#this isn't all of them it was just too hard to gif the clips of them in a tiny box in the corner

[thcbolter]

spooky week 2024 + "the real horror"

[tropes-and-tales]

It's That Simple

Day 16:  Praise Kink (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst, kinda (Bob gets deflated); talk of panic attacks and self-doubt; smut (handjob); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5656

AN:  This was requested by an anon!

AN2: If you've been around a bit, you know the drill: this isn't edited or re-read or beta'ed.

It’s another terrible first date.

Bob struggles to even snag a first date.  He’s unassuming; he lacks the swagger and extroversion to stroll up to a woman and talk her up.  Most of his dates are obtained from other members of the Daggers—double dates, set-ups, stuff like that.

The latest one was set up by Fanboy, a friend of his sister.  Within moments of meeting his date, Bob knows it’ll be a mess:  she makes a face when she greets him at the door, and it goes downhill from there.

It ends when she gets a text.  An emergency, she tells him, and Bob is too smart and perceptive to buy the lie.  But he’s a gentleman, so he nods seriously and offers to drive her home or wherever she’s needed, which she declines.  He pays the bill of their abortive dinner, and he pretends not to notice how his date practically skips out of the restaurant and into the waiting car of a friend.

He should go home to lick his wounds.  Another failed date, another night alone.  He sees the stretch of his life in front of him and despairs that he’ll ever meet someone, and he should go home to sulk, but he goes to the Hard Deck instead.

He might as well break the news to Fanboy, at least, and maybe Nat can cheer him up with her usual sarcastic humor.

-----

The Hard Deck is as packed as always, and Bob—in his date clothes of dress pants and a button down shirt—stands out among the uniformed pilots and fellow wizzos.  He finds the Dagger Squad, confesses his failure to Fanboy, then settles into a stool near Nat and Rooster.

Nat puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a comforting squeeze.  “I’m sorry, Bob,” she says.

“Her loss,” Rooster offers.

Bob shrugs.  It’s not anyone’s loss but his, but he offers them a weak smile that fools neither of them.

It’s Hangman who sidles up to Bob, and in an uncharacteristic moment of thoughtfulness, the cocky pilot offers to be his wingman—which makes Bob laugh, and it comes out laced with some bitterness.

“No offense, Bagman, but you’d be a terrible wingman,” Bob says.

“What?  Why?”

Bob lifts his hands in a helpless shrug.  “Because you’re….you.  And I’m not like you at all.”

“So?”

He scoffs in frustration at Bagman being so obtuse.  As if any woman would look at Bob if he walked up to them with Jake at his side.  It’d be like an Aston Martin rolling up alongside an old Honda Civic, and that’s the analogy he uses to make Jake understand.  But Jake shakes his head, clasps him on his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake.

“Nah, Baby on Board.  You got it all wrong.  You just need some confidence.”  Another teeth-rattling shake.  “Trust me, there’s a girl out there for you.  C’mon.”

Bob finds himself powerless to resist as Jake pushes him off of his stool, then shoves him gently in the direction of the crowded bar.

-----

The first pair that Jake sidles up to is a bust, but it’s not Bob’s fault:  Jake had hooked up with the one woman before, forgotten about it completely.  He’s moments from getting a drink tossed in his face when Bob tugs him away from the danger and they pull back, reevaluate.

The second pair is a bust too.  The first woman doesn’t even let Jake get the full sentence out before she’s wagging her ring finger in his face.

“Married,” she says, her words clipped.  “Move along, sailor.”

The third pair?  The third pair works out.  Jake hones in on one immediately, a blonde with big doe eyes, but the second one—you—rolls her eyes at him.

But when you turn to study Bob, you don’t roll your eyes.  You hold out a hand, introduce yourself, ask for his rank, then pat the empty chair beside you.

“Settle in, Lieutenant,” and your smile is easy.  “Let’s chat while we watch your friend strike out, huh?”

-----

It turns out you’re drunk, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

For one, you’ve fallen in with Bob Floyd, the most gentlemanly man a drunk, single girl could come across.  He’d never take advantage, and in fact, he’ll end up driving you home at the end of the night, getting you into your apartment.  He will take your shoes off of you, tuck you into your bed, and press a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen on you before he sees himself out.

For another thing, Bob Floyd has fallen in with you, the most fiercely sweet drunk that a down-on-himself man could come across.  You’re one of those loud cheerleader types when you drink; the kind of woman who chats up other women in the bathroom, who tells them they’re beautiful, that you love them.  With your friend and Jake otherwise engaged, Bob finds himself caught in the tractor beam of your charm.

“You look sad,” you tell him around the rim of your glass.  “Are you sad?”

You’re drunk and Bob is sad, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes that glitter in the low light of the bar, so he tells you.  He tells you about his terrible date, the latest in a string of terrible dates, that he’s been single for so long and he’s not entirely convinced he’ll ever meet someone, that he’s too scrawny, that his glasses are terrible (one date called them serial killer glasses), that he’s too reserved to ever catch the eye of a woman, too unremarkable looking, let alone—

“No!”  You cut him off by exclaiming it, a near-shout, and your hand finds his forearm and grips him there.  “You’re gorgeous, Bill!  Don’t even say you aren’t!”

He grins despite himself.  “It’s Bob.  But thanks.  I mean, it’s nice of you to say—”

“Bob.  Yes.  Sorry.  Bob, not Bill.  I say it because it’s true.”  You release your hold on his arm and sit back in your chair, your eyes narrowed now as you study him closer.  You’re quiet for a long beat, and Bob squirms under your attention, but then you tell him more and he swears he breaks out in a full-body blush.

“You’re gorgeous, really,” you tell him.  “It’s just that you have a sneakier handsomeness, you know?  Like, that one there—” You gesture broadly at Jake.  “—He’s, like, Ken-doll handsome.  Like, he catches your eye because it’s all symmetrical and stuff, and he’s fine, but symmetry can be boring and someone like you, it’s sneaky.  You have a nice face, and these nice blue eyes, and nice hair, and I bet people think about you after the fact like, ‘oh, that Bob guy, he’s not bad at all,’ and then even later it’s like, ‘oh, Bob, he’s pretty handsome.’  Because you’re that sneaky sort of handsome and that’s the worst damned kind.”

Bob isn’t entirely tracking what you mean, but he shakes his head at the unearned praise, and he can’t stop the smile that’s plastered on his face.  He probably looks like a dope.

“Why’s that the worst kind?” he asks.

“Because it’s deadly!”  You lean forward again, put your hand on his arm again.  “Sneaky-handsome guys are like a virus because by the time you realize they’ve infected you, it’s too late.”

Bob chuckles.  “I’m a virus?  Suddenly my night has gotten worse, somehow.”

“No, not at all.  It’s just…”  You trail off, polish off your drink.  You wave down Penny for another.  “It’s just that you sneaky-handsome types never understand the power you have.  Ken-doll over there knows he’s hot, and by the mere fact of him knowing he’s hot, he loses a considerable amount of hotness.  But you have no idea you’re handsome, and that makes you even hotter.”

“I think there’s a string of women in the San Diego area that would disagree with your assessment,” Bob replies.  “But I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.”

“Oh, them.”  You flap a hand, a dismissive wave.  “There’s a lot of idiots in the world, Bob.  You can’t let a string of women in the San Diego area make you feel bad.”

“I guess I just need to find someone who isn’t an idiot.”

“Ah, well!”  You set your drink down and wave your hands in front of yourself in a ta-da sort of flourish.  “Cal Tech graduate, Bobby.  I work for NASA.”

He feels a warm flush at you calling him Bobby.  “You’re a rocket scientist?  Definitely not an idiot, then.”

“Astrobiologist, actually.  And only an idiot sometimes, but never when it comes to the sneaky-handsome men here at the Hard Deck.”

Bob shakes his head, a little embarrassed at how much he likes you, a drunk stranger, talking him up.  He tries to dial it back, afraid he’s going to fall in love before last call.

“You’re way too smart for me, then,” he tells you.

That makes you arch an eyebrow at him.  “You afraid of smart women, Bobby?”

“Not at all.  It’s just that smart, beautiful, and sweet?  Do you understand the power you have?”  He keeps his tone light, teasing, but he’s in over his head with this:  he’s definitely going to fall in love before last call.

Of course he is.  His question makes you laugh, a warm sound that knocks free the lump in his chest from his earlier failed date.  Your laughter makes him feel drunk even though he hasn’t touched a drop; he feels warm and light and big-headed at how kind you’ve been to him, how sweet, but your laughter is the sound that makes him fall in love with you.

-----

The two of you stay until last call.  Bagman and your friend disappear hours before then, and you shrug at Bob, say you called it all wrong, that you didn’t think Jake was your friend’s type.

Bob drives you home.  You’re unsteady on your feet, so he hovers near you, but you manage reasonably well until it’s time to unlock your door.  He watches you try it, then he reaches out and takes the keys from your hand.

It’s the first time he touches you.

He gets you inside.  He gets you to your bedroom, and you flop gracelessly across the mattress, and Bob immediately goes into caretaker mode.  He slides your shoes off of you, sets them in a neat row by your closet.  He makes his way to your kitchen, gets you a glass of water, then stops in the bathroom.  He rummages through your medicine cabinet—you use the same brand of toothpaste as he does, the same type of toothbrush, and Bob marvels at the strange intimacy of learning these things, the everyday things that not everyone is privy to about you.  He finds some ibuprofen and shakes two out, then takes them and the water back to you.

You’re already drifting off to sleep, and Bob has to cajole you into sitting up.  He gets you perched on the side of the bed and gives you the pills and water, which you take without complaints.  He takes the empty glass back from you, and then there’s a moment—

—you sit on the edge of your bed and Bob stands over you, and you look up at him with your bleary eyes and he sees fear.  You’re understanding what you’ve done, maybe:  you’ve invited a strange man back to your place and you’re drunk, and he could do anything, and Bob sees the flicker of uncertainty, the beginning of fear in your eyes.  It makes him feel sick because he’d never take advantage.  It makes him sick that the world, being what the world is, makes this fear lance through the whiskey fumes in your head.

He reaches down to the foot of your bed where there’s a blanket neatly folded.  He shakes it out, urges you to lie down, and when you do, he covers you up.

“Be sure to drink more water when you wake up,” he tells you softly. 

The nascent fear fades out of your expression, and it’s replaced by a loose, goofy grin.  You free a hand from under the blanket and give him a sloppy salute.  “Aye, aye, captain.”

Bob sees himself out but not before he’s struck with a bit of brave optimism.  He sees the little whiteboard by your refrigerator, and he writes out his name and his number.  He drives home and sends up a silent prayer that his sneaky-handsome virus has already infected you, charmed as he is by your earnestly drunken (albeit clunky) analogy from earlier in the evening.

He wakes up the next morning and feels less hopeful.  He queues up a playlist and sets out on his morning run, but his morning pessimism is misplaced:  you call him a mile into his run, and Bob stutters in his steps to hear your voice—a little rough, but sunny nonetheless.

“I’m looking for a guy named Bobby,” you tell him over the phone, and he can hear the smile in your voice.  “Lieutenant Blue Eyes.”

-----

The two of you make plans to meet up at the Hard Deck, but you don’t call it a date so Bob doesn’t either.  He’s in unfamiliar territory:  things have always been a date or not a date in the past, but he’s noticed that many of his Dagger teammates speak in looser terms—meeting up, hanging out—with potential partners.  He’s unsure how to handle it; if he seems too casual, you might miss his interest.  If he comes on too strong, he might scare you off.

He decides to just turn up in his uniform, as he usually does, and when he arrives at the Hard Deck, you are already there.  You’re perched in a bar stool and chatting to Penny, but when he strolls in, you see him.

You smile at him as he walks over to you, but then you shake your head in a mock-rueful way.

“Oh, no,” you say as you hop off of your stool.  You open your arms and Bob steps into them, and you hug him warmly like you’re old friends.  “I thought maybe it was just whiskey-goggles that night, but you really are cute.”

Bob chuckles.  He releases you, then takes the stool beside yours.  “Well, I’ve been downgraded.  You called me handsome that night,” he points out.

“Sneaky-handsome, actually.”

“There seems to be a whole spectrum here that I was never privy to.”

You wave down Penny who comes and takes your orders.  Once your drinks are in front of you—a hard cider for you, a shandy for Bob—you click your glass against his.

“Here’s to the sneaky-handsome men of the world,” you say.

Bob ducks his head and grins  “And to the rocket scientists,” he adds.

A date or not a date…the evening passes in a blink, and you leave Bob that night entirely sober after long conversations and a lot of easy laughter.  You pull him in for another hug before you part, and this hug lingers longer than the hug you gave him as a greeting.  When you pull away, though, you gaze at him with a somber expression.

“I wanted to thank you for the other night,” you tell him.  “For being a gentleman when you took me home.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean it.”  Your hands on his upper arms squeeze him a little firmer.  “You could have taken advantage, and you didn’t.  You’re a good one, Bob.”

He shakes his head, tries to wave you off, but you squeeze him again.  You don’t let him shrug off your thanks.  You don’t let him downplay his goodness.

“You are a good man, Bob,” you repeat, and you stare at him, like you’re daring him to disagree. 

Bob, who finds that you’re something of a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t dare to disagree.

-----

He’s still not entirely clear if this is dating or not.  Neither of you actually says the word.  You text each other steadily, and you meet up sometimes at the Hard Deck, but your schedule isn’t great and Bob’s is even worse.  He worries that he’s missed his chance.  When he talks about it to the other Daggers, Hangman rolls his eyes and tells Bob he should have taken his shot earlier, that Bob is pretty much friend-zoned now, but Nat rolls her eyes at that and says he’s overthinking it.

Of course Bob overthinks it.  Bob overthinks everything.

He doesn’t know yet that you overthink everything too.  That you are going through your own pangs of regret, that you think you’ve missed your chance too, that your friends circle around you too and give you tough-love pep talks to build up your courage to take the lead on this burgeoning thing with Bob.

And ultimately, Bob’s hunch that you’re a force to be reckoned with is correct.  In the end, you take charge.

-----

You end up inviting him over for dinner on a night when your schedules align, and Bob overthinks that too. 

What if it’s a date-date, and he turns up too casual, with nothing in his hands—no wine, no flowers?  Or the opposite—what if he dresses up a little, brings you a mixed bouquet, and it’s just a casual friends-type thing?

Bob has no idea how he can manage the systems on a sophisticated plane because his brain grinds to a painful halt the moment he starts to contemplate this dinner at your place.  It’s Nat—it’s always Nat, with her no-nonsense lens into the mystique of her fellow women—who smacks some sense into him.

“Wear a nice shirt, shower beforehand, and take a bottle of wine,” she tells him.

