#MADE AMERICA HATE AGAIN

[scopophilic1997]

scopOphilic_micromessaging_940 - scopOphilic1997 presents a new micro-messaging series: small, subtle, and often unintentional messages we send and receive verbally and non-verbally.

[atlas7seo]

Sometimes I feel like people failed US History and this recent election and talks about tariffs really do prove that. I mean did literally everyone collectively forget about the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act and those major repercussions? Btw that act happened in 1930. There's a reason President Hoover's name was used to refer to Shanty Towns in the Great Depression. Or the fact that almost all tariff acts within the last 80 or so years have either been expanding negotiation for world trade or deliberately decreasing tariffs. And the one time in 2002 where steel had tariffs placed on it, it was repealed in under a year because the cost greatly outweighed any benefits.

Does anyone remember the last time Trump tried to make tariffs in 2018? How many people credit it to be one of the largest tax increases in US history!?

Are people really that stupid? Like it's literally a REQUIRED part of our general education. Why do you think it is!? So people can actually make smart decisions.

[femslashspuffy]

It is really cool actually that they restrained themselves and kept iron man just a trilogy from 2013-2019

It does suck tho that it came at the expense of every other movie being the Tony Stark Show

[rings-of-power-realm]

Happy birthday Robert Aramayo! 🥰💚🌸

[sawbuckplus]

[catfishofoldin99colours]

personally I think curly's real name is actually Cuthbert and he Hates it so much and curly is his attempt to seem somewhat cooler and less of a bullying target (Jimmy knows his real name and on Pain Of Death he is never allowed to speak it ever)

[beneaththebloodylake]

sorry but edgeworth would not wear earings. that is not the same character

[cooltastrophe]

hip socket is ouchy

[thecanadianweeb]

just watched the bottoms movie and holy cow is it something!

horny teen delinquent lesbians fighting mysonogistic jocks, fake blood everywhere, doin your mom jokes, post credit scenes…

i feel like this made me go insane, laugh like a complete maniac, and also loose hope in America all at once.

don’t really know if it deserved the R rating but i think it’s maybe due to the constant swearing, mentions of SA, and graphic fake blood and possibly non-con horny teens.

would love to watch this again with my gf, but she’s only 17 and maybe a bit too religious for this.

[coridallasmultipass]

If it's okay for me to add something related because I first saw this on Tumblr: In the mid-2010s, I heard about there being a gay Filipino deity romance (from one culture in the Philippines - there are many different cultures and beliefs) here on Tumblr. It wasn't until years later when researching Philippine deities for fun while trying to broadly connect with my culture that I found a deep dive where someone found that the Bulan and Sidapa love story originated from the same fictional blog source, and had been circulating from new sources and fan art claiming it was historical for years before the author tried to find a non-modern historical source for the rumour, creating a kind of Berenstain/Berenstein effect on the people he asked, claiming they'd heard about the love story from a forgotten source much earlier than the 2010s, but unable to give a specific name, or the source cited claimed they didn't actually know about the romance.

While I think in this instance, a shift in narrative is obviously okay when you consider it is still a living Filipino culture, and people from that clearly find identity with this modern take (which should be asked of people from the cultures directly affected by misinfo), it should also be important not to rewrite it as 'historical fact' particularly when it has a fictional modern source that someone can directly point to as the origin when they question and search down the telephone line (like the game).

(I use the word 'fictional' only in reference to the originating blog, because the blog was unable or unwilling to provide any sources that mentioned that relationship to the deep dive author. I'm not implying said gods can't be/aren't gay. I'm not from that specific Philippine culture, and I don't have enough background knowledge to make any claims of my own. There's also no like, singular religious text/'bible' that pre-Hispanic Philippine beliefs followed as a rule/that can be consulted about this - it's not like a translation debate. There's just no textual source pre-dating the blog making the claim of the romance, and historians/oral historians aren't making the claim either.)

I get variations on this comment on my post about history misinformation all the time: "why does it matter?" Why does it matter that people believe falsehoods about history? Why does it matter if people spread history misinformation? Why does it matter if people on tumblr believe that those bronze dodecahedra were used for knitting, or that Persephone had a daughter named Mespyrian? It's not the kind of misinformation that actually hurts people, like anti-vaxx propaganda or climate change denial. It doesn't hurt anyone to believe something false about the past.

Which, one, thanks for letting me know on my post that you think my job doesn't matter and what I do is pointless, if it doesn't really matter if we know the truth or make up lies about history because lies don't hurt anyone. But two, there are lots of reasons that it matters.

It encourages us to distrust historians when they talk about other aspects of history. You might think it's harmless to believe that Pharaoh Hatshepsut was trans. It's less harmless when you're espousing that the Holocaust wasn't really about Jews because the Nazis "came for trans people first." You might think it's harmless to believe that the French royalty of Versailles pooped and urinated on the floor of the palace all the time, because they were asshole rich people anyway, who cares, we hate the rich here; it's rather less harmless when you decide that the USSR was the communist ideal and Good, Actually, and that reports of its genocidal oppression are actually lies.

It encourages anti-intellectualism in other areas of scholarship. Deciding based on your own gut that the experts don't know what they're talking about and are either too stupid to realize the truth, or maliciously hiding the truth, is how you get to anti-vaxxers and climate change denial. It is also how you come to discount housing-first solutions for homelessness or the idea that long-term sustained weight loss is both biologically unlikely and health-wise unnecessary for the majority of fat people - because they conflict with what you feel should be true. Believing what you want to be true about history, because you want to believe it, and discounting fact-based corrections because you don't want them to be true, can then bleed over into how you approach other sociological and scientific topics.

