#the lamp discourse

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

i've been very confused about something for a while now. when the portal in s3 warps time and space, people call it the "perfect world". basically, they say that the portal showed what catra's perfect world is (adora not leaving the horde and staying with her). but the show never says that? nowhere in the show do they say that opening the portal would create a perfect world.

did i miss something? is this a mandela effect? or is it another reason for people to victimize catra? "catra's perfect world is where her girlfriend stays with her 🥺" no?? catra wasn't in control of what the portal did. no one was. it was a time warp, it didn't reflect anyone's personal desires.

[destiel-wings]

You find a magical lamp on the floor, and you get 3 wishes! You can ask for anything except more wishes (genie only gets tricked into that one once...)

What would be your 3 wishes?

First of all, thank you for the great ask!

It's a tough one. I came up with a serious answer (boring but wise), and then I though about what else I would want to ask, were all my primary needs met already (more interesting), and this is the one I'll share:

1) to finally come to know every single truth and conspiracy that went on behind the scenes of the CW show Supernatural specifically regarding the whole destiel-gate (tapes™ included)

2) to live in a world where fanfiction is considered as a valid form of literature worthy of respect just like every other literary genre (1. for its sociological and anthropological value regardless of each piece's inner quality and 2. for the inner literary quality that not all but some of those fanworks have, equal to other published works that currently get to have recognition).

3) for karma to work at 80%, so that good things happened to good people and bad things to bad people, and everyone mostly got what they deserved. (note: I didn't say 100% because if that were the case we probably wouldn't have any form of art anymore and we need it as a spices to give life meaning)

[dandelionsdumal]

I love how the "male gay sex isn't so much a deviation from patriarchy as it is just a confirmation of masculine power dynamics, as historically the relation of pederasty explicitly involved the rape and domination of a younger male by the hand of an older male" crowd never seems to extend the same critical eye to lesbian sex, as if it is somehow pure and can be idealized as being a subversion of oppressive power structures. radfem kind of bullshit thought. It is also dehumanizing because of how many levels it seems to abstract sex in antiquity until it can become a very linear simple relationship of power. As if that was the only lens gay sex was seen on ancient rome. It's both dehumanizing and imprudent in terms of history buff shit.

[hawnks]

Never mind, instead of sad stuff I’m gonna think about becoming a wizard <3

[rodrickheffley]

is the word fag being used in those new gay teen shows or nah

[cookiemeistro]

This is the ideal street lamp, if it isn't at LEAST slightly eldritch it's simply not worth illuminating the area

perhaps some will disagree, but i think the world got worse when we changed the colour of the night

[strange-lamp-stranger]

quick rant because i recently saw a reel that basically went "late-diagnosed adhd/autistic people complain that they didn't get diagnosed earlier, but they have this fantasy of what having a diagnosis as kid was like, especially for people who were very "obviously" neurodivergent. it was actually a huge struggle and the label of a diagnosis brought so much stigma and preconceived ideas of your capabilities, and they just DON'T UNDERSTAND and can NEVER UNDERSTAND that it fucking sucked!!!"

like dude i can assure you that most people with a brain actually can understand that. your complaints are quite valid! however why are you acting like late diagnosed people having complaints about their struggles somehow cheapens yours? because it doesn't! they're just different!

it can be frustrating, yes, to occasionally see people who seemingly think that if One (1) Thing had been different then their life would've been perfect (when you know that's not the case), but being an asshole about it just doesn't get anything done.

also the bit of their argument implying that being Obviously Neurodivergent is unique to people with diagnoses is very frustrating to me. i know several people, myself included, who were othered as Bad And Different And Gross as kids by their peers, whilst being patronized and neglected by adults, all while beig completely undiagnosed. it's not some completely alien experience that only One Kind Of Person can understand, and frankly that approach is never useful in any context at all.

i just. i really think everyone should sit down and take the time to reckon with the fact that taking potshots at people who are struggling in a way that's slightly to the left of how you're struggling isn't actually going to resolve things for either party. you have a common enemy, align yourself against that instead.

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝓘𝓯 𝓘 𝓦𝓪𝓼 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓖𝓲𝓻𝓵𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭…☆━━━━━━━…‥・

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: A little suggestive, nothing too crazy

Tags: Fluff, kind of obsessed, little bit of foot worship lmao

Word Count: 4,695 (got a little carried away - didn't mean for it to be this long lol)

Inspiration: “If I Was Your Girlfriend” – Prince

Synopsis: Mark just needs to be close to you dammit and he can’t stand that you’ll be that way with your girl friends but not him >:(

Mark had never been the jealous type.

When the other kids on his baseball team would hit homeruns as a child, he would just cheer loudly; happy for their success and never once weighing them against his own shortcomings. In school, if his friends aced a test he would smile warmly and give them an encouraging pat to the back – even if he himself had barely managed to pull off a C+. He never viewed others as competition, truly believing there was enough goodness and success in this world to go around.

So why, then, did he so often now find himself leering at your friends?

You all were apart of the same clique in high school, eating lunch together and mingling in the halls between classes. The girls of the group, however, naturally seemed to gravitate toward one another, their conversations often filled with hushed chatter and occasional high-pitched giggles as the sweet smell of candy and flowers lingered in the air around them. It was both intoxicating, and intimidating.

He’d sit with William, only a few feet away but feeling like he might as well have been on the other side of the planet. And to make matters worse, William seemed to have the ability to easily flow between conversations – talking with Mark one minute then turning out of nowhere towards the feminine energy, picking up on something in the girl’s discourse that piqued his interest. They’d welcome his input, it always seeming to inevitably end in a chorus of laughter. How the hell did William do that? And why couldn’t Mark do the same?

Through the muddled noises of the girl’s tittering together, Mark always managed to single out your voice. It called to him like a siren’s song, his eyes lingering on the side of your perfect face as you smiled, lips parted and eyes closed. God, you were so perfect.

Occasionally, he’d find some buried courage within himself to try and join in the laughter – sliding a bit closer in your direction as he chuckled unsurely. And every time, the groups giggles would quickly die away, suddenly everyone seeming to need to clear their throats and look away. But not you. Your smile would linger as you turned your beautiful eyes onto him, leaving Mark struck dumb.

Most days though he would just watch from the outside as you all conversed together, his stare growing heavy as he looked between the other girls. Why were they all so greedy? Wasn’t Mark allowed in on the fun too? He wanted to laugh, dammit, and be in on the joke with you. In fact, he wanted you to laugh at his joke for once, and curl your lips upward because he said something that you liked. Was that really too much to ask for?

His internal struggle only seemed to worsen as he graduated high school and you both moved on to college. He was over the moon when he found out the two of you shared a class – introductory to physical geography. Mark was notoriously bad with this subject, and for once that seemed to work in his favor as study sessions became the new norm between the two of you.

And that brought him to where he sat today, cross-legged on your dorm room floor surrounded by textbooks, maps, and a heap of highlighters.

Your space was cozy, warm with the soft glow of a desk lamp accompanied by the quiet hum of music in the background. You were laid on your stomach across the bed, flipping through notes with a furrowed brow as you lost yourself in the studies.

Mark glanced up from the textbook in his lap, but his eyes didn’t land on the topographic map he was supposed to be memorizing. Instead, they found you.

You were chewing on the end of a pen, brows drawn together as you underlined something in your notebook. You looked tired—but beautiful. God, even the way your foot swung lazily in the air behind you had him captivated. He wasn’t even sure he was blinking anymore.

“You okay?” you asked suddenly, not looking up.

His heart jumped. “Huh? Yeah. Totally. Why?”

You finally lifted your head to look at him, and it took everything in him not to melt under your gaze. “You’ve been staring at the same page for, like, five minutes.”

“Oh.” He chuckled nervously and looked back down at the map, heat rising to his cheeks. “Guess I’m just... zoning out.”

