seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises it’s about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors
I work at a bookstore and hearing one of my male coworkers call smutty romantasy "the downfall of society" because it's "literally just porn" radicalized me
Men have an entire industry. Entire industries dedicated to their sexualities. Let women have fantasy sex. there's not even a camera crew involved.
Simon Riley is a loverboy
warnings: established relationship, mentions of pornography, very fluffy Simon Riley blurb
He loved you, that much was obvious. Your initials were carved onto the handles of his guns— messy handwriting, all passion and longing— and a wrinkled polaroid of you accompanied him everywhere he went. He'd stick it to the wall beside wherever he slept, stick it to the ceiling if he got to sleep in a bunk bed (one of those with the loose springs that shriek at every movement, that poked into his back and made him miss your touch more than ever).
Johnny had asked him about it one day, half mocking Simon, he was just in disbelief that their closed off lieutenant had found someone, and reasonably so. It was late at night, they'd been sitting still for hours, the target had yet to exit the building they were watching— Price had told them to wait.
So, he tried to make small talk, gossip a little. He said he'd seen that old polaroid in his quarters, seen it get tucked away in his pocket, tacked to walls and ceilings. He'd seen Simon hold it in his hands when he sat in bed— his breathing leveled, face hidden by his mask, mumbling something under his breath before he laid down to sleep. He'd made some stupid comment like what porno she sneak out of?, a comment that would usually earn him a chuckle and a tap on the arm, but that this time earned him a slap to the back of his head and a grumble.
"Respect my bird, Soap." He'd said, deep voice coated in annoyance, almost venomous.
It was obvious he loved you when, you came to pick him up after he got back from being deployed. Obvious in the way his gloved hands immediately found yours, in the way a weight seemed to lift off your shoulders; in the way his gaze, concealed with a balaclava, was so soft, so loving.
They all heard it in his voice, sweet, almost saccharine; saw it in the way you'd touch him, and he'd let you. You could poke his side after making a joke, and he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't bend your arm back or slap it away; he'd laugh, he'd hold your wrist in his big, calloused hand and laugh lightheartedly.
Soap and Gaz watched, enthralled, as you completely took over Simon's personal space, your hands moving up and under his t-shirt, your face settling in the crook of his neck as you held him close, squeezing him tight "to make up for lost time". They watched as Simon grunted out complaining, but lifted up the lower section of his balaclava and kissed your forehead, then your lips.
Ghost was their closed off lieutenant, but Simon Riley was completely wrapped around your little finger, and he loved every second of it.
"If tampons should be free, then so should my diabetes meds."
Yes? Yes they should be? Your life-saving medication that you need in order to live for a condition you were born with should be given to you at no cost?
the way ppl have designated cuddling as a purely romantic thing and is weird outside of that context has done widespread damage to our pack animal nature
simon would definitely have a clumsy girlfriend. the type of girlfriend where you'd almost always find a way to have a bruise or cut on you anytime you went out.
"where did ya get this?" "hit against the desk at work."
"love, that's a pretty bad scratch." "i was trying to pet that stray cat near the ravine, i think she has kittens."
"what do you mean you got chased by a swan on the way home?" "it looked like it was injured, i was trying to get a photo for the wildlife people! you're the one telling me that the queen owns every swan!"
simon sometimes felt the need to swaddle you up in bubble wrap just to keep you safe. but as you looked at him with pleading eyes and a frown, he only ruffled your hair and went in for a soft kiss - he could never be mad at you.
you expected that you'd be taking care of his injuries from the armed forces, not him wrapping hello kitty banded bandages across your fingers because somehow you got seven paper cuts in one day!
one time you went to the park and when you went to feed the ducks some of the frozen peas you brought in a cup (never bread!), you leaned a little too forward and almost fell right into the pond. thankfully simon's reflexes were faster and wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back up, "alright, lamb. let's feed the ducks a little further away." and you looked up at him, near tears, and nodded.
it wasn't your fault, some folks were just more clumsy than ever. when he came back from missions, he would spend hours examining every part of you to check for any new cuts, bruises, or scars - then make sure to kiss them all and ask what exactly you did.
he kissed you on the forehead and asked, "now tell me, love, how does a trolley attack you?"
