youthereader

[youthereader]

stinky man

[youthereader]

PEDRO PASCAL AS JOEL MILLER The Last of Us, Season 2

[youthereader]

Cillian Murphy in Oppenheimer (2023) — dir. Christopher Nolan

[youthereader]

Cillian Murphy as Bill Furlong Small Things Like These (2024) | dir. Tim Mielantsc

[youthereader]

Near Zero part 10.

PAIRING: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 1.1k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

RATING: E; (no smut in this part), angst, period-typical sexism

A/N: Although based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character, and does not intend to be accurate. This is merely for entertainment.

masterlist.

“Love is not an exact science,” you hear someone say as you weave through the masses. The source is a chemist whose cigar smoke clouds your vision, your hand dispersing it with a short wave. 

You’re with your neighbors Mary and Barb. Knowing that everyone will be dressed up, you compromise and wear burgundy, and actually bother to do something a little more sophisticated with your hair. It’s better to have tried than to have not, since you’ll stick out more for looking sloppy on a night like this. 

You crave gin, your stomach a flurry of butterflies. You could hear the music from the street, the raucous laughter of the crowd inside. The hall heaves with bodies. “Hello, hello,” Barb says, waving and kissing people as you pass through. “We’ll catch up.” You reach the bar and she gives a sigh of relief, which Mary mimics. You order three martinis, putting your purse down. 

“Haven’t seen you in forever,” Mary says, and Barb nods. You’d waited for this. 

“Busy with John?” Barb adds, and your brows lift.

“Not so much,” you reply. You tap their glasses with your own. “Cheers.”

“Chin-chin,” Mary declares with a wicked grin. “Single women on Christmas. Hallelujah.”

You laugh with them but don’t feel free. John is somewhere there, he told you he’d be around. You’re not seeing one another anymore, you don’t think, hence your ambivalence. Unfortunately, you don’t expect him to keep to himself tonight. As if summoning him with your thoughts alone, he appears by your elbow a few minutes later, offering a hand. 

“Dance with me?”

You reluctantly take his hand, feeling eyes on you. You look around and don’t see the Oppenheimers, or anyone from your department that can save you. John keeps trying to make eye contact, his grip tightening on your waist as if to prompt you. You glance his way, tempted to stop moving, to let another couple collide with you. You’re not prone to dramatics, however John constantly irritates you now. It’s effortless to despise him, actually.

“How have you been?”

“Busy.”

“I wanted to see you,” he adds.

“You are seeing me,” you retort. “And you made it clear that you find me completely un-serious.”

His blandly handsome face falls a little and you don’t smooth anything over. This is what happens to people that put you in a box. 

“But we…”

“Fucked?” you prompt, and he flinches at your crassness. 

“Yes,” he hisses, turning pink. “And you thought so little of it?”

A few drunken cheers surrounding you drown out your voices a little. You lean in to speak beside his ear.

“I don’t think about it at all.”

He doesn’t let go, a flash of anger in his eyes as you move together, slow spins. He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, cogs turning. You delight in this, having felt little of much else towards him during your fling. You’re truly bored with anyone outside of the laboratories. 

“I told everyone,” he says finally, and you blink. “And I told everyone what you’re like.”

“I supposed you would,” you drawl. “Can’t say I’ve done the same.”

If you did, you’d say he wasn’t good in bed. He was a terrible conversationalist, and you didn’t think he had much of a future career, either. His most interesting years were behind him, at college, or even as early as high school. 

“You make me sick-”

“Excuse me, may I cut in?” 

Your eyes snap to the voice you know in your marrow, your face flushing as you see Robert standing there with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, eyes sparkling with mirth. John says nothing, frozen as you’re whisked away with ease. Your stomach somersaults as the world around you fades away. 

He speaks in warm murmurs, his tone practically for pillow talk. 

“Was he bothering you?”

“Yes,” you say, taking a deep breath. 