You hummed, rolling onto your side so you could face him properly. “Want me to quiz you on drainage patterns again?”

He groaned theatrically and flopped back onto the floor, covering his eyes with one arm. “Not the drainage patterns…”

You laughed—really laughed—and he felt it bloom inside him like warmth from a sunbeam. It was such a rare sound, at least when he was the cause of it, that it left him stunned for a moment. He peeked out from under his arm to see you smiling, chin resting on your hand.

“What?” he asked, softer this time.

You shrugged, but your gaze didn’t leave his. “Nothing. You’re just funny sometimes.”

“Funny ‘haha’ or funny ‘weird’?”

You pretended to think for a second, then grinned. “A little bit of both.”

He grinned back, because God, that was something, wasn’t it? He could take ‘a little bit of both’ if it meant you were looking at him like that.

For a beat, neither of you said anything. The music in the background shifted to a slower track, something dreamy and low, and Mark let himself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like to move from this floor to your bed, to lay beside you and talk about the constellations or your favorite song or whether you ever thought about kissing someone like him.

And before he could stop himself, he said:

“Can I dress you?”

You blinked. “What?”

His brain practically short-circuited. “I—I mean not like that! I mean—not in a weird way! Not like… dress you-dress you. Just like, clothes. You. I mean—” He groaned and ran a hand down his face. “I heard you’re going to that concert this weekend and I thought… maybe I could help you pick out an outfit?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused but unconvinced. “Mark… what are you even on about?”

He blinked, a little stunned by your reaction—like he’d genuinely expected you to take him seriously. You turned back to your notes, head lowering to refocus on the page.

But Mark didn’t move.

He stared for another second, then leaned forward, brows pulling together as something clenched in his chest.

“Aren’t we friends?” he asked suddenly, voice low and a little sharp around the edges.

You paused, pen halfway to the paper.

“I mean,” he went on, gesturing vaguely toward the room, the books, you, “you go shopping and hang out with your girl friends all the time. You laugh and do all this fun, random stuff with them, and no one thinks it’s weird when they pick out your outfits or tell you what shoes to wear or whatever. But I say one thing—one slightly weird thing—and suddenly it’s like I’m crazy.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him again, this time blinking in surprise.

Mark huffed, crossing his arms. “I just thought it would be fun. Like, something friends do.”

He sounded a little pouty now, and maybe he knew it, but he wasn’t backing down. Not when he’d finally gotten a tiny bit of the closeness he’d wanted for so long. Not when he could almost taste what it’d be like to be on the inside of your world, just a little more than before.

“You never let me in,” he muttered under his breath. “Not really.”

You stared at him, mouth parting like you wanted to say something—but the words didn’t come right away. The moment stretched out between you, thick and awkward and a little bit raw.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” Mark added quickly, voice softer now, “I just… I don’t know. I wanna know you like they know you.”

You sat up slowly, brow furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of everything he just said.

“Of course we’re friends, Mark,” you said, your voice careful but confused. “But… I mean… girls do that stuff. We help each other pick out outfits, and gossip, and vent about boy problems—”

“Boy problems??” Mark cut in, practically lurching forward.

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Are you having boy problems?” he repeated, eyes narrowing with an intensity that would’ve been comical if he didn’t look so genuinely concerned. “Is someone bothering you? Who is it? What’d he do?”

You blinked. “Wait—what? No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Because if a guy is messing with you,” he went on, his voice rising a little, “I swear I’ll—”

“Mark!” you said, loud enough to cut through his minor spiral. He froze mid-sentence, still visibly buzzing with protective energy.

You stared at him, unsure if you were about to laugh or throw a pillow at him. “Oh my god. I meant in general. Like, when girls talk to each other, that’s what we talk about. I wasn’t saying I have some guy hurting my feelings right now.”

“Oh,” he said, deflating slightly. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense. Totally.”

He looked away for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, and muttered under his breath, “...would’ve kicked his ass, though.”

You snorted despite yourself, grabbing a pillow off your bed and tossing it lightly at him. “Mark.”

He caught it with a grin that he tried to hide behind mock indignation. “What? I’m just being a good friend, remember?”

Your expression softened a little, but the confusion didn’t leave your eyes. “You’re a very… intense friend sometimes.”

Mark shrugged, half-smiling. “Guess I just like being around you more than most people.”

There it was again—that earnestness. It clung to his voice like honey. Not quite a confession, not really a joke. Just enough to leave you wondering what exactly he meant.

You gave him a look—equal parts fond and exasperated—but didn’t press the weirdness any further. The moment seemed to settle, the earlier tension dissolving into something more comfortable. You turned back toward your notes, laying flat on your stomach again, chin propped in your hand as your other foot swayed lazily in the air.

Mark watched you for a moment from the floor, half-expecting his heart to settle too. It didn’t.

His eyes drifted to your foot.

It was moving rhythmically, back and forth like it had a mind of its own. He followed it with his gaze, fixated. A quiet little thought popped into his head—uninvited, but not unwelcome.

Before he could question it, Mark stood up and made his way over to the bed. Without thinking, he sat right beside you, staring down at your foot like it had personally challenged him to a duel.

“Maybe I could paint your toenails,” he said.

You didn’t respond at first, clearly thinking you’d misheard him.

“…What?”

Mark’s hand was already around your ankle, gently lifting your foot like it was the most normal thing in the world. He looked at it thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. I could totally do it. You have good feet for it.”

“Mark!”

He looked at you innocently. “What? I’m serious! I’ve got a steady hand. I could do, like… stripes. Or little flowers. Maybe stars? That’d be cool.”

You stared at him like he’d just offered to build you a rocket ship out of Q-tips.

“I cannot tell if you’re messing with me or having a mental breakdown in real time.”

“Can’t it be both?” he said, smirking now, still cradling your foot like it was the most natural thing ever.

You covered your face with your hands, muffling a laugh into your palms. “Oh my god.”

“What color would you go for, anyway?” he asked, gently wiggling your toes like he was already imagining the polish. “Something bright? Black? Maybe that dusty pink thing you wore last month?”

Your hands slid down your face just enough to peek at him through your fingers. “You noticed my toenail color last month?”

“I notice everything about you,” he said plainly.

And the thing was—he did. He really, truly did.

He noticed the way you scrunched your nose when you were concentrating. The way you flipped your pen between your fingers when you were trying to remember something. The way you always tugged your sleeve over your hand when the AC was too strong in the classroom.

And yeah—he noticed your feet.

It wasn’t like a thing, not really. He didn’t plan to notice them. It just… happened. Like the way your sneakers would dangle from one foot when you were sitting cross-legged, or how your toenails always seemed to be painted in these soft, thoughtful colors. Once, you’d had tiny stars drawn on your big toes, and he hadn’t been able to stop glancing at them the entire group study session.

Now he was actually holding one of those feet.

His thumb moved without him really telling it to, tracing gently along the arch, then rubbing slow circles into your heel. Your skin was soft. Warmer than he expected. And your toes were so... cute. Ridiculously cute. Delicate, even. The kind of detail he wouldn’t normally think twice about, but now it felt like he was touching something private. Sacred.

A weird warmth coiled low in his stomach, catching him off guard. He swallowed hard.

Wait.

No.

No, no, no.

He wasn’t a foot guy. He wasn’t. That wasn’t his thing. That had never been his thing.

So then why was his brain stalling? Why was his heart picking up speed like this? Why was he imagining kissing the tops of your toes and thinking it would be the most intimate thing in the entire universe?

What the hell is wrong with him?

He shifted slightly, trying to hide the rising flush in his cheeks, still absently rubbing your foot as if he hadn’t just mentally broken into an entirely new category of emotional—and maybe physical—confusion.

