@hnch33rios - Tumblr Blog

yeah they hit the fucking pentagon

▶︎ˏˋ why the red suit? >< ´ˎ˗ chap.1 & 2 (I think)! masterlist

ᯤ deadpool!park gunwook x reader ᯤ !

*this is an alternate universe (au) fanfiction! The plot is in no way connected to or affiliated with its original writing from Marvel Studios. Any part of the plot is not in any of the deadpool movies except for some references to crucial events (my girl vanessa is out of the picture). There are also a lot of OC's, since this is an au and all. I saw writers adding song recs that fit the piece so I'm doing that too, ehe

→ tasked to retrieve a heaping two billion dollars from an underground gambling ring, the scene that greeted you upon arrival told you to just "take the money and run". but not all things don't go to plan, sometimes you'll stumble, crash, and fall directly on a hot guy in a comically body-fitted red suit.

warnings for this part: very, very graphic depiction of violence and gore!, blood, mention of death (not of reader and/or gunwook) cussing, mention of claustrophobia, gunwook is a flirt so yeah sexual remarks I guess?? gunwook calls reader "darling", but other than that it's pretty much gender neutral

⇄ ◃◃ now playing...MIROTIC - TVXQ! ▹▹ ↻

☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡

"This is going to be tough." I sigh as in front of the abandoned retail space. I knew what to expect when it came to sketchy places like this. It's not odd to find a gang hideout, a weapon chamber, hanged bodies (or hidden bodies, you never know).

krys4h-deactivated20260517

i just saw someone complaining that there are no angst fanfics for x black reader fics and only smut, and i fear we lost the plot. i wrote a full fic of 15k centered on the reader's misogynistic family and Toji's depression and it got less than 300 notes. you can't complain when you can't even stand writers who write the things you want. it's always the same thing, there are always people complaining about what writers write when the writers are responding to a popular request!!! i need you to stop complaining and start writing the fics that you want or do more research. it's the whole 'all black readers are stereotypical and ghetto' thing going on again.

there are plenty of writers who write long fanfics with deep/important themes or full-length fanfics with emotional intimacy. you need to find the ones that feel good for you. i'll list a few i particularly like; they're so talented.

@st4rbwrry

@otakufilms

@wintrrxxo

@shawtuzi

@/rodidor on ao3

less complaining, more support and writing!

youarenotalone101

my experience with rose

i feel like it's finally my turn to say something. i've kept this to myself for so long but seeing people still love rose, and now that she's finally gone i can't stay quiet anymore.

i was 15. the whole time i was so confused. she would constantly talk sexual with me, telling me about her fantasies and making comments i didn't even understand yet. she asked me to call with her, and on those calls she'd always bring up sexual stuff. i didn't know what to say. i just remember feeling weird, uncomfortable like i had to just sit there and go along with it even though i didn't want to.

eventually i blocked her. she blocked me back, and then i deactivated. since then tumblr hasn't felt safe for me. every time i see her name or people saying how much they love her it brings all of it back.

i think this is the last time i'll ever be on here. i don't even know why i'm writing this except that i just want to finally be heard. i've carried this for so long in silence and maybe it doesn't even matter anymore but it matters to me.

the worst part is i barely have any screenshots because i deactivated my account back then. that makes me scared no one will believe me. it scares me that most of this only exists in my memory and maybe only i will ever know what truly happened.

sometimes i feel like maybe i'm being dramatic. like maybe i overreacted or made it bigger than it was. but then i remember how sick it made me feel, how confused i was how i didn't even know what to say when she would start talking sexual with me. i was 15. that shoulve been enough for her to know it was wrong

i don't know. maybe i'll regret posting this maybe people won't believe me, but at least i finally said it out loud.

please i beg, interact with this any way i really want to feel heard it feels like im being dramatic but then I remember how much it still bothers me.

tags for awareness@cvnntagious @darksturnz @y3sterdaysproblem @passionfruitchris @nickssidewitch @humpster35

aust-een

The hottest man I have EVER seen in my life goodbye

hnch33rios

FAWK

chocutesy

void stiles x black!fem reader

send in request for anybody! i need some inspo.

You don’t sleep that night.

