#this is a weird Drabble?

[seumyo]

pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

-

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

-

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

-

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

-

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

-

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

-

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

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

[tartppola]

deucey & yuu, earlier into their friendship, takes place after book 2, before book 3, early in the school year there were people who didn't take kindly to the prefect entering nrc

slightly related comic

[omitea]

suggestive content .ᐟ

ⵌ best friend! satoru who lives off the adrenaline that pumps through his veins from the look you send his way when he teases you. the way your brows furrow in frustration, all the while biting your lip to suppress all the words you want to throw at him. he gets on your nerves.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who despite being a greedy little fuck, loves to share his sweets with you— but not without demanding you to get him something in return. and of course his heart almost leaps in his throat when you harshly shove a small bag containing his favorite kikufuku against his broad chest. he almost swore he heard wedding bells in the distance.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who helps you with your outfits most of the time. always the one to be honest, whether if it makes him lose his appetite (always so dramatic) or if it fits your body perfectly. and you can’t remember a time where he didn’t make you feel beautiful. his slender fingers hesitantly ghosting over your waist before pulling back as he smiles so sweetly.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who insists he doesn’t like you like that, but yet can’t help but feel jealous when he sees some random guy talking to you. he feels like he should do something and as he gets ready to approach, he sees you typing something on that guy’s phone. that’s when he feels his chest cave in for the first time. fuck, he does like you.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who avoids you for a week straight instead of building up the courage to talk to you. his long legs carrying him away the moment he even senses an ounce of your presence. he hates it. he hates the way you make him feel, hates the way you’re going on with your day and absolutely hates that guy that caused all of this.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who is surprised when you show up at his door, yelling at him frustratedly while making your way in his ridiculously big apartment. after listening to you, he finally manages to open up about the thoughts and feelings that’s been troubling him. he feels his heart shattering in pieces from the look of disbelief on your face, but they quickly heal back together when he feels your soft lips against his.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who cries when he feels you so warmly wrapped around him for the first time. fists clenching, not knowing where he should place his hands as your hips roll dangerously slow. soft hands wipe away at his tears; the same tears that are making it hard to see your face contorting in delicious pleasure.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who must be looking like a fool for crying, but you feel so good— you make him feel so good. your saliva covered lips swallow his shaky moans, along with the occasional whines that escape his throat the more he feels himself getting closer. and oh, how he couldn’t care less when he sniffed out a pathetic, “please, marry me,” the second he felt something snap.

ⵌ best friend! satoru who feels silly when you kiss him tiredly and tell him that you didn’t give away your phone number that day, but actually helped the stranger with his google maps. he wants to wipe that stupid smile off of your pretty face. so, he does. grabbing your face with trembling hands as he begins to kiss you softly. yeah, he’s a fool who’s definitely madly in love and weak for you.

©𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐀 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟����𝐢𝐧𝐠 & 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 !

[swtheartz]

being mark’s neighbor and neither of you talk, just little waves and friendly greetings whenever you bump into each other. he can tell from some occasions when you leave your window open or talk too loud after he got his powers you’re as much of a nerd as he is.

he goes a little insane when he sees you going to a hero con in a skin tight cosplay and has to rush to get into his suit and make a special appearance just to see you there

he’s a fucking LOSER but you’re a bigger one and out freak him

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

MORE WEIRD NEGLECTED BLACK!READER HEAD CANNONS FROM YOUR GREAT ONE (me)

Weird Neglected black!reader has like hundreds to thousands of edits of them on TikTok, and they could be doing the most mundane things known to man, going to the store in the most atrocious fit ever seen in public. The next thing you know, there's an edit of you to an Ayesha Erotica song. You could be wearing your Sunday best to a gala, and you could just wave at the camera with a small smile. The entry of Gotham is at your feet, like someone filmed you at a soccer match, and you pulled up your shirt to wipe the sweat off your forehead. Everyone in the stands got to see your body; that video was edited to death. You can't even search up your name without that picture popping up.

Weird neglected black!reader Who writes the most ferocious, down-bad, smuttiest fanfic of Conner, when you used to have a super big crush on him (before the two of you started dating, of course). Conner asked to see your phone because his was dead. Without any thought, he went to your Google to search something up, and then he saw multiple AO3 tabs. He found the fanfic you wrote like years ago. That Kryptonian boy blushing from cheek to ear. He didn't know you got down like that, and he would have a lot of questions you would not be willing to answer.