God. If William ever found out about this, he’d never hear the end of it.

But you weren’t pulling away. You were still laying there, letting him touch you, your shoulders gently rising and falling with your breath.

And somehow that made the heat in his chest worse. Made the moment feel heavier. Like something he wasn’t supposed to have—wasn’t even supposed to want—was suddenly right here in his hands.

Mark’s thumb brushed slowly across the top of your foot again.

You still didn’t move.

He blinked, watching your body for any kind of reaction—any twitch, any hint of discomfort. But all he could see was the slow rise and fall of your back as you laid there, face turned slightly away, quiet and calm.

And still, your foot stayed right there in his hand.

His heart skipped a beat.

Wait... is she into this?

He froze, eyes locked on your ankle like it had suddenly become a sacred object. His brain scrambled—grabbing at signs, trying to piece together the puzzle like it was some kind of test with no answer key. You weren’t pulling away. You weren’t laughing at him. You were letting it happen.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

She’s letting me touch her. She’s letting me hold her like this. Maybe—maybe she wants this?

And in a sudden wave of breathless, clumsy, Mark Grayson confidence, the kind that usually came right before he got punched in the face by a supervillain, he thought:

Just do it.

No more thinking. No more waiting.

Just do it.

He leaned in. No hesitation this time. And without another word—without asking, without explaining—he pressed his lips to your toes. A soft, warm kiss. Tender. Deliberate.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even romantic in the traditional sense. It was something else entirely—quiet and reverent, like he was thanking them for carrying you through the world, for letting him be this close, just for a second.

And when he pulled back, heart thudding in his chest, he didn’t move.

He just looked up at you.

Waiting.

Mark pulled back slowly, eyes wide and searching your face for any sign of… anything, really. He had no idea what was going on right now, but something was happening, and it was either going to go terribly wrong or way better than he had imagined.

The silence between you stretched out longer than he expected. You didn’t move—didn’t say anything—just stayed still, propped up on your arms, your foot still gently in his hand. But the weight of the moment was thick, pressing against him, making his stomach churn.

And then, slowly, like a wave crashing toward him, you turned your head.

Your eyes found his, a flicker of confusion dancing in them as you met his gaze. You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him, your brow furrowing slightly. Then, you parted your lips, exhaling just a little as you said, barely above a whisper, “Mark…”

His heart hammered in his chest. Oh God. Oh God, what the hell was she thinking?

He quickly glanced away, biting his lip nervously. “What? I mean… what’s the big deal? Isn’t this what friends do?”

It came out so much faster than he meant, a forced attempt at nonchalance that was painfully obvious. His eyes were wide, maybe a little too wide, but he couldn’t help it. Oh God, I can’t believe I said that.

“You know, like… helping each other out, right? With stuff. I thought… I thought you might want me to do something nice for you or whatever.” He was spiraling now, digging himself deeper and deeper. “Like, friends help each other pick out outfits or—”

But then he trailed off, realizing how insane he sounded.

Your expression didn’t change much—still that slight confusion, but now something else, too. A spark of humor? A glimmer of something else he couldn’t read?

He swallowed hard. He had no idea what to do next. His whole body was practically vibrating with the intensity of everything he’d just done.

“Well?” he managed, trying to salvage some kind of dignity. “Isn’t that what… what friends do?”

You stared at him for a beat longer, just long enough to let the silence hang heavy between you. Mark was practically sweating, looking anywhere but directly at you, and it was… almost adorable. Almost.

Then, a small smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. Just a hint of mischief, something playful, but not mean. You tilted your head ever so slightly, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them:

“Friends, huh?” You let the word hang in the air, slowly leaning back on your elbows. “So, you’d do this to… oh, I dunno, William?”

Mark froze, his eyes snapping to yours like he’d been slapped with cold water. His mind scrambled to catch up with your teasing tone.

“Wha—what?” he stammered, now visibly flustered. “No, I mean, not William! I—I’m just—look, it’s different with you! You’re my… my friend, and—”

You raised an eyebrow, your smirk only widening at his increasing panic. “Different, huh? So you’d kiss William’s toes? Is that what you’re saying?”

Mark’s eyes widened even further as his brain absolutely went haywire. “I—I—No! No, of course not!” he blurted, hands flailing awkwardly. “I didn’t mean—God, that’s—no, just—look, you’re—you’re different, okay?” He paused, biting his lip like he was trying to hold back an entire speech that he couldn’t quite figure out. “I just… you’re… you. And I…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. You leaned back on your arms, grinning slyly, watching the storm inside his brain, thoroughly enjoying every second of it. Slowly, deliberately, you spread your toes apart—just a little—enough that the movement caught his eye, the stretch of your foot making the room feel even closer.

“Is it my toes you like,” you asked, voice teasing, “or maybe, is it… me?”

Mark froze.

His heart skipped a beat, then pounded loudly in his chest. He blinked rapidly, face flushed as his gaze locked on your foot once again. He could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, a mix of confusion and something else he wasn’t sure he had the courage to face.

“You—you—what—what are you—” His words faltered, his brain scrambling to make sense of your teasing tone and the way your foot had just moved. Were you playing with him? Testing him? Or were you serious?

No. No, no, no, she couldn’t be serious. This was a joke.

But his heart was thudding too loudly in his ears for him to think clearly.

The corner of your mouth twitched upwards as you leaned in just slightly, your playful smirk never fading. “Well, Mark,” you said, your voice low and almost teasing, “are you gonna answer me?”

Mark’s mind went blank. His pulse was racing. His whole body tensed, frozen in a mix of terror and need. He could feel his chest tightening as your words hung in the air, spinning in his head like some impossible puzzle he couldn’t solve.

He was spiraling.

If he didn’t answer—if he didn’t say something now, this moment, this tension, was going to stretch out forever, and it would be so much worse than just admitting it. His palms were sweating, his heart pounding in his throat.

Just say something. Anything.

His eyes flickered between your smirk and the way your foot rested in his hand. Then, without thinking—without considering how ridiculous it sounded—he blurted it out in a single breath:

“You. I like you. All of you.”

He swallowed hard, the words coming out faster than he could stop them. “Not just your toes. I mean, yeah, your toes are cute and all, but... that’s not the point! I—I like you, okay? All of you.”

The confession hung in the air like a heavy weight.

Mark’s face flushed a deep red as he realized what had just tumbled out of his mouth. He opened his mouth again, ready to apologize, or explain, or somehow unsay what he’d just said. But no words came.

Instead, he just sat there, staring at you, his eyes wide with shock and embarrassment, waiting for whatever came next.

The words hung in the air between you like a live wire, crackling with unspoken meaning. Mark was still sitting there, frozen in place, completely vulnerable, his mind still trying to process everything that had just escaped his lips. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst.

You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you just watched him, your gaze intense, studying him like you could see straight through him. Your chest rose and fell, just slightly, and Mark couldn’t help but notice how close the two of you were now, the tension practically vibrating between you.

And then, after what felt like an eternity of silence, you spoke.

Your voice was quieter now, softer—but laced with something Mark couldn’t quite place. Something daring.

“Then prove it.”

Mark blinked, his stomach lurching at the words.

He felt his breath catch in his throat, his pulse spiking again. His eyes widened, and for a moment, it was like everything around him disappeared. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

All he could do was stare at you, completely caught off guard by your response.

You weren’t laughing. You weren’t shying away. You were just looking at him—waiting. Quietly, calmly, but with a certain expectation in your eyes.

The weight of your words pressed down on him like a thousand pounds.

Prove it?

His brain sputtered. What did that mean? How did he even begin to prove something like this? He could barely even comprehend what was happening right now, let alone how to react.

But deep down, he knew. He knew exactly what you were asking. And he knew—knew—there was only one way forward.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Mark leaned in closer, his hand falling away from your foot as his body instinctively moved toward you. His heart was hammering in his chest, clouded eyes never leaving yours as the tension between you both thickened with each passing moment.

