mavis

mavis !? ♫ . multifandom ¦ fic ♰ . fluff ¦ angst ¦ smut . asks + reqs open <3 [dc : blurredlust.]

[blurredlust]

━ ♰ 𝐌𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒’ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 & 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♰ 💋💋

❛❛ There’s beauty in the way things fall apart. ❜❜

Welcome. You can call me mavis, i mainly write character x reader fiction and mxf (but I can do mxm) across multiple fandoms and genres. My page contains mature themes in some fanfics (which will be explicitly highlighted).

Please read below before interacting.

♰ 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓 ━

My requests are always open

Asks & messages are open

Requests may be sent through asks or dms but for urgent matters, feel free to add my discord (it’s in my bio).

For requests, please include:

Fandom

Character

Scenario / trope

And any additionals

I may refuse, if what you request doesn’t align with my writing skills.

♰ 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒 𝐈 𝐃𝐎 ━

My hero academia

Jujutsu kaisen

Haikyuu

Kuroko’s basketball

The disastrous life of saiki k

Death note

Love and deepspace

Harry Potter

Smallville

The vampire diaries

The arcana

Blue lock

Maze runner

If it’s not listed — ask anyway. I might know it but didn’t add it. And if I don’t, I might learn it.

♰ 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 ━

click the following tags to browse my work & find it easily:

#⋆˚maviswrites.ᐟˎˊ˗

all of my written works

#⋆˚mavisoneshots.ᐟˎˊ˗

all oneshots

#⋆˚mavisseries.ᐟˎˊ˗

multi-part stories

#⋆˚mavisdrabbles.ᐟˎˊ˗

headcanon posts or short pieces

#⋆˚mavisfavreads.ᐟˎˊ˗

some blogs that I like and definitely recommend

#⋆˚mavisrequests.ᐟˎˊ˗

fics that have been requested

mavis

don’t repost or translate my work

images, dividers, and characters are not mine and belong to their respective creators. I do not claim artwork as my own.

[blurredlust]

⛸️ — White Noise Between Us

LISTEN TO EARNED IT BY THE WEEKND.

Snowed in at a remote research cabin, warmth becomes a shared resource—and restraint becomes harder to maintain.

This content contains mature themes, sexual tension, intimacy. Contains soft smut. Minors do not interact.

Xavier x reader. around 1.7k wc

I recommend listening to the song above for maximum emotion.

The cabin wasn’t built for comfort; it was a scar of wood and reinforced steel carved into the unforgiving, frozen ribs of the mountains. It was a contingency point—a place designed for the moments when the Deepspace Hunter’s Association lost their grip on a mission, when extraction failed, and the storm swallowed the world whole.

You and Xavier had lived in these cabins before, it was nothing new. You were partners accustomed to the continuously sudden shifts in weather and the high-stakes silence of a mission gone sideways. But tonight, the atmosphere inside the cabin didn't just feel cold; it felt unbearably pressurized, as if the oxygen was being slowly replaced by something heavy, gold, and dangerous.

The snowstorm had rolled in with a predatory speed, thick enough to choke the signal clean out of your comms. First, the frantic voices of the Link on the other end turned to grit, then to static, then to a haunting, absolute nothing.

Protocol was a cold comfort: Shelter. Conserve energy. Wait.

The heavy door thudded shut, sealing the two of you into a space that felt intentionally compressed. Efficient. Small. A single queen-sized bed was shoved against the far wall, a kitchenette no more than an arm's reach away, and a single heater mounted low on the wall that ticked unevenly, like a heart struggling to beat against a rising tide.

Xavier didn’t pace. He never did.

He moved with that infuriating, graceful lethality he always possessed, dropping his pack and crossing to the console. His fingers—pale, long, and elegant—danced over the controls, checking power levels and backup batteries. The dim emergency lights caught the silver of his hair, turning him into something ethereal, a celestial being trapped in a wooden box.

You moved to the bed, smoothing the scratchy wool blanket. Your hands lingered there, pressing into the mattress, feeling the phantom vibration of the storm through the floorboards. Or perhaps it wasn't the storm. Perhaps it was just the humming tension in your own marrow, a reaction to the sheer, unavoidable proximity of him.

“Storm’s not easing,” Xavier said. His voice was soft, a silken ripple in the quiet, but it carried that weight of centuries-old patience.

You looked toward the window. The world had vanished. There was no horizon, no sky, just a violent, swirling white that pressed against the glass as if the mountain itself was trying to get in. “So we’re here for the night?”

“Fortunately,” he replied.

He reached out and flicked on the small, outdated television. He didn't expect a broadcast; he just wanted the noise.

Static crackled softly, a jagged, white sound that filled the gaps between your heartbeats. He adjusted the volume until it was a low, rhythmic hiss—a reminder that a world existed beyond this box of wood and stone.

When you turned back, he was watching you. It wasn't the look of a teammate checking for injuries. It was the way a star looks at the planet it’s bound to—unblinking, gravitational, and quietly burning with a heat that could incinerate if you stepped too close.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, his eyes dropping to the damp, salt-stained hem of your tactical gear. “The cold is settling in. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Yeah,” you blurted out, the word hitting the air too fast, too jagged. “I’ll... I’ll check the heater. See if I can coax it into working.”

The bathroom door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gavel. A moment later, the pipes groaned—a mechanical protest before the sound of rushing water took over. It was a terrifyingly intimate sound. Every splash, every muffled movement of his body behind that thin door felt like it was being broadcast directly into your nervous system. You knelt by the heater, adjusting a dial that did nothing, your breath fogging in the air.

You told yourself not to picture him. You told yourself not to imagine the way his Evol might flicker beneath his skin when he’s relaxed, the faint light of his core glowing through his chest.

You failed spectacularly.

The background noise of the TV blurred with the sound of the shower, creating a hypnotic, sensual drone that made your skin feel too tight for your body.

When the water finally stopped, the silence that followed was visceral.

The door creaked open, and Xavier emerged, draped in a haze of steam that clung to him like a shroud. He brought the humidity with him, a cloud that smelled of cedar and the clean, intoxicating scent of his skin. He had a towel slung low—dangerously, heart-stoppingly low—around his hips. His skin was flushed a soft, bruised pink from the heat, making the pale scars on his shoulders stand out in sharp relief.

You looked. You couldn’t help it. Droplets of water traced slow, agonizing paths down the center of his chest, carving a line over his abdominals before disappearing into the white terry cloth. He caught your gaze. He didn't look away. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes darkened into a shade of gold that looked like molten honey.

“I can wait outside while you change,” you offered, your voice sounding thin.

“It’s fine,” he said. His voice had dropped an octave, a low, vibrating baritone. “I’ll be quick.”

He turned his back to you to pull on his boxers. The sight of his spine—the way the muscles shifted under his skin—made your throat go bone-dry.

“I should change too,” you whispered.

Xavier glanced over his shoulder, his eyes tracing the line of your throat. He reached into his pack and pulled out a clean, oversized long-sleeved shirt. “Here. This will keep the heat in better. You’re shivering.”

You took the fabric from him. Your fingers brushed—just for a fraction of a second—but it felt like a lightning strike.

Inside the bathroom, the air was still thick with him. You pulled on his shirt. It was massive, the hem hitting your mid-thigh, the fabric still carrying a hint of his residual warmth. It didn't make you feel safer; it made you feel like you were being consumed.

When you stepped back out, the cabin was even darker. The only light came from the flickering, hypnotic gray of the TV static. Xavier was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard.

“Signal’s still dead,” he said.

“Figures,” you replied, crawling onto the far side of the bed. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, but the mattress dipped deeply under his weight, pulling you toward the center. Toward him.

The cold of the storm began to seep through the walls, persistent and biting. You shivered—a small, uncontrollable tremor. Xavier reacted instantly. He shifted, lifting the edge of the blanket and drawing you toward him with a quiet, devastating decisiveness.

His body was a fucking furnace. Your back hit his chest, and you let out a ragged breath. His arm draped over your waist, his large, calloused hand settling flat against your stomach.

“This is just for warmth,” he murmured against the shell of your ear. “Practicality,”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Practicality.”

But then you shifted, and your leg moved against his. The bare skin of your calf brushed the firm, solid muscle of his thigh. You both froze. The noise of the TV seemed to roar in the silence.

Xavier’s grip on your waist tightened. He let out a low, pained groan deep in his throat and rolled you over so you were pinned beneath him. The gray light caught the gold in his eyes. They were wide, the pupils blown so large they almost swallowed the iris.

“You’re making this hard,” he whispered, his face inches from yours. “I’ve tried so hard to be the partner you need. To be ‘practical.’ To be patient.”

Your pulse was skidding, erratic and wild. “Xavier…”

“But you’re wearing my clothes,” he trailed off, his gaze dropping to your lips. “And the world is gone outside that door. And I can’t hear anything but the way your heart is screaming for me.”

“Xavier,” you breathed like a prayer.

“I want to hear you say it,” he rasped, his nose brushing yours. “Tell me you’ve been wanting this as much as I have.”

