It’s Thursday morning, and Satoru is a mess of long limbs, tired sighs, and clingy affection. The alarm barely makes it through the first ring before he slaps it off with a grumble, already pulling you into him, burying his face in the crook of your neck like it’s the only place in the world that makes sense. He breathes you in with a groggy, content hum, your warmth, your scent, the gentle rise and fall of your chest pressed to his.

He’s impossible to move. Heavy and soft, like melting snow. Lanky arms slowly loop tightly around your waist, legs tangling with yours, refusing to let you shift even an inch away. Each time you wiggle, he groans under his breath and clings tighter, like your body is the only thing tethering him to the earth. His nose brushes along your collarbone and soft, pink lips pressing lazy, barely-there kisses to your skin. Not to wake you, not to arouse - just to feel. To ground himself in the softness of you.

Eventually, the weight of responsibility seeps in, but not a welcomed distrubance. He follows you to the bathroom with dragging feet and a petulant pout, still clinging to your waist like a puppy. The moment the water starts, he slumps onto the ledge of the shower with an audible sigh, legs spreading so you can slot yourself between them.

Then he melts.

Face pressed to your chest, his mouth finds the space between your breasts and stays there. His hands roam with worship - over the curve of your back, the softness of your hips, the plush give of your tummy under his palms. Kneading the skin gently, like he’s marveling at every inch, like he can’t quite believe you’re real. The kisses he leaves along your skin are slow, open-mouthed, soaked in affection.

When you reach for the shampoo, he tenses, his touch tightening slightly like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. He looks up at you, white brows furrowed in exhaustion, mouth parted as if he wants to say something but doesn’t have the energy. The only sound is the gentle rush of water and the soft puff of breath as you cup his face, smoothing your thumbs under his tired eyes.

He leans into your hands like they’re the only thing keeping him upright. His whole body relaxes the moment your lips press to his forehead, tension unwinding with a long, sleepy exhale. When you lather his snowy-white hair, his head dips obediently, body going limp as your fingers massage through the strands. A low, contented sound rumbles in his chest - something between a sigh and a purr.

Even then, he doesn’t stop touching you. His hands never stray far, running lazily along your hips, circling your waist, squeezing at your thighs like he needs the constant reminder: you’re here. Soap slips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He’s too tired. Too in love.

And he’s not ready to let go of you - not yet. The world can wait a little longer.

tjkn redraw

NERD!SUKUNA HEADCANONS - Part 2

You can find Part 1 here

Nerd!Sukuna, who tries to ignore that nagging feeling in his chest anytime he looks at the empty chair across from him, where you used to sit those last few weeks during your assignment.

Nerd!Sukuna, who lies awake at night, haunted by thoughts of you and the what-ifs, cursing himself because he can solve every academic problem and get top grades in all his classes but has no idea how to deal with his feelings.

Nerd!Sukuna, who can't help but stare at you from across the room in the classes you share, feeling a heavy feeling in his chest when he sees you gnaw on your Hello Kitty pen and blink in confusion as you try to make sense of what the professor is explaining.

Nerd!Sukuna, who can feel your eyes on him, too. And he thinks it's fucking cute how you look like the deer in the headlights anytime Sukuna catches you staring. He winks at you and smirks, acting all cool, but there's this suspicious fluttery sensation in his stomach anytime you smile shyly back at him before looking away again.

Nerd!Sukuna, who is secretly into poetry, and finally finds an outlet for all those strange feelings he has been experiencing lately when, one sleepless night, his gaze lands on one of the notebooks he always has on his nightstand, and he grabs a pen and starts to write, ending up scribbling poem after poem about a cute girl with bad grades who drives him insane with her messy handwriting, but who somehow managed to bring so much light into Sukuna's life.

Nerd!Sukuna, who knows he has to finally face the fact that he misses you and wants you back in his life.

One of the greatest and most profound tragedies of Yellowjackets has and always will be Nat’s inability to free herself from the prison of that plane. She’s the one constantly returning to it, a sarcophagus holding the ghosts of her old world. She finds herself there in her nightmares, and in her final moments she recognizes that this plane has held her soul captive for 25 years. No matter what happened before the wilderness, within the wilderness, and after the wilderness- her essence was tethered to that sarcophagus where she so devotedly laid her friends to rest. It’s where she returns in her death, mocked by a ghost of her former self that she never left. And when she lays Ben to rest there, she feels the ghosts of this place pulling at her, taunting her. She rejects it, threatens it by claiming it can’t keep her there. But in the end, it’s not true. In the end, Natalie never was able to free herself from that place and everything that came with it. In the end she was fractured between two worlds and unable to make the peace between. So in the end, she returns to the souls she laid to rest there.

drowning in destruction and echoing with suffering, sat Umm Saleh, a woman in her fifties, beside her modest tent hastily erected after losing her home in the latest bombardment. Her face told stories of patience and resilience, with lines of time etched on it as if they were records of unforgettable events.

Umm Saleh, who once lived in a small house filled with the voices of her children, now bore witness to the agony of displacement. She was forced to flee with her children after a shell hit their home, leaving behind years of memories and simple belongings she never imagined would become unattainable.🌿🍉

Every morning, Umm Saleh leaves her tent in search of sustenance to feed her children. She goes to bakeries providing aid, waiting for hours under Gaza’s scorching sun. Despite the exhaustion that weighs down her frail body, she carries the bread, dampened with her tears, and returns with a fake smile that conceals the worries of a mother striving to protect the remnants of her family.🇵🇸🌿

At night, when everyone else is asleep, Umm Saleh remains seated at the entrance of the tent, gazing at the dark sky. She reminisces about the days gone by, about her home that was once filled with warmth, and about her elderly, ailing husband of 70 years. Despite the pain, she finds remnants of hope in her heart—a hope for a day when peace will return and her children and grandchildren will live in a new home brimming with joy.