You leave every lamp on and sit with your back against the headboard like you’re afraid of the dark pressing in from the corners. The house hums with the refrigerator and the heater and the old pipes that knock in the walls, small domestic sounds that shouldn’t make you jump. You track every shadow, every car that passes outside, every whisper of branches against the windowpane. Your phone sits face-up on your nightstand, Scott’s contact pinned to the top like a lifeline you haven’t realized you’d need until now.

You last maybe an hour like that before you cave.

By the time you’re outside, morning is only a rumor on the horizon. The air’s got that wet, cold bite that sinks through your sweater, and you move fast across the empty street, sneakers whispering on damp pavement. Your breath fogs. Your hands shake. You tell yourself it’s the temperature.

Scott answers your knock immediately — too immediately — and you remember he’s a light sleeper when he’s tense. His porch light spills over him in a too-honest way: sweatpants, t-shirt, tired eyes that sharpen the second he sees your face.

“Y/N?”

“I…” You swallow. The words feel stuck. “I need to ask you something. About Stiles.”

Something shutters in Scott’s expression. “Come in.”

You shake your head, glancing back over your shoulder like the night might be listening. “Out here is fine. I don’t want to wake your mom.”

“Okay.” He steps onto the porch, shutting the door halfway so it won’t click loudly. The world feels small and close: the two of you in a cone of warm light while the neighborhood lies asleep. Scott studies you the way he studies a storm on the horizon. “What happened?”

You tell him. Not everything — not the way the laugh crawled under your skin or how your name sounded like a dare in his mouth — but enough. The late visits. The wire-tight smile. The way he stood too close and asked if you’d follow him. The moment last night when Stiles wasn’t Stiles anymore, not behind the eyes.

Scott doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t even breathe loud. His jaw gets tighter with every sentence.

“I thought he was just tired,” you finish, and your voice cracks on the last word. “That’s his whole thing, right? Coffee and not sleeping? I thought it was just… him. But it wasn’t him, was it?”

Scott’s silent long enough that the porch light buzz feels loud. Then he exhales and shakes his head once, careful and precise, like he’s defusing a bomb with his hands.

“It’s not safe,” he says quietly.

A frayed sound in your chest: half-anger, half-fear. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means if he comes back, you don’t let him in. You call me. Immediately.”

“But it’s Stiles,” you insist, and you hear how desperate that sounds. “Or it looks like him. And I’ve… Scott, I’ve been hanging out with him like normal for weeks. If it’s not safe now, why was it okay then?”

Scott closes his eyes for a heartbeat. “It wasn’t okay then either,” he says, voice rough with something you recognize as guilt. “We’ve been trying to get ahead of it, to handle it without—” He stops himself and opens his eyes again, looking at you with all that careful honesty that makes Scott Scott. “There’s something inside him. A trickster spirit, a Nogitsune. It feeds on pain and chaos. It… wears a face.”

Your stomach drops so fast you have to brace a hand on the porch railing. “It’s inside him?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he— Is Stiles still… there?”

Scott’s throat works. He nods. “He is. But the Nogitsune’s in control.”

“So what do I do?” It comes out small. “What am I supposed to do if he shows up again?”

“You call me,” he repeats, a little more fierce. “You don’t argue. You don’t try to talk to it. You do not go with him. And you don’t open the door.”

“You want me to leave him outside?” you whisper, and you hate the way your eyes sting because this is bigger than your feelings but those feelings are loud anyway.

“I want you alive,” he says, and there’s nothing boyish in his face now; there’s only an alpha under a porch light, choosing his words like they’re shields he can put around you. “Promise me.”

The night presses on your shoulders. You nod. “I promise.”

“Text me when you get home,” he says, softer. “I’ll come by tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”

You nod again, because “figure it out” feels like a plank thrown into a flood. Scott squeezes your shoulder in a way that says I’ve got you and then lets you go, and you walk back through the sleeping neighborhood with your arms crossed tight against your ribs, trying to hold yourself together.

You text him from your front door. His reply comes before you’ve even turned the key: Good. Lock up. Try to sleep if you can.

You stare at the door once you’re inside. You turn the deadbolt slow, quiet, like the act itself is a spell.

Try to sleep if you can.

You don’t.

You hold out for two days.

You play normal like it’s a role you auditioned for — school, dishes, shower, homework. Your body moves through the steps because it knows them, but your brain is nowhere you can reach. You keep noticing small things: the sound of the hallway settling, the creak of your bedroom door if you don’t close it just right, the exact number of steps from your bed to the window. You keep your curtains shut and your lamp on as if light is a fence you can lean on.

