#the secret strength of things

[etudiantfantome]

breakfast before heading to the fields

[astronnova]

"the ghost haunting my house is just really hungry" -dash

[kaiserin-erzsebet]

I'm rather late to the Buffy revival (reboot?) news.

But I swear there was a show that had a very poignant theme about not resurrecting someone (or something) that had a meaningful death on their own terms just because you want it back. Maybe even a major character having an arc about such things.

Huh, if only I could remember what show that was.

[purplecelestial-buddy]

aight the people want to know

what are your top kagihira moments

There's so many but also when I read this my mind went blank

I wanted to re read everything so I could give a proper ranking but college won't let me so from the top of my mind:

1. The whole ending of the "gotta get great grades to keep being roomies arc" I know we all love Hirano's dissapointment when Kagi did nothing but everything about their relief and them laughing in the floor of their room, their space, the shared home they fought to keep is so precious

2. The entirety of chapter 24 ngl

Hirano's shinning smile

Him noticing Kagi's discomfort and discussing it with him

Everything

3. The time Hirano decided to use the 10 secs, establishing the rule that he has 10 secs too

4. The infirmary hug where he's clearly (I got a post on that one)

Special mention to:

Anytime Hirano simply looks bright and Kagi looks awestruck

Anything that leads to Hirano blushing furiously

Anytime Hirano looks so fulfilled and satisfied with himself whenever he can do something for Kagi

Their shoujo like moments (if this was any other manga there would be a ton of roses and sakura petals in these panels)

And whatever this is:

[tenacious-minds]

I hate when I’m in the mood for something very specific in which searching tags is basically useless.

[authorofemotion]

my sister was reading off a list of ingredients, stumbled over the word niacinamide, and my dad was like “when I see a list of ingredients like that, I don’t get that product”

[etudiantfantome]

saying hi to the trees

[90494]

@svetlania mr. roi and daemon have a fun dynamic… yapping in tags

[booksandmore]

every time i hear someone say camilla was the only charter they liked i lose my mind BECAUSE THATS NOT CAMILLA THAT WHO RICHARD WISHED SHE WAS WE NEVER!! KNEW!! CAMILLA!!

[bdslab]

[sproutedlavender]

[itadori-san]

no because u can see ukai and takeda just see the karasuno boys as . kids.

[seumyo]

a softie for sentimentality, bakugou katsuki.

Bakugou wears a bracelet. You’ve known about it for as long as you could remember, but only decided to acknowledge it now that you’re in your third year at UA, two weeks before graduation.

It wasn’t flashy or adorned with any kind of logo—just a simple, sturdy piece of metal with a stainless clasp that he seemed to wear all the time. You tilted your head as you studied it.

“You’ve had that bracelet for as long as I can remember,” you said, sitting down on his study chair. It’s a privilege to even set foot inside of his room without immediately being told (yelled) off, really.

Bakugou looked up from his book and glanced at you. “Yeah, and?”

“Is there, like, a story behind it?”

“No story,” he said with a shrug, but you weren’t entirely convinced.

“Really? That’s so bland. I thought there’d be like a gut-wrenching or life-changing story for it.”

He sat up from his bed with a huff, his eyes narrowing at you. “It’s just somethin’ I wear. What’s it to you?”

You raised your hands in mock surrender, a playful smile on your lips. “Alright, Mr. Mysterious. Keep your secrets.”

“Fuck off, dipshit.”

“Again with that! Why can’t you be nicer now that we’re graduating?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

-

But the conversation stuck to you.

It’s the day of graduation when you presented him with a small, handmade box. It was simple, made of sturdy cardboard decorated with his signature colors and an orange ribbon to match. Bakugou rose a brow.

“What’s this for?” He asks, holding it up like the box might explode at any given moment, though there was no bite to it.

“A box.”

“No shit,” he scoffs, “what’s in it?”

“Open it to find out!” You egged him on.

Bakugou sighs, opening the box with a focused pout. He went quiet when he saw what was inside.

“Ta-da! A bracelet,” you said, smiling. “For you. Thought you could use something new to switch things up.”

He held the stringed bracelet in his hand, looking at the material as if it would erupt in flames if he glared hard enough. It was a stark contrast to his metal one—brightly colored warm complementary beads with little charms that somehow still managed to feel like him. There was a red charm shaped like an explosion, a black bead with a skull design, and a small silver charm with an engraved kanji for “strength.”

“I’m not wearing this,” he said flatly.

It’s like your cartoonish heart balloon had suddenly been popped with a prickly needle.

“What? Why not? It’s cool!” you argued. “I even made it myself to really match you!”

“It’s not my style.”

“Sure it is. Look, it’s got black, silver, and even a little red—it screams Bakugou Katsuki.”

“I didn’t get you anythin’ as a parting gift,” he tells you.

“Don’t worry about it! It’s fine,” you replied, waving your hand in dismissal. “Just thought this’ll go with your metal bracelet.”