You watch as he deftly strikes a match and lights his cigarette without letting you go, his other hand still guiding you along. 

“And am I bothering you now?” 

“Was I bothering you earlier?” you throw back, and he exhales away from you, eyes never leaving your face. “When I found you with Groves?”

“Of course not.”

It is always so easy to adore him, and you have the urge to kiss him. He leads you around, unbothered by any of the staring crowd.

“I’m not a nice person to be seen with anymore,” you say. “Or haven’t you heard that about me in the last few months?”

“I’m not going to acknowledge any of it,” Robert says, and the song changes to a slower tune. 

Your face burns as you move in closer to one another, the same as the other couples dancing with you. For the first time, you search for Kitty in the crowd. You find her with a group of women all nursing their drinks, her eyes drifting to meet yours. You wonder what you look like, and whether she believes what she’s heard, too. 

Her drink meets her lips and you feel everything shrink again. She has no evidence to suspect you, surely. There’s no reason, except this dance, for Kitty to think anything happened between you and Robert. You haven’t been alone in the same room for months. 

“Why did we do this, again?” you whisper. “Any of it?”

“I couldn’t stay away,” Robert says, and you look his way once more, seeing the sadness there, mixed with an undeniable fondness. “And I think you enjoyed it somewhat, too.”

You give a shrug, knowing he can see right through you. “At times I did.”

“What do you think about riding off into the mountains?” he whispers, leaning in further. 

You long to embrace him, and feel his fingers on your waist give a little caress. You swallow. 

“Would you chop wood every night and grow a beard?” you ask. 

“For a couple nights, darling. Sleep under the stars with me. We can count them together.”

His words curl around you, squeezing your heart. 

“Don’t make fun,” you retort, stepping back. 

You long for a cigarette, stealing his, looking away because you can no longer stand to see his piercing eyes. You smoke as you fall into silent companionship. You wish you could lean your head onto his shoulder. You’ve never done that while dancing, never wanted to with anyone until now. 

“I meant it,” he says, and you close your eyes briefly, knowing this already. 

“We’re trying to do the decent thing, Robert,” you whisper. 

Your mask only slips with him and you can’t do it again, you can’t risk it. You’re too bruised. You think about healing from this and know it will be another long battle. He will never, ever leave Kitty. There will always be other women with him. 

As you separate when the song finishes, you fix a smile to your face and return to Mary and Barb, snatching up your drink. You drain it and immediately go in search for another. 

To hell with it all. 

a/n: It's been so long. I don't expect many people to read this. If you've got this far, you deserve the world. Here's hoping it's not as long of a wait for the next part. Offline everything has been kicking my ass his year.

taglist: @indulgence-be-thy-name, @forgottenpeakywriter, @amiets2@dilfsffx (hmu if you’d like to be added)

[youthereader]

being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald

[youthereader]

How come I’m not seeing this GORGEOUS photo all over tumblr?? Like… hello look at this Greek Irish God 🥰♥️✨

Am I the only one drooling or what?

🔥

[youthereader]

cilliantober 1 / on set

prompt list by BCitrus413 on twitter c:

[youthereader]

Near Zero part 9.

PAIRING: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 2.9k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

RATING: E; (no smut in this part), angst, period-typical sexism

A/N: Although based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character, and does not intend to be accurate. This is merely for entertainment. I'm back, are you still with me? Thank you for your patience.

masterlist.

The morning after Robert leaves, everything aches. The feeling never leaves, not for days or weeks. You ignore it as best you can, and it’s easy to keep busy. You quickly learn that he was going out of his way to see you, and now that he’s gone he’s away more often, and the work of your team is a constant buzz. You become part of their pool of drinkers, occasionally waking up hungover and forced to pull yourself upright to return to work, head spinning, memories foggy.

One particularly heinous morning, mercifully a Sunday, Kitty Oppenheimer shows up at your front door. You physically recoil when you spy her through the window, nausea amplified as she waits for your response.