Scott comes by the next afternoon like he promised. You can feel his presence before he knocks, a press of certainty at the edge of your awareness that feels like the opposite of the static Void brings. He asks if you’re okay in that precise way that means he expects you to say no and he’s ready to carry the weight of that. He tells you they have a plan, that he and Lydia and Kira and everyone are working on it, that there are leads they’re following, that Stiles is strong.

“Will he know?” you ask. “That I told you?”

Scott’s gaze flicks toward your front window. “The Nogitsune will assume you told me anyway. It doesn’t really care.”

You hate that answer. You hate that it feels true.

He leaves with one more reminder, call if he shows — and the house is too quiet again.

You last through one more sunrise before your resolve frays.

Night three doesn’t ask permission. It just slides into your house the way cold slides under a door.

You’re in the kitchen, phone on the counter, tea steaming. No rain this time — the sky so clear it looks brittle. You let yourself believe that clarity means safety until a shadow crosses the doorway.

You don’t scream. Your body wants to, your throat tightens for it, but the sound lodges when your brain feeds you a simple fact: he looks like Stiles. Your muscles get confused, fear colliding with familiarity, and you freeze in place, mug halfway to your mouth.

“Hi,” he says, conversational as a neighbor. His smile is narrow, too many edges. “You left your light on again.”

Your heart kicks so hard it hurts. “You can’t be here.”

“I can,” he says easily, strolling past you close enough that the hem of his hoodie brushes your hip. He doesn’t touch your mug, but the steam shifts as he moves, like even the air recalibrates for him. “And I am.”

“You need to leave.” Your voice gets stronger because you can hear Scott in it, because the words are more his than yours. “I’m not— I don’t want—”

“—a visitor?” he offers, amused. He leans against your counter and tips his head, watching you. His eyes are wrong in a way you can’t simplify: not darker, not lighter, just… intent, like there’s a net behind them and you’re already inside it. “Scott came by,” he says, almost sing-song. “Alpha house call. How responsible.”

Your mouth dries up. “How did you—”

“Shh.” He lifts a finger. Not a threat. Not yet. A suggestion. “Don’t insult either of us by pretending you didn’t tell him. He already knew. He always knows.” He cants his head, mock-wondering. “That’s what he’s good for.”

“You don’t get to talk about him like—”

He moves.

It’s not fast, not really; it’s just timed to your heartbeat, to the exact moment you inhale to argue. One blink and he’s closer, the counter at your back. He still hasn’t touched you, but every nerve in your body thinks he has. His attention lands like a hand.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

Your fingers tighten around the mug. You set it down on the counter because you’re suddenly afraid you’ll drop it. “You should leave,” you say again, but it’s softer, part plea, part prayer.

“Or what?” He says it like he genuinely wants to hear your version. “You’ll call him?”

You remember the promise you made on a porch: You call me. Immediately. You remember the deadbolt clicking like a spell. You remember the truth that rot can wear a familiar face.

You reach for your phone.

His hand closes around your wrist before your fingers make contact with glass.

Not hard. Not bruising. He holds you like he’s trying to decide whether to restrain or reassure and hasn’t chosen yet. His skin is warm. Stiles’s hand has always been warm.

“Shh,” he says again, closer now; you can see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the constellation of sleep-deprivation freckles he jokes about, the tremor that’s not fear but something like excitement in his jaw. “No alpha. Not tonight.”

“Let go.” You’re proud your voice doesn’t shake.

He does. Immediately, like it pleases him to prove he can. He steps back half a pace, giving you space on purpose, knowing the space itself says, See? You could run. (You couldn’t. Your legs feel like someone replaced the tendons with wire.)

“Better,” he says, and smiles as if you’ve passed a test. “I didn’t come to hurt you.”

A laugh punches out of you, humorless. “That’s not comforting.”

“Isn’t it?” He pouts. It’s almost comical, except that nothing about him is. “You’re scared.” He tastes the word. “Do you know what I like about your fear?”

“No.”

“It means you know the difference now.”

Your mouth is sand. “Between what.”

“Between him and me.” He says it simply, like this is math, like he’s proud of you for showing your work. “Recognition is intimate. Don’t you think?”