“But what if—”

“It’s always polite to take a gift, Bob.”  She rolls her eyes, heaves a sigh.  “And it’s always polite to, you know.  Shower.  Show up fresh-smelling and neat.  Jesus Christ.  Just go.”

So Bob turns up at your apartment, a mid-tier bottle of wine in his sweaty hand.  Freshly showered, a daub of cologne behind his ears, and a nice blue button-down that brings out his eyes. 

And it’s a good thing he took Nat’s advice too, because you open the door in the sweetest sundress, and there’s music softly playing and the most heavenly smells wafting from your kitchen.  Bob realizes all at once that it’s a date-date after all, and his heart does an alarming little stutter in his chest, enough to stun him until you take his hand and gently pull him inside.

-----

Part of Bob’s issue with women is his inability to pick up on subtle, sometimes invisible cues.  He has always fallen in with the sort of women who play mind games, who play coy and say one thing while meaning another.  He always feels back on his heels; it feels like women speak a language he’s only slightly fluent in, so he’s always playing catch-up to translate what they mean.

But it’s refreshing with you, in this moment, because as you both sit down to the feast you’ve prepared, you just talk with him.  The two of you chat about your lives, you catch each other up since the last time you’ve talked, and Bob almost forgets to be nervous.

Almost.  A pair of tapered candles flicker between you and cast your lovely face in a golden glow, and low, bluesy music sets the soundtrack as you eat.  You sip at the wine he brought, and he eats your home-cooking, and Bob imagines an entire life like this…and he almost misses the way you keep swiping your palms along your thighs, like you’re nervous.

Almost.  He leans into his WSO work, studies you closely like you’re a dashboard of lights and alarms and switches.  He watches you a little closer, and he sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow a mouthful of wine, like you’re swallowing past a lump or going all dry-mouthed on him.  He sees the deep breaths you take, the way you press the back of your hand to your neck, like you’re flushed and trying to calm yourself.

“You’re nervous,” he blurts out when he realizes it for sure, and you pause in where you’re lifting the wine glass to your mouth and stare at him.

“I am.”  It’s that simple.  No mind games, no coy pretending. 

“It’s just me,” Bob says.

You smile at him, and it trembles a little at the corners.  He can feel the nerves in you now, and he reaches out a hand across the table, palm up.  He makes a grabby motion with it until your smile firms up and you lay your hand in his, and he grasps you lightly.

“It’s just me,” he repeats.

“And I like just-you,” you tell him.  “Like-like, I mean.  I wanted to tell you so tonight.”

His heart does that wicked little stutter in his chest, but he squeezes your hand.  “Sounds like you just told me then.”

“Guess so.”  You watch him, and your smile seems tremulous again, so Bob replies, “I like you too.”

It’s that simple.  After you each put yourself through your own overthinking hell, each suffering through your own sleepless nights and needless worrying about dumb things like friend zones, it comes down to a moment so simple that it’s stupid:  just the two of you holding hands as you confess your mutual feelings matter-of-factly.

-----

It feels too easy.  After months (years) of struggling to even land the occasional first date, suddenly Bob’s dream girl turns up just like that.  It feels too easy, and so Bob slips into his overthinking almost immediately.

It goes fine after dinner, when the two of you trade nervous kisses on your couch until the nerves burn off enough that your mouth slotted over his feels natural, that you move in concert with each other—your head tilting one way, his tilting the other, no longer bumping noses or knocking his glasses askew. 

It goes fine as you climb into his lap, the solid weight of you a welcome sensation because Bob’s head feels like it’s filled with helium, drunk and fizzy from the feel of your lips against his, your tongue against his own.

It goes fine when you climb off of him, shaky-legged like a newborn foal.  When you hold out your hand and take his to lead him back to your bedroom.

The moment he finds himself stripped down to his boxers and lying on your bed is the moment it falls apart.

It’s like every mean comment, every brush-off and ghosting, every roll of the eyes and beleaguered sigh and overheard commentary about him crowds into the room and leaves no space for this moment with you.  Bob thinks of all the feedback he’s ever gotten on dates—the serial killer eye glasses, the lack of muscles, the lack of game.  He tries to take a deep breath and finds he can barely pull in a lungful, and his throat feels like it’s closing on him—

And he can’t get hard.  His near-erection from making out on the couch deflates, and even though you are perched over him—you’ve shed your sundress, and you’re in the sexiest, sweetest lingerie set, powder pink, like the underside of a cloud at sunrise—he cannot coax himself back to attention.

The panic that floods him—he recognizes the feeling.  He’s felt it a million times.  He feels the hot, splotchy redness as it breaks out across his chest and neck, and his face flushes furiously bright, and you notice it all in real time.  The sultry, heavy-lidded look on your face disappears and is replaced by pure concern.

“Bob?  Bobby?  Are you…okay?”  You reach a hand out and cup his face, and your palm had felt warm earlier but now it feels cool….which proves how hot he’s flushed, how feverish his panic makes him feel.

“I’m sorry.  Shit, honey.  I’m…I gotta go.”  He tries to sit up but your mattress is soft and he flails a moment, and if Bob were just a bit younger he’d burst into tears at how sideways this has all gone so suddenly.  You served him up the perfect evening, you’re kneeling right beside him in the hottest fucking lingerie, and he’s been reduced to a stuttering, red-face idiot who can’t even get hard—

“Hey.”  You lay your hand on his bare chest, steady him.  “Hey, hey, hey.  Take a second.  Just breathe, Bobby.”

“I gotta—”

“Just relax.”  You press against his chest, tap your forefinger against his skin.  “Breathe for me, okay?  Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not.  Fuck, it’s not!”  He raises his voice, winces at how shrill he sounds, and the dam in him breaks.  Something in him dislodges, and it all spills out:  every mean, rotten thing he’s ever thought about himself.  Every bit of unfair criticism, every insult and slight and how his own insecurity has twisted it all into a crippling imposter syndrome.  How he only ever feels competent at his job but how he struggles with everything else, and now how he’s fucked it all up with you because he’s overthinking, always trapped in the own tangled maze of his mind, always waiting for the other shoe to drop because he’s not good enough, he can’t even get hard even with you looking like a dream—

“Hey.  Whoa.”  You remove your hand from his chest, but you scoot over to sit beside him, turned to face him, your expression very similar to the night he met you—the same easy smile, the same studious eyes.

“Nothing’s ruined.  You haven’t fucked anything up.  Take a breath.  Is this because of that bad first date you had the night we met?”

He nods.  “A little bit.”

“There’s been other bad first dates, I guess?”

Another nod.

“And now you’re worried this is just another bad first date?”

“Yeah.”  It comes out a croak, a roughness in his throat. 

“Hmm.”  You lean forward, press a soft kiss to his forehead.  “You wanna hear about my worst first date ever?”

“No, honey, it’s okay—”

“His name was Justin.”  Another soft kiss, this one to his temple.  “Good job, good looking.”  Another kiss, to the other temple, right at his hairline.  “Picked me up and gave me flowers, took me out to San Diego’s most exclusive restaurant that has a reservation list a mile long.”

Bob chuckles weakly.  “Sounds awful,” he says, wry.

You hum again, kiss his flushed cheek.  “He was charming at dinner.”  A kiss on his other cheek.  “Said all the right things.  Asked about my life and listened to my answers.”  The lightest of kisses on the tip of his nose, and it makes him smile despite himself. 

“Halfway through dessert, a woman comes up to our table.”  Bob feels the gentle press of your lips at the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to kiss you back, but you pull away. 

“It was Justin’s wife.”  A flurry of kisses now, to his chin, along his jawline, near his ear. 

“He was cheating,” Bob says.

“Nope.”  A kiss, this one lingering, under his jaw, on his neck.  “Turns out, this was a little game he and his wife play.  Some weird cheating, cuckolding fantasy.”  Your lips skate over his pulse point.  “He takes a girl out, his wife pretends to catch them, and then they go to a nearby hotel to fuck each other senseless.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right.”  You lift your head to gaze at him.  “Asshole left me with the bill for dinner too.  So Bobby….you’re not my worst first date.  You’re not even close.”

“Honey—”

“You have no idea how hard you’re gonna have to work to really, honestly fuck this up.”  You grin at him, and then you straddle his lap again, and he lays his hands on your hips and stares up at you.

“Because you’re, like, exactly the sort of man I’ve always been looking for.  You’re that sneaky-handsome sort, and you’re smart and sweet, and you took care of me that first night when I was too drunk to make good choices.”  You cup his face in your hands, and you stare at him hard, that sweet forcefulness on full display, like you dare him to disagree with you.

“It’s already a sure thing, Bobby.”  You lean forward, kiss him gently.  “There’s no pressure to do anything tonight.  Don’t even think about needing to do anything.  How about you just let me love on you, and you just relax, and if you can keep your secret wife from busting in and turning this into a cuckolding fantasy, we’ll end the night just fine, okay?”

That makes him laugh, and it breaks the spell of his terrible ruminating.  Bob laughs, and he slides his hands from your hips up to your waist to feel your soft skin.

“I didn’t even think of getting a secret wife before I came here,” he confesses.

“See?  It’s a sure thing, then.”  You lean forward again, whisper in his ear, your warm breath making him break out in goosebumps as you tell him to just relax and let you love on him.

-----

The antidote to Bob’s awful overthinking, as it turns out, is your care and praise.

As far as first dates go, this is the one where Bob learns something new about his own sexuality.  He learns, thanks to you, that he has a praise kink, because your hands and mouth and body on his feels amazing, but it’s your words that make him hard.

Loving on him means you touch him everywhere.  You kiss him everywhere.  You stroke him, press your soft lips to him, lick against parts of him until he feels like he’s on fire in a way that is completely different than his panic attack.  You kiss every inch of his face and neck.  You trail your mouth over his shoulders and collarbones, across every bit of his chest and belly, and you praise him whenever your mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.

Look at you, Bobby.  Hiding this body away under that uniform.

You praise his arms, the muscles of his chest and abs.  You praise his shoulders and back, the smattering of chest hair, the trail of hair that leads down and disappears under the waistband of his boxers, and you glance up at him, the question in your eyes as you toy with the elastic.

“Can I?” you ask, and Bob nods, swallows hard, and you go lower, you push his boxers down and his cock is there, hard from your honied words.

“Holy shit,” you blurt out.  “Bob, are you for real with this?”

It probably seems like a cliché, like the pretty girl in a movie who somehow never realized she was pretty, but Bob has never really considered his size.  He’s been around plenty of other penises through the course of his career, but he’s never exactly eyed up other men and measured himself against them.  The handful of women he’s slept with never said anything so he assumed he was average, but you praise him here too—you tell him he has a beautiful cock, and Bob blushes at the compliment.  He’d never call it beautiful, but when you wrap your palm around his shaft and grip him gently, he’d agree to any adjective you might offer, so long as you never let him go.

This feels too easy too, but the panic never claws at Bob’s throat again.  You’ve chosen him, you’ve made it a sure thing for him, and you’ve cut through his awkward moment of near-flight to get him to this:  your body stretched alongside his, your breasts pressed against his arm, your hand working against his cock while you whisper praise in his ear. 

And every time doubt starts to creep in—he should be touching you too, he should be making you feel good too—you hush him, you still his mouth by kissing him, and you tell him that he has all the time in the world for touching you, but he should let you take care of him now.

His orgasm creeps up in fits and starts, and it seems to ratchet closer with each bit of praise you lavish on him, more so than each movement of your hand working against his cock.

“I want you to come for me, Bobby,” you whisper against his neck.  You kiss his pulse point, a plush, open-mouth kiss that makes him shiver as you grip him tighter, work a faster rhythm with your hand.  “Come for me like a good boy.”

He wants to be good for you; he wants to do as you say.  Some not-so-small part of him craves your approval, and maybe the two of you will play around with that sort of dynamic in the future, but for now, he just wants to obey you.  He wants to do his part to salvage the night he thinks he almost ruined, so he breathes in time to your strokes, focuses on every sensation—the softness of your breasts pressed against him, your wet, hot mouth kissing him, the light scent of your perfume.  The tension in his belly is a coil, and it tightens and tightens until it snaps, and his hips stutter against your grasping hand.  He gasps out your name, warns you, and then a beat later, he comes.  He spills over your hand, thick ropes of cum coating your fingers and wrist, spilling over onto his belly.

“Just like that, baby.”  You kiss his panting mouth, and he feels the curve of your lips as you give a pleased smile.  “It’s that simple.”

[yanderes-galore]

Sure! Here's a threatening Homelander who's desperate for his obsession's attention.

Prompts Here

Yandere! Homelander Prompts 49, 85, 90

“You haven’t been paying enough attention to me lately, so I had to do something about it.”

“I love seeing you so submissive. Give in to me.”

“If you beg enough I might consider loosening these chains.”

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Possessive behavior, Manipulation, Threats, Kidnapping, Restraints, Degradation, Dark themes, Forced cuddling/kissing, Creepy behavior, Some spicy moments, Forced relationship.

The worst part about Homelander is the fact you can't fight a man like him off. He's an entitled supe who's used to getting what he wants as Vought pampers him. He's a supe strong enough to take what he wants if it isn't given to him.

It baffles Homelander that you refuse him. He acts like he's never been refused in his life. Which, knowing him, was probably true due to how scared Vought was of him.

Homelander wants your attention. He wants you. So in his mind, you should be happy giving yourself to him in order to make him happy.

He originally had you able to free roam the home Vought gave him. With a little bit of convincing he managed to have Vought give him a home for the both you. After all, they'd give anything to prevent a scandal.

However, Homelander grew increasingly more irritated when you ignored him. You kept treating him like a monster, looking away when he came home and feeling tense when he held you. Your defiance drove Homelander mad.

It was hard to tell if he was oblivious, delusional, or just didn't care about his actions. Ironically his response to you thinking he's a monster... was to show he was. You just hoped he'd be nice... let you go... then you can never associate yourself with Vought ever again.

Yet instead he clips some chains to you, restraining your ability to move. Why should you have such a privilege in this house if you ignore him? Now he has to force you to look his way....

You were blankly staring down at your chains as Homelander walks in the room, eyes cold for a moment before he sits in front of you. You reluctantly return his gaze, hissing at the cold metal on your skin. Was there ever a day he didn't wear that ridiculous costume?

"We need to talk." His voice cuts through the tension like a laser, your heart dropping to your stomach at the idea. Talk... talks with Homelander always manage to unnerve you. No matter how hard he tries, they always sound threatening.

"Can we talk without the chains?" You try to bargain even now, only to hear Homelander snort in amusement.

"Without them? Do you even know why I put them on, dear?" Homelander grins, hiding his irritation. He leans closer, cupping your cheek as he strokes the skin. “You haven’t been paying enough attention to me lately, so I had to do something about it.”