Weird neglected black!reader Who’s low-key taller than half of the Batfam No joke, like that growth spurt hit hard. I mean, the boys always saw you as someone smaller than them; your hand couldn't even fit around Dick's when you were younger. But now you're at this man's shoulder, and you're starting to low-key tower over him. Tim tries to introduce you as his younger sibling, and the whole Young Justice team is like, “Are you sure you're not the younger sibling, dude?" Because you're like basketball-type of tall. It's hard for your big brothers to say they're the big brother when they have to look up at you to talk to you or when you have to bend your knees.

Weird neglected black!reader Who will listen to songs from entirely different countries and a whole other language but will be fluent in that exact song Like you're singing to Stray Kids, but you have no clue what the hell they're saying, and you never spoke Korean before. I mean, you didn't even pass your Duolingo class about it! You're going crazy singing to Stance Punks (a Japanese band that made the ending song for Soul Eater), and all of a sudden, you're fluent in Japanese. Do you know what the words mean? Hell no! But is it a bop? Hell yes!

Weird Neglected black!reader Who is the low-key scene as that cool older sibling, even though they're one of the youngest The Young Justice Crew can come over, with the reader entirely enamored and wanting to hang out with them instead of Tim. You like to think that you're not that interesting, but to them, you're cool as hell—annoying cheat codes to almost every game, able to destroy him at King of Fighters when literally nobody can. And it's even worse when Jon comes around, the cutest puppy crush on you, while Damian is screaming for him to get away from you.

[moomuzan]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Add Up My Love

or ( hyper- ) specific romance imagines with dazai, chuuya, ranpo, akutagawa, fyodor

You had never seen Dazai so quiet. The late evening light painted the room in shades of amber, casting a golden halo around him as he sat at his desk, pen gliding smoothly over paper. His expression was unguarded, almost vulnerable, lips moving faintly as though he were whispering the words he was writing to the empty air. There was a stillness to him, an absence of his usual dramatics, that made you pause in the doorway, hesitant to disturb the rare peace. But curiosity, that insistent pull, eventually dragged you closer. “Dazai?” you called softly.

His hand stilled mid-word, shoulders stiffening as if caught in a secret. Slowly, he turned to face you, his usual grin making an appearance, but it lacked its usual spark. “Ah, bella,” he drawled lightly, “what impeccable timing. Caught me in the middle of my dull, bureaucratic duties.” But your eyes had already fallen to the letter on the desk, its ink still glistening, the words “To my dearest, whenever you find this,” staring back at you. As your chest tightened, and realization dawned, you reached for the paper. Surprisingly, he didn’t stop you, only sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “Just leaving something behind,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “For you. In case there’s ever a day I can’t say these things myself.”

dt siyun xo

Chuuya’s boots echoed through the hallway as he entered your apartment, his gaze immediately snapping to you, barely standing on your own. As you swayed slightly, the wine still clouding your mind, his expression darkened. “You’re a mess,” he grumbled, his voice sharp but laced with something that wasn’t quite anger. Without waiting for you to respond, he was already at your side, his hand steadying your waist with surprising firmness, his other arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the bathroom. “C’mon, you’re not going to bed like this.”

You mumbled something incoherent, but he paid it no mind, already pulling a chair out in front of the mirror and gently sitting you down. His movements were surprisingly tender as he grabbed the makeup remover. There was no hurry in his hands as he carefully pressed the cotton pad to your skin, wiping away the smeared mascara with an attention to detail that caught you off guard. His eyes, though gruff, softened as they traced your face, erasing the evidence of your night out. “Can’t believe you let yourself get this bad,” he murmured, though there was no real bite behind the words. When Chuuya moved to your hair, his fingers slid through your tangles, gentle but insistent, working through each knot with a patience that felt almost reverent. “Don’t move.” With a touch softer than you had ever expected from him, he brushed your hair with careful strokes. “I’m staying with you until you have sobered up.”