How we think about history informs how we think about the present. A lot of people want certain things to be true - this famous person from history was gay or trans, this sexist story was actually feminist in its origin - because we want proof that gay people, trans people, and women deserve to be respected, and this gives evidence to prove we once were and deserve to be. But let me tell you a different story: on Thanksgiving of 2016, I was at a family friend's house and listening to their drunk conservative relative rant, and he told me, confidently, that the Roman Empire fell because they instituted universal healthcare, which was proof that Obama was destroying America. Of course that's nonsense. But projecting what we think is true about the world back onto history, and then using that as recursive proof that that is how the world is... is shoddy scholarship, and gets used for topics you don't agree with just as much as the ones you do. We should not be encouraging this, because our politics should be informed by the truth and material reality, not how we wish the past proved us right.

It frequently reinforces "Good vs. Bad" dichotomies that are at best unhelpful and at worst victim-blaming. A very common thread of historical misinformation on tumblr is about the innocence or benevolence of oppressed groups, slandered by oppressors who were far worse. This very frequently has truth to it - but makes the lies hard to separate out. It often simplifies the narrative, and implies that the reason that colonialism and oppression were bad was because the victims were Good and didn't deserve it... not because colonialism and oppression are bad. You see this sometimes with radical feminist mother goddess Neolithic feminist utopia stuff, but you also see it a lot regarding Native American and African history. I have seen people earnestly argue that Aztecs did not practice human sacrifice, that that was a lie made up by the Spanish to slander them. That is not true. Human sacrifice was part of Aztec, Maya, and many Central American war/religious practices. They are significantly more complex than often presented, and came from a captive-based system of warfare that significantly reduced the number of people who got killed in war compared to European styles of war that primarily killed people on the battlefield rather than taking them captive for sacrifice... but the human sacrifice was real and did happen. This can often come off with the implications of a 'noble savage' or an 'innocent victim' that implies that the bad things the Spanish conquistadors did were bad because the victims were innocent or good. This is a very easy trap to fall into; if the victims were good, they didn't deserve it. Right? This logic is dangerous when you are presented with a person or group who did something bad... you're caught in a bind. Did they deserve their injustice or oppression because they did something bad? This kind of logic drives a lot of transphobia, homophobia, racism, and defenses of Kyle Rittenhouse today. The answer to a colonialist logic of "The Aztecs deserved to be conquered because they did human sacrifice and that's bad" is not "The Aztecs didn't do human sacrifice actually, that's just Spanish propaganda" (which is a lie) it should be "We Americans do human sacrifice all the god damn time with our forever wars in the Middle East, we just don't call it that. We use bullets and bombs rather than obsidian knives but we kill way, way more people in the name of our country. What does that make us? Maybe genocide is not okay regardless of if you think the people are weird and scary." It becomes hard to square your ethics of the Innocent Victim and Lying Perpetrator when you see real, complicated, individual-level and group-level interactions, where no group is made up of members who are all completely pure and good, and they don't deserve to be oppressed anyway.

It makes you an unwitting tool of the oppressor. The favorite, favorite allegation transphobes level at trans people, and conservatives at queer people, is that we're lying to push the Gay Agenda. We're liars or deluded fools. If you say something about queer or trans history that's easy to debunk as false, you have permanently hurt your credibility - and the cause of queer history. It makes you easy to write off as a liar or a deluded fool who needs misinformation to make your case. If you say Louisa May Alcott was trans, that's easy to counter with "there is literally no evidence of that, and lots of evidence that she was fine being a woman," and instantly tanks your credibility going forward, so when you then say James Barry was trans and push back against a novel or biopic that treats James Barry as a woman, you get "you don't know what you're talking about, didn't you say Louisa May Alcott was trans too?" TERFs love to call trans people liars - do not hand them ammunition, not even a single bullet. Make sure you can back up what you say with facts and evidence. This is true of homophobes, of racists, of sexists. Be confident of your facts, and have facts to give to the hopeful and questioning learners who you are relating this story to, or the bigots who you are telling off, because misinformation can only hurt you and your cause.

It makes the queer, female, POC, or other marginalized listeners hurt, sad, and betrayed when something they thought was a reflection of their own experiences turns out not to be real. This is a good response to a performance art piece purporting to tell a real story of gay WWI soldiers, until the author revealed it as fiction. Why would you want to set yourself up for disappointment like that? Why would you want to risk inflicting that disappointment and betrayal on anyone else?

It makes it harder to learn the actual truth.

Historical misinformation has consequences, and those consequences are best avoided - by checking your facts, citing your sources, and taking the time and effort to make sure you are actually telling the truth.

[sairaverse]

𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲-𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝟏 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐨.

ah yes, the final stage of law of assumption. manifesting small things, challenges, until you're sick of everything and just want everything you've dreamed of. well- that's me. I manifested my dream life 1 year ago today, which is exactly why I'm making this post! its like my anniversary.

How I did it: I understood that the law of assumption literally is instant and the 3d does not matter. right when you claim it- its yours. So I shut up and decided I'm living my dream life. My aff was "I'm living my dream life, I'm just letting it play out." it was so good for me to perceive it this way because not only am I focused on the end, it helps me not try and try to convince myself in the 3d- rather knowing its done and everything is falling into place. I persisted with that aff, and slowly but surely…things came into place. its like thing and thing again happened, I kept getting crumbs from the 3d- (people I scripted in my dream life, random money, random appearance changes, changes in my family) I kept going until I finally had everything. in short I knew the 3d would change and I narrated how it'll end.

