmer like starbursts on water. Like they were made to reflect everything good in the world back at him.

And suddenly, he’s not afraid anymore. Because they aren’t just his eyes. They’re yours, too, in shape and in spirit and in the way they seem to say I’m here, I’m real, I’m yours.

Everything about this is unfamiliar and impossibly small and he’s terrified he’s going to fuck it all up somehow. But those eyes?

They’re beautiful.

You’re holding your baby like it’s made of starlight and miracles, and your lips are trembling like you’re about to cry but you’re too tired, and when you look up at him, it all clicks into place.

God.

You’re beautiful.

You, and your baby, and he loves you so, so much, it’s insane.

Yeah.

Maybe having kids isn’t so bad after all.

[doctorbeth]

Binkey the teddy bear's story

Binkey’s is the first of a small series of stories where I’m going to quote a bit more heavily from my patients’ people, because they wrote such interesting/nice letters that I wanted to share those as well as the patients’ transformations.

Binkey is a bear, a brown bear, a traditionally sized and shaped teddy bear. His person initially wrote to the hospital:

I am reaching out because my best friend for the last 35 years deeply needs your help. He is a teddy bear named Binkey, who unfortunately had a terrible run in with a roommate's cat a several years ago. I had always tried to take great care of him, but unfortunately since that time he has seriously deteriorated. He had gone through several at home operations by my mom over the years, and my very inept hands made their own attempts as I got older, however this is completely outside of our abilities, and I fear that at this point any attempts I have made created more damage than help.

I have been really anxious and scared of sending him out as I fear him getting lost or something happening to him.

Some background about Binkey: He is from Czechoslovakia before it became Czech Republic. My father was a Czech dissident, who escaped when the Russians invaded. Right after communism ended my family was finally able to communicate with us and send us letters and gifts for the first time. Binkey is the only gift I received from them as a little girl. We were immediately inseparable. My childhood was a bit complicated, and we moved around often, so Binkey has always been the one stable constant. He is the only thing I have left from my childhood and means the world to me. He even survived being left at a hotel when I was 6, and I freaked out and thankfully the hotel was able to get him back to me. Ever since then I made sure that he was always safe. Unfortunately, as mentioned earlier, a roommate's cat managed to get into my room when I was not home one day, attacked him and heavily injured him.

I would like to keep him as close to himself and original as possible, while understanding that he has some serious damage. I do not want to change his eyes, nose or anything like that since thankfully that is not necessary.

So here are some of Binkey’s diagnosis photos:

We agreed on a treatment plan for Binkey, which originally consisted of stitching his wounds, minimizing his scars, and fur transplants on the bald areas. An appointment was made with this tentative treatment in mind.

Unfortunately for Binkey, shortly before he was scheduled to come to the hospital, his person wrote:

I wasn't originally planning on it, but I think he might need to have new stuffing. There was an unfortunate incident with a younger relative pulling out some of his stuffing from his holes last week. Not a lot, but it was from his face. I will wait for you to evaluate and determine if it is necessary.

He flew into the hospital wearing a new onesie to protect his skin. He also had a companion to keep him company and a tracker so his person knew exactly where he was. :-)

After an in person examination, we had a new treatment plan:

Stitch wounds and minimize scars

Fur transplants for his larger bald areas, including the entire tan areas of his front and face, but just bald parts on his back and back of head

A new yellow ribbon (because he once had one) and,

possibly a new white shirt.

First, he needed his wounds sewn up, so his skin would be able to take the pressure of new stitches, then his person had to choose which brown fur she wanted for transplants. Here were the options:

After some consideration, she made a selection and surgery proceeded. Here he is with all the brown areas treated and his new yellow bow:

There was still the question of whether to treat his white areas. His person opted not to. They weren’t structural issues and kept him as original as possible. Then there was a decision for his shirt. Did she want one? If so what kind? After a short delay, his person wrote:

For shirts I honestly can't decide. I got used to seeing him in white but also have favorite colors of green, orange, brown.

My mom had a great idea. She said, why don't I just let you pick the style and fabric, and let you have fun with it. I agree with her if you're up for it. My only preference is softer fabrics, so velour as you suggested would work for me (or anything else you're in the mood to use). Since it's also removable, I will be happy with whatever color, fabric, and style you decide to go with.

Well, I had an idea and was very excited to proceed with it. Here’s Binkey in his new hoodie:

His person wrote: Love the hoodie!

So Binkey and his buddy got ready to fly home to Texas:

He made it home safe and sound and his person wrote:

Thank you again!!! :) You truly have no idea how much I appreciate you and how glad I am that I found you. I was worried before that he would fall completely apart, and I would permanently lose him. You do amazing work.

I am forever grateful.

*******************

If you enjoyed this post, you may be interested in my substack newsletter, doctorbeth.substack.com. It’s free, and you get the stories straight to your inbox. I also do occassional retro posts from the backlog through the newsletter. But don’t worry, I’ll keep posting everything new here too. :-)

[emryshunts]

Heyy!! I love your manager reader story so so much and I love what you did with giving the guys horns and tails that only come out when they are comfy (are their horns um.. “sensitive” too)

But I wanted to ask if you could do the same thing with mystery’s tusks he has!!

I just think they r so cute and it would be another suprise for reader just to see him rocking up like a woolly mamoth!! heres photographic persuasion okay ily!!

Demon in Disguise

𝐒𝐚𝐣𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦—𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬, 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝… 𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐲-𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐬𝐤𝐬??? 𝐖𝐚𝐢𝐭. 𝐓𝐔𝐒𝐊𝐒??? 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?! 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.3k not proof read

You had grown used to seeing their true forms now—and somehow, it made everything feel more real.

Romance would lean his head on your shoulder with his spiral heart-shaped horns peeking through his curls, purring as your fingers traced the ridges. Abby’s thick, wing-like horns flared wide whenever you praised him, his muscular tail curling possessively around your thigh when he pulled you into his lap. Baby’s sleek, curved horns glowed faintly when he nuzzled against you, his arrow-tipped tail twitching happily at the sound of your laugh. And Jinu—Jinu’s dark, crescent horns and smooth tail would shimmer into view the moment you touched his chest or whispered his name. 

Even when they weren’t paying attention, their bodies betrayed them—horns peeking through hair, tails flicking out when you so much as smiled. Once, Baby’s tail thumped against the back of the couch like an excited dog just because you walked in wearing his hoodie. 

Jinu’s tail had coiled around your ankle like a silken ribbon the night you leaned in to whisper a simple “goodnight” against the shell of his ear—then tugged you back gently, like he hadn’t had enough.

Romance’s tail curled into a soft question mark behind him whenever you gave your attention to someone else, his pout barely hidden. “Am I boring you, sweetheart?” he’d ask with a wounded smile, already pulling you closer, his horns brushing against yours.

And Abby? Abby’s tail had once wrapped around your wrist like a cuff the moment you teased him about going out alone, his gaze dark and unreadable. 

They didn’t even seem to notice anymore. Like your presence alone slipped them into something more true.

Like their instincts couldn’t help but surface when you were near.

And yet… there was one person who still hadn’t revealed anything.

Mystery.

That night, the two of you were in the living room. The others were scattered around the penthouse, absorbed in their own little worlds. Abby was in the kitchen slicing fruit, his tail lazily swishing near his calves. Romance was sprawled on the floor, headphones in, scribbling lyrics into a worn notebook. Baby curled up asleep on the rug, soft snores puffing out of him like a cat. And Jinu? Folding laundry down the hallway, humming low, lost in his domestic rhythm.

You were on the couch, sunk into soft cushions. Mystery lay between your legs, head in your lap, arms snug around your waist. His face was buried just beneath your ribs, purring faintly like a pleased predator who had caught his prize. You threaded your fingers through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp while your other hand lazily stroked his nape.

“Comfy?” you murmured, brushing your thumb across his temple.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, eyes closed. “Could stay here forever.”

You smiled, playing with a lock of hair that fell across his forehead. “I think you’ve got a bit of competition. The others might fight you for this seat.”

He didn’t answer. Just pressed his cheek harder against your thigh like he was claiming it. His arms flexed slightly around your waist. That was his answer.

Still… something tugged at you.

You glanced toward the others—tails flicking lazily, horns faintly visible as they moved through their routines. All of them had let you see this side of them. Trusted you with it. Their bodies responded instinctively—to your voice, your touch, your scent.

And yet…

Your eyes drifted back down to Mystery, still nestled against you, still cloaked in the calm of his human disguise. There were no horns. No tail. No glimpse of the demonic form you knew existed just beneath the surface. He looked peaceful—perfect, even—but you couldn’t shake the ache in your chest.

“Myst…”

He gave a sleepy hum. “Mmmm?”

You brushed his bangs away from his face, your thumb tracing the slope of his brow. “How come I’ve never seen your horns?” Your voice was quiet, careful. “Or your tail?”

The moment shifted.

You noticed it instantly, felt it in the shift of his breathing. Your chest tightened.

“I mean… it happens with the others,” you continued, gently.  “Sometimes without them even trying. Like their bodies are reacting to me. Doesn’t that happen when you’re bonded...?”

Still, no answer.

“Myst?” you said again, barely above a whisper. “Did I… do something wrong?” Your hand stilled against his scalp. “Are you not comfortable with me?”

His purring had faded to silence.

That silence struck harder than expected. It filled the room like a fog, thick and suffocating. You felt it press against your ribs, coil around your breath. Your hand, still resting on his scalp, trembled slightly.  You weren’t trying to accuse him. You just—needed to know. Needed to understand.

Maybe you had gone too far. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked.

You almost pulled away.

But then—Mystery moved.

Slowly, he shifted in your lap, his face turning up toward you, cheek brushing your inner thigh. His eyes met yours.

“No, baby,” he whispered, voice fragile as thread. “No, it’s not like... don’t ever think that.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I’m not hiding because I don’t trust you,” he murmured, lashes fluttering. “I’m hiding because… because I do. And I didn’t want to ruin this. You make me feel so—” he exhaled shakily, looking away for a second before forcing himself back to your gaze, “—wanted. Like I’m something soft. Safe. You touch me like I won’t break you.”

Your heart clenched.

“Myst…” you breathed.

His hand moved—slow and reverent—slipping up to cup the back of your thigh, holding you there like he needed to ground himself.

“I didn’t want to ruin that illusion,” he said softly. “Because there’s more to me. Things I can’t hide forever. And I was scared that if I show you… you’ll look at me differently. Like I’m wrong. Like I’m disgusting.”

You leaned down, both hands cradling his face now, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “There is nothing about you that could ever disgust me. You hear me?” Your voice trembled, but your words were steel. “I will love every part of you. Even the ones you’re scared of... whatever it is, I want to see it.”

His breath hitched.

For a moment, he just stared at you—like he couldn’t believe you’d said that, like it hurt to even hope. Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate. His lashes fell shut.

And instead of answering—

He showed you.

The transformation was slow, reverent. First, the horns—shorter than the others’, but wickedly curved like crescent moons in his head, obsidian black with faint silver ridges. Then his tail unfurled from his lower back, long and dark, with a sharp black point at the tip twitching nervously like it didn’t know where to settle. 

And then… the tusks.

They peeked from his upper jaw as his lips parted in a shallow breath. Smooth and ivory-white, they curled delicately over his bottom lip, sharp but beautiful. Not monstrous. Not wrong.

Just—him.

You stared.

And didn’t move.

Mystery froze under your gaze. His body went tense, tail stiffening behind him like a drawn bowstring. It twitched once, betraying a split-second tremor—like he was already bracing for the worst. For you to flinch. To recoil. To say something.

His gaze dropped, voice tight and whisper-thin. “I knew it,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have—”

That’s when it hit you.

He looked so damn cute.

Your scream made him flinch.

Then you pounced.

One second, you were sitting like a normal person. The next, you were full-on launching yourself at Mystery, tackling him flat onto the cushions with a delighted squeal as if his transformation had just unlocked your final evolution. You straddled his waist, buried his stunned face in your hands, and smothered every inch of his cheeks with kisses.

“Oh my god—Myst—you’re so cute, are you kidding me?!” you gushed, your voice rising with every kiss. “Why didn’t you show me this sooner?! These tusks—they’re adorable. You’re adorable!”

He blinked up at you, stunned speechless, his mouth slightly parted, his tusks brushing against your cheek as you nuzzled him like he was the last warm thing on earth.

Your hands slid down his jaw, thumbs tracing the edge of his new features with breathless reverence. “I love them,” you whispered against the curve of his tusk. “I love you.”

Mystery’s face went scarlet.

He groaned—more like a whimper, really—and let his arms curl tight around your back, burying his face under your chin like he couldn’t take another second of being looked at like that. Like maybe if he held you hard enough, close enough, you’d never leave. Like he was terrified and elated all at once.

He trembled.

Not because he was afraid.

Because, for the first time, he believed you.

SLAM!

A sharp thud cracked through the penthouse, followed by the chaotic sound of stomping footsteps and something heavy hitting tile.

“WHAT WAS THAT?!” Abby’s voice bellowed from the kitchen, unmistakably holding a knife, the blade still glinting as he stormed toward the living room.

“Is she hurt?!” Jinu’s voice followed, sharp with panic. You could hear the sound of his sleeves being rolled up mid-sprint, jaw set like he was seconds from choosing violence.

Romance knocked over his own notebook with a startled yelp, scrambling to his feet so fast he tripped over the corner of the rug.

And Baby—half-asleep, half-feral—growled from the floor like he’d just been woken mid-hibernation. It didn’t sound human. It sounded like something with fangs. “Who touched her?!”

But when they all turned—panting, frantic, ready to fight—they stopped.

And then blinked.

Because there you were, wrapped around Mystery like he was the best gift you’d ever been given. Your legs were curled around his waist, your fingers tangled in his hair, and you were pressing kisses all over his flushed face while he practically purred in your arms.

And he… he looked absolutely wrecked.

Mystery’s horns shimmered under the overhead light, glinting wickedly as he let you kiss all over him without protest. His tail twitched and coiled in embarrassment, but his arms only pulled you tighter, like he was terrified this was a dream and he might wake up without you. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, and a low, rumbling purr spilled from him without restraint, vibrating through both of your bodies like he couldn’t control it anymore.

His tusks glinted when he smiled—dazed, drunk on affection—and his face was so red he might’ve been glowing.

Abby was the first to speak, eyes wide. “You scared the hell outta me.”

Jinu exhaled hard, rubbing a hand over his heart. “I thought someone was attacking her.”

Romance tilted his head, a soft smirk tugging at his lips. “Mystery finally showed her, huh?”

Baby had already dropped back onto the rug, curling up like a cat mid-nap. “She’s fine. Hyung’s doomed.”

But you didn’t register any of it at first.

Because all your attention was on the boy in your arms—the boy still trembling beneath your touch.

You pulled back just slightly, enough to cup his jaw in both hands, brushing your thumbs gently along the line of his tusks.

He swallowed, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “You… really like them?” he asked, voice husky, almost broken. So small. So hopeful.

“I love you,” you whispered. The words came raw, unwavering, your voice anchored by the truth of it. “Every single part of you.”

And then you kissed him—slow, deep, reverent. 

He whimpered into your mouth.

A low, guttural sound that vibrated against your lips, his tusks nudging gently into your skin as he kissed you back with growing hunger, growing need. His horns brushed your forehead. His tail winding tight around your thigh. One of his hands slid up your back, fingers splayed, holding you like he could finally allow himself to be vulnerable in your arms.

From the side, Romance let out a breathy chuckle. “You’re gonna break him.”

But his voice was warm. Almost proud.

“She already broke all of us,” Jinu murmured, reverent, his eyes fixed on the way you kissed Mystery.

You broke the kiss just enough to rest your forehead against his, both of you breathless and trembling in the charged quiet. Mystery’s cheeks were flushed a deep, damning crimson, his lips kiss-swollen and glistening. His tusks gleamed faintly in the ight, catching the soft glow like moonlight on polished ivory. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, body trembling—

But not from fear anymore.

From relief. From surrender. From the unbearable sweetness of finally being seen.

You giggled, voice low and dizzy with affection, your fingertips drifting up to stroke along the base of his horns. They were warmer now, pulsing faintly under your touch. Sensitive. His breath hitched.

“So…” you whispered, a smile curling at your lips, “are you gonna let me touch your tail properly now?”

His eyes darkened.

Lashes lowered.

You didn’t need words.

Because the way his tail coiled around your waist—slow and deliberate, like silk ropes winding around prey—told you everything you needed to know. It slid higher, curling just beneath your ribs, then slinking lower to your thigh, where it wrapped snugly and held.

He buried his face into your shoulder with a choked sound, arms locking tight around your back like he needed your weight on top of him to stay grounded. His nose pressed to your throat, breathing you in like oxygen, like scent alone could anchor him. His fingers clutched at your shirt. His tail tightened around your thigh again, twitching with need.