Akutagawa lingered at the edge of the room, watching you with a quiet intensity. The dim glow of the streetlights outside bathed your form in a soft halo, your chest rising and falling in a gentle, almost hypnotic rhythm. Replaced by an unfamiliar stillness as he observed the delicate vulnerability you wore in your sleep, the cold edges of his usual demeanor melted away. Every line of tension in his body seemed to ease, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the world felt distant. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened as they traced the curve of your face, the way your hair fell carelessly around you. He found himself held captive by the simplicity of the moment, as if your presence alone grounded him.

You shifted in your sleep, muttering something barely audible, and Akutagawa froze. The sound of your voice, though muffled by sleep, stirred something deep inside him—a pull he couldn’t resist. His heart thudded a little louder, and before he could stop himself, a quiet, gruff sound slipped from his lips. “Tch, idiot,” he murmured, his tone betraying an uncharacteristic tenderness. He quickly turned away, a faint flush rising to his cheeks, his pulse quickening in a way that both startled and unsettled him. Gripping the doorframe to steady himself, as if the weight of this strange emotion might overwhelm him, he retreated into the shadows while his mind raced with feelings tangled into something more profound than he’d ever expected.

Dim lights of the room flickered as soft piano notes drifted through the air, barely audible, as if the music itself were hesitant to interrupt the silence between you. Fyodor stood before you, his presence commanding, even in the stillness. His hands hovered near your waist, their tension palpable, a silent request for you to take control. There was no impatience in his gaze, only a quiet insistence, a rare vulnerability from the man who always held everything so tightly. His eyes, dark and unreadable, bore into yours, waiting—no words, just a soft, unspoken command that he would follow you, if only you dared. A test? Yeah, definitely.

As you took the first step, his hand settled against your back, fingers brushing against the fabric of your clothes with surprising tenderness. The faintest tremor of control still lingered in his touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let you lead with quiet confidence, as if testing the limits of his restraint. The stillness between your movements was thrilling, charged with an electricity neither of you dared to acknowledge. Steady yet barely noticeable, his breath became the only sound that mattered to you as you swayed together, the dance becoming something far more intimate, a shared language only the two of you understood. Although the tension in his body was almost imperceptible,you felt it—his willingness to surrender, if only for this moment.

The quiet morning wrapping you in a serene haze, you woke up slowly, but it was the weight of Ranpo’s arm around you that pulled you fully from sleep. Though, the moment he felt your gentle movements under his touch, he instinctively drew you closer, his form curling tighter against yours as though the intimacy was a need he couldn’t deny. Completely unaware of how tightly he was holding you, his lips buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady. He was deep in sleep, yet his grip continued to tighten, as though afraid of losing the radiating warmth of your presence. His legs were tangled with yours, and his hand rested possessively but gently on your waist, each little movement of his body a subconscious plea to stay as close as possible.

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he clung to you, his face peaceful and unaware of the vulnerability he was showing. It was a side of him you rarely saw—the brilliant, always composed detective reduced to nothing more than a boy seeking comfort in the quiet security of your arms. Even if he didn’t realize it, his soft sighs and the faint tugging at your shirt as he shifted closer made your heart swell. Before giving it much thought, you gently brushed his hair back, savoring the stillness, content to let him rest. For now, you simply stayed still, lost in the intimacy of that moment—where Ranpo, so often the one with all the answers, was nothing more than a quietly clinging soul seeking warmth.

dt dorothea

a/n: oh alright, need me a chuuya to brush my hair. can yall see the vision? it’s a physical need atp.

xoxo

[snootlestheangel]

*giggling*

The 141, with help of Nik and a couple friends, are tracking an Anarchist group in the UK. There's been some evidence that they plan on doing something big (and possibly dumb) and that they've gotten their hands on some big weapons.

Theyre just scouting out the base of operations of these guys, just gathering intel.

Price points out one particular guy: big, beefy blonde guy with a thick Scottish accent and very punk grunge aesthetic.

"Must be the ringleader" the captain says and it seems to be true. Everyone watches this guy with curiosity when Soap gasps lightly

"No fucking way" Soap says

"What?"

"He's my fucking ex" Soap replies, shocked and a bit embarrassed in all honesty.

Now I'm just picturing all of them turning to give Soap A Look

Gaz just shakes his head and goes "you have incredibly questionable taste in men"

To which Nik asks Ghost "not offended?"

Ghost: "I've learned the truth hurts sometimes."

[323cutie]

4:44 am. | jeong yunho

fluff. 500 words.

a/n heyyyy I miss yunho so fucking bad

You wake up almost immediately.