I would love a take on boyfriend Ghost coming home to surprise you, but he finds your bed empty and doesn't realize that you are in his room in his bed. Thanks.
The placebo effect, was what he kept trying to convince you it had to be, no matter how many times you rolled your eyes and told him he was wrong
How else could one explain your insistence that Simon’s bed smelled so much like him, becoming your safe space when he was away on long deployments, when he only ever slept with you in your bed most nights to begin with
Hard to believe it was nearly three years ago now that you’d told your friend since childhood, Johnny, about how your search for a new flat was going miserably. You remember how he’d perked up and recounted with a mischievous glint in his eye about how his Lieutenant was apparently searching for a flat mate at the moment, someone who’d be looking after the place while he was away for work
Unsure about living with a strange man you’d never met before, but trusting Johnny’s judgement (though the way he seemed just a bit too eager about this meeting did kind of throw you off-) you had reluctantly agreed to meet with him and at least give the flat a glance before you simply turned him down
It wasn’t until you were knocking at the door of the address Johnny had written down for you, that you’d realized he’d never even given you the man’s goddamn name, only ever referring to him at Lieutenant or LT
Johnny apparently also failed to mention the absolute SIZE of the guy, his huge frame blocking nearly all of the light from behind him as he had swung the door open and stood in the doorway before you
In a slight panic, thrown off by the massive man before you and the way the butterflies in your stomach suddenly began to flutter at the sight of him, you had greeted him for the first time with a squeaky, unsure voice saying ‘Um, hi, are you the Mr Lieutenant?’ (something he has never let you live down since)
He knew then and there that you would be the one
Not just his flatmate (though what a generous flatmate he was when he offered insisted on moving all your boxes out of your old place and into his that very same day), but the one, something he reluctantly had to give Soap credit for, seeing as he was the one who wouldn’t stop talking his ear off about you
You would be his other half, his better half
And all these years later, the two bedroom flat truly only acted as a one bedroom, considering that from the start Simon was always falling into your bed with you at the end of each night, limbs tangled together under the warmth of a lovers embrace a thousand times more comforting than an actual comforter
Still though, that first time Simon had to be gone for work longer than a few weeks, you found the lingering odor of him clinging to his bedsheets to be one of the few things keeping you sane in his absence, taking to sleeping in his room for the time being, imagining that the pillow you cling to your front was a strong muscular arm instead, littered in scars and tattoos you feel confident you could recognize from touch alone
And when his long awaited flight back home to you landed a few hours earlier than expected, tires touching down in the dark, stillness of late night hour, he decided he’d surprise you and come straight home, rather than calling you to meet him at the base like you’d insisted, not wanting to wake you
Barely able to contain himself, he decided the elevator ride up to the seventh floor would take too long, take away precious seconds that brought him closer to you, and so up the flight of stairs he went, taking them two or three at a time, rushing to see the face etched behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, to hear the voice that haunted his dreams each night
Quietly as a man his size could, he crept into the flat, snuck his way into your room, expecting to see your sweet, sleeping form cuddled up amongst the blankets and pillows. But his heart dropped when he noticed the bed was still perfectly made, not a thread out of place.
Trying to remain calm, though his mind was instantly swarming with every possible scenario that could have taken place, he knew he saw your shoes and jacket by the door, you couldn’t have gone far… but where were you?
He glanced into the living room, wondering if he missed you sleeping on the couch after a long day, he poked his head into the bathroom, even went so far as to check the small balcony, but finally there was only one door left to open.