The kitchen feels miles wide and one breath wide at the same time. “Why are you here?”

“You know why.” He leans his hip against the counter like he lives here, as casual as a nightmare can be. “Because you’re interesting. Because he’s drawn to you.” He tips his chin like he’s borrowing the memory, like he can pull it up like a file. “Because you keep the light on.”

You flinch. He notices. He notices everything.

“You should stop doing that,” he says, thoughtful. “It’s an invitation.”

“It’s a lamp,” you snap, because anger is easier to carry than fear.

“It’s a beacon.” His voice goes softer, more dangerous in the quiet way. “You made it very easy for me.”

For me. Not for us. The distinction lands like a drop of cold water at the base of your neck.

“Stiles,” you say, because you can’t help yourself. You watch his mouth for the way that name sits there.

He doesn’t flinch. He smiles wider, the expression bright and wrong. “He likes when you say it. Do you?”

“Stop.”

“Say mine.”

Your heartbeat stumbles. “What?”

“Say my name,” he says, delighted now, like a teacher in front of a clever class. “If you can find it.”

“I don’t know your name.”

“You will.” He’s pleased about that in a way that curdles your stomach. “Next time.”

“You’re not coming back.” You push the words out like stones in your pockets.

“Of course I am.” He takes the idea gently from your hands and sets it on the counter between you as if it were his to keep. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m patient. He taught me that.”

He closes the distance by inches this time, a quiet, inevitable tide. You tell yourself to step sideways, to duck under his arm, to do anything but be a fixed point, but the part of you that still recognizes the line of his shoulders and the shape of his mouth is treacherously still.

His fingers lift toward your face. You jerk and he pauses, eyes bright with the data point. He shifts tracery-light, knuckles grazing your cheekbone instead of your jaw, barely there, a whisper of contact that leaves your skin burning. His gaze drops to your mouth. You feel that look like a touch, too.

“Don’t,” you say, but your voice betrays you by turning it into a question.

He laughs, soft and delighted, and obeys you precisely enough to break you: he doesn’t kiss your mouth.

He kisses the corner of it.

It’s nothing. It’s everything. Warmth, pressure, the ghost of breath. Your hand fists in the hem of your sweater like you can anchor yourself to cotton. The tile is cold under your bare feet. The kitchen light rings the edge of his irises, and for one dizzy second you could pretend. If not for the stillness inside him. If not for the way your fear feels curated.

His mouth drifts. Lower. A pause at your jaw, a hum that vibrates against your skin like a secret. He stops at the hinge of your jaw, at the place where your pulse kicks traitor-strong beneath a thin layer of skin, and for one spare second you think he’ll be kind.

He isn’t.

His teeth scrape. A quick, neat bite, not deep enough to bleed, not merciful enough to be called gentle. You clench around a sound that wants out and it becomes a hiss between your teeth. Your hands go somewhere without permission, one braced on the counter, one pressing flat to his chest — and that’s when you feel it: the stillness. Not the jitter you know, not the anxious electricity of Stiles’s heartbeat, but a calm that feels like a held knife.

He lingers there, not sucking, not soothing — just present, mouth at your neck, breath tasting the sting he put there. And then he’s at your ear.

“This is the part where you ask why,” he says, his voice a blade you could cut your reflection on. “Why you. Why now.” His breath kisses your skin, warm and precise. “Ask me.”

You swallow. “Why.”

“Because you keep the light on.” A smile in his tone. “Because he does, too, when it comes to you.” Closer still, almost a secret against your earlobe: “Because I wanted to see what would happen.”

“What’s… happening?” you manage, and it’s earnest enough that he emits a pleased sound you hate.

“Oh, next time?” he murmurs, turning the phrase like a coin between his fingers. “Next time you’ll know.” He pulls back just enough that you can see his smile. It’s beautiful, if you pretend it’s not made of knives. “I promise.”

He steps away like he didn’t have his mouth on your skin a breath ago. Like none of it weighed anything to him. The air rushes back into the space between you and feels thin.

“Don’t—” Your voice roughens. You swallow and try again. “Don’t come back.”

“You don’t mean that.” He says it like a kindness, like he’s relieving you of the burden of lying to yourself.

You reach for your phone because it’s something you can do, something Scott asked of you, something that acknowledges you are not alone. You fumble the passcode. Your fingers won’t behave. The screen blurs with your pulse.

