#drabble from me

[grtmnick]

Lena failed to stifle the toothy grin that spread across her face at Kara’s joviality over their color matching sweaters. Such an overt display of puerility was typically unacceptable to the highly emotionally regulated Luthor; apparently this was yet another rigidly regimented thing successfully dismantled by the much more bubbly blonde.

All that consternation vanished immediately however upon Kara’s unconscious flexing.

Lena could feel the flush redden her face and an inexplicable sense tickle the back of her mind that she’d witnessed before the curves of those many muscles. If only she could recall where she had seen such a physique displayed before.

[xxsabitoxx]

Yuji being obsessed with the eating your pussy and accidentally teaching Sukuna how enjoyable it can be.

Sukuna, who’s never seen the appeal in going down on a woman. He figures he would personally gain no pleasure from it so why even bother?

Yuji, who’s the polar opposite and dreams of the day he can finally get you in his bed. Just so he can shove his head between your thighs and eat you out until you’re crying

Sukuna, who’s been forced to listen to these thoughts for years now because Yuji won’t grow a pair and just ask you out. Seriously, it’s been years, he’s losing his mind.

Yuji, who finally asks you out after one shot for courage and can’t believe it when you’re telling him that you’ve been waiting forever for him to ask that question.

Yuji, who forgets that even a single shot of liquor can get him buzzed and in no time at all he has his hands all over you. Not that you mind, you’ve waited just as long for him.

Yuji, who’s dragging you into a random bedroom at this house party and is locking the door behind you, lips glued to yours as he backs you up until you’re falling onto the mattress with him on top of you.

Yuji, who’s kissing his way down your body, falling to his knees before you as he nearly drags your lower half off of the mattress. Tugging your pants and underwear off in one go just to toss them somewhere into the room

Yuji, who’s spreading your thighs apart to finally catch a glimpse of the cunt he’s been dreaming of for years. Saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of your dripping cunt.

Yuji, who’s whining as he moves his head lower, nipping and sucking the plush flesh of your inner thighs. Your nosies only egging him on as he moves his way upwards.

Yuji, who’s breath is coming out in short pants as he hovers just above your cunt, asking your permission one last time since he knows he’ll be too far gone to stop soon.

Yuji, who’s whimpering against your cunt as he eats you out, tongue licking greedily along your slit before prodding at your swollen clit. Drool leaking down his chin and subsequently your cunt, mixing with your arousal.

Yuji, who has you falling apart on his tongue over and over before he’s even satisfied enough to come up for air. His cheeks flushed pink and hair a mess from where your hands had been pulling at it.

Yuji, who’s begging you to let him eat you again, as if his lips and chin aren’t covered in your sticky arousal. Watching as you struggle to catch your breath, not thinking he would make you cum as many times as he had.

Yuji, who’s practically crying when you lazily nod “yes”, your eyelids almost impossible to keep open as you fall back against the mattress and let him eat you out for the umpteenth time that night.

Sukuna, who’s eyes have been fully opened (against his will) to the appeal in eating a woman’s cunt.

Mildly unfinished but like… the vision is there my

Edit: based on some recent comments and anons I’ve received, there seems to be some confusion with this post.

So let me clarify that Yuji is 21-22 in this, he is in college, I’ve written him the age he would be in 2024.

If you don’t agree with aging up characters? Don’t read the post, or just block me. It’ll save all of us the time and sanity.

[reit0o]

sleeping with caleb (ᴗ˳ᴗ)ᶻ

—hcs about sharing a bed with caleb bc i still haven't finished his bday fic :p

☆ caleb has long accepted that he’s never getting his personal space back (good, he doesn't want it anyway). no matter what position he falls asleep in, he always wakes up at the edge of the bed, ass hanging out, with your arms and legs wrapped around him like a koala. he doesn't mind really, because he loves that you still gravitate towards him, even in your sleep.

