Discover Top Posts Tagged with #✶.. mimi scribbles

꒰ 爆豪勝己 ꒱ › katsuki hates being loud in bed. mdni. pro hero! bakugo x fem! reader. unprotected piv

for someone who’s so loud and cocky, katsuki is surprisingly quiet in bed. because he hates the sounds he makes, finds his own whimpers and groans pathetic and weak. he hates the way his control dissolves, the way his body betrays him with hitched breaths and feeble groans. every time a whimper ‘threatens’ to spill from his lips, he’s gulping it down, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

he kisses you like he’s trying to swallow the moans building in his own chest. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, not just to taste you, but to make sure you’re so full of him that no sound can escape.

“kats breathe,” you gasp when he finally lets you up for air.

“shut up,” he snarls, but there’s no heat beneath his words.

when you finally sink down onto him, taking him in inch by excruciating inch, his whole body goes rigid. a sharp hiss falls through his gritted teeth, and he immediately buries his face in the crook of your neck, as if in shame. you can feel the vibration of his groan against your throat, a guttural sound he tries so, so hard to kill.

“fuck,” he breathes, a mere puff of air against your glistening skin. his hips remain still, even as his cock throbs inside you

when you start to ride him, his hands fly from your hips to your ass, then to your shoulders, anywhere he can get purchase, as if he’s physically trying to hold himself together. his breathing becomes harsh and uneven. you can hear the struggle in every inhale. his crimson eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration that has everything to do with not falling apart.

you love watching him like this. you love being the one to unravel him. you pick up the pace, rolling your hips in that way you know drives him wild, and you feel the tremor that starts in his thighs, the way his calloused fingers dig bruises into your perfect skin.

a sound that’s half-gasp, half-whimper, bubbles up, and katsuki immediately clamps his mouth down on your shoulder — using your body to silence his own.

he’s drunk on the copper leaking from your broken skin. he presses soothing kisses to your shoulder and it makes you clench even harder around him. that’s what finally makes him break. a moan tears from his throat, muffled by your flesh but unmistakable. a vulnerable sound that’s completely at odds with the explosive hero he is by day. it’s the sound of him stripped of all his defenses

꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › nerd!jo will always put you first. sfw. fem!reader. very self indulgent fluff. college au.

it’s 2:34 in the morning, and the only light in your dorm room comes from your glowing laptop screen. your history paper, a fifteen-page monstrosity on the socioeconomic impact of the second world war, is due at 8:00 am. you’ve been surviving on a combination of caffeine and sour candy for the past six hours, and you can feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones

you’re typing the topic sentence of your conclusion, when without warning, without so much as a flicker, your screen goes completely black and the low hum of the fan ceases. your heart hammers against your ribs, a beat of pure panic. no. no, no, no.

you spam the spacebar. nothing. you mash the power button, holding it down until your finger aches, then releasing it and pressing it again. nothing.

you try every combination of keys you can think of, hands trembling so badly you can barely type. nothing. the screen remains a void mirror that reflects your own, tear-streaked face back at you. the document. your sources. hours of work. . . gone.

a choked sob escapes your throat. tears spill over your waterline, blurring your vision until the dark screen is just a smear of nothingness. you can feel the panic building in your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs.

your roommate, shoko, is dead asleep across the room, her soft snores the only sound breaking the suffocating silence. you can’t wake her up. you can’t bother anyone with this. with the sole exception of satoru gojo, of course.

with trembling fingers, you grab your phone and pull up his contact. thumb hovering over your keyboard.

it’s almost three in the morning. satoru is meticulous about his sleep schedule. he needs his eight hours or he’s insufferable and cranky all day. and he has his biochem final today. you can’t. you shouldn’t.

but the thought of starting over from scratch, of facing this alone, is more than you can bear.

toru i’m gonna cry [ 02:36 am ]

you stare at the words you’ve typed up, they’re so dramatic and unserious but you send them anyway.

i hate my fucking chungus life [ 02:36 am ]

three little dots appear before you can even wipe the fresh tears from your cheeks.

toruuu ❤︎ : What’s wrong baby? [ 02:36 am ]

꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › gojo’s eyes glow when he’s close mdni. unprotected piv ⁝ inappropriate use of reverse cursed technique. overstimulátion ⁝ inspired by this tiktok i saw a few days ago ✶

there’s a whole galaxy in the space between satoru’s lashes. you could spend hours just watching his eyes. they’re the kind of blue that doesn’t feel real, wisps of the sky and the deepest parts of the ocean. you’ve memorized the way they darken when he’s focused, the way they soften when he looks at you, and the way they glow when he has you caged beneath him.

the first time you notice it, you’re intertwined in the dark of your bedroom. the only light source is a lunar sliver cutting through the curtains. satoru’s moving above you, a steady rhythm that has you arching into him, nails digging crescents in the sweat-slick muscle of his shoulders.