You open the door, glancing down to the small plant in her arms. It’s the succulent she threatened to gift you. She beams, coming toward you. 

“Here,” she says, placing it in your hands. You peer down at it, and it glows from within. It’s well taken care for, the poor thing. It has no idea what it’s in for, being yours now.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, and step aside for her. “Come in.” 

Kitty wanders in, inspecting. You’re suddenly embarrassed by the way you live in a way you never have before. It’s all because she’s Robert’s wife. You wait for snark, but she pulls in a breath, pointing at the kitchen table as you approach it together.

“That looks like a good spot for it.”

“Thank you,” you say again, and put it down.

There’s an awkward pause and Kitty gives a soft chuckle. “Would you get me a glass of water, dear? That walk down here was longer than I thought…”

She’s about to tell you she’s pregnant. She’s not showing yet, and you haven’t heard the news from someone else. Pretending you didn’t know will be a struggle, at least on your face. You’ve never been the best actor when it comes to faking surprise. Your intelligence is still hard to conceal, a feigned cluelessness impossible to achieve. 

“Here,” you say, quickly retrieving a glass of water, passing it to Kitty. 

She takes a few steady sips, then sinks into the chair opposite yours at the table. You don’t use this table. The last thing to occupy it was the flowers Robert gave you, weeks ago when you decided to end things. You kept those flowers well after they shriveled and perished. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw them away until they were crumbling everywhere, absent of any real shape. You swallow the lump that forms in your throat, coughing.

“Are you well?”

“No,” Kitty groans. “I don’t suppose you…”

She trails off, reading your face, and she lets out an almighty sigh. 

“Did he tell you? For God’s sake-”

“Tell me what.”

“We’re having another baby,” Kitty mutters. “I suppose it makes sense, telling another woman. It tends to be exciting news for us…”

She sounds bitter and you flush, shaking your head.

“He didn’t tell me. But you seem-”

“Exhausted beyond belief?” 

“Not yourself,” you amend. “Do you need me to send for someone?”

Kitty waves you off, taking another sip of water. “It’s nothing. Or everything. Either way, I’m supposed to feel like this.”

It sounds appalling, and you don’t envy Kitty. At least, not because she’s pregnant. You watch as she finishes her drink and sets it aside. 

“To be honest, he probably hasn’t had time to tell many people, let alone you,” she says. She glances up, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Would that be correct?”

You nod. You itch for a cigarette, but fear that if you move too much you’ll give away something, your pain or your loneliness. At least you haven’t been crying that morning yet, a rarity. You look at the succulent, at its smooth leaves layered on top of one another. 

“Is it close?” she asks, and you frown a little. 

“I don’t think it will feel that way until it’s over,” you reply. “Not with Heisenberg out there, or the Soviets breathing down our necks.”

You’re being glib, repeating whatever you hear the men say. You work and go home, and that is your life. Without Robert, things are significantly simpler, and sadder.

“He’s not…”

Kitty trails off, and you lock eyes with her, your stomach giving a lurch. Kitty’s face changes, her anxiety slipping away a beat later, and you wonder what she meant to say. 

“Someone he knew died.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, automatic. 

This all feels incredibly bizarre. Kitty is always so put together, and even when she’s seemed to open up to you, it’s purposeful. She gathers herself, drawing in a breath. She stands up before you’re ready and you nearly startle. 

“I should get back-”

“Yes,” you say, trailing behind her. 

She pulls you into a hug. 

“I never said congratulations,” you say, when she’s part way out the door. “I’m so sorry. I was up late, I’m-”

“Sounds painfully familiar,” Kitty cuts in. She gives a more genuine smile. “We’ll have you over for dinner sometime soon. So you can have a decent meal for once.”

You laugh, relieved a little, and yet you know there’s no way you’d survive being with the Oppenheimers again. You can’t imagine being in the same room as Robert with him paying any attention to you. You’ve avoided him quite easily, and he’s done the same with you.