☆ whenever you get into a petty argument, you make a point of building a pillow barrier between you. when he tries to protest, you just shoot him daggers and turn your back. you can't sleep because of his constant shuffling, but eventually, you knock down the barrier bit by bit, letting him roll over beside you and softly whisper an apology in your ear while he pulls you close. you don’t respond because you’re still upset, but you just let him hold you. and that alone is enough for him

☆ winters in skyhaven are brutal because of the high altitude. so on cold winter nights, you find yourself drawn to caleb because he's just so warm—he's basically a human radiator. when you're feeling cheeky, you like to slide your cold hands under his shirt and laugh evily whenever he flinches

☆ whenever you visit him in skyhaven, he insists on sleeping in your room together. It's not that he dislikes his room, he just prefers being in the space you've curated in his home. he loves being surrounded by things that smell like you, breathing you in while he falls asleep

☆ caleb likes to pretend he's still asleep when you think you've woken up before him. he lets you poke his cheek, blow in his face, tickle his chin, play with his hair until he’s had enough and rolls you over, pulling you into a soul-crushing hug you can’t escape

☆ his favourite time of day is the moment you fall asleep at night, and the moment just before you wake up in the morning. there’s something about your face that looks so peaceful and soft, that makes him fall in love with you all over again. he loves that you’re the first and last thing he sees every day

☆ contrary to what people might think, but caleb loves being the little spoon and being held. he doesn't do it often, but after long shifts with the fleet, there's nothing he loves more than lying on your chest, listening to your breathing while you stroke his hair. his worries melt away instantly, and he always falls asleep faster than usual—some of his best sleeps, honestly.

☆ caleb, the self-proclaimed claw machine master, is a prime example of suffering from your own success. not only does he have to share the bed with you, but with the 20+ plushies that he won and proudly bragged about. now he’s got his own personal plushie (you) snuggled up next to him, along with twenty others, silently staring into his soul

☆ caleb’s bed head is horrendous, and don't even get me started on his morning breath. you love counting all his cowlicks and taking pictures of his messy hair, holding your nose like you’re disgusted. but when he catches you laughing too long, he shuts you up by peppering your face with kisses before pulling you in for one long, deep kiss that leaves you breathless

☆ caleb is a light sleeper, so when he hears you tossing and turning, struggling to fall asleep, he gently pulls you into his chest and starts telling stories, just like he used to when you were kids. you call it childish, but the sound of his voice, soft and steady, is all it takes for sleep to quickly wash over you. and once your breathing slows down and your body relaxes, he whispers a quiet list of reasons why he loves you—one after the other, just for you

a/n- blessing you with a lot bc i couldnt stop at one. i cant be the only one that uses he's secret times as a sleep aid, his voice is so soothing i knock out instantly. short blabber bc i haven't finished half my fics i was meant to post last week. this caleb bday fic has been sitting in my drafts for over a month 🚬🚬

[zephyrchama]

A truly furious Lord Diavolo. It's not something you've ever seen, and it's not something he ever wants to show you.

Just being in the vicinity makes your skin crawl, your ears ring, your throat begins to constrict and it gets hard to breathe. Every cell in your body tells you to run but is too paralyzed to budge.

When he takes an angry step forward, when foot strikes the ground, he causes an earthquake. The floor shatters, the land shakes. Some may get swallowed up. Everyone is brought to their knees before him.

He remains level headed. Even in the throes of rage, Diavolo will remain logical. Even when those around him can't think, when his vast presence overwhelms his surroundings and causes their nervous system to shut down. All that those around him feel is fear, so strongly, as if it's the only feeling they have ever known and will ever know. The dark sky grows darker, a pitch black void of nothing.

Diavolo stands tall. You never really noticed how sharp his fangs are, his nails, his wings, the scathing look in his eye when he is immensely displeased. With his emotions in check, this is still but a fraction of the royal family's power.

[leighsartworks216]

Sylus waking up with you in his arms and greedily curling even further around you, holding you as close to him as possible, when his hand touches something wet and warm. It's by your legs, on the covers, so his first thought is that you're on your period. But... wait, didn't you have it a couple weeks ago???

You're woken up by him roughly pulling himself away and throwing the covers off of you, turning you onto your back so he can find the source. It's hard to miss the big spot of red soaking through your shirt.

He hadn't thought to check you over, honestly. Yes, you got back from a mission and practically passed out the second you laid down, but he didn't think you got hit at all. Pissed because you didn't say anything. Pissed because you wrote off your heal so easily. Pissed because he didn't notice.

And you're left watching through a daze as he treats you. His brow is furrowed. His movements are rougher than usual, but he eases up when you wince. He staunchly refuses to meet your eyes.

But the worst part is the silence. He doesn't say anything. His teeth are clenched, jaw twitching with every stitch and bloody gauze. You try to get him to speak, but he bites his tongue. Nothing he says right now will help; it would only do more damage. So he stays silent.

Once the bandage is secure around you, he lifts you up and sets you back down on the couch to deal with the bloody sheets, but not without tossing a fresh shirt onto the arm of the couch.