He slowly crawled up the bed, inch by inch, as if his body was acting on its own, taking over, moving closer to you with a sense of inevitability. He stopped above you, staring down at the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—your hair fanned out around your head, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips looked so inviting, so right.

He swallowed hard, his arm trembling on either side of your head as he held himself up above you. But then, without thinking about it any longer, Mark leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. The contact was light, hesitant, just a test—an almost unsure kiss. He pulled away quickly, unsure of what he was doing, his heart racing in his chest. Was it too much? Too soon?

But you didn’t pull back. You didn’t shy away.

That was all he needed. His breath hitched, and before he could second-guess himself, Mark dove back into the kiss. This time, it was deeper, firmer, the hesitation melting away as he found himself falling into it, like a man starved. His lips moved against yours with increasing urgency, his hand finding your face, gently cupping it, as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

The kiss was clumsy at first, raw, desperate—Mark couldn’t help himself. He wanted you. Needed you. And you were finally here, pinned beneath him, in this moment. His body pressed against yours, his chest tight, his hands roving across your skin, his fingers trembling as he explored.

His lips parted nervously, but you immediately reciprocated – was this all a dream? His tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you like this for the first time. He couldn’t help the groan that rumbled through his chest, his hips subconsciously pressing down harder into yours. And you, in turn, back immediately painfully aware of the hard length pulsing against your inner thigh.

After a time that felt way to short in Mark’s opinion, you gently pushed him away, just enough to create some distance between you. Mark’s chest heaved as he pulled back slightly, his eyes wide, still clouded with a mix of desperation and shock. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body still buzzing with the intensity of the kiss.

His hands hovered uncertainly in the air as if they didn’t know what to do without you there. “Wait… what—what’s happening?” he gasped, his voice a little shaky, trying to make sense of what just happened.

You smiled softly, teasingly, a playful glint in your eyes as you looked up at him, enjoying the way his expression was still a mix of confusion and urgency. You let your head fall back down into the bed, your posture relaxed, while his body still felt tense, like he was poised to dive right back into it.

“Yeah,” you said with a little shrug, “that’s not what friends do, Mark.” The teasing smirk on your face only deepened, and your voice lowered into something more playful as you added, “You really gonna tell me that friends kiss like that?”

Mark blinked, looking almost flustered by the teasing, but his expression quickly morphed into something more determined—more sincere. He leaned in a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper, his words coming out with a mix of uncertainty and raw honesty.

“If the friend is you?” he said, his gaze intense, “Then God I hope so.”

[callsigns-haze]

Lost that mothering feeling

Summary: The more your kids grew up the more you've lost that mother feeling and Bob, being your perfect husband, brought it back for more than one night.

Warning: feeling worn out, feeling overwhelmed, pregnancy, pregnancy test.

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x reader

The living room is alive with the hum of laughter and conversation, your four kids seated around a makeshift studio of microphones and cameras. Alex and Max, your eighteen-year-old twins, are debating something enthusiastically—most likely their usual heated discourse about the latest sci-fi show they’ve been obsessed with. Theo, your fifteen-year-old, leans back in his chair, effortlessly tossing in sarcastic comments that make his brothers groan. And then there’s Matilda or also known as Tilly. At eleven, your youngest is sprawled on the couch, mic in hand, her big eyes sparkling with mischief as she waits for her moment to steal the show.

You’re in the kitchen, fingers flying over your laptop keyboard as you work on the latest chapter of your romantasy series, the one that’s catapulted you to stardom. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air, a half-full mug sitting forgotten beside you. The click-clack of keys is soothing, grounding—until Tilly’s voice pierces the air.

“I nearly died today.”

The boys freeze mid-conversation, their attention snapping to her. “What?” Theo demands, his voice pitched higher than usual.

“How?” Max asks, leaning forward, concern creeping into his tone.

“Good.” Came from Alex.

Tilly waves a hand nonchalantly, twirling the cord of her mic. “I don’t know. I just got bored of that topic.”

Alex groans, dropping his head into his hands while Theo mutters something about needing a refund on her drama classes. Max, ever the patient one, shakes his head, muttering, “You can’t just drop that and move on, Tilly.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you listen, the corner of your heart warmed by their camaraderie. You glance toward the living room, watching as Tilly shrugs and dives into a completely unrelated story, her brothers laughing and rolling their eyes.

The sound of the front door opening is soft—practically silent—but you catch it. Bob’s always been like that, moving quietly as if afraid to disrupt the calm. It’s something you adore about him, even if it sometimes works a little too well.

“Hey,” you say without looking up, sensing his presence before you see him.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice low and warm.

You’re about to turn around when his hands brush your waist, making you jump slightly. “Bobby!” you exclaim, laughing as your fingers hover over the keyboard.

He chuckles softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally your lips. It’s brief but tender, and it makes your heart flutter the way it has since you were sixteen.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smile playing at his lips tells you he’s anything but.

You turn in your chair to face him, meeting his soft blue eyes. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, his brow furrowing just slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice laced with quiet concern.

You hesitate, feeling the weight of his attention, the way he can see through you even when you try to hide. “Nothing,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “I just—I’m going to go shower. Be right back.”

Before he can protest, you stand and kiss him on the cheek, retreating upstairs. The sound of your kids’ laughter follows you, a comforting reminder of the life you’ve built together. But as you step into the bathroom and close the door, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Bob leans into the living room doorway, still clad in his flight suit, his nametag and patches catching the warm glow of the lamps. His usually calm demeanour is replaced with a firmness that immediately commands attention.

“Alright, guys,” he says, his tone sharper than usual, “wrap it up. You’ve got five minutes.”

The twins groan in unison, Max throwing his hands up dramatically. “Dad, we’re live!”

Theo adds, “Yeah, you can’t just barge in like that. It’s a podcast, not a family meeting.”

But Bob doesn’t budge, his blue eyes steady as he crosses his arms. “Five minutes,” he repeats, leaving no room for argument.

The chat on their live stream explodes.

“OMG, who is THAT?!” “Is their dad a PILOT???” “The FLIGHT SUIT? Hello???” “Dad just alpha’d the room, I’m crying.” “Wait, that's their dad, Robert? I thought he was supposed to be shy???”

Bob’s presence, authoritative yet quiet, always had that effect, and even now.

Tilly, unfazed by the shift in tone, bounds over to Bob and throws her arms around his waist, burying her face in his flight suit. “You’re home!” she says brightly, looking up at him with adoration.

Bob’s expression softens immediately, his hand coming to rest gently on the back of her head. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m home.”

Theo, still seated on the couch, smirks and mutters just loud enough to be heard, “Favouritism much?”

The chat picks up on it instantly.

“Theo called it lmao.” “Tilly’s the favourite CONFIRMED.” “Theo and his middle-child energy, I can’t.” “FAVORITISM??? Dad’s girl for sure.”

Bob sighs, glancing at Theo with a small shake of his head. “You’ve all got five minutes,” he says again, but this time his voice is quieter, more measured.

Tilly beams at him, sticking her tongue out at Theo before turning back to Bob. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks, completely ignoring the chaos in the living room and the chat still lighting up with messages.

Bob leans down slightly to meet her gaze. “Of course, Tills. Go finish up with your brothers.”

Satisfied, she scampers back to her spot, and Bob steps into the kitchen to give them space, though his presence lingers like a steadying anchor in the house.

Bob stands in the kitchen for a moment, his arms crossed as he listens to the faint hum of voices from the living room. The kids are finishing up, just as he’d instructed, but his focus isn’t on them. It’s on you—how you seemed distant, how you avoided his question and slipped away upstairs.