the old story: I grew up in Virginia and was born into a family with 5 kids. We lived in America for 10 years before my father decided he wanted to move to turkey-istanbul. that drained all of our money and we lived in a small apartment with 4 bedrooms. (remember, there's 7 of us) so we lived in turkey for 2 years. my dad kept getting and losing jobs, until he decided we should move to dubai. that made our lives even worse, dubai is SUCH an expensive country. we then lived in a TWO bedroom apartment with all 7 of us. my brother had to sleep in a fucking closet and I shared a room with my 23 year old sister. oh and- my dad quit his job and tried to make us work for his business. obviously it wasn't a stable income so we had ended up moving back to America because he landed a government job. We lived in my grandmas house and my dad ended up getting fired from his job 2 weeks after landing it 💀💀 so we were in America, in our grandmas house with 3 bedrooms ( my siblings had to sleep in the living room). My life fucking sucked. I hated and resented my dad, and my sister felt the same way. She was a severely mentally ill person and it jacked her up even more all the times our father had made us go broke and live in a different country. she was 23 and had enough, she had a whole life ahead of her, didn't get to go to college because we kept moving. So she left- she got herself a job and left our grandmas house at like 2 am without saying a word. Our parents found out and my dad was so furious and hurt, there's a lot of context I wont go over. what she did was a little wrong according to our family, but honestly? I don't blame her. I was sick of it by then- I knew about manifesting way back when we first moved to dubai. So I was sick of it. I wrote a whole 200+ page script, writing every single revised detail of my life. from a bunch of snacks in the fridge to my dad fucking closing his mouth when he eats, ALL OF IT. I was sick and tired of having a dirty and poor father who ruined my life and made me fix it. So I did what I said I did back in the first paragraph, and I manifested everything on the script.

New story (my life now): I live in Dubai again, I have a completely different dad (yes, I just deleted my old story dad basically), My parents are multi-millionaires who own very successful businesses. (the very ones my dad forced me to work for when I was only 13) I live in a super big house with my dream bedroom, I go to a rich private school and I have so many friends. I changed my eye color, bone structure, and height. I live like a spoiled rich daughter from a 2000s romcom. I attended the Super Bowl this year and was able to do so many things. My mom is the wife she had deserved to be, (she was basically the man of the house. My dad was like a toddler, he would ruin things and scream at us so my mom had ended up stepping up because of it) and I have everything I could have asked for and more. After revising my dream life the old story feels like a bad dream. Even when I was typing it, it just felt like I was telling you guys a weird story and not my actual life that I had to experience for 15 years. Anyway, 6/9/2024 was the best day of my life. It was the day I finally got to be a kid, not stress over finances as a kid, and witness everything I had never imagined would've came true.

You can do it. You can manifest everything. and it is much simpler than you think

creds to @itsrlymine @scentedpeachlandcreator and @hrrtshape for helping me see light to achieve this dream. I love you all 💗💗

(edit: I FUCKING CALLED DUBAI A COUNTRY. I meant the uae is an expensive country and the area of UAE was dubai)

++ I created this blog because so many of you were going through even worse situations as me. I couldn't bear knowing it was so easy to get yourself out of struggle and just say nothing. I literally made my blog the same weekend I manifested my dream life, and now there's 600 of you taking my advice 🩷

[cuntwrap--supreme]

Day 3 of being stuck in my house because neither the city or my apartment is making an effort to clear the snow and I don't have the tools to do it myself. I've spent no money in just as long. I've made a blanket. I've almost finished a 500 page book that I was 2 chapters into at the start. My dog is not even entertained by the snow any more. I can only eat freezer pizza so many times more before I simply stop eating. We've never had snow here like this, so I didn't prepare by, say, buying actual food, as I tend to forget I have produce in my fridge. In the past, snow either doesn't stick and is gone by the end of the day or it does stick but is melted by the next afternoon. It's currently 1F outside. My dog has to piss, but won't go outside. She's 10. She has arthritis. This can't be comfortable. I can't go on walks because the snow is above my ankles and it's difficult to walk in. The furthest I've explored is out to the main road about 1/4 of a mile away, and even that was a sheet of ice and snow, despite it being right off a major interstate exit. People I know across town are complaining that their areas are also not cleared. The city is seemingly refusing to utilize the 15 snow plows at their disposal, and all the hillbillies with big lifted trucks who own plows for situations like this appear to be asleep. Only the interstate was salted before this began. The Waffle House on my side of town is closed (granted it's 10 miles off the interstate, but still). I haven't worked in 4 days, meaning I'll only get paid for 2 days this entire week. My boss will not let me use PTO to cover. My boss says we have to return to work tomorrow because we're all done "pretending we're kids having a snow day." It's 1F. I'm on a hill that's almost a 45 degree angle. It's all ice. I can't even walk down it, let alone drive my car to my silly little job. I will not be going anywhere until the sun can melt that away. The high is 27 for the next week. There is no hope of escape.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP idea: The old switcheroo

Based on this ask that got me thinking.

It's not well-known that Mary and John Grayson had identical twins. The reason is that Haly Circus had a strict rule about babies traveling with them. There could only be one at a time.

Jack Haly tried his best, but it had been a long-standing rule of the circus back when his grandfather first started the business, and since he enforced it onto everyone else, he couldn't make exceptions for the Flying Graysons even if the second boy wasn't planned.

There were a lot of reasons for this rule. The first was traveling, which was dangerous for the little ones: illness and unsafe equipment. The second reason they encountered more delays whenever they crossed borders was because people were suspicious of multiple children being moved about.

The last was that Fedrick Haly thought children were a distraction and would not stand for his performers to not be entirely focused on their acts. So the rule went up, and anyone displeased with it was welcome to leave. He later allowed for more than one child as long as the first born had was at least ten years old before the second born was on its way.

The problem was that while a few people did leave, most had been born and raised in Haly's circus and couldn't imagine a world where they weren't part of it. Mary and John were in the second category, so they made a hard choice.