And there you were, safe and sound, a tiny ball curled up into the center of his huge bed, clinging to one of his old masks and holding it close to your chest as though it were a security blanket (you’d been sleeping in his bed so much you needed something that still smelled strongly of him, you were getting desperate)
Stripping himself down to only his boxers, he tiptoed towards the side of the bed, his mind finally feeling more at peace than he ever had, gently pulling the sheets back just enough for him to slip in behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you into his muscular chest
Though it should be alarming to suddenly feel a pair of hands roaming over your skin, a body holding you firmly against their own, it’s as though your body knows who it is before your mind does
Any tension you were still holding onto during his absence instantly melts away, your own hands coming to land over top of his, giving a slight squeeze of acknowledgment, not yet willing to fully leave your half asleep state, but needing to touch him, to confirm he really is here
“Hmm,” You hum, voice groggy with sleep and a smile slowly stretching across your lips, snuggling further into his embrace. “You’re home.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in, wishing he could bottle up the scent of your shampoo and lotions and perfumes, if only to have something to hold onto while he’s away, understanding now why he found you in this bed rather than your own
“I am.” He whispers into your hair, sensing that you’re already drifting back into dream land, safe in his arms and his bed, knowing he’ll be there when you wake. He feels his chest tighten when he knows that you weren’t talking about the fact that he’s physically home, in the flat, but something more, something much more, because he means the same thing when he tells you, “You’re my home too, love.”
Part two of the one where Simon lets you move into a room in his house
You tell Simon that you have at least a few weeks before you need to move out of your apartment and into his spare room, but he doesn't see the point in wasting time. The day after he offers to let you move in, he goes shopping, and the next few days are spent putting everything together. The bed, the dresser, two matching nightstands, some shelves — he makes sure everything is solid and sturdy for you, and he hopes you wouldn't notice how new it all is.
He cleans, too, every inch of the place. He's not a particularly messy man, but he'd bought the small two-bedroom house years ago, and he's not one for company. So he goes over everything, and he does what he can to make sure that his home is a good place for you, from the small stepstool he buys and sticks in the corner of the kitchen to the way he organizes his shaving supplies in the bathroom so you can have half the limited counterspace.
When you tell him you're ready, he brings his truck to the bar to pick up you and your things, and his heart aches, just a little, when he sees that all you have is a couple of bags slung over your shoulder. Without a word, he takes them from you and carries them out, and he tries to shrug off the slight disappointment he feels when you open the passenger door before he can do it for you.
"It's not much," he tells you on the short drive back. "Two bedrooms, just the one bathroom. I'm gone a lot. Stay as long as you like."
"What do you think for rent?" you ask. "I've got a little bit saved, and I can —"
"I meant what I said, love. There's no rush."
He hops out quickly after he pulls into the driveway, opening your door for you this time. He takes your bags and carries them in and into the room that's now yours, setting them carefully on the floor before turning to you, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a key.
"Same one for both doors," he says. "Not much in the kitchen, but help yourself to anything you like. And let me know if you need anything at all."
The first few days, you don't see each other much. He stays in his room more than usual, not wanting to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable. You pick up an extra shift at the bar, trying to make that rent he keeps telling you not to worry about.
One night during that first week, he comes home late from the gym, and he's pleasantly surprised to see you sitting in the living room, watching tv and having a snack.
"Oh, sorry," you say immediately when you hear the door open, like you'd done something wrong.
He smiles, just a bit, and nods for the couch, wanting you to be comfortable — maybe liking the idea of you warm and cozy in his space a little too much.
"Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart," he says, stepping closer.
You nod, and slowly sit back down, but on the edge of the cushion now, tense.
He doesn't care for it.
"What's on?" he asks.
"Oh, just this show I watch sometimes. It's a dumb reality thing ... I can check it out on my phone later."
You minimize yourself constantly, he's noticed that for a while now, but it's never been so clear as it is now, with you perched on his couch like you're waiting to run for cover. He still doesn't know your story, but in the moment, he'd love nothing more than to find whatever or whoever it was that put this innate fear in you and destroy it.
It's a war in him, a fight between keeping to himself and wanting you not to do the same. This particular battle is decided when he takes a seat on the other end of the couch and forces himself to tear his eyes away from you to look at the tv.
"Tell me about it."
You do. Nervously at first, but you slowly relax. He gives a small, satisfied smile when you scoot back to sit on the couch more comfortably and start to speak more freely, and he fights back a wider one when he really takes you in, bare feet and a loose t-shirt, lounging around at home. His home.