“I have,” you confessed, your voice breaking. “Since the beginning.”

He broke. He kissed you with a ferocity that was a reclamation. His mouth was hot, his tongue sweeping against yours. He bit the soft skin of your neck, and as you moaned, he lifted you with effortless strength, settling you onto his lap so you straddled him.

He hooked his fingers under the hem of the shirt, pulling it upward. Inch by inch, the fabric retreated. As it slid off your shoulders, he let out a hitching breath. “God... you’re so beautiful. More than I ever imagined.”

He circled your waist with his thumbs, tilting your hips to press your heat firmly against the hard, throbbing length of him. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands digging into his shoulders.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his forehead against yours. “That’s what you do to me. Every single day I spend with you.”

He moved to the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down until you were completely exposed. Every touch was a worship. He leaned forward, his mouth finding the swell of your breasts, his tongue slow and reverent. You arched your back, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Xavier, please,” you urged, your hips rolling against him instinctively.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He pulled his own boxers off as he shifted his thighs to frame yours, pulling you flush against him so no air remained between you. One hand settled on your lower back, pulling you into a deep, grinding friction that made your vision blur.

You moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm, testing the weight of him. Xavier followed your lead, his hips lifting to meet your downward press, matching your pace with a discipline that was fracturing.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his eyes shimmering with golden light. As you met his gaze, he increased the intensity, his hands cupping your thighs to guide the depth of the contact. “Is this okay? Tell me what you need.”

“More,” you gasped, your chest heaving against his. “I need... closer.”

He groaned, the sound raw and desperate. He pulled you tighter, his mouth returning to yours as his hips began a steady, powerful drive upward. It was no longer a tease; it was a collision. You could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through the friction of your bodies, the heat between your thighs becoming a white-hot spark.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped into the hollow of your neck. “I’m not going to be able to go slow anymore. You’re ruining me.”

“Don’t go slow,” you pleaded, your nails scratching the skin of his back.

He took the invitation, his rhythm becoming faster, more urgent. He held your hips in a vice-like grip, grounding you as the sensation began to coil into a tight, unbearable knot. You were moving together in a blur of skin and static, the TV being a perfect backdrop to the sounds of your joined breaths and the wet friction of the act.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice dark and possessive as he felt your body begin to tense. “Stay with me. Just like that.”

The coil inside you snapped. You arched your back, a long, shattered cry escaping you as the pleasure rolled through you in waves. Xavier didn't stop; he drove into the friction one last time, his thumbs digging into your hips, his own breath catching in a ragged, broken moan as he followed you over the edge.

He held you through the tremors, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his chest heaving. The silence that followed was sacred. He didn't pull away; he kept you close, his hands stroking your back as your breathing slowly returned to the room.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispered into your skin, his voice small and honest. “I’m never letting you go back to just being my partner. You know that, right?”

You collapsed against him, your heart still drumming against his ribs. “I know.”

Outside, the storm erased the mountains. But inside, under the flicker of the static, the white noise had finally settled into peace.

end

A/n: please be sure to check out my other works if you liked this & I really do hope you enjoyed reading this piece! reblogs and likes are always much appreciated.

TVIGOY

mavis

[blurredlust]

⛸️ — White Noise Between Us

LISTEN TO EARNED IT BY THE WEEKND.

Snowed in at a remote research cabin, warmth becomes a shared resource—and restraint becomes harder to maintain.

This content contains mature themes, sexual tension, intimacy. Contains soft smut. Minors do not interact.

Xavier x reader. around 1.7k wc

I recommend listening to the song above for maximum emotion.

The cabin wasn’t built for comfort; it was a scar of wood and reinforced steel carved into the unforgiving, frozen ribs of the mountains. It was a contingency point—a place designed for the moments when the Deepspace Hunter’s Association lost their grip on a mission, when extraction failed, and the storm swallowed the world whole.

You and Xavier had lived in these cabins before, it was nothing new. You were partners accustomed to the continuously sudden shifts in weather and the high-stakes silence of a mission gone sideways. But tonight, the atmosphere inside the cabin didn't just feel cold; it felt unbearably pressurized, as if the oxygen was being slowly replaced by something heavy, gold, and dangerous.

The snowstorm had rolled in with a predatory speed, thick enough to choke the signal clean out of your comms. First, the frantic voices of the Link on the other end turned to grit, then to static, then to a haunting, absolute nothing.

Protocol was a cold comfort: Shelter. Conserve energy. Wait.

The heavy door thudded shut, sealing the two of you into a space that felt intentionally compressed. Efficient. Small. A single queen-sized bed was shoved against the far wall, a kitchenette no more than an arm's reach away, and a single heater mounted low on the wall that ticked unevenly, like a heart struggling to beat against a rising tide.

Xavier didn’t pace. He never did.

He moved with that infuriating, graceful lethality he always possessed, dropping his pack and crossing to the console. His fingers—pale, long, and elegant—danced over the controls, checking power levels and backup batteries. The dim emergency lights caught the silver of his hair, turning him into something ethereal, a celestial being trapped in a wooden box.

You moved to the bed, smoothing the scratchy wool blanket. Your hands lingered there, pressing into the mattress, feeling the phantom vibration of the storm through the floorboards. Or perhaps it wasn't the storm. Perhaps it was just the humming tension in your own marrow, a reaction to the sheer, unavoidable proximity of him.

“Storm’s not easing,” Xavier said. His voice was soft, a silken ripple in the quiet, but it carried that weight of centuries-old patience.

You looked toward the window. The world had vanished. There was no horizon, no sky, just a violent, swirling white that pressed against the glass as if the mountain itself was trying to get in. “So we’re here for the night?”

“Fortunately,” he replied.

He reached out and flicked on the small, outdated television. He didn't expect a broadcast; he just wanted the noise.

Static crackled softly, a jagged, white sound that filled the gaps between your heartbeats. He adjusted the volume until it was a low, rhythmic hiss—a reminder that a world existed beyond this box of wood and stone.

When you turned back, he was watching you. It wasn't the look of a teammate checking for injuries. It was the way a star looks at the planet it’s bound to—unblinking, gravitational, and quietly burning with a heat that could incinerate if you stepped too close.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, his eyes dropping to the damp, salt-stained hem of your tactical gear. “The cold is settling in. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Yeah,” you blurted out, the word hitting the air too fast, too jagged. “I’ll... I’ll check the heater. See if I can coax it into working.”

The bathroom door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gavel. A moment later, the pipes groaned—a mechanical protest before the sound of rushing water took over. It was a terrifyingly intimate sound. Every splash, every muffled movement of his body behind that thin door felt like it was being broadcast directly into your nervous system. You knelt by the heater, adjusting a dial that did nothing, your breath fogging in the air.

You told yourself not to picture him. You told yourself not to imagine the way his Evol might flicker beneath his skin when he’s relaxed, the faint light of his core glowing through his chest.

You failed spectacularly.

The background noise of the TV blurred with the sound of the shower, creating a hypnotic, sensual drone that made your skin feel too tight for your body.

When the water finally stopped, the silence that followed was visceral.

The door creaked open, and Xavier emerged, draped in a haze of steam that clung to him like a shroud. He brought the humidity with him, a cloud that smelled of cedar and the clean, intoxicating scent of his skin. He had a towel slung low—dangerously, heart-stoppingly low—around his hips. His skin was flushed a soft, bruised pink from the heat, making the pale scars on his shoulders stand out in sharp relief.

You looked. You couldn’t help it. Droplets of water traced slow, agonizing paths down the center of his chest, carving a line over his abdominals before disappearing into the white terry cloth. He caught your gaze. He didn't look away. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes darkened into a shade of gold that looked like molten honey.

“I can wait outside while you change,” you offered, your voice sounding thin.

“It’s fine,” he said. His voice had dropped an octave, a low, vibrating baritone. “I’ll be quick.”

He turned his back to you to pull on his boxers. The sight of his spine—the way the muscles shifted under his skin—made your throat go bone-dry.

“I should change too,” you whispered.

Xavier glanced over his shoulder, his eyes tracing the line of your throat. He reached into his pack and pulled out a clean, oversized long-sleeved shirt. “Here. This will keep the heat in better. You’re shivering.”

You took the fabric from him. Your fingers brushed—just for a fraction of a second—but it felt like a lightning strike.

Inside the bathroom, the air was still thick with him. You pulled on his shirt. It was massive, the hem hitting your mid-thigh, the fabric still carrying a hint of his residual warmth. It didn't make you feel safer; it made you feel like you were being consumed.

When you stepped back out, the cabin was even darker. The only light came from the flickering, hypnotic gray of the TV static. Xavier was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard.

“Signal’s still dead,” he said.

“Figures,” you replied, crawling onto the far side of the bed. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, but the mattress dipped deeply under his weight, pulling you toward the center. Toward him.