In moments of solitude, Umm Saleh finds solace in prayer and supplication. She implores God to protect Gaza and its people and to wipe away the dust of sorrow from everyone’s hearts. She often repeats, "We are here to remind the world that we are stronger than war, and we will rebuild our lives anew, no matter the cost."

Umm Saleh is not just a displaced woman but a symbol of patience and strength in the face of harsh circumstances. Her story, like the stories of thousands of mothers in Gaza, embodies the continuous struggle for life in a land torn apart by war, yet still blossoming with hope.

Please help us 🙏😭🇵🇸

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #519 )

SABRINA CARPENTER performing at Outside Lands (August 10, 2024)

now I’m gone but ur still layin 🤷🏼‍♀️ next to me 1 degree of separation 🤷🏼‍♀️

Imagine if you locked Light and Patrick Bateman in a room together. They would be having the most generic conversation but you wouldn’t be able to hear it over the sound of their overlapping internal monologues. There would be a few seconds where their monologues both play in sync to say something misogynistic.

“What home do you have to go back to?”

Oh this breaks my heart. The way Lottie is talking to both Nat and herself. The way Nat looks at her after she says it as she realizes how right Lottie is. All Nat has back at home is a trailer that carries the memory of her abusive father and a mother who resents her. All Lottie has is an empty mansion and parents who will sedate her and lock her away because her mental health is an embarrassment to them. Neither of them have ever known what home is.

Not Just Anybody | baby daddy!sukuna x f!reader master list

summary: sukuna begins therapy the weeks following the huge fight between you two.

genre: hidden child trope, toxic relationships, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, emotional cheating, cheating

part four | part five | part six

Week One

“How are you feeling today?” 

“I don’t know. Tired.” The brawny athlete murmurs. 

Most people that come to see Kento are usually a bit more timid, attempting to sit up as straight as they can with their hands folded over their laps. The way Sukuna sits in his leather chair is more on the defensive side, leaning over with his elbows resting on his knees– more than comfortable with holding eye contact with the shrink. 

“Ok.” Kento hums, unworried about the man in front of him whose body could be considered a weapon. “Why are you tired?”

Sukuna lightly shakes his head, holding back a laugh from how dumb of a question he thought that was. “Guess I didn’t get enough coffee in me or somethin’.”

Kento doesn’t answer back right away and instead writes down a little note on the clipboard he has resting against his knee. Moments later, he takes his glasses off and sets them down on the table next to him, then leans back in his own chair. “What would the ‘something’ be?”

velvet lies

Christmas is coming up soon. In about two-ish weeks, give or take. In this case, you’re giving. It’s December 14th, and the days are passing by too fast for your liking. You wish you had more time—to do a lot of things, actually. Luckily, with your rent being paid along with next month’s, that’s given you at least some sort of freedom. 

You can thank your ex for that. 

So, you’ve been saving for Koji, spending less on yourself. Not like you did much of that in the first place, but still. Again, guilt riddles your insides, insecurities plaguing your mind. Koji has never been a spoiled kid, having grown up quite frugally because of his equally frugal mother. Your tree, something you bargained for at the nearby spot in town that sells trees for the holiday season, is bottom of the barrel. Of course it is, you bargained for it. Sparse areas, branches way too thin and tiny, the height of the entire thing is just about as tall as you are. You keep your box of Christmas decorations so you never have to buy new ones each year. The lights you use are a warm yellow, with a few little bulbs dark because they burnt out. It wraps around your tree in a very messy way—Koji’s doing. A floppy white star placed at the very top of your tree, just barely holding on. 

I don't see people talking about this so today is the 110th anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, in where the factory owners locked working women and girls inside to "eliminate the risk of theft" (in reality it was too keep them from taking breaks), which resulted in the gruesome deaths of 123 mostly immigrant women and girls and 23 men, many of whom jumped to their deaths from the ninth floor either in a panicked attempt to escape or in order to die quickly. There were reports that some of the workers were on fire already as they jumped.

The eighth floor of the building was able to telephone the tenth floor to warn them about the fire, but the factory on the ninth floor where these women and girls labored had no such communication and such warning.

The factory owners were criminally charged with manslaughter for actions that contributed to the mass deaths but acquitted. However, this tragedy led to mass sympathy to the labor movement, and unions spurred on safety regulations that passed in New York state and eventually the entire country, and activists were able to reduce child labor in the process.

This tragedy is a reminder that has been forgotten in the 110 years since: every safety regulation-- every scrap of paperwork contributing to the hundreds of pages of red tape people like to complain about--every word of it was written in the blood of a laborer.

111th anniversary

They were discouraged from breaks because they were actively trying to unionize, and bosses felt that keeping them from unsupervised contact would prevent them from joining the garment workers' union.

This is why unions are important. This is why today, right now, the biggest companies in America are trying to squash unionization of their laborers and why those workers are fighting so hard to unionize.

@tikkunolamorgtfo did a great write-up a few years ago about the aftermath of the Triangle Shirtwaist fire, and I highly recommend reading it (and anything else you can about the fire). It is painfully relevant still and it's incredibly important women's, Jewish, immigrants', and workers' history.

#most of the girls working there were either jewish immmigrants or southern italian immigrants #two of the more exploited immigrant groups at the turn of the century particularly in nyc but elsewhere too #the labor history element of it can't be overemphasized tbh (x)

Straight shopping