You're in near tears. The guilt and ache in your heart extends to every cell in your body, all-consuming and painful. He's midway through pulling off the extensive silk sheets when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hugging him tightly, face pressed into his back, begging him to please just say anything.

The room is still. His heartbeat is erratic as ever, but it seems to stutter and jostle more right now. His breaths are deep and heavy.

He woke up, holding his love, with your blood staining his hand. It scared him to his core. Instilled so much fear into his system, he doesn't know how to cope. He can't get the words out right now, not in the calm way he needs to, but he doesn't shove you away. He relishes the contact, truly. The feeling of your breath heating up his shirt as you cling to him. The way your hands clutch at the fabric over his abs. The squeeze of your arms around his sides.

He's still so pissed. He can't- he doesn't want to hurt you, even if he was a bit harsher than strictly necessary when tending your injury.

So he places his hand over yours. You slip one out to rest over his, holding onto it like a lifeline. And he stays there.

The blood is starting to soak into the mattress. The silk is all but completely ruined. Your shirt is still stained, transferring to his own clothes in the hug.

But you're alive.

You're alive.

[nottsangel]

Theo making his strokes deliberately so the headboard bangs against Ron's wall to make sure he knows what’s going on 👀

tw voyeurism.

thud. thud. thud. theo’s bed slams into the wall with each harsh thrust, your knees pinned to your chest under the weight of his body. he supports himself on one forearm right beside you, while other hand cradles the top of your head, protecting it from banging against the headboard.

“teddy—” you gasp when the tip brushes against your sensitive g-spot, not even registering the loud thumps against the wall over your own moans. but theo does— in fact, he knows exactly who’s listening on the other side on the wall. and not just listening.

ron has a clammy hand wrapped around his leaking cock, the other fisting the sheets in desperation, as he softly whines your name. his brain turns to mush as all kinds of vivid, filthy scenarios rush through his mind— you riding him, sucking him off, stroking his cock with those pretty hands… he doesn’t even know what to focus on. the steady rhythm of the headboard combined with your lewd moans make his head spin and his mouth run dry.

theo, on the other hand, is focused on only one thing— making as much noise as possible. because what he’s doing to you here in his bed? ron can only dream of it. it makes him feel proud, cocky, self satisfied. it strokes his ego in ways he wouldn’t want to admit. and he doesn’t need to, because his fucked out girlfriend hasn’t got a clue.

he leans in, soft lips brushing against your ear as he pushes your legs even higher, practically folding you in half, before whispering just a single word, “louder.” his thrusts grow frantic yet calculated, hitting all the right spots at a brutal pace. not even a second later, loud, pornographic cries spill from your lips, and he smirks in pride and satisfaction.

god, you’re always such a good girl for him. that’s right— just for him. and ron? poor guy only has his right hand, because he’ll never get to experience you the way theodore can.

ੈ♡˳

[vacate-et-scire]

╰➤Dish Duty

You pause in the doorway, blinking at the sight before you.

Jason. At the sink. Doing the dishes.

For a moment, your brain refuses to process it. This is Jason Todd, a man whose idea of cleaning is kicking his boots into a corner and calling it a day. A man who has been known to buy new dishes just to avoid washing the ones in his sink.

And yet, here he is, sleeves rolled up, hands in soapy water, looking criminally domestic.

You squint. "What are you doing?"

Jason glances over his shoulder. "Dishes?"

"Since when do you do that?"

"Since you told me you don’t enjoy it." He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, before turning back to the sink.

Your brain short-circuits.

Because what the hell.

Your heart clenches, because it’s such a small thing—so stupidly, absurdly small—but it means everything. He doesn’t say I love you all the time, but this? This is him saying it without words.

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. He’s warm, solid, and smells faintly like dish soap and him.

Jason huffs out a laugh. "What, you get turned on by dishwashing now?"

You snort, smacking his side lightly. "Shut up."

He smirks but keeps scrubbing.

And you stand there for a moment, holding him, listening to the soft clink of dishes, feeling your heart swell.

Maybe you’ll start complaining about laundry next.

[theorist-fox]

Simon has feelings he doesn't acknowledge, until he does.

Word Count: 800

CW: sweet smut

Masterlist 🦊

If anyone were to ask—yes, Simon’s as heavy as he looks. And all those muscles and bulk are now folding you in half, knees next to your ears and back dipped into the mattress.