The cold of the storm began to seep through the walls, persistent and biting. You shivered—a small, uncontrollable tremor. Xavier reacted instantly. He shifted, lifting the edge of the blanket and drawing you toward him with a quiet, devastating decisiveness.

His body was a fucking furnace. Your back hit his chest, and you let out a ragged breath. His arm draped over your waist, his large, calloused hand settling flat against your stomach.

“This is just for warmth,” he murmured against the shell of your ear. “Practicality,”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Practicality.”

But then you shifted, and your leg moved against his. The bare skin of your calf brushed the firm, solid muscle of his thigh. You both froze. The noise of the TV seemed to roar in the silence.

Xavier’s grip on your waist tightened. He let out a low, pained groan deep in his throat and rolled you over so you were pinned beneath him. The gray light caught the gold in his eyes. They were wide, the pupils blown so large they almost swallowed the iris.

“You’re making this hard,” he whispered, his face inches from yours. “I’ve tried so hard to be the partner you need. To be ‘practical.’ To be patient.”

Your pulse was skidding, erratic and wild. “Xavier…”

“But you’re wearing my clothes,” he trailed off, his gaze dropping to your lips. “And the world is gone outside that door. And I can’t hear anything but the way your heart is screaming for me.”

“Xavier,” you breathed like a prayer.

“I want to hear you say it,” he rasped, his nose brushing yours. “Tell me you’ve been wanting this as much as I have.”

“I have,” you confessed, your voice breaking. “Since the beginning.”

He broke. He kissed you with a ferocity that was a reclamation. His mouth was hot, his tongue sweeping against yours. He bit the soft skin of your neck, and as you moaned, he lifted you with effortless strength, settling you onto his lap so you straddled him.

He hooked his fingers under the hem of the shirt, pulling it upward. Inch by inch, the fabric retreated. As it slid off your shoulders, he let out a hitching breath. “God... you’re so beautiful. More than I ever imagined.”

He circled your waist with his thumbs, tilting your hips to press your heat firmly against the hard, throbbing length of him. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands digging into his shoulders.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his forehead against yours. “That’s what you do to me. Every single day I spend with you.”

He moved to the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down until you were completely exposed. Every touch was a worship. He leaned forward, his mouth finding the swell of your breasts, his tongue slow and reverent. You arched your back, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Xavier, please,” you urged, your hips rolling against him instinctively.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He pulled his own boxers off as he shifted his thighs to frame yours, pulling you flush against him so no air remained between you. One hand settled on your lower back, pulling you into a deep, grinding friction that made your vision blur.

You moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm, testing the weight of him. Xavier followed your lead, his hips lifting to meet your downward press, matching your pace with a discipline that was fracturing.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his eyes shimmering with golden light. As you met his gaze, he increased the intensity, his hands cupping your thighs to guide the depth of the contact. “Is this okay? Tell me what you need.”

“More,” you gasped, your chest heaving against his. “I need... closer.”

He groaned, the sound raw and desperate. He pulled you tighter, his mouth returning to yours as his hips began a steady, powerful drive upward. It was no longer a tease; it was a collision. You could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through the friction of your bodies, the heat between your thighs becoming a white-hot spark.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped into the hollow of your neck. “I’m not going to be able to go slow anymore. You’re ruining me.”

“Don’t go slow,” you pleaded, your nails scratching the skin of his back.

He took the invitation, his rhythm becoming faster, more urgent. He held your hips in a vice-like grip, grounding you as the sensation began to coil into a tight, unbearable knot. You were moving together in a blur of skin and static, the TV being a perfect backdrop to the sounds of your joined breaths and the wet friction of the act.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice dark and possessive as he felt your body begin to tense. “Stay with me. Just like that.”

The coil inside you snapped. You arched your back, a long, shattered cry escaping you as the pleasure rolled through you in waves. Xavier didn't stop; he drove into the friction one last time, his thumbs digging into your hips, his own breath catching in a ragged, broken moan as he followed you over the edge.

He held you through the tremors, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his chest heaving. The silence that followed was sacred. He didn't pull away; he kept you close, his hands stroking your back as your breathing slowly returned to the room.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispered into your skin, his voice small and honest. “I’m never letting you go back to just being my partner. You know that, right?”

You collapsed against him, your heart still drumming against his ribs. “I know.”

Outside, the storm erased the mountains. But inside, under the flicker of the static, the white noise had finally settled into peace.

end

A/n: please be sure to check out my other works if you liked this & I really do hope you enjoyed reading this piece! reblogs and likes are always much appreciated.

TVIGOY

mavis

[sweethearticism]

˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓑.𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ bounces you on his cock cause he thinks you're stupid

⤿ ꒰ he's always seen you as nothing but a stupid, pretty girl :: college au :: slight angst :: smut :: mean satoru :: degradation :: f. oral :: fingering :: riding :: dumbification :: overstimulation ꒱

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ has been your worst nightmare since highschool. belittling you, shaming you, making you feel like you were the dirt beneath his shoe. unlike other bullies, he didn't have to push you around and slam you into lockers to make your gut twist. no, all he had to do was toss you a smug smirk over his shoulder whenever your mathematics exams were handed back. his red-circled A++ crumpling your hopes into your measly B-. you thought things would be different in college.

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was nothing if not dedicated. to his valedictorian status and his relentless belittling. hell, the second you stepped foot into your quantum physics class— he scoffed. then grinned as you reluctantly made your way to the only empty seat. . . right beside him. “my, what's the bimbo doing here? daddy's money must be doing wonders.”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ rolled his eyes as he passed by you in the hallway and saw you talking up a male classmate. muttering under his breath, “no wonder your grades are falling.” only to send you a wink when he catches your crestfallen look.

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was not impressed when you were both paired for an assignment together. he actively tried to protest against the professor, but soon settled for it. before you knew it, he was in your dorm and grumbling over a textbook. shuffling over his laptop with an cooing tongue click and condescending head tilt. “aww. you really don't get it, do you?” then grinned mockingly as you shook your head with big eyes and a trembling lip. “silly girl. looks like I'll be carrying us again.”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ rolled his eyes when you came to him all teary because— he was right. your grades were slipping. hell, you never wanted to be in astrophysics. your parents forced you. and now here you were with a crumpled up paper in your hands and crying to your bully, begging him to tutor you. he agreed with slumped shoulders and a groaning, “fine, whatever. just don't waste my time.”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was awful the entire time, no matter how hard you tried. he'd explain things that your brain couldn't process and lecture you when you wouldn't get it. and when he had enough of your tears? he snatched your chin, thumb swiping below your eye. “stop it.” he muttered. “stop it. stop crying. you can't help that you're stupid, now can you?” and when you didn't? well. . . let's just say he was inclined to make you cry in a more pleasurable way.

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ soon enough, had you sprawled over the table. textbooks and stationary strewn all over as he thumbs on the soaked fabric between your quivering thighs. creating a perfect friction against your trembling clit as you bucked and whined into him. another hand dwarfed your inner thigh as he pressed it down, keeping you wide open with a grinning, “now what did I say? keep those legs open for me. you can do that, right? not too dumb for that?”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ took great pleasure in making you pay for wasting his time. he sucked on your clit through your panties until they were drenched with his saliva and your messy cum. allowing you to grip his hair only when he yanked your panties down and latched his mean mouth onto your pussy. licking, suckling, ruining you on his tongue while he glared at you from over his glasses. “suuuchhh a slut,” he huffed, fogging his spectacles. “no wonder those grades are slipping.”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ fingered you open with two long digits. lips fixed to your clit and assaulting it with his tongue as he surged you through yet another sticky orgasm. fingers slow, steady and cruel while his mouth was ravenous. switching between your slit and throbbing nub. doubling down when you clung to his hair and whimpered out his name. he wouldn't admit to how hard he throbbed when you whined it like that. instead he dragged his tongue from your slit to your clit and groaned into the stringy mess.

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ leaned back into the chair and let you bounce on his cock. it was the least you could do after wasting his time, right? “stupid girl,” he huffed, swallowing a groan as he tweaked on your nipple. grinding his hips up filthily. once, twice, until you were clinging to his shoulders and humping on him like a pitiful slut. he clicked his tongue and watched as your pussy stretched. squelching and squirming all over him. “maybe you should just drop out, huh? drop out and be a slut for a living. you're better at it.” as he spanked! your ass. then gripped tight.

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ who toppled you over him when your bounces became weak grinds. hands fisting your ass and squeezing you on his thick cock as he pounded up until you were whining and drooling in his ear. leaving behind a gooey ring of cream round his base and bubbling your webbed mess all over. his name was on your lips like a lewd prayer. desperate pleas and whines as his pubic bone caught your clit with every rough slam. “just can't do anything right, can you sweetheart? fuck, stupid little girl with the prettiest pussy.”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ lost himself when you creamed him for the nth time that day. a hand fixed to the back of your neck as he rolled his hips up in jagged thrust. making you whimper. squirm. and all he did? grin. “there ya go. that's it. take it. fucking. take it.”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ was not prepared for your lips crashing onto his. for your hands clinging to his hair and your whines spilling into his mouth. and most definitely not for your spluttered little: "I love you— I love you satoru— toru, toru I love you, I love you!”

꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ had to leave the second he'd cleaned you up and tucked your sleeping form into bed. stumbling back to his dorm, slamming his door shut. he white knuckled the counter and hunched over. heart pounding in his ears as he replayed your words over, and over again. I love you. I love you satoru. he scrubbed a hand down his face. cupped his mouth and nose as he breathed heavily, then looked into the mirror. hair disheveled. eyes puffy. no, no, no no no no no. what the fuck did he just do?

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/9enesiass

ᝰ.☆ enjoyed this piece? consider supporting or commissioning me <3

[katsukissyou]

ִֶָ۶ৎ˖ִ˚Hopelessly Devoted to You ִֶָ

.𖥔sypnosis: 8 years after your confession, you and Bakugo meet again at a class reunion.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

.

.

8 years ago, at their long-awaited graduation, Class 1-A officially marked their transition from hero students to fully fledged Pro Heroes. The class held a dinner to celebrate — a final gathering, a heartfelt send-off, and an official good luck to the beginning of their pro-hero journeys.

After dinner, everyone was already bidding their goodbyes. Smiles mixed with tears filled the atmosphere as classmates hugged, laughed shakily, and clung to the last moments they would share as students.

You had just finished exchanging your own goodbyes — your eyes still warm with the last of your tears — when you caught familiar blonde spikes in your peripheral vision. Bakugo stood across the room, listening to his usual squad’s chatter with a noticeably softer expression. He had changed a lot since the war: calmer, less volatile… maybe even gentle in his own way. But he was still undeniably him.

As if sensing your stare, he looked over. Your eyes met — yours widening briefly before softening. You offered him a small and a quiet wave.

His eyes flickered in surprise for a split second before he gave you a curt nod in return. His ears, slightly red, went unnoticed from afar.

Soon after, everyone began preparing to leave — including Bakugo. Kirishima had asked him if he wanted to hop into Momo's luxurious ride, but Bakugo insisted on walking home. After several failed attempts to convince him, the red-head finally gave up, shouting a final goodbye and waving wildly through the van’s window before disappearing down the street.

Bakugo sighed and started walking — only to hear the sharp clicking of heels rushing behind him.

“Katsuki! Wait up!”

He froze mid-step and turned around slowly, finding you hurrying toward him. For a brief moment, surprise flickered across his face before he quickly masked it with his usual scowl. He pushed his hands into his pockets and waited silently as you caught up, his posture stiff but attentive.

You finally catch up to him, breath coming out in short little pants, palms braced on your knees as you try to collect yourself.

“You— you walk fast,” you manage between breaths.

Bakugo scoffs—trying very hard to keep up that usual grumpy, above-it-all demeanor. But damn… you make it difficult when you look like that. Slightly flushed and catching your breath—he hates how that does things to him.

He wants to spit out something like 'not my problem you’re outta shape, woman,' but he stops himself at the last second. Instead, he mutters:

“Maybe if you weren’t so damn short, you wouldn’t be laggin’ behind, idiot.”

“I have short legs,” you correct immediately, pointer finger raised. “Doesn’t mean I’m short…”

You pout—just a little.

Bakugo looks away sharply because that is dangerous. Too cute.

“So, uhm… why are you walking alone?” you ask, straightening your posture and glancing around. “Where’s… your friends?”

Bakugo clicks his tongue, shoulders rising in a half-shrug—his scowl returning but it lacks any real bite.

His eyes flicker away, then back to you.

“Tch. Already left.”

He says it like it’s nothing—like it doesn’t bother him.

It does.

A beat passes. He glances at you again, voice gruff,

“You got plans?”

You know exactly what that means.

So you shake your head and the two of you begin walking down the dimly lit road together, silence falling over you both. But it isn’t awkward. It’s warm, familiar. Your footsteps sync without effort, and Bakugo finds himself matching his longer stride to your shorter steps without even thinking.

As the bus stop grows closer, you slow… then stop completely, heels coming to a gentle halt on the pavement.

Bakugo pauses beside you, hands still shoved deep in his pockets so you won’t see how tense they suddenly are.

He looks down at you— expression softening before he forces it back into something neutral.

“This your stop?” he mutters.

And there’s the faintest disappointment hidden beneath it.

“Yeah.”

Your answer is quiet, your gaze drifting from the empty road to him.

Bakugo grunts—acknowledging it with a nod. His eyes roam your face again, searching for… something. Maybe hoping for a reason to keep you here a little longer. But he schools his features quickly, turning his head as if annoyed.

“Tch. Guess this is where we part ways then.”

He starts to shift his weight, ready to turn away, but you speak first.

“Before that, I have something to say.”

Bakugo freezes.

Every muscle in his body goes stiff. His jaw tightens. His eyes snap back to you immediately, guarded and sharp—already anticipating some kind of emotional speech which he hates but he hates the flutter of nerves curling in his stomach even more.

"Hah?" He growls—but it comes out softer than intended. "What is it?"

He’s nervous. And he hates being nervous.

You swallow hard, heart pounding in your chest.

“Bakugo Katsuki, I… I like you.”

Your voice comes out small but steady, your head bowed, ears tinged a soft, unmistakable pink.

Bakugo.exe has stopped working.

He freezes—eyes widening just a fraction, breath catching in his throat. For one long, stunned beat, every thought in his head evaporates. His face stays mostly composed, but his ears betray him almost instantly, flushing a deep, explosive red.

“H-Hah?!” he sputters, voice cracking in a way he will deny until the day he dies.

Silence stretches for a deafening moment.

Bakugo doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe—just stands there frozen as your confession hangs in the air between you. Then, as if forcing life back into his body,

he tears his gaze away, inhaling sharply as he tries to collect himself.

His chest rises with a long, controlled breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is gruff but uncharacteristically steady.

“Listen, I…”

Another breath. Another tense pause.

“I ain’t ready for this shit yet."

Your stomach drops.

But he continues—unable to stop now that he’s started.

“I gotta focus on bein’ the best damn hero first—can’t afford distractions.”

His eyes flick up to yours for only a heartbeat before they dart away again. His jaw clenches hard, frustration twisting at the corners of his expression.

“…Maybe someday, alright? But not now.”

You knew this was coming. You prepared for this. But the sting still hits like a blade between your ribs.

Bakugo hates it.

He hates the look in your eyes, hates the way the words taste coming out of his mouth— because he knows damn well he doesn’t even believe them. Not fully.

He wants you. More than he’s willing to admit. But every fear he has screams louder.

What if he’s not good enough yet?

What if he fails you the way he’s failed others?

What if loving you comes at a cost he can’t pay?

He clears his throat, voice rougher, quieter. “I mean… I’m not even good at this… feelings crap.”

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets—almost hiding in them. His shoulders are rigid, like he’s bracing for an impact that never comes. He keeps his eyes glued to the pavement, unable to face the hurt he knows he caused.

“Tch… just—”

He stops, lips pressed into a hard line before he forces the last part out, almost a whisper,

“Don’t wait around for me, alright?”

“Oh.”

The word leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Your eyes shine with disappointment before you quickly lift your head and muster a smile. A brave one. A painful one.

“I’ll be looking forward to that then.”

Your voice shakes, but you keep going.

“Good luck on being the greatest hero, Katsuki.”

Bakugo’s chest aches—a sharp, twisting pull he can’t name. Your smile nearly knocks the air out of him. He knows exactly what it means. He knows exactly how hard you’re trying not to fall apart.

His fingers twitch—like he almost reaches for you. Like he almost takes it all back.

But fear wins.

He grunts, looking away sharply.

“Tch… yeah.”

Then— because he can’t walk away without saying something, without giving you anything— he mutters low, rough.

“…good luck to you too.”

He turns on his heel before the crack in his expression can be seen—shoulders stiff, steps heavy, throat tight.

He walks away, jaw clenched, fighting every instinct telling him to look back.

Unbeknownst to him, your vision blurs.

Tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes as you watch the blonde’s silhouette shrink under the yellow glow of streetlights.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Eight years later.

After the final war and graduation, Class 1-A scattered into their professional hero careers and other paths. You hadn’t heard from him since… that night. The both of you threw yourselves into work, chasing the futures you’d promised yourselves back at U.A.

You focused— hard. Just like he told you to. Just like you needed to.

And for eight whole years, you kept yourself busy enough to drown out the ache you’d buried deep inside.

Eventually, you achieved the dream you’d clung to since you first stepped through U.A.’s doors. You earned your own hero agency. Rank 19. A place you fought tooth-and-nail for.

Bakugo, on the other hand… you heard bits and pieces through the media.

He’d made it into the Top 10. Then slipped from rank 5 to rank 15 mostly due to his lack of social finesse. No surprise there. But still, you wondered. You wondered how he was doing now. You wondered if he even remembered.

Even after all this time, even after you forced yourself to bury those feelings until they went numb, something about them never fully disappeared. They lingered. Quiet. Persistent. Unavoidable.

