dimlylittorch

[dimlylittorch]

“We’re just gonna give you a quick update *wind makes everything unintelligible*”

[dimlylittorch]

I had my gallbladder out today and I’m in so much pain that I can’t lay down in my bed. I’m confined to sleeping in a recliner :(

anyways if i post something about ‘blank character comforting you after gallbladder surgery’ don’t think it’s super random😭

[dimlylittorch]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[dimlylittorch]

STIMULI AND RESPONSE: A STUDY IN CHEMISTRY…

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!

dr. richards asks a favor of you…

The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuity, like the very air itself has been charged.

You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.

You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.

It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.

That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.

You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss. 

You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.

It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.

It’s not plausible.

You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.

“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”

You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.

He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.

“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”

“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.

You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.

He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.

“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."

You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.

Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”

You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.

“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”

Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.

You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”

“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”

You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”

Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.

He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”

You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.

Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”

Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.

You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”

You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”

Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”

It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.

Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”

“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”

He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.

You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.

“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”

“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.

Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.

Would you let him touch you?

You should say no.

You really should.

This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”

The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.

"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."

You have no choice but to obey.

The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.

White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.

It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.

You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.

You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.

The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.

The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.

Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."

You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.

"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.

He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.

Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.

"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."

"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."

He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.

You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.

"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.

It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.

"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."

You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.

"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."

Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.

"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."

You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.

"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.

The command makes your stomach twist.

You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.

"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.

You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.

"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."

You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."

Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"

You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."

"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"

You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.

You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."

"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."

Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.

He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."

Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"

He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."

He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.

He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.

You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.

White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.

Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"

"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."

Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”

You don't hear the rest.

The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.

Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up like you took an injection of kerosene.

"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."

"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."

He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.

"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."

Reed's eyes darken, it's unmistakable. "Touch sensitivity?"

You blink. "I-I don't know."

"Then let's determine."

Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.

You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.

Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, callused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.

“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”

You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breath is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”

Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.

“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”

You glance down.

There's a very pronounce tent in straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.

You moan at the sight of it, your hands twitching with the need to touch.

"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.

You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.

Reed kisses you.

Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.

It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.

He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides into your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.

When he pulls back, you chase him.

"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."

"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"

Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass long gone as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up you body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.

You cry into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.

He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.

You keen.

“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”

You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.

Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”

Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.

He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”

“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”

A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.

“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”

"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."

Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.

You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.

Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.

“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”

Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.

You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”

You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.

Reed sinks to his knees.

It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.

It makes you shiver.

“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the say. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”

His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.

“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”

He curls his finger experimentally.

You choke on a gasp.

He adds another.

The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.

“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”

Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”

You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—

“Oh my god—”

“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.

“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”

He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.

You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.

Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.

The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.

His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”

Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.

Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.

And then, without warning, he presses inside you.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.

It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.

Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.

You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.

His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.

Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.

Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”

“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”

You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”

You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.

“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”

You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”

Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.

Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”

His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”

It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.

You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”

Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.

When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.

“Reed—!”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.

His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.

With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”

Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.

You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.

“Reaction remains heightened post-climax,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ll need…further confirmation.”

The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.

also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[dimlylittorch]

18+ drabble MDNI

just a simon x reader meet cute :3 (3.6k)

My Masterlist🌱

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x neurodivergent!sweetheart!transmasc!reader

(simon is also very neurodivergent coded in this)

He had dated plenty of people before. Surely he had a grasp on this whole relationship thing. He knew the basics- you date, you fight, you make up, etc. Just the natural order of things, right? He always seemed to date people who were like himself. Emotionally closed off, distant, angry. That was until he met you. The complete opposite of him.

He had been standing in the grocery line, watching the cashier swipe everything with a close eye. Wearing a black hoodie and his skull balaclava, he wasn’t exactly welcome in the community- but he had to get food somewhere. When he tries to pay fifty dollars for the bare minimum, he tenses when his card declines. He huffs, pulling out cash instead. His paycheck must not have come through yet. But then he notices he only has twenty five dollars and some change.