And then—he purred.

Louder this time. Rougher. Deeper.

Because now you’d seen all of him.

And still chose to stay.

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 @𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐂 𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠—𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭!! 𝐌𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐢𝐭. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 💕✨

Outtakes:

You: “Myst, quick question.” Mystery: *bracing for anything* “…Yes?” You: “What happens if I tug your horn and tail at the same time?” Mystery: *pauses, blinks* “…Are you trying to summon a feral version of me?” Abby:*from the kitchen* “DON’T LET HER DO IT—!” Romance: *perking up* “I wanna see what happens. For science.” Baby: *sitting up abruptly, dead serious* “I volunteer as tribute!” Jinu: *pulls out phone* “I’m documenting this for historical accuracy.” You: *grinning* “So you don’t know what happens?” Mystery: *backing away slowly* “I will evaporate from existence if you test it. Don’t do this to me.”

.....

You: *sitting behind Mystery, hands reaching for his tail* “Can I?” Mystery: *tense* “…Go ahead.” *You gently trace down his tail. He visibly shudders.* Mystery: “—oh.” All the boys simultaneously: “RIGHT?!” Mystery: *in visible emotional crisis* “…I’ve been living in a self-imposed hell.”

.....

Baby: *patting the cushion beside him* “Come, hyung. Sit. You must be educated.” Mystery: “Educated in what?” Romance: *whispering reverently* “The divine art…of being pet.” Jinu: *dead serious, eyes glowing faintly* “The first time she touched my tail… I died. Twice. Came back just to feel it again.” Abby: *smirking, arms crossed* “When she combed her fingers through my horns and praised me, I nearly combusted." Baby: *giddy* “My tail wags on its own. Like it has free will. I giggled. I giggled, Hyung.” Mystery: *flatly* “I’ve seen you threaten people with your pinkie toe. You giggled?” Baby: *grinning proudly* “Like a schoolgirl.”

.....

You: walks in, barefoot, hoodie-swaddled, looking for snacks You: Pauses in the doorway. Romance: purring seductively Abby: purring like thunder Baby: vibrating like a smug cat Mystery: red-faced, refusing to join Jinu: judging with a clipboard You: *blinks slowly* “…I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see this.” You: Backs out slowly. Baby: “Wait—who was winning?!” You: *still backing out* “Therapy. Therapy is winning.”

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @libdarkheart @amery-benson-cvii @nubyeol @type-ink @tiredlittlevirgo @wtfgiyuu23 @i-am-here3 @mxn14 @buttermilktea11 @the-bookish-artist @ironsaladwitch @zuoran03 @aurorarose2112 @permanenceimp @otakuudere666 @attackonjacksons @ikykwkleeknowwww @what-just-happened-to-me @yharnam-prophet @yuurisfavblog @cici4954 @boo-shalala @wonwoossglasses @b-bianka-13 @wthamidoingwithmylife @ashleygryffindor @littlewhitefairy7777 @herondale-lightworm @pl4netx1a @rivainimermaid @lionheart178 @irethepotato @gl00muraaii @blurghbleep @ateezswonderland @sugakookieswithacupoftae16 @amery-benson-cvii @katzline @the-fanss @sylum @call-me-nyxx @craftygamerscrafts @keikeikeikeie @existingtoreadfanfics @suika-ira @cherrybb-ily  @3vrenie @determinednature @2emotionallyunstable @fxckinbreathe @starfishfaerie @aurorab-0-realis @baby-bread-in @sra7riddle-malfoy @frostbitetrap-blog @athena-portgas @piancqwrites @soleilscb @cottonheadedninnymugggins @scara-simp69 @aurorarose2112 @bad4amficideas @ineed-myspace @yukimaniac @thegreatpapaya666 @xsammijoanneex @winter-solstice24 @kpopgirliez @zebs-stuff

[cameronsbabydoll]

military!rafe having a little ptsd shock in the middle of the night? waking up and breathing heavily, eyes kinda teary and immediately going into protective mode seeing his girl by his side in bed; bringing her closer, almost encasing her body in his strong arms thinking "i'm not gonna let them hurt my girl" even though there's no one there.

and when she wakes up she asks him what's going on and tries to soothe him telling him she's never leaving him but he's just staying in that possessive mindset, holding her close

the first time it happened, it was 3:12 a.m.

you woke up to the sound of something sharp—his breath, quick and staggered. the mattress dipped under the force of his sudden movement. you blinked sleep from your eyes and turned your head—

and rafe was sitting up, completely rigid. chest heaving. palms gripping the edge of the mattress like he was going to fall through it. dog tags sticking to the sweat on his chest. eyes wild.

“rafe?” you whispered.

but he didn’t answer. just looked at the wall like it was breathing. like it might lunge. and then—

you watched the shift happen. it wasn’t big. just the smallest turn of his head. just the barest glance down at you, all curled up in your little sleep shirt and clutching the blanket to your chest.

“baby,” he choked out. “baby. baby.”

his hand was on you in a second, big and trembling and too tight, pulling you into his chest, into his lap, like someone was going to rip you away from him if he didn’t anchor you now.

“you’re okay. i got you. i got you. you’re not hurt. you’re not—”

his voice cracked. his arms were like steel around your waist.

“rafe—what’s wrong, baby?”

you were awake now. really awake. blinking up at him in the dim light. you placed both hands on his cheeks and felt how wet they were.

he didn’t answer. didn’t look at you.

“they’re not gonna touch you,” he muttered, voice thick. “not you. not my girl. i’ll kill anyone who—fuck, i thought—i thought they were gonna—”

you kissed his temple. and his shoulder. and ran your fingers through his damp hair, whispering over and over again.

“i’m not going anywhere. i’m right here. i’m with you, baby. always.”

but rafe couldn’t hear that right now. not really.

he was still shaking. still cradling you to him like you were something fragile. like you’d break if he loosened his grip. and under his breath—

“i don’t care what they do to me. they’re not getting near you. i’d burn this whole place down before i let that happen.”

his voice was lower now. growling. half asleep, half haunted. jaw clenched.

you cupped his cheek.

“i’m safe. because you protect me, rafe. you always do. come back to me now, please.”

he blinked slowly. finally, finally looked you in the eye. and when he saw you—really saw you, bare-faced and soft and alive—he kissed your forehead like he was grateful.

“i’m sorry, angel,” he rasped. “fuck, i didn’t mean to wake you.”

“i don’t care about sleep,” you whispered. “i just care about you.”

his arms didn’t loosen.

“mine,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re mine. not even god’s takin’ you.”

and that night, he didn’t fall back asleep until you did.

his hand never left your spine. his breath was still uneven. but his voice—low and constant—kept saying the same thing, over and over again.

“my girl. my girl. my girl.”

[hangmanwrites]

your personal kryptonite ━ clark kent

dedicated to ━ @frivolousimagination because she’s the one who convinced me to post this ridiculous filthy mess even though i was being a coward about it, love u bestie, this one’s for you!! word count ━ 3.4k words pairing ━ clark kent x fem!reader content warnings ━ smut, mdni, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it irl unless you’re also dating superman), soft dom clark, praise, overstimulation, crying during sex (in a hot way), emotional support himbo vibes, aftercare, romantic filth, gentle but devastating author's note ━ this is only my second time writing smut so please be kind to my fragile little writer brain, i’m still figuring it out one emotionally unhinged paragraph at a time, but i really hope you enjoy it anyway and fall a bit in love with soft filthy clark, too. masterlist read here ━ we have a little discord server if you want to talk about david corenswet, clark kent, or anything in between. it’s a cosy community where we spiral together, share ideas, and help each other out with fic writing too. everyone’s welcome to join as long as you’re over 18. minors are not allowed, sorry loves!! 🩵

Today was a shitty day.

Work treated you like you were some sort of animal, not even a real person, just this empty thing people could toss problems at and expect answers from, like your brain was some kind of machine that didn’t glitch or ache or hit its limit after hours of passive aggression and sugarcoated threats and stupid bloody spreadsheets that kept crashing for no reason. 

You’d barely managed to get through lunch without biting someone’s head off, and you did snap at a printer, which definitely made at least one intern scared of you forever, but honestly, at this point, let them be scared. 

Let them think you’re heartless, because you can’t keep doing this, you can’t keep pretending it’s fine, that you’re fine, not when the train made you late and the rain soaked your socks and some stranger told you to “smile more” like that was going to fix your entire nervous system spiralling into self-destruct mode.

You almost didn’t come, almost got off at your usual stop and went home to cry into the same pillow that’s soaked up too much already this month, but the thought of being alone felt unbearable, like your body might shut down if you didn’t see him.

So now you’re outside his flat, fingers aching from gripping your keys too tight, throat thick with everything you can’t name, and the second he opens the door—

It’s over.

Your whole posture collapses like your spine forgot what holding you up looks like, like his face was the final straw, and suddenly he’s right there, stepping forward like you’re made of something delicate, like he knew before you said a single word that something was wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate and just pulls you into his chest with both arms, firm and warm and steady, and it ruins you completely.

You don’t even get a chance to apologise, because he’s already holding you like you’re not a burden at all, just tired, just human, and your fists are already curling into the front of his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping you standing upright.

And you can feel your breathing hitch against him, feel that awful stutter in your chest like a sob is waiting to break free and you hate it, you hate it so much, but he just keeps whispering, quiet and careful and close to your ear, It’s alright, I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.

And he does, one arm wrapped firm around your back as though he’s trying to hold you together by force, the other hand steady at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair in slow, soothing motions as though he knows exactly where the panic lives and how to quiet it without being told. 

He sways with you gently, barely a movement but enough to keep you present, enough to remind your body that time is still passing, that you’re still here, still held, still safe in his arms even if the rest of the world spent the entire day trying to convince you otherwise.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or question or try to coax anything out of you, he just stays there with you. He’d done this before, he’d memorised the shape of your silence and knows how to sit inside it without making it about him. 

When you finally manage a full breath, not the shallow, uneven things you’d been taking all day but an actual proper inhale that lifts your chest and makes your shoulders fall, his hand presses gently against your back as if to say I felt that, I see it, you’re doing so well.

“Come here,” he says, soft and certain, and you follow him instantly, still clutching his sleeve, still a little folded into yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just guides you through the flat with both hands at your waist as though you might vanish if he lets go.

He sits you on the edge of the bed and crouches in front of you without hesitation, his hands on your knees, thumbs brushing slowly over your tights in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, and when he looks up, his eyes are so impossibly kind it nearly undoes you again, not because he pities you, but because he doesn’t, because he’s really looking at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, gently, carefully, as if the question is something he’s laying at your feet rather than pressing into your hands, “Or do you just want quiet?”

You shake your head, not sure which one you’re saying no to, not sure it even matters, because he nods anyway, as though a quiet understanding in the way he leans forward and presses a kiss to your knee, soft and lingering.

Then he kisses you again, a little higher, just above the edge of your skirt, and his hands slide to your hips, not in a greedy way, not in a way that demands anything, just a presence, just a reassurance, just him reminding you that he’s here.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice lower now, gentler, as though you might fall apart if he speaks too loud, “Then we’ll just sit. You and me.”

You nod, barely, just once, and maybe he thinks that’s it, that you’ll stay still and let the quiet carry you, but your hands are already reaching for him, moving like they’ve been waiting all day for permission, and the second your fingers thread through his hair, your whole chest twists, as though something in you finally dares to ache now that he’s here to hold it.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets you tug him into the space between your legs where you’re still curled on the bed, and your mouth finds his before you’ve even had time to think, messy and eager and a little too much, as though your body’s just trying to survive through contact.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for it, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen the second you walked through the door, and it’s slow at first, careful, as though he doesn’t want to take anything from you that you’re not ready to give, but the way you’re pulling at him makes it impossible to keep it gentle.

You know he feels it too, the way the air thickens around you the second you tilt your head and open your mouth for him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as though he needs something to hold or else he might break apart entirely.

It’s not perfect, not neat or delicate or slow-burn cinematic, it’s messy and damp and hungry, and the exhaustion still clings to your limbs, the rawness of the day still presses at your skin, but none of it matters, not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only place he wants to be, not with that heat building low in your belly every time his thumb finds your waist or his tongue brushes yours just right.

You’re not trying to start anything, but the way he groans when your nails scrape the back of his neck pulls something up from deep in your chest that has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with want.

You press in closer, tighter, chest flush to his, legs drawing him in, and you don’t stop kissing him because you don’t know how else to ask for more.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice rough now, ragged around the edges like he’s barely holding onto restraint, forehead pressed to yours, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage, I—”

“Please,” you whisper, too fast, too breathless, too much, but you don’t care, you’re already chasing his mouth again before he can finish the sentence, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in, and he lets you, because it’s Clark and he always does, and his lips are back on yours before either of you can think.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or take more than you’re ready to give, just kisses you with that quiet, steady focus that makes your whole chest tighten, his mouth slow against yours, his hands firm and careful even when they slide under your thighs to lift you into his lap, holding you close like it’s second nature.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the heat of him pressed between your legs, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, his hands gripping at your hips like he’s trying to keep control, and for a second he pulls back, just enough to look at you again, and there’s no rush in it only that same quiet awe in his expression.

When he leans in again, he doesn’t go for your mouth, not yet, just presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then just under your ear, each one slow and unbearably tender, and when he whispers, “You’ve had such a hard day.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, quiet and steady, as if he knows you’ll try to brush it off and doesn’t want to let you.

His hands move lower, sure and careful, fingers sliding beneath your underwear like he’s done it a hundred times, not from habit but because he knows you now, knows how to move without asking for more than you’re ready to give, and when he pulls the fabric down your legs, you lift your hips for him without needing to be told.

And when he sees you, really sees you, he exhales like it knocks the breath out of him, low and quiet and almost reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him in.

“God,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath, hands sliding up your thighs to part them, not rough, not rushed, just steady, grounding, and when he sees how wet you already are, he doesn’t say anything else just leans in and licks into you like it’s all he’s needed all day.

It’s filthy, right from the first slow pass of his tongue, so deliberate it pulls a whimper straight from your throat before you can even think, and you can’t hold it in, not when it’s not just his mouth.

Your thighs twitch, your hips shift, and you’re gripping the duvet in tight fists just to stay grounded, but he just keeps licking into you, slow and deep and steady, as though this is the only thing that matters.

And when you moan his name, helpless and breathless and wrecked, he groans back into you, fingers digging in just a little harder, and it’s not for show, it’s him, it’s real, it’s yes, that’s it, let me have it without saying a word.

Then his hand slides back down, his fingers warm and slick when he pushes two of them inside you, slow but sure, like he’s done this in his head a hundred times, and the stretch is so good it knocks the breath from your lungs, makes your hips jolt into his mouth, and he groans low and keeps going, his fingers working you open as his mouth stays right there.

And you can feel your climax building already, hot and unbearable and close, because it’s him, Clark, on his knees, giving everything, and you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

You say his name again and it’s not a choice, it just happens, your mouth moving before your brain can catch up, because everything’s gone fuzzy, because your body is too full to hold anything else, and he hums in response, pleased and steady and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

His palm presses firm to your lower stomach, and his voice comes soft and ruined against your cunt as he says, “Let go for me, baby, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just let me have it, come on.”

And you do, God, you do, it hits you hard and fast and so deep you don’t even realise you’ve stopped breathing until it all rushes back at once, and your body’s jolting up into him without warning, a helpless thing. Every muscle snapping tight and letting go all at once, and your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and your fingers are pulling hard in his hair and he just groans, low and hoarse and wrecked.

He slows down, keeps his tongue soft and steady and lets you fall apart in his mouth, lets you ride it out with his hands holding you still, one on your thigh and the other pressing down gently on your stomach.

You’re shaking, breathless, too far gone to speak, not a single thought in your head beyond the crashing release still flooding your chest and hips and thighs, and your hands are still in his hair, and when he finally lifts his head it’s slow.

His mouth is red, his eyes unbearably soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s flushed and wrecked and breathing hard, but he still smiles when he sees you staring at the ceiling like your mind hasn’t caught up yet, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush your hair back, voice low and hoarse when he asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, or something close to it, and he seems to understand. Then he leans down, kisses your hip, your stomach, the centre of your chest, soft and slow and steady, like he’s still trying to take care of you even now. 

Your throat tightens all over again, because it’s him, and he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle.

His mouth moves higher, kissing along your collarbone and neck, and his hands slide back up your thighs, hot and unshaking, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. 

You can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way his body holds still like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You feel him now, still hard, still clothed, the shape of him pressed to your thigh, and you can’t help it. Your hips roll, slow and greedy, your body answering before your head can catch up. 

He groans into your skin, low and deep, and you feel him falter, feel him fight not to lose it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, quiet and hoarse and almost dazed, and it’s not a complaint, it’s reverent, it’s full of disbelief that he gets to have you like this, that he gets to stay here, and then he’s sitting up just enough to tug off his shirt and undo his belt, one handed.