He nodded, though there was a somewhat frustrated pout on his expression, muttering something under his breath a soft “thanks,” and placed the gift back in the box, never actually letting you see him wearing it during that moment.

-

Years later, during a photoshoot for the yearly hero gala, Bakugou stood in front of the camera in his full Dynamight suit. The photographer adjusted the lights, snapping rapid shots as Bakugou struck his signature confident poses.

“Hold still,” the stylist said, adjusting his gauntlet slightly. Her eyes flicked to his wrist, and she paused. “Oh, that’s cute. Is that handmade?”

Bakugou blinked, following her gaze. Wrapped around his wrist, right next to his ever-present metal bracelet, was the colorful string bracelet you had made him all those years ago.

He stiffened slightly, but instead of taking it off, he shrugged. “Yeah. What about it?”

The stylist smiled warmly. “It’s a nice touch. Makes you seem... approachable. And quite frankly, it matches your suit.”

Bakugou snorted. “Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

-

When the photos surfaced online, fans quickly noticed the bracelet. Social media practically exploded that day.

Is Dynamight wearing a friendship bracelet??

A HANDMADE BRACELET ON DYNAMIGHT??

Guys, he’s worn this thing for YEARS. Check the old pictures! 🙂‍↔️

You, of course, caught wind of the news—because honestly, who wouldn’t when it took all social media platforms by storm? You saw the posts one evening while scrolling through your phone. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the photos. It was unmistakable—the bracelet you had made all those years ago.

Long after your UA days were behind you and your lives had taken you and Bakugou down different paths, the all-too-familiar bracelet made you smile sadly—more nostalgic happiness than actual sadness, really.

You stared at the screen, sighing quietly. You thought back to the last time you’d spoken, to the unspoken decision that had pulled you in different directions. You never thought something as small as a bracelet would still mean anything to him.

You didn’t even think you’d live to see the day he wears it, much less keep it after the years.

But there it was, bright and unapologetic on his wrist, a subtle reminder of a bond that hadn’t completely faded with time.

Somewhere across the city, Bakugou stood on a rooftop, the evening wind tugging at his hero uniform. He glanced down at the bracelet on his wrist, running his thumb over the frayed edges of the string. He smirked to himself, a quiet acknowledgment of the past and the person who’d given it to him.

“Guess you were right,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. “It does scream Bakugou Katsuki.”

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[itsoutrageouss]

more on the dynamic after Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley saw you cry for the first time…

Things were in fact different from now on. Not in an obvious way but you both noticed it. You had been embarrassed the next day, scared he saw you as weak for crying in his arms like that.

And now his eyes softened a little more every time he looked at you. He remembered how precious and frail you had felt in his hold. He longed for it in a way that made him practice his punching until late in the night, grunting and groaning as the dummy got the best of his strength. His knuckles were bruised, a manifestation of the foreign feelings he tried to let out in the only way he knew- violence.

You were up, snuggly sitting with a mug of tea when Simon comes in, doors swinging open. It was late. Late enough for the owls to hoot and the moon to be at its highest.

He was panting, sweat glistening on the strained muscles of his arms. He stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted you in the corner of the recreational area. You blinked at him, studying his demeanour with intrigue.

It made him shy. He got fucking shy from the way you stared so shamelessly and intensely. He hadn’t noticed it before. The way your eyes lingered on his arms. Maybe it was new thing, or maybe he hadn’t taken the time you really look before now.

“You’re up late.” You whispered, voice small in the silence. His chest heaved as he stretched his fingers, rolled his neck.

“So are you.” He countered. There was a question in both of your statements but none of you decided to answer. Maybe you were awake for the same reasons, he thought. The mere thought was enough for his legs to move towards you, the couch dipping and creaking as it took his weight. You lodt your balance where you sat with your knees tucked to your chest as the seat tilted under you, making you thud into his side, shoulder to shoulder. He snickered under his breath, grabbing you like you were a porcelain doll to help you sit upright. Your mouth dried.

“Do you think I’m weak?” You asked him then, the words bubbling your throat before you could stop them. They had simmered for a whole week now, just under your skin. He frowned, brows set deep on his face as he looked you over.

“Quite the opposite” came his gruff reply like it was obvious. It took him a second to realise what you were referring to. Seeing you cry had made him think so much more of you than before. He saw the insecurity flash in your eyes before you looked away and he tucked a finger under your chin, slowly pulling your gaze back to his.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about it, in fact” he said, confessed it like secret into the night. He tried to keep his voice steady. At least steadier than his heart. Was he sick? Was it weird for him to be so obsessed with that one moment of you… crying?

You exhaled sharply, like his words had squeezed your lungs. Gaze narrowed, head tilted, you tried to figure him out. There was nothing but honesty and a little wariness in his eyes. Had he said too much?

“Me neither.” You replied slowly. It was enough. Enough to know. A cold blow of relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He only now realised he still had a finger under your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw absentmindedly. He withdrew his hand, regretfully.

If he was sick, then so were you.