Before he can even think about what he should put back, the card reader beeps, making him quickly glance over. You were standing there, a sweet smile on your face as the payment went through. “No worries” you said sweetly, as if you’d bought him something as simple as a soda. His eyes trail over your form, and his brow furrows. Smaller than him. Weaker than him. Yet your smile made something in his chest shift.

As he grabs his bag of groceries he watches you set your own things on the little conveyer belt, chatting with the cashier like nothing had happened. You just paid for his food. Who the hell does that? “Hey” he says gruffly, his voice coming out rougher than he’d meant it to. He sees the cashier shoot him a glare, but you simply look up at him, your head tilted like a puppy.

“Yes sir?” You asked, and once again something in his chest just clicked into place. Sir. You called him sir. The silly little bird had manners. He could tell already- you weren’t scared of him. Not like most people were.

“I want your number.” He replies, but when he hears the cashier scoff, he realizes how it sounds. “To pay you back.” He adds.

You smile up at him, nodding as you continue to go through your basket. “Sure thing” you grinned softly, reaching into your pocket to grab your phone. “Just put your number in while I check out, okay?” You said sweetly.

He paused for a moment, hesitating before taking your unlocked phone. Christ, your lack of survival instincts were starting to get to him. Just letting a strange man who clearly didn’t have much money take your phone? He couldn’t help but hear that little voice in the back of his head. Keep him safe. He really was losing it.

When he got home later that day he put his groceries away, sitting on his couch with a sigh. Much to his displeasure he couldn’t stop thinking about the stupidly sweet guy that paid for his food. And a small while later, he gets a text.

‘Hey! This is the guy from the grocery store. You totally don’t have to pay me back, but I did want to say hi :)’

He stares at the text for a long moment, thinking of what to say. You sounded so genuine. It was unfamiliar.

‘Hi’ he texts back, immediately regretting hitting send and not saying anything else. He rubs his hand over his face, groaning as he tosses his phone aside. You definitely wouldn’t answer now.

But only a few seconds later, he hears the little sound that goes off when someone likes a message. You hearted his message. His message. Fuck, what was wrong with him? He hesitates for a minute before sending something else.

‘Dinner?’

Little did he know you were staring at your phone, practically squealing to yourself alone in your room. The massive and totally cute guy (you just knew he was cute under that mask) from the grocery store asked you to dinner.

‘I was going to ask you the same thing!! But you could totally beat me up lol so I held back. I’d love to :D’

He can’t help but smile a little at your reply, sighing as he thinks about what he’s getting himself into. He couldn’t remember the last time he went on a real date. He was familiar with random hook ups in dirty bar bathrooms, or drunken night outs with strangers that somehow always ended with someone in his bed. He didn’t do polite. He wasn’t a gentleman.

He tries to distract himself, but his mind keeps drifting. As he makes himself fold his laundry his eyes keep shifting to his phone, just waiting for it to light up again with a new notification from you. And finally, he finds himself quickly reaching over to grab it.

‘I didn’t get your name by the way! I’m y/n. It was really nice to meet you today!! and just so you don’t forget who I am, here’s a picture to use for my contact’

He let out a faint breath as his eyes trailed over your message, reading it not once- but twice, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Your name. You wanted his name. His heart stutters a bit when he sees the photo you sent him, a selfie with you grinning like the sweet guy you were. Shit, did he have to send a photo now?

It takes a whole ten minutes for him to reply, while the entire time you were left wondering if you’d said the wrong thing. Meanwhile he had been in his bathroom, trying to figure out how to take a selfie that didn’t make him look like crap. Eventually he settles on a mirror picture of him in a black tank top with his balaclava on, keeping one of his hands tucked into his jean pocket. It wasn’t too horrible. At least it showed something so you didn’t think he was a weirdo.