You’d like to elaborate further on how the hell the two of you had gotten here, but Simon’s already fucked you on his desk. Picked you up, pressed you backwards, and made sure the paperwork he'd been slaving over for the whole afternoon would stick to your spine as he screwed your brains out.

If you peeked above his shoulders, you’d see them still there, on the polished wood of his desk. Which consequently means that there is nothing in your skull right now, just shreds of your brain absorbing the resounding slaps of his skin to yours, and bits and pieces of your consciousness floating in a fog of bliss. 

Simon has never been particularly talkative during sex, only yielding sparse grunts or stuttered pants. Minimal sounds, really, especially when compared to the gentle croons you breathe in his ear, or the lovingly placed kisses at the hinge of his jaw.

However, in spite of the obvious imbalance, you never push for more.

The last thing you want is for him to step even farther out of his comfort zone. The lack of clothes and balaclava is already a great show of trust. The way he's pressing down on you, nose to nose, is a testament to the safety he feels in your presence—and it's enough for you.

But.

...It's just sex, isn't it?

He says it every time, ensuring you get it through your skull by adding a firm look to the sentence—one of those that curdle the blood of novices and enemies alike.

It's just sex, he says, but the more this whole unlabeled thing goes on, the slower he fucks you. Less and less are the times in which he takes you from behind, favouring the sight of your face instead.

It's just sex, but then he always kisses you when he cums, huffing heavily from his nose to catch his breath because his mouth is busy tasting something softer, and he doesn't seem eager to move away.

It's just sex, or whatever he tells himself, but he always insists you stay over, because not even the barracks are safe to walk alone at night—he's a soldier, knows what it means to see a bird like you, uniform or not, on her own at night. He's wary and distrustful of the likes of him.

It's just sex, and yet now he's grabbing you ever so gently by the jaw, redirecting your focus to his eyes. His mouth puffs warmly directly onto yours—humid breath you taste on your tongue and down your throat. His hips jerk downwards, meeting your sex in long, deep thrusts that have his cheeks turn pink and his eyes glossy.

He burns holes in your irises until you're forced to blink your eyes a little wider—enough to give him the same (unexpected) attention he's giving you.

His eye twitches.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he croaks in one breath, so harshly you think he's had to wrench it out of his chest.

Your heart stops. You're not quite sure, and he doesn't even give you the time to register it that he says it again.

"You're beautiful," he breathes to your mouth, shoulders hunching over as if he's surrendered to his own statement.

He's buried in so deep, pelvis flush to where you're still achingly sensitive and blissfully raw, that you're not sure whether his words are the ones snatching the breath from your lungs, or if it's the relentless way he plunges back in each time he draws back.

Simon shifts so that your legs can slowly fall down the rigid angles of his hips. You sigh as the ache in your hamstrings abates, and wrap your thighs more comfortably around his softer waist.

He studies, uncharacteristically captivated, each fine line he can find on your face, each wrinkle and dotted scar, each freckle and mole blending in your skin. Pitch-dark eyes trace your features as if he's never seen them before, as if it's the first time he does.

"Fuckin' hell," he croaks, sounding much softer, giving in.

And his hands come to cradle the back of your head, lifting it up from the plush of the pillow. He nestles in closer, and slots his lips with yours, guiding your bodies to slide against one another.

"You're beautiful."

It's just sex, he says, but then he kisses you as you cum, and he follows soon after, whispering praises you've never heard from him before, but ones that feel familiar all the same.

And he calls you beautiful, over and over, with the velvet brush of his lips on yours.

You're beautiful, he tells you—for the rest of the night, and the ones to come.

[stellamarielu]

did anyone order jack abbot eating it from behind??

jack is typically a soft lover— dominant yet careful. even when he’s rough, there’s still an ounce of gentle deliberation in his actions. but sometimes he’s all pent up from a long week at work, and he gets all needy and impatient.

after days of barely seeing you— his shifts running late, and you having a lot on your plate— he finally has you all to himself. you’re cooking dinner together in his kitchen on your shared day off, and he can barely keep his hands to himself.

he tried his best not to pounce on you the minute you walked into his house, giving you nearly an hour of innocent conversation and sarcastic remarks, only paying a few playful smacks to your ass as you worked together to prep the meal. but as soon as you were leaning over the countertop, attention on the cutting board beneath your fingertips, he wasted no time pulling your body flush against his, his very obvious erection pressing against the flesh of your backside.

he leans in— not even bothering to whisper as he confesses how badly he wants you in the wide open space of his kitchen.

“wanna fuck you right here.” his voice is low and rough as his hands grab harder at your waist.