His jaw tightens, a flicker of worry sparking in his chest. He knows you too well; something’s not right. Without hesitation, he pushes off the counter and heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The house is quieter as he approaches the bathroom door, the sound of the shower running faint but steady. He knocks lightly, his knuckles brushing the wood.

“Sweetheart?” he calls, his voice low but firm enough to carry through the door.

There’s no immediate response, just the continued rush of water. Bob’s brow furrows as he leans closer, his hand resting on the doorknob. “You okay in there?” he asks again, concern threading through his words.

This time, your voice answers, muffled but audible. “I’m fine, Bob. I’ll be out in a minute.”

But he doesn’t buy it. Bob’s always been patient, the kind of man who gives space when it’s needed, but not tonight. Tonight, something feels off, and he’s not about to let it fester.

He cracks the door open just enough to speak without shouting. The warm steam drifts out, curling around him. “I’m coming in,” he says gently, giving you enough time to protest. When you don’t, he steps inside, careful not to startle you.

Through the frosted glass, he can see your silhouette, your head bowed under the stream of water. His heart tightens at the sight—it’s not like you to look so small, so defeated.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice soft as he crouches slightly to your level, even though there’s a door between you. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

You sigh, your voice barely audible over the water. “I just needed a minute, Bob. I’m okay, really.”

But he stays put, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the shower door. “You sure? Because you didn’t seem okay downstairs.”

For a moment, there’s only silence, and then you turn off the water. Grabbing a towel, you wrap it around yourself and open the door, your eyes meeting his. They’re glassy, unsure, and his stomach twists at the sight.

“I’ll be fine,” you say softly, but Bob doesn’t look convinced. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your damp hair back from your face.

“Angel,” he says, his voice steady and grounding, “you don’t have to carry it alone. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

You sigh, clutching the towel tighter around you as you sit on the closed toilet lid, Bob crouched in front of you. His hands rest on your knees, his touch warm and grounding, but you struggle to meet his gaze. The lump in your throat feels almost too big to speak around, but his quiet presence gives you the courage to finally let the words out.

“I don’t feel like… like a mom anymore,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I am, obviously. But I feel like I’ve lost that mother feeling, you know?”

Bob’s brow furrows, concern deepening in his blue eyes. He doesn’t say anything yet, just lets you keep going.

“They’re so independent now, Robert. Alex and Max are practically adults. Theo doesn’t need me for much anymore. Even Tilly… she’s off doing her own thing, and she’s only eleven. And I—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, tears welling up despite your best efforts to hold them back. “I just feel like I’ve been replaced. By their friends, by their hobbies, even by each other. They don’t need me the way they used to.”

Bob’s hands tighten gently on your knees, his touch a silent reminder that he’s right here. “Angel…”

“And it’s not just that,” you continue, the words spilling out like a confession. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my work lately. The deadlines, the tours, the next book… it’s like I’ve traded being their mom for being… well, me and if I can do it again. And now, I don’t know if I’m doing enough for them. Or if they even see me the same way anymore.”

Bob leans closer, his voice soft but firm. “Hey, stop that. You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

You finally meet his eyes, and the depth of understanding there nearly undoes you.

“You’ve been their mom every second of every day since the moment they were born,” he says. “And just because they’re growing up and finding their own way doesn’t mean they don’t need you. They do. More than you realize. And as for your work…” He pauses, brushing a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re showing them what it means to chase your dreams and still be there for the people you love. That’s not losing anything—that’s giving them something incredible to look up to.”

You let out a shaky breath, his words sinking in even as the doubts linger. “What if it’s not enough, Bob?”

He smiles softly, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It is. It always has been. And it always will be.”

His reassurance washes over you like a balm, soothing the ache in your chest. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, and his arms come around you.

You pull back slightly, still wrapped in Bob’s steady embrace, and let out a heavy sigh. “I just… I feel so old and used up, Bob.”

His brow furrows, his hands resting on your shoulders now as he studies your face with that quiet, unwavering focus that has always made you feel both seen and understood. “What are you talking about? You’re only thirty-six,” he says softly, like he’s trying to remind you of something you’ve forgotten.

“Exactly,” you reply, your voice tinged with frustration, “I’m only thirty-six, but I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes already. Everything happened so quickly. We got married young, had the twins before we even had a chance to figure out who we were as adults, and then… it was just one thing after another. Kids, work, responsibilities—it never stopped. And now I look in the mirror, and I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

Bob’s face softens, his hands sliding down your arms to hold yours. “Sweetheart…”

“I love our life,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But sometimes, I just feel… worn out. Like I gave everything I had to everyone else, and now there’s nothing left for me. Not even enough to feel like me anymore.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but not in a way that feels dismissive. He’s absorbing your words, weighing them carefully before responding. “You’ve been through so much, and you’ve carried so much,” he says finally, his voice thick with emotion. “But you’re not used up. You’re… you’re still you. The same woman I fell in love with when we were kids, the same woman who raised four amazing kids with me, and the same woman who inspires people all over the world with her stories. You haven’t lost anything, baby. You’ve grown. And yeah, life’s been fast, but you’re not finished. You’ve still got so much ahead of you.”

Tears spill over, and you laugh softly through them. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy,” he admits, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But you don’t have to do it alone. You’ve got me, always. And maybe… maybe it’s time we figured out how to make a little more room for you in all of this.”

You bite your lip, a fresh wave of emotion surging at his words. He reaches up, brushing your damp hair away from your face as he continues.

“Let me take some of the weight,” he says gently. “You’ve done so much for all of us. It’s okay to let yourself rest, to figure out what you need to feel like yourself again.”

A playful glint sparking in his blue eyes as a small smile tugs at his lips. “You know,” he starts, his voice light but teasing, “if you feel like you’ve lost the ‘mother’ feeling… we are still young. We could always have another.”

Your eyes widen, and you let out a startled laugh, swatting his arm. “Bobby...”

He chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re only thirty-six, and I’m thirty-seven. We’ve still got plenty of energy left. And let’s face it—our kids turned out pretty great.”

“Bob,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, though you can’t help the smile creeping across your face. “We have four kids. Four. And two of them are adults...you're comfortable with it? Seriously? You really want to start over?”

He grins, that soft, boyish charm you fell in love with shining through. “With you? Always.”

You roll your eyes, but his words warm your heart in a way that makes it hard to argue. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “But you’re smiling, so I must be doing something right.”

You shake your head, laughing softly as you lean against him. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”

“Luckiest guy in the world,” he replies, wrapping his arms around you again. And for the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels just a little lighter.

His hands still resting on your arms, and his expression softens with a mix of determination and affection. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” he says, his voice steady but laced with that quiet warmth that always makes you feel safe. “You’re going to go to our room, get dressed—something warm and comfy—and don’t ask where we’re going because I’m not telling you.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Bob—”

“Nope,” he interrupts gently, shaking his head. “No arguments. I’ll handle the kids. I’ll make sure they’re dressed and ready too. You just focus on yourself for once, okay?”

The confidence in his words falters for a brief moment as a hint of shyness creeps in. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing to the side before meeting your eyes again. “I mean, I—I just thought… maybe it’d be good to get everyone out of the house for a bit. Something different. Together.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you watch him, his nervousness only making you love him more. “You’re planning a surprise?”

His cheeks flush slightly, and he shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. Just… trust me on this one, alright?”

You nod, feeling a flicker of excitement despite the heaviness that’s lingered in your chest all day. “Alright. Warm and comfy, huh?”

“Warm and comfy,” he confirms, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ll go tell the kids to get ready too.”

As he turns to head back downstairs, you catch the way his ears turn a little pink, a clear sign of how out of his comfort zone this is for him. It’s endearing, and for the first time in a while, you feel a spark of anticipation. Whatever he’s planning, you know it’s coming from his heart—and that makes all the difference.