-

You see him. You see him in the middle of the night, standing in the street like the phantom you’ve seen before. Hat on, smoke rising. He walks down your street and stops in the middle of it, as if in a stupor. 

You only noticed him because you can’t sleep either. You watch the street most nights, and this is the first time that the thought of him has manifested him. You let out a shaky breath, waiting for him to move again. You count nearly a full minute before he puts his cigarette to his lips, before realizing it's extinguished. He replaces it, lighting up. More smoke, and tears well in your eyes. The unfairness of it hits you. He’s going wherever he pleases, but you cannot. You can’t march into his house and demand he take you back. But he’s in your street, for whatever reason, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

You sniffle, the urge to race into the street rising. You count to ten, turning your back on the view of the street. You light your own cigarette, tossing aside the burnt match. You have to be better at this, just a bit longer. You have to hold on.

You consider throwing the succulent against the wall, but you’re actually fond of it. The thought of losing it is so pathetic that you huff a wet laugh, going back to smoking. You think of Robert out there, walking in the dark. You remember what Kitty mentioned - his friend died. Who did she mean? Did it have anything to do with him being spied on?

Your resolve weakens and you slam your eyes shut, exhaling smoke through your nostrils as you hug your arms. You blink back the blue glow of the moon through the window, glancing towards the street again. He’s not there, and you’re glad, and then you miss him again. 

You remind yourself that this was your decision, too, despite Robert being the one to bring you flowers to lay upon the grave of your affair. You didn’t want to share him with a pregnant Kitty. A part of you felt like you made the decision for him - if you couldn’t have all of him, he couldn’t have all of you.

-

Laurence was an unexpected addition to your life, a friendship gained through drinking and being generally more sociable. He always had a spot for you to sit, offered lighters, told stories and shared ideas that weren’t censored at all. He trusted that you understood everything he spoke of, he never underestimated your intelligence. It made sense then that he tried to set you up with an acquaintance. 

“He is the luckiest man in the world,” he joked, referring to the chemist named John Ainsworth. “A bachelor in this day and age.”

“And I’m a single, childless woman,” you counter, flicking ash into the tray between you on your desk. “Society doesn’t know what to do with me.”

You both lean against the wood as the other men drink and laugh, a record player in the background. It’s a typical night after working long hours bent over papers.

“I didn’t say that,” he retorted with a roll of his eyes. He pushes his glasses up. 

“Implied.”

He shakes his head. “Can I tell him you’re interested? Once I run this idea past the Boss?”

He means his wife, and you smirk. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.”

He gives your knee a single pat and pushes off the desk, leaving you alone. You smoke in silence, contemplating another drink, thinking of Robert. He hasn’t been around for several days, and hasn’t shown up at night. You’ll always worry, but he no longer lets you close enough to console him. He is yet to speak to you at all. There’s no bitterness there, just that ache, that longing that will never truly go away. You carry it like a stone in your skirt pocket, your thumb rubbing it every so often when you remember it’s there. 

The chemist is sweet, in the sense that he treats you like a very precious thing for a few weeks. Whatever it could have been between you never builds quite far enough, and you’re fine with it. Your acceptance of his rejection baffles him. On paper, he’s an ideal husband. He is intelligent, respectful, employed. He’s not excessive in drinking, or any kind of debauchery that a girl’s parents would fear. He doesn’t push you into sleeping with him, in fact, you pursue him but get no further than some kisses you share, which are adequate. The safeness of it irks you a little, makes you bold enough to ask him outright:

“Why don’t you want to go to bed with me?”

John pulls away from you a little, as you’re sitting close together on a bench. He likes to walk with you in public, likes to stop and chat to people he knows. People look at you with him and smile, happy to see you are trying. He has the square jaw of a football player, and every time you notice how classically handsome he is, you think of Robert’s suggestion that you date a football player. Never in high school did a single popular boy on the football team pay any attention to you. 