“could just bend you over the counter while you keep cooking,” you’re trying to focus on the task at hand, but jack’s presence behind you is becoming increasingly harder to ignore.

“see how long you can keep your composure until you have to stop because you can’t fucking see straight.” his words have an edge to them— almost threatening.

you weakly try to pry his hands off your hips, but instead your weight melts back into him, the affect of his words making your body betray your mind.

you need to finish cooking; there’s food on the stove, ready to burn if you get too distracted.

“jack…” his name leaves your lips in a quiet warning, meanwhile you’re leaning further into his touch, your body giving into his words of desire.

“we should eat first.” your eyes flutter shut as his hands run up and down your sides. the final attempt to ward off his advances leaves your lips to no avail.

“you’re right.”

he drops to his knees like a dog following a command. pushing up the little sundress you wore just for him, and yanking your panties down. it almost startles you how impulsively he pushes his face into you, his tongue instantly sliding between your folds.

you instinctively raise up on your toes, leaning forward against the counter, and throwing all previous apprehension to the back of your mind as soon as you feel his mouth on your cunt.

his hands grab at your ass, kneading it in his palms and spreading you open, giving him more access to eat.

and eat he does; licking, and sucking, and fucking you with his tongue like he’s desperate for your release. groaning into you when he hears your breathless pants and whines from above.

oh he’ll eat first alright, and this is only the first course.

[lvrsfilm]

contrary to popular belief, Simon Riley does not do casual.

Nothing about him is casual. Nothing about his dedication to his work and his team, the bullets he would disperse and receive for them. Nothing about his routine, the way he shines his boots or folds his uniforms every week like clockwork. He is a cut and dry man, or at least he tries to be.

You, on the other hand, are the opposite of him in so many ways that at a glance people would assume you're the kind of person he hates. (He wishes that was the case, it'd make his life simpler). You bounce around base like a lit firecracker, your fuse sizzling quietly even during missions, never burning out. You never seem to tire, even after the particularly hard ones that leave him mute and holed up in his quarters for hours every day after.

You are casual. Coming to his room whenever you feel like it, knocking in a way that lets him know it's you and no one else. Bringing him tea, or bourbon, the occasional meal if you can convince him. He doesn't see how you can think it's casual. Slipping off your boots, leaving them half laced at his door.

Slipping into his bed. Laying next to him in silence, just so he isn't alone. Bandaging any cuts that aren't severe enough to warrant him going to medical. The soft skin of your hands making practiced movements over his scarred skin that only you've seen. He is not a casual man. And you don't seem to have figured that out yet.

No other man on base interested in you would even entertain the thought of pursuing you, for fear of Simon somehow hearing their thoughts and stringing them up by their necks to show the others what happens if they touch what's his. Everyone else can see the way he looks at you, the way he lets you in.

Everyone except you, apparently.

You don't ask why he lets you in, and he doesn't ask why you keep coming back.

He doesn’t know how to tell you that you’re the first person to make him feel human in a long time. That every soft knock on his door chips away at the walls he’s built, cement crumbling under your touch, a feeling akin to warm liquid gold seeping through the cracks, running over his scar tissue. Like he's a victim of Midas. Exposing him to something he thought he’d buried years ago. You remind him what it’s like to be vulnerable, to crave something more than routine and mission reports.

And it terrifies him.

Because Simon Riley does not do messy, either.

But you? You’re a storm. Chaotic and unpredictable, rushing into his life like you’ve always belonged there. He doesn’t know what to do with you, how to keep you at arm’s length without losing the warmth you bring into his otherwise cold existence. So he lets you in, over and over, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Tonight is no different.

The knock comes—a rhythm so familiar now that it’s practically a lullaby. He already knows it’s you before he opens the door. You’re standing there, as casual as ever in civvies, with that cheeky grin that makes his chest tighten in ways he refuses to name.

“Thought you could use some company,” you say, holding up a thermos of tea like a peace offering.

He steps aside, wordlessly, because what else is he supposed to do? Tell you to leave? Pretend he doesn’t want you here? He’s not that good a liar, not around you.

You slip past him, kicking off your boots, leaving them next to the doorway as always, and make yourself at home like you belong here. Like you belong with him. And maybe you do.

He watches as you set the thermos on his desk and plop onto his bed, laying on your back and stretching like a cat, looking at him expectantly. It’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes. An invitation. A promise.

He lays down, careful to leave just enough space between you to keep the illusion of distance. But then you lean into him, shoulder brushing his arm, and the illusion shatters. His resolve crumbles.