Bob heads downstairs, his flight suit still slightly damp from the steam of the bathroom. As he steps into the living room, his expression tightens at the sight of the twins and Theo still sitting on the couch, chatting animatedly with the live-stream chat, and Tilly sprawled across an armchair, giggling at the screen.

“Guys,” he says, his tone firm, “I thought I told you to wrap this up.”

Alex glances up, one hand still fiddling with a microphone. “We did, kinda. We’re just saying goodbye to the chat.”

Bob exhales through his nose, his patience wearing thin. “It’s been more than five minutes.”

Max smirks, clearly unfazed. “Dad, it’s live. You can’t just drop off without a proper sign-off. It’s bad for engagement.”

“Engagement?” Bob repeats, his voice sharpening slightly. “What about engaging with the rules I gave you? I said wrap it up—not drag it out for another ten minutes.”

Theo mutters something under his breath, but Bob’s sharp gaze flicks to him, silencing whatever snarky comment was about to come out.

The twins exchange a look, and Max finally sighs. “Alright, alright. We’re logging off. Jeez.”

“Thank you,” Bob says curtly, crossing his arms.

The chat, of course, explodes.

“Omg Dad’s mad 😳” “Dad Mode: Activated” “Who’s braver? Alex and Max or the dad in the flight suit?” “Theo’s about to get grounded, y’all watch.” “Bob deserves a medal for dealing with them, lmao.”

Before the kids can start dragging their feet again, Bob gestures toward Tilly, who’s still watching the chaos unfold with wide eyes. “Tilly, go upstairs and start getting ready. Warm and comfy clothes. We’re heading out soon.”

Tilly hops up, skipping past him and giving him a quick hug on her way. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out,” Bob replies, his voice softening just slightly for her.

As she disappears up the stairs, Theo mutters under his breath, “Favouritism strikes again.”

Bob shoots him a look, raising an eyebrow. “Keep pushing, and I’ll make you sit in the middle seat when we go.”

The twins snicker, finally logging off the stream with a half-hearted apology to their audience. The chat’s parting messages are a mixture of humour and sympathy.

“Dad’s the boss, y’all better listen 😅” “Theo, blink twice if you need saving.” “We’re gonna need a podcast on this later 😂.”

Once the equipment is off and the kids are reluctantly shuffling upstairs to follow his instructions, Bob exhales deeply, running a hand through his hair. They were good kids, but sometimes they tested his patience like no one else could.

Still, as he hears their footsteps above and the faint sound of their chatter, a small smile tugs at his lips. They might drive him crazy, but they were his—and tonight, he was determined to make it a special one for all of you.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once to get their attention. “Everyone upstairs. Get dressed—warm and cozy. Layers. We’re heading out, and I don’t want to hear any complaints about being cold later.”

The twins groan in unison, clearly not thrilled about being told what to do again so soon.

“Warm and cozy? What, are we going to the North Pole?” Max quips, earning a laugh from Theo.

Bob raises an eyebrow, giving them a pointed look. “Do you want to spend the night figuring out if you’re funny, or do you want to actually go somewhere fun?”

That shuts them up, and they start heading toward the stairs, grumbling under their breath. Tilly bounces past them, already halfway up. “I’m gonna wear my fuzzy socks!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Good idea,” Bob mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Once they’re all upstairs, he lets out a slow breath and heads to the hall closet, pulling out a jacket for himself before retreating to your shared bedroom. He makes quick work of changing out of his flight suit, swapping it for a thick sweater, jeans, and a pair of sturdy boots.

As he ties his laces, he pauses for a moment, glancing at the dresser where a photo of your family from years ago sits. The twins were barely out of diapers, Theo just a toddler, and you were holding Tilly, who had only been a few weeks old at the time. He smiles softly, shaking his head.

“Warm and cozy,” he mutters to himself with a chuckle. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

He grabs his coat and heads downstairs, ready to corral the kids and make sure everyone’s dressed and prepped for the night ahead.

When Bob comes back downstairs, the sound of laughter and mock indignation greets him from the living room. He steps into the room to find you standing in front of the twins, arms crossed, while they grin at you like they’ve won some invisible battle.

“I’m just saying,” Alex argues, hands up in a gesture of defence, “it’s not our fault we’re objectively the coolest kids in the family.”

“Coolest?” you repeat, feigning outrage. “You two barely survived kindergarten without trying to convince your teacher to let you start a podcast about dinosaurs. Theo and Tilly are way cooler than you ever were.”

“Hey!” Max jumps in, pointing dramatically. “That podcast idea was ahead of its time.”

“And,” Alex adds, “Theo’s cool, sure. But Tilly? She’s biased.”

Tilly, sitting proudly on the couch with her fuzzy socks pulled up to her knees, narrows her eyes at Alex. “I am not biased. Mom’s right—you two aren’t even in the top three coolest people in this house.”

Bob leans against the doorway, watching the playful back-and-forth with a small smile. He doesn’t interrupt at first, letting the warmth of the moment wash over him. You’re laughing, Tilly’s defending you like a tiny warrior, and even Theo, sitting nearby, is smirking at his older brothers’ expense.

Finally, Bob clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Are we ready to go, or is this turning into a full-blown trial?”

You glance over at him, a playful glint in your eye. “Bob, tell them they’ve lost all their cool points for arguing with me.”

Bob chuckles, stepping further into the room. “I’m not getting in the middle of this. But,” he adds, looking pointedly at Alex and Max, “if you don’t get your coats and boots on, I’m going to start deducting more points. And I don’t think you can afford that.”

The twins groan dramatically, but they head toward the door to grab their things. Tilly hops off the couch and skips over to Bob, hugging his waist. “I’m ready! And I’m still the coolest, right, Dad?”

Bob smiles down at her, resting a hand on her head. “Of course you are, sweetheart.”

Theo mutters from his spot on the couch, “Favoritism strikes again.”

Bob gives him a look, raising an eyebrow. “Careful, or you’ll be riding in the boot.”

Theo snorts but gets up, heading off to get dressed without further complaint.

“Alright,” Bob says, glancing back at you with a small smile.

Once everyone is dressed and bundled up, the family gathers by the front door. Bob grabs his keys from the hook while you zip up Tilly’s jacket, her fuzzy socks peeking out over the tops of her boots.

“Do we at least get a hint about where we’re going?” Alex asks, pulling on his gloves.

“Nope,” Bob says simply, shrugging into his own coat.

Max groans, dramatically dragging his feet toward the door. “This better be good. I could be streaming right now, you know.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, nudging him lightly as you grab your own scarf. “Besides, it’s family time. Be grateful.”

Theo grins as he slings a bag over his shoulder. “Bet it’s just a trip to the grocery store, and Dad’s hyping it up for no reason.”

Bob raises an eyebrow but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he reaches for the door, holding it open for everyone. “Alright, let’s go. Out the door. No stragglers.”

Tilly skips ahead, her energy as boundless as ever. “If we’re going somewhere fun, I call dibs on sitting by Mom!”

“Not fair!” Max protests, but Alex grabs his arm, shaking his head.

“Let her have it. She’s the favorite right now anyway.”

Bob smirks at their bickering but doesn’t comment as he ushers everyone out into the crisp evening air. You pause for a moment on the doorstep, pulling your coat tighter around you as Bob locks the door behind you.

When he glances over, you catch the glimmer of quiet satisfaction in his eyes. Whatever he’s planned, you can tell he’s put thought into it—and for the first time all day, you feel a spark of anticipation.

He steps beside you, slipping his hand into yours. “Ready?”

“Ready,” you reply softly, giving his hand a small squeeze.

The drive is lively, the kids filling the car with chatter and guesses about where Bob is taking everyone. As the familiar sound of waves grows closer, you glance out the window, spotting the cliffs that overlook the beach.