The touch is familiar, known. Hands gently rubbing your shoulders, a soft nuzzle into your cheek. Instantaneous. Yunho is home, reigniting your body with consciousness. You think you’d be able to tell it was him by the sound of his footsteps, the pattern of his little snaps when he walks into the room.

You make a noise somewhere between a grunt and a yawn morphed by the smile you can’t hold back, turning around to at least pretend you don’t know who’s waking you up this late at night (or maybe early in the morning?).

In the low light coming through the cracks in your blinds and the soft blue glow from your nightlight in the corner, Yunho looks beautiful. Soft, and tired, and yours to finally hold again. His hair is messy and you recognize the hoodie he’s wearing as one he’s had forever, complete with a dot of the pomegranate juice you accidentally stained it with a few years ago. He smiles when he sees you’re awake, eyes so round and full of fondness it makes you want to cry.

“I’m home,” he whispers in the dark, and your hands trace up his arms until you’re pulling him close down to you, burying a hand in his hair and sighing at the weight of him, at the feeling of his arms circling around you.

“Welcome back,” you answer back, letting him maneuver the two of you in bed until he's on his back for you to lay on top of him. You catch sight of the digital clock on your nightstand – nearing five in the morning. Yunho opens his arms for you and you practically dive in, listening to the timber of his chuckle through his chest. “Came straight from the airport?”

Your voice is muffled by his shoulder, but he understands just fine. One of his hands rubs at your back while the other plays with your hair. “Yeah, had the manager drop me off,” he murmurs, lifting your head up so he can hold your face in his hands. “I missed you so much, honey.”

It makes you melt. You missed him too, so terribly, the kind of thing that settles in your bones and can’t be helped. “Me too,” you say, letting him look at you while you do the same. It’s all you can say short of pouring your heart out for him. Undying devotion, care stretched so wide it takes up your entire body. Vanilla candles and matching rings and the first day of spring. I miss you, I love you, forever. You hope he understands.

His eyes are full of stars. You think he knows.

You lean forward and press the softest kiss to his lips. He reciprocates immediately, like always, just happy to feel you against him. He practically melts in your hold, sighing like your kiss lifts all of his worries. It’s innocent, and sweet – you’ll have more time for the heavy stuff later.

For now, Yunho’s home. And you love him.

[captainswhore]

you see price sitting like this when you walk into a room post mission- and you know exactly what it is he needs.

he's licking at you and holding your thighs open with his rough palms- and you can't take it. his calluses and his beard and the fabric of his sleeves are rubbing at your legs just right- but not enough for you to lose focus on his hot tongue rubbing on you and in you and you've never been wetter in your LIFE.

his only problem? you're still moving too much. he can't reach where he wants to inside of you because you keep wiggling out of his way. his hands want to touch you everywhere- not just hold your thighs still. this is when he begins to squeeze at you everywhere, and tell you to rest your thighs on his shoulders.

"b-but price- hhnngh ohmygod- i c-can't. they're too big. thighs are too big"

you whine at the loss of contact, but then you look down and see him staring at you with massive pupils and a wet face. "lovie- my shoulders are broad for a reason. rest your thighs on em and i swear they'll have enough room"

and you listen, and you're crushing his ears with your thighs, and he's never been happier. the next time you look down? he's rutting into the mattress and you see his hips stutter when he groans into you and your vision goes white

(@chamomiletealeaf and i had SUCH A HORNY discussion about this and she told me to post it so here i am- and also omg photo creds to her. we've gotta reign it in lmfao)

[ronnykins-needshelp]

i read an unusual amount of social media fis for 3 am but hey cumplane idea:

Whenever shen yuan goes on his rants either in the comments or in forum post or hey even twitter! Shang Qinghua pulls the imfamous " You want to fuck me so bad bro it makes you look stupid " and when Shen yuan rants personally to him he doesnt respond,

and he responds with the same thing in almost every single one of Cucumbers posts.

the fandom becomes WILD.

speculation over the whole ordeal leads to shippers, which leads the the creation of the ship name " cumplane ", which leads the discord servers and forums specifically for the ship, which leads to RPF, which leads to fujoshis/fudanshis coming in to discuss the whole orodeal aswell, making PIDW even more famous.