And you watch him, still flushed and sensitive, still sore in the best way, but your legs spread for him automatically because your body wants this, wants him, wants to feel him everywhere, and when his trousers hit the floor and you finally get to see the full, desperate shape of him, flushed and thick and twitching with how hard he is. 

You swear under your breath because it’s obscene, it’s not fair, he’s so beautiful, and he just kneels between your legs like he belongs there.

He leans down to kiss you again, mouth still messy from everything he did to you, and you moan into it, half from the taste of yourself on his tongue and half from the way his cock presses right up against you, not pushing in yet, but it’s hot and heavy against your overstimulated cunt.

Your body jolts with it, and you hear yourself whimper, and he shushes you softly, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, not because he doesn’t know, but because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure, always so careful even when he’s wrecked and seconds from losing it completely.

You nod again, this time more definite, more desperate, and you whisper, “Please,” and that’s all it takes.

He pushes in so slowly you can feel every inch of it, feel every thick, aching stretch of him as he fills you, deeper than you thought anyone ever could, thick and hot and perfect, and you’re already gasping before he’s fully seated, already clutching at his back with both hands as your body adjusts, 

“You feel—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a soft, broken noise, and presses a kiss to your throat as his hips roll forward, just enough to make you whimper, and he whispers, “So warm, sweetheart, so soft, you feel incredible.”

And then he moves for real, pulls back just enough to drag the whole length of himself out of you before sliding in again slow and deep, and your mouth falls open because it’s filthy, the sound of it, the slick, obscene drag of his cock inside you, your body taking him like it’s what it was made for, and Clark’s still breathing like he’s trying to survive it.

Clark sets a rhythm, gentle but full, grinding deep into you with every stroke, his hips tilting just right to press against that spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach clench.

And every time he finds it again, again, he murmurs something soft into your skin, “There you go, That’s it, I’ve got you,” as though he’s guiding you somewhere, as if your body is answering him and he’s proud of it.

And it is so much, the stretch of him, the wet slide of your bodies moving together, the way your slick is dripping down your thighs now, messy and shameless, and Clark can feel it, can hear it, and instead of shying away from it he groans softly into your neck, presses his hand flat against your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, and says, breathless and stunned, “You’re so beautiful like this, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how this feels.”

His voice is wrecked, soft and rough as he shudders above you, fingers finding your clit with slow, careful circles that make your whole body jerk beneath him. He doesn’t speed up, just keeps fucking you deep and steady, every thrust dragging right through you, and your legs are shaking, your hands clutching at him just to stay grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you slow, “I’ve got you, I promise, just let go for me, sweetheart, please—”

And you do. It hits hard and hot, your body locking tight around him as everything breaks open, and you cry out without words, just Clark, just need, and he holds you through all of it, kissing your face, whispering soft things you can’t even process through the pleasure.

And he’s still inside you when it fades, still thick and hard and throbbing, just watching your face with the kind of awe that makes you ache all over again, and when you finally open your eyes, blinking up at him with wet lashes and parted lips, he leans down and kisses you one more time, deep and slow and full of everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and he’s flushed and wrecked and still holding back, and you nod, still breathless, still clenching around him, and his whole body shudders again.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, so softly it makes your heart twist, “You feel too good, I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you—”

But you’re already pulling him closer, because he needs it, because he’s holding himself so carefully, still buried in you and barely moving, arms shaking and jaw tight like it’s taking everything not to fall apart.

You press your hands to his face, tilting his head until he looks at you, and the second his eyes meet yours, something in you snaps again, because he’s beautiful and he’s yours and he’s waiting.

You don’t have to speak. He sees it in the way you nod, in the way your hands cradle him, in the way your thighs pull him in.

And he exhales, shaky and wrecked, and leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, and he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, barely audible, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say, and it’s not breathless anymore, not messy or chaotic, it’s just soft, steady, honest, because you mean it, because you know him, and you know he never could.

He starts to move again, slow and deep and careful, as if he’s trying to memorise how you feel now that he’s allowed to. It’s not rushed anymore, just warm, just full of that unbearable closeness that only he ever gives you, and when your body clenches around him he groans, low and reverent.

Clark kisses you again and again, mouth soft on yours, whispering between breaths, “So good, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and it’s never really about him, not even now, not even with his hips starting to stutter and his hands gripping tighter like he needs to hold on to something real.

And when it happens, when he finally lets go, you feel all of it; the shake in his thighs, the rough sound in his throat, the way his mouth drops open against your cheek and you hold him through it, hands in his hair, whispering his name just to let him know you’re here.

He groans your name like it’s the only word he knows, and he spills into you with his face tucked into your neck, his entire body trembling as though he’s never felt anything like this before, as though this moment, this warmth, this love, is undoing something in him he never thought could be undone.

When it’s over, his hips still and his breath evens out, and he doesn’t move. He stays close, chest to chest, mouth pressed to your skin like he’s not ready to let go, and you lie there with him in the quiet, holding each other, breathing slow and steady, hearts still racing in sync, and you know you’ve never been loved like this before.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, tangled and quiet, your legs still around his hips, his arms still tight around you like he’s afraid to let go. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you would fall apart if he stopped holding you like this, so gently, so steady, like he’s keeping you from breaking again.

When you finally shift, just enough to breathe deeper, he follows without question, tucks his face into your neck and sighs. Quiet and warm and full of peace, as if something inside him has finally gone still.

It’s a mess, all of it, your bodies sticky, your thighs still shaking, your heart beating too fast to keep up with your thoughts, but you don’t care. Not when his hand keeps stroking slow across your back like he’s soothing something deeper than skin, not when his mouth keeps finding your shoulder in soft kisses that feel more like promises than habit.

You should say something, maybe thank him or laugh or breathe properly, but all you can do is hold him tighter and hope he gets it. Hope he hears it in the way your fingers stay in his hair, in the way your forehead presses into his cheek, in the way your breathing finally begins to settle, not calm, but easier. 

And the thought hits you, not all at once but slowly, creeping in through the quiet like a truth you’d been ignoring until now;

Kryptonite could kill him, sure, it’s the one thing strong enough to bring him down, the one weakness he can’t hide, but Clark Kent on his knees, hands steady and tongue slow and eyes so full of love it breaks you, that might just kill you first.

[gentleman-velvet]

Okay, so here’s the updated plans for fighting against youtube's new ai age policy and privacy violating rule (I believe in us!)

Plan 1. Black out and leave youtube/ youtube boycott (August 13 to the point where the policy is gone)

It’s a very simple plan, but this time we just leave until it’s fully reversed. That way YouTube doesn’t just ignore us and the original black out. We have to stand our ground and show them we aren’t going to give up. We have to last as long as possible and let their revenue drain until they concede or someone else comes in and makes another platform (that isn’t based on politics but the same ideas as the original YouTube)

Plus I would like to add some small extra things that will help with the blackout though. That being mass downloading YouTube content. Now this might be the easiest thing for certain people, but it’s something.

Mass downloading YouTube content can help in case there a couple of videos or channels you want to watch during the blackout. You can also use this to download new youtube videos from places like twitter since it won't count towards ads or view

(I use something called a ytdlp but there might be better options for you out there, there might even be built in ones in a web browser or two, just search around the place, you'll find it eventually)

There is also alternate YouTube apps that block ads (like Jdownloader and newpipe) that might work within the black out, but I'm worried that it would still count towards views and still help YouTube out in that smallest of ways, more research is needed, but it is an option (though I still recommended downloading new videos just to avoid the entire views thing)

Plan 2. Bugging the crap out of them.

Now since they have a mail box for us to use, that can be used for our advantage here. So here’s what we do, send them letters asking them to reverse the decision, that way they will be overwhelmed by letters that have to eventually give up. Now I don't want you guys to send out slurs, curses or whatever. I need you guys to be kind and critical. I want you to point everything wrong with this and why it is destined to fail and leave the company crumbling

In addition to these letters, if at all possible, I want you guys to include photos of comments made by other people (Twitter, tumblr, whatever) criticizing this and making it known that it’s not just you guys who are angry, but people all over too.

Now we can also include emails in this, but that might be harder than excepted, but in case you do want to send in a email, you can send it that way

I can't find any other way of sending them an email, but good to you if you do find it (though I would recommend a letter much more)

UPDATE, someone has pointed out that we should all send out our letters on a single day, Im taking around August 5th about a week before the thing actually rolls out and than maybe we’ll do another batch on the 8th just in case

Make sure you mass send a bunch of letters

WIP plan 3, legal bull

I wish I could say this plan was finished, but unfortunately, it is not at all. All we have to go for here to filing a complaint towards the FTC about this and or using what this user recommneds (though I can't fully say if it'll work or not)

This plan will be worked on as much as possible

I want everyone if they can to spread to outside of tumblr, talk about it on twitter, facebook, blusky, youtube itself, this plan has to spread to as much people as possible.

I believe we can do our best and shine a light through these horrible times, we can be light in the darkness that will help others shine a burn a hole in this horrible system of censorship

I believe in every last one of you, I believe you can do good and spread good, because in your hearts, you are good

If you have any other ideas, let me know, cause i know more minds are better than one.

Good luck!

[shortnspidey]

TOO HOT TO HANDLE

Johnny Storm X Female!reader || WC: 3K

SUMMARY: After a city-wide blackout plunges New York into a sweltering summer heatwave, everyone’s struggling to survive the heat. With no air conditioning and no relief in sight, you're stuck trying to survive the sticky, sleepless nights. Unfortunately, your boyfriend Johnny, insists on snuggling close, despite being a literal walking furnace. Normally, you don’t mind being wrapped around each other, but with temperatures soaring, cuddling feels more like punishment than comfort.

WARNINGS: Slight spoilers for Fantastic Four: First Steps! Established relationship, cursing, suggestive jokes, SO much fluff, lovesick!Johnny, flirty banter, smidge of angst (literally Johnny just being dramatic and pouty)

A/N: Thank you SO much for all the love on my first Johnny one-shot! Y'all are too sweet! 🥹 Hope y'all enjoy this self-indulgent fic! SoCal weather has not been it lately, I miss hot summers! Divider by @saradika-graphics <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ johnny storm masterlist

July in New York was hell. Not metaphorical, not poetic, actual, fiery, oppressively humid hell. The kind of heat that made you question your life choices and whether humans were even meant to inhabit this region of the planet. The only salvation during the day had been the arctic blast of air-conditioned buildings, the kind that hit your skin and made you briefly believe in a higher power.

So, naturally when the temperature broke 106 degrees, the universe decided to snatch it all away. The blackout hit like a bad punchline, citywide, no warning, and utterly relentless. Within minutes, New York quickly became a sweaty, sweltering purgatory. The skyline disappeared into darkness, the streets filled with the sound of confused, irritated voices, and the only light left came from the flicker of angry candle flames.

At first, you thought maybe it was just a rolling outage, the kind that hit different neighborhoods in the summer, or a blown fuse somewhere down the line. But when the entire skyline went black, a void where the city's vibrant lights used to be, and the usually bustling Hudson fell eerily silent, the absence of boat horns and distant sirens was deafening, reality set in like a punch to the gut. New York City, the city that never sleeps, had officially been thrown back into the Stone Age.

Reed had dove into the problem like it was personal project. He hadn’t left his lab since the lights went out, speaking in rapid-fire scientific jargon to H.E.R.B.I.E., who beeped and hovered around him like a glorified intern. You passed by once to bring him a sandwich and were met with wild-eyed theories about backup energy grids, temporal fluctuations, and something that might have involved a mini black hole. You didn’t ask questions. You just left the sandwich and backed out slowly.

Susan had stepped into full crisis-management mode, turning her calm, motherly energy into political diplomacy. One moment, she was soothing a cranky Franklin, and the next, she was on a livestream addressing half the tri-state area with a collected, “We’re doing everything we can” smile that barely masked the migraine behind her eyes. When she wasn’t on live TV or attending last minute press conferences, she was at home juggling Franklin and whatever chaos Ben, Johnny, or Reed had unintentionally created.

Ben, bless his rock-solid heart, took it upon himself to keep dinner on the table, heat be damned. He cooked like a man on a mission, using only canned goods and willpower. The oven may have been off-limits, but the stovetop was fair game. Which left you and Johnny in charge of Franklin most days as well as ensuring everyone stayed sane. You tried to keep things calm and structured. While Johnny did the complete opposite. The man was allergic to any kind of boredom.

The blackout was a perfect breeding ground for his antics. Whether it was sneaking into Ben’s kitchen to swipe a spoonful of stew for 'quality assurance', or poking around Reed’s lab until something beeped, sparked, or outright exploded, Johnny couldn’t resist the chaos. You’d lecture him, scold him, swat at him like a fly, and he’d just grin, blue eyes wide with faux innocence. “Who, me?” He’d say, mid-chaos, then kiss you just as you were about to yell.

You hated how well that worked. It was unfair, honestly, your brain short-circuited the second his lips hit yours, heat or no heat. It was like parenting two kids, Franklin and the overgrown, man-child that was your boyfriend. Which is how you found yourself, on the fourth day of this godforsaken blackout, sprawled dramatically across your bed. You were dressed in the lightest tank top you could find, and a pair of cotton underwear that felt like the only barrier between you and total heatstroke.

Your skin stuck to the sheets with every shift, and no matter how still you lay, the coolness of the fabric faded quickly into sticky, humid warmth. The air was thick. Stale. Not even the hint of a breeze. You were too hot to sleep, too tired to move, and just one hundred percent done. And then, you heard it. “Now this is a view I could get used to.” Johnny’s voice cut through the silence, thick with mischief. You didn’t need to look.

You could feel the smirk on his face, the playful hunger in his gaze as he took in the scene, your bare legs, your limp posture, your total surrender to the heat. You could also practically hear the raised eyebrow and the mental fanfare that played in his head every time he thought he was being smooth. Behind you, the floor creaked, pitter-patter of footsteps, light and deliberately slow. Before he could pounce, you raised a hand in warning, voice sharp and dry.

“Don’t even think about it.” There was a beat of silence. Then a long, exaggerated sigh. “I was just gonna stand here and admire the view,” He replied innocently. “You know. Like art. Like a museum. Very classy.” You cracked one eye open and turned your head just enough to glare at him. “People at museums don’t try to climb on the exhibits.” You stated matter-of-factly. “Well, maybe they should.” He shrugged, already inching closer.

“Johnny.” You warned, making him freeze mid-step, clearly fighting back a cheeky grin. “Okay, okay. No touching. But just so you know…” He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes doing zero effort to hide how thoroughly he was ogling you. “You being all hot and bothered in your underwear is really testing my self restraint.” You let out a snort and flopped onto your back with a loud groan.

“If you touch me right now, I will spontaneously combust.” You exasperated, shielding your face with your arm. “That's so fucking hot.” He grinned suggestively, biting down on his bottom lip. “Not in the fun way, because you are literally a human furnace.” You snapped, peeking at him from under your arm. “And you used to love that about me.” He countered, creeping closer in slow motion like you wouldn’t notice the six-foot human heatwave inching closer across the room.

You sighed dramatically, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that hadn’t moved in days, praying for divine intervention. Or a thunderstorm. Or even the mild breeze of a passing pigeon flapping its wings by your window. Literally anything. “I’ll go cuddle with Ben before I cuddle with you and get heatstroke.” That stopped him cold. Johnny gasped like you’d slapped him. His hand flew to his heart, his face contorting with wounded betrayal.

“That’s just cruel, sweetheart. You truly wound me.” You launched a pillow at his head, only for him to catch it one-handed with infuriating ease. The action alone should not have been as attractive as it was, and judging by the look on his face, that smug bastard knew it. He winked, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin. “I’m telling Sue you’re being mean to me.” He announced with exaggerated dignity.

You laughed, breathless, amused, and just a little fond despite yourself. “As if she’ll take your side. We both know I’m her favorite.” His jaw dropped in mock outrage. He stood still for a moment, hands on his hips, his expression a mix of scandalized and scheming. Then without warning, he bolted. You shrieked as he sprinted, closing the distance between the two of you, launching himself onto the bed, landing with a graceless thud right on top of you.

The weight of him pressed you deep into the already-too-warm mattress, limbs tangling as he wrapped you up like an overenthusiastic weighted blanket with biceps. “Johnny!” You gasped, somewhere between a squeal and a laugh, arms trapped beneath his stupidly solid chest. “God you are such a child, Franklin is only eight months and he’s already more mature than you are.” You squirmed, trying to shove at his shoulder, but it was like pushing a brick wall with abs. “Get off, I swear to—”

“Take it back.” He cut in smoothly, nose brushing against yours, his grin all teeth and trouble. The heat of him wasn’t just temperature, it was electric, like he got genuinely high off being this close to you. You narrowed your eyes and lifted your chin with defiance. “Never.” That earned you a sharp, playful squint. He tilted his head, lips twitching into a crooked smile as he studied your stubborn expression like a man preparing for battle. “Alright, sweetheart. Just remember, you asked for this.”