When Bob finally parks the car, the confusion is palpable.

“The beach?” Max asks, raising an eyebrow as he steps out. “At night? In the middle of winter?”

Bob smirks as he rounds the car to join everyone, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “It’s not just the beach,” he says, his tone teasing. “It’s a competition.”

That gets their attention. The kids exchange glances, a mix of curiosity and scepticism, while you tilt your head at him. “A competition?” you echo.

Bob nods, gesturing toward the path leading down to the sand. “Here’s how it’s going to work. Max and Alex,” he points to the twins, “you’re on black shell duty. The more, the better. Theo and Tilly,” he continues, turning to your younger two, “you’re looking for big swirl shells. Anything that stands out.”

“What about you and Mom?” Theo asks, already intrigued.

Bob’s gaze softens as he glances at you, a small, playful smile tugging at his lips. “Your mom and I are on sea glass duty. The rarest pieces win bonus points.”

Tilly gasps in excitement, clapping her hands. “Yes! I’m gonna find the best shell ever and get to stomp all over Alex!”

Max rolls his eyes but grins despite himself. “This feels rigged. You and Mom are on the same team?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t make her the judge,” Bob retorts, his smirk widening. “Now, are we doing this, or are you all too scared to lose?”

The challenge is met with a chorus of “Game on!” and laughter as everyone grabs flashlights and heads down to the beach.

As the kids run ahead, their lights bouncing across the sand, you fall into step with Bob. “Sea glass, huh?” you ask, nudging his arm. “That’s what we’re hunting?”

He chuckles, his breath visible in the chilly night air. “Thought it’d give us a chance to stick together. Plus, you’ve always had an eye for the rare stuff.”

You smile, your earlier worries starting to melt away under the warmth of his thoughtfulness. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he replies, slipping his hand into yours as the sound of laughter and waves fills the air, “but you love me for it.”

As the two of you walk along the shoreline, your flashlight sweeping the sand for glimmers of sea glass, you glance at Bob with a curious smile. “Alright,” you say, breaking the quiet. “What’s the real plot behind all this, Bob? You don’t usually spring surprise competitions on us.”

He chuckles softly, his gaze fixed on the waves for a moment before turning back to you. “The plot, huh?” He pauses, his voice thoughtful. “I just… I remembered a few things. Thought maybe this would make tonight feel special.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “What things?”

Bob’s lips quirk in a small smile as he stops walking, turning to face you. “Like the first time you found sea glass,” he says quietly. “You were nine. Your friend lived on the coast and told you about it, and you spent hours combing the beach with her until you found that tiny green piece.”

Your mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he isn’t done.

“And your favourite swirl shell,” he continues, his voice soft but steady, “when you were fifteen, watching New Year’s fireworks on the beach with your family. You kept it in your pocket the whole night.”

Your chest tightens as the memories flood back, vivid and untouched, like they’d been pulled from a secret drawer in your mind.

“And the first black shell you found,” Bob adds, his blue eyes meeting yours, “on New Year’s when you were fourteen. You said it was like finding treasure because you didn’t think shells could look like that.”

You stare at him, speechless, the flashlight in your hand momentarily forgotten. “How… how do you remember all that?” you manage to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bob shrugs, a faint blush colouring his cheeks as he looks down at the sand. “You told me about them. Years ago, when we first started dating. I guess I just… I listened.”

Your throat tightens, and you feel the familiar sting of tears threatening to rise. “Bob,” you say, your voice catching. “I didn’t even remember some of that until you just said it.”

He gives you a small, sheepish smile. “Well, I figured tonight would be a good time to bring it back. Thought maybe we could make some new memories while we’re at it.”

The weight of his thoughtfulness, his quiet way of always knowing exactly what you need, settles over you like a blanket. Without thinking, you reach up, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss, the sound of the waves your only witness.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his lips, the words trembling with emotion.

Bob pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his smile soft and full of love. “Always.”

You and Bob stand hand in hand on the cool sand, your flashlights casting warm glows over the beach. The kids are scattered, their voices carrying on the breeze.

Suddenly, a burst of motion catches your eye. Tilly and Theo come sprinting past, their laughter echoing across the shore. In Tilly’s small hand is a black shell, and Theo is holding something you can’t quite see.

“Get back here!” Alex shouts, his voice full of mock outrage as he and Max charge after them. “That’s stealing!”

“It’s called strategy!” Theo yells over his shoulder, his grin wide as he picks up speed.

“Survival of the fittest!” Tilly adds, giggling so hard she nearly stumbles.

Max groans dramatically as he struggles to keep up. “You’re supposed to find your own stuff, not steal ours!”

Bob chuckles beside you, shaking his head as the twins put on a burst of speed, sand flying behind them. “I told you this was going to turn into chaos.”

You laugh, watching as Tilly veers toward the rocks, dodging Max’s outstretched hand with a squeal. “I think this is less about shells and more about who can outsmart who.”

“They definitely get that from you,” Bob teases, squeezing your hand.

“Oh, please,” you shoot back, nudging him playfully. “You’re the one who taught them how to ‘win at all costs.’”

Ahead of you, the chase continues, the twins gaining on Theo and Tilly as they dart through the moonlit sand. Despite the chaos, the sound of their laughter fills the air, blending perfectly with the rhythm of the waves.

As the kids' laughter echoes across the beach, you turn to Bob, your heart full and your chest tight with emotion. You squeeze his hand, drawing his attention away from the chaos in front of you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice almost lost in the sound of the waves.

Bob tilts his head, his brows knitting together slightly. “For what?”

“For bringing that mother feeling back,” you reply, your eyes shining. “Even if it’s just for one night, I needed this. I needed to feel like this again.”

He smiles gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’ve never stopped being an amazing mom, you know. I’m just glad I could remind you.”

You bite your lip, your heartbeat quickening as you reach into your coat pocket and pull out something small. “Actually… you might’ve brought it back for longer than just one night.”

Bob’s face shifts to confusion as he glances down at the object in your hand. When he realizes what it is—a pregnancy test—his blue eyes go wide, and his mouth opens slightly in surprise.

“Is that—?” he starts, his voice breaking off as his face flushes bright pink.

You nod, a smile breaking across your face. “It’s positive, Bob.”

For a moment, he’s completely frozen, his eyes flicking between your face and the test as he processes the news. Then his hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, his signature move when he’s flustered.

“I—uh—wow,” he stammers, his voice soft and uneven. “I didn’t mean this in the bathroom… I mean, I wasn’t expecting…”

You watch as his shy smile grows, the joy slowly spreading across his face. “We’re—”

“Having another baby,” you finish for him, your voice trembling with equal parts nerves and excitement.

Bob lets out a breathless laugh, his hands coming up to frame your face. “You’re serious?”

You nod, your own smile widening as tears well in your eyes. “We’re serious.”

He pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he buries his face in your neck. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just holds you close, his breath warm against your skin.

When he finally pulls back, his cheeks are still pink, and his shy, boyish grin hasn’t faded. “Guess I’d better start working on how to tell them,”

You laugh, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You’re the one telling them. No way in the world am I dealing with that.”

“My angel traitor,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “no help at all.”

[jesncin]

Musings on fandom racebends and canon characters of color

It's so fascinating how Tana Moon initially accidentally subverted the "disposable poc love interest" trope. She's propped up to be the endgame love interest that Superboy "earns" by learning to grow up and be responsible. As far as half-assed love triangles go, the one between Superboy, Roxy and Tana heavily favors Superboy being committed to Tana to the point of barely reciprocating Roxy's feelings for him. Yeah of course it's a creepy relationship -but as we've discussed before- the writer doesn't see anything wrong with their age gap. It's a fetishistic, racist and misogynistic fantasy where a teen boy can be cool enough to catch the fancy of a sexy dark skinned woman. At the end of the day, Kesel wanted you to like Tana.