When he replied with a simple ‘Simon.’ and that photo of himself, your eyes widened as you immediately sat up, clicking on the photo and zooming in on the first piece of skin you’ve been able to see. Was it embarrassing? Yeah. But were his arms gorgeous? Definitely. His muscles were bigger than you could’ve guessed from under that baggy hoodie, and it’s safe to say you felt your cheeks heat up at the thought of having dinner with him. In your rush to look closer at the photo, you accidentally hearted the picture. Oh fuck. Now he definitely thinks you’re weird. He sends one photo and you heart it? Jesus Christ.

Simon’s eyes widen when he sees that you hearted his photo, and he freezes. You liked it? You didn’t just like it, you loved it. That definitely made him feel some type of way. A few seconds later he hearts the photo you had sent him, making you breathe a sigh of relief. What you don’t know is that he saved your photo almost instantly, immediately moving over to his photos to prevent any mishaps- and reaching down to unbuckle his belt with one hand, his phone with your face front and center in the other.

He felt like a horrible person. You were so sweet and kind- and here he was, a guy that could absolutely ruin you. He shouldn’t have worded it like that, now he was harder than before. It doesn’t take long for him to shuck his boxers down, licking his palm and grabbing his cock, tugging on it roughly as he groans, eyes locked onto your picture. That smile alone could kill him. Not to mention your body? Fuck, what he wouldn’t give to have you on his lap, keeping him all nice and warm. And the thought of your lips against his.. it was pathetic how quickly he came, his black tank now painted white.

—

It took a few days to arrange dinner, but once the plans were set in stone? He couldn’t stop thinking about backing out. He had been in the military for christ’s sake, and here he was scared of a little date. His social skills had never been the most refined, often opting to keep to himself during his school years. He never got much socialization with people like him- different. The fact that someone had even taken an interest in him still triggered an age old reflex of ‘maybe it’s a joke’.

But normally, he had a good eye for reading people. And you? He didn’t think you’d be the type to be cruel. You seemed more like the type to apologize to a stuffed animal if you dropped it, or buy a stranger’s groceries. Yeah, the complete opposite of him. He wasn’t great with words and was even worse with actions. He was blunt and brutally honest, something most people turned their noses up at. Everyone loved lying. It was the one thing he never could really master.

He had let you pick the restaurant since he didn’t have much of a preference for food. He could eat just about anything, he wasn’t picky considering he had grown use to the taste of MRE’s. And he might as well do what he can now to make you happy to make up for how boring he’ll be in person. You decided on an Italian restaurant, a small little hole in the wall place that he had never been to. As he was trying to decide what to wear, his phone buzzed.

‘Just so you know the restaurant doesn’t have a dress code!! it’s super laid back, I’m friends with most of the staff :)’

You had practically read his mind. He opts to grab a black button down he had, something he hadn’t worn in ages. And then another buzz.

‘Also, what’s your favorite color?’

He stares at the text for a moment, blinking as he processes the question. Favorite color? Was this kindergarten? He thought about it for a minute, contemplating what to say. He couldn’t be boring and say black, right? You probably wanted to hear yellow or something. He sighs, begrudgingly answering.

‘Orange.’

It was a little embarrassing how excited you got when he answered. Most guys blow off that kind of question thinking it’s dumb- or saying they don’t know. But he actually gave you an answer. God, the bar is on the floor, isn’t it?

When he had to go to unfamiliar places he usually showed up early, just to scout out the area. It always made him feel more comfortable in his surroundings. He sits at a booth in a back corner somewhere, just how he likes it. He doesn’t have to worry about someone being behind him, and it helps to ease his mind. Just as he’s glancing around the mostly empty dining area, his eyes widen when they land on you. Sitting by yourself in a booth on the other side of the restaurant.

His head tilted ever so slightly in thought. You must’ve had the exact same idea as him. Get there early, scout out the area- make sure you aren’t late. He hums faintly, opening his phone and calling you. He watches you react to seeing the notification, the slight panic. You probably thought he was canceling - he definitely felt a little bad now. He sees you put the phone to your ear and try to put on an upbeat tone.