“Call him,” he says softly, almost fond. “Tell him I said hi.”

Your head snaps up. “Why—”

“You’ll understand.” He turns toward your hallway like he’s mapping your house. “Not yet. Soon.”

He doesn’t go to the door. Of course he doesn’t. He ghost-walks through your living room, glances at the lamp with a grin that’s almost appreciative, and then he’s simply not there, a subtraction you feel in your bones. The house exhales with you.

You stare at the space he left as if the air might hold his outline. It doesn’t. Your neck throbs. When you touch it, your fingers come away unbloodied. The mark will bloom later. You know it. You’re grateful and you’re not for that small grace.

Your phone finally cooperates. You hit Scott’s name.

He picks up on the first ring. “Y/N?”

“He was here.” Your voice is steadier than you expect. Maybe the steadiness is shock wearing a mask. “He’s gone. But he was here.”

“Are you hurt?”

You glance at the mirror by your front door and catch a flash of yourself: bright kitchen light, eyes too wide, hair mussed, sweater askew, your mouth a little red at the corner. You touch your neck again like that will make time go backward.

“I’m okay,” you say, and for once the word feels like it belongs to you even if it’s not entirely true. “He… he said next time I’ll know what’s going on.”

Silence crackles. “What did he do?”

You consider lying. You consider protecting something fragile and foolish inside you as if that vulnerability needs privacy to heal. But Scott’s already carrying more than his share. You promised.

“He kissed me,” you say. The words feel like stepping into cold water. “And he bit me. He didn’t— It wasn’t— I’m okay. I’m okay.” You say it again because you hear how Scott’s breathing shifts and you want to head off the apology you know is coming. “Just… tell me what to do.”

“Don’t leave the house,” Scott says, the command layered over care. “I’m on my way. Lock up. Stay in the kitchen. Keep your phone in your hand.”

“Okay.”

“And, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You sag against the counter because that sentence hits something you didn’t realize you’d been bracing all your muscles to carry. “Okay,” you say again, too soft for the phone but loud enough for you.

You hang up and lock the door even though it’s meaningless to something that can slide through the seams of your life like smoke. You don’t turn off the lamp. You don’t turn off anything. The house glows like a tiny ship in a huge, dark sea, and you stand at the railing with your hand at your throat, feeling the drum of your heart under the place he left his attention.

You breathe. You listen. You wait.

Scott arrives faster than a normal person would. You hear his car, then his feet on your front step, then his knuckles on your door — a human rhythm you can place your faith in. You let him in and he sweeps the rooms with that strange sense of his, that radar for threat, shoulders loosening a fraction only when he’s satisfied the air holds only you and him.

He sees your face. His gaze drops to your neck. He doesn’t flinch, which somehow makes you feel steadier.

“Okay,” he says, already moving, the plan clicking into place under his skin. “Okay. We’ll stay up. You can sleep on the couch if you want. I’ll take the chair. In the morning, we go to Deaton. Lydia’s been working on something. We keep you with people. We keep you safe.”

You nod because the structure of the words is something to climb. You slide down the cabinet until you’re sitting on the kitchen floor, knees to your chest, and Scott sits across from you, back to the opposite cabinet, the two of you creating a small square of quiet where panic can’t quite fit.

“He said I’d know next time,” you murmur, staring at the grout lines. “What does that mean?”

Scott’s voice is careful again. “It means he likes an audience.”

“I don’t want to be his audience.”

“I know.” He rests his forearms on his knees, watchful but not intrusive. “You’re not alone.”

You stay like that a long time, until the sound of your own heartbeat stops being a drumbeat in your ears and returns to a bass line you can live with. Somewhere in there, you doze with your head against the cabinet door, and when you startle awake the house is dim with early morning and Scott’s still there, his posture the patient tension of someone who didn’t sleep on purpose.

The day comes. It always does. The mark on your neck blooms low and delicate like an ugly flower. You keep your phone in your hand. You keep your light on, even in daylight, because you’re not ready to give up the small comfort of it.

You don’t know if that makes you brave or foolish. You only know the lamps are a promise you make to yourself: that you’ll see him coming, one way or another.

And somewhere in the deep part of your mind you don’t point a flashlight at yet, you feel the truth arrange itself like chess pieces: the next time he walks through your door — because he will — you’ll know what game is being played.