Yours too, now.
After that night, things get a little easier. You don’t sequester yourself in your room, and he warms up to you a bit more. It starts feeling natural, having you in his space. You fall into a rhythm.
Nearly a month in, he comes home one day to find you in the living room, pulling on your shoes, and he asks you where you're headed.
"We're headed to get some groceries," you tell him.
The directness is new, but certainly not unwelcome, and he follows behind you gladly as you lead the way to the store.
Grocery shopping with you makes him feel like a kid again, but one who had someone to dote on him. You walk by the produce, asking him carefully what he likes. What's his favorite kind of apple? What kind of berry does he prefer?
At one point, you actually tell him, "Simon, you have to get some vegetables," and he can't help but laugh at how you stare up at him pointedly, like he's supposed to know he's worth being cared for.
"What's your favorite dinner?" you ask him as you walk through the aisles, carefully scanning for prices before you put things in the cart.
"Don't know," he mutters. "Never really thought about it."
It's true, sort of. He eats, of course, and he has preferences, but it's never really been something to take pleasure in. There's never been some meal he craves, or some kind of food tied to a good memory. He mostly just wants to see if you'll say his name again.
But then he thinks for another beat and starts walking.
He puts a can of beans into the cart, then goes to another aisle and gets a loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything, but you nod and smile at him.
After you buy the groceries -- more specifically, after he buys the groceries, using his body to block the card reader while you laugh and try to wrestle your way around him to pay yourself -- you walk back home. He sets the bags on the counter, and together you put up all your purchases, but he notices you leave out the things he'd picked out.
"Hungry?"
"Generally."
Simon watches, arms crossed, as you heat the beans in a saucepan you'd pulled from under the stove. He doesn't move when you stand close to get to the toaster, and he watches your throat as you swallow when your arm brushes against his to put the bread in.
"You know, I would have made you anything," you tell him as you wait for the toast. "And this is what you picked?"
"Just had it a lot when I was a kid," he mutters, not offering more.
With the look you give him, a glance that's quick but still penetrates, he knows you understand the reluctance to get into the details. It's not the easiest thing to explain, how one can find comfort in the soft lulls of a tragedy. How oddly soothing it can feel to remember any bit of kindness from hands that ripped you apart.
You give him a plate first. Beans on toast, straight from his childhood. He takes a bite and nods, appreciative, and you grin.
A few bites later, you reach your hand up and swipe off a bit of food from the corner of his mouth, and seemingly without thinking, you lick it from your finger. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment longer, then sets his plate down.
Simon moves slowly, agonizingly so, giving you every chance to stop him. He puts his hands on your waist first, high and respectable, and when you just look at him, waiting, he drops them to your hips.
"This ok?" he asks, and when you nod, he dips his hands lower, over your thighs and to the back of them, lifting you up and dropping you on the counter.
"You didn't have to make me dinner, love," he says softly, working his body just slightly between your knees.
"You don't want me to pay any rent either," you tell him. "I can't just stay here for nothing."
The idea of you bringing nothing to this arrangement is laughable, but he keeps a straight face. He studies you, every fleck of color in your eyes and every line in your skin, maybe too intensely, but you just sit there, and you let him.
"You can tell me to stop," he finally says. "Won't be offended."
"I don't want you to stop."
With that, he brings his lips to your cheek, placing a gentle kiss there, then plants one on your jaw. When you still don't object, and even lift your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, he kisses your mouth.
He doesn't want to rush this, and he doesn't want to ask for something more than you want to give. He doesn't want you to feel like you owe him, but the idea of kissing you like this has been loud and persistent in his mind for longer than he cares to admit. He tries to bridge the two thoughts with his carefulness, but when he feels you start to kiss him back, he snaps.
Not visibly -- he doesn't shove his tongue down your throat or grope you with rough hands. That's not how Simon loses control. For him, snapping is internal. It's in realizing how good you feel in his arms and letting himself feel the weight of that.