He frowns, somewhat alarmed by your directness. You haven’t let on your true nature just yet, and this slip up seems enough to give you away. 

“I’m not sure how serious you are about this.”

You’re entirely too casual and he knows it. There’s being reserved, and then there’s you - aloof. Frigid, even, at least emotionally so. You let out a short laugh, and he stares at you.

“That’s fair.”

“Well, are you? I don’t want a girl who doesn’t see the seriousness in such a thing.”

You barely break eye contact as you take out a cigarette, which you light yourself. You smoke more and more these days. It’s one after another, especially when you’re alone. With John, you tend to have the odd one, it’s not constant like it is when you’re working, or like when you were with Robert. You get a flash of a memory - Robert using the end of his cigarette to light yours when you were in between making love in your hotel room - and then you snap your lighter shut. 

You take a long time to answer him, smoking as you see him trying to read you. 

“You’re quite adamant about this.”

“It’s important to me,” he retorts, offended. 

You study him some more and he scoffs.

“Does it not matter to you?”

You don’t miss this - being with a man whose ideas about sex aren’t modern like Robert’s. Your value changes depending on something that doesn’t affect the value of a man. The hypocrisy was staggering, though admittedly having no guilt when it came to sleeping with Robert, a married man, was unusual. 

“It does,” you lie. You amend this with a shake of your head. “It doesn’t. I think that’s ludicrous.”

He leans in, dropping his voice. “I’m not expecting you to remain a virgin until marriage.”

You almost laugh at this. “Good.”

“But I need more time, and more… indication that you give a damn about me. Or am I just someone to spend time with? Don’t you have other friends?”

That last part was unnecessary. You rise from your seat abruptly. 

“I suppose I don’t, John.” 

  You turn back, cherishing the confusion that turns to embarrassment on his face. Anyone nearby would be able to see your rebuffing of him. 

“Where are you going?”

You ignore him, walking on. 

-

The Oppenheimers welcome a baby girl. You meet her one afternoon with some of Kitty’s other friends. She has Robert’s eyes, like her brother. Little Peter hangs in the doorway to the den, fingers in his mouth. He’s afraid of the baby, like you are. You’re handed it nonetheless and don’t know what to do with her - except stare and marvel at her size. She’s so small, and yet she carries multitudes. Her fingers wrap around your thumb and you smell milk on her breath. 

“She’s adorable,” you manage to say, and then quickly pass her on. 

You do like children. You know this about yourself - you always have. You just don’t want any of your own, no matter what these women around you say. They coo and imply it’s your turn soon. Never mind that you and Ainsworth have barely been seen together in months. You did sleep together, but it was perfunctory, and ultimately quite a lonely experience for you.

It’s easier to be swept up in the work, in the equations and debating and workplace dynamics. 

“You’re such a man,” Kitty teases you, and you blush. “I think you’ll have to be trapped into having a baby.”

“Interesting idea,” you retort, and the ladies giggle with mischief.

Your reputation as a spinster changed over the last year. Now you’re known for being loose and distant, like a femme fatale in a noir film. The concept couldn’t be further from the truth, but you don’t acknowledge anything you overhear whispered behind your back. Supplying the gossipers with any sort of retort serves no purpose. You are still perpetually on the outside, even with Kitty Oppenheimer as a friend, even with the scientists as drinking buddies. You are between worlds. 

You leave with the others, missing Robert by hours. He is out of town again, and you have no fear of a confrontation. You are strangers passing one another in the street, not that you’ve seen him out lately.

-

Christmas Day comes and you rise from your bed slightly hungover, sleeping late. For you, that’s after 9 o’clock. You dress, triple layers, cigarette dangling, and wander into the street. 