Shen yuan unforutently founds out about this fandom a couple months after it blew up, [ entirely his fault, he ignored the shippers and called them trolls.

after he makes publiic posts fuming over this ship

" Guys first of all IM NOT GAY, I'm STRAIGHT. even IF I were gay I ould never GET GAY with the hack author who writes like a 2nd grader!! "

Peerless cucumber anlylists [ which there is a few of them ], dissect the post and called it " being delusion to himself " as his typing patterns were never this informal before.

fanart is starting to pop up and its PISSING cucumber so much. Why is he always pictured like a cat?? and Airplane is either pictured like a hamster or luo binghe/ that's illegal!! [ he has saved the fanart with luo binghe on them and has a special folder for them which he will never admit he has. ].

this goes on for awhile as that fandom becomes more popular and the fanfic community is celebrating 5k fics which is insane because this was founded a year ago.

so what dooes airplane shooting towards the sky think of this?

he thinks that fucking his biggest anti fan is a good idea

though he finds Peerless cucumbers rants quite entertaining, at times -- especially when he's struggling financially -- he wishes to shut his digital mouth up.

hes seen this from the beginning, as he is a fan of the fandom of his book.

he has seen MANY of the fics and has definetly fapped to them imagining that cucumber bro was actually there doing as the words said.

his favorite fics are him he is the top, pounding into him. which happily his fans are into the too.

he loves how the community depicts them both and absolety laughs his ass off at the airplane cucumber memes

he even took the time to buy a cumplane phone charm for his phone.

it all comes to head when the end of a promising arc is just papapa. Shang QInghua was frustrated with having to cut out most of the arc because his apartments rent had went up and by no means can afford it now unless he gets straight into the papapa.

and Shen yuan litterly ruined it for him even more.

with his rant in the comments Airplane did not infact copy-paste the same phrase but instead said,

" ok YOU CAN:BB UP show me you have the balls to actually fight me irl!! "

" Alright bet. "

and he proceeded to get dmed by cucumber the date and location, which wouldn't be a surprise bc Peerless cucumber never backs down on a bet!

the cumplane community is going bat shit crazy of this single interaction, they haven't gotten any material from the official people until now and its a breakthrough.

they did end up in a coffee shop, well at each other like a divorced couple, get kicked out of said coffee shop. shen yuan, embaressed by the fact offered to shang qinghua that they go to his apartment because " cleary, these streets arent built to handle my hate. "

which airplane would burst out luaghing and they would agree some more while driving to his place.

when inside Shen yuan and shang qinghua get into a little tussle and when yuan loses miserably because of his twink sick ass self versus the tale and muscular [ don't ask why shen yuan knows, and he's also confused by this fact ]

Shang qinghua has one arm against him as tto not crack one of his weak bones -- plus he can watch Shen Yuan squirm -- and pulls out his phone. which still have the cumplane charm on it.

when cucumber turns and accedentally see the charm he freezes, airplane wondering why he stopped struggling looks where he's looking and feezes too.

then they hate fuck about it as they tried to assert dominance in which shang qinghua won in, and he also teases him for all the cumplane fanart on his wall [ which was intentionally left there ]. in the morning with a grumpy shen yuan totally fucked out, shang qinghua takes a picture of them both and posts it with the headline;

" Guess the peerless cucumber is not so peerless anymore "

[injuries-in-dust]

Alien: Human, what are you doing? That's the diluted sterilising fluid!. A controlled substance. Strong enough to kill any bacteria and ensure no cross-contamination with equipment, but not so pure that there is a risk of the fumes poisoning our fellow crewmates. If you ingest it, you will die!

The human sniffs the liquid before pouring a little more into their drinking glass.

Human: Back home we just call this Vodka.

[occasional-yan-stuff]

Yandere!Shapeshifter X GN!reader

Warnings: sleep creeping, nonconsequential-ish cuddling, unaware participation in romantic activities, general yandere shenanigans

Tropes/info: Yandere has anxiety, animal shifting,

Yandere!Shapeshifter who's anxiety makes him nervous to talk to you

Yandere!Shapeshifter who likes coming to your house in the form of a cat

Yandere!Shapeshifter who loves the fact that he doesn't need to earn your love in animal form

Yandere!Shapeshifter who likes to distract you from work by sitting on your keyboard. You should be paying attention to him instead

Yandere!Shapeshifter who can take all of you in even better with his enhanced senses

Yandere!Shapeshifter who always hisses when you bring a date home

Yandere!Shapeshifter who turns back into his human form at night so that he can cuddle your sleeping self in his true form

Yandere!Shapeshifter who always promises himself that today will be the day you meet him as a human, even though it never is.