You want to pull away but you know you aren't in the position to do that. The chains, now that their purpose has been confirmed, are a reminder of your "transgressions". If you want them off... you have to give him what he wants...

Just like everyone else in this world.

You force yourself to lean into his touch. The supe in front of you grins at the submission, standing up. You go to ask where he's going... only for him to settle himself behind you.

"You owe me, you know..." Homelander mutters, "I've been craving your touch for days now... It's about time you give me that."

You're harshly pulled against the supe, his strength a silent threat that if he applied too much pressure you'd break. You feel him breathe in your scent, lightly pressing his lips to your neck. You squirm uncomfortably against him yet his grip never relents.

"I'd kill for your attention..." Homelander murmurs against your skin, eyes darting over to look at your face as he presses your back against his chest. You know damn well he isn't bluffing. "Come on... talk to me... I want you to pay attention to me...."

At your lack of response, you feel his grip tighten around your waist. You flinch, feeling bruises form. Homelander kisses the shell of your ear, doing his best to get you to respond to him.

“If you beg enough I might consider loosening these chains.” Homelander purrs. "Give me what I want and I'll give you what you want... stop being so stubborn...."

The idea of the cold chains not being on your skin is tempting. Tempting enough to make you consider listening. Swallowing the little pride you have left, you lean into his touch.

"Please... I want the chains off..." You plead, trying to appeal to the monstrous man with puppy eyes. "I'll pay more attention, I promise..."

Homelander doesn't bother hiding the groan that escapes him as he grins. He then turns you around, the chains clinking against the floor at the movement. You're forced onto his lap... the supe pulling your face close.

"There's what I want..." Homelander praises, a hand snaking around to the back of your head. "Oh how I've been wanting this... now kiss me."

His last few words come out as a hissing command, his lips crashing onto yours. You can sense a hunger behind the force of his kiss. You hesitate for just a moment before kissing back.

The freedom he promised, even if it was only a little bit, was enough to make you choke down his taste. You feel him lick your lip before exploring your mouth. The hunger he has for you is overwhelming... the moment he pulls away making relief wash over you.

“I love seeing you so submissive. Give in to me.” Homelander praises again, hands roaming over you. You hate to admit it... but you're not entirely opposed to his touch. Most likely due to craving any sort of contact ever since your abduction.

"Now..." Homelander growls, holding your face up to look at him. "Are you going to pay attention when I want you to... or..."

His grip on you tightens again, an obvious threat to listen to him unless you want your hip to shatter.

"Will I have to threaten you with something in order to make you listen?"

"I'll listen...!" You answer quickly, Homelander's grip swapping to the chains around you. "I promise I'll listen..."

"Good..." Homelander praises, a devilish grin on his face. "That's what I like to hear...."

As expected...

Homelander always gets what he wants, one way or another.

[novaursa]

i've been reading through your blog and your stories are so enjoyable to read and suck you right into the world, and since the requests are open. 🏃‍♀️ the reader is coming to kingslanding, for her wedding to aemond. however, she is deaf, and he isn't sure how to connect with her, thinking perhaps if he should hate her because she's reflecting his own disability back to him. thinking if this marriage might even be punishment, but throughout their time together he one day sees her with vhagar, she's leaning against her feeling the dragon rumble, and she's smiling ... maybe you'd like to write something with that, don't care if you change things or what ending it gets, you can decide freely. thx !! 💗

The Silence

- Summary: Aemond viewed your betrothal to him as another punishment he must endure. But then he introduced you to Vhagar and saw how truly special you are.

- Paring: tyrell!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: ❤️

The sun hangs low over King’s Landing, casting shadows that stretch across the Red Keep as you arrive. The capital, bustling and vibrant, is a sharp contrast to the verdant expanse of Highgarden, your home, but you’ve been preparing for this moment. You can’t hear the raucous calls of merchants or the clamor of city life below, but you can see the way the guards at the gates watch you with curious eyes, the way servants scurry about, and the sharp looks from courtiers. All eyes are on you, the Tyrell betrothed to Prince Aemond Targaryen.

You’re led to your chambers by a lady-in-waiting who introduces herself as Taena. Her lips move quickly as she tries to make conversation, her voice lost on you. You nod and smile, following her lead, trying to hide the apprehension bubbling in your chest. The grandeur of the Red Keep feels overwhelming, each step a reminder that you’re far from home, about to marry a prince whose reputation precedes him.

Aemond, they say, is a cold, sharp-edged blade of a man, known for his intellect and ferocity. He lost his eye and gained a dragon, but not the love of the people. And now, he’s gained you—a wife he never asked for.

You haven’t met him yet. Not properly. There was the brief, formal introduction when you arrived, a stiff greeting in the throne room with his mother, Queen Alicent, and his siblings. Aemond had looked at you, his single eye icy and unreadable, his mouth a thin line of disdain. It was hard not to flinch under that gaze, to keep your chin up and meet his stare. He’d offered you his arm, and you’d taken it, the weight of his hand on yours strangely heavy, the air between you thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged fears.

He did not try to speak to you, not that day. You wondered then if he knew, if he had been told that his betrothed could not hear. Or if, perhaps, it made no difference to him. What was one more defect?

The days since have been filled with preparations for the wedding, leaving little time for you to dwell on what your life will be like here. Today, however, is different. Today, Prince Aemond has decided to spend time with you, and you sense the tension in every step as you walk beside him through the castle gardens.

His movements are clipped, precise, and there’s a hardness to him, a steel that does not bend. He speaks little, his words few and far between, his gaze never quite meeting yours. You try to follow his lips, to catch the meaning behind them, but his speech is too quick, his diction too sharp.

Frustration wells up, but you swallow it down. You’ve learned to live with silence, to read the world through other senses. He hasn’t learned to live with you yet. The thought stings more than it should.

He stops suddenly, turning to you, his eye flicking over your face as if searching for something. He gestures, a broad motion towards the distance, and you follow his hand, squinting against the sun. You can just make out the massive shape of a dragon, its wings folded, its head turned in your direction.

Vhagar.

Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve seen dragons before, from a distance, but never so close. Vhagar is ancient, her scales jaded and mottled, her presence a shadow that looms over the earth. She’s beautiful in a terrifying way, her sheer size and power awe-inspiring.

You glance at Aemond, who’s watching you intently. There’s a challenge in his gaze, a dare. He’s waiting to see you flinch, to see you tremble before the beast that even the bravest knights fear. You lift your chin, your heart pounding in your chest, and take a step forward.

Vhagar’s massive head tilts slightly, her eyes, like molten gold, narrowing as you approach. You keep your movements slow, measured, your hands out at your sides. You’ve learned that all creatures, from the smallest songbirds to the greatest dragons, respond to calm, to confidence.

You don’t know if Vhagar will understand, but you hope she will.

The ground seems to shake as you get closer, her breaths rumbling through the earth like distant thunder. You can feel the heat radiating from her scales, the sheer weight of her presence. When you’re close enough, you reach out, your fingers brushing over the rough texture of her scales. The dragon rumbles beneath your touch, the sound a deep, reverberating vibration that you can feel through your bones.

You smile, your heart soaring, and you lean in closer, resting your forehead against her side. Vhagar huffs, a sound that vibrates through your entire body, and you feel the tension that has been coiled inside you since you arrived in King’s Landing begin to loosen, to unfurl.

Aemond watches you, his expression unreadable. He had expected you to recoil, to balk at the sight of Vhagar’s sheer enormity. But you haven’t. Instead, you’ve done something he rarely sees from anyone—you’ve shown no fear, only a quiet, almost gentle strength.

His chest tightens as he observes you, your delicate form dwarfed by Vhagar’s immense bulk, your face softening into a smile as the dragon shifts, a low, contented rumble escaping her throat. He’s seen men twice your size cower before Vhagar, seen warriors blanch and turn pale. But you—this woman who cannot hear, who has been forced into a marriage with a prince who does not want her—stands before his dragon with an ease that borders on reverence.

He steps closer, his boots crunching on the gravel, and Vhagar’s eye flicks towards him. He hesitates, unsure for a moment, then reaches out to rest his hand beside yours on Vhagar’s side. You look up at him, your eyes bright, the smile still lingering on your lips.

For the first time, he’s unsure of what to say. He’s spent so long building walls around himself, using his sharp tongue and his sharper mind to keep people at bay, that he doesn’t know how to reach across the chasm that lies between you. He doesn’t know how to connect with someone who, by all rights, should be as broken as he feels.

But you aren’t broken. You’re here, standing beside his dragon, smiling up at him as if he’s something more than the scarred, half-blind prince of a family that’s falling apart.

He clears his throat, glancing away. “You’re… not afraid,” he says, his voice low. He doesn’t know if you can understand him, but he says it anyway.

You tilt your head, studying his face. Your fingers move slowly, shaping words he barely knows, but he watches intently, trying to understand. She is beautiful, you sign, the motions graceful, deliberate. She is strong.

His breath catches. He hadn’t expected that. “Yes,” he replies, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “She is.”

You smile again, a small, gentle thing, and turn back to Vhagar, stroking her scales with a tenderness that Aemond has never seen in anyone but his mother. And as he watches you, something shifts inside him, something deep and buried and aching. It’s not love, not yet, but it’s a start. An understanding, perhaps, that the woman standing beside him, who cannot hear his words but sees so much, might be more than he ever expected.

Might be exactly what he needs.

[readychilledwine]

Champagne Papí

Summary - Rhys just can't help but celebrate your recent accomplishments in the most extreme ways

Warnings - Alcohol, Mentions of wing clipping, Feyssian, drunk shenanigans, and sexual references/jokes

🎂Birthday Masterlist🎂

✨️Rhysand Masterlist✨️Master Masterlist✨️

All you had wanted to celebrate your new research publication was a quiet night with your mate and the Inner Circle circle, and Heavens knew you deserved it.

Years spent researching from dusk to dawn, countless hours with papers surrounding you with notes crossed out, rewritten, x'd out again, and then circled aggressively. Being a daughter of Day made you meticulous, a perfectionist, and frankly, too smart for anyone else's good. Helion being your uncle only made that worse.

You were practically raised in his lap, reading from a young age, asking him big questions, and only taking a nap once your curiosity had been sated. It had turned you into a scholar, and one the Night Court was desperate for once Helion shared you were near a breakthrough regarding the repair of clipped wings, but you just needed someone with wings to try it on.

Emerie was a shining example of your hard work. She was glowing next to Mor, repaired wings fluttering in delight as they were examined. You had found a surgical procedure that, in combination with healing magic, allowed you to reconnect the tissue and for everything to regrow. You had a small group of females you started with and all of them healed beautifully. Then from there, it was a camp of females, all housed away from their homes for a month while you and your team worked what they all thought was a miracle.

A hand brushed your waist, pulling you close and out of your thoughts. “You deserve all of this,” the soft purr of Rhysand's voice grounded your nerves. “My intelligent, beautiful, selfless mate.”

“The party is a little much.”

He scoffed, drinking his champagne before looking at you. “It isn't enough. What did you expect? A quiet gathering?”

Males and females were dressed to the nines in their finest threads, a lavish dinner was served, you had been forced to give a speech, and now drinks were flowing freely as other scholars and healers looked over the display of your notes and research, as well as looking at the physical evidence of repaired wings in graceful coordinated gowns paid for by the High Lord.

“Do you think they're happy?”A brow raised at you in a silent question. “The females, I mean. Do you think they're happy?”

“I think you've given them something back they thought they would have lost forever.” Rhys grabbed two more glasses of champagne, handing one to you. “The trauma is still there, but you will be able to single handedly create a new legion of warriors, heal little ones who had their birthright stripped from them, and now anti-clipping laws can be pushed harder. You've made it so there is a damage measurement, and therefore consequences other than imprisonment.” You took a sip of the beverage, savoring the flavor and soft bubbles. “I spared no expense. Only your favorites for a night meant to honor you, darling.”

You leaned up, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Rhys.”

“Yeah, thank you Rhys.” You two turned to see Cassian with long legs thrown over his shoulder, high heels held in his hand as bare feet danced. “Feyre here decided that she needed, how many glasses, baby?”

He turned so you two could see his very flushed mate, her smile huge and eyes glassy. “Only 8.”

Cassian turned again only to glare at Rhys, “She called you her sugar male”

Rhys snorted, all signs of the High Lord gone as his shoulders relaxed and his smile grew. “What does that even mean?”

“You give her all the nice things,” another annoyed voice approached. Azriel was also glaring, Nesta on his back giggling as well. “Ness agreed.”

Rhysand felt his jaw drop, making you laugh, “This was for my mate!”

“Yes, well, Feyre and Ness decided tonight they are also your mates,” Azriel smirked as Nesta bit his ear before moving to kiss his neck. “What is it y/n calls you? Ness couldn't remember.”

“Champagne papí,” you answered while laughing. The nickname was an old joke. One passed along to all the new members of the Inner Circle.

Before Rhysand and you felt that bond snap when he returned home, he had courted you. Rhysand gave you expensive shoes, jewelry, books worth a pretty penny.

All because he wanted you to have the very best. And when he discovered you hated wine, but loved the bubbly, he started buying the most expensive bottles he could find.

Rhysand hated being called daddy, hated when he heard that name used between grown males and their partners.

But papí? Papí you could call him all day long. The way the native language of Day rolled off your tongue made him shiver and it stuck.

Rhysand rolled his eyes, “Papí is reserved for my delightful darling.”

Feyre's feet were still dancing to the music, her hair swaying behind Cassian, “And me!”

You couldn't help but let out a soft laugh as your mate sighed. His brothers both wished you a goodnight, leaving with their intoxicated mates. Rhysand was back to leading you through the party, letting other scholars stop you and ask their questions.

You were exhausted by the time you two collapsed in your shared bed, the soft silks welcoming you like gentle caress. But your mate clearly wasn't.

Rhysand's hands found their way into your hair, fingers digging at your scalp and sending a wave of chills down your spine. “You are the most amazing female I have ever met,” he whispered into your ear. “You so selflessly spent decades solving an issue your court wasn't even involved in. You've given so many females their freedom back. I can never repay you for this.”

“Rhys, it wasn't about repayment-”

“I know, darling. I know,” he continued massaging your scalp, fingers twisting your hair in the natural curl pattern. “Let me at least say that I love you then. That I am beyond proud that I have the honor of being your husband, mate, and High Lord.”

He watched your lips twitched up, “I got you a present. I wanted to wait until we were alone,” his hands left your head, making you whine as he stood and went to the closet you two shared.

Rhysand returned with a small black box, sitting next to you, “Neve out did herself with this, my darling.”

You sat up and took the box from him. The velvet was her signature black importanted from a fabric maker over in Scythia. You opened it slowly, laughing as you saw the stardust cut single champagne diamond centered on a delicate platinum chain. It was exquisite. Possibly one of the clearest diamonds with the clearest cuts you had ever seen.