He's not sure if it's the dinner you made him or something more innate, but when he kisses you, you taste like home.
In the moment, he can admit that to himself. But he's not ready for you to know. Not yet, anyway.
synopsis: he owns the kitchen—until you quietly claim a corner of it, and he is enjoying it more than he lets on.
pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: been gone a while. had ran out of ideas but here we go
you don’t cook often.
not because you can’t, but because he always beats you to it.
katsuki treats his kitchen like a battlefield—controlled, efficient, and his.
he moves like he’s been doing it his whole life, sleeves pushed up, jaw set in focus, the faint smell of spices clinging to his shirt even after he’s done.
it’s something he enjoys, something he’s good at, and he rarely lets you lift a finger when it comes to meals.
so when you tell him, “i made something for you,” you expect a scoff, a teasing remark, maybe even a lecture about how he should be the one cooking for you.
what you don’t expect is for him to hesitate.
it’s barely noticeable, but you catch it—the slight pause, the flicker in his expression before his arms cross over his chest.
“you what?”
you huff, nudging the bowl toward him, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “i cooked something for you.”
his red eyes flick down, scanning the dish like he’s assessing its structural integrity.
it’s nothing fancy—just something simple you put together while he was out. but his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for it immediately.
“…what’s the occasion?”
you blink at him. “nothing. just wanted to.”
his brows furrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite understand the concept of someone cooking for him just because they felt like it.
but after a moment, he exhales through his nose, jaw shifting as he grabs the chopsticks.
“you didn’t have to, y’know.”
you smile, resting your chin on your hand. “I know.”
he doesn’t say anything else before taking a bite.
the first one is quick—just a taste.
then the second comes almost immediately after, slower this time, more thoughtful. his chewing slows just a fraction—contemplative. his brows furrow, but not in a bad way.
he’s thinking.
then, without a word, he goes for a third bite.
you watch him, amusement curling at your lips. “well?”
he chews, swallows, and sets his chopsticks down with a casual motion.
“…it’s good.”
you stare.
then squint.
“just good?”
his ears tint the faintest shade of pink, and he scowls, looking at anything but you. “what, you want a damn trophy?”
you snort, shaking your head. “a simple ‘thanks’ would work.”
his mouth presses into a tight line, and for a second, you think he might just grumble his way out of this. but then, just barely above a mutter—
“thanks.”
your grin widens, warmth blooming in your chest as he goes back to eating, and even though he doesn’t say anything else, you don’t miss the way he finishes every last bite.
it happens again.
not immediately, but enough that it starts to become a habit.
one night, you make an extra portion without thinking, setting it aside without a second thought.
another night, you leave something for him when you know he’s coming home late, the dish waiting on the counter like a quiet reassurance that he isn’t alone.
you don’t always expect a reaction, but you always get one—even if it’s just a muttered “’preciate it” or the way his shoulders shift ever so slightly when he sees what you’ve left for him.
and then, one evening, you catch him sneaking extra bites.
you’re pretending not to watch, seated at the kitchen counter with a drink in hand, your body angled just enough to keep him in your peripheral vision.
katsuki eats like he always does—quick but deliberate, each motion efficient, no wasted movements.
his back is straight, his expression unreadable as he makes his way through the plate of curry you set in front of him.
then, the second you turn your head—
a blur of movement. a quiet clink.
your eyes snap back to him.
katsuki freezes, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, a second helping clearly stolen from the pot sitting on the stove.
his jaw tightens as he chews, his expression carefully neutral, but you don’t miss the way his fingers tighten slightly around his chopsticks.
your brows lift. “did you just steal extra?”
a beat of silence.
then, his red eyes flick up to yours, his chewing slowing slightly as he glares, unimpressed. “what?”
your gaze drops to the now slightly emptier pot.
a slow grin spreads across your face.