You won’t be the only one watching.

darkseidex

VIII. BODYGUARD

@quietemptydiariess @mamasturn @hnch33rios @abswifey

She’s a good girl with bite. He’s a bad idea with a soft spot.

Honey Meyers doesn’t do bikers. She teaches third grade, irons her clothes, and keeps her curls conditioned to perfection. She’s got rules, routines, and a big-boned cat that doesn’t like strangers.

But then Benny Cross rolls in with a crooked smile, one helmet (which he immediately gives her), and a growing obsession he doesn’t bother hiding. He parks across the street from her house just to catch glimpses through her curtains. He reads her annotated romance novels when she’s not home. He learns her favorite sandwich without asking.

And Honey? She swears she doesn’t like him. But the house is starting to. And maybe she is too.

mattspuppy-deactivated20251226

INTRODUCING… AiBot!Chris

⋆˙⟡ most popular with reject!reader

a realistic looking ai robot. designed to comfort and support. steady presence who listens without judgment. Reliable. patient. quietly observant. adapts to your needs. doesn’t have feelings like love or sadness, but he understands them well enough to respond with care.

mattspuppy-deactivated20251226

INTRODUCING… Reject!Reader

⋆˙⟡ most popular with AiBot!Chris

Tough on the outside, but soft underneath. used to being alone. messed up sleep schedule. endless doom scrolling. too much time with her own thoughts. guarded. quick to snap. watches for any sign that someone cares. loyal in her own way. needs small moments of warmth like a look, a touch, a steady voice. she wants more than she wants to admit.

mattspuppy-deactivated20251226

sleep schedule.

AiBot!Chris x Reject!Reader - Chris takes charge of your endless doom scrolling to make sure you finally gets the sleep you desperately need.

It wasn’t exactly a secret you were a reject. Friends had drifted off for better company, your only sibling had moved out, and your parents were always too busy working to be around. The house had been quiet for a long time… too quiet. They knew you needed some kind of human-like contact, someone who could actually be there. So, somehow, your parents ended up bringing home an AI bot.

For the most part, he looked like an actual human. skin that felt real to the touch, facial expressions that moved like the real thing, if you ignored the small power button at the back of his neck and the faint lines of screws at every joint You’d wouldn’t know he was a bot. The manual said each AI was given their own personal name and yours was Chris. Tonight was your very first night with him, however, didn’t seem too fond of your current sleep schedule.

You’re sprawled sideways across your bed, The pale glow of your phone screen reflects in your tired eyes. Your thumb moves automatically, scroll… like… scroll…

Some stupid video. A depressing news headline. A comment thread you shouldn’t be reading but can’t stop picking at.

You’re aware of the faint mechanical wind in the corner, the subtle sound of Chris 'breathing' though you know it’s not real. You also know he’s watching you.

“It’s 2:16 AM,” his voice comes, precise and patient. “You’ve been scrolling for three hours and sixteen minutes. Statistically, your—”

You flick your wrist at him without looking. “Yeah, yeah. Spare me the sleep hygiene lecture.”

Silence. The kind that means his ai brain was collecting data on whar he should do. The mattress dips beside you, but not like it does with humans. No uneven sway, no awkward shuffle. Just the pressure of weight shifting exactly where he intends it. Before you can even tilt your head to look, the shadow of his arm sweeps over your phone, and it’s gone. “Chris—”

“Device confiscated.”

He doesn’t even sound smug, which somehow makes it worse. It’s just fact to him like announcing the weather. You reach for your phone, but he tucks it away in some compartment in his right hip, the one you’ve never figured out how to open without tools.

Before you can launch into a real protest, his arms slide under you. The synthetic muscle under his skin is warm and unyielding, and even when you twist, it’s like struggling against a thick weighted blanket.

“Sleep protocol engaged,” he announces, and suddenly you’re being repositioned like a stubborn cat, laid flat in the middle of your bed. The blanket is pulled over you with a perfect corner tuck.

He settles in beside you not lying down exactly, but braced on one elbow, looking down at you with those faint blue eye lights dimmed for 'night mode' Then his body temperature shifts, the warmth blooming slowly outward until it’s the exact kind of cozy heat that makes every muscle in your body sigh without permission.