“A champagne diamond from your champagne papí,” he purred in your ear as he put it around your neck. “And right now, I want to see you in nothing but this.”

He laid you back down, kissing you softly, and the true celebration party began.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites

[lazycats-stuff]

Ummm hi I just wanted to ask if you know the Netflix series called The Queen's Gambit? If you know, can you make a story where the reader is Bruce's son Is a chest master. Where he beats everyone in his chess game. Well I would love it if you retained the Queen's Gambit title but if not that's fine too🤣.But in the middle of the story he was angry because someone had managed to beat him in his match so he became annoyed and locked himself in a room to find a strategy.To defeat the person who defeated him. If possible, the one that will distract the reader is the OC. Thank you. Sorry if there are too many requests hehe

Oh I heard about, saw a few clips and all, but never watched it. But I know about it so no problem. I absolutely can do it. Also, I know nothing about chess. If there are people who play chess reading this, I don't know chess.

Summary: (Y/N) is a chess master. Until someone takes the title away.

Warnings:

All of his children were smart and had their specialties, so to speak. And Bruce was more than happy to help them explore that. Bruce wanted all of their sons to be explore their potentials. Why not? He had money and resources to help them out. That's also what he did to (Y/N), since (Y/N) was very interested in chess, since he was a small child.

Often asking Alfred to play chess with him. Which is ironic since Bruce taught him the rules for it, but hey. (Y/N) was happy whenever he played chess and since he was the youngest out of the 5 of them, he had 4 people to play with. Damian was more than happy to play, since his grandfather taught him.

Damian couldn't beat him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. That made him even more stubborn, making it a life long mission to beat his younger brother. And if it's the last thing he does, then so be it.

Tim was also good in chess, but couldn't beat (Y/N) as well. He has tried every single strategy he could find and think of. But nothing. (Y/N) could not be beaten. Not in the slightest. Just like Damian, he swore to beat him one day, even if it's the last thing he ever does in his life. Until then, he was going to research every single strategy and make sure he takes the honor of beating his brother.

Dick simply enjoyed playing chess, even though he always lost against (Y/N). He didn't mind it, he has always liked spending time with his youngest brother, although he always lost. He always allowed (Y/N) to use different strategies during their plays. Had it been Damian, he might have exploded.

And Jason?

Jason isn't well versed in chess, but that didn't stop (Y/N). He was patient when teaching Jason, explaining the different pieces and the way they moved. Jason felt frustrated, wanting to sometimes flip the table. But (Y/N) was patient, knowing that not everyone liked chess and he liked the fact that Jason didn't kill him yet.

So all in all, (Y/N) was happy whenever he played chess. Whether it be at home or at tournaments.

And once Netflix aired its Queen's Gambit, that was his nickname from that point forward. (Y/N) hated it at first, but then he didn't care. He could deal with it, since it was in reference to Beth Harmon, although a fictional character, but still one hell of a chess player.

And yes, (Y/N) was participating in many tournaments. He got the title of chess master, since he beat a lot of amateurs, but he wanted to have the title of grandmaster. He wanted to be the best. He wanted to be respected doing something he loved more than anything in his world.

(Y/N) came into the manor like a bat out of hell. He stomped upstairs, slamming the doors of his room. Bruce was confused as to what has happened, but knowing (Y/N), talking to him while upset would do him no good. (Y/N) would only snap back at him.

Teens need some space to cool off and collect their thoughts.

The only thing that could happen to upset (Y/N) is losing at chess. So Bruce went to his detective work and sure enough, (Y/N) lost in a tournament. Bruce sighed. Losses are a normal part of life, because you need to know how to deal with set backs in life. Bruce made sure to teach (Y/N) how to lose gracefully.

And his opponent is a known chess player too. And Bruce has decided to check the clip too, just to make sure that he wasn't a sore loser. Because he didn't raise his boy like that. Thankfully, (Y/N) was polite, smiled at his opponent and shook hands, congratulating him.

Bruce sighed in relief as he saw it. He would have been disappointed if he didn't lose gracefully. But holing up in your own room is not a healthy coping mechanism. Hopefully food will coax him out of hiding and make him talk about his feelings.

(Y/N) is a growing boy and needs to eat.

Soon enough, (Y/N)'s brother's caught wind of it and tried to help (Y/N) out, trying to coax him out with food and talk. (Y/N) took the food like a goblin and went to investigating different strategies on how to beat him opponent. He said to them all that he'll beat his opponent, no matter how long it took him.

Bruce wasn't sure how to feel about that. (Y/N) needs a distraction. Bruce is slowly but surely out of options. He doesn't know how to pull his son out of the slump.

Jason had the idea to call (Y/N)'s friend, Simon Moore. Simon Moore is a good friend of his and Bruce suspects something more, but he still didn't ask about, thinking that (Y/N) isn't ready to come out yet. Either way, (Y/N) needs help.

" Simon is here. " Jason walked in with him, a tall blond boy with blue eyes.

" Hello everyone. (Y/N) lost a match and won't come out? " Simon asked and Bruce nodded.

" Alright. Just to warn you, if you hear yelling, don't be worried. " Simon walked up the stairs and Jason smirked to himself.

" (Y/N) is going to blow a fuse. "

Bruce sipped his coffee as he heard the door being kicked in. (Y/N) would have never opened up on his own and Bruce could always pay someone.

Perks of being rich.

" Alright Queen's Gambit, up and at them! " Simon yelled and (Y/N) was yelling back.

" Simon is a friend we all need to be, " Jason stated and Bruce sipped more of his coffee as he listened to the commotion.

" What's going on up there? It sounds like World War 3. " Tim walked in to get some snacks and coffee.

" Simon came by to help (Y/N) out, " Jason explained and Tim nodded as he poured himself some coffee.

" Father, what is going on upstairs? " Damian popped in to get himself some tea, looking through the different flavors in his box.

" Simon dropped by to help. " Jason leaned on the kitchen island and Damian nodded.

" Moore came to help. Good. Are we still in the belief that they are a couple? " Damian put the water to boil and Bruce nodded.

" Nothing is confirmed though, so not a word to (Y/N). " Bruce extended his cup to Damian to refill it for him.

" Is (Y/N) okay up there? " Dick walked in through the back door and Bruce nodded.

" Simon dropped by to help us, " Bruce gave a short explanation and Dick let out an oh.

" Well that explains it. "

Bruce nodded as they listened to the commotion upstairs. Soon enough, everything calmed down and Simon came down.

" (Y/N)'s in the shower, " Simon announced and everyone nodded.

Bruce took his cup of coffee back from Damian and sipped it.

" Does he look like death warmed over? " Damian asked and Simon chuckled quietly.

" Oddly enough, no. But the room stinks a little bit so I opened all the windows. Also, my apologies about the door mister Wayne. " Simon rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and Bruce smiled and shook his head and wave at his dismissively.

" Oh no worries Simon. Also, don't call me mister Wayne, just Bruce will suffice. "

Simon nodded. " He said that he would come down to get some food too. And he's hungry, let me tell you that. "

" That boy will be the death of me, I swear. Thank you Simon. "

[moonbiscuitsims]

CP 2077 Rogue Conversions set + extras (TS4)

This set took me so long but it's finally here! It isn't perfect but I'm happy enough with it. I've probably spent over a month doing these conversions, trying to fix the textures to make them better, trying to make it all the best I can. I hope any cyberpunk fans will appreciate this. 🙈 A lot of the items are Rogue's but a lot are just V's garments from the game plus things I added. All items are (I think) disallowed for random. Includes: 💛SWEATER (3 Versions) Converted by me from CP2077

- Rogue Survive sweater conversion + all rainbow colours, 28 swatches. Edit: I just reuploaded, there was a hole in the bottom, you couldn't see it unless you looked from under but it is fixed now 😄 - Plain Sweater without survive label all colours. 28 swatches. - Sweater with V garment/CP materials conversions, 16 swatches. -12K polygons (I tried to lower it but this was the best I could do) - Has specular and normal maps - Sweater category 💛PANTS (4 Versions) Converted by me from CP 2077

They clip with some shoes but can be tucked in boots with cuts and work well with short shoes or chunky ones that cover them. You an see the shine more in game and in live mode. - Rogue's pants + all colours, Very Shiny (includes her young version). 28 swatches. - Rogue's pants + all colours, Matte (slight shine to give synthetic appearance but not much, includes her young version) - Same pants mesh in all CP materials conversions + random experiments, 27 swatches. I also made some swatches match the CP gangs, others just made up. Shiny and Matte versions (regardless of whether it made sense for the fabric, e.g. there are shiny jeans lol I imagine in cyberpunk some jeans are plastic 😅 Some swatches could pass for leather or synthetic etc so I just added both. It was just easier to have all the swatches and less packages. - 14K Polygons - Has specular and normal maps - Sorted by colour swatches - Skinny/pants/jeans category 💛KIROSHI OPTICS EYES WITH LIGHT EMISSION (3 Versions)

I copied Rogue's eyes and made them in all colours. Hers are a bit different in each eye but sims doesn't allow that so they're symmetrical. They have four little light emitters and you can make out the word "Kiroshi" to the side of the pupil. They work with any eye. These are much better to see in live mode in darker places, in CAS it can be hard to see the light emission on some as it's the same colour as the textures. The light emission flashes. - REQUIRES Android Eyes MESH by @lady-moriel for emission to function - Found in face paint category. - All colours of the rainbow with white light emission, all in one package/CAS thumbnail, including white, grey and black texture colours, 19 swatches. - All colours of the rainbow with separate matching light emissions (i.e. red swatch with red light etc). These are in separate CAS thumbnails cause I didn't know how to put more than one emission in the package or know if it was possible. Doesn't include black grey and white as these have white emission and are in the previous package. As they're all separate I have merged them into one package. - Rogue Kiroshi separate (hers were a slightly pale red, with matching emission) In the GIF it looks a little worse than in game. 💛ROGUE HAIR RECOLOURS (NEED MESHES) These are just simple recolours of @aniraklova rogue hair, and qicc Synergy hair to match rogue's teal colour, young and old versions. Make sure to install these hairs too or the recolours won't appear. 💛ROGUE'S BOOTS Converted by me from CP2077

They only have one cut, when I tried making two cuts they were too short compared to maxis boots and the leg was missing and I couldn't be doing with it lol, they work with skinny pants or shorts and such, but some baggy pants might clip. - 8,7K Polygons - 6 Swatches (light grey, medium grey and black, each with silver and bronze detail versions) - Has specular and normal maps - Boots category 💛ROGUE'S CYBERWARE BODY AND FACE

@skaterboisims has awesome rogue face cyberware but I only made my own to match my body one better. Textures were just baked from the extracted CP2077 mesh. Has a shiny specular map but not super strong.

💛Disclaimers/info: - These are not my first but some of my first conversions and work with 3d models, I hope they're ok, I know there may be imperfections in the mesh or textures. - I don't play with HQ mod nor did I make these HQ, they're maxis sizes, so of course the textures can sometimes be a bit blurrier than in Cyberpunk which is a higher poly & quality game. Sorry for any HQ fans. If I used it my computer wouldn't be able to even fit my CC + game on hard-drive lol. -Meshes are slightly high poly compared to maxis items, but not too much, tried to reduce as much as I could where it was possible. I didn't do the pants cause I didn't know how to do that yet when I made them. - When you apply these items to custom body presets they sometimes distort a bit in certain areas, it works completely fine on maxis bodies. - If anything goes wrong or isn't showing up please don't hesitate to ask me or get in touch so I can inspect it. 😄

💛Thanks to the creators that helped me on S4S forum, thanks to @stamsim for helping with my earlier conversions and in general, and thanks @pinkydude for helping me find the decals and textures in wolvenkit and explaining how to use them! 💛

💛This took me a lot of time and effort so RESPECT MY TERMS OF USE. They are not my meshes but converting them and making everything else is still work. All my cc is free and I have no support in making it so: - PLEASE DO NOT REUPLOAD - PLEASE DO NOT PUT BEHIND PAYWALL OF ANY KIND - PLEASE DO NOT INCLUDE CC IN ANY DOWNLOADS - PLEASE DO NOT INCLUDE MESHES IN RECOLOURS - PLEASE DONT CLAIM YOU MADE IT - If you use my cc in a post or recolour or something please link to my post/mesh or tag me 😄 - For any inquiries about modifying one of the meshes you can ask so I know what you want to do. See this link for more info about conversions etc

💛💛If you wish to help me out with this content and support my work I now have PATREON💛💛

💛DOWNLOAD (PATREON) 💛 DOWNLOAD (GOOGLE DRIVE)

[partycatty]

was requested to write interviewer!reader by this lovely post so here we are. @super-ssimp

johnny cage > interview

you, a reporter, have some questions for the hollywood heartbreaker. he just can't seem to focus on your questions.

notes: heheheheeggeheegehehegeh he's so fine in the gif i'm gonna shit everywhere

[ masterlist ]

• a box-office smash hit dropped after a long quiet period from hit star johnny cage, back stronger than ever with a movie that blew audiences away with its storytelling and casting. you had to squeeze in an interview with the director, cage himself. you were a part of a big company, front lining with interviews and now face to face with probably one of the most attractive men you'd ever worked with.

• johnny sat in his chair across from you, adjusting his hips ever so slightly in his seat as he holds intense eye contact with you. you return the stare, as hard as it is while a makeup specialist tidied up the powder on your brow.

• "you look great, doll," he's quick to charm, pointing a finger with a grin. "don't sweat this. you'll be fine."

• "i know i'll be," you return his affirmations with your own confidence, a beaming grin on your features that makes his breath hitch. "i've been in this job for nine years, mr. cage. we just haven't met."

• "what.. a.. shame," his voice is teasing, somehow his flirtations come off as honey smooth rather than sleazy. you scoff playfully, earning a laugh from the both of you. two assistants clip microphones to your tops, testing them quickly and hearing a full go-ahead to begin the interview.

• "i'm here with johnny cage, director of the new smash hit 'mortal kombat,'" your voice is smooth, experienced. "i suppose my first question is; what inspired such a story? it's unlike anything we've seen in films."

• the question seemingly didn't register at first, his faraway gaze blocking his thoughts. realizing his flaw, johnny snaps into celebrity mode, "oh, hrm — the ideas that came to me were because of a massive arc in my life. uh — without getting too into it, i was at a low point in the last year, running myself into the dirt. something changed and i wanted to be the new, young, and pretty one behind the camera for once rather than in front of it. i spent the entire summer writing and consulting some friends of mine and we were able to pull this film together based on our relationships and experiences. you won't see anything else like it because there isn't anything else like it. i was inspired by my life, and there is no other johnny cage in this timeline than the one you're talkin' to."