“Hey! Everything okay?”

He lets out a faint chuckle, leaning back in his booth. “Didn’t mean ta’ scare ya.” He murmurs. “Look to yer left.”

You quickly glance over to your left, a relieved smile forming on your face when you see him. Hanging up the phone, you grab your bag and quickly walk over, clearly a little embarrassed.

“God, I’m so sorry” you laugh softly. “I can’t believe I didn’t see you. I always try to get to places early.”

He huffs, wondering if he should stand or do something gentlemanly while you sat down. Too late now. “Nah, I just got ‘ere. No worries, dove.” He smiles slightly. “I had tha’ same idea.”

“Well, you know what they say” You chuckle. “Great minds think alike.”

“Wouldn’t call my mind great. But I’ll let ya think that it is.” He murmurs as he picks up his menu.

You have a sweet grin on your face, as if him even being in your presence makes you happy. He has to keep his eyes down on his menu because he’s bloody dumbfounded. Why are you so happy to be here with him?

“Oh! I almost forgot.” You say suddenly, reaching behind you in the booth, pulling out a small orange rose you must have been hiding behind your back. Just to surprise him. “Since you like orange..” you smile shyly, offering it to him across the table.

He stares at the flower for a moment, his mind short circuiting before hesitantly reaching out and taking it. “Ya.. didn’t have ta’ do that.” He murmurs, his eyes shifting to your own for a split moment.

“I’m not very good with words.” You smile, your eyes moving to your own menu. “I just.. wanted you to know I’m really glad you asked me to dinner. I thought that would convey the message pretty well, right?”

He’s quiet for a moment before a small laugh falls from his lips. “Yer a fuckin’ sap.” He teases, setting the rose down next to his keys. “I like it.”

Your smile widens and you laugh with him, the tension in your shoulders fading slightly as you were able to relax more in his presence. “I’m glad somebody does.” You muse. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind me being a weird hopeless romantic.”

He snorts, shaking his head with amusement. “That’s one of tha’ better kinds of weird ya can be.” He chuckles. “At least ya aren’t a guy who goes around wearin’ a balaclava at all hours of tha’ day.”

“You’re not wearing one now.” You smile. “I must be special.”

He hums, his eyes flitting over your form as he sets his menu down.

“Yer definitely different, I’ll give ya that.” He muses. “I wear it t’a scare people off. Not much of a people person.”

You hum, resting your chin on your hand as he speaks. His voice is so low and soothing. What you wouldn’t give to take him home with you, wrap him up in a blanket- no, nope, stop that line of thinking right now. You don’t take people home after one date. You’d probably freak out anyways if he tried to do anything. You weren’t exactly well versed in hook ups, unlike Simon. God knows what you’d do in that kind of situation.

And of course, there was that steady thrum between your legs that amplified every time he spoke. He was just so attractive. He was big and muscular, covered in scars and tattoos.. exactly your type, much to other people’s surprise. Squeezing your thighs together subtly, you try to focus on his voice, your mind a little hazy. It was embarrassing how desperate you were. But he’s so pretty.

“I don’t do well with people much.” You murmur. Suddenly the waiter walks up and takes your drink orders, and Simon can’t help but raise an eyebrow when he sees how sweet and friendly you are to the waiter, completely contradicting your last statement. You see his expression and laugh softly. “Okay- okay. I’m good at passive interactions. But I’m not good at the long lasting friendships or anything.”

He lets out a small grunt of acknowledgment when the waiter comes back with your drinks, a sharp contradiction to your overly excited thank you. He hums as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes drifting down your form before he catches himself, his gaze moving down to the table. “Good thing I was lookin’ f’r more than a friendship.” He smirks, his eyes meeting your own.

A shy smile forms on your lips as you meet his gaze. “I’m probably even worse at relationships.” You murmur, sticking a straw in your drink and stirring it mindlessly. The waiter returns after a moment, taking both of your orders before asking how you’d be paying. Together or separate?