They gave up one of the twins to a lovely couple, Madeline and Jack Fenton, and tried not to think about him. They went as far as to leave themselves off of the boy's birth certification. This was a viewpoint the son they did keep, Dick, did not share.

The minute the circus Strong Man let it slip that he had a brother, Dick had tried tracking him down. He found an ally in Jack Haly himself, who had always hated his grandfather's rule and took him on an "educational" trip to America.

The Graysons didn't suspect anything, and the Fentons were also left in the dark because Jack H. was worried they would try to cause trouble among his people if they found out about Dick.

Danny Fenton, Dick's twin, swore to never tell anyone a thing. In his eyes, he saw it as tearing Dick's life apart when it was their parents who made the choice to get rid of him. He didn't even tell his sister or his best friends. He liked to think that one day, when they were older, the brothers would be able to be seen in public.

In the meantime, they shared secret letters as pen pals and would call each other once a month with the help of Haly. It wasn't much, but they built an unbreakable bond.

Then, the Graysons were killed when they were nine. Dick vanished from the face of the earth for a few months. They lost communication until Dick appeared in Danny's life again one year later. It couldn't have come at a better time because Danny, who was used to Dick not responding without months-long gaps in between, was getting angsty that he hadn't heard from his brother.

Apparently, he was taken in by a billionaire who felt a kinship with him, as someone who also watched their parents die. Dick begs Danny to keep their connection a secret for a bit longer because if Bruce knew he had family, he would ship him off to the Fentons, and Dick would never bring their parent's killer to justice.

But he kept their connection a secret anyway so his brother would not lose a second family. Despite what Dick believed, Danny knew that Bruce Wayne actually saw him as a son and that Dick slowly, over the years, thought of him as a father. Dick would later tell him that Bruce was Batman and he was Robin.

Danny didn't have the heart to tell him that he couldn't care less about Mary and John Grayson. He didn't even care that they were dead past the pain it caused his brother. After all, to Danny, they chose a career over him.

They were nothing but a tragic tale. Strangers in every sense of the world. He never even met them.

Both knew that Gotham needed the dynamic duo, so they kept their mouths shut. Danny later realized how important that was when he was turned into Phantom. He too had a city that needed protection.

One day Dick came to him with a proposal.

"We look exactly alike. Down to the mole on our left butt cheeks! No one would know if we switch places." Dick told him excitablely.

"I don't know Dick. I'm not exactly the best actor in the world." Danny started a little hesitant, but he eventually agreed because Dick worded it as a favor he needed desperately.

Danny would do anything for his twin. So he jumps on a plane and flies to Gotham, slipping into Dick's life quickly. He was trained to know people's names, faces, and even his school schedule, which were a part of Dick's life. There were only two things he wasn't prepared for.

Robin's training and the fact that the twins had very different personalities.

On Danny's first night out as Robin, he fell back on his powers to fight crime. He was lucky that Bruce had left Dick on his own for a month now, after years of arguing, and wasn't present to see Robin blast criminals with green rays. He was smart enough to stick to the shadows when people clearly out of his league were up to something- plus, fighting the bigger threats would expose his identity.

When they met up on a roof, Bruce turned to him with a commanding aura that had Danny standing up straighter.

"Robin, report," Bruce, in his Batman outfit, bit out.

After years of giving his parents oral lab reports, he quickly rattled off, "There were four mugging by the east docks, two break-ins at Old Gotham, and a suspected sighting of Joker at-"

Batman slaps him across the face, cutting Danny off. He gasps, clutching his face. "Ow! What the hell!?"

"You were being hysterical. Not once did you crack a joke or insult me. I think the Joker slipped you something." Bruce tells him seriously, tapping his communicator to let Agent A know they needed medical aid as soon as they arrived at the cave.

"What?" Danny demands

"Oh no. You didn't throw a flying kick at my crutch for that. It's worse than I thought. I'm going to have to sedate you." Danny doesn't have time to dodge or go intangible before Bruce leaps at him with a needle.

The following day, he was informed he would not be out on the field until whatever was in his system was cleaned out. The tests picked up his ectoplasm- but Bruce wasn't aware of what it was. Danny is ecstatic about it, getting comfortable in the house of old money and enjoying the world's finest had to offer.

Bruce was unsure why "Dick" was okay with not going out in the field when his angry determination to fight was the whole reason he became Robin. He also took him to a gala, and when he was telling him that the Robinsons had an enormous chandelier and "Dick" was not allowed to swing on it.

"Why would I want to do that?" Danny scoffs, missing the way Bruce's face paled. He was more worried about how obviously popular Dick was and all the people that were tripping over themselves to speak to him.

It was a nightmare.

In school, Dick was in all the advanced classes. Danny was a little worried until he realized without ghosts to fight and people not bullying him every second of the day (Dick was one of the popular kids!), he actually did really well. He enjoyed learning.

Gotham Academy was challenging and engaging in a way Casper High never was. He would go straight home after class, check in with Alfred or Bruce, and then just relax in one of the Wayne pools or in the video game rooms- they had the latest games and systems!

Bruce looked like he was having an aneurysm whenever Danny politely asked him about his day and thanked him for everything he did.

Thankfully, the two switched back after a week-long stay at Wayne Manor. Danny didn't think he could keep tricking Bruce or Alfred without getting caught.

"Did you enjoy your time with Bruce?" Dick asks him after they switch clothes.

"It was.....something. Your foster dad is weird." He tells him.

"Yeah? Well your dad is way too sentetive. He told me he loves me before bed and every morning at breakfast." Dick scoffs. "I still think he was on drugs."

Danny sighs "Well, at least it's over. I miss Sam and Tucker, though I am not looking forward to seeing Dash again."