Everyone is cheerful, and it’s easier to imitate today of all days. Neighbors wave to one another and you weave past children playing. You’ve run out of milk, otherwise you would have stayed inside until later. Christmas celebrations were happening tonight, and you had books you’d rather be reading. 

You shiver, contemplating who will be attending tonight, but you need not have bothered - you arrive at the general store to find Robert and Groves conversing, Robert’s hands on his hips. They stop talking as you approach, which gives away the nature of their conversation. Top Secret, something you’re no longer privy to since you stopped seeing Robert. Not that he blabbed excessively about classified information; he gave the broad strokes often enough to not name names or strategies.

“Good morning,” you say. It’s the most you’ve spoken towards Robert in months. 

You could have pretended to have forgotten something at home and raced back, avoiding this altogether, but the festive season makes you braver. 

“Is it?” Groves grunts, regarding you. 

In the handful of times you’ve spoken to him, Groves gave you his opinion on women in science - they shouldn’t be involved whatsoever. He often questioned the relevancy of female secretaries, the wives of scientists, being employed at Los Alamos. He was civil, to some degree.

You hear Robert give a breath of a laugh. He says your name, your eyes meeting his fully for the first time. 

“Merry Christmas.”

“You, too, Oppie,” you murmur. You nod at Groves. “Sir.”

“Hopefully it’s our last here,” he says, and you nod again. 

Another year here, costing the government arms and legs and whatever else. All those resources pooled, the massive gamble this entire project is. You watch Robert, but can’t read his face. He’s far away from here. The pause between the three of you is awkward.

“Will either of you be attending tonight’s festivities?” you ask, to break the silence. 

You sense they’re waiting for you to leave to get back to their conversation. The men answer at the same time:

“Yes, briefly.”

Your eyebrows hike and you smirk at Groves, whose grumpy stare is never truly intimidating to you. You turn your heel and keep walking, hearing Groves describe you as “pleasant enough” which for him is high praise.

You feel Robert’s eyes on you, burning the back of your skull as you walk away. Tonight, if he’s there, you know you’ll finally be together again.

Alone. 

taglist: @indulgence-be-thy-name, @forgottenpeakywriter, @amiets2 @dilfsffx (hmu if you'd like to be added)

[youthereader]

Hi I just read the new gator imagine and I love both the first and second part & I was wondering if you could do maybe another part to it 🤍

Concept is brainstormed but I'm currently going through a lot of personal bullshit. Thank you for your patience bb. It's coming!

[youthereader]

Will literally pay you to keep writing near zero. Like actually. Cashapp, Venmo, WHATEVER. Lmk lol

[youthereader]

[youthereader]

Notes on inclusivity in x reader fic

I’ve seen a lot of posts about this this week so I wanted to share the things I think about when I write and how I try to be more inclusive. I’m not saying I invented these – I definitely did not. I’m just good at organizing information (thanks, grad school) so I thought it might be helpful for others to list out what I'm thinking about while writing. I’m completely open to feedback on these! And I’ll add to the list as I learn and think of more. 

Notes on hair, skin tone, body type/size (and clothes), language, and gender below the cut.

Hair

The main thing to avoid here is having fingers run through reader’s hair. That’s not possible or desirable for a variety of hair types. Things I like to do instead:

Hand on the back of the neck

Hand on jaw, side of neck, or cheek (especially hand on side of neck with thumb caressing cheek)

Fingers tracing face, cheekbones, lips

Kisses at the hairline

Skin tone

I think we all know about avoiding blushing at this point. I like to use:

Cheeks heated

Felt heat rise in your cheeks

Face felt hot

Your cheeks were warm to the touch

You could feel the heat in your cheeks

But there’s also other considerations, like wind chafing (which can cause redness, but only on some skin) and effects of actions like clenching your fists or what happens when you’re feeling faint:

Windburn, raw skin, dryness, chafing, peeling instead of redness

Not using “white knuckles” to emphasize clenched fists or a tight grip on something

Not having the reader “turn white��� or pale when they’re shocked, feeling faint, sick, etc.