It had also been awhile since you last spoke with your classmates. You kept in touch with Mina, barely, your schedules constantly clashing as both of you chased your respective careers.

So when the announcement dropped that Class 1-A would be holding an alumni reunion to celebrate Shoto Todoroki’s ascension to the No. 2 spot on the national hero rankings, your heart jumped.

Finally! after eight long years— you’d get to see them again.

All of them. Yeah, them.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You were late.

You’d slept straight through your alarm—sure, the event wasn’t until the evening, but after handling an absurd number of villains in just one day, your body had simply given out the moment you got home. You barely made it through the apartment door before collapsing.

Now you were scrambling.

You rushed through getting ready, pulse fluttering under your skin. Thankfully, you’d showered before bed; otherwise this would’ve been a complete disaster. You practically dove into your closet, yanking out the first dress that matched your taste. You were styling your hair with one hand while applying makeup with the other, hoping the universe would at least give you some mercy tonight. You didn’t even think about what to put in your purse— just stuffed things inside and bolted for the door. Years had passed and you refused to show up and make a bad impression.

But the moment you reached the parking lot and dug through your purse for your keys, your heart sank.

They weren’t there.

You’d left them upstairs.

“Perfect,” you muttered through your teeth. “Just perfect.”

Luck was absolutely not with you today. With no time to run back up, you snatched your phone and called an Uber, tapping your foot hard on the pavement.

During the ride, your nerves only tightened. You fidgeted with your fingers, then bit your lower lip—your telltale anxious habit resurfacing. Your knee bounced, your thoughts spun, and by the time the car finally pulled up to the venue, your heart was beating so hard your ribs felt tender.

You forced a slow inhale.

Okay. You could do this.

You paid, stepped out, and walked toward the entrance with determination stitched into your steps. Your heels clicked sharply against the tiles as you approached the reserved room the hostess indicated. You paused, gathering yourself with one deep breath.

Right. No backing out now.

You reached for the doorknob— only for it to swing open in your face. And—

“Oh my god—no way. Is that you?” Mina stared, wide-eyed, her longer hair framing a face full of disbelief. For a heartbeat, the world went still. Then the two of you squealed in unison, throwing yourselves into a tight, bouncing hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you both.

“GIRL, I MISSED YOU, OH MY GOD— AND why are you late!?” she demanded suddenly, her expression flipping into mock annoyance. She pouted dramatically, hands on hips, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, well, I accidentally slept through my alarm. Y’know.. duty calls.”

“That is so on brand for you” She shook her head, then immediately lit up again. “You didn’t change one bit—BUT GAWD DAMN, you look absolutely edible right now. Like, what happened to you? In a good way.” She practically circled you, eyes sparkling like you were a shiny new toy. You laughed, heat creeping up your neck.

“You didn’t change either. You look really pretty.”

She grew flustered instantly, slapping your shoulder lightly. “Stop!! I’m gonna get all shy— come on! Everyone else is already inside.”

Everyone else. The word hit you with a strange mix of excitement and nerves.

They were really here— after all this time.

Well… here goes nothing.

You stepped inside, and warm chatter washed over you like a wave. Laughter danced through the air, stories overlapping, glasses clinking. Every table was packed with familiar silhouettes—mature, taller, more refined, but undeniably still them. Their presence stirred something warm and aching in your chest, nostalgia blooming like finding an old photograph.

“C’mon! Our table’s right here,” Mina said, tugging your hand.

She pulled you toward a nearby table filled with faces you recognized only after a double take— different now, but still them.

“Guys! Guess who finally made it!” Mina chimed.

The chatter died instantly. They all turned toward you—blinking, squinting, trying to connect the you from their memories to the you standing right here.

Mina let out a soft laugh at their confusion and said your name aloud.

And then—

A chorus of “woah!” and bright smiles exploded around the table. They waved excitedly, and you returned the gesture with a warm, slightly flushed smile before taking your seat. Compliments rained down immediately.

“NO WAY— that’s you!?” Uraraka gasped first, eyes sparkling.

“GIRL, you had a glow-up for real! tell me your secret!” Hagakure chimed in, leaning across the table. Asui gave a small nod, lips curling into that familiar gentle smile.

“You look really nice. Ribbit.”

Their sincerity soaked into you, making your face heat even more. You waved them off playfully. “I just grew older, what’s the difference? You guys are the pretty ones,” you teased, rolling your eyes.

Laughter rose again, warm and shared, a soft bubble of joy that settled in your chest. You slipped easily into conversation, trading stories, filling each other in on the years you’d missed. Your heart felt full— overflowing, even. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed this.

But little do you know— somewhere behind you, a pair of crimson eyes lingers on you from another table.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

“Let’s celebrate the fact that Shoto Todoroki, former Class 1-A student, is now SECOND PLACE on the Billboard Charts!!” Kirishima shot up from his seat, raising his glass high as his voice boomed across the room.

The crowd erupted, cheering and lifting their drinks in unison. Laughter and applause echoed through the venue as the celebration mellowed back into warm, buzzing chatter— Kirishima proudly rambling like always, the unofficial hype-man of any gathering.

Bakugo sat there listening to Kirishima’s enthusiastic yapping— well, trying to. He barely understood half the things the redhead was going on about, and honestly, he didn’t have the energy to care. Midoriya, of course, nodded along beside him, probably the only one genuinely following the conversation.

With a grunt, Bakugo reached for his drink, bringing it halfway to his lips—

When something stopped him cold.

A voice.

A laugh.

A tone he knew far too well.

“I just grew older, what’s the difference? You guys are the pretty ones!”

Then came the soft echo of laughter, and one of those laughter, blending perfectly with the others.

His entire body stiffened.

No.

No fucking way.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, he turned over his shoulder toward the table a little ways across, perpendicular to his own.

And froze.

It was you.

The girl who had haunted his memory for years. The one his mind refused to forget no matter how much time passed. You were sitting with the others, laughing—radiant, bright, alive.

You looked… different. More grown. Your hair was longer than he remembered, your features sharper, more defined. There was an ease to you now, something softer, freer. And god— you looked beautiful.

Painfully beautiful.

He didn’t even realize how long he had been staring until you felt it. Your laughter faltered just slightly as you gave a small, curious glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes met.

A split second—just a flicker—

But it hit him like a truck.

Your eyes widened.

His heart slammed against his chest. Heat rushed up his neck, burning all the way to his ears.

He snapped his gaze away instantly, nearly choking on nothing as he forced his eyes back to the table. His pulse was going feral, slamming like a drum he couldn’t shut off.

Midoriya blinked at him, concerned. “..Kacchan? Are you okay—?”

“Shut it, Deku!”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Later, the reunion began winding down. People hugged, exchanged numbers, and wished each other luck in the hero world. You managed to talk to almost everyone—almost. And because of that, a small, stubborn emptiness tugged at you. A lingering ache you couldn’t ignore.

“Goodbye, Mina!” you called, waving with a wide grin.

“TEXT ME, OKAY?!” Mina shouted as she walked backward, matching your energy perfectly.

“I WILL!!”

You kept waving until her figure disappeared into the distance, your smile slowly softening. Then you turned around, heading in the opposite direction. With no car, you had no choice but to walk to the bus station. Great.

You sighed internally and began your walk along the sidewalk.

Still haven’t finished the paperwork… I’m gonna have to cram again later…

You groaned under your breath.

But your mind refused to stay on work. It drifted back to that moment.

The moment your eyes met.

Your steps faltered. Your lips flattened into a frown.

He was there. Just across the room.

He looked… handsome. As always. Maybe even more than you remembered.

Your cheeks heated.

No, nope, stop. Seriously, stop. When am I going to get over this?

you sighed, frustrated at yourself.

I wish… I really, really wish—

Behind you, quick footsteps approached, but you were too lost in thought to notice.

“Oi!”

You stopped cold.

That voice. You knew it instantly.

You turned around so fast it almost startled you.

Your unfinished thought clicked into place.

…to talk to him.

Five steps away stood Bakugo Katsuki.

Chest rising with uneven breaths. Crimson eyes locked on you with an intensity that stole the rest of your breath.

And before you could even stop yourself, your lips move like reflex.

"Katsuki?"

Bakugo’s heart slammed against his ribs, the sound pulsing through his ears like a war drum. He hadn’t planned this. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was doing. But hearing his name from your lips— the same voice he’d replayed in his head more times than he’d ever admit— shoved him straight out of his internal chaos.

He swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.

“Hey…”

His voice came out rough, hoarse, betraying everything he didn’t want to show.

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly too aware of your heartbeat.

“Hey…” you manage to reply, your voice softer than you intended.

Bakugo shifted, stuffing his hands into his pockets to hide the tension trembling through his fingers. He’d imagined this moment a hundred different ways, but nothing older, sharper, beautiful in a way that made his chest tighten painfully.

He cleared his throat, forcing out a casual tone that didn’t match the turmoil inside him. “Been a while, huh?”