• you nod and agree, face hot at the way his expression lights up with passion as he walks you through his process. "right, and this was after a long hiatus, was it not? there were, rumors, so to speak—"

• "my divorce?" he cuts you off with a glint in his eye as he toys with his ring. "no need to dance around it, i suppose. yeah, different life paths, but i'm a changed man. single and ready to mingle as soon as me and my team crank out some projects we've had in the works."

• "so you confirm yourself to be single? confirming the rumors?" you clarify, leaning forward in interest — whether it was for your own or for the public's, you wouldn't disclose.

• "why?" his question catches you off guard. johnny rests a hand on his chin, tilting his head as he squints. a large grin creeps up onto his lips. "you interested?"

• you tense up, nervously giggling as your eyes dart around the small production team who is trying equally as hard to not laugh at your position. you were trained and professional and yet this man turned you into a blushing mess for all cameras to see. "that's not my question, mr. cage—"

• "—johnny," he interrupts you, pose unmoving. "the pretty ones get to call me johnny."

• what was he getting at? your notecards feel unreadable and your brain's fuzzing from the sudden attention. he was a pretty man, that much was sure, but was he really flirting with you or pushing his behavior for attention? it was hard to tell, his affections were dizzying enough.

• he chuckles at your blank, sweaty stare, your lips opening and closing like the dumbest fish in the tank. you'd been hit on before by interviewees but johnny took the cake without a doubt, from his veiny arms to his touchable hair, all the way to his tight, round—

• "earth to interviewer," johnny's teasing fingers wiggled in your face, grounding you back to the rickety wooden chair and blinding lights. "too much, or not enough?"

• "neither," you lazily protest as you come to. "just didn't... expect all of that." the interview proceeds as normal, with johnny's clicks and compliments littered to keep you flustered right when you regained your composure. it must've been a game to him, how long you're heated over a simple compliment. but it wasn't the compliment necessarily, it was the person giving them.

• it wraps up just as quickly as it started, and the production was being wrapped up the moment you delivered your outro. johnny's suspiciously large, dreamy grin was plastered onto his face for a strangely long amount of time.

• "it was nice working with you," you try to be cordial, it's hard when that smug look is looking back at you, like he's planning something. before you could stick around to figure it out, you spin on your heel with a beet-red blush on your cheeks.

• johnny visibly startles at your sudden turn, reaching forward to grab your wrist before you could fully face away. he flinches at himself and his abruptness, too eager to give away his desperation for just a little more time. he pulls away, scratching his neck.

• "sorry, doll," he gestures toward your wrist, a confused frown on your lips burying his ego for a moment. "just... hey, listen."

• "i'm listening," you cock a brow, stomach flipping at the out-of-script interaction.

• "me and you," he starts with a groaning sigh, struggling to find the words you stole from his throat from one look. "just us two. no cameras, no questions, no divorce — wait —" his slip-up makes you giggle. "no, no, really. lets go out sometime. gimme a shot, whatdya say?"

• "out?" your tone is teasing, a smirk of your own forming on your lips. "you flatter a lowly reporter."

• "you're not lowly," his voice drops down, more serious with a heartfelt smile. "you... make it hard to focus." he's silent for a moment before jumping into his playful attitude. "pick a different career, you're distracting me! but seriously, dinner? movie? not one of mine, i swear!"

• "only if you swear," you grin up at him, feeling far more human with johnny than you had in the interview.

[kanmom51]

Bringing back Only then

I've been missing Jikook so very much and watching song edits, cause why not, right?

And Only then, that is one that is on repeat for me.

JK's cover of this song is so damn good.

And I'm sitting there eating my breakfast (tmi of the day?) and watching the edit and reading the lyrics again and it just clicks in my brain.

Obviously those lyrics and JK's choice to cover the song and his unbelievably emotional singing that just draws you in is not something new. This song meant something to him, way back in 2018. Let's not forget that he released his cover for White day 2018, surprise surprise. Yeah, White day. We know what he was doing on White day 2023...

March 2018, following Jikook's Tokyo trip. March 2018, when members were rethinking if, what, where and how to continue as BTS, as artists.

This one wasn't written by him, but it sure meant A LOT to him!!!

Those lyrics.

They meant everything back then in 2018.

But now. In 2024. Looking back at the two of them, and even more so at the last 3 years, these words, they hit me like a freight train.

The lyrics.

Their past.

Their present.

Their future.

The way to love me isn’t hard Just hold me tight like you are now

We don’t know what will happen to us later But I like that nothing’s decided

Who cares what others say? We can’t live without each other, so what’s the problem? We can be more in love together

I can't...

These lines hit even harder now that we know what they went through in 2023 (well, part of what they went through, but we did see on live just how affected JK was), and to what lengths they went to not be separated during their military service.

But this isn't the end of it.

Because the next lines repeat that sentiment.

If you start to like someone else If I get used to not being with you When that time comes, when it’s that time Only then we can break up

And obviously, that ain't happening any time soon.

Nope, not happening...

Not at all.

Oh, and back to this again...

This song, it's lyrics, they just hit so hard.

The way to love you isn’t hard If I smile once more and care for you more

Clip credit to @ nuri  நூரி

The way we love isn’t hard If we look at each other like it’s the first time every time

Whether you want it or not, I’m going to hold onto you When I get too tired that I can’t even walk When that time comes, when it’s that time Only then we can break up Only then we can break up

Now I am definitley ugly crying. Bawling my eyes out.

I miss them so much.

😭😭

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#56: The Real CRM (1.06)

gif cred: @andy-clutterbuck

Will the real CRM please stand up? 😁 The thing I most liked about these Rick and Beale exchanges is that while Beale was peeling back the curtain on what the CRM is really about, Rick got to let Beale know about the only CRM he and I recognize - and y’all, that’s Carl, Rick, Michonne. 💅🏽😌...

Beale sees major potential in Rick as he tells him he thinks the next decade's leader might be Rick Grimes. It’s like Okafor said, even though Rick has never wanted power, it’s undeniable that he has it and is a natural-born leader. But I think this natural-born leader is very eager to retire and just be a family man and the world should finally let him. 🙏🏽

Beale notes how Rick came back to them even after so many escape attempts and even despite having had the perfect out because they thought he was dead. They cut to several moments of Rick during his time in the CRM and then Beale says that Rick has become a powerful story that they can essentially parade around to others to convince them of why the CRM is the answer.

Even saying that is so detached and reductive - treating Rick as not a person but a persuasive story.

gif cred: @taiturner

Beale talks about how he and Okafor have sacrificed and he says Rick has already sacrificed too as he holds up his prosthetic, a reminder of Rick's willingness to sacrifice his own hand for his family.

Then Beale gets personal yet still seems so detached as he asks, “Who’s the person closest to you who’s died in all of this?” And Andy’s acting is so good as he pauses for a moment and then says, “My son.” I could shed several tears from those two words alone. 🥺

One; I love how often Carl was acknowledged in TOWL. He’s so impactful to Rick and Michonne so it’s only right. And the way Rick says 'my son' here, it's viscerally evident how personal this is to him. I love how there’s this vulnerability to the way he says it while also trying to keep a guard up.

Rick somberly says, “He’s who I saved tearing out that man’s throat.” Because truly there isn’t anything Rick wouldn’t do for Carl. 😭 And the pain on Rick's face when he says this hits hard. It's like you can visibly see him mentally returning to two extremely heavy moments from his past - the night he killed those Claimers to save Carl and the night he lost Carl in Alexandria.

And then, despite the fact that this is clearly an extremely hard loss and not easy to talk about, Beale seems like he doesn’t have a heart with his insensitive response.

Beale says, “But you couldn’t save him in the end.” And him disrespecting Rick and Carl had me wanting to swing on the Major General tbh. 🥊

After Beale's unfeeling remark, they show a quick clip of Rick and Michonne standing at Carl’s grave. 💔 Then Rick shakes his head and somberly answers, “No.” Which is just 🥺🥺🥺. 

A big element of the pain of this is that, before Carl passed, Rick viewed the weighted act of killing a man with his teeth as an act that kept Carl alive. But now, when he thinks about that moment he also has to think about how Carl still didn't make it, even despite what Rick was willing to do to protect him. 😞

I guess normally this would be an effective tactic from Beale. He gets the soldiers thinking about the person they most loved and lost and how they couldn’t save them, convincing them that committing to the CRM would be a way to prevent those losses and that pain from ever happening again.

But fortunately, after some heart-to-hearts in a crumbling apartment with Michonne, Rick is no longer susceptible to thinking the CRM can’t be beat so they must be joined.

Beale says, “What if I told you, you would never have to suffer that kind of loss again, that wherever you were running to, whoever you were running to…you could keep them safe, you could bring them to us?” For some reason, I doubt the sincerity of this offer.

And it seems Rick isn't buying it either. Plus, even if it was a legit offer, Rick would never just be content with keeping his people safe while the CRM exterminates mass amounts of other innocent people.

When Beale says, “Family, friends, a love…I don’t give a damn.” the not giving a damn part is clear. You can tell Beale has been so far removed from having people he loves for a long while.

Somewhat adjacent to a mindset that Rick nearly adopted before Michonne helped him return to himself, Beale thinks protecting people is a sufficient replacement for loving people.

Beale says he’ll spare the people Rick loves because he’s willing to take that chance on him. Rick continues to hang onto his knife under the table and Beale can’t tell that he has an increasingly feral Rick in front of him.

Like the way Rick looks at Beale...it was clear that the Major General was about to meet Red Machete Rick real soon. 👌🏽

gif cred: @riickgrimes

Beale goes on to tell Rick about how “The Next World will begin” and my extra self just liked hearing the title of Richonne’s s6 canon episode in TOWL lol. 😊

The time finally comes for Rick to swear on the sword and then we’re brought back to the moment in ep 1 when Beale wanted to ask a question and get the answer by looking in Rick eyes. And then here in the finale, Beale also gets an answer from Rick’s eyes because rather than swear on the sword and 'not let it take' like Okafor advised, Rick refuses to swear on the sword at all.

Rick's done playing along. So after they show a series of clips of Rick and Michonne taking down opponents in TWD, Beale quickly realizes that he’s got the wrong one as Rick’s expression shifts. He can tell Rick is very clearly in kill mode as Beale then grabs his weapon and says, “No.” But it’s too late.

gif cred: @coltseavrs

Rick chuck’s his knife at Beale and slides across the desk to tackle him down. 👏🏽

Beale and Rick get into some hand-to-hand combat, with Rick’s prosthetic again shielding him from getting cut up when Beale swings his sword. Beale wants to know why Rick came back if he hadn’t really conformed. Rick doesn’t believe the world is gonna end and Beale says the world won’t but he’s trying to make sure that the human race doesn’t end.

When Rick gets a hold of Beale’s sword he plunges it right through Beale’s hand and Beale’s first response is one of regret that he trusted Okafor enough to give Rick a chance. Cuz clearly that didn't work out too well for Mister Beale. 🙂

And then, after Beale’s long speeches and disrespect throughout this ep, it was finally Rick’s turn to speak. 😌

gif cred: @nobleriver

Rick lets Beale know, “I never lost my son. I lost myself. He brought me back.” 😭 I love how Rick now knows his son was always with him, even when he thought he lost him. And even after losing himself, his son was still able to bring him back.

Carl brought Rick back so many times as he lived and it’s heartwarming to know he continues to do that from the other side.

gif cred: @nobleriver

And then y’all already know I am beyond here for the fact that Rick then says, “My wife brought me back.” The way he puts that emphasis on “my wife.” 🔥 Oh he meant this. 💯

And you know it probably felt extra great for Rick to now be able to say 'my wife' knowing he's finally been able to give Michonne a ring like he wanted. 💍😌

gif cred: @machonnes

Hearing Rick call Michonne his wife will always be music to my ears. And I love that he can't help but say it with so much passion each time. 😊

And once again Rick has a perfect track record of giving Michonne her flowers. He knows the reason he’s here, and back to being himself, and fighting this fight, is because of his wife. Fighting for him, believing in him, and bringing him back are some of the many ways Michonne saved Rick's life.

I love the way this connects back to Michonne telling Carl that he and Rick brought her back in their heartfelt season 4 finale scene. Carl, Rick, and Michonne all brought each other back. 😭

(And little does Beale know that the wife Rick’s talking about is one Consignee Bethune. Looks like Beale was right to have her on his radar. 😋)

Rick says, “We’re the sword that kills. We’re the sword that gives life. One life. One unstoppable life.” I like that Rick gets to tell Beale this after the CRM thought they were the only answer.

gif cred: @likeafantasy

Again, he’s letting Beale know who the real C.R.M is and it was moving to see Rick doing this in the name of Carl and Michonne. His son and wife. He represented the Golden Trio well here. 🥹

(And I know some people wanted/expected TOWL to be super focused on CRM content. But the way I see it - it was.👌🏽 Because Carl, Rick, & Michonne sure got a whole lot of focus. 😌)

Rick's final scene with Beale made it ultra clear that Michonne and Carl give Rick so much strength. They did back then and they still do years later. His wife and kids are why he fights. 👌🏽

And I like that Rick reframed Beale’s mantra to see that it’s the people you love who really are the ones who give life. Hearing Rick say “one unstoppable life” also made me think about how he mentioned in the TWD series finale that Michonne showed him that they’re one unstoppable life.

And that’s why they don’t have to succumb to the doomsday fear of the world ending again because, as this apocalypse has shown, - their one unstoppable life doesn’t end even when the world does. 

gif cred: @likeafantasy

Then Rick concludes by saying, “We’re not dead…You are.” as he, in a bit of poetic irony, kills Beale with his own sword. It’s nice hearing Rick declare “We’re not dead” having lived the last few years feeling like a dead man. The real Rick is alive and well now. 🙌🏽

And the real Rick is also a little crazy, but that’s how it’s always been and we love him for it. 😌

Also, the snarl with that delivery.👏🏽❤️‍🔥 Rick can be at his most feral and every time I'm still just like...

Killing the CRM’s most powerful leader right here and now certainly qualifies as putting a major wrench in Richonne's plan, and so Rick has to quickly cover his tracks by telling Pearl that Beale went to the woods alone.

gif cred: @andy-clutterbuck

Then he sees a crate and gets an idea on how to remove the body which leads to another elevator scene. And while that lovely elevator scene in episode 4 was lighthearted and steamy, this next elevator scene is pure suspense. 😨👌🏽

[andy-wm]

I have thoughts about the Watch with Jimin livestream...

How do i love thee? Let me count the ways...

I did in fact do some counting. I counted Jimin's blink rate during the almost two minutes he watched JK recording the back-up vocals for Letter to Army. And yes, it was a labour of love, especially since I don't enjoy numbers... they're tricksy squirmy little gremlins that do sneaky things like divide themslves in two, or become imaginary.