Before you could process the threat, he let himself go completely limp. All six feet of overheated, smug, muscular boyfriend collapsed directly on top of you like a ton of very affectionate bricks. “Johnny!” You gasped, the air leaving your lungs in a whoosh as your body sank further into the mattress. You thrashed, but he didn’t budge. If anything, he nuzzled deeper into your neck like a particularly needy space heater.

Then, to make matters worse, he released steam. Actual, tangible steam. His skin went from just annoyingly warm to actively boiling. “You’re insufferable.” You groaned, voice muffled against his shoulder. Sweat beaded on your forehead as your tank top began sticking in all the wrong places. “Mm,” He hummed, sounding way too pleased with himself. “Feels nice, huh?” Asshole. An idea sparked in your heat-hazy brain. Johnny weaponized affection against you a hundred times before.

Soft kisses, innocent touches, playful grins that always ended with you a flushed mess, forgetting why you were even mad in the first place. You knew his tricks. Hell, you’d studied them. Perfected them. Time to return the favor. Two could play that game. Subtly, carefully, you lifted your head just enough to shift the angle of your body. You shifted just slightly, letting your breath catch on purpose so he'd think nothing of it. Then, with a feigned innocence that would’ve made him proud, you leaned up and caught his mouth with yours.

His reaction was instantaneous. Johnny melted, absolutely dissolved, beneath the kiss, body slackening above yours like someone had cut the tension from every muscle in his frame. His lips parted eagerly, exhaling a soft, shaky breath into your mouth, almost like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He let out a noise, low and desperate, caught between a gasp and a moan.

His hand, previously pinning yours in his theatrical “surrender,” lifted to cradle the side of your face. Fingers warm and gentle, tilted your jaw just slightly, deepening the kiss with the kind of slow-burning intensity that made your pulse stutter. His lips moved with practiced confidence, but beneath the heat and teasing was raw affection, the kind that made your chest tighten and your spine arch instinctively towards him.

Johnny kissed like he worshipped you. Not just with hunger, but with need. Like every second without your mouth on his was some unbearable punishment. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, feather-light. His other hand slid down, fingertips skating across your waist with something close to reverence, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you. Your lips parted slightly, and he took the invitation greedily.

His tongue brushed against yours with a slow, sensual flick that had you gripping his chest for balance. The taste of him was addicting. His hips shifted instinctively above yours, just a small movement, but it was one that sent heat curling low in your stomach. Your bodies were flushed chest to chest now, every inhale brushing his bare skin against your ribs. You could feel the hard lines of muscle beneath you, coiled and twitching. And then, he made a sound. A soft, almost breathless mewl against your lips.

A sound you’d never heard him make before, when he was utterly gone for you. It snapped you back to your senses like a bucket of cold water. Before he could blink, you twisted your hips with just enough momentum to roll, flipping the two of you in a blur of limbs and startled sounds until you were the one straddling him. Johnny hit the mattress with a groan, eyes wide, pupils blown with surprise and something darker. You perched above him, flushed and breathless, your palms flat on his bare chest as you stared down at him with smug satisfaction.

He looked absolutely wrecked. Hair tousled, lips pink and kiss-bitten, skin glowing with heat and something else entirely. His chest rose and fell beneath you, sharp with every breath, like he was still catching up. You leaned down, brushing your mouth across his in a teasing apology. “I’m sorry, okay?" You murmured, lips grazing his as you spoke. "That comment was way out of line.” You pressed another kiss, quick, teasing to his mouth before he could recover enough to grab you and pull you back under him.

You brushed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, fingertips sweeping over golden strands sticking adorably to his skin. His fingers twitched at your waist, longing etched into every line of his face. If the room weren’t a furnace, you'd make sure he’d be on top of you again in a second, and the kiss would’ve gone somewhere far less innocent. “Now, for the love of God,” You exhaled, close enough for your breath to ghost across his lips. "Stay on your side of the bed. I want to at least get some sleep tonight.”

The pout that bloomed on his face was immediate. Tragic. Heart-wrenching. Award-worthy. “You know I love you. And your cuddles. But not when I’m sweating through my soul and when the city feels like hell incarnate." You rolled off him with a sigh, flopping dramatically onto your back. “Okay.” One word. Just that. No over-dramatic groan, no exaggerated puppy-dog eyes, no hands dragging down your arm like he was being banished to the coldest corner of the Earth. Just 'okay'.

You blinked, startled. That wasn’t the Johnny you knew. Especially when cuddles or any kind of affection was at stake. You half-expected him to throw a blanket over your head and latch onto you like a koala. Instead, he nodded without meeting your eyes, leaned in slowly, delicately, and pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered there for the briefest second before he reached past you to flick off the bedside lamp, casting the room into a blur of darkness.

Then, silence.

He turned onto his side, spine straight and unmoving, broad shoulders facing away from you. The curve of his back was sharp in the moonlight, muscles drawn tight. His arm disappeared beneath the pillow, and you could just barely make out the twitch in his fingers, like even in stillness, he was trying not to reach for you. The fanless room buzzed with heat, sweat already pooling along your neck and chest, but without the light on, your body finally started to settle.

And then you heard it. A tiny, barely-there exhale. Not even a sigh, more like the sound someone makes when they’re trying not to sigh. Like disappointment slipping out against his will. Your chest tensed. God, this man was going to be the death of you. You rolled your eyes toward the ceiling, biting down on the smile that threatened to bloom. The bastard had the nerve to make you feel guilty for your own personal comfort. It was a skill, one he wielded with terrifying, unconscious ease.

“Johnny,” You muttered, already caving. "Just get over here.” There was a beat of stillness. Then movement, as he rolled toward you so fast. You caught the flash of pure joy in his face, eyes practically glowing in the low light. If he had a tail, it would’ve broken the sound barrier with how hard it’d be thumping right now. “Are… you sure?” He breathed, voice soft and awestruck, like you’d just offered him a place in heaven. You opened your arms in silent invitation, and that was all it took.

He surged forward, melting into you like you were his favorite pillow and he hadn’t been cuddled in years. His head found its home on your chest, cheek pressed over your heartbeat like it calmed something inside him. One arm slid beneath your pillow, possessive and protective, while the other curled tight around your waist, legs automatically tangling with yours. You huffed, lips quirking. “Big baby." All you got in response was a contented hum against your sternum.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, threading through golden strands that were damp with humidity but still impossibly soft. You could feel the way his body relaxed under your touch, how his grip around your waist loosened, not out of reluctance, but because he didn’t have to hold on tight. “You love it.” He murmured, voice low, sleep-soft, lips brushing your collarbone like a punctuation. You didn’t answer, not directly.

But your hand slowed in his hair, your breathing synced to his, and your chin came to rest on top of his head. Because no matter how ridiculous, how impulsive, how obnoxiously hot he was, both literally , figuratively, and emotionally, you loved him. You loved that under all the swagger and fire, there was a heart that ached to be held. To be wanted. And lucky you, you were the one he’d chosen to orbit like a sun all his own.

So yeah, his body heat was hell. You’d probably wake up drenched in sweat and regretting everything when you opened your eyes tomorrow morning. But even so, with his heartbeat slowing against your chest, his fingers curling tighter as he dozed off to sleep like he was scared you’d vanish, you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even if cuddling him felt like snuggling against a very affectionate golden-haired space heater.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[clockwayswrites]

Birb Thoughts, P 45

masterpost so I maybe kept writing last night. please no editing or concrit <3

It turned out that Danny was actually right. Tim hated that, a little, but mostly because it meant that he was happily doing a puzzle. He’d come to Danny for help, or something, after all, so he wasn’t mad that it worked. Just… it was a basic puzzle. Damian would mock him if he the kid knew.

Fuck, Damian. They were going to be right back to square one, weren’t they? With the stabbing and murder attempts. Damian was going to hate him again.

“Want to talk about what just went through that head of yours?” Danny asked as he dropped another handful of background pieces into the right bowl.

Tim took it and moved around the different colors idly with his finger. “I don’t know,” Tim said honestly.

“Okay,” Danny said back easily and returned to sorting.

“It’s Damian,” Tim sighed, because apparently he did want to talk about it. “He had a lot of problems when he first came here. Like, a lot is such a huge understatement for the problems he had. His other side of the family is really fucked up. They’re controlling and put only loyalty above efficiency in serving the family. Loyalty means blood ties.”

“Ah… and now what he knew as blood ties has changed?”

“Yeah, for the worst. You don’t know how much weight Damian puts on being the blood son. It’s something he has even if he fucks up. It’s there no matter what. It’s a way he’s better than the rest of us. Like, not as…” Tim sighed again. “I thought at first it was a superiority thing, but it’s more like a security blanket. And now that’s going to be gone.”

“Not gone,” Danny corrected, “just different. He’s still a blood son. It’s just now he has you as blood too.”

“Except he’s always been worse about me. If, like, Dick was the blood son it might not matter that much, Damian loves Dick. But it’s me. Damian has just started liking me,” Tim said.

“That can’t be true.”

“It is! His grandfather has this weird obsession with me and my skill set. I’m not blood but I come from a powerful family. And I’m a lot like Bruce, which, wow do we get now I guess, but he’s always put me in this pedestal,” Tim tried to explain without explaining. “It’s always pissed Damian off. And now I’ll be a blood son and the oldest. This is just going to make it worse again.”

Danny gave a thoughtful hum as he frowned down at the piece in his hand. “Asteroid or planet?”

Tim leaned over to look at it. “Planet.”

Danny dropped the piece in the bowl Tim had. “So, here’s the thing, humming bird… I’m not saying that it’s not going to be tough or that Damian won’t regress some. I know he has a temper and I know that gets in the way of showing how much he cares, but Damian cares about you. I don’t have a single doubt of that after seeing you two together. And as long as you both can remember that you care about each other, it will sort itself out.”

“Love conquers all?” Tim asked with a sad little smile.

Danny snorted. “Hardly. I love my parents and they love me, but that doesn’t mean that they weren’t bad parents or that I have to choose to have a relationship with them. But Damian doesn’t just love you, he cares about you. And caring about someone goes a really, really long way.”

Tim blinked down at the bowl in his hands. “Oh. Oh, that’s… yeah.”

“How about we get some dinner ordered and then you can start sorting that background bowl,” Danny suggested.

After a deep breath, Tim nodded. “Yeah… I think I want Thai.”

“Great, I love Thai.”

[stove-top96]

Eat Your Young

Ch. 01

Y Batfam x GN Reader

Soulmate and Mafia AU

Synopses: In a city ruled by crime, the Wayne family stands on top. Their power and influence behind the shadows is unmatched, however despite their soul-bond and power something or someone is still missing from the equation. You have spent your life yearning to meet your soulmates, the 5 coloured strips on your arm a constant reminder that they’re waiting for you to. You just never planned for them to be the family you fear most.

1.8k words

Masterlist

Ch. 00 <- Ch. 01 -> Ch. 02

20 Dollars and hour.

5 hours serving, 1 hour cleaning.

Roughly 106 dollars after taxes.

Rent is coming up and you’re still short 150$. If you pick up a few extra shifts at the diner, stretch your groceries out, and skip a couple meals— you might survive the week.

You sigh, fixing your hair in the fancy bathroom mirror.

Guests would be arriving in 10 minutes, your stomach churns at the thought.

Normally you would never take a job like this. serving drinks to Gotham's most dangerous criminals wasn’t exactly how you wanted to pay your bills. But desperate times call for desperate measures— despite how nervous you were.

Your stomach feels heavy, your palms are sweaty, and a cold sweat covers your body.

You feel like you’re walking into a war zone.

Taking a deep breath “It’s just 5 hours, you can do this.” You mumble.

Just keep your head down, and do what you’re told. It’s just like any other night.

You repeat the mantra over and over in your head. Clinging onto it like it’s your only lifeline.

“Y/N! Guests are making their way in! Get in the back!” Your boss yells from the end of the hallway.

Snapping out of your thoughts you quickly stumble out an apology before jogging back to the kitchen, tying your apron with shaky hands.

Guests flood in and you’re immediately pushed to the front, balancing a tray full with champagne flutes.

You never expected to see the Falcone’s and the Maroni’s in the same room— let alone see them discussing plans with Cops and even shaking hands with the Mayor.

You quickly swallow the lump in your throat, stepping into the crowd you begin to serve the guests. Whether they sensed your fear or not they paid you no mind— you’ve never been more thankful to be invisible.

As soon as your tray was empty you retreated back to the kitchen, hands shaking as you poured another round of drinks.

Letting out a shaky breath, you're able to relax a little.

The door swings open, and two coworkers enter mid-conversation. Lucien spots you immediately and veers over with a grin.

“How’s your first real gig going, Y/N?” he asks, giving you a knowing smile.

“Yeah” Margot adds, grabbing a fresh tray of appetizers. “this is kinda a step up from weddings and charity gala’s” She laughs, and puts a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s going good.” You chuckle nervously, they can probably see you shaking right now but pay it no mind.

“Yeah I was wreck my first time serving at some Falcone wedding.” Lucien says, waving it off. “It gets better with time. Plus the money is really good.”

“Totally” Margot nudges your arm. “And it's not like the Waynes are here, so you really have nothing to worry about.” Margot smiles as she picks up her tray and walks to the door.

You freeze

“Wait, the Wayne’s!?”

The colour drains from your face and your tray almost slips out of your hands.

“I mean, yeah” Margot says casually. “they’re on the guest list, but they really come to things like this. I’ve only seen them once, and that was like 3 years ago.” Margot laughs.

“Don’t worry Y/n” Lucien pats your shoulder. “If they even bother coming they’ll show up an hour late and leave before dessert” He smiles.

You nod your head, but your mind is racing.

As the three of you split off into the crowd you can’t help but glance at the grand entrance every few minutes.

The pit in your stomach is growing heavier and heavier.

Weaving in and out and around the crowd. You slowly find your rhythm and feel your nerves start to settle down. You're able to breathe properly again.

You're in the middle of giving a guest her drink when the room suddenly goes silent. Chatter dies instantly as folks freeze looking at the entrance.

Your right forearm starts to tingle

It’s soft at first, like your arm is starting to fall asleep. But it quickly spreads to all five tattoos, a dull numbness that won’t go away.

What. The. Fuck.

You try to shake off the feeling, praying your arm is just tired.

Your head snaps to the entrance and you see them.

The Wayne family.

Five figures, dressed in tailored designer suits that probably cost more than your rent for a year. Their presence alone is suffocating. Commanding. Cold. They walk in like they own the building—because they probably do.

And worse, they’re scanning the room. Slowly. Intentionally. Searching.

You lock eyes, with the man at the center. Bruce Wayne.

The tingling on your arm turns into burning.

White-hot, Unbearable, Blinding, Pain.

Your tray slips from your hands. Champagne and glass spilling everywhere.

Gasps echo throughout the room as everyone's attention snaps to you— including the Waynes. You can see Bruce Wayne mutter something to his sons. You can’t hear it, you just see them smile in response, not taking their eyes off you.

You can’t move. Your body has locked itself in place.

The only thing keeping you grounded is the shrill voice of the woman in front of you—now soaked in champagne and fury.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THIS DRESS COSTS!”

You flinch.

“I am so sorry Ma’am, I didn’t mean to.” You apologize, your voice is weak and the burning in your arm is excruciating. You want nothing more than to disappear forever.

She crosses her arms. “You better be sorry, Where is your boss? I would like to speak to him!” She demands her voice is sharp as she glares daggers.

“I- uh- Yes, I will get him right away for you Ma’am.” You stutter

You don't wait for her reply before rushing back into the kitchen, carefully avoiding other guests and your coworkers.

the moment you’re back in the kitchen the noise in the ballroom continues. Everyone has moved on— everyone except for the Waynes. You could feel their eyes on you the whole time. There is no way you could go back out there, especially when your arm feels like it’s on fire.

Running your fingers through your hair and pacing back and forth in the narrow kitchen hallway.

You’re fucked.

You go back out there, the Wayne’s will find you. If you stay here, your manager is gonna come in and chew you out any minute. Either way you’re screwed.

Your heart pounds as you try to think of something, anything.

Leave.

Sure you won’t get paid, and you’ll be late on rent. But that’s a future problem, one you can solve without your arm burning and the most dangerous family in the city hunting you down.

Screw it. You need to get out of heee.

You snatch your bag from the staff locker room with shaky hands. You don’t even bother changing out of your uniform. You're able to sneak by the kitchen staff and book it down the hallway, pushing through the back door, making a beeline for the subway.

Just get on a train and get home.

“There are hundreds of more important things we could be doing with our evening.” Damian's statement echoed through the limo. His brothers just rolled their eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tim muttered, eyes glued to his phone. “We’re expected to show face.”