“You came straight here when we got back,” you say softly, tilting your head to look at him. “skipped dinner, I saved a plate for you from the mess.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it cuts through him like a blade.

He turns his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours. He looks at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Like he needs to figure put your angle, figure out why you're treating him so softly. For a second, the air between you feels impossibly fragile, as if even breathing too hard might shatter it.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice low, almost gruff, like the admission costs him something.

You tilt your head at him, your lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. “Do what?”

He exhales sharply, as though frustrated, though it’s unclear if it’s with you or himself. “This… whatever it is you’re doing. Looking out for me. Bringing me tea. Sitting here. I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know,” you reply simply, your tone disarming in its honesty. “I do it because I want to.”

The words hang in the air between you, unassuming yet weighty, like they’re daring him to refute them. He doesn’t, because he can’t. You've made up your mind. There’s a stubbornness in your voice that he knows too well—one that he’s realized he has no defense against.

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters after a moment, turning his gaze toward the ceiling. “It’s a waste.”

Your smile falters, just slightly, but it doesn’t vanish. “You’re not a waste.”

He flinches at that, so subtly you might have missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him. His fingers twitch on the mattress, his eyebrows furrowing beneath the mask. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t argue, but his silence says enough. You press your lips together, chewing the bottom corner slightly as you debate whether to push further. You decide to anyway, because that’s what you do.

You grin, a mischievous glint in your eyes, and he knows you’re about to say something cheeky. But instead, you surprise him again by reaching over to touch his hand—just a fleeting brush of your fingers, so brief he almost convinces himself it didn’t happen.

He closes his eyes, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t pull away. That’s something, you think.

You turn onto your side, facing him fully now, your fingers brushing against the back of his hand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch this time, so you let your touch linger—gentle, steady, unassuming.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you add quietly, almost as if it’s a promise.

When he finally opens his eyes again, there’s something raw and unguarded in his gaze, something that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t thank you, doesn’t argue—but the way his fingers curl ever so slightly against yours feels like an answer.

[nuclearconsole]

i love the theory that fallout didn't just stagnate in the 1950s, it returned to it. not just out of nostalgia, but desperation.

as the world fell apart, oil drying up, war time anxiety piling on and trust eroding, the government needed something familiar to sell.

and what better tool for control than the most sanitized, era of “american values” they could find?

aesthetics of nationalism, conformity, mccarthyist paranoia, all dressed up in chrome and smiles. it wasn't a freeze in culture, it was a calculated reversion.

the mythologization of a golden past becomes the scaffolding for fascist ideology. not because that past was ever real, but because it can be weaponized

myth, dressed up as memory.

in fallout's case, that myth is the 1950s. not the messy, violent, contradictory 50s that actually existed, but a state-manufactured fantasy of chrome smiles, and "american values." a world where conformity is virtue, fear is patriotism, and war is just another product.

because when people are scared, you don't give them answers:

you give them slogans. mascots. marching tunes.

you roll out project brainstorm, an actual pre-war initiative, and start pushing "covert and overt messages of extreme patriotism" into every corner of pop culture. comics. toys. music. sports.

whatever it takes to wrap the war machine in a smile.

prewar's retrofuturism isn't just for the vibes. it's state-sanctioned denial. it was a tight wrap around a dying empire, and the more things fell apart, the more they clung to that futile image.

like if they smiled big enough and said “apple pie” enough times, the oil crisis and global collapse would just blink away while the world burns behind it.

it's the same old rot, lacquered in vintage.

a country that chose the past over the future, and got exactly what it asked for.

not progress. not reform. just reruns of a dream that never existed.

and then it ended, the only way it could end:

with a country so in love with its own mythos it pressed the button waving a flag in one hand and a nuka-cola in the other.

[moongreenlight]

Johnny is the kind of guy that you hook up with when you’re on a girls trip and fully expect to never see him again.

But it turns out he was on deployment so when you go home and start seeing him at the grocery store you think there’s no way it could be him. Has to be a trick of the light.

It’s not. When he sees you in the frozen aisle he’ll come straight up behind you and grope your ass like he has the right.

“Knew it was ye. Know you better from this angle than the front, anyhow.”

[bluublu-blub]

yan! bf

as a sort of sorry for the lack of activity this week, here's another yandere drabble for you guys. i currently have some fixation over these kinds of troupe.

yandere bf who will bend down on his knees to stare at you while you are preoccupied doing your work. He likes to look at your face and basically cemented your features into his brain. It made you shy a lot of times but you have gotten used to his unending staring. 