You and Simon both automatically say ‘together’ causing you to look at each other a little surprised. The waiter chuckled before leaving you two alone, and you could feel Simon tense slightly at the sudden silence. “I’m paying.” You say softly, reaching into your bag to pull out your wallet.

When you both said together, Simon had wondered if it was a red flag. Were you expecting him to pay for the both of you right off of the bat? But the second he sees you pull out your wallet, he scoffs. “No way, bird.” He mutters as he pulls out a roll of twenties. “Ya bought my groceries. I buy ya dinner.” When he sees you working up to protest, he grabs the rose off of the table and gently taps the petals to your lips, causing you to freeze. “Not a word out a tha’ pretty mouth.” And it would seem the decision was final. “Ya said it yerself, I could beat ya up. Don’t go arguin’ wit’ me now.”

When the petals gently brush against your lips you can’t help but go quiet, your eyes shifting between him and the rose. A heat rose to your cheeks, and you adjust in your seat slightly as he pulls it away. “Fine.” You concede faintly. “You win. Just this once.”

He smirks, bringing the rose to his nose, sniffing it. “Ya said yer probably not good at relationships.” He murmurs. “Why probably? Ya ain’t sure?”

That makes you chuckle a little, your fingers thrumming on the table in thought. “I haven’t had many.. romantic encounters.” You muse, but he could tell there was the slightest bit of melancholy behind your eyes. Hell, he even recognized it. It was like he was looking at himself for a moment. “I was the kid in school that never had a boyfriend or a prom date.”

“Wouldn’t ‘ave guessed.” He murmurs, setting the rose aside. “S’not like yer bad lookin’. I’ve seen plenty ‘a people wit’ an uglier mug than you.” He smiles, making you smile in return.

“At least if you’re unattractive you know what the problem is.” You sigh, taking a sip of your drink. “When no one likes you because of your personality.. how do you even fix that? It’s not like anyone would tell me what they don’t like about me, anyways. I’m always just stuck wondering what I’m doing wrong.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking over your words. “I’ve got tha’ same problem.” He mutters. “Except my looks don’t help my case.”

Your eyes shift to scan over his face, your head tilting slightly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re pretty cute.” You murmur, and it makes him pause for a moment. He can tell you’re being honest. That’s what gets to him. You’re not trying to be nice to get anything from him- and you’re not put off by his appearance. Most people usually want him for the muscles, telling him to leave the balaclava on. “Especially your nose.” You smile.

His nose? His crooked, large nose that had been broken time and time again? “What’s there ta’ like?” He scoffs, leaning back in his seat.

Right as he leans back, you sit up, elbows resting on the table. “You have a few freckles on your nose.” You muse. “And I know what you’re thinking. Your nose is crooked.”

He chuckles faintly at your bluntness, shaking his head with amusement. “Nothin’ gets past you, eh?”

You scoff, an undeniable smile curling up on your lips. “I like that it’s crooked.” You clarify, your smile growing wider when you see how he looks a little surprised by your words. “Our bodies are just.. homes. For our souls to live in. I like it when someone’s home looks lived in.” You murmur. “Not when it looks perfect and blends in with everything else.”

He stares at you for a moment, his head tilting slightly. “Ya lied to me, bird.”

Your smile immediately falters, your body becoming more tense. “About what?” You ask.

“Ya said you weren’t good wit’ words.” He smirks. “And then ya say some shit like that. I’m on a date wit’ a fuckin’ poet, christ.” He laughs.

Relaxing almost instantly, you grab a little salt packet and toss it at him. “You scared me!” You grin. “I thought I said something wrong, god. Don’t do that.”