“that’s it baby” he murmurs, skin against skin echoing in the room, “keep looking— hck— at me”

his eyes light up. familiar blue flares into a something unrecognizable — a white neutron star. it’s blinding. you squeeze your eyes shut as a gasp falls from your lips.

when you open them again, the luster is dim. his usual azure gaze is fixed on you, though his pupils are blown wide, practically swallowing the color whole.

“toru. . .” you breathe, heart hammering against your ribs. “what was that?”

he stills, hips pressed flush against yours. a cocky grin spresding across his face, “what was what?” he teases, though his voice is hoarse and his breath is ragged as he leans down to graze your collarbone

he chooses that exact moment to roll his hips and the follow-up question dissolves on your tongue, forgotten in a haze of pleasure. but you don’t forget the sight.

you can’t. not when it’s seared onto the back of your eyelids

꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › nerd!jo hates your energy drinks sfw. fluff fluff fluff + nerdy chem stuff. very self-indulgent

satoru loves you so completely it feels like a fundamental law of his universe, as unchangeable and indisputable as gravity, polarity, and einstein’s theory of general relativity.

but he hates your energy drinks with an intensity that rivals his love for you

he hates the garish colors of the cans, the aggressive branding, the chemical-sweetness that clings to you after you’ve had one. and most of all, he hates what they do to you.

he hates the subtle tremor in your hands that you try to hide by shoving them in your pockets. he hates the way your eyes dart around, unable to settle on one thing for too long, he hates the slight spike in your heart rate when he presses his ear to your chest, a frantic rhythm that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the caffeine coursing through your veins.

sometimes, late at night when you’re curled up against him, he’ll trace your face with his fingertips and think about all the articles he’s read, all the studies about cardiovascular health and the long-term effects of chronic caffeine consumption.

he finds himself terrified because he loves you too much to watch you slowly poison yourself, even if it’s in the name of productivity.

when satoru finds you in the kitchen each morning, he doesn’t even have to look up to know what you’re holding. he just knows, and his jaw tightens

“another one?” he asks, he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at you like you’re about to drink a vial of poison.

you take a deliberate, long sip, the sugary, chemical taste coating your tongue. “good morning to you too, ‘toru.”

he pushes off the doorframe and walks over, snatching the can from your hand before you can stop him. “do you even know what’s in this? do you even know what taurine is?”

“does it matter?” you groan, reaching for it to no avail. standing at well over six feet, he holds it out of your grasp effortlessly.

“the artificial sweeteners in here,” he starts, already in lecture mode, “the obscene amounts of sucralose and acesulfame potassium in these is what’s making your stomach hurt all the time. it’s altering the composition of your intestinal bacteria and making you bloated”

you rub your temples, a dull throb already starting behind your eyes. “i know, toru. you’ve sent me seventeen articles about it this week alone.”

“have you read any of them?” he queries, a frown tugging at his lips

“i skimmed,” you admit, trying to grab the can again. he’s too fast, “your fearmongering makes me anxious”

꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › satoru’s favorite way to unwind. sfw. gn!reader. fluff. slightly inspired by ^ this funny ass tiktok i saw

satoru’s head is heavy in your lap. you’ve been carding your fingers through his hair for what feels like hours, fingertips brushing against his scalp softly. he’s melting into a syrupy puddle, like putty in your palms as he laments about the trials and tribulations the higher ups put him through today.

“and then they tried to tell me that my mission reports need more detail,” he mumbles against your thigh, voice muffled by your skin. “as if i have the time to write an essay about every curse i exorcise.”

you hum softly in response, your nails gently scratching against his scalp. he sighs contentedly, nuzzling deeper into your lap like a cat seeking warmth. his hand, which had been resting limply at his side, now moves to grip your knee, fingers pressing in just enough to ground himself.

“they have no idea what it’s like out there. they just sit on their old wrinkly asses making decisions about things they’ve never seen or experienced,” he continues, his voice growing quieter with each word. “sometimes i wish—”

you shift slightly, reaching for the throw pillow beside you to prop behind your back. the movement is minimal, a slight readjustment to get more comfortable. but satoru freezes.

immediately, his head starts shaking back and forth against your lap. it’s not quite a tantrum, but it’s close—like he’s physically trying to shake off the discomfort of your hands leaving his hair.

“one sec,” you murmur, still focused on getting the pillow positioned right.

the shaking stops abruptly, replaced by a high-pitched whine that’s utterly uncharacteristic of the strongest sorcerer. the honored one. he’s lucky megumi isn’t here to tease him. he sounds pathetic and needy, and it makes your heart ache a little.