Your hand twitches as you hear your door shut, footsteps slowly making its way to you as your boyfriend kneels and lays down on your lap. He's at the floor, head at your lap, as you paid him with a glance. It's the sixth time for this day alone and he never seems to get over at staring. 

Before, it used to bother you. He is just so intense and he will be so content in just staring and letting him bask in your presence. 

Sometimes, it feels like you have a cat.

He made a slight movement in your lap which made you ruffle his hair. 

Definitely like a cat.

You sighed. 

You always wonder if he likes doing this simply because he distracted you. He won't speak at all but his presence in the room is enough to make your head turn towards him. 

"You have to stop barging in." 

Eyes still staring at your face, he answered. "But, what am I supposed to do?"

"Your hobbies."

He let out a disbelieving sound. "I have you."

"Find something to do." You said. "I can't always be here with you."

Seemingly, his eyes narrowed at your statement. "You'll always be with me." He said it with a tone that leaves no argument. As if you are never leaving his side at all. "Don't ever think like that."

"Oh," you chuckled. "But, we have jobs." 

"Quit it then." He grumbled. "We have enough to live a lifetime."

That's... cute. 

"You don't need a job."

Suddenly, the air between you shifted into something more serious. A foreboding feeling in your gut as he continues to speak at you. It felt as if he was not joking at all.

"I keep telling you that all you need is to be with me and do whatever you want."

You let your smile drop as you stare back at his haunting eyes. You pursue your lips together, feeling them quite dry from your sudden nervousness at his change. Your hands slowly become wet as the dread sinks into you, thousands of thoughts swirling in your mind. 

This happened in seconds.

Then, you blink.

And smile. 

Like you weren't caught as a prey of a predator.

"Isn't that what I am doing, Liam?" You pouted at him. Still, real yet a little more tense. You gave him a little illusion of your obliviousness as you played with the strands of his hair. 

"I supposed." He closed his eyes. 

For a moment, you found yourself breathing at ease.

[spurbleu]

“i want to kiss you. not on your mouth, but on your most secret scars, your ashy black & journeyed knees, your ring finger, the trigger finger, those hands the world fears so much.”

- danez smith, ‘king the color of space/tower of molasses and marrow’

‧︎✳︎༚︎‧︎⁎︎°︎

you kiss him, and simon struggles to understand.

you dedicate yourself to it, a particular worship that a younger you might’ve called dirty. it’s as if you consider it self indulgence, the way you foil into the divots his war, his regret- even, especially, his violence. the parts of him that made him anxious to be as far as he could from you, while never leaving your side.

you trace the catastrophes that draw out in thin and thick across his back. hold the grimy, coarse part of his jaw, the bend of his nose. perfection cradling imperfections without so much of a flinch. you kiss, kiss, his hands. you touch the release of a trigger and the monster that festers beneath bruising nail with the mouth you pray with- and he…he…

blurs.

can’t seem to find a thread of himself when you hold him. unravels into blisters, bruises, scars and bullets- until your kissing all of it. cradling him in vestal palms, holding him together as he spills from your joints.

his filth has made your lips swollen, but the mercy in your eyes burns the guilt and gives him respite. you gave him a hummingbird heart when he had bear hands, and yet you hold both.

(you didn’t tame him, but that’s what it is, isn’t it? letting a wild dog be- and somehow it made him more domesticated than if you pulled out the leash. isn’t sure what to call that yet, but you give him time.)

he’s convinced he’ll never find out what you are, because no human he’s known gives like you can.

“si? you’re drifting off again.”

“…yer jus too fuckin warm.”

[seumyo]

If ghosts were real—well, Bakugou didn’t believe in ghosts, but if they did exist—they lived in the spaces people left behind.

And you happened to have left behind too many.

It wasn’t just the obvious things. Not the clothes still folded in your drawers, untouched. Not the way your books still sat on the shelves, the spines cracked from overuse, the pages filled with notes in the margins. Not even the stupid coffee mug you always used, the one you once swore made everything taste better, still sitting exactly where you left it on the kitchen counter (because it had his and your face printed on it).

No, the spaces you left behind were quieter. More insidious.

Like the empty seat across from him at the dining table, where you used to sit, eating straight from the pot that one night because, “Why dirty another dish?”