“Oh, uhm—yeah, it has.”

Your voice cracks slightly. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying—and failing—to keep your composure.

Bakugo’s gaze softened despite himself. Was that nervousness he heard? He wanted to reach out, to make sure you were real, but he dug his hands deeper into his pockets instead.

“You uh… you look good.”

Your eyes widen at that, breath hitching as heat rushes to your cheeks. You look down quickly, your toes curling inside your shoes.

“Thank… thank you.”

The silence stretched for a heartbeat.

Finally, you asked, quieter,

“Why… why are you here?”

Bakugo stiffened. Your question hit a nerve— hard. Did you really think he had no reason to come? No reason to look for you?

But before his pride could snap, he forced himself to breathe. Because he didn’t have a logical reason. Not one he could say without exposing everything.

He exhaled and muttered, low and raw,

“Just wanted to see you.”

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Your breath hitched, your fingers slowly loosening their grip on your bag. You lifted your eyes to his—hesitantly, almost disbelieving.

Bakugo’s pulse thundered as he held your gaze.

“You… what? Why?”

Your voice was soft, unsteady.

He clenched his jaw, torn between every instinct he had—walk away and forget all about this—but the one thing that kept him rooted in place: you.

“Because…”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“because I want to talk to you.”

You heart nearly leaps out of your throat but you quickly composed yourself. Your brows knit slightly as you hug your arms loosely around yourself.

“What about? Is it about hero work?”

Damn. That stung more than he'd care to admit. Hero work? That's all you thought he wanted to talk about?

Bakugo bit back a scoff, the corners of his lips tugging downwards into a subtle frown.

"No." He said firmly. "Not about work."

“Oh… then what?”

You lower your arms again, fingers fidgeting restlessly. You can feel your heart climbing into your throat.

Bakugo’s patience frays— not at you, but at himself. At how hard this is. At how much he feels.

He lets out a breath through his nose.

“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

You blink, confused.

"I—" He started before stopping himself, jaw tightening as he fought against his own stubbornness.

Then he drags a hand over his mouth, then forces the words out:

"I missed you."

Your breath stops. Your eyes widen. For a moment your hands go still at your sides as everything inside you freezes.

“..But it’s been eight years,” you whisper.

“You said you didn’t—”

"I know what I said!" he snapped— but his voice lacked any real bite, the frustration directed more at himself than you.

His scowl deepened as he forced himself to continue, the words coming out in a rush like ripping off a bandaid.

"I thought I could do it —focus on bein' the best, push everything else aside."

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering away briefly before meeting yours again.

"But I was wrong."

Then, quieter— painfully honest,

"I've never stopped thinking about you."

Your breath quivers. Your eyes blink rapidly as you try to hold back the sudden tightness building in your chest. Your fingers find the hem of your sleeve, tugging anxiously.

Then he drags a hand through his hair, looking like he’s fighting himself. Bakugo squeezes his eyes shut, fists curling.

“Shit… screw it.”

Breath hitching, chest heaving, he blurts,

“FUCK— I still love you!”

His voice cracks, raw, leaving him shaking.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get you outta my system.”

There.

There it was.

The damn words he'd been holding back for eight long, long years. They fell between them like a bomb, hanging heavy in the air as he waited for your reaction.

Bakugo's heart hammered against his chest, his hands clenched into tight fists by his sides as he continues, voice now small.

“I… I’m…”

He looks down at the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You take half a step forward before stopping, unsure, your hand hovering slightly like you want to reach for him but don’t know if you should.

Bakugo clenched his fists tighter— his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to keep going despite the way his pulse was roaring in his ears.

"I was a damn idiot back then—thinking I could just..."

He growled, the words rough and uneven.

"But I —I can't do this shit without you."

His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths—his entire body rigid with the effort of not combusting right then and there.

"So if you—if you still..."

He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

"Just tell me."

Then he looks up. Eyes bare. Voice barely a whisper.

“Because I… I really want more with you.”

He says your name at the end like it hurts.

You inhale sharply. Your hands slowly uncurl as emotion rushes through you. A shaky smile forms at your lips as tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You step closer— one step, then another— until your toes touch his.

“I… I want more with you as well.”

You offer your hand, palm trembling just slightly.

Bakugo stares at your hand for a moment, then his expression softens into a rare, genuine smile— the same one he had when he asked All Might for his autograph during the war.

He reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours, and pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you.

Your hands were warm and fitted perfectly with his and goddamn him if his heart didn't skip a beat because of it. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice gruff and low as he held your gaze.

“Yeah.”

You grin, cheeks warm, eyes shining.

Bakugo's chest felt tight, his heart hammering a million miles a second as he studied your expression— searching for any hint of doubt or hesitation.

But when he found none, his gaze on you softens and a slow smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Good.”

He grumbled before pulling you flushed with him, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace.

Your breath leaves you in a soft gasp as your hands slide up to his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt.

“I ain’t letting you go this time.”

He whispered into your ear, then nips lightly at your earlobe, making your breath hitched as your nails dig into his back.

“Promise.”

.𖥔a/n: NOWWW I LOVE THIS ONE! Why? Because It's heavily inspired by izuku and ochaco's confession at the final chapter of mha manga— which I love I love LOVE! So I thought, what if it's you and bakubabe? I would love love LOVE IT EVEN MOREE! okay that's all, stay tuned for more rambles!<3

[ryoride]

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 watches & admires his lover from afar, with this awestruck look in his eyes. It doesn't matter what you're doing; his eyes stay on you—like you'd hung the goddamn stars

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 lies awake whenever you sleep in his bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, propped up on an elbow, listening to the quiet snores that escape.

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 writes love letters, he doesn't write them often—but when he does make you one, they're multiple pages long, always accompanied by a bouquet of roses, & lit candles

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 still has the first photo you ever printed out of the two of you, tucked away safely in his wallet

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 lets you comb through his hair and braid it however you like and doesn't take them out unless he genuinely has to—taking comfort in your presence with him even if physically parted.

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫!𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 who loses his mind when he hasn't seen you in more than a few days—driving his friends up the wall to the point they're as relieved as he is whenever he sees you again.

[aransmind]

[sofftxddiess]

First tumblr post being gojo ❤️‍🩹

-

[naomiiocha]

Got a few requests to draw nanami please keep giving me more reason to draw tired fatherly salarymen

[aransmind]

this duo >>>

[chososkink]

☆ tattoo artist!sukuna giving his shy gf a tramp stamp

throughout the few years you and sukuna have been together, the idea of getting a tattoo never really crossed your mind. while you loved seeing the different pieces he came home and showed you, there wasn't an urge for you to have the same ink on your body. but lately you might’ve had a change of heart…

scrolling online, you came across a girls post talking about tramp stamps and how it was the best decision she ever made. other people in the comments posted pictures of theirs and it was safe to say, you're obsessed. scrolling through pinterest looking for your own inspo consumed the last few nights you've laid in bed. and at first it was just a small thought. something you would keep in the back of your mind, but you remember seeing one particular comment-

prettygothgirl67: my man is so obsessed with my tramp stamp. he literally fucked me in every position possible the night i got it, and he's been taking any chance he gets to see it. best decision ever #reverse cowgirl and doggy are our bedroom staples #GET ONE!!THEY'RE SUPER HOT

your boyfriend constantly put you first in the bedroom, never let you look down on yourself and made sure you knew you were loved. you've always been a little shy, always folding in on yourself for different occasions. but you think it's time to open your shell a bit. sukuna is amazing at his job, and you probably trust him the most out of everyone so why not go and get a tattoo! especially if the night will end anything like that twitter comment described. so with all the courage you can muster, you go to the tattoo parlors website and book an appointment with the pink haired man. you probably should’ve told him personally instead of doing it this way but before you can over think it, you hit confirm.

you’ve stayed up the last few nights looking at every possible pin, inspo pics, and even first time tattoo tips. it’s safe to say you’re actually ready and not as worried as you were a few days ago.

but your boyfriend is not as gullible as you think. he came home one night to you already asleep in bed, and your phone open to newest photo album titled “tattoos <3”. he figured you would’ve talked to him if you wanted one but knew you might’ve been too anxious. so he let it go, shrugged it off and joined you in bed. now he’s looking at his schedule for the day and sees an appointment for 12:30 under the name “sweetheart”. maybe you were trying to be secretive about this whole thing but he knows no one else would book their name under a cute alias like that, so with a gentle smiling falling upon his lips, he gets the room ready for you.

you’ve been in the shop hundreds of times, but knowing it’s you getting a piece done is filling you with a buzz of a excitement you wouldn’t have expected. you made sure the outfit you wore was short and didn’t cover your lower back.

“hi, baby” his deep voice is enough to shake you out of your daydream. you thought sukuna would’ve been a bit confused seeing you, but he has a calm air to him that makes you want to kiss him silly.