“Gotta keep up appearances,” Dick added, his voice laced with sarcasm as he tilted his head toward Bruce. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Jason let out a low groan, leaning his head back against the leather seat. “Yeah, and spend a few hours having to deal with those ass kissers”

“God—kill me now,” Tim deadpanned, not looking up.

Bruce didn’t flinch. “It’s important we remind them who’s in charge,” he said calmly, his voice quiet, final.

None of the boys argued. They knew what he meant.

The trip from the Manor to the venue was long, Gotham passed by in a blur of shadow and lights.

Arriving at the banquet hall the family prepared for a long evening, filled with people trying to cozy up to them.

The second the Wayne family entered the gala, the air shifted.

Silence swept over the crowd. Conversations died mid-sentence and people stood frozen— staring at the door. Even the most notorious families couldn’t help but watch them make their entrance.

Bruce’s presence demanded the attention of the room— his expression unreadable. Dick’s smile was friendly but hollow. Tim scanned the crowd with methodical precision. Jason rolled his shoulders, bored already. Damian looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

It hit them all at once. Burning. A familiar pain on their forearms— each of their soulmate marks igniting a fire on their arm.

They shared a look.

The experience was shocking— something they didn’t expect. However the suprise wasn’t welcomed.

Without a word the family began searching through the crowd.

Their eyes snapped to the center of the ballroom—just in time to see a tray of champagne crash to the floor. The poor server stood frozen, a drenched guest yelling at them. Their hands were trembling and their eyes wide.

You.

You look over at them. Terrified and trembling. Their hearts skipped a beat.

“That’s them,” Bruce said. The boys nod, not taking their eyes off you.

As you stumbled out of the room, face pale, rushing past startled guests, none of the Waynes moved.

Not one of them made a scene.

They simply watched you go—eyes tracking your every step.

Then like nothing happened the party continued, they drank champagne, talked with guests, and discussed business with their partners.

—

The limo was silent for a long time after they pulled away from the venue.

Each family member was lost in their own thoughts. Staring out the window or at their arm— the burning had stopped hours ago, but the feeling lingered.

Tim was the first to break the silence. He’d been tapping away on his phone nonstop for thirty minutes.

“Name’s Y/N L/N,” he said without looking up. “Second-year nursing student at Gotham University.”

“Is that all the information you could find?” Damian side-eyed Tim.

“I only have my phone,” Tim muttered “give me an hour at home, and I’ll get everything we need” he rolled his eyes.

“Nursing student,” Dick repeated with a soft smile. “That’s... kind of adorable.” He leaned forward. “Any socials?”

“Yeah, all private. I’ll get in when we’re back.”

“Gotham university… How much money do we donate there?” Bruce said.

Tim looked up from his phone, already anticipating the direction of Bruce’s thoughts.

“Roughly three million annually,” he replied. “More during campaign cycles and when we fund the hospitals.”

Bruce nodded once, expression unreadable. “Double it.”

Jason scoffed. “Subtle.”

Dick leaned back in his seat, arms crossed but clearly intrigued. “So, what, we’re going to bribe the school to give us their records?”

“We don’t need to bribe anyone,” Bruce replied simply. “We own half the board. All I need to do is make a call.”

Hey y’all finished chapter 1!!! I was struggling so hard how reader was gonna meet the everyone I feel like it was an okayish job, I also wanted to make Bruce like a complete monster but than I was like yeah but he’d probably still be a philanthropist and donate some money to stuff (for like tax breaks and loopholes or whatever lolll). Anyways still working on requests I kinda slowed down but I’m trying to write at least a little bit of something everyday. Then I got an ask of someone asking for this chapter and I was already like 80% done so I went to work to finish it. Lmk what y’all think and ask if you wanna be on the taglist!!! Also the next chapters will be more heavy Ybatfam.

Taglist: @ihavenomuse @yandere-enthusiast @angwlart @parisprinces @theangxz @holyfishbailiffpeanut @batfamobsessedgirl @cupid73

[54nboo]

“polaroid.” bob reynolds (part two!!)

summary: now that bob knows you’re out there, he goes looking for you.

pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader

insp by: ‘for the first time’ by mac demarco

word count: 6.9k

cw: bob doesn’t speak very highly of himself, mentions of vomiting, mentions of drug addiction, bob mentions wanting you to hit him and tear out his heart ( a LOT ), touching and stuff, smooching ;)

a/n: hi guys thank you SO MUCH for all the love on the first part of this fic. it genuinely means so much seeing how much you guys loved it and wanted a part two. and also sorry to the people i evil laughed at and made you think it was angst. it’s not. ENJOY :P

‘polaroid’ part one

bob is sure his entire body is about to explode.

for the past few weeks, there's been something buzzing just below his skin that he can't quite name— nerves? anxiety? fear? bob didn't know. he only knew that it was unbearable and that it was trying to crawl out of his skin.

you were here. in new york. in brooklyn. but where exactly? nobody knew. you could have been staying in the hotel right next to the watchtower and he wouldn't even know it.

and bob is nervous. he's thrown up once already, maybe twice. (okay, three times, but who's counting?)

the tab on his laptop blares your name in bold black letters. a picture of you is staring back at bob, smiling at him like you're mocking him. there's an entire website dedicated entirely to you— a movie director. credits, awards, press snippets. there's comments praising you and your work, and they make him smile.

you're still relatively new to the scene, so most of the photos of you are from group pictures. in half of them, you're barely in the frame.

bob scrolls down again even through he's already read through the entire page about fifteen times. he thinks he knows more about you than he does about himself.

he knows what studio you work at. he knows your most recent project. he knows the last three cities you've been too, and the next three cities you want to visit. he knows that you went to film school after the blip, graduated top of your class, and that you trained under all the best directors. he even knows that you had developed a dust allergy.

"bob—" yelena replies flatly after bob tells all of her this, "it sounds like you've been stalking her."

"no, no—" bob quickly shakes his head, his arms shooting up in defence like he's being held at gunpoint, "no, well i mean— not like that. i'm not being creepy about it."

yelena raises a skeptical brow as she slides bob a warm strawberry pop tart. she takes a bite into her own, "you just told me you knew what material her bedsheets are made of. i don't even know the material of my own bedsheets."

bob opens his mouth like he's going to give yelena a detailed explanation as to why he knows these things— why he needs to know these things— but closes it. he shifts uncomfortably, "it's research."

"bob."

"i just—" he winces, "i wanted to be prepared. in case i saw her. or bumped into her. or do something that would make me look like an idiot. i- i don't know. i wanted to impress her."

yelena mutters something in russian that sounds vaguely similar to a prayer, then turns face bob again. she leans forward, voice softer this time, but still firm, "you spent every day together for two years, bob. you already know her."

she holds his gaze for a moment.

"you're not scared of not knowing who she is now. you're scared she's moved on. that she forgot you." how about you find out where she's shooting and just talk to her—"

bob shakes his head in doubt, "it's not that easy—"

"if she cares about you, then it will be." yelena cuts him off, her voice strong, "love doesnt just dissapear like that. trust me, i know. i might have been gone for five years to everyone else, but it was one second for me. and when i came back, nothing felt the same— nothing except for the love i held in my heart. that part was still there."

there's a conflicted look in bob's eyes. he believes yelena. he knows she wouldn't lie to him about this— wouldn't say something like that just to make him feel better— that she'd guide him as much as she can, but he's still so afraid.

you may still be the same you were all those years ago, but you're also a big shot now— famous— and bob is still bob, just sober now. if anything, he hoped you would be proud of him for that.

"look—" yelena can see the thoughts darting behind his eyes. she stands back up and tilts her head, "just find out where in brooklyn she's shooting. if you need me to, i can come with you. i'll even hold your hand if you want."

the corners of bob's mouth twitch, almost like he's about to smile, but he doesn't know quite how to right now. the what-ifs in his brain are still running rampant.

so he does. later that night, bob sits on his bed with his phone, the blue light burning his eyes in the dark of the room. he's been searching for film sets in new york all night.

he glances at the time in the corner of his phone. in measley white text, 2:34am stares back at him. bob takes a deep breath as he leans back against the headboard, a hand running through his hair. his fingers are cold and his palms are clammy, and he finds that his heart is beating way too fast for someone who's barely moved all day.

his search bar is open, filled with every combination of relevant words he could think of. film sets in brooklyn today, movies being filmed this month, [your name] director location now, movie production nyc july. it's endless. of course there's a few results, but there’s nothing involving you. at this point, he thinks it'd be easier to just walk around brooklyn to see if he can spot you.

you were frustratingly hard to track. you didnt have social media—no instagram, no twitter, no facebook, no tiktok, no youtube channel, and not even a crappy linkedin.

then— almost by accident— bob ends up on reddit. he types your name into the search bar without much hope, but the results suprise him. the first thing that comes up is a subreddit dedicated entirely to you— your work, pictures of you, and even clips of you on set. there's only 312 members. nothing huge, but enough to make bob a little proud. he scrolls down the subreddit.

then, tucked deep into a comment thread, he finds it—

'Saw her filming something today in Washington St in Brooklyn. No idea what the movie is about, but the rig setup was INSANE. Can't wait for it!!!'

bob clicks on the image attached to the comment. it's a wide shot— nothing super detailed— of the set, and in corner, bob can see you. he zooms in. you're standing on the edge of the frame, a headset on and a script in your grasp and talking to who bob assumes is one of the lead actors.

washington street. that's only thirty minutes away.

it's a stupid plan. he knows it's a stupid plan. but he also knows that if he spends another day pacing in his room and staring your polaroid when you were literally a couple of blocks away, he was going to lose his mind.

tomorrow. he was going tomorrow.

and the next morning rolls around the corner a lot faster than he thought it would.

bob wakes up to the sunlight streaming in through the curtains and casting warmth onto his bed. his phone is still in his hand, and he remembers falling asleep while watching an interview on a movie you co-directed.

you weren't in it for very long— just a few snippets of you explaining your favourite parts of the film and the wonderful collaboration the entire crew put in to turn it into what you envisioned.

it was barely three minutes. he watched it about a hundred times.

not because it was particularly exciting, but because it was you. you were talking, and bob had always loved listening to you. a small, stupid part of him had been waiting to hear your voice for so long, and now he finally had it.

the knowledge that you were still alive and breathing was good enough for him, living life like you hadn't just vanished into thin air one day. like you hadn't vanished upset with him, and then reappeared five years later still upset with him. like you hadn't vanished when bob needed you the most— when relapse sat heavy on his breath and regret crawled up his spine.

bob turns over in his bed as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. his body is warm and his sheets are swallowing him whole. he's comfy, and for a second, he wants to stay like this forever— but his heart has other plans. it beats against his ribs before his mind even remembers what he's meant to do today.

his phone buzzes.

YELENA

update me

bob sighs. his thumbs hover over the keyboard as he tries to think of the right words. he stares at yelena's text before he types a response.

BOB

They're shooting in Washington street somewhere near the park. We can probably see the set from the living room

he stares at his own text for a moment, then flips to his notes app where he's already saved the address, the crew call time, and the nearest subway stop. he knows exactly where you're filming. he found it hours ago— but that's not the problem.

BOB

But I don't know

I'm still thinking about it

YELENA

thinking is for losers 😡 just do it

just kidding

but also not really joking

bob lets out a short breath— almost a laugh. he knows she means well. he can picture her sitting in the training room a couple floors down with a protein bar in her hand and her phone in the other, rolling her eyes at his cowardice like it's a personal inconvenience.

BOB

It's just been a long time.

She probably doesn't remember me like that anymore

he pauses.

BOB

And I don't want to mess up whatever peace she's made

this time, yelena takes a little longer to answer. bob watches as the 'typing...' bubble flickers in and out about four times before she finally sends the message.

YELENA

if she found peace then i am willing to bet a lot of money that you were a part of it

his heart is racing. his palms are still sweaty— and yet somehow, he's already undressed and in the shower. he even uses the fancy lavender shampoo valentina had stocked the bathrooms with instead of his dollar tree three-in-one.

and when he gets out of the shower, his phone buzzes again.

YELENA

you got this 👍 go bob

BOB

❤️

but oh god, he doesn't know what to wear. what do you even wear when you go searching new york city for your best friend who you liked a little bit more than platonically who turned into dust right in front of your eyes in the middle of an argument about your meth addiction? theres no guidebook for that.

he doesnt even own much— just a few pairs of sweatpants and a couple of hoodies and sweaters. not that he needed much anyways— he never really left the tower.

"geez." he grumbles.

he settles on a navy sweater and the most formal pair of black sweatpants he has (the one with the least stains), along with his only pair of shoes, his beat-up grey nikes.

then he exhales— hard.

"okay—" he says to his reflection in the mirror, "okay. you're going to... possibly see the love of your life. who probably thinks you're an asshole. cool. yeah. okay."

bob grabs his phone and his wallet. he ensures that the polaroid is still tucked deep within the safety of his wallet. he shoves them into his pockets, giving them a quick tap for good luck before he leaves his room.

he steps out of his room, nerves chewing away at his stomach, and walks straight into the living room.

john's lounging on the couch with a bowl of cereal on his lap, begrudgingly watching alexei struggle with the tv remote. the russian clicks helplessly at the little buttons on the remote, but he can't seem to navigate anything. ava's in the kitchen pouring granola into a bowl of yoghurt. as she walks past bob, she looks him up and down.

"you smell good." ava raises her brows as she catches a whiff of his new lavender shampoo. she shoots bob a cheeky smile, "you heading out?

john and alexei turn their heads to watch the commotion.

"i'm, uh—" he nods, trying to instill confidence into himself, "i'm going to brooklyn. to see the set."

john pauses mid-chew. ava stops stirring her yoghurt, and alexei blinks, as if he's recalibrating. he says it, soft but certain, they're all a little surprised.

"seriously?" john asks.

"yeah." bob nods, but the stale energy in the room and the looks on their faces makes his stomach drop a little. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, "why? do you guys think it's a bad idea—"

"it is a great idea, bob!" alexei quickly interrupts as he jumps up from the couch. he saunters over to bob and grabs a hold of his shoulders, squeezing firmly, "today is the day you get your girlfriend to fall in love with you again! we are proud, my boy."

john snorts as he shakes his head, never missing an opportunity to dumb down the conversation, "they never dated, remember?"

alexei ignores john, still gripping bob's shoulders with unshakeable enthusiasm, "that does not matter. your love is bigger than girlfriend and boyfriend labels. labels are for jars, not people."

“thanks.” bob's lips tug into a smile, "do i look okay? i didn't really have anything to pick from, but—"

"you look good." ava adds with a nod, "nervous, but good."

bob glances towards the elevator door. his heart is beating against his ribs like it's going to burst out at any moment— like it's trying to run ahead of him to see you first.

"okay. i, uh—" he awkwardly points to the elevator, "i guess i'm gonna go now."

"bring her home, bob!" alexei beams, patting him once— hard— on the back. it pushes bob towards the elevator, sending him stumbling on his own feet.

"i'm not— she's not gonna—" he turns back and shakes his head, his cheeks flushed, and gives them a measly thumbs up, "wish me luck."

"break a leg, bobby." john deadpans.

ava raises her bowl like she's giving a toast, "go get your girl."

alexei just nods, solemn and serious, "may the force be with you."

he's only been in new york a couple of months, but he thinks he knows where he's going. the directions are pulled up on his phone on maps, but he double-checks his notes where he's written them down just in case he needed it.

bob takes a seat on the subway. his body jerks a little as it starts moving, watching as the graffiti in the station starts blurring as the train speeds up. he counts the stops in his head, tapping them out anxiously against his thigh.

when the train finally pulls into high street, his knee is bouncing like he's about to run a marathon. he gets off and follows the slow trickle of people heading towards the exit. once he's above ground, brooklyn stretches out before him, quieter than manhattan, but still buzzing with life.

bob looks at the map again. washington street isn't far— a ten minute walk, maybe less.

and as he's walking, he's almost knocked over by two girls. they're running in the same direction as him and nearly crash into him as they round the corner. they're laughing breathlessly, giddy with kinetic teenage energy.

one of them quickly turns back and shouts a sincere "sorry!" before turning back around and running towards washington street. bob furrows his brows as he watches them bolt up the block towards where he's heading.

and then he sees it. the orange cones, the large gates and tents blocking off the street, the hundreds of people waiting at the curb just to catch a glimpse of what's being hidden behind the curtain. from behind the gates, there's orders being shouted about lights and positions. the girls slow as they reach the perimeter of the set, one of them pulls out her phone, already recording.

bob's throat goes dry. he's here. he's actually here.

he's not even sure what to expect. he's not sure if he'll get close enough to see you or if you're even here— but there's a pull in his chest that drags him closer and closer to the crowd.

the people that gather around the gate are silent, almost as if they're trying to listen to what's being said on the other side, but they're buzzing with excitement— subtle, but undeniable.

bob finds himself squashed between the two girls from earlier and an older man with a camera around his neck, who bob assumes to be some sort of paparazzi. every so often, someone gasps or points at the set. they're all waiting for something.