“You’re hurt” you whispered, staring down at his knuckles. They were bleeding. Your eyes snapped to his, slightly wider than before as his jaw ticked, gaze otherwise unreadable. Was it because of you? The thought made your stomach twist in.. several ways.

“It’s fine.” He insisted, brushing it off and hiding his hands in his pockets. But you were already up, disappearing somewhere. He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. This wasn’t calming down his breathing one bit.

Warm fingers gently pulled on his wrist, and you felt how heavy his hand was as you pulled it into you lap, sitting cross legged next to him. He had to focus hard to remain indifferent when his hand rested high on you’re plush thigh. His fingers flexed slightly around it, gripping it with a bit more purpose than necessary. It made you struggle to open the sanitising wipes.

He hissed as you cleaned the wounds, but the care you put into it had his heart stuttering. You looked down at his knuckles, immersed in being meticulous as you wiped the valleys of his knuckles clean. He wasn’t looking down, though. He was looking at you.

“Take this as a thank you” you said just to break the silence before you slowly lifted one hand, almost like you were holding. Fuck it made it easy for him to imagine that you actually were.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’d do it again.” I want to do it again, he should’ve said. He wanted to hold you, and be the one you curled into when you needed it. Needed him.

Carefully you wrapped his knuckles. Your hand lingered around his afterwards. It looked like you were considering something. Slowly you led his hand higher until you lowered your chin and left a barely there kiss on the white bandage. He swore he died. Such a simple gesture and he felt like a madman.

You wrapped the other one. Did the same. He felt paralysed. It seemed you had understood him quite well.

“You can.” You said then, after placing both his hands down onto his own lap, now bandaged and cleaned.

“Can what?” He asked, voice hoarse and weaker than he would’ve liked as he curled his fingers. He swore it was tingling where your lips had touched.

“Hold me. Skin to skin contact can be calming. Mutually beneficial…” you said to try and reason the action, which there was no point in because the minute you had started your sentence he had wrapped his arm around you and tucked you closely into his side, using his other hand to swing your legs over his lap. Your mumbling became nothing as you nuzzled into him. He was scorching hot and you nuzzled into it, shivering.

He had never felt this good in his life. You seemed to fit perfectly into his side, your legs anchoring him down and your head resting over his rapidly beating heart- which was vulnerable as hell to him. But he allowed it when he heard you hum in satisfaction and saw your lashes flutter, eyes closing.

Just mutually beneficial cuddling, right?

series masterlist

[etudiantfantome]

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 4 Scene 1

[shotmrmiller]

there are two modes to simon. handsy and handsy.

handsy is the gentle hold he has on your wrist when you're watching a movie on the couch, his thumb brushing your knuckles, tracing ever bump and curve. it's a cozy arm thrown over your waist, weighty enough to leave your side sore after, with his leg slid between yours while he snores into your ear after a long day's work. the hand on your knee under the table while eating breakfast, lightly squeezing when you ask him if he wants more.

and then there's handsy. his grip tight around the soft of your waist, fingers creating little divots into your flesh as he tries to slow the pace you've set, feeling his climax too close too soon. it's how he fists your hair and maneuvers your head to the side without much effort while you're on your stomach, the light prick on your scalp only adding to the pleasure, as he mutters into your ear if you can give him another one. (guess you'll die, then.)

how he paws at your arse when he's got you on your knees with your face dug into a pillow as he pistons his hips, the occasional slap of his balls onto your clit making your ears ring and calves tense almost painfully, until he pulls you up, his chest and your back slick with sweat and you come with his one hand around your throat and the other jerking little circles on your stiffened pearl.

the two touches are so different from each other, one a tender thing as if he's afraid to hurt you and the other wanting to hurt, but a different kind of ache, the one he will always soothe with his fingers, mouth and cock.

(call him a triple threat.)

whether you like it or not, you've been conditioned. soft and gentle means affection and care, similar to him bussing the side of your head every morning before work while rough and firm means you're about to be ploughed until you're left to soak in a bath to recover from the onslaught.

and you'd been prepared to take this secret to the grave, to not tell a soul how he'd pulled you out of a pool with enough strength to feel your rear shoulder sting and you'd just about moaned in broad daylight. or how he'd moved you out of soap's trajectory during the first meet by the wrist and if you hadn't been wearing a jumper, your peaked nipples would've been visible to anyone.

but naturally, things never go your way. he'd found out in no time and now he uses that knowledge to his advantage. a quick sneaky fuck in price's bathroom during a barbecue starts with a vicious tug of your arm. getting ate out in the back alley of a pub: giving your thigh a squeeze so tight it could bruise while you sip on the swill you call beer.

and every single time he's pulling your pants down or flipping your skirt up, you're already dripping with want.

now to get him to stop manhandling you like that when the 141 are around.

(soap's left like a deer in headlights after he forcibly sat your tipsy arse down next to him because "LT said to keep 'n eye on ye," and a moan had slipped past your lips unbidden and now the girls boys are fighting someone help)