—

The rest of the night went smoothly. Despite them getting Simon’s order wrong the first go around, you managed to keep him entertained long enough for him to not get grumpy. He had to admit, he got pretty flustered (internally, of course) when you started to share your food with him while he waited for his own, even holding the fork up to his mouth for him to try a piece of chicken. The way your smile widened when he said he liked it made his heart flutter, and something shifted inside of him. Damn it. He was locked in now. If he had to let you go- he could already tell it would hurt for weeks, if not months. One night and you’ve left a lasting impression on him. Who knew he could be treated so kindly? By an angel on earth, no less.

[dimlylittorch]

the true elation and dopamine hit I get when I have a friendly random conversation with a stranger in public needs to be studied

[dimlylittorch]

hi hello I am going to be sick

[dimlylittorch]

i have a new obsession you guys

OH MY CLARK!!!😭😭💞💞😍😍

I don't have words to describe what I am feeling. This is THE NERDIEST CLARK we ever got. He literally tumbled out of comics.

[dimlylittorch]

So whoever is patient zero with “he needs to touch people because of his anxiety,” made that shit up for fun and it has gotten way out of hand. He literally has never said that, ever. He said one time to Bella that he puts his hand on his torso because that’s where he feels his anxiety, which had nothing to do with other people. Because actually…these are the things he does when he’s anxious. This is him self soothing.

[dimlylittorch]

this sudden wave of hate against Pedro Pascal is so fucking annoying.

enjoy this somewhat detailed tangent about why it’s dumb⬇️

You shouldn’t put celebs on pedestals, but you’re allowed to say you love a celeb just because they are a good person. You don’t need to meet them, you don’t need to know them. You’re allowed to admire people who are true to themselves and stick up for what’s right.

Like look if it does come out he’s a bad guy? fine, i’ll eat my words. But what i do know as of now is i have never seen a video of a woman be uncomfortable around him.

I don’t know Pedro Pascal and I won’t pretend to. But just going with context clues..

1. He is physically affectionate with male and female costars. And often times they initiate the contact with him, it is not one sided. So the whole narrative of ‘he is only affectionate with his female costars’ is quite literally false.

2. I literally cannot think of a time I’ve heard or seen anything about someone saying he made them uncomfortable. If anything I’ve heard ten times over how sweet he is and how he always tries to make others comfortable, as he understands how shitty it feels to be uncomfortable around others.

3. All of this hate is coming from cisgender men, mainly conservative ones. Right now we live in ‘Trump’s’ America, where power is being stripped away from minorities and hate is becoming even more rampant. Cisgender, and usually white, men are on a power trip knowing that the president cares about them the most, and has no care in the world for people who aren’t his followers.

And what else do we know about these kinds of men? They are racist, homophobic, misogynistic, sexist, transphobic, and so on. They hate people that are different from them. Pedro is a man of color who has openly defended the queer community as well as immigrants who are being attacked by the government. He has openly spoken about these issues, and what are men’s favorite tactics? To yell. To be loud. To be aggressive. They have taken this smear campaign and run with it, saying whatever they can to get Pedro to stop talking.

They’ve noticed how women and minorities love Pedro because he cares about us. He is one of us. People are allowed to think he is in too many films, or that he is overrated. What they are not allowed to do is to make up accusations about a man who has shown no sign of inappropriate behavior towards his costars or anyone else for that matter. These men will do whatever they can to get Pedro’s career trashed, and his reputation tainted. It’s literally disgusting how hateful they are.

4. This hate comes from a place of jealousy. It’s so obvious that the only men hating are incredibly insecure. They wonder why women can’t be that comfortable with and around them, and it’s because they can’t be normal around women. They always have to make things weird, or take things too far. They’re upset that Pedro is setting a standard that consent is a requirement and the foundations for any healthy friendship with a woman, or anyone. So, they go and try to ruin his reputation. ‘Wow, this guy that always seemed like he cared about consent? Yeah, turns out he’s just a creep who never cared at all.’ It’s literally trying to ruin the idea that men can have platonic relationships with women and have healthy contact that isn’t driven by ulterior motives. By going out and ruining a good guys reputation, they think women will have to lower their standards and go crawling back to creeps like them. ‘The bar is too high, women really like this guy because he is emotionally intelligent and kind. If we make him look bad women will further fall into the idea that all men can be bad and not care about consent, so they’ll be more likely to give normal guys like us a chance.’ It’s a very ‘savior’ tactic. ‘A guy who seemed genuine and sweet wasn’t that way at all? Maybe you need a guy who doesn’t act like that, just like me. Guys who are that nice have to be weirdos.’ They’re just trying to make an excuse for not being polite and gentle people, attempting to normalizing their shitty behavior.