But for the sake of science and Jikookery, I counted how many times - and when - Jimin blinked during this sequence.

Overall, nothing unusual to report. The average number of times a person blinks in a minute is approximately 15. In the 1m55s of video I captured, Jimin blinked 33 times. Unremarkable.

Except...

The pattern of how much he blinked changed markedly depending on who was on screen.

When Jmin was watching himself, he blinked far more than when he was watching JK. Frequent blinking can be a sign of stress, and there were a number of other clues too, that Jimin wasn't all that comfortable watching himself: giggling, hiding his face, selfconsciously flicking his hair, playing with his hands etc etc.

When JK was on screen Jimin sat still, his gaze fixed on JK. Often his mouth fell open just a little, his lips parted as though he was entranced. In fact, during the first 20 seconds of the footage when he's leaning forward staring intently at JK, he only blinks 4 times.

And that's a clue to another factor at play here...

There's a phenomenon in the psychology of attraction called a COPULATORY GAZE. When someone stares intently at a person they find attractive, that's what it's called.

It's a COPULATORY GAZE.

So it's not just a minor fascination he has going on, or a bit of focused admiration.

Translated to the coloquial, I guess you could call it EYE FUCKING.

Yes, eye fucking is a scientific phenomenon.

But wait, there's more...

Towards the end of this segment of Watch With Jimin, when JK is done recording and he and Jimin are on screen together, something happens to our dear Jiminie on the livestream.

It involves a bit of eye fucking and lip licking (licking, tongue movement, swallowing, all necessary to deal with the saliva that accumulates in your mouth when you're aroused.) Yes, it seems our boy has a visceral response watching the doco, particularly when JK plays around with him on screen.

JK says he's going to feature in Jimin's concert, and he then moves towards Jimin and says (you can't make this stuff up istg) "I will do this behind you." Right, he's just talking about singing the back up vocals.

Jimin is absolutely transfixed though. He swallows with some difficulty. His chest is visibly rising and falling. He's breathing hard and I'm sure that's not all.

Now realistically we've seen them flirt and tease each other so many times that what they're doing in that studio isn't even worth mentioning. And we know Jimin pushes JK's buttons on screen far more than this, apparently just for fun. So why is this little te-ta-te getting Jimin all hot and bothered (because there's no question, that is what's happening).

There's only one thing i can think of.

It's because he's watching it on screen.

I cannot think of ANY other reason that this lukewarm bit of playfulness would make him literally breathless.

And ya know, because i'm a dirty boy with a wild imagination, this leads me to think of all those times they've flirted onscreen...

Does Jimin go home and watch Bangtan TV clips and get all shook up?

Is he bookmarking all the YT complilations of him and JK doing questionable things, and using them for his own nefarious purposes?

I don't even want to think about the footage that gets deleted, the stuff that's too risque to put in a Bangtan Bomb. I picture Jimin scooping it up off the cutting room floor and stuffing down his shirt to smuggle home.

And what about all the on-stage shenanigans at concerts? Kitty Gang Jimin comes to mind immediately.

Does he search for fancams - from LY Hong Kong maybe - and use them to cam his fan in the privacy of his bedroom?

Ok, I've reached that invisble line.... I'm going to stop RIGHT HERE.

You can decide for yourselves whether our mochi has a lil bit of an exhibitionist streak - whether the thought of doing questionable things in public with his buff boytoy revs his engine.

I'll leave you with this nugget of barely suppressed lust, and I'm not just talking about the goings-on on stage. The whole vibe of this concert is feral. I am forever sorry to have missed this one...

(The two women in the bottom right corner are amost as entertaining as the boys imo... pretty sure one of them drops their army bomb haha...)

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

✨️1K Followers Celebration Day 6: Seventeen bias wrecker - Dino✨️

Affect

AN: This has been in my drafts for 600 years because those clips of him from In The Soop still haunt me. I just think it's funny that because it took me so long to get to this, we got even more shirtless Dino in the gym content recently. Clearly a sign from the universe to finish this lmao. I was going to go on a whole unhinged rant about him but, I'll spare you all. We're all going to ignore that 1. his is the longest so far and 2. I've written the most for him out of every idol, thanks.

Synopsis: You thought working out with Chan would be a fun, productive way to spend time together. However, you're sorely unprepared for just how distracting he can be.

Heads up: Lee Chan x Fem! Reader, friends to lovers of sorts, Reader going through it because of her attraction to Chan, praise kink (f. receiving), Chan being a menace, technically public sex I guess (they fuck in the gym but, no one catches them and it's not brought up as a concern), hair pulling, dirty talk, petnames used for Reader, nipple play (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), unprotected piv sex, Reader cries a little and creampie.

Word count: 4138

I will block you if you are a minor and/or have no easily visible indication of your age on your blog if you interact with me in any way.

You knew you were doomed the moment you saw Chan in his workout clothing. His shirt sticking to his torso and practically acting like a second skin. You're sure if you looked hard enough, you could see the outlines of his nipples. His shorts were worse, somehow. Beckoning you to look at his toned thighs and zero in on how they hugged his ass.

Today is going to be more challenging than you anticipated.

"So, where do you want to start?" He asks, snapping you out of so blatantly ogling one of your closest friends. God, what're you thinking? You're here to spend time with him. Not think about how broad his shoulders are and just how muscular his ass would feel if you gave it a squeeze or five.

"You're the gym expert. You tell me," You pray to whichever deity is listening that Chan mistakes the delicate quality in your voice for anything other than how much just seeing him dressed like this affects you.

His laugh is boisterous and fills you with so much warmth, turning the already present butterflies in your stomach into dragons. One person shouldn't have this much power over you.

"I better not hear any complaining then," he responds with a wide smile, his eyes crinkling with mirth. Yeah, maybe being alone with the man you're borderline in love with isn't the wisest decision you've ever made, but it's too late now. You resist the scowl that wants to make itself known on your face when you invision a knowing Soonyoung in your mind. He's the one who suggested this to begin with. You're definitely going to be having some words with him the next time you see him, that evil man. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You severely underestimated how much worse this could get. You thought just seeing him in his tight-fitting gym attire was enough to fog up your brain but, that was before you heard the noises.

Lee Chan is a vocal man in all areas of life. Well, all areas of life that you've experienced him in. He's always talking, laughing, yelling at points, singing, sometimes rapping to fill the silence, and a million other things. The point being, Chan is not a quiet man. So, it shouldn't take you by surprise that he's vocal while he's working out too.

Still, the quiet grunts that fall from his lips and fill the otherwise relatively silent gym when he lifts weights causes your heart to beat wildly in your chest. The drawn-out groans when he finishes a set or stretches out his muscles might be the worst. Coupled with the way he grits his jaw and his face contorts when he's lifting, it's frankly a miracle you haven't spontaneously combusted.

However, as you stand and watch him while he illustrates how he wants you to lift these weights to your absolute horror and mortification, you realise you're getting wet. Not only that, but a barely there ache is beginning to make itself known between your thighs.

You're sure your face is radiating enough heat to power a small apartment building. You're really getting this worked up just watching him work out? What in the world is wrong with you? Are you truly this needy? You definitely need to call Soonyoung after this and yell at him until you're hoarse.

"Do you want to try now?" Chan asks you, kind eyes focused on you. You really might be the world's worst friend.

"Yeah, sure," you respond, pulling yourself together as best as you can given that you're unravelling at the seams. The weights aren't too heavy. You test them in your hold momentarily before imitating Chan's movements. There's a slight burn in your biceps but, otherwise you feel fine. It feels good, even. The slight burn fueling you.

"That's my girl,"

Oh.

Oh no.

That's all it takes for you to falter. Your mind suddenly completely forgetting the motions for the exercise you watched minutes ago.

"You were doing good just now but, try doing it this way," he says, standing up from where he'd been seated to watch you. His hands correcting your hold on the weights and the positioning of your arms. Every brush of his fingers on your skin leaves electricity in their wake. Fuck. Fuck this is bad. This is so bad.

Trying to remember how to be a normal human being, you nod at his words. Following his guidance and resuming the exercise precisely how he showed you now that your brain is semi-functional again.

"There you go. Good job," perhaps you should be a little more concerned about just how much his praise increases your pulse and worsens the way your panties are already sticking to you, but that's a thought for examining on another day. You can only handle so much right now.

"How about some pull-ups next?"

"Chan, do I strike you as the kind of person even capable of doing a single pull-up?"

"You could learn today,"

When all you respond with is a stone faced expression, he seems to get the message loud and clear, "Okay, fine. I'll do pull-ups and you do squats. How does that sound?"

"Now you're speaking my language,"

On the ever growing list of 'things you're violently unprepared for today', the next to be added is Chan just casually taking off his shirt. That stops you dead in your tracks. Your lips parting as his bare back comes into your line of sight. You thought it was broad before, but now? Seeing it completely bare? Broad feels like too simplistic of a word to describe it.

You knew, logically, that Chan was ripped. You've seen his arms, paying special attention to them more times than you care to admit. All of the guys work out regularly, and most of them mention Chan as one of the more dedicated members of the group when it came to hitting the gym.

You knew all of that, and yet, seeing the evidence a mere few metres in front of your very eyes leaves you speechless and stunned. Chan must notice your blatantly staring because he turns to look at you over his shoulder, "Is everything okay?"

You must struggle to come up with a believable response too long because he both looks and sounds panicked as he continues on, "Shit, did I make you uncomfortable? I should've asked if you were okay with me taking my shirt off. I'm sorry."

His panic must be infectious because you soon find yourself in a similar state, "No, no, Chan, it's okay. You did nothing wrong. I don't mind you being shirtless," quite the opposite actually, and that's the issue, but you decide to keep that bit to yourself.

"Are you sure? I really don't mind putting it back on if it's a problem,"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's really not a big deal,"

He looks unsure briefly but seems to accept your words. Giving you a nod before turning back to face the pull-up bar and begin his routine. You barely register the faint sting in your thighs from how deeply your nails are clawing into them. Eagle eyes drinking in as much as you can of every muscle contraction of his back. Your panties growing uncomfortably wet now as your ears are assaulted with grunts louder than the ones before.

You need to take a cold shower that lasts hours after this. At least you have a good month's worth of masturbation material now, so there's that.

Chan finishes his set far quicker than you would've liked. Sweat drenching his handsome face and droplets running down his jaw, his neck, his collarbones, his pecs until they disappear into the waistband of his shorts. Would it be so horrible to admit that you'd love to see just where those droplets wind up? That you'd happily follow their path with your tongue instead of your eyes?

"Hey, is everything okay?" Chan asks, dropkicking you out of your obscene thoughts.

"Ye-Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"It's just um you haven't really moved, and you've been kind of...staring at me?"

Oh no. Oh god, he noticed. No fucking shit he noticed you've probably been staring at him with all of the subtly of a rhino in a tea shop. Why did you have to make a day meant to be catching up with a friend so fucking weird.

"I-sorry. You're just distracting," is what comes out of your mouth in your blind panic.

"Distracting?" He asks, titling his head, "I'm distracting? Distracting how?"

By being shirtless, with all of the noises you've been making all day, by touching me, by telling me what a good job I've been doing, by just existing in the same space as me - are all of the thoughts that spring up in your mind. All the thoughts you show a great deal of restraint in not word vomiting out at him.

To your absolute mortification, an expression akin to understanding dawns on Chan's face. You've never wanted the Earth to spilt open and swallow you whole more than in this moment.

"Oh, I'm distracting huh?" Chan asks with a grin a touch too arrogant for you, taking a step towards you.

"No! It's not - I'm not - I wasn't - it wasn't like that," you stutter out, growing ever more flustered as a shirtless, sweaty Chan invades your space.

"It wasn't like what exactly?" He asks, mischief shining clear as day in his typically warm eyes.

Before you can consciously think about it, you find yourself stepping backwards. Much to the amusement of the man you're not sure if you want to kiss or throttle in front of you.

You decide to abandon the route you were on and attempt another one, "I'm sorry for staring at you."

"You don't have to apologise," Chan waves you off, "But I do want to know why you were staring,"

It's clear as day to anyone with basic critical thinking skills why you were so laser focused on his stupid back and shoulders. He just wants you to say it. You never took Chan for the humiliation type.

"You know why," you mutter, leaning against the wall that you had no idea you'd even gotten so close to. You suppose your brain is too preoccupied with trying to keep your friendship from going up into flames.

"I don't. You have to tell me," You really want to punch that shit eating grin off of his face. Your adrenaline spiking as he takes another step towards you.

"You're really annoying, you know that?"

"I've heard that once or twice over the years. Still doesn't answer my question though,"

"I think you're attractive, okay?" You finally blurt out. Looking at everything but him in the gym. Studiously focused on one of the treadmills in towards the back, over his shoulder.

"Aw, I'm flattered," he responds, so close to you now that all you'd have to do is reach out, and you'd be touching his bare chest. You have a feeling this isn't going to bode well for you.

"Whatever. You got the answer you wanted. Are you happy now?"

"You know, for being one of the smartest women I know, you're pretty dense," he responds dryly.

"What? Hey!"

"Do you really think I'd react this way to anyone saying they think I'm hot? Do I really have to spell it out for you?"

All you can do is owlishly blink at him. His words washing over you, trying your hardest to digest what he just said to you.

"I think you might have to spell it out for me, yeah," you mutter more breathlessly than you care to admit. It certainly doesn't become any easier to breathe when Chan is fully in your space, crowding you against the gym wall. His scent flooding your system, worsening the wetness between your thighs and muddling your mind even more.

"Is this okay?" He whispers, mere centimetres away from your mouth. His eyes considerably darker than they were minutes ago.

"Yes,"

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," if anyone asks, you don't sound needy in the slightest when you reply to him.

You quickly learn that Lee Chan, as with many other facets of his life, excels in kissing you until you can think of nothing but, him. Not your mind has been anywhere else for the past few hours to begin with.

Your hands make themselves at home on his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there as you pour what feels like centuries worth of yearning into this kiss.

"May I touch you?" He mutters against your mouth and, you wonder why he'd ever stop kissing you to ask such a stupid question.

"Yes, Chan. You can do whatever you want. I don't care," you rush out in response, dragging his mouth back to yours to feed into what is quickly becoming your newest addiction.

With your green light, his hands drift towards your oversized shirt. Smiling against your mouth when you shudder from the brief brushes of his fingertips along your abdomen while he toys with the hem of your shirt.

"I didn't think you'd be one to tease," you say.

"Have you thought about me like this often?" You really had to be so weak for such an insufferable man huh.

You choose to kiss him instead of replying, tugging on his hair in retaliation for the grin you know is on his face. Luckily for you, Chan seems to have had his fill of toying with you for now. Shoving your shirt upwards, pulling away from you briefly to tug it off of you fully.