"Oh, about that. You're suspended from school." Dick tells him casually. "You hit Dash Baxter with a chair after he and his little group surrounded you to shove you in a locker. Thankfully, the ugly one, Paulina, was recording everything because they liked to laugh at the videos, and you broke her hand when you stole her phone. After getting proof of self-defense, plus several other victims coming forward with the videos, the suspension is all you have. Dash is expelled."

Danny gapes at him as Dick winks. "Thanks for doing me a favor of providing the perfect window to protect my twin. Love you! Bye!"

Dick hops onto the plane before Danny can find any words. When he shows up to school, everyone jumps out of his way, eyeing him like he is one second away from telling Sam and Tucker not to come to school tomorrow.

He forgot that Dick has some.....unresolved anger issues. Every day, he is thankful the Graysons gave him away to a family that may be ghost-obsessed, but at least they knew how to process emotions.

Miles away, Bruce watches Robin launch himself with a scream of rage at a mugger and wonders if his son has developed split-personality disorder.

Years later, he tells everyone that Dick has a second personality called Danny, who occasionally slips in once and while. Everyone treats Danny as his own person, including Justice Leauge and his siblings.

Both twins forgot to come clean about each other even after they turned eighteen. They thought the Waynes figured it out because the Fentons did when Dick switched again a few months after Dash got expelled.

It was the fact Dick laughed when his meal came to life, thinking it hilarious. Jack and Maddie were more than happy to have a second son, incredibly one open to ghost research. He did argue a lot about ghost rights, but it was better than Jazz and Danny, who wanted nothing to do with it.

[sincerelyneo]

fifteen minutes | n.jm

“i can do a lot in fifteen minutes, only gonna take two to make you finish”

💿now playing: 15 minutes by sabrina carpenter

❯ summary: Jaemin is supposed to be on stage soon—not in his dressing room with his girlfriend. He’s on a time crunch. Good thing you can do a lot in fifteen minutes.

❯ pairings: idol!jaemin x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, just pure smut

❯ words: 2.3k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, hand jobs, mirror kink, premature ejaculation, switch!jaemin, oral sex (male receiving), neediness, cum swallowing, unprotected sex (don’t do this!), reader uses she/her pronouns, literally just quickie smut

When Jaemin first asked you to join him on tour this year, it sounded like such a great idea. He pitched it in a way he knew you couldn’t turn down: like a fun bucketlist, a silly scavenger hunt where the two of you would fuck in every city on the tour. You weren’t thinking straight at the time—just liked the sound of not being away from your boyfriend for months at a time. And sex. Lots of it.

But you only made it through two stops on the U.S. leg before things started going south. First was LA, then Oakland—both in California, which Jaemin insisted didn’t need separate hookups because they were the same state. But then one skipped stop turned into two, then five, then the entire Latin America leg went without so much as a quickie. At this point, you swear the two of you were having more phone sex when he was away than actual sex now that you’re here.

But it’s not his fault. It’s not yours, either. Tour is just so…mentally exhausting. There’s so much to do, so little time. Honestly, it hurts you, seeing how disconnected he becomes when he’s constantly on the go. It’s like his body shifts into auto-pilot, just moving through the motions: rehearsal, soundcheck, makeup, performance, sleep, repeat. He never misses cuddles before bed, though, he’s soft like that. 

And now, as you sit in his dressing room, watching his makeup artist roll her kit out, you can feel all that tension, all the frustration—yours and his—simmering in the air. You need him. You want him. You want him to relax, to take himself off auto-pilot and let his mind be here, be present, with you, in Europe, in London, at the last stop of the tour.

You get up from the couch and settle behind him as he looks into the full-length mirror. Your arms snake around his waist, and you rest your chin on his shoulder, pressing soft, feather-light kisses down his neck.

“You look pretty,” you whisper against his creamy skin, your breath so hot, so tantalizing, it forces him suck in his own sharp inhale.

“Baby…” he groans, “I have to be on stage in fifteen minutes.”

Exactly, you think. He’s a force on stage, filled with so much energy. You know that if you don’t have him now, you might not get him until you’re back home.

“Good thing I can do a lot in fifteen minutes.”

Your hand runs down the front of his stage outfit, careful not to crease anything and send his stylist into a frenzy—well, more of a frenzy than she's already going to be in for what you have planned. Jaemin watches the motion through the mirror, his nostrils flaring as his dark brown eyes lock onto your hands gliding down his body. He’s needed this, needed you, the whole tour. And now, he’s going to stand there and let you take whatever you want from him.

Your fingers fumble with his belt buckle, snapping it open just enough to toy with his zipper and palm the growing bulge in his briefs.

“Babyyy…” he groans again, voice strained, almost like it’s a struggle. And maybe it is, Jaemin hates (loves) your teasing. “We can’t—We shouldn’t.”

“You don’t want to?” you ask, glancing at him through the mirror. You flutter your lashes at him so innocently, as if you’re not currently rubbing his hard, needy cock through the thin black material. 

“Fuck…” His head falls back for a moment, but he’s quick to lift it again, his eyes needing to find you again in the mirror. He can’t look away, especially not now when you're teasing him so deliberately. “Baby, you know I want to, but fuck—fifteen minutes isn’t enough time for me to fuck you the way I want.”

You smile knowingly. You get it. When Jaemin fucks, he fucks intentionally. He likes to take his time, kissing every part of you—your wrists, your forearms, your stomach, your hips, your thighs, your ankles. All of it, like pieces of art only he gets to appreciate. He likes that you’re his, wants to remember how lucky he is to be the only one savouring every inch of you. He’s patient, thoughtful. Fifteen minutes wouldn’t give him the time to indulge like he usually does.

That’s probably why he hasn’t tried fucking you much during the tour; but right now, you don’t want careful. You want quick. You want messy. You want to make him feel good, even if it’s just for a short time.