5. Men constantly whine about women not caring about their mental health. But the second a man is open about his mental health struggles and finds comfort in other people, he’s bashed and told he’s faking it. ‘If he had anxiety he shouldn’t have been an actor.’ The male loneliness epidemic is not real. Male loneliness is real, but the term ‘male loneliness epidemic’ has heavy connotations by saying that women have caused it. Women having better standards and fighting for their rights does not cause male loneliness. Men treating other men who openly share their struggles like crap causes male loneliness. Women are not responsible for making men feel comfortable, especially since men have never made an effort to make women feel comfortable. If men want people to care about men, they need to look in the mirror and realize they do it to themselves.

6. Men complain about how women label all of them as threats. ‘Why do women assume I’m dangerous?’ and ‘Women are scared of me? I’m scared of being falsely accused.’ Men do not want to be seen as threats to women. Yet, the second a man is incredibly kind and gentle with women, everyone calls him ‘gay’? Or not manly? Do men even realize that the typical standard of being manly involves being aggressive and intimidating? What woman would feel safe around you while constantly being reminded that you could and might attack her. Women have to live in fear for their own safety. Men who make an effort to make women feel comfortable are men like Pedro Pascal. While he may initiate physical contact, he does so in a safe and polite way. He has never just grabbed someone like plenty of other male celebrities have.

7. Men are saying they are outing Pedro as a ‘creep’ to protect women. Why didn’t you guys want to protect women from other male celebrities? Why didn’t you support the MeToo movement? Why do you say women reporting their assaults is attention seeking? Why do you refuse to acknowledge that women deserve to feel safe? ‘If women wanted to be equal so bad, I won’t go to their rescue.’ It was never about protecting women, and it never has been.

8. Pedro has openly supported the queer community, especially trans rights. His sister is trans, and honestly as a trans man myself, his support means the world to me. I don’t often see celebrities so outwardly support us, and with him being such a famous person right now, it counts for a lot. Every single person I’ve found saying Pedro is a creep, is also transphobic. That alone says enough. Any YouTube videos I’ve watched about him being weird? (Because I do care to listen to the other side and give them a chance, I am not a blind supporter of anyone.) Every single channel also had videos that were transphobic, homophobic, anti-feminist, pro trump, etc. It is so incredibly clear that Pedro has a large target on his back for something as simple as supporting human rights.

All in all, I love Pedro Pascal as an actor, and I enjoy seeing him in films and online. I don’t love him in a weird parasocial relationship way, I love him in a ‘I really respect him as a human being’ way. I am not saying all men are bad, Pedro is a great example of that. But I am saying that the men hating are him are very clearly sad people who have nothing better to do with their lives than smear others, and spew bullshit about people who disagree with them. You don’t have to like Pedro Pascal, but you do have to recognize that none of this started until just recently, where J.K. Rowling has probably been fuming over him calling her out for being transphobic, as well as at the same time of him hitting his peak as an actor. He is right in the spotlight, starring in multiple major films, and the center of the public eye. Even if you hate him, it doesn’t give you the right to make false allegations or speculations about him when there is literally nothing other than him and his costars being touchy and friendly with each other.

Which btw even if it was weird for him and Vanessa Kirby to be that close for the last few weeks, you have to remember that in Fantastic 4 they play husband and wife. They are clearly playing it up for the cameras, as that is such a large part of their characters. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were encouraged to act more familiar with each other for the press. He also just seems like an incredibly caring man, so with her being pregnant there is a whole extra layer of wanting to make sure she feels safe and comfortable, as being in the public eye can be a lot.