“hi, kuna! how did you know it was me?” and as he explains the many nights he found you asleep with your pinterest board open, you can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed. but he’s quick to wash it away as he shows you the design he drew up. it was probably the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen and a literal embodiment of you. letting out excited squeals and giggles, he heart can’t help but squeeze at every kiss you press on his necks, lips, cheek, anywhere you can reach really.

in your elation, you don’t even remember sitting on the chair but the feeling of his heavy hand rubbing circles on your lower back is enough to make you dizzy. he’s explaining the process and what steps he’s going to take as he lines the stencil up on your skin but it’s getting a bit hard to focus. especially when he’s pushing at the small of your back to arch it just a taddd bit more, claiming he needs “the perfect angle to start”. through the normal banter you two share, your boyfriends beefy thigh has landed itself right under your core. he doesn’t make a comment or stop talking so you figured he was doing it as more of a comfort thing.

but when he started to slowly move his thigh back and forth, it was hard to hold back a whimper. between the nerves of getting your first tattoo and just seeing your hot boyfriend in his element, you can’t help the soft grinds you do to meet the thrusts of his thigh. you really want the lines to come out straight and perfect but the way he tenses the muscles of particular grinds, your clit is absolutely throbbing. you can tell your sounds are getting him off just as much when he shushes you. “you gotta be quiet, baby. you’re gonna make me mess up if you keep letting out sounds like that” and you’re nothing but a willing girlfriend that nods her head in acceptance, feeling the orgasm slowly wither away.

after a few grueling hours, you hear his needle finally come to stop. you know he’s satisfied with the finished product from the pleased hum he lets out and you can feel your nerves spike in anticipation from seeing the new art. before you can even ask for a mirror, he’s laying your chair flat and giving your ass a soft tap.

“let me appreciate my hard work yeah? think y’r pussy needs a few kisses after getting such a slutty tattoo.”

[percabething]

“you better not be drinking and getting pregnant behind my back”

ma’am, I read fanfics on tumblr to fall asleep

[blurredlust]

❕ — The Version of You I Get

LISTEN TO LIABILITY BY LORDE.

He only comes to you when he’s drunk and lost. You stay long enough to realize love isn’t supposed to feel like disappearing.

This content contains emotional angst and heartbreak but also the painful truth that not all hearts are meant to be fixed.

Timeskip!Atsumu x Reader. around 1.1k wc

I recommend listening to the song above for maximum emotion.

The phone vibrates at 1:17 a.m.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know who it is. The timing is a signature—late enough to signify a disaster, early enough to catch you in the fragile space before deep sleep. The vibration hums against the nightstand, a low, tectonic rattle that settles somewhere behind your ribs.

atsumu:

‘m comin over

open pls

The spelling is sloppy, the words urgent and entitled. He never offers a greeting or an explanation. He moves through your life like he moves on the court: assuming the space is already his. You stare at the glow of the screen, your thumb hovering like this is still a choice you make freely, like history hasn’t already taught you what happens next.

You unlock the door. You don’t even check the peephole.

By the time the elevator chimes, you’re standing barefoot on the cool tile, the apartment quiet and dim. Tokyo stretches endlessly beyond the windows—a sprawl of cold neon and distant sirens, a city too vast to notice people like you learning the same devastating lesson over and over again.

You open the door before he can knock.

Atsumu stumbles inside with a familiarity that used to feel like intimacy, but now just feels like a trespass. He’s too large for the narrow entryway, his shoulder clipping the frame. He kicks his shoes off—one hitting the wall, the other overturned—and the air in the apartment shifts. He brings the outside in with him: the smell of stale whiskey, the ozone of a storm, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

He’s a mess of jagged edges. There’s a split at the corner of his mouth and a bruise already blooming like a dark, ugly flower along the sharp line of his jaw. He looks like a masterpiece that someone took a hammer to.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is a rough sandpaper rasp, but it softens when it lands on you, that familiar Kansai lilt dragging over your name like a hook.

You don’t comment on his face. You never do. To speak of it is to acknowledge the cycle, and you aren't ready to break the silence yet. You just step aside and gesture toward the bathroom. He follows without protest, his gait heavy and uncoordinated, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the hallway.

The bathroom light is a clinical, unforgiving white. It strips away the glamour of the MSBY star, the "Miya Atsumu" the world worships, and leaves only the wreckage. You soak a cloth at the sink, wring it out carefully, and turn back to him.

He’s sitting on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, watching you from beneath his gold-tinged lashes. In this light, he looks stripped down—unguarded in a way the cameras never see. It’s the look he saves just for you, a curated vulnerability that he uses to keep you tethered.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs as you press the cool cloth to his split knuckles.

The words weigh more than he knows. You don’t answer though. You focus on the rhythm of the work—the steady pressure, the way his breath catches when you hit a sensitive spot. You’ve memorized the map of his endurance. You know exactly when to pull back and when to hold firm.

Your knees brush as you crouch before him. He’s warm, radiating a heat that makes your chest ache. He leans into your touch slightly, instinctive, trusting, like this is where he’s meant to be when things fall apart.

“Ran into some idiots,” he says lightly, trying to find his swagger. “Nothin’ big. Just some guys with loud mouths.”

You hum, a low, noncommittal sound. Outside, a siren wails in the distance, a lonely sound that matches the hollow feeling in your gut. You clean the cut above his brow with surgical precision. This part is easy. It’s the "after" that hurts—the part where he leaves and takes all the light with him.

“You didn’t have to come here, Atsumu,” you say quietly.

He lets out a breathy, jagged laugh that smells of bourbon. “Yeah, I did. Didn't know where else to go.”

“You have other places,” you reply, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to remain cool. “You have a high-rise, a team, a life. Other people.”

His jaw tightens. The softness in the room curdles into something sour. He looks away, his eyes fixing on the grout of the tiled wall.

“She just—” He stops, shaking his head as if the rest of the sentence is too heavy to lift. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

But it does. Her presence is a third person in the cramped bathroom. She is the reason for the blood on his shirt and the hollow look in his eyes. You’ve learned to live in her shadow, convincing yourself you were "strong" for being the one who picks up the pieces she breaks. Some nights, it feels more like you’re just… convenient. A safety net he doesn't have to thank.

“You know she shouldn’t hit you,” you say, the words finally slipping out.

The shift is instantaneous. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by the iron-clad ego that made him a legend. He straightens his spine, his posture becoming a shield.

“Don’t start,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, warning.

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying what I see.”

“You always think you see everythin’,” he snaps, pushing to his feet too fast. He sways, his balance betrayed by the alcohol, and instinct wins—you reach out, steadying him by the forearms.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hands find your waist, heavy and possessive. His forehead drops to yours, his breath warm and smelling of regret. For a heartbeat, the world shrinks to this: the heat of him, the familiar weight, and the way your heart betrays you by wanting to stay right here in the wreckage.

“You’re makin’ it a bigger deal than it is,” he whispers against your skin, his thumb tracing the hem of your shirt. “It ain't like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Your voice is shaking now, tears pricking the backs of your eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, you argue, she hits you, you fight strangers, and you end up here.”

“That’s none of your business,” he says, the coldness returning to his tone like a sudden frost.

“You make it my business,” you reply, finally wrenching yourself out of his grip. The loss of his heat is a physical shock. “Every time you knock on my door at 1 a.m. because you're too ashamed to go anywhere else, you make it my business.”

He scoffs, a sharp, ugly sound. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me. You just do it.”

“Because I thought I was helping you,” you whisper.

The silence that follows is thick.

“She’s perfect,” he says suddenly, the words flying out of his mouth like a defensive reflex, as if it’s a fact that should end the conversation.

You stare at him, truly seeing him for the first time in years. “Perfect? Atsumu, look at your face. Look at your hands. Look at this room.”

“Oi,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, petty fire. “You don't understand her. You don't understand what we have.”

“I understand more than you think,” you say, words spilling now, unstoppable. “I understand that I’m the one cleaning your blood off my towels while she’s sleeping in your bed. I see you chasing someone who hurts you. I see you breaking yourself in half trying to be enough for her. And I see myself standing here, pretending it doesn’t kill me.”

His expression hardens into a mask of pure, arrogant ice. This is the Atsumu who crushes opponents, the one who doesn't know how to lose. He looks down at you with a chilling indifference.

“You’re takin’ this too personal,” he says.

“Because it is personal,” you snap back. “You come here when she’s done with you. You let me clean up the mess. And the second I say something you don’t like, I’m ‘overstepping.’”

“You don’t know your place. You never did.”

The words land with more force than any punch he took tonight. The "place" he’s assigned you—the secondary character, the silent healer, the footnote.

Something inside you finally gives. It isn't a loud, dramatic break; it's a quiet, devastating clarity. It’s the sound of a key turning in a lock for the last time. You realize that you aren't the person who saves him—you're the person who makes it possible for him to keep being destroyed. By being his safety net, you’ve become his enabler.

You slap him.

The sound is a gunshot in the small bathroom. His head snaps to the side, his blond hair falling over his eyes. He goes completely still. His eyes go wide, stunned into a silence he hasn't felt in years. Your hand stings—a sharp, electric heat that makes you feel more alive than you have in months—but you don’t pull it back.