"bob!"

he jumps. it comes from behind him, sharp and almost confused. sure enough, valentina's assistant is squeezing through the crowd with mild exasperation and a winded sort of urgency. her eyes are locked onto his like she might lose him in the crowd if she looks away.

"mel?" bob blinks, "what are you— what are you doing here?"

she reaches him, pulling her blazer back up her shoulder, "valentina saw that you left the tower and sent me to bring you back. what are you doing here?" she squints as she looks around, "is this a movie set?"

"uh. well—" bob rubs the back of his neck. how is he going to explain this? "it's… uh..."

then it happens— the cloth is pulled down and a gate creaks open. a rustle moves through the crowd. there's camera flashes already going off, and someone shouts "it's him!"

and out steps the lead actor.

he's tall, and he has sunglasses perched on his head even though it's a gloomy day. he flashes a smile at his fans, signs a few things, and waves a couple times.

"oh my god." bob hears mel complain, but as the crowd surges forwards towards the lead actor, mel is pushed away from bob. she squeals as someone takes her spot, and she disappears into the crowd faster than she appeared.

someone shouts, "how is it working with this director?"

the actor grins, acting calm and casual as if he doesn't have fans obnoxiously shoving their phones in his face, "it's great. she's one of the best directors i've ever worked with. she really knows how to bring her visions to life.”

but bob isnt looking at him. he's looking past him— through the open gate— trying to look for you, but he can't see much. there's tangles of wires and lighting equipment everywhere. a swarm of production assistants move past, but none of them are you.

he leans a little to the side, just enough to peer deeper into the lot. his heart is beating deep in his gut. bob knows it's stupid. if you were there, he's sure something would have happened— he would have felt it, heard your laugh, caught a glimpse of your silhouette— but there's nothing.

bob frowns. maybe it was stupid of him to think it would have been that easy. maybe it was always going to end like this. maybe this would have happened even if you hadn't vanished during the blip. maybe it was always going to end with bob standing behind a wall, watching your life go on while he stays stuck on you.

he doesn't wait for the gate to close. he doesn't wait for mel to find him and drag him back to the tower. he just turns and leaves.

bob finds himself in a small corner café somewhere in lower manhattan. he doesnt really know how he ended up here. he took the subway back to manhattan and just started walking.

now, he's hunched over a graffitied table near the window, chewing on a ham and cheese croissant and his bitter coffee like it's the worst thing in the world. his croissant is stale, but he can't complain. he only had five dollars in his wallet and this was all he could buy.

your polaroid laid flat on the table, mocking him.

bob stares at it like it might move— like it might speak to him or blink— but it doesn't. it's just that same frozen moment in time, taunting him like he had done something wrong.

outside of the window, life moves on. the sun is setting, people are walking by with smiles on their faces, taxis drive by and honk, and there are food trucks parked on the curb serving delicious overpriced food, but bob feels miles away from it all.

he had overheard it as he was leaving— a conversation between two crew members in the smoking area just outside of the movie set.

"we're packing up tonight. trucks start rolling out at 6am up north to syracuse tomorrow. first shoot is scheduled for monday."

bob couldn't go to syracuse. he had barely made it to brooklyn.

there's a horrible gnawing feeling of disappointment festering in his chest. not because he couldn't find you, but because he actually thought he would— that maybe fate would be kind to him and bring him back to you once more.

but no. fate hadn't even led him to a good croissant.

his teeth tear away at another chunk of it. the cheese is cold and rubbery against his teeth, and the pastry flakes inside of his mouth like drywall. he sets it down onto the plate and pushes it a few inches away.

"shouldve just stayed home..." he grumbles.

his phone buzzes.

YELENA

all good?

bob sighs. he wishes.

BOB

No

They're moving the shoot to Syracuse tomorrow

YELENA

syracuse in italy?

| BOB

Syracuse in New York. Google says it’s up North

YELENA

im sorry

you did really good bob. im proud of you

he stands to leave, holding tight onto the polaroid. the cafe bell gives him a half-hearted jingle as he pushes it open. he's still chewing on a bit of the croissant, bitter crumbs sticking to his lips when it happens.

he crashes into someone rounding the corner.

papers fly everywhere. it almost looks like someone just threw an entire stack of coloured paper and tossed it into the air. it's utterly cartoonish.

bob stumbles back in shock— his coffee had slipped from his hand and collapsed to the ground, destroying many of the papers. he recoils as a blue paper flies straight into his face and pens and highlighters drop straight onto his shoes. its chaos.

"shit, i'm—" a stressed laugh breaks through the air as the person drops to their knees, scrambling to pick up their stuff before the new york grime clings to it, "i'm so sorry. i wasn't looking where i was going."

bob's stomach drops to his ass. oh my god.

his eyes drop down in an instant, trying to identify who it was— but a hood is pulled right over their head and he can see the brim of a cap peaking out. but he's not crazy. he knows what he heard. their voice had sounded almost exactly like—

"i'll buy you a new coffee." they offer, wiping their coffee-soaked highlighters against their jeans, "shit..."

it hits him like a punch in the face.

he doesnt lean down to help— he can't. he's frozen in place, and the only thing that could possibly move him is if the world opened up and swallowed him whole. the air around him warps and his breath catches in his throat.

"how much is coffee around here? like 6 bucks?" but the question goes through one ear and out the other.

the person stacks whatever isn’t french in coffee back into their bag and gives a shaky sigh, muttering something unintelligible under their breath.

bob can barely move or think— but a white rectangle lying face down on the floor by his shoe catches his eye. but the stranger is reaching for it before he can even comprehend what's happening. they're standing up and flipping it around before he can reach out and take it.

"hey, you dropped—"

it's the polaroid. his polaroid. your polaroid.

and it's almost like the trembling hand that holds it recognises it too— the polaroid, the setting, the smile, and the woman— but especially the man that she holds.

it's you. it has to be you. nobody reacts like that to a strangers photo, and especially not after they've spilled coffee all over their nice sweater.

your head is tilted just enough that bob can make out your features. your eyes are blinking like you've seen a ghost, and lips curves into a small frown. your eyebrows are curled in confusion and he fears you might start crying.

you're still hidden underneath the shadow of your cap, but bob recognises you straight away. how could he not? he feels a bit ashamed to admit it, but he had been scouring the internet for you for almost a week straight. he’s seen more picture of you now than he’s even seen of himself.

and then your head shoots up— eyes wide and mouth slightly parted— and bob feels his knees turn into jelly.

"...bob?"

and he swears the sound of his name on your lips could kill him and then bring him back to life in the same breath.

but oh god, what does he do now? you're right in front of him— so close that he could reach out and touch you just like he's wanted to since you'd vanished. but he doesn't.

your name slips from his mouth in a soft whisper.

but now he's sure he actually might explode. not in a heart-pounding, stomach-churning way. it's more of a oh-my-god-i'm-going-to-die-from-this kind of way.

you recoil for a moment— just a touch— but it's enough to make bob's heart lurch. there's an unreadable look in your eyes that bob doesn't know what to do with.

he's afraid you're going to hit him. slap him. curse at him. he almost wants you to. he wants you to shove him onto the ground— to do anything at this point. he just wants you to touch him. he wants to feel your hands on him, even if it hurts. his hands twitch at his sides, aching to reach for you, but terrified of what might happen if he does.

"say something." his voice is barely a whisper— barely holding itself together, "please."

instead, you reach out. you both watch as your shaky hand presses flat onto his chest. his pulse thrums hard against your palm, wild and thrashing, and the weight of your touch wrings out a shaky breath from both of you.

bob wouldnt mind if you hit him— if you pounded so hard on his chest that it left dents where your fists landed. he wouldn't have minded if you pressed a little harder and tore his heart from his body.

just take it. bob thinks. it already belongs to you.

and then it hits you— like cold water to the face, like lightning in your veins— he's real. he's not a memory, or a dream, or an awful hallucination brought on by stress. he's real, and he's in front of you, and you can feel his heart beating underneath your palm.

you stumble forwards. you don't think. you just move— fast, clumsy, desperate. your arms wrap around his torso like it's your lifeline, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweater like youre trying to intertwine yourself with him.

"oh my god." you mutter into his chest, "bob—"

bob inhales like he's been holding his breath for years. he notes the tremble in your voice and the way you cling to him like he might vanish. you’re not hitting him or yelling at him. you’re holding him. you’re as distraught as he is.

his arms come around you slowly— hesitant— and then all at once, like he can’t help it anymore. his eyes flutter shut as he tries to get a grip on his breathing. his arms wrap around your body, anchoring you to him.

and he notices everything. how your body sinks into his arms, how your breath hitches, how you bury your face so deep into him like maybe you’re trying to disappear into him entirely.

and god, you smell so good. soft and warm, like vanilla and something sweet. maybe honey. maybe even lavender— wait, is this weird? bob wonders, he’s being weird, isn't he?

but one of your hands slides down his back like you’re trying to feel all of him, your other arm pulls him tighter than he thought possible.

so no, he decides. he’s not being weird. you’re holding onto him like you need him, and he’s holding you because he does need you.

your arms loosen slowly— reluctantly— and bob follows your lead as you begin to pull apart. it’s just an inch at first, like neither of you are ready to let go, but then your hands slide up to cradle his face. your thumbs sweep across his cheek like you’re recalling lost memories, and your eyes search his like you’re trying to find something you thought you’d lost forever.

then you lean in, your lips kissing at the soft skin on his cheeks several times, each kiss landing harder and harder. bob’s eyes flutter shut, his hands curling around your waist, fingers pressing gently into the fabric of your jacket.

“it’s really you, right?” you ask, still breathless as you press another kiss under the swell of his cheekbone. there’s a hint of humour in your tone, but it’s overshadowed by the desperateness of the question.

“yeah.” he laughs as he nods, almost like he can’t believe it himself, “yeah, it’s me. it’s really me.”

your fingers stay curled at his jaw as you pull away, a giddy smile on your face. bob’s eyes flicker between yours, trying to read everything you’re not saying out loud. he’s afraid you think he’s all old and wrinkly now— that he’s not the bob you once knew, who was an addict, but at least he was your bob.

he knows he’s changed and he knows you can see it. you’ve both changed— but he’s nine years older than the last time you saw him. the five years that had vanished from you hadn’t vanished from him. they etched themselves onto his face in the form of smile lines and shadows under his eyes, his jaw a little sharper and his skin a touch darker.

“is something wrong?” he whispers, brow twitching in worry.

you shake your head as you run a hand through his hair, “jus’ wanna take a look at you, bobby.” you whisper, “i wanna see what i missed.”

and he smiles, loving the feeling of your hands on his face. you’re so close that he can count the eyelashes fanning over your eyes when you blink. he can see the way your pupils dilate as you take him in— like you’re memorising him all over again.

his voice comes out soft, almost unsure. “do i look okay?”

your thumb brushes against the edge of his jaw, eyes swiping briefly over his lips, and then you smile— that heart stopping smile— and you nod, “you look amazing, bob.”

god, you’re so beautiful. he thinks. he never wants you to stop saying his name. his eyes swipe over your lips, still so pretty and plump, and your eyes, magnetic as ever.

but then you let go of his face. the softness in your eyes flickers before something else bubbles up. you blink a few times, jaw clenching, and then your hands are on his chest again— but this time you’re pushing him away.

it’s not violent. its not even harsh. its just hard enough to put distance between you. bob stumbles back, startled by the change. he’s cold now, the warmth of your breath mingling with his now gone.

“why weren’t you there?” you ask. it’s not loud, but it’s enough for bobs heart to feel like it’s suffocating.

your voice cracks, and bob wants to reach out. to grab you and pull you back into his arms. to apologise and say how much of an idiot he is for abandoning you. he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

you frown, eyes glossy but still burning into his, “i turned around and you were just— you were just gone, bob. and everything in the apartment was so… different. i didn’t understand. i didn’t understand anything and… and you weren’t there.”

he tries to step towards you, to try and hold you again, but you hold a hand like you just need him to wait— like you need to get the words out before you crumble to the ground.

“i was so scared, and then i was angry.” you sniffle, “and then i didn’t know what to be.”

bob nods— eager, desperate. “i know. i know, and i’m so sorry i wasn’t there. i didnt mean to. i didnt mean to leave you like that, i swear.”

“it was five years, bob.“ you shake your head, eyes shining under the cafe lights, “five years is a long time to wait for me, i get it—“

“but i did. i waited for you. i waited for so long. but then—“ his voice cracks as he stops himself. his chest rises and falls like he’s bracing for something.

you can see it in his eyes. the hesitation. the fear. the memory of how bad all of it unraveled so long ago. the pain.

“what happened, bob?” you whisper.

he swallows hard. his gaze drops to the ground for a moment, voice hoarse as he answers, “i got bad again.”

“i didn’t mean to.” he adds desperately, looking back up at you, “i was doing okay for a while. i really was. then i… got lonely. and scared. and i didn’t know how to live with how it ended. i didn’t know how to live without you.”

your heart wrenches in your chest. the way his eyes flood with warm tears and how his hands tremble at his sides makes you want to wrap him up, tuck him into your ribs, and never let go.

“but i’m better now.” he huffs out a breathy laugh. theres tears clinging to his waterline, but his smile is so bright that you know he’s okay, “i’m a lot better.”

and you believe him. you don’t even need to hear it. you can see it in his face— in the plumpness of his face, and in the colour and warmth of his eyes. even if he hadn’t gotten better, if he was broken beyond repair, you’d still love him. he’s still your bob.

then you run back into his arms. your head slams into his chest again, and bob is quick to welcome you back in. you don’t think you could ever leave his embrace ever again.

“i missed you, bobby.” you sigh as you push your head gently into the crook of his neck.

“i missed you more.” bob presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your face, gentle and certain, like he means it all the way down to his bones, “so much more.”

and then you both laugh. you vibrate against each other, soft breathless giggles that slip out for no proper reason. it’s not even about anything. just relief. just being there together.

you finally pull away, hands still on each others body. there’s still a trace of laughter on his lips, and it makes your heart ache in the best way possible. your arms are around his neck, fingers playing with a strand of his hair, and his hands sit tenderly on your waist. to onlookers, you probably looked like a middle-school couple who don’t know what too much PDA is.

“you’re older than me now, right?” you ask with a teasing glint in your eye.

“i am, yeah.” bob tilts his head and puckers his lip in thought like he hadn’t really thought about it. he had— many times, actually— but only because he was afraid that you might not like how old he looked, “it’s weird to think about, isn’t it?”

you snicker and punch his arm, “you’re an old man now.”

the laughter fades, but the warmth remains. bob’s eyes flicker over your face, slow and deliberate, from the curve of your cheek to the bow of your lips. and you let him. you let him look because you’re doing the same.

you’re so close together— closer than best friends probably should be— but it feels so right.

and bob becomes hyper aware of this— the feeling of you playing with and tugging the soft ends of his hair, the way he pulls you closer when he feels your body stray from him, the way you’re looking at each others lips like best friends shouldn’t.

“can i—“ he swallows, breaking the silence, “can i ask you something?”

you tilt your head slightly and hum in encouragement.

he hesitates. his eyes flick back up, searching for your answer within your eyes, "did you... maybe... like me?"

you blink, "like you?"

there’s a nervous laugh caught in your throat, but it falls out of your mouth light and airy. bob chews at the inside of his cheek, wincing like he almost regrets asking— like he’s already preparing for the hard blow of your rejection.

he wants to take it back— to say its a joke— but he can’t, and he doesn’t. this is you, for heavens sake. he had just gotten you back. even if you didn’t like him— didn’t share the same feelings he had for you— he didn’t care.

“yeah.” he says, a little smaller now, “like… like like me?”

there’s something boyish in the way he says it. like the words are stolen from a younger version of himself. like its a question he’s been carrying around for years and only now feels brave enough to ask.

you lean forward without thinking, brushing a stray hair from his forehead refuge against his cheek, your fingers lingering as your palm settles gently on his cheek. his eyes flutter slightly at the contact.

"i was so in love with you, bob.” you whisper, thumb grazing his cheekbone, “i think i still am.”

he can’t help it anymore. your words poke at something in his brain, like a light in the dark, and something inside of him just gives.

he leans in, fast and sudden, like gravity’s been pulling him towards you this entire time and he’s only just now given in. one hand tightens around your waist, the other cups your face, and then his lips are on yours— warm and desperate and full of every unsaid thing he’s kept buried for years.

it isn’t perfect. its a little messy— your noses bump against each other and your teeth knock slightly in the rush of it all, but it’s real and it’s honest and it’s hungry, like bob’s been waiting forever.

your hands curl into the fabric of his sweater. the world tilts a little. everything narrows to this very moment, and bob is all you feel. he’s so warm and he’s so sweet against your lips, holding you so tenderly with such fervour. his breath catches, especially when your fingers brush the back of his neck and crawl into his hair.

when you both break apart, it’s only to breathe. foreheads pressed together, eyes fluttering open. you’re both grinning like love-sick idiots, dazed and a little breathless.

and then bob laughs— a soft, incredulous sound—and presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, and another, right on your jaw, then another, quick and tender above your eyebrow.