Sorry for the rant, I just really hate when anyone has stupid accusations made about them for literally no reason. He’s just famous and lovable and people are jealous🤷‍♂️ thanks for reading :3

[dimlylittorch]

to call you mine - series masterlist

Pairing: dbf!joel x reader

MDNI* this series contains mature and explicit themes

How is it that in one simple, fleeting moment, the dynamic with the constant in your life, your dad’s best buddy, old, gruff Joel Miller.. shifts into the most thrilling, turbulent secret you’re forced to keep under wraps?

If only you knew where it was always doomed to lead.

1: kindling

2: upper hand

3: combing through the wreckage

4: something’s got to give

5: broken parts

6: to you, i surrender

7: there it blooms

[dimlylittorch]

hope you don’t mind me joining in!! :3

tag game -- on Pinterest type: aesthetic, character, colour, movie, lyric, and celebrity and post below

thank you @the-californicationist ! sorry for the tardiness. i love these

no pressure tags @gemmahale @gloard @peachesofteal @553580 @stellewriites @ilium-ilia @gildui

[dimlylittorch]

guys i managed to write 1000 words in like an hour and a half, which is the most i’ve written in months.

SELF DELETION IS CANCELLED🗣️🔥‼️

i turned 20 btw :3

[dimlylittorch]

I’ve ended up being on a pretty long hiatus, I am sorry for the abrupt absence!! Not sure if I’ll be writing much in the next couple of weeks, my birthday is this upcoming Saturday, I work a lot the week after that, the week after that I’m going to see if I can get testosterone (YAY), the week after that I’m having my gallbladder out and the week after that school starts😀

Sorry if this is annoying to pop up on your dash, I just wanted to keep you guys in the loop :)

I’ll probably start writing smaller stuff to get myself back into the groove of writing! Most likely some golden retriever reader x black cat [character] as I find it pretty effortless to write about since I enjoy that trope so much

[dimlylittorch]

Hallo! Just popping in to say I love your writing and I hope you’re doing ok ^_^ it sucks to be creatively blocked or have no motivation, very much relatable ):

thank you so much lovely!! I’m doing okay, just a lot going on life wise lol. I’m getting a grasp on myself again, so I think I should be back to writing soon! Writers block is sooo annoying, like I KNOW I have ideas but the WORDS-

[dimlylittorch]

hi just coming to say your writing is very cool, giggle and kick my feet every time I read your stuff cause you get the characters so good

RAHHH I LOVE YOU ANON this is the motivation i need to try to start writing again

here’s a picture of 3 of my cats as a thank you

[dimlylittorch]

hi mickey! 11, 12, 51, 62 for horrible questions :)

i’m so sorry it took me forever to get to this!! love you pookie :)

11. Do you like someone?

So I don’t like anyone at the moment! My most recent crush was one of my guy best friends. He is straight though so I FINALLY got over it, thank god. I’M FREE

12. Have you ever stayed up 48 hours?

I don’t think I’ve ever stayed up all the way until 48 hours, but I’ve definitely gotten close. When I was little I would get sick a lot, and I’d always get put on steroids since antibiotics didn’t work for me. They’d make it almost impossible to sleep😭

51. Favorite food?

A good filet mignon steak! Always cooked medium well, a little pink in the middle. In my area the best one I can get is at a restaurant called Outback, so my order for there is the 6oz filet with a side of mac and cheese and a baked potato with just butter🥔

62. What makes you happy?

I’d say mainly getting to see my friends. Most of my friends are away at college or away working, so I don’t get to see many of them very often. It’s literally the highlight of my week if I am able to see one of them.

I also really love being able to use my camera! Especially at my local zoo. It’s just been too hot to go lately :(

I’ve probably posted some of these before, BUT HERE THEY ARE AGAIN🗣️🔥‼️