“Fuck you,” you say, your voice terrifyingly steady. “I’m done being the place you land when everything else falls apart.”

He opens his mouth, his tongue darting out to touch the new copper taste of blood on his lip. He looks like he’s searching for a joke, an insult, a way to regain the upper hand, but for once, he finds nothing. You step back, putting a chasm between you that no amount of history can bridge.

“Get some sleep,” you say, walking toward the door. “You know where the couch is. You’ll be gone by the time I wake up. And don't bother ever coming back here.”

“Wait—”

You close your bedroom door before he can finish. You turn the lock. It’s a small, metallic click, but in the heavy silence of the apartment, it sounds like a funeral bell.

You lean your back against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor. You listen to the muffled, clumsy sounds of him moving in the other room, the rustle of the couch cushions, the eventually heavy silence of a man who has lost the only real person in his life.

Outside, Tokyo keeps glowing, beautiful and indifferent. Your chest aches with a weight that feels like it might actually kill you. But as you sit there in the dark, listening to the city hum, you realize that some hearts aren't meant to be fixed by other people. Some hearts are meant to stay broken until they learn how to beat for themselves.

end

A/n: I wanted to write something raw and emotional —about loving someone you shouldn’t, about heartbreak that feels inescapable, and moments where love and pain collide. Atsumu was always such a complicated character to me, and I needed to explore him in a way that’s messy, emotional, and real. So, thank you for letting me share this version of him to you (even though it is terribly devastating to read).

mavis

[enchanthings]

could I possibly request black and grey themed dividers? something dark, kind of misty maybe? Just kinda of late night cemetery vibe if that's alright!

hi! here are some dividers with those vibes. I've also made them to be light & dark mode friendly!

◦˚~ DARK CEMETERY DIVIDERS ~˚◦

Info: these were all drawn & made by me. please reblog/like if use!

[cinna-creme]

stretch

a/n: idk i’m just ( ˶˘ ³˘) for them

——————

s. todoroki

his brow is scrunched in concentration as he lines his leaking tip up with your dripping pussy. he presses in only for him to pop out a second later, sending him sliding up against your puffy clit. you whine, thighs shaking, eyes round.

“shooo, think ‘s too big.” you squirm beneath him.

“just relax f’me.” he glances at your face before lining himself back up.

“i- mmf!” he presses his tip in. “sho!” your legs shake around his waist.

“doing so good.” he nods, sliding in another inch. “there you go, baby.”

he keeps inching in, bringing his thumb to your clit and rubbing little circles. drool pools at the corner of his lips looking at the bulge he creates. his tongue darts out, sliding across his lips, eyes looking up at your face.

“tell me how you’re feeling.” his voice strained as he keeps his hips still, thumb still circling lazily.

“full.” your lids heavy. “shoto ‘s big.” you squirm.

“i know, baby.” he nods. “but you’re doing so good. feel so good.” you watch his throat bob.

you slide a hand down your tummy and feel the outline of him. he can’t help the jerk of his hips at the sight, pulling a high pitched cry from your lips at the feeling.

“‘m sorry.” he pants.

“want you to move.” you blink up at him. “slow.” lashes fluttering as you feel him dragging out.

his jaw is set, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, fingers digging into your thighs as he starts to push back in. the breath is knocked from his lungs as you suck him back in, pussy wrapping around him so tightly he feels like he’s being choked.

“baby.” his voice cracks. “gotta relax.” his head drops.

“i’m- ngh! i’m trying.” your lip wobbles. “feels like you’re splitting me open.” your thighs twitch.

his thumb slides back down to your clit and you let out a shaky exhale. he slowly starts to move, ignoring the tightening in his lower stomach at how perfect you feel. your pussy’s still squeezing around him but finally easing up to let him move.

“sho..” your toes curl, your fingers wrapping around his wrist that’s playing with your clit.

“i know, i know.” he drags his eyes up to yours.

he leans down and presses his lips to yours, tongue sliding past your lips, swallowing down all your sounds as he starts to gently rock into you.

his trusts slowly make your mind fuzzy, warm pooling low in your tummy. your arms are wrapped around his back, hands traveling up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. you gasp feeling everything coming at once.

“sho ‘s- ‘m gonna ! mmf!”

he presses his forehead to yours, doing everything he can to keep his eyes open to watch you make the cutest faces as you cum around him. he can’t hold off anymore and fills you, hips stilling, pants fanning across your flushed skin.

“wanna go again.” you jerk your hips, pulling a breathy laugh from his lips.

——————

k. bakugo

he’s got your legs held up to your chest with one arm, his fingers wrapped tightly around his base as he lines himself up. you’re soaked, pussy fluttering around nothing, mocking him as your little hole pushes him out again.

“damnit, you gotta relax.” he huffs, cheeks red.

“katsss ‘m trying!” you whine. “just so big.” you push your lower lip out.

he exhales slowly and lines himself up again. he pushes his tip in, letting out a small laugh when he gets in another inch, pussy finally granting him access.

“there you go.” he pats your thigh.

“nghh! ‘s so..” your eyes squeeze shut.

“focus on this.” his rubs tight circles on your clit, sliding in another inch. “doing good.” he watches your lips part in a soft whimper.

your body feels like it’s on fire, he’s spilling you open so slowly, so thoroughly. when his hips are finally flush with yours, he rests your ankles on his shoulders and cups your face.

“still w’me?” he watches you peel your eyes open. “there you are.” he grins.

“‘m full.” you whine. “feel you in my tummy.” his composure drops for a second.

“just lemme know when i can move.” his thumb strokes your cheek and you lean into his warmth.

“now but just.. slow.” you peek up at him.

“yeah.” he nods, hands sliding from your face to rest on the mattress next to your head.

your breath gets caught in your throat at the feel of him pulling out, thighs twitching. he sinks back in, letting out a deep groan at the way your walls suck him back in. his pace is slow, almost antagonizingly so, brushing against your clit each time he bottoms out.

“kats ‘m- ! mmf ‘s s’good!! gonna- gonna !” your burst around him, orgasm catching you both off guard.

“fuck.” his fingers dig into the sheets.

you feel him twitch and start to fill you with him cum. you both are panting as you cling onto him, trembling beneath him.

“can we.. go again?” you whisper.

“course.” he rolls his hips, still hard.

[deludise03]

Morning story

Every morning, I wake up to the sensation of something searingly hot buried inside me. To put it another way: I wake up in the middle of sex, every single day.

I don’t even have to look; it’s that damn Gojo Satoru.

He manages to act like a decent human being when I’m on my period, though even then, he’ll rub my inner thighs raw and red until the skin is practically chafed. While everyone else starts their day full of energy for school or work, I spend my mornings rendered completely soft and useless by him.

As the rhythmic force of his thrusts jolted me awake yet again, I couldn't help but weakly swing a fist at his shoulder—not that it had any real power behind it—and barked out in frustration, "What does your morning wood have to do with me?!"

That earned me a tender kiss. Those sky-blue eyes were swirling with lust and amusement. "Good morning, kitten."

Resigned, I gave up the resistance and just watched him move. "Hey... aren't you tired?" I asked lazily, sprawling against the sheets. "You got back so late last night."

He withdrew nearly all the way before sliding back in slowly, letting me adjust to the stretch. "When I’m with my wife, I’m always full of energy, even if I haven't slept much."

I felt my cheeks flush crimson and averted my eyes. Satoru leaned down to steal a kiss, his lips soft against mine. As we pulled apart, I couldn't resist nipping at his lower lip.

He pulled out entirely then, his length glistening with a layer of slick. "Look, this is all from you, wifey~"

Hearing that sing-song lilt in his voice, I reflexively clamped my hands over my eyes. "Shut up! Just shut up!!"

The bastard didn't waste a second slamming back in, bottoming out so suddenly that a cry of pure pleasure escaped me before I could catch it.

He sped up his pace, peppering my forehead with kisses while asking with that insufferable grin, "You're feeling pretty good too, aren't you?"

By the time we finished, Satoru was gently wiping my face. It was only then I realized I had been crying the whole time. Flustered and not knowing where to look, I scrambled out of bed to get dressed. Satoru sat back against the headboard, teasing, "Was it really that good?"

I yanked my toothbrush out of my mouth and screamed in pure indignation: "NO!!! IT!!! WASN'T!!!"///////

TBC here 🎀

[toxisyddy]

hiii i lovee your dividers and i was wondering if you could make the nightwing, red hood, robin, and other dc character dividers like the ones with just their symbol and then lines on each side but instead of lines there are bows with the main color of their symbol?? idk if that was clear or not but if it was it'd be soo great if you could! no pressure tho :))

hey nonnie! what a cute idea <3 tbh you caught me at a perfect time cause i was already making christmas bow dividers! pls let me know if you want any diff styles for these (ex: just two bows on each side, diff colours/logos/heroes etc!)

all dividers are free to use! credit is not required <3