Like the sound of the bathroom door not opening in the morning when he’s actually using the toilet—dammit, you didn’t even have the care in the world to give your boyfriend some privacy—the absence of your muttered complaints about how the water took too long to heat up.

Like the other side of the bed, cold and untouched, where he still reached out in his sleep, half expecting to find you there. Anticipating to hold you closer to him.

Grief was a strange thing to Bakugou.

It wasn’t like pain. Pain was easy. A broken rib, a busted lip, the sharp sting of impact—those things, he knew how to handle. You grit your teeth, you clench your fists, you keep moving. That was what you did. That was the kind of man he was.

But grief wasn’t like that.

It wasn’t a punch he could take and shake off. It was a weight pressing down on his chest, invisible but suffocating. It was the silence of an empty apartment. It was the echo of your voice in his head, the way his brain still filled in the blanks in conversations you should have been part of.

It was standing in the grocery store, staring at the shelf, reaching for the brand of tea you liked before stopping halfway, fingers hovering in the air, before dropping his hand back to his side.

What was the point?

He hated how much space you had taken up in his life. Hated how even in your absence, you still lingered, threading yourself through his routine, his thoughts, his goddamn muscle memory.

But more than anything, he hated how much he wanted it to stay.

Because if ghosts were real, then maybe—just maybe—you weren’t completely gone.

He hadn’t cried. Not when he first got the news. Not when he stood at the funeral, jaw locked so tight it ached. Not when he walked through your apartment alone for the first time, every corner of it filled with your presence, your things, the remnants of the life you lived.

But tonight, he was exhausted.

Physically. Mentally. It comes down on him like something tangible, something inescapable—all at once.

And for the first time in a long time, he spoke into the silence.

“…This is fucking stupid.”

His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse.

Nothing answered.

Of course, nothing answered.

Still, Bakugou exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’d be so pissed at me right now.”

The quiet stretched.

Bakugou let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Tch. You always said I was too stubborn for my own good. But look at you. Still haunting me, huh?”

His eyes flickered to the couch, where you used to sit cross-legged, laptop balanced on your knees, pretending to listen to whatever bullshit he was ranting about while actually getting work done.

A strange, bittersweet feeling lodged itself in his chest.

“…You remember that time you swore up and down that ghosts were real?” he muttered, voice quieter now. “I told you you were full of shit.”

Silence.

His fingers curled into fists. “Kinda wish you were right.”

No answer. No sign. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the faint buzz of the city outside the window.

But in the quiet, he thought—just for a second—he could hear it.

A breath. A whisper of movement. The sound of something shifting just out of sight.

He knew it was nothing. Just his mind playing tricks on him.

But still, Bakugou closed his eyes, exhaled, and let himself pretend.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[zevrra]

jayce talis is the type of man to hold your hand constantly. he wants to make skin on skin contact whenever and however he can; especially during sex. did not matter the position, he constantly wanted to hold your hand. you never bring it up and just assume he wants to make sure you’re okay…or it could mean holding your hand keeps him grounded because you know you’re in for some trouble when he stops holding your hand.

when he holds your hand, he’s far more intimate. grips your hand tightly, intertwining your fingers together as he slowly rolls his hips. he places kisses against your collarbone, whispering sweet nothings as his cock vanishes inside of you. he’s soft, needy, wanting to make you feel so good your head spins.

“you’re always so perfect for me. so pretty, so beautiful. i love you, love you, so much.” he’d mutter, praising you as if you’re the goddess that hung every star in his sky. holding your hand as tight as he could, without hurting you of course, solely because he was afraid you’d disappear.

he asks you how you’re feeling, whines when you don’t look into his eyes to tell him that you’re feeling good. he begs for every kiss. fucks you slow and passionate until you’re breathlessly moaning his name.

until he’s no longer holding your hand. when he doesn’t hold your hand; he’s a man possessed. gripping your hips enough to bruise or securing a snug hand around the base of your throat, just enough pressure to make your toes curl. he’s leaving blossoms of hickies along every inch of skin that he can reach, marking you as his. his pace is brutal. he has no problem flattening you into the mattress while he slams his hips right up against you. he thrusts in deep and rough, stretching every inch of you that he can while he reminds you why you’re his.

“you’re perfect. fit me so fucking good. so tight.” jayce groans, gripping your hips a little more as his cock slides out of you. he chuckles deeply at the way you tighten and suck him right back inside. “mine. you’re fucking mine.”

and he doesn’t stop until he’s completely satisfied and you’re too overstimulated, twitching and soaked, to speak any other word except for his name.