“I never said you had to do anything,” you murmur, peppering another kiss to his neck, your voice low. “I said I can do a lot in fifteen minutes. So, please, let me make you feel good, Jaem.”

He bites his lip, conflicted. Jaemin knows he shouldn’t, really knows he shouldn’t, but the desire coursing through him is too much to ignore. He wants this, so badly. That’s why he’s letting you help him slide his briefs down, just enough. You don’t take them all the way off—time’s not on your side—but just enough to let his hard, eager cock spring free. His tip is  flushed and angry, glistening with pre-cum, thick and veiny and standing to attention.

“Shit, Jaem, this must fucking ache, baby.” 

You wrap your fingers around his cock, and he shudders the second you touch him—so sensitive. Jaemin’s eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror, pupils blown wide as he watches you slowly start to stroke him. But there’s no time for slow, no time for teasing. You have fifteen minutes to make him cum, and you will.

“God, Y/N… shit—please,” Jaemin breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re fucking killing me.”

You just smile, sly and dirty, as you keep working him over. He’s like putty in your hand, his hips rolling forward, chasing the friction, so desperate, so fragile, so pent up. Your fingers twist and stroke, applying just the right pressure to make his whole body shudder—abs tightening, breath hitching. It’s mesmerizing. And it’s even hotter knowing he’s watching it all unfold in the mirror, eyes hazy, lips parted, completely undone by you.

You lean in, your lips just inches from his ear, and whisper, “You’re so hard for me, Jaem. It’s so pretty.”

His eyes flutter shut. He loves being pretty for you, loves being perfect when he can, loves when you tell him. His head falls back as he surrenders to the sensation, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. And you can feel it—the way his body tenses, a different kind of tension building deep inside him.

You pick up the pace, stroking him faster, more deliberate. Long, languid strokes, your grip firm but careful, paying extra attention to the head—just the way he likes it, the way you know will get him there to make use of the time. 

You can’t help but smirk when his hips start moving more frantically, short breaths turning into whimpers, pleads—desperate, breathy begging.

“Think your stylist will be pissed if you cum on these pants?” you tease, easing the pace. “They look expensive… maybe I should stop���”

“Don’t…” pant, “You…” pant, “Dare.”

You wouldn’t—of course not. You don’t want to stop, but you’re not a menace either. You don’t want him getting into any trouble because of you. So, you do the only thing that makes sense.

You drop to your knees.

He barely has a second to process it before your mouth is on him—warm, wet, and devastating. The moment your lips wrap around his cock, sucking him deep, his vision dots, pleasure attacking him so hard it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

His arm shoots out, palm slamming against the mirror. “Oh, fuck… shit—baby, I’m gonna—fuck!”

You don’t slow, don’t falter—your head bobs relentlessly, determination driving you. Jaemin’s cock throbs with every glide, every flick of your tongue, and when you glance up at him—God, he’s beautiful like this. Completely wrecked.

His sweet mouth turned sinful, spilling filthy curses between gasping breaths. His glossy eyes, dilated and cloudy, drink in the sight of you. Pink lips part, and tremble, because he’s so utterly lost in the satisfaction you’re giving him. Until finally, his knees buckle, his hand slips from the mirror, and with a broken moan, he grips your head, holding you in place as his hips stutter—shattering—while he spills down your throat.

You don’t waste a drop—you take it all. The first spurt hits the depths of your throat, warm and salty, and you swallow without hesitation. Jaemin’s body jerks, shuddering through the aftershocks, broken moans filling the air. Slowly, you pull back, his cock slipping from your mouth, leaving a thin trail of cum on your lips. You want to lick them clean, let your tongue dart out to catch every last drop—but he doesn’t let you. 

His thumb gently brushes your lips, gathering up the rest of his release that you couldn’t swallow. He presses it to your mouth, rubbing slow and teasing, until you part your lips for him. You take his thumb into your mouth, sucking it clean, making a show of licking up every last drop, relishing the taste. At least you didn’t get anything on his clothes—that would have been a nightmare.

When he finally pulls his thumb from your mouth, he sighs, his body relaxing as he comes down from the high. He reaches out to pull you to your feet, and you smile up at him.

“Look at that,” you tease, nodding toward the small blue clock on the wall. “Two whole minutes.”

He groans, “Ugh… don’t remind me.”

You laugh, teasing, “Told you, I can do a lot in fifteen minutes. It’s a gift.”

Almost like a switch has been flipped, your words spark something wolfish in his eyes, and before you can process anything else, he’s pressing his mouth into yours, pushing you back against the cool glass of the mirror.

You gasp, breathless, “Jaem—what are you—”

“Making the most of my fucking fifteen minutes. I have thirteen left, no?”

“But I thought you were in a hurry—”

He cuts you off, his grip tightening around you as he presses you harder into the surface. “Put your fucking hands on the mirror, Y/N, and lift up your dress. I’m fucking you.”

You don’t protest, because it’s his turn now. His turn to wreck you, to possess you, to scramble your mind until you’re nothing but a puddle beneath him. You place your hands on the mirror, feeling the cool glass beneath your palms. It contrasts sharply with Jaemin’s firm, heated grip on your hips and his fingers that are digging into your skin. 

Making the most of his seconds, Jaemin slams into you from behind, his cock driving deep inside your pussy, movements fast and urgent. You squirm, suddenly reminded of the fact that you're in his dressing room, just a few feet away from the backstage crew. Quickly, you pull one hand away from the mirror to cover your mouth and stifle the sounds he’s about to work out of you.

Jaemin fucks into you fast. It makes you breathless, the glass fogging up around your hand as he pounds and pounds. The rhythm is frantic, the strokes short and sharp. The sound of your bodies slapping together echoes through the room, filthy, wet smacks that are almost obscene.