[suguwu]

gojo running away from time to time has me thinking about him wandering right into you when you're both young. you who shows him little respect (after all, he walked into you!) and eyes his nice kimono with a skeptical brow ("you wear that to the playground?" "playgrounds are for little kids." "ugh.") before going on your way.

except he follows you. suddenly you have this snowy-haired shadow who doesn't budge when you shove at him to get a little space. he watches you with those blue, blue eyes. you've never experienced anything like it—it's icy, aloof, but he's clearly curious.

you sigh. you take him by the hand (for a moment, you think he'll pull away, but then he laces his fingers through yours and doesn't let go) and guide him to the swings. "c'mon," you say. "i bet you can't go as high as me."

he rolls his eyes. "i can go higher."

you put your hands on your hips. "prove it."

"okay."

he soars into the sky, going so high you have to shield your eyes against the sun to see him. when he reaches the peak of the arc, he jumps. you shriek, but he lands perfectly, as elegant as a swan.

"told you," he says.

you frown. "you're annoying."

he stares at you. "you're annoying."

you huff, puffing out your cheeks. he watches you steadily. "fine," you say. "i don't wanna play with you anymore."

he grabs you before you can flounce away, wrapping a tight hand around your wrist.

"hey!"

"don't go," he says. he's staring again, his crystalline eyes wide. you wonder if anyone has ever walked away from him before. you consider him for a moment.

"okay," you say. "but you gotta be nice."

he blinks. then he nods.

(nice, you find, means something different to him. but you can tell he's trying.)

hours later, he pauses on the slide, tilting his head like a dog. "i have to go," he says. "be here tomorrow."

he's gone before you can protest.

despite yourself, you show up at the playground the next day.

[thechaoticcherub]

Inspired and given the balls to post this by @strang3lov3

Tw: incest kink, dubcon

Could you imagine the feeling of realizing your dad, Joel Miller, was checking you out?

That creeping sensation of his eyes on you, first your legs, then noticing how short your skirt was. You hadnt thought it was too short but now you felt the need to pull it down.

At first you told yourself he just thought your skirt was too short and he was going to chastise you for it.

But then his eyes linger on the spot where your thighs press together, his eyes crawl around to your ass, his expression blatantly admiring of it.

Joel and you had always been close but lately he’s been sitting close to you on the couch, commenting on your dresses and shirts. Little things like,

“I like gingham on you, babygirl.”

“You look nice in lace,”

It makes your tummy crawl both with a strange satisfaction and an uneasiness.

It isnt until you catch him peering through your cracked open door while you changed out of your pajamas that you realize how serious your dad’s looks are.

You catch his eyes on your breasts as you lift your tank top off, your arms going over your head. He doesnt turn away when he sees you catching him though, he openly looks at your hardening nipples.

“Daddy?” You ask, your voice small, unsure. The creeping feeling in your spine shivering lower, making your core tighten slightly.

“Just admiring how pretty my little girl is, peanut.” He says, unashamed of his wandering gaze. You had shame enough for the both of you. You lift your arms to cover your chest and Joel tuts in response,

“Nuh uh honey,” he pushes your door open, ans walks up to you. He takes your arms and pulls them away from your chest, “I made you, babygirl, i get to look at what i made.”

Your thighs clench together as your eyes widen in horror.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

WRITING ON THE WALL

BIO: NEGLECTED MALE WB!READER THE WANYE FAMILY RECOMABLE ARTIST

Art was never some silly hobby or pastime, like people like to think it is. It's your whole life, your whole identity. Being an artist has been something you've been doing ever since you were a kid—sketching, drawing, finger painting—all that stuff is something that grounds you, that connects you to deep fulfillment. Once you finish a piece, you feel anger when you mess up a sketch; fear touching a paintbrush to a canvas. It makes you feel human, makes you feel real, makes you feel alive. Each stroke, each splash, each mixture—it's something that's very concise. It's like doing chemistry, mixing all the elements together to find something new.