He just stares at you. Want clear as day in his eyes as he watches your chest rise and fall and how your sports bra outlines your hardened nipples. You find yourself growing a little self-conscious under his heavy gaze. You hadn't picked your outfit with the goal of winding up like this in mind.

"You're staring," you finally find the courage to say, pushing down every instinct to cross your arms over your chest.

"Just returning the favour," he quips back, jumping back into action and acquainting himself with your throat. You can't help the moans and throaty gasps that leave your lips as his kisses and nips at your sensitive skin, exploiting every weak spot he can find. One of his hands reaching down to fondle your breast, running his thumb over your nipple through the fabric of your bra.

All you can manage to do is lean against the wall for stability. Every kiss and lick and squeeze sending lightning down your spine straight to your clit. You wouldn't be surprised if your legging were wet, too, at this point.

"You're so responsive," he whispers against your neck. Given how quietly he said it, you're not sure whether he meant to verbalise that thought or not, but you can't think to respond when he pushes your bra up.

He dots kisses along your breasts. Each press of his lips bringing him closer and closer to one of your nipples before he envelopes one into his warm mouth. He seems intent to wring every noise, every reaction out of you that he possibly can. Teasingly running his teeth along the sensitive bud, smiling when you arch into his touch. His nimble fingers find themselves at the waistband of your leggings. Slipping into them and pulling a particularly loud gasp from you when they come into contact with your more than likely ruined panties.

Your face burns when Chan's expression morphs into one of surprise, his fingers running along your panty covered slit as if to affirm to himself you're really this wet already.

"I didn't realise I had such a strong effect on you," he says against your breast, his voice gravelly, "Fuck, you're already so wet."

A strangled moan is all you can offer when he finds your swollen clit.

"Poor baby. Don't worry, I'll take care of you. Just need to get you out of these," he says, kneeling in front of you and pulling your leggings and panties down. You kick off your shoes impatiently to help ease the process, leaving you almost fully naked.

"I can't believe you're this wet when I haven't even touched you properly," he says, sounding genuinely amazed. Intense gaze focused on your swollen, slick slit. Lifting one of your legs and letting it rest over one of his shoulders.

Anticipation settles in your gut as Chan makes himself comfortable between your thighs. Your hips jolting into him when he experimentally touches you once more, completely bare this time. Your wetness generously coating his thick fingers. Your eyes flutter shut as he shifts closer, goosebumps rising all over your body when his warm breaths hit you.

His first lap of you is messy and passionate. A muffled groan is your only warning before he grips your thigh and all but shoves his face into you. One of your hands fists his hair, not sure if you want him even closer or whether you need a minute from the sensations wreaking your system.

"Ch-Chan ah god," you cry out, your hold on his hair worsening. He doesn't seem to mind all that much, however. Intently focused on grinding your pussy against tongue until you fall into pieces for him.

With his mouth latched onto your clit, he teases your entrance with two of his fingers and you feel faint. His eyes find yours momentarily, looking at you through his hair as he checks for any signs of discomfort or reservations. Watching your face while he slowly sinks his fingers into you. His cock leaking even more when your warm, wet walls squeeze his fingers for dear life. He's so fucked.

The stretch his fingers provide requires some adjusting to, and Chan catches onto that. Focusing his attention back on your clit and providing some distraction while you get used to his fingers.

The wall behind you is proving to be extremely helpful. You're sure you would've crumpled onto the floor by now with the way Chan is determined to devour you whole and his fingers curl inside of you. Embarrassment warming your face as the squelching sounds of your wetness and his fingers moving inside of you hit your ears. Those sounds are accompanied by louder moans and whimpers from you when his fingers strike gold. Finding your weak spot and going for the kill.

He exploits your weaknesses gleefully, assaulting the spot over and over again while he continues his ministrations on your clit. It's no wonder your orgasm doesn't take long to slam into you. Watery cries of his name and jumbled curses echoing throughout the empty gym. You're sure you're hurting him from how fiercely you're gripping his hair. You couldn't remember the last time you'd cum this hard. Sagging against the wall when the most intense parts of it subside.

Chan presses one last kiss to your pussy before easing his fingers out of you. Standing up on unsteady legs, cupping your jaw and slamming his mouth against yours. The taste of yourself on his tongue further fueling the fog clouding your mind. Desperate hands dragging him closer to you, revelling in his closeness and the firmness of his body against your own.

"If I knew you tasted this good, I would've offered to eat you out a long time ago," he says when you shift to litter kisses on his jaw.

"If I knew you did it so well, I would've let you," you respond with an easy smile. However, any humour in your tone dissipates when you register his cock pressing against your thigh. Scorching and heavy even through the material of his shorts. Fuck.

Your mouth finds his once more. Teeth and tongue clashing with one another as he grinds himself against you, groaning into you.

"Chan, please," you whine.

"Hmm? Please, what?" You're not sure if he's genuinely too disoriented to understand what you're asking of him or if he wants you to beg. Either way, you've long since abandoned any semblance of pride.

"Please fuck me,"

His eyes shut briefly, and you watch the way his jaw clenches, "You're going to be the death of me."

If you weren't aching and noticeably empty, you might've giggled at his words. Watching him shove his shorts and underwear down his thick, muscular thighs through lidded eyes. A fresh wave of wetness gushes out of you when his cock springs free. Of course his cock would look mouthwatering too. Of course.

"You really do like to stare, huh?" he muses, stepping closer to you. Hoisting one of your legs over his elbow.

"Sh-Shut up," you stutter, fingernails digging into his biceps as he drags his cock along your pussy. His cock glistening with your arousal in no time.

"That's not nice," he faux pouts, nudging your entrance with his tip. Your knees almost buckle underneath you. A moan bubbling out of just from him toying with you.

"Chan, please. I want it. I want you, please-"

You're promptly cut off when he pushes inside of you. If you thought the stretch provided by his fingers was overwhelming, the girth of cock brings tears to your eyes. Your strained gasps and his restrained groans intertwining.

Is it possible to cum just from being so full? Lee Chan might just help you answer that question. You're not sure you've ever felt so full and stretched out in your entire life. A few stray tears running down your face already.

"Are you okay?" He asks, looking just as wrecked and overwhelmed as you feel. He's practically vibrating from the effort not to move. His cock pulsing inside of you.

"Ye-Yeah. It doesn't hurt. You can move," you respond. It's now or never.

Chan starts off very slowly. Letting you grow accustomed to his girth with every drag of him along your walls. Muttering quiet praises into your neck about how well you're doing, how good you feel, and how you're taking him so well. His words prompting you to clench around him and gush around him.

"Chan, faster, please. You can move faster. It's okay, I can take it," you whine. You feel like you're going to lose your mind if he keeps thrusting so slowly. His consideration is sweet. Really, it is, but it's torturous too. From the way he seems to be restraining himself, you assume the feeling is mutual.

Something snaps in him then. His eyes more feral than they were moments ago as he picks up his pace considerably. The sounds of your wetness and skin slapping against skin mingling with your respective noises of pleasure.

"Taking my cock like such a good girl," he groans into your shoulder, sliding impossibly deeper into you when he angles himself a little differently than before.

Perhaps he's noticed the way his praise impacts you. His filthy mouth not stopping.

"Look, baby," he mutters lowly into your ear, "I want you to look at how well your pussy takes me,"

You can't find it in you to disobey. Chasing the high of being his good girl. So, you glance downwards. Your cheeks heating up as you watch him fuck into you and the way you're being split open by him. You never thought the sight of yourself being fucked would garner such a strong reaction from you but, you've been learning quite a bit about yourself today.

"It's hot, isn't it?" He asks, a moan falling from his lips when you tighten around him, "So hot watching me fuck this pretty pussy of yours."

You've never cum just from penetration but, Chan is proving himself to be head and shoulders above every other man you've slept with. You're completely and utterly caught off guard when you cum for a second time and, Chan seems to be too. Startled, wide eyes watching you shatter in front and around him for a second time. Ever the caring gentleman as he soothes and fucks you through it.

You're barely coherent when Chan's pitchy moans of your name register to your mind and you feel his warm, thick cum flood your awaiting pussy. His hips weakly twitching into yours with ever spurt of his cum inside of you.

Honestly, it's a wonder both of you are still standing. Barely, but you're standing. Leaning into each other and the trusty wall for support as you come back to yourselves.

"If working out with you always ends up like this, we should work out together more often," he says, kissing your neck and shoulder lazily.

You really just had to fall for one of the most eye roll inducing men you've ever met, huh.

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Character: Indiana Jones

Warnings/Important info: Fem reader, implied English or at least has been to Oxford University. Angsty, miscommunication.

Notes: I watched Indiana Jones the other day and obviously my first crush never leaves because young Harrison Ford as an archaeologist adventurer is just *chefs kisses*

It's bizarre really, potentially concerning, worrying to a degree, that after 5 years you know the back of his head from a glance. Suffice to say you try not to draw attention to yourself when you recognise who stands mere meters away from you talking to two of his students about antiquarianism.

Maybe you should have expected it, after all Henry Jones seemed to have a way of haunting you. Maybe you should have been prepared to see him, despite assuming that the United States was so vast that your move from the University of Oxford to Marshall College as a newly qualified Doctor of History would certainly not guarantee seeing him. Perhaps, it was the Moirai, the fates, trying to test your resolve or simply coincidence.

But, after five years without a single letter, a single telephone call or telegram, you certainly weren't keen to stick around and have a conversation with the man. Besides, you had lectures to teach, students to help, papers to grade (okay, maybe not the last one considering it was in fact the very first day of the academic year).

It is with a sharp back peddle that has you careering into a pair of students behind you with a clipped apology that you make your daring escape and it is a surprised call of your given name that has you freezing, turning about face and responding with a strangled "It's actually Dr. Y/L/N now."

"What? I'm not allowed to call you by your name anymore? Guess you've already recinded the right to call you Honey Bee too." There are students stopping to watch, what feels like the entire student body eager to watch the new History professor and the most loved Archaeology professor at each other's throats. A mystery arising from their familiarity and a curiosity at what history lay between the two. You certainly weren't eager to put on a show.

With a flick of the wrist you smooth down your skirt, turning on your heels and walk away calling out to him, "It was a pleasure to see you again, Dr Jones." It leaves Indiana gaping in the centre of the quad, watching the sway of your hips and the click of your shoes on the pavement as you leave him behind.

You choose to ignore the bubble of anxiety it puts in the pit of your stomach all day. Your lectures help to distract you at least somewhat from the reality that your former...you're not even sure what to call him...something, is present and working at the same university as you and you briefly wonder if it isn't too late to go back to your job at Oxford. You're sure Professor Haylett would let you come back, you might need to grovel a bit but...perhaps that was preferable to the potential mess that was being in close proximity to Henry again.

The last time you'd see each other, he'd been a 27 year old Archaeology professor. Young, dashing, charming, with every student at the University of London eager to please him and hoping the American would give them extra attention. You had been a 23 year old History PhD student, one of the few women allowed to do so, after much hard graft and determination. You had refused to let anything or anyone distract you from your studies, from your goal...and then you'd been told that he could help you with your PhD, that he had some specific knowledge on the Battle of Syracuse that you could use and...you'd found yourself suitably distracted. You would be being bitter and unfair if you didn't admit that in the year you'd known him he'd helped you with your thesis immensely...but he'd also put your reptuation at risk, broken your heart and made promises that he never would fulfil. Your mother was right...romance was certainly a tricky business.

You're so frazzled at the end of the day that you don't even recognise that your office has the lights on, if you had, you would have stopped before entering, instead you bulldozer your way in and stumble at the sight of him sat in a chair waiting paitently as if he wasn't phased one bit by your reappearance in his life.

"So, Honey Bee, you gonna tell me why I get such a frosty reception?"

"Yo-The absolute...I cannot...ugh!" You find yourself unable to stutter out a complete sentence as you slam the door shut, it reverberating on its hinges. "You have some nerve, Henry Jones! As if you don't bloody know!" You storm around him, putting the hard wood desk between the two of you and shuffling papers to keep from looking at him knowing he'd melt your anger in a second just with a smile.

He always had the most ridiculous ability to placate you and you wanted to feel angry today, not soothed like a skittish horse or malcontent cat.

"Sweetheart, if I knew I wouldn't have asked!" It's the silky smoothness giving away to frustration that causes you to look up, your bottom lip shuddering under the weight of the sadness that sits in your chest, old feelings that you thought you'd processed and put to bed coming to the surface.

"You promised..." He's silent, confusion deepening as you take a deep breath and begin to pace back and forth behind your desk, agitation growing with each movement. "You promised to write me, to call or send a telegram and you never did. I...I waited to hear from you and I heard nothing. So I am dreadfully sorry, Henry, if I do not feel particularly like pleasentries or intimiate nicknames in front of an entire cohort of students! I have had to earn my place and I am still fighting for respect and no man, one who doesn't even honor his promises, is going to ruin this for me!"

You are breathing heavily, body warm, shoulders rising and falling with every agitated movement of your lungs as he looks down at his lap. Silence falls between you for so long that you turn to look out the window of your office, at the street lamps with their warm glow, the last few students wandering across campus as evening sets in.

"I did...I wrote you." His voice is low, quiet, the sort of quiet that Henry Jones never was, so quiet in fact that you turn to check he actually spoke.

"I wrote every day for three months...half of it was stupid, five lines about my day or a single sentence to say hello. I wrote for three months, sweetheart."

"Three months?"

"Three."

"But, I never...how...if you wrote for three months then how on earth did I not receive a single one!" You're unsure if you believe him, at the same time you never knew Henry to be a liar and it...it boggles your mind. There's an impending sense of your world teetering on it's axis, emotional whiplash as you feel a soaring sense of hope, yet a feeling of disbelief, fear, all rolled into one.

"I don't know, honey, but I wrote for three months to 21 Hanover Street and you never wrote me back so I assumed...I assumed you'd moved on, found yourself a nice, sensible husband and gotten married!" There's an anger that you'd never noticed til now, a sense that he'd been hurt to, that he'd felt like you'd abandoned him. So far removed from the debonair, rakish persona he so often displayed.

"21 Hanover Street? You wrote to 21 Hanover Street?"

"Yes, goddamn it!"

"Henry...I lived at 12 Hanover Street."

"What?"

"I lived at number 12, one two, not two one. 12!" It is so absolutely absurd that you can't help but start laugh rather hysterically. That you felt abanonded all these years, angry, resentful, heartbroken and he'd simply gotten the wrong house number, a stupid, ridiculous mistake that had broken your heart into pieces, only to reforge it again.

"You're telling me that for three months I was writing to the wrong address...?" Henry is out of his chair, rounding the table and closing the distance between you so fast that it makes your head spin...or perhaps that is the effect of the emotional journey you're currently experiencing.