“i take it you like like me back?” you murmur, half-grinning like an idiot, your eyes still half-close and your lips brushing against his.

a quiet, disbelieving laugh falls from his mouth. then bob dips his head catches you in another kiss. it’s slower this time, gentler, like he wants to memorise the way you taste when you’re smiling.

“i do.” he mumbles into your mouth, breathless but so in love, “so much.”

dont think i forgot about the tag list!!! ok so i know you guys didn’t sign up for an official tag list but i wanted to tag you anyways lol thank you guys so much for liking and commenting and reblogging and EVERYTHING. i really do appreciate it and hope you guys stay with me for a long time!! im sorry to the people i didn’t get to tag. i dont know why it does let me but i see you 🫵

tags: @opheliabbarnes @envoxes @oasiscult @butwhyduh @multifandomrandomgirl @tomboyforever17-blog @moons33 @marcswife21 @multiversejumper @plumtartt @s0urw00lf @bobchiikawa @starwarskawaii

[leclerc-hs]

bad grip - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you can't seem to get oscar to crack OR you and oscar are in love, but only friends... warnings: friends to lovers au, angst, smut, jealousy, fluff?, NOT PROOFREAD, language, shitty writing?? word count: 5.4k author's note: hi hi hi!!! this was posted from my queue so hopefully everything goes accordingly! i still can't stop thinking of his head tilt in that one video from admin. so hot. maybe i need to write more of him....also like the win last weekend?? charles helmet smut will be on patreon august 1 sometime at night btw!! xoxo enjoy :))))

You’re snuggled up into the corner of the hotel room couch, drowning in the hoodie you stole from one of his suitcases when he wasn’t looking. And it smells like him. Like his cologne mixed with something clean beneath it.

The sleeves hang past your hands. And you pull one sleeve over your hands, bunching it between your fingertips.

One leg is pulled near your chest, while the other is stretched out, letting your toes brushing against the edge of his thigh. And he hasn’t moved. No, he’s just sitting there looking a little uneasy. Not sick. But in an antsy kind of way.

And he’s got this look in his eyes. Where his mind is on total overdrive but his mouth stays shut. Giving nothing away.

His fingers tap against his thigh in the same rhythm it always does when he’s lost in his head. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Pause. Repeat.

The TV is playing some random show that neither of you are paying attention to. But you don’t really care. It’s just background noise.

You glance at him. And his face is calm, but you know better. Know him better.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you mutter, voice soft.

And he shrugs. But his face doesn’t change. “You’re loud enough for the both of us.”

You snort, hitting his leg with your toes, just to feel him push his leg back. “You’d miss me if I shut up for more than a few minutes, be honest.”

This gets you a look. One of those slow glances that starts near your mouth and ends at your eyes. And his mouth quirks up.

“You’re right,” he says, voice low. “Hate the peace and quiet.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing but smile growing. “Y’know, you’re so full of shit sometimes.”

His head finally hits the top of the back cushion behind him. Shoulders dropping a fraction. Relaxing. But he turns just enough to face you a bit more directly. Arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers dangling behind your neck. But not touching you.

“I like when you talk,” he says. Like it’s so simple.

And it catches you off guard. Hits you right in the chest. You swallow hard.

“Are you flirting with me?” It comes out light. In a teasing manner as you raise a single brow. “Because it felt like you just did.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t look away either. Just watches you for a long moment. 

And then he shifts just a little closer. Knee brushing against yours. And then his fingers stop tapping.

“Would it be so bad if I was?”

It’s not cocky. Not smug. And its not even really a question.

Your breath stutters a little, just for a fraction of a second. And you know he notices because his eyes flicker. Like he’s been wondering what you’d do with the truth.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips slowly. “I guess that depends on how good you are at it.”

And for the first time all night, he laughs. It’s not loud. More like a huff. 

“Guess we’ll see,”

-

You walk into his hotel room before him, kicking your shoes off, and stretching your shoulders with a loud sigh. Like the night’s worn you out, which it has. 

The door clicks shut behind you. “I might be dying. Like actually dying.”

Behind you, Oscar’s quiet. But you hear his movement as he slips his jacket off. Unbothered.

“Y’always eat like you’re Joey Chestnut or somethin’…in a eating competition,” He mutters, slinging the jacket on the back of a chair. 

You spin around, in full righteous offense. A loud gasp. “I had two courses! And you had three…and you still stole half of my dessert!”

He doesn’t even so much as bat an eyelash at you. Just lifts a brow and folds his arms across one another. “Yeah, but I’m elegant. Y’looked like you were gonna vacuum the plate right up.”

Your jaw falls open. “You’re such a little shit when you’re full.”

His lips twitch upward. “M’always a little shit.”

You let out a groan. Theatrical and loud. Collapsing backward onto the edge of the bed. Arms spread wide. “I need a massage. Or a nap. Or death.” You shimmy up to the top of the bed, head on the pillow.

Oscar doesn’t respond. Just disappears into the bathroom with that usual silence of his. And you hear the faucet running a few moments later, the zip of the toiletry bag he always packs. 

And your eyes fall shut for a few seconds. Then the sound of footsteps approaching, and you glance up. He’s standing there.

Placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen onto the nightstand beside the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even bother to look at you for long. Just…leaves them there.

Your chest tightens. Just a little bit.

“Wow,” you smile. “Wanna tuck me in too? Maybe read a bedtime story?”

Oscar snorts, but sits at the edge of the bed. Crossing one of his legs onto the mattress without hesitation. “What do y’wanna hear? The story of a girl who inhales her dinner, talks too fast, and ends up losing her feet from stupid shoes?”

You laugh, reaching out to shove his shoulder. But it’s equivalent to punching a wall. He doesn’t move. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to chuck something at you.”

He grins. Then tilts his head just a little bit. “Your mascara’s smudged.”

You blink. And before you can reach your phone to check with the camera, he’s already leaning in, thumb brushing under your eye. Careful. Sweet.

“For someone who acts like he hates people,” you say. Throat tight. Eyes on him. “You’re kinda soft.”

Oscar shrugs one shoulder, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You’re not people.”

And it hits you a little harder than it should.

-

The sky is a bright orange as the sun sets over the water, stretching along the coastline just outside of Melbourne. From where you sit, the beach house…tucked up a hill behind you, looks kind of like some staged postcard. Windows open and curtains swaying from the ocean breeze. 

Oscar is sprawled out beside you on a navy blue striped towel. Arms folded behind his head. Sunglasses sitting on the slope of his nose. And his hair is chaotic looking. But he looks calm. Is calm. The only kind of calm you see only outside of the paddock.

You’re sitting beside him. Heels dug into the sand, hands resting on the towel behind you, sitting you up. The heat of the sun clings to you.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re Australian,” you say. Turning your head to look at him.

And he cracks one eye open, not bothering to lift his head from the palm of his hands. “Because m’not riding a kangaroo or throwing a barbie?”

You snort. “Because you barely tan. You just burn. And you’re always like….not here…y’know?”

His lips twitch. “Keep talkin’ and see if I drive you back to the airport.”

But he doesn’t take the bait. Just closes his eyes again, like he’s unbothered.

You smile, looking back at the ocean. “Please. You love having me here.”

There’s a short-lived moment of silence. Just the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline heard.

“Yeah. I do.”

It’s a simple response. There’s no teasing tone. No smirk. Just a truth. And it sends a wave of warmth through your chest. Making your stomach flutter.

You look back at him. And he’s now propped up on a single elbow, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. And his eyes are on you. Just looks at you with that soft intensity he’s so good at. 

Then, with a light touch, he’s reaching over and brushing the grains of sand of your knee. Hand lingering a second longer. Warm. 

“Y’always this annoying on holiday?” He says, amused. A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shrug your shoulders and turn to look back at the water. “Only for people I like.”

And it’s silent again for a few moments. Before he’s muttering, “Lucky me.”

And the funny thing is…he means it.

-

The kitchen is dim. The ocean breeze blows through the open patio door. The curtains around it moving gently along the light breeze.

You’re standing barefoot on the tile, swallowed in one of Oscar’s oversized hoodies. The same one you always steal. 

It just fits the best you always claim. It falls mid-thigh, sleeves long and hanging past your hands as you fumble around making cups of tea. The kettle is heating on stove. Steam starting to flow from the spout.

Oscar walks in behind and doesn’t speak. He moves quietly…always has. He just steps up behind you, all calm and heat, reaching up over your head. 

His chest brushes against your back. Light…but definitely intentional.

You keep your eyes fixed on the kettle as he opens the cabinet and grabs two mugs with one hand.

“Y’just love to do that, don’t you?” Your voice is teasing.

Oscar raises a brow as he hands you a mug. “Do what?”

You turn to face him. 

Big mistake.

Because he’s fucking close. Closer than he should be. Like the kind of close where your chests are touching and the air is thick. 

You tilt your chin up anyways. Eyes narrow. A smirk on your lips. “Hovering.” You say. “Acting like it’s not on purpose.”

And his eyes darken just a little bit. Steps a fraction closer. Smirking as he leans a hand on the counter beside your hip. Trapping you.

“M’just helping.”

“No.” You grin. “You’re flirting.”

His lips twitch. And he does’t deny it.

Just hands you a mug. Fingers brushing against yours.

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks. A slight tilt of his head.

You blink. The kettle whistling behind you.

And you hold his gaze. Curling your fingers around the mug to keep yourself steady.

Then you step side, walking through the small opening he left. “Six out of ten.”

And he lets out a short laugh behind you. “Generous.”

You pour the steaming water into the mugs, and then head toward the patio door. 

“Still not kissing me,” you call without giving him a look. “Points off.”

And he just watches you walk onto the patio.

-

You’ve met most of Oscar’s close friends by now. The few he lets into the smaller corners of his life. The people he trusts. And it’s easy to forget how long you’ve actually known each other.

The bar is dim and chill. A local band is playing some covers, lighting low, and a breeze is pushing through the open doors.

You’re standing in a circle with some of Oscar’s friends. Not a well made circle, but a circle nonetheless. You’re nursing a cocktail, laughter slipping easily. Your hand brushing against one of their arm’s as you make a point in the conversation, as you lean in a little too close to hear a joke.

Across the room, Oscar’s leaned against the bar with one of his friends.

Watching. Not in a weird way. Just observant. Like he always has been.

His arms are folded across one another. A beet bottle in hand, his thumb tapping against the bottle. And he seems quieter tonight. Still engaged in the conversations, still smiling. But his eyes haven’t left you for long. And every time someone touches your arm, or makes you laugh just a little too much, you swear you see his jaw clench.

You try to ignore it. Chalk it up to just Oscar being in a mood.

Until some guy you’ve never seen before slips into the circle. Tall. Tan. Definitely a few drinks in. And he slides in like he knows someone. Which maybe he does…and then says ajoke that has everyone laughing. Even you.

And when you laugh, he leans in closer. His shoulder brushing yours.

Totally casual and meaningless. At least it is…to you.

But not to Oscar.

Because he’s beside you before the guy even finishes his next sentence.

“She’s good,” Oscar says, voice smooth. “Thanks.”

The guy blinks. Confused. “Just being friendly, mate.”

Oscar smiles. But its not really polite. It’s sharp and tight. Barely reaches his eyes. “So am I.”

It’s not really a threat. But it sure as hell lands like one.

The guy steps back. His hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He mutters something before heading back to the bar. Disappearing.

You turn to look at Oscar. “That was dramatic.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at you right away. His eyes are still trained on the guy’s back, following his exit. 

When he finally turns his head, his eyes sweep down to yours. Slow. Steady.

“Don’t like people touching what’s mine,” He says casually.

“Yours?” You echo. Voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Oscar breathes out a low huff. Runs a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he mutters. “I meant…”

“No.” You step closer to him. Voice calm. “You meant what you said.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you.

And for once, the silence isn’t calm. It’s tense.

“Yeah,” he says. Voice a whisper. “Yeah, I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hold his gaze. Then slowly, reach for his half-empty drink. Sip it without even asking.

His eyes stay fixed on you.

“M’not a thing you can own, Osc.” Your voice is teasing. “But you can keep hovering if it makes you feel better.”

He hums. His hand reaching for your waist and settling there like he’s been aching to do it. His thumb slips along the waistband of your pants.

It’s possessive. It’s soft. It’s him.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says.

-

The rest of the night is still warm as you walk side by side with Oscar, neither of you really saying much. 

You haven’t really needed to.

“Your friends are fun,” you say eventually. “Even if they told way too many embarrassing stories about you.”

Oscar glances over, but only for a few seconds before looking back toward the street. A smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of it.”

You grin and nudge his shoulder. “Not my fault young Oscar was so chaotic.”

He laughs. A short one. But real. 

Another few steps of silence pass. And then his voice breaks it.

“I didn’t like that guy touching you tonight.”

You turn your head to look at him. Still walking. And your breath catches.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes serious. Steady. But there’s a faint blush showing on his cheeks that crawls down to the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You mutter. “Got all alpha male on him.”

Oscar breathes through his nose. Not really a laugh nor a sigh. “Did I?”

You nod, turning to look back at the pavement ahead. “Yeah. It was all so don’t touch her or I’ll kill you energy.”

He’s quiet for a single step.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

You freeze. Stop walking.

And he stops too. Turns to step closer to you. So close that your space becomes his too. So close that you can smell the faint linger of his cologne.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“I didn’t,” you whisper back.

His gaze is locked on your eyes for a brief moment. But then flickers down, trailing your face like he’s trying to memorize everything about you. And his eyes land on your mouth for a moment too long, before looking back at your eyes.

“Osc,” you say.

Its a warning. A dare. A plea.

But he exhales hard. Like he’s winded. Before lifting his hand slowly to your jaw.

“I want to,” he says, tilting his head back for a moment with his eyes squeezed shut. “Like…really fuckin’ want to.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. And you’re leaning into it. 

“But if I…” He swallows. “If I kiss you now…I wont…I won’t be able to pretend after.”

You understand. Fingers twitching at your sides. You want to reach for him. Let your mouth crash into his and finally…finally see what it’s like when he stops holding back.

But you don’t.

Because you know once the line is crossed, there will be no going back. And that means something.

So instead you give him a slow nod. “Okay…not tonight.”

His jaw clenches. But he nods.

And then you walk again. Slower. Your hand slipped into his. And he’s gripping it like he’s been waiting for years to do this.

-

The house is still. Quiet.

The kind that only exists before any coffee is made. 

You wake slowly, limbs heavy.  Twisted in the same blanket Oscar threw over you last night when you passed out on the couch in the middle of a movie. The blanket tangled around your legs, an arm slung over your head to block the light filtering through the curtains. 

You blink a few times. Trying to recollect your thoughts. Wondering where you are, what time it is, and why your back fucking hurts.

“You snore a lot.”

You groan, rubbing at your eyes. “I do not!”

Oscar laughs. “You definitely did last night.”

You sit up, the blanket slipping down to your waist in the process. Your hair’s a mess, eyes still half-lidded. And you glare down at him. Because he’s sitting on the floor in front of you. His legs stretched out and back resting against the couch.

His hair is almost as crazy as yours. Wearing the same hoodie he pulled on after you got back from the bar last night. Sleeves pushed up. Mug in his hand.

“It’s too early to fight.”

Oscar lifts the mug to his lips. “Wouldn’t win anyway,” He says with a small smirk. “You’re a menace without coffee.”

Your heartbeat rises. Stupidly. At how close he is. And not just physically. But because he always seems to be near when you wake up. Like he doesn’t want you to wake to an empty room.

You look at the mug. “Is that mine?”

He holds it out without a word.

Your fingers brush his as you wrap both hands around the warm mug. Sighing into the first sip…because it’s perfect. Just how you like it.

You glance at him. “Y’know…you’d make a good housewife, Osc.”

He looks at you with a flat look, but it’s soft. “You’re on the couch I got. Drinking coffee I made.”

You smile over the rim. “And you still won’t kiss me.”

It slips out. Fast. Almost too easy.

You don’t even look at him when you say it. Just bit your lip, pretending its a joke.

But he doesn’t laugh. And he doesn’t let the silence enter either.

“Don’t.” His voice serious. “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. The mug right before your lips. Chest tight. “Then why didn’t you?”

He exhales through his nose. Runs a hand through his hair. Looking at the ceiling like there might be some answer hidden up there. “Because you matter,” He says. “And I’ve never cared this much before.”

You scoot down the couch. Knees brushing his shoulder so that he can lean into them if he wants to. He does. 