The two of you have never had sex like this before—though you’re definitely not complaining. It’s messy. It’s rushed. It’s wild. And it feels so damn good. His hands are everywhere—gripping your breasts, your ass, your thighs through rustled fabric. His time may be counting down, but he still needs to touch every inch of you as he moves inside you. 

“Look at how well you take me, baby,” he breathes, his teeth grazing your ear, nipping at the lobe. “Look at how perfect we fit together. Made for each other, yeah?”

You nod eagerly, your breath hitching as you whisper, “Yes.”

“Exactly,” he groans, “So damn perfect for each other. You’re gonna make me cum again, baby.”

The mirror shows a distorted reflection of Jaemin's face, twisted in pure ecstasy. His eyes are shut, mouth parted in a silent scream as he fucks you relentlessly like an animal. You feel the sweat dripping down his face, the tension rippling through his body as he chases his release.

“Not yet,” you beg, “Please, Jaem, not yet. We have six more minutes.”

He doesn’t know why he can’t hold himself back now—he usually enjoys long, drawn-out sex. It’s his favourite. But everything feels too overwhelming, too good. You, here, on tour, with the clock ticking, the stakes, it all turns him on for no reason at all. But nothing—and he means nothing—gets him harder than the thought of pleasing you. 

So, he holds back, gritting his teeth as he fucks you raw, resisting the urge to be greedy. Lets himself soak in the feeling of your warm, wet walls pulling him in instead.

And damn, it’s worth it—always so damn worth it to watch you melt beneath him, needing him to hold you up as your body trembles. Your orgasm hits you hard, making your pussy clench around him desperately. Jaemin is only human, and he can’t hold on any longer, not with you pulsing around him. 

He groans with a final thrust of his own. “Fuck—”

Looks like you both can do a lot in fifteen minutes.

[f-misc]

(captain america: brave new world spoilers)

sambucky scene transcript!

----

On Sam, looking at Torres in the hospital, hearing footsteps come up behind him.

Sam: "It's a private room. Go away."

Bucky comes into view beside Sam.

Bucky: "Missed you too."

They look at each other. Bucky a soft smile. Sam looks away, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

Sam: "I hate to admit it...I'm glad you're here."

Sam looks back to Bucky and they both go in for a hug, Bucky closing his eyes in it. They part, stood side-by-side again.

Bucky: "You looked good out there on that 6 o'clock."

Sam shakes his head a bashful smile. Then sombre again.

Bucky: "But then I saw this."

Sam: "Doctors had to restart his heart. They don't know if..."

Sam closes his eyes.

Bucky: "This isn't your fault."

Sam: "It makes me think of Steve. How many alien invasions did he stop, again?"

Bucky: "Two."

Sam: "Two. Wow. What made me think I could follow that. I should have took the serum. Like Steve. Like you."

Bucky looking at Sam.

Bucky: "Why?"

Sam: "Because this is all starting to seem much bigger than me."

Sam turns to fully face Bucky.

Sam: "Ross, he asked me to restart the Avengers, Buck. But Joaquin's in here. Isaiah's in prison. And Sterns...I had him. I had Sterns. Right in my hands. And he got away. He damn near pushed us to the brink of war, because I wasn't—"

Sam emotionally cuts himself off.

Bucky: "Say what you need to say."

Sam looks down, then back to Bucky.

Sam: "Steve made a mistake."

Bucky: "No he didn't. He gave you that shield, not because you're the strongest, but because you're you. You think if you had that serum, you'd be able to protect all the people you care about. Steve had it, and he couldn't. You're a human being and you're doing your best. Steve gave people something to believe in, but you...you give them something to aspire to."

Sam squints at Bucky.

Sam: "Did your speech writers help you with that?"

Bucky: "They did, yeah, the ending, a little bit. Well, did you like it? Was it—?"

Sam: "No no, it was good. Solid...B plus."

Bucky: "Yeah. Emotional."

Sam: "Very. I felt it."

Bucky: "But just enough."

Sam: "Yeah."

Bucky: "Listen, I've gotta...catch a plane. I have a campaign fundraiser. It's so stupid."

They look over Torres, smiling. Bucky looks at Sam.

Bucky: "He's gonna be all right, man."

Sam looks at Bucky, shakes Bucky's hand.

Sam: "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky: "I love you, buddy."

Bucky cuffs Sam's arm and leaves; Sam nods, looking after him.

[sugusama]

hii, i loved your Katsuki fic and wanted to submit a request. katsuki x american gf reader, where he’s never met her but they try to talk throughout the day by texting or calling despite time difference. then they meet at the end of the fic as a surprise for katsuki (still UA au please). tyy :)

꒰🫧꒱﹒ 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ﹒⟢ featuring: katsuki bakugo ‧₊˚ . ꣑୧

sypnosis ☆ bakugo never expected to fall for a girl halfway across the world… especially one with a six-hour time difference and a laugh that lives in his head rent-free. between classes at ua and her busy days in america, they text, call, and fall a little deeper with every message. but what happens when time zones and screens aren’t enough anymore? ⸝⸝ ᰔ ̫ ᰔ⸝⸝

content warnings ☆ fluff, comfort, a little angsty, ua based, black female reader, she/her used, lowercase intended, not proofread, bakugo has broken english, italics = japanese ๑•́ ₃ •̀๑

word count ☆ 1.1k

authors note ☆ hello hello! thank u so much for ur kindness 🌼 here you go! i hope you like this one just as much! if u would like anything else let me know!!

katsuki didn’t want to be part of any dumb online chat.

he hated talking for no reason. hated random people. especially hated wasting time when he could be training or doing something that mattered.

so when denki shoved his phone in his face during break and said, “bro, you gotta try this,” katsuki’s immediate response was no.