"I'm afraid so..."

"Goddamn it...well, shit, honey..." There's a pregnant pause as your eyes scan his profile, the frustrated set of his brow, the clench of his jaw, the familiar bend of his nose. He's not changed, not really. He's older, more lines around his eyes than last you remember, and a few more grey hairs, but then you're older too. Your first grey hairs finally settling in, the soft baby fat of your face having melted away somewhat over the years. But, he's still Henry and you're still the busy Honey Bee he used to chase around the library to the chagrin of the librarian. Things haven't really changed, you realise. With the removal of the one point of hurt between you, you can acknowledge that you still love him without the weight of anger or heartbreak pushing it down.

"Henry?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Kiss me." It makes you laugh against his mouth how quickly he follows your request, the scrape of his stubble against your skin an old, familiar sensation that you'd all but forgot. It was like coming home, so familiar that it sent a sharp stabbing sense of yearning into your chest even as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you to him.

The woodsy smell of his cologne surrounds you, the familiar tweed of his suit jacket scratches your arms, the soft strands of his hair through your fingers, the press of his nose against your cheek. It's like there hasn't been five years since you last kissed, like you hadn't been so angry with him up until five minutes ago that it hurt.

God, and to think, you'd nearly gone your entire life thinking he'd never cared. All because he'd mixed up two simple numbers.

[esther-dot]

i'm a sansa stan first and foremost, and i tried to ship s@nsan so hard lmaooo but when they start saying shit like "sansa has wet dreams about the hound" and "sansa actually likes older men", argh, i just can't. do. that. i know george said something about playing with it in the books, but i also think that he wanted to raise a few questions with the relationship, one of them being "who protects sansa from her protector?". like, there's TRAUMA in there. it's funny that they accuse jonsas of using sansa as a self-insert bc i don't know if you ever read a s@nsan fic or saw the fanarts, but they REALLY wanna bang that man 😭

(about this ask)

Nothing in the fandom horrifies me as much as Sansan. I’ve had nice Sansans come into my inbox, so I do distinguish between my feelings about the ship and the shippers, but I hate the reinterpretation of the Hound because it minimizes what he did/tried to do to Sansa. Instead of the later scenes where Sansa thinks of him being about her processing the trauma of his assault, suddenly, they become a gross villain whitewashing, victim-blamey, “actually, she wanted it.”

I once even highlighted that whole "who will protect us from the guards" idea you mention because I think it was meant to emphasize what a travesty the Hound’s assault was:

(link)

This isn’t a romance, this is a pattern. The Hound saves her than tries to rape her, Tyrion is kind to her then agrees to marry her, a child, a prisoner of his family, and LF rescues her but then starts to sexually molest her. All the same, in each of these instances, Sansa is grateful, she thinks kindly of them, and I think that says a lot about Sansa that you completely miss if you romanticize it and pretend that the Hound is someone, something to her, that he isn’t. I also talk about the whole cloak thing in that post too because I think the more contextualized reading is the one we’re meant to adopt.

When I did take a look at the meta, I was so creeped out by the nature of it and the art. Although, I want to give credit where it’s due. Apparently they were some of the first people to start taking Sansa seriously and created the reading of Sansa becoming a political factor, so they did change the fandom’s perception of Sansa in a good way. But imo their love of the Hound causes an imbalance in how they read their scenes. The point isn't that the Hound wouldn't have hurt Sansa, the point was that he very well might have but Sansa's actions stopped him which ties into a much bigger idea and important aspect of Sansa's story:

Even after the Hound assaults Sansa, later, she thinks of how terrifying the fire was, as in, even then, she is able to empathize with him, the man who held a knife to her throat and threatened to kill her. It’s laughable to suggest a man who mocked her relentlessly for who she was is capable of the same consideration. In fact, it is in a state of terror that the Hound attempts to rape Sansa and his fans use that to excuse his actions, and yet, while he is assaulting her, Sansa sings of mercy, gently touches his cheek. It’s almost like the very obvious interpretation, that the way to create a better world is Sansa’s method— not his— is what Martin expected people to understand, and his surprise people have turned it into something else altogether is genuine. (link)

As for Martin admitting he "played" with it, here's a clip. It's very short, and he's expressing surprise that his female readers like villains of which the Hound is one, and I think you can tell by his facial expression that the idea of the Hound and Sansa as a couple, is absolutely not where he ever intended to take things, not what he meant when he said he played with it. There are countless old monster movies with the monster being fascinated with a young girl or beautiful woman which humanizes him/shows a soft side. That's similar to Beauty and the Beast, the girl is what allows the monster to become human again, but in these variations, it isn't a romance. You can play with/reference tropes and ideas without it actually being a direct reiteration of the original story.

Anyway, filter and block and curate your fandom experience! 😅

[lowkeyremi]

OOOO HII POOKIE POP can u pls write hc for hq characters with a gyaru s/o ( pref kags, ushijima. lev, kenma, bokuto & hinata TY!!!

OMG HIIII IK GYARU BASICS SO I DID SOME MORE RESEARCH AS TO NOT MESS ANYTHING UP !!

ANYWAYS THIS IS GONNA BE FLUFFY

HQ Headcanons: Gyaru S/O 💕 ft. Kags, Ushi, Lev, Kenma, Bokuto, and Hinata :))

Content: Fluff and established relationships <3

Kageyama + Ushijima (I think they'd have similar reactions):

Was confused as hell, because why was your makeup so expressive and your clothes were well... crazy?

He was the type to silently judge you, at first judging was all he could do because gyaru was out of the ordinary in his opinion.

In the beginning of your journey he was embarrased to be seen with you. It didn't bother you though because you're expressing who you are!

Once you educated him on gyaru, all the different subcategories, and the reasoning behind it, he didn't seem to mind it too much.

Sometimes he'd sit and watch you do your makeup or help you pick something to wear. He liked trying to style your hair even when be stucked at it.

He'd also find himself buying clothes that reminded him of you when he had away games.

Now he's holding your hand in public, giving you kisses, and hugs. In interviews he isn't afraid to talk about.

"How do you feel about your S/O's life style?"

He smiled confidently, "I like it, it's how they choose to live and I can't make them stop because they're free to do as they please. I thought it was strange at first but now it doesn't phase me."

__________

Hinata + Bokuto + Lev:

Baby boy was so confused but he thought you were cute <3

"Are you playing dress up? 0o0" He'd ask you.

"Nope! This is my lifestyle." You said with a smile.

He was on board right away no questions asked. He had you explain everything that you knew to him so he could be educated and not make any mistakes.

The sweet baby even let you practice your makeup on him when he wasn't busy. He gave you all his love and support to continue to live as a gyaru.

Sometimes you'd catch him reading about a certain gyaru topic he didn't quite understand so next time he's more prepared.

Omg you already know he will not shut up about you lol.

"Guess what! My S/O bought this new shirt and it looks so cute!! You know what? Let me just show you!" He'd pull out his phone and look in his album of you for your new shirt.

The best at boosting your self confidence. There were times when you knew you'd be judged hard, and he was there every step of the way to help you finally get out there and show them who you are!

Extra for Lev:

Okay so you know how Lev's a model? He'd get you access to some of the best clothes. No matter how expensive, he'd buy it. "This goes with that shirt right? Let's get it!"

________

Kenma:

He's pretty chill about it. We all know Kenma prob knows a lot about gyarus. I'm sure he's met some before at meet n greets and what not.

Lmaoo yk how people brag about having a goth gf? Kenma's always bragging to his stream about his gyaru S/O.

His fans go crazy when they see you in the background of his stream playing games.

"Babe, Kensb1gd1ck wants to know how you did your hair like that." He points to his monitor.

A giddy smile takes over your face and you rush to sit in Kenma's lap to talk to his chat about your hair.

"Awww Ken, they think I'm hot!" You turn to him.

"It's cuz you are." He says playing with your hair, not enough to mess it up.

"I know." You say confidently.

You'd give him some of your hair clips and he'd wear them around the house.

Lol you'd pull him into your tiktoks and insta reels. At first he didn't like it but he's gotten used to it.

All in all Kenma loves you the way you are, and the way you live won't change his mind.

I hope you're ok with this, @borntoslay3 !! I wasn't sure if you wanted story form or not (my bad) but it did say hc so I wrote it half story half headcanon like??? If that makes since lol. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! Also thanks for the request writing gyaru was something new for me :))

[usopps-devotee]

Use your nose

He has a pretty face that is nice to sit on, today you finally tell him to use his nose.

Tags; face sitting, oral (f receiving), cumming untouched, praise kink, switch usopp and reader if you squint, grammar mistakes

Wc. 1.5k

This idea of yours sparked the moment your provocative little eyes fell on his nose. It's not your fault, it isn't. It's just sitting so pretty on his face, loud and proud waiting for you to sit on it.

The problem is getting there. The man was an expert with his tongue, albeit messy but who could complain when it always felt so good? Usopp was always so sweet, giving more than you could handle sometimes. His soft whimpers and pleas against your body were something you could not resist and you would always give in.

So with a man who already gives his all how could you ask for more? Selfishly was the only way you could decide. Laying your desire on display knowing he would cater to your every word.

That's how you found yourself here, Usopp pinned to the bed hair spread out like the most beautiful curled halo you've ever seen.

Your lips were locked with his, plush, swollen, and wet ones. You're devouring all the whimpers and moans slipping past them as one hand drags across his skin and the other pinches his pretty brown nipple. Breaking the kiss with a giggle, you left small kisses across his face, before sitting up.

“Baby…” your voice hardly above a coo, as you caress his cheek staring into his eyes and downing on their abyss.

You start to strip throwing his shirt that you borrowed over your head, his hands immediately found their way to your breast. Kissing your chest anywhere he could reach, nose pressed into your cleavage.

"Hm?" He distracted with what was in front of him, his mouth quickly finding your nipple, and his tongue swirled around the dark areola, before trailing over melanated skin to the other.

“Don't use your fingers tonight.” you move your hips to remove your shirts and panties, eyes glued to the string that connected your slick pussy.

“Use your nose.” he looks at you like a deer in the headlight. There's nothing he can say, staring at your naked body eyed glossing every inch of your sun-kissed skin. Giving a shakey nod he lays back down swallowing a lump in his throat, you find yourself in the same position.

You're hovering above his face, hands placed on his chest to keep yourself stable. "Two taps if you can't breathe okay?" Under you, he mumbled "got it," pulling your hips closer to his face.

The feeling of the round tip slowly entering you was bliss and hard to describe. It was thinner than his cock but still reached the spots you needed it to as you slowly sank to his nostrils. The feeling of his tongue brushing your clip caught you off guard ad he pulled your hips down the rest of the way to taste you. Moans left you both as your hips writhed and bucked at the pleasure.

Under you, his mind was instantly clouded with the feeling of you. The smell of your ambrosia, the feeling of your clamping around his nose, and the taste of your pussy were too much for him.

Lifting your hips to gain more friction there's a wet popping sound from Usopp detaching from your pussy and gasping for air. Winding up his nose you give him this second of air before being pulled back down and forced to grind on his face.

"More," was the only word that came from the pirate's mouth as he continues to pull you down, licking and sucking anything he can reach. His face is covered down to his neck with his saliva and your juice. A part of you would regret not being able to see his face had you not been sitting on it.

You're bearly able to hold your body because of everything you're taking, even then you're convinced it's his hands keeping you stable. You couldn't focus on anything if you tried, moan after moan slipped from your lips with no control and no sign of stopping anything soon.

"S-so good baby, you're making me feel so, so good."

Your hand clawed over his chest, reaching for something, anything to hold on to. Red lines are left in the wake of your nails as you feel him groan against you.

You're squeezing his nose for all its worth hips shuttering, small uneven movements every time he moves his face. You're close so he can taste it, helping you rock, trying to keep a steady pace with shaking hands.

"Cum. Please please cum for me. I was to taste you, I need to feel you cum for me please."

His words and greed pushed you over the edge. Your thighs clamped so tightly to his head he hardly hears the scream ripped from your throat. Usopp could not find it in himself to care either way. His tongue has yet to slow down or stop the assault on your clit, moaning just as loud as you are while devouring every last drop of your essence.

Try as you might, but there's no stopping the current assault of his tongue. You try to pull your hips up, to be slammed right back on his face. You're hardly even sure he can breathe with the way that he is panting.

"Another, please another. Just one more,"

You can't find yourself denying him, continuing to ride him, and completely giving in to his need for your pleasure. The both of you are so loud, the sound of him savoring you like his last meal could be heard from outside the door, let alone your excessive moans. Your cum dripping from his nose added to the mess under you. If he were lucky he'd be smelling you for weeks.

His fingers are digging into that spot in your hips that feels just right as he guides you on his face. Kissing and licking clit when you're brought back down to his lips. Strong hands helping you ride him like you wanted to.

Usopp presses against your cervix every time he brings you down, the feeling of him sliding against your walls is already too much to handle. When he starts to praise you again you swear you're up in heaven with the rest of the sky islands.

"That's it, princess. Ride me, use me, please."

His voice is keening, pleading while he can. You can tell he's drunk off your taste, mind altered to be unable to think about anything else. Kiss, praise, repeat; this is the cycle you find yourself in.

You're doing everything in your power not to let your legs give out, their shaking is causing your entire body to shutter along with them. The sniper graciously ignored this fact being the only thing that kept you steady. Not minding some of the marks on his chest now started to bleed.

"Gonna cum," were the only words that fell from your lips in a whisper, unheard but felt by the man below you. Eyes rolling back as bliss overtakes you, wave after wave. Moans are reduced to nothing but a silent scream as you ride out our high.

You hadn't been the only one feeling good, the friction against his pants and the reactions you'd given him was more than enough. There's a prominent cum stain on the front of his pants. If he were honest his boxers were completely soaked by the time you hit your first orgasm. You didn't notice till you got off and sat on his chest, both of you panting, desperately trying to catch your breath.

"You still alive, uso baby?"

"I think I went to heaven might take me some time to get back." Laughter followed this sentiment after you plopped next to him on the bed. "Thank you" was mumbled as you curled up in his arms for the time being.

Unsurprisingly he recovered quicker than you did getting up he kiss you on the forehead and slid down your body to give you another on your clit, telling you how perfect you were each time.

"I'll be back soon." He left you in comfortable silence, relaxing in the afterglow. It wasn't long before you see Usopp return with a drink, bucket, and towel. Setting the drink down first he started to clean you off, small apologies left his lips whenever he saw you twitch.

Usopp helped you sit up and gave you your drink, making sure you didn't down it too quickly by holding his hands over yours and the glass. Once you were done he goes to put everything back and swaps out the pillow his head was on for a clean one.

He held you close and whispered sweet nothings in your ear till falling asleep in each other's comfort.