You sip your coffee. “M’not going anywhere, Osc.”

And maybe that’s all he needs to hear. Because a second later, his head drops to your knee. Like he’s been wanting to lean into your touch for too long.

-

It’s late. The kind that makes hotel rooms feel lonely. Another country, another race.

The curtains are closed, a crack of light entering in the middle. 

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed. One of his hoodies, like always, draped over you. 

Across the room, Oscar sits in the chair near the window. Legs stretched and ankles crossed. Shoulders loose, but he’s not relaxed. His eyes are on you.

“You okay?” You ask.

He nods. Shrugs. “Just tired.”

You hum in agreement. But something isn’t right. Not with the way his jaw’s clenched. And how he’s acted all night long. With his clipped responses.

“You’ve been distant.” You say.

“I know.” 

He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t argue.

And it lands harder than you expect.

You look down at your fingers, twisting the rings on your fingers. Throat tight. “Is it me?”

His body shifts. Like he wants to reach for you, but won’t.

“No,” he says. Quick. Firm. “Never you.”

And you nod. Even though it still aches.

“Feels like me,” your voice small.

Oscar breathes hard, tipping his head fall agains the back of the chair. Closing his eyes for a moment. And when they open again, they’re gentle.

“It’s what you make me feel,” He says. “M’not used to it.”

He shifts forward. Resting his elbows onto his knees. Fingers laced between them.

“Especially now that we’ve…uh…addressed it,” He adds. A smile tugging at his lips. “Being around you makes everything else…” He trails off. 

Searching for the right words. But they don’t come easily.

“Harder.’

You blink, a little confused. “Harder?”

He nods, eyes trailing toward the window.

“To focus. To race. To pretend that I’m not thinking about you all the time.”

You move quietly. Taking in his words. Cross the room and sink down to the floor in front of him. 

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” you whisper.

He lets out a small breath. 

“It’s not your fault. Never your fault.” He’s looking at you. Eyes dark. “You just make me want things…that I don’t know if I’m allowed to have.”

-

You miss Oscar. 

The afterparty is buzzing. Music hammering against the walls. McLaren finished a race with a 1-2 podium finish. The kind of result that earns drinks and a late night of dancing. 

Your standing near the balcony doors, letting the breeze cool your skin. A half finished drink lingers in your hand. The condensation slipping onto your fingers.

And Oscar hasn’t spoken to you all night. At least, not properly.

No banter or smirk. No actual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t care. That he’d never make a move anyway. 

And then Lando appears. Sliding into the space beside you with a crooked grin and a beer in his hand.

“Didn’t thin you’d be all the way out here,” he says.

You glance at him, giving a faint smile. “Just observing. It’s so hot in there.” You turn to look at Oscar.

Still leaned against a wall, surrounded by people. Laughing with the engineers. Relaxed.

Lando follows your gaze. “Y’always stare at him like that?”

You scoff. “What?”

“He’s not even paying attention, y’know. But I am.”

You grin, knowing he’s just being a playful little shit. “But I am.”

You look at him. Really look. And he’s close. Eyes warm, teasing. 

“That’s the line you’re sticking with?” You tilt your head. Smiling.

He grins back. “Is it working?”

And the worst part about it…is that it kind of is. At least for a brief second. Because Lando is easy in a way Oscar never is. Open. Bright. 

So you lean in, just a smidge. Let yourself enjoy the way Lando looks at you because why not? Let him flirt. Let his eyes trail your face, flick to your mouth. Let him step closer.

And you feel the weight of Oscar’s stare from across the room. Heavy. Like a hand resting on your shoulder. 

And when you glance Oscar’s way, he’s watching. Not smiling. Eyes dark. Like he’s debating whether he should walk over and intervene. But he doesn’t. Because that’s not his way.

No. He’s too calm and calculated. Too careful when it comes to you.

So you head back towards the center of the room with Lando a few minutes later, laughter filling the air. 

You spend the next hour trying to focus. Let Lando spin a story in your ear. Let him twirl you around. But your eyes keep scanning the room. Call it a habit. 

And then you finally see him standing not too far away. Alone. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting for you to notice. Waiting for you to move.

Lando catches your stare, urges you to go talk to him. And Oscar doesn’t move until you’re only a few inches from him. 

“I saw that,” he says. Voice low. 

You tilt your head. “What?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Lando.”

You shrug. “He was just being nice.”

But his gaze sharpens. “He was all over you. Touching you.”

You close the space between you. His gaze drops to your mouth for a half a second. 

“Okay,” you say. Soft. “So what?” Are you gonna stand there and sulk?”

You take another step. His breath catches.

“Or are you going to actually do something about it?”

He leans in. Slow. “M’trying to not fuck this up.”

“And what if you already are?” You whisper.

He freezes. Because he knows your right. 

Knows that if he keeps holding back too long, keeps pretending, and keeps letting moments pass… that it will push you away.

-

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway. Not even close to it in fact.

Because Oscar’s hand is wrapping firmly around your wrist. Stopping you. 

And you turn, startled by the grasp. But he’s right there. And you feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast. The tension cracking.

His fingers slide lower until he’s lacing them with yours. And then pulls you back into him. You stumble just a bit, but he’s steadying you. Guiding you until your pressed back into the wall. 

You gasp.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Voice stripped of calm. Serious.

“Do what?” You play dumb.

“Lando.” His jaw clenches. Eyes flickering with something possessive in them.

He drops your hand. 

“Flirt with him,” he grunts. “Letting him fuckin’ touch you. Letting him look at you like..”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop acting like you don’t want me.”

And it hits him hard. Right in the center of his chest.

He steps closer. So close that you can feel his breath hit your face. A hand bracing on the wall beside your head.

“Y’think I don’t want you?” His voice is torn. “I’ve wanted you since the first time you wore my hoodie. Since you sat on my couch like you belonged there years ago. And every day since..it’s just gotten worse.”

Your throat tightens.

“Oscar,” you breathe.

But it’s too late.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s fucking starved for it. It’s not slow or careful. It’s everything poured into a kiss that’s hot and all consuming.

You gasp into him and he outright groans at the sound. Hands finally grabbing for your hips. 

He presses himself into you. Mouth moving like he’s making up for all the times he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you.

And when he finally pulls back he looks wrecked.

“I’ve been trying to be careful,” He presses his forehead against yours. “But you…” He starts to shake his head. Fingers curling deeper into the skin of your waist. “Y’know exactly how to push all of my fuckin’ buttons, yeah?”

You smile into his lips. Head spinning just a little bit. “And you’re just figuring that out now?”

He grunts but then kisses you again. Rougher. More of a claim than anything.

And he’s done holding back.

- 

Oscar’s hands are on you the very second the hotel door clicks shut.

His hands grip your waist like he wants them attached there forever. Like he can’t bare to ever be apart from you again. His mouth crashes onto yours mid-step as he walks you backward without ever breaking the kiss. It’s rough and relentless. His hands slipping under your dress in the process.

You gasp when your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then he’s pushing you down on the mattress with a soft push.

He follows. Doesn’t even speak. Just groans at the sight of you beneath him. Like that alone is enough to undo him completely.

“Should’ve done this weeks…years ago,” he mutters. Voice rough and full of need. “Should’ve fucked you the second you started looking at me like that.”

You dig your fingers into his back as he leans forward and kisses you again. Harder. Like he wants to fuse your mouths together.

And he only pulls back to drag your dress over your head. He barely glances at it as he throws it somewhere in the room. Probably onto the floor. His eyes stay locked on you. 

He undresses himself fast. And you barely get a full look at him before he’s crawling back over you.

But even in that blur of movement and speed, you see the way he trembles.

His fingers find your thighs, curling one of your legs over his hip. Grinding down against the damp lace between your legs.

“Still gonna tease me?” Your voice is shaky.

He laughs, rolling into you. “Not teasing,” he mutters. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You moan loudly.

And then his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the lace aside. He finds your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jolt. 

He leans forward, near your ear. “Flirt with Lando again…” He drags his tongue hotly over your neck. “And I’ll fuck you where he can hear you next time.”

You arch under him. Shaking. 

He groans. Deep. Uneasy. “Fuck, you like that?” His voice drops lower. “Y’want me to make you loud, hm? Let people hear who you really want?”

“Fuck, Osc…” you gasp, but it breaks out into a moan as soon as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Ripping them down your thighs in a fluid motion.

Then he’s between your legs.

Pushing into you with a stretch that burns in the best fucking way. Your mouth falls open quietly. Just the gasp of him finally being in you.

His head falls to your shoulder, shuddering once he’s fully seated inside. “Fucking fuck..” He barely gets his words out. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good.”

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist. Digging your nails into his back. And he starts to move. Hard. Deep. 

His hands fist into your hair, holding you in place beneath him. And his mouth presses hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat. Claiming you.

“Y’think we’re still just friends?” He grunts. Nipping at your ear. “Tell me we’re not.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer. 

So he drives his cock into you harder. Meaner.

“Fucking say it,” He grunts. And he sounds wrecked. “Say we’re not fucking friends anymore while I’m buried in this cunt.”

You whimper. Breathless. 

“No,” you cry out. “No…we’re not…fuck fuck…we’re not friends.”

He thrusts deeper, every stroke hitting that spot deep in your belly just fucking right.

You cry out, arching into him. Fingers fisting the fabric of the sheets.

And you do. Over and over. Until your cunt clamps down around him and you’re unraveling. Crying out into the space between his neck and shoulder. Shaking.

He groans. His thrusts losing rhythm as you milk his cock. Spasming around him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He yelps. Following seconds later, hips stuttering. A tumble of curses falling out of his mouth as he presses deep into you one final time before releasing into you.

Your chest is still rising and falling. Oscar hasn’t moved much. Still inside of you. Breathing into your shoulder.

You’re staring at the ceiling, content.

“I meant what I said,” he mutters. His thumb reaching out to brush your cheek. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

You nod. “I know.”

He leans in. Presses careful kisses to your cheek. Your forehead. Your lips

“No more pretending, yeah?”

"Yeah."

[dollfacefantasy]

I’m begging for soft dom Clark Kent like you’re already dating but he eats you out for the first time and he’s nervous and he really tried to research and bonus points if it’s bad at first and then you guide him and if he’s never really actually looked at your pussy before and he’s flustered (pleeease have it in the barn lol)

clark kent x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, oral (f receiving), praise kink a/n: munch!clark is real, munch!clark is canon. i hope you enjoy this!! he's inexperienced but he's got the spirit. also i used smallville clark for the pic, but you can imagine whatever version of him you want <3

your head rests on a pillow while your pupils run along the ceiling of the barn. they trace over the beams up there before dragging down the wall. you can see slits of the dimming sky outside through the wooden planks. silently, you wonder to yourself how old this place is. mr. kent had inherited it from his father who probably got it from his father before him and so on. it's possible you're in a building that's practically a century old.

in the midst of your mental calculations, a soft question comes from your boyfriend, who's so dutifully slotted between your legs.

"baby, does it... am i making you feel good?" clark asks, sporting a severe case of puppy eyes.

your heart all but stops in your chest. this probably looks so bad to him (and maybe you are being a little bad to him right now). he'd been eating you out, or at least trying to, for the past couple of minutes. and given that you'd zoned out... you probably weren't giving your best performance before he stopped.

you pop your head up off the pillow and give him a lazy smile. your hand runs over his hair, your fingers threading through his dark locks to caress his scalp.

"yes," you say, attempting to sound sensually enthused. "it feels really... nice."

you hate lying to clark, but you really don't want to make him feel bad. he'd been so insistent that this weekend was going to be special for you. the two of you were housesitting for his parents, and he'd been so excited to have you staying under the same roof as him.

this is his surprise for you, the thing that's intended to make you feel special. it's something that in the past he'd confessed to you he'd never done before, that he was really nervous about trying. you just couldn't bring yourself to tell him that his nervousness might have been justified.

but based on the way his brows furrow and his cheeks tinge red, you're willing to bet he sees right through your lie. he sighs and starts to rise up, backing off of you.

"you know, lying about it makes me feel worse than if you just came out and told me i wasn't doing it right," he says.

you follow him up, grabbing his muscular arms. "no, clark wait," you say softly, guilt overwhelming you.

he won't look at you. his head stays turned towards the open window. you know you deserve it, but it still stings.

"baby, i'm sorry," you plead. you rub his bicep and reach for his jaw to coax him into looking at you again. "i should've said something. you were just so excited about tonight, and i didn't want to embarrass you or anything by trying to tell you what to do."

"please don't make me sound so pathetic," he says.

"you're not!" you say instantly. you get a hold of his chin and force him to face you. "you're not."

you practically stare into his soul to convince him of the truth in your statement. he meets your eyes for a moment before they drop again.

"you are not pathetic, clark. you were trying to do something really sweet for me, and there is nothing pathetic about that. it's my fault for not helping and telling you what i like, so please don't feel bad," you continue.

your hands cup his cheeks, and you lean in to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. he doesn't resist, which is good all things considered. you lay a couple more on his his soft lips before pulling back.

"let's try again. let me try again. please," you say.

his eyes are finally back on you, and he nods. you grin before leaning back, guiding him down on top of you. after a minute or two of more kissing, he makes his way back down so he's between your legs once again. his cheek rests against your thigh as he awaits instruction.

you give him a reassuring smile. "just start with your fingers, babe. feel what you're working with."

and he does as you say without protest. his fingers swipe against your damp folds. the thick digits drag up and down, spreading you open for his eyes. already, you can see his pupils dilate a bit. you and clark had sex before this, but you suppose thrusting into you was different than being so close, so focused and directly intimate.

his knuckle brushes over your clit before he centers his efforts there. you can feel his fingertips trembling as they circle your little bundle of nerves. he looks up at you, checking to see if you approve.

you nod. "that's it. just press down a little-"

eager to please, he gives you that added pressure before you can get out the word harder. your breath hitches, and clark's normal smile starts to pull at his lips.

"good, you're doing really good," you praise. there's a thin line between encouraging and patronizing, but you try your best to walk it. "now try using your tongue. i'll tell you where to move if it doesn't feel right."

tentatively, he stops moving his fingers. he pulls them away and leans in. but before following your direction, he presses the softest kiss onto your clit. you can't stop yourself from shuddering.

the feeling of your body quivering serves as a confidence boost for him. his eyes stay on your face as his tongue darts out to flick across your sweet spot. the first time it felt like he was dragging the wet muscle around aimlessly, drawing out patterns he had heard felt good, but this go feels targeted. it feels precise, like he's aiming for the same chord his fingers struck.

his tongue comes out again and then again, teasing your clit with small little strokes. it's not overwhelming by any means, but it's enough to get you biting your lip.

"it feels good, clark," you whisper, stroking his hair. "just keep going. maybe try alternating a little bit."

he takes the advice in stride. before you know it, he's lapping a broad stroke over your whole cunt. you whimper softly, and he flashes a second of a grin before going back in to lave at your clit.

you hum in approval and let your head fall back. "that's it," you sigh.

his body starts to relax below you. he adjusts his position so your legs are propped on his broad shoulders and his warm hands are cupped around your thighs. as his anxiety fades and his drive to please you grows, he starts to get a little sloppier.

those precise licks morph into devoted swipes of his tongue. that careful lap becomes what now seems like he's just making out with your pussy. you moan naturally, there's no effort to make him feel better about it. he has you whining and squirming in no time.

"fuck, baby. just like that," you whimper. "you're so good clark. so good for me. so fucking perfect."

the stream of words flowing from your lips only gets him more intent on pleasing you. he leans into it now, pressing your body harder into the old, worn couch below you.

without you even telling him, his tongue delves lower and slides inside of you. you squeal and clamp your legs around his head. you feel his smug smile against your skin before he starts working his tongue there. at the same time, his thumb rubs on your clit up above.

your back arches off the cushions, and your heels dig into his back.

"god, right there. fuck, fuck, fuck. clark. don't stop," you whine.

your fingers slide into his hair once more and grab. you give the strands a firm tug, which draws a deep moan out of him. the sound is enough to make your eyes roll back.

you rock your hips against his face, a signal to him that you're approaching the peak. he doesn't let up. he alternates from fucking his tongue into you and using it on your clit. but you finally shatter when he wraps his lips around the little bud and sucks.

a long moan seeps from your lips, and you melt while your body twitches and spasms. his efforts weaken as you crest the high and begin to come down, but he makes sure you're pleased through it all.

it's only when you've relaxed fully that he pulls away and looks up at you, eyes blown out with lust and lips glistening with your arousal.

after a few seconds, you return the look with a sweet smile.

"you're a fast learner," you say and pat his head playfully.

he squeezes your thigh. "for you? always."

his lips meet your inner thigh as he plants a gentle series of kisses there. you let your head fall back once more as you catch your breath. but it isn't long before his mouth is making its way back towards your center.

you smile a little but don't protest. it was safe to say that with clark's confidence restored, you had created a monster.