“you did.”
he scowls, shoving another bite into his mouth like it’ll somehow erase the evidence. “it’s good. so what?”
you rest your chin on your palm, amusement flickering in your eyes. “you could just ask for more, you know.”
he clicks his tongue, gaze flicking to the side, suddenly finding the tiled floor far more interesting. “dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
after that, you start paying more attention.
to the things he likes, the things he doesn’t say outright but that you pick up on anyway.
you learn that he prefers meals fresh off the stove, that he eats fast but never wastes a single bite. that he loves spice—but sometimes, just sometimes, it even gets to him.
you catch the way he drinks more water when it does, the slight furrow of his brows when the heat creeps up on him.
“you good?” you ask once, watching as he takes another gulp of water.
he clicks his tongue, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “’course I’m good.”
you just shake your head, amused.
even when he’s exhausted, dragging himself through the door after a long shift, he still eats whatever you make. no complaints, no hesitations.
just a quiet moment where his shoulders loosen and he sits down without a word.
and no matter how much he huffs and grumbles, no matter how much he acts like it’s nothing—
he never says no to your cooking.
one night, he comes home later than usual.
you’re already half-asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, when you hear the door open.
heavy boots thud against the floor, the familiar sound of him kicking them off near the entrance. there’s a rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his hero jacket, the soft clink of his gear being set aside.
then—
a pause.
you blink groggily, rubbing your eyes as you push yourself upright. “katsuki?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just stands there, his gaze fixed on the covered dish waiting on the counter.
his shoulders loosen slightly, the exhaustion still clinging to him, but there’s something softer in the way he moves now, like the sight of the meal has pulled some of the weight off his shoulders.
“…you made somethin’?”
you yawn, stretching your arms above your head. “yeah. thought you might be hungry.”
he doesn’t say anything at first. just strides toward you, stopping in front of the couch, and before you can react—warm lips press against the top of your head.
it’s quick, fleeting, but it lingers in the way his breath ruffles your hair right after.
his voice is quieter this time. “thanks.”
your chest feels light, a soft warmth settling beneath your ribs, but before you can process it, he’s already moving again. he grabs the plate, lifts the lid, and takes in the meal.
then, he makes his way back to you, dropping onto the couch beside you.
his thigh presses against yours, his body radiating warmth, and then an arm drapes over your shoulders, pulling you in.
you blink, a little surprised, but you don’t resist, sinking into him as he picks up his spoon.
he eats in steady bites, quiet, comfortable. then, without a word, he scoops up another bite and holds the spoon out to you.
you hesitate for half a second. “you don’t have to—”
“just eat.”
you huff, but open your mouth anyway, letting him feed you.
the flavors settle on your tongue, familiar and warm, but you barely notice because katsuki’s watching you now, eyes flicking over your face like he’s waiting for your reaction.
you chew, swallow, then smile a little. “tastes good.”
his mouth twitches, and he clicks his tongue, looking away. “’course it does. you made it.”
Sometimes little pleasures in life are loadbearing. Whenever someone is like "If you'd just give up tea and coffee and sugar and--" im like I'll stop you right there. Because if you finish that sentence i am going to kill everyone in this building and then myself. If i have to face the horrors of the world without my little jar of caramel flavoured instant coffee i am going to go full American Psycho. Believe it or not, my main priority in life is not to have perfect teeth or be an Olympic athlete or look like a supermodel, but to actually enjoy living, because I spent far too long not doing that and it royally sucked. And boy, some people don't like hearing that. Particularly dentists
Hey. Your brain needs to de-frag. Literally it needs you to sit there and space out.
If you want your memory or executive function to improve, stare out a window at the skyline or sidewalk or trees or birds on the electrical wires for like 20+ minutes per day. (With no other stimulation like a podcast or TV if you can manage but hey baby steps innit). If you're fortunate enough to have safe outside with any bits of nature, go stare closely at a 1 meter square of grass and trip out on the bugs and shapes of grasses and stuff.
Literally this will make you smarter. Our brains HAVE TO HAVE this zone out time to do important stuff behind the scenes. This does not happen during sleep, it's something else.
That weird pressurized feeling you get sometimes might be your brain on no defrag.
there's no greater betrayal than finally starting to read a book you've had sitting for months on your shelf or your desk or your nightstand and then finding out it's bad. like. i gave you a fucking home.
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