But ever since you reached the manor, you've been going through this crazy amount of art block, and it's not like you. You usually create almost every single day, once a week if you're being realistic, but for some reason, you haven't been able to pick up a brush or pencil or even go through your sketchbook. You feel so disinterested and disorganized. It’s not like you—it's never like you. You've never been the one who would draw or paint or create for praise or for someone to pat you on the back and say, "Good job." But you sure as hell wanted that feeling. You wanted to be patted on the back and hear a "Good job" thrown at you once in a while. But your younger brother gets all of it—the little hellspawn who just picked up a brush one day and called himself an artist. He is still a beginner; he sounds horrible. It's trashing on your little brother, but honestly, the second he picked up a pencil, they think he's Picasso. He’s been drawing since you were in the womb, but when he does it, it's like a revolutionary thing. But he made the paintbrush—it's just not fair.

You get jealous of a 14-year-old. You're acting like a child, but you are an adult. Before you ever became a child, you took care of yourself, did everything yourself, made a path for yourself, creating a legacy that doesn't have to deal with your father—you are your own person, and you don't have to bear the burden of being Wayne. Sometimes you want to be like a child, patted on the back. You want to get a small high five, an "attaboy," but you're getting too old for that stuff, and to be honest, it's kind of lame. Everything is so lame, but hearing your father praise Damian like he's his prized possession, like he's the sun, and you're just one of the many planets that revolve around him, is excruciating. Richard is boasting about him; he never did that with you. All they do is brag. Why can't you be the center of attention? Why can't you be the one being seen? It’s not like you're invisible; you're there, you're obviously there. Do you have to make your voice known? Do you have to shout from the top of your lungs? Do you have to break a canvas to show that you are an artist too?

But if it's attention you want, then just go on Instagram and post your art. Get clicks or views or whatever. Yeah, it doesn't feel as good as being hugged and being told that you’re the best at what you do, that you're good, that you're great, that you're astounding. Your mind is something scientists want to deconstruct and pick at—the blood son of Bruce Wayne, firstborn dark shadow, Damian is the artist of the family. So what are you? The bad copy and paste? Get your own person, with your own dreams and your own accord, your own wants, your own ideas. You draw too, you know, but every time you say that, it’s like you’re trying to take the spotlight away from Damian, trying to make things about you when it never really was about you. But does it hurt to have this one piece of recognition, to be seen for a second, for a minute? But now you’re more of a background character than anything.

This art block is like a heavyweight tied to your back, and you can barely be seen. You can’t even pick up a brush, but you want to make things—you really do. So you find part of the manor, an empty notebook, shelves, no furniture—maybe a chair and a couple of windows, some cobwebs here and there. You don't think Alfred even remembers this room, but this was the first one you saw when you came to the manor—the first room that you will decorate your existence. Picking up your brush, you start to paint, sketch the walls. You take your brush and paint, and you paint and you paint until your fingers cramp. You paint until your eyes go blurry, paint until there are little calluses on your hands.

On the wall of your new canvas, you keep on going. You haven't eaten in the past hour, but you keep it up. You feel this pressure; you can't let it go to waste. You just might pass out, but you paint and you paint until the fatigue hits you, and it’s the most disgusting picture you’ve ever seen. You want to vomit. It's your worst piece of work ever. You leave the room, discouraged, disappointed, embarrassed. You're not the artist of the family; you make a simple mural. Can you call yourself a creator? But when you look at the other side of the painting that is dipped with some of your blood, you realize just how important you are. You are the artist of the family; you always have been, and you always will be.

[moomuzan]

a love that is fierce, unshakable, and unapologetically alive—a whirlwind that sweeps you off your feet and leaves you breathless. a love that grabs your wrist during an argument, not to hurt but to pull you closer, because walking away isn’t an option, that smells like expensive cologne and red wine, and his gloved fingers brushing your hair back, muttering, “you drive me insane, you know that?” a love that protects without smothering, defends without hesitation, and fights for you like it’s the only battle worth losing. a love that takes you dancing in the rain just because the world feels too quiet, or spends hours picking out a hat he knows will match your coat. a love that kisses hard enough to leave you dizzy, murmuring promises he’ll never break, because for him, loving you is like gravity—inescapable, inevitable, and the only thing that keeps him grounded.

—CHUUYA