“it’s a server,” denki explained, grinning. “for, like, international hero fans. some of them are trying to get into schools like u.a. and they ask the weirdest shit.”

“not my problem.”

“c’mon. you can mess with them. they’ll lose their minds when you answer.”

“fuck off.”

but that night, katsuki couldn’t sleep. his shoulders ached from drills. his head was too loud with thoughts he didn’t want to think. and his phone, tucked under his pillow, kept buzzing with notifications from that stupid server denki added him to.

he stared at the screen for a while. thumb hovering over the app. then—he opened it.

a flood of posts. some boring. some weird. some flat-out wrong.

and then one message caught his eye.

|“so like… do students at u.a. really spar? like actually hit each other?”

the username was unfamiliar. your profile picture was a blurry sky—probably taken from your phone. and your bio just said “sleepy. always.”

he stared at your message longer than he meant to as he tried to decipher it.

then typed, slowly:

|“yes. we fight. real hits.”

a full six minutes passed.

he didn’t think you’d respond.

but you did.

|“wait WHAT. like actually?? is that even allowed???”

he snorted, eyes narrowing with a half-smile.

| “yes. is real. allowed. strong hits.”

your response came quicker this time.

| “dude! i’m american. our schools make us wear helmets to run in gym class. this is unfair.”

he let out something close to a laugh—just a small huff of breath—but it surprised him.

he didn’t answer. didn’t need to.

he already bookmarked your name.

he didn’t expect to hear from you again.

but the next night, just after dinner and before study hour, you were there.

| “hi again, explosion boy. (you got a better name?)”

he stared at the screen for a second before replying:

| “bakugo.”

| “ooh. that sounds cool. you sound cool. are you?”

he hesitated, then typed:

| “yes.”

you sent back the laughing emoji. then:

| “humble too.”

he didn’t know why it made his chest feel tight.

from there, it became… a thing.

late-night messages. voice notes. pictures.

you sent him one of your lunch—a sandwich and chips, nothing fancy—but you added,

| “i ate thinking of you. does that make me weird?”

he didn’t answer for a full hour.

then wrote:

| “no. i like that.”

you replied with a blushing emoji.

he stared at it too long.

he never liked phone calls. they were too much. too close.

but your voice was—soft. kind. playful in a way that made his chest ache.

your first voice note was just:

“hi. it’s weird hearing myself talk to you, but i wanted you to know what i sound like.”

and he listened to it.

three times.

the first time just to hear your tone. the second to understand every word. the third because… he missed it, even if it had only been a minute long.

his reply was rough. hesitant.

“hi. uh. i… don’t like talk. much. but… i like yours. voice.”

you sent back:

| “that was the sweetest thing ever, actually.”

after that, you started calling.

not every day. not long.

just enough.

he’d lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling, half-listening to your rambles about work and siblings and the weather. he didn’t talk much. didn’t know how to say all the things he was feeling in a language that always made his tongue trip.

but you didn’t mind.

you’d say, “you don’t have to talk. just stay on.”

so he did.

it happened slow.

your voice became part of his routine.

your good morning texts came while he was getting ready for class. your “i’m heading to bed, katsuki” messages always landed when he was on patrol.

you started sending pictures of things you loved. a book. your porch light. a sunset from your window.

he started sending them back.

once, he sent you a picture of his hand after training—bandaged, calloused, rough. and you wrote:

| “ i hope you rest, even when you think you don’t need it.”

and that line just… stayed.

for days.

he reread it during class. during silence. during nights when his head was too full and nothing felt steady.

he didn’t say he missed you.

but he did.

quietly. constantly.

time difference was cruel.

he hated that you were waking up when he was falling asleep.

he hated how sometimes he’d send a long message and forget what he wrote by the time you answered.

he hated how his chest twisted when he saw your name and couldn’t respond.

but you always made it easy.

“ i know you’re tired. you don’t have to talk. i just wanted to say i’m thinking of you… i’m still here. still cheering for you. always.”

you made it feel like you were closer than you were.

and yet, the space between you ached more with every week.

he didn’t notice when he fell.

not until kirishima asked him why he was smiling at his phone.

not until his chest ached when you didn’t text.

not until he caught himself learning english phrases just to tell you things the right way.

he didn’t tell anyone.

not even you.

but he sent you a voice note at midnight, after a long day, voice hoarse and quiet:

“i… i like talk to you. always. i wait for you. even when late. just so you know.”

you didn’t reply with a voice note.

you replied with a text:

| “me too, katsuki. every day.”

he didn’t sleep that night.

it came suddenly, the text message read:

| “if i ever came to japan… would you wanna meet me?”

he sat up in bed like he’d been punched.

heart pounding.

he typed.

deleted.

typed again.

finally, he sent:

| “yes. i want. i wait for you.”

and then he waited.

one hour.

then two.

you didn’t reply that night.

and he told himself it was okay.

even if it wasn’t.

two weeks.

that’s how long it took.

two weeks of silence. of almost texting you. of wondering if he’d said something wrong.

then—midnight.

his phone buzzed.

| “come outside kats <3 ”

his hands shook.

he ran.

didn’t care who saw. didn’t care that he was barefoot.

and there you were.

standing at the gate. hoodie on. suitcase by your side. scarf he mailed you wrapped around your neck.

you smiled.

“hey.”

he didn’t say anything. just stared.

you stepped forward. nervous.

“you’re taller than i thought,” you teased.

he swallowed hard. voice rough.

“you’re… real.”

you laughed. tears in your eyes.

“told you i’d come.”

the aching, the quiet missing, the longing—

and then he held you.

and everything he’d been holding in— spilled into the way he buried his face in your neck and breathed like he could finally exhale.