But -because of his own biases- Kesel never fleshes out Tana the way Roxy and Knockout (white women btw) get to be explored. I think Kesel assumed Tana being a sexy lamp was enough to hold the interest of young boys reading. And then when Superboy needed a status quo shift that moved him away from his Hawai'i cast system to that of CADMUS, suddenly Tana just... metatexually fulfilled the disposable brown girl trope. Now Superboy has his eyes on a new quirky blonde white girl at work. Tana comes back to die, so both Superboy and the readership move on.

Looking at the way Tana is treated in fandom; how she's made disposable and barred from transformative re-imagining, how when she is included she's treated as this obstacle to overcome before Kon can enter his real, fulfilling relationships with white partners,,, it's like fandom reinforces the disposable brown girl trope inherit in the bias of canon.

And man, does it gets weird when Kon himself is re-imagined as a person of color. I've talked before about how especially in fandom spaces, it's totally fine to racebend a canonically white character if you see something in that worth exploring. I save my big boy critic pants for canon rather than going after spaces of play. BUT when a character's original solo text is inseparable from racism, I have to wonder what we're saying when we give more humanity to re-imagining a white character (who are often afforded more dimension) as POC over the existing (usually underdeveloped) POC characters.

I've seen this "people care more about racebending white characters than already existing canon poc characters" discourse before and I totally get where it's coming from. Many people are more interested in re-imagining Superman as a man of color instead of getting into a character like Steel or Icon (who have their identity more purposely written into their stories), but that doesn't mean those POC!Superman re-imaginings don't have merit either! But at the same time, a canon character like Kong Kenan fulfills the "Superman legacy character with attitude" role way better than Kon ever did, but he doesn't command the same fandom as a man of color.

I guess what I'm heading towards in this ramble is that I wish there was a balance. If you're compelled into appropriating a canonically white character to be more like you or because there's a story to tell, go for it! But I think it's important to be aware of the ways we reinforce canon's bigotry by only giving our creativity to a certain type of character. Like yes, fandom likes making Kon brown, but do they do anything to dismantle or interrogate the racism inherit in his run? Or have we fed back into the racist misogyny of canon by validating the dynamic still in place? Does Kon now just get to dump and dispose of a woman of color while being brown himself as he does it?

[thirdity]

What it is necessary to remember, in order to make discourse a strong concept, is that it is the materialist side of reason and ratiocination, of understanding and history. It is all very well to explain that electric lights were simply not very common seventy or eighty years ago. [...] It is another thing, however, to explain to people today, whether they remember kerosene lamps or not, that, in a pre-electric light era, the creation of illumination always meant an expenditure of time and physical energy at least as great as that of lighting a match (which is already several times more than turning on a light switch) — and the vast majority of times meant an expenditure of physical energy far greater than that, an expenditure, which, to be efficient, was embedded in a social schema that involved getting candles, fuels, regularly trimming wicks and cleaning the glass chimneys, chopping wood and stoking fires, so that even the casual creation of light in such an age was an entirely different social operation from what it is today. [...] Thus, because of our vastly different relation to it, light itself was a different social object from what it is today. And thus, every mention of light, in any text from that period, whether it be in the deadest of hackneyed metaphors or in the most vibrant and vivid poetry, is referring to a different order of object. What we have begun to explore here, of course, is the discourse of light. It is the discourse that, explored in enough detail, can revivify the evil, distant, flickering lights that haunt American writers from Nathaniel Hawthorne to Ambrose Bierce, even as they turn into clichés in the later writings of Lovecraft; we must remember that initially such lights usually meant fires in the distance — forest fires or homes caught from some light source (got out of control), which, at the time, was always a flame source too.

Samuel R. Delany, "The Rhetoric of Sex/The Discourse of Desire"

[tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors]

The werewolf Tumblr discourse post being tagged LOAFT is SO funny I would kill to hear the next generation below LAMP of fae discourse, when they're all slightly less terrified of imminant Death By Fae, just "Idk I think giving a fae my name would be kind of hot" "You CANNOT say that omg my parents literally remember Emmy Trout, the fae are dangerous, that's not funny" "Okay well MY parents had class with Patton Waller and he literally married 2 fae so they're not all bad!" "You KNOW Logan Sanders doesnt count, thats different!" "Well what about the Spider Prince, huh?" "He's probably only nice because hes a prince! The rest of the fae aren't like that!"

ALSKJDALJDS absolutely FASCINATED by this last person specifically

[farsight-the-char]

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she. It is my lady, O, it is my love! O, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!

.......

I am actually crying.

[marigoldbaker]

i give up on fandom discourse my only beef is with the person who owned my beautiful pirate ship lamp before me. it’s supposed to look like this

but the fuckers who had it before me (whoever they are) took off the red and white striped lampshade with blue trim (perfect, adorable, matches the sail and the lantern) and replaced it with THIS SHIT

NAVY BLUE ???? NAVY . BLUE. the lamp shines less light and despite the sail SORT OF matching the vibe the red now matches absolutely nothing. where is the WHIMSY where is the FUN who would DO this and why would they do it to ME. i just know the passengers on this ship are so aggrieved. they deserve so much better

[awesomefringey]

I’m finding this Charoline F discourse very ..interesting for the lack of a better word. She hit him with a lamp and was charged for domestic violence? He concluded he didn’t see himself a victim but rather a wintess. Yet everyone seems to think he’s the worst? Idk.. had it been the other way around people would have cheered the downfall, which is also nasty.

Everything about it is just sad and unfortunate, especially that her mother hasn’t been able to find peace with it. And instead of accepting things and moving on is now attempting to further cause harm to others in the “public eye” - as if public humiliation (or the fear of) wasn’t the final straw to her own daughter 😔 truly hurt people hurt people..

.. can’t help but to think of our Liam too.. how harsh it can be to be a public person or a celebrity..

I find it interesting that in many celebrity tragedies in the UK, people rarely scrutinize the role of the local press. The British tabloids, in particular, are notorious for fueling public hate and ridicule. They shape the public perception of celebrities and often create an unbearable environment for those they target. Caroline Flack was a victim of the British press, yet the same press will now shift the blame onto others while continuing to profit from the tragedy. Fuck Daily Mail!

[tiredfoxtf]

This mcyt shit is crazy I'm never leaving

Manhunt, hundred days, Dream has just revealed his face, Accusations, twitter wars, Captain Sparklez has cursed, MCC, Buildfight, SMPs and pranks, Doxxing, bullying, death threats Civil wars, November the 16th, Technoblade never dies, Mojang has promised fireflies TCG, Decked Out 1 and 2, Twitch Rivals, Caves and Cliffs Speedruns, Minecraft telepathy Parkour Warrior, Buildmart, Philza died in 5 year Hardcore world, Vanilla purists, "why you are bored" "Minecraft tiktoks will turn your brain to mush" Welcome to Boat Rush!

We didn't start the fire, It was always burning, since the world was turning We didn't start the fire, No we didn't light it, is there a point to fight it?

Potato wars, Life series, Vault shard Animations and fanart, "modding is hard" JONO, Hermit Gang, Derivakat "RPF is bad", "Filter tags" Fandom discourse, exploitation, labour laws Flanderization, Hate anons, First to five wins, media comprehension skills Mod loaders, mob votes, megabuild Perimeter is now a field Wolf armour, Create, custom horns Cheating scandal, new records 15th Anniversary, archaeology Copper lamp, "consistency" and Bedrock New boss,"Is Minecraft hard?" Content thieves, originality Petty drama, "like and follow for more" I can't take it anymore!

We didn't start the fire, It was always burning, since the world was turning We didn't start the fire, No we didn't light it, is there a point to fight it?