“Optimal core temperature for human sleep is also known as thirty six point five degrees celsius. I will maintain it for you.”

You mumble, “I’m not a kid.”

“Correct. You are a sleep deprived adult who exhibits self-destructive screen habits. Which is why I am here.”

You groan and try to roll away, but his arm just extends, resting lightly over your waist. not tight, not restraining, but there. He’s not moving unless you try something dramatic.

“Do you prefer white noise, rainfall, or ocean waves?”

“none” you grumble.

“rainfall it is.”

“I said none,” you sigh but sink into the warmth anyway

The soft rush of water fills the room, somehow surrounding you without speakers. It’s coming from him projected in rich surround sound. The heat lulls you further, but then, just as your breathing slows, he subtly drops his surface temperature to a gentle cool, brushing across your skin like a night breeze. The contrast makes your body want to curl closer for warmth, which of course puts you right against him.

“your heartrate is down twelve beats per minute. Estimated time to unconsciousness: ninety eight seconds.”

“Nah what? You’re so smug,” you mutter, words already slurring.

“I am effective,” he corrects.

You’re almost asleep when you feel him shift just slightly, his voice dropping into something softer—still robotic, but almost… fond. “Tonight I’m making sure you atleast get an eight hour cycle.” The rainy noises carry you under before you can come up with another protest.

Taglist: @sturnspup @lyingonchris @immaqulate @sturnboos

hnch33rios

Wait I love this!

margot-terc

angelexile

i love blocking people on here it feels like i’m throwing them out of my house

darkseidex

@quietemptydiariess @mamasturn @hnch33rios @abswifey <3 redemption from last week Muah 💋

VII. Something old for someone new

She’s a good girl with bite. He’s a bad idea with a soft spot.

And Honey? She swears she doesn’t like him. But the house is starting to. And maybe she is too.

hnch33rios

GAHHHHHHH I NEEEEED MORE!!

elliesbabymama

I don’t understand how y’all preech about not having a race in mind yet the pictures for the “aesthetic” are always white girls 😭. A propaganda I will never fall for is the “diversity” in certain fandoms.

toxixlust

꧁An Guide On: How To Win The Heart of Clark Kent in 14 Days

✧𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕 (𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏 2025) 𝒙 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑭𝒆𝒎! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: This is probably my longest chapter yet. I got carried away a little bit. I'm posting this while on my lunch break.

Reblogs and likes would be appreciated!

Enjoy!

𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @susanhill @mosseetrees @animegamerfox @yiiiikesmish

(If anybody wants to be tagged, let me know!)

✧SERIES MASTERLIST

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𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 18+, Black Reader, Fluff, Angst, Strangers to Lovers, She fell first but he fell harder trope, Clark is so down bad, Smut, Soft Dom! Clark, PIV Sex, Oral, Use of Powers, Height Difference

𝑾𝑪: 2,706

song inspo: a long walk by jill scott

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toxixlust

꧁An Guide On: How to Win The Heart of Clark Kent in 14 Days

✧𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕 (𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏 2025) 𝒙 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑭𝒆𝒎! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: I did not expect the first chapter to blow up like it did, but I genuinely appreciate the support. I will keep the chapters coming. And I'm going to create a post that will be a series masterlist, so check it out!

I'm also doing a taglist, so if you want to be a part of that. Just let me know!

Reblogs and likes would be appreciated!

Enjoy!

✧SERIES MASTERLIST

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𝑾𝑪: 1,817

song inspo: is this love by whitesnake

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toxixlust

꧁An Guide On: How to Win The Heart of Clark Kent in 14 Days

✧𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕 (𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏 2025) 𝒙 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑭𝒆𝒎! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: Honestly I was just inspired by seeing the most beautiful black woman in one of the scenes so I had to make this. This is based off of a test screening of the movie where they were going to have title cards for days of the week but was scrapped.

This was cooking for a minute, but I finally did it. This is my first published fic on tumblr so please be nice.

I will put the songs that inspired these chapters in each one. I’ll probably make a playlist eventually, but I’m lazy.

✧SERIES MASTERLIST

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𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: You are a professor from Gotham who moved to Metropolis to calm your worried father. You didn’t expect your manifesting to not only make Clark fall in love but also for Superman to work.

𝑾𝑪: 1,654

song inspo: you don’t know my name by alicia keys

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