Instead, try: looks sick, ill, shaky, weak, trembling

Body type & size

Clothing

I try to only specify clothing, footwear, and/or makeup when plot relevant:

Going out on a date? Try “your favorite outfit” or “the new outfit you bought” which allows the reader to fill in something they would want to wear in that situation.

If I need reader to have a pocket, I might specify jeans, but not what type.

If I need reader to be comfortable, I might say they’re wearing their most comfortable clothes, but not what they are.

If I need reader to be wearing a top and pants, I’ll just say that without adding details.

Another note here - it’s possible to add descriptors that can be relatable and add to the vibe without adding specifics. For example:

“You were wearing your favorite jeans that fit you just the way you liked.”

"You were already uncomfortable because your only clean pants were the ones you hated, with the broken fly."

“You slipped on your most comfortable clothes that you liked to wear around the house.”

“You found a top in your closet that you hadn’t worn in ages, and felt perfect for the moment.”

If needed, specify without over specifying:

In Maintenance Request, there’s an important, plot-relevant scene where reader spills coffee on her white blouse. So I said she was wearing a white blouse, but nothing else about her outfit. That allows you to picture whatever you want (and whatever type of blouse) with just that one detail.

You can say, for example, that reader is wearing lingerie and it has lace, without adding so much information that the reader can't picture themselves in it.

Body size and weight

In terms of reader’s size, one thing to think about is writing that the other person lifts the reader or carries them anywhere. That’s not inclusive of plus-size bodies (like mine). But it’s possible to include similar physicality without that particular detail:

Throwing a leg over a shoulder

Tugging on hips (on the bed)

Pushing into a wall and crowding in

Pulling someone down on top of you

Height

Not everyone is shorter than these love interests we’re writing about. Try:

Leaned in for a kiss (instead of up)

Brought your lips to theirs 

Angled your head for a kiss

Reached for them (instead of reached up)

Language

You don’t have to speak a language to imagine that your reader might. Instead of implying that dialogue in another language is “incomprehensible” or saying reader doesn’t understand, try:

You didn’t hear what he said (let’s the reader decide if they understood)

Include the dialogue but mark it as being in the other language (possibly in italics?)

Talk to one of the many fans on here who speak that language! 

Check out and bookmark helpful posts like this one about sexy talk in Spanish from ali @urmomsgnocchi

Gender

Label whether it’s f!reader, gn!reader, m!reader, nb!reader, etc.

Note about tagging

But like anything else, the most important thing to do is tag! If you want to have someone lift the reader, for example, you can do that – just tag for it, or specify that you’re not tagging for everything. That allows people to choose how to engage.

I like to add a note on the main fic post about any details I’ve added to reader’s backstory, see this one as an example.

Note about learning

Like anything else, we do better when we learn more. I learned a lot of this from reading fic and reading others’ helpful guidance and suggestions way before I ever started writing. But I also learned some from editing myself, which gets easier the more I practice. For example, I originally had a detail in to know the light about reader's skin turning red and irritated from cold wind – but I caught it, and changed it to be more inclusive. I caught it because I’ve been purposefully editing and monitoring my own writing for inclusivity. It gets easier with practice.

I hope this is helpful and I’m also happy to add any other suggestions or link to anyone’s posts. Also happy to have feedback. <3

Here are some posts that helped me learn and do better: About inclusivity and language from @flightlessangelwings

[youthereader]

hrghh another long and difficult day... TUMBLR!! fetch me a photo of The Fictional Character .....

[youthereader]

WATCHING THE DETECTIVES (2007)

Cillian Murphy as Neil Lewis

"What's the deal with the old costumes?"

"Oh, those… I use them for promotions…"

[youthereader]

my constant mood while drawing for the last 30 minutes

[youthereader]

I’m really enjoying your Gator series! Your writing is so good!

Aw, thank you bb! 😘