“sweets,” he whimpers, voice cracking slightly. “i’m six seconds away from dying, why’d you stop ?”

“so much for being the strongest . . ” you roll your eyes but you abandon the pillow instantly, hands returning to his hair. as soon as your fingers resume their threading through his soft strands, he goes boneless against you again, a shudder of relief running through him.

“okay,” you lean down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “you were saying ‘toru. . ?” he presses his face deeper into your lap, breathing evening out the second you continue playing with his hair.

“sometimes,” he murmurs against your thigh, his voice barely audible, “i wish i could just kill them all. every last one of those old men in their stuffy rooms. it would make my life so easy.”

you don’t respond, knowing he doesn’t need you to. he just needs to say it, to let the darkness out where it can’t actually hurt anyone.

“no more long ass meetings,” he continues, his words slurring with exhaustion. “no more stupid reports, i’d finally have peace and quiet. i just want peace and quiet. . .”

you lean down again, this time pressing your cheek against the top of his head, your hand never ceasing its gentle movements through his hair. “i know,” you frown, “i know, toru.”

he sighs, the tension finally leaving his body and surrendering to the comfort of your touch, your presence is the only thing in the universe keeping him from spiraling. what would he do without you ?

꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › satoru’s tired of being the strongest mdni angst + they’re fwb so suggestive. pre-shinjuku. gojo x f! reader.

satoru gojo was made for winning. not loving. the gojo clan taught him everything under the sun, moon, and stars — except how to bear his heart to another. they taught him how to shatter a curse with a flick of his fingers, how to crush his opponents with a lazy grin, how to carry the weight of the entire world on shoulders that were still, technically, those of a boy. they taught him how to be the strongest.

the burden he’s been forced to carry around since he was a child has, without a doubt, shaped his apathetic outlook on life. every victory is hollow, every moment of peace is just the lull before the next battle. he stands at the precipice of humanity’s survival and is expected to be the one who always wins. the one who saves everyone. and he’s well past over it.

you’d always known that being with satoru was doomed from the start. he wasnt raised for love. for life. it wouldn’t last. you’d told yourself this much as a third year at jujutsu high. but surprisingly it did. it does. now years down the line, the air in your bedroom is saturated with the scent of him, the salt of your drying sweat and the sweet scent of the jasmine candle on your nightstand.

satoru’s body is a furnace against your back. he has an arm thrown over your waist, anchoring you to this moment, to this bed, as if holding you tight will stop the sun from rising. his chest rises and falls steadily against the shell of your ear, but you know he’s not asleep. you can practically hear him thinking.

he’d been so, so different tonight. not his usual, playful self in the slightest. his kisses had been bruising, his hands grasping at your hips, your thighs, your hair, with a frantic need to memorize every inch of you. he’d used his reversed cursed technique to keep going, round after round, until your limbs felt like lead and your mind was blissfully blank. he’d been insatiable.

and he would have kept going, you know, until the sun painted the windows in shades of bruised amber and ijichi’s impatient knock echoed from the living room. until he had to pull on his haori and become the hope of the jujutsu world again. he would rather stay in your arms forever, but he can’t. the fate of humanity resting on his shoulders, is a weight far heavier than your body on his.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who confesses his love to you shortly before you graduate from jujutsu high. his words tumble out in a mess of emotions that makes your heart ache. he looks so vulnerable standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, amber eyes wide with fear of rejection.

you kiss him and he melts against you like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. your relationship makes all his suffering worth it. every battle, every near-death experience, every night spent haunted by the screams of those he couldn’t save.

all of it fades into nothing when you’re in his arms.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who insists on you moving into an apartment in the city together.

you fall into the routine and rhythm of domesticity — cooking unhealthy portions of spicy ramen together, your laughter echoing off the kitchen walls. curling up on the sofa together and watching studio ghibli and horror movies, his arm wrapped around you as you bury your face in his chest during the scary parts. he traces patterns on your skin as you sleep, memorizing every inch of you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away for even a second.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who proposes on a random tuesday, down on one knee in your living room with a ring he’d clearly saved up for for months.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who cries bittersweet tears at your wedding. it’s a small, very private affair, consisting of everyone who survived sukuna. when you kiss as husband and wife, yuuji holds you so tight you can barely breathe

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who isn’t really growing any older, any weaker. who watches you age until you look old enough to be his mother, his grandmother. your hair turns silver, your hands spotted with age, your movements slow.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who traces your wrinkles and refuses to leave you despite how weird and disorienting it is for you to see your husband look like a teenager while you’re geriatric. who still thinks you’re just as beautiful as you were the day he met you.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who hates how far you’ve grown apart. separate rooms. separate beds. separate lives. not because you don’t love him—you do, so much—but because it hurts too much to wake up next to someone who doesn’t age while your body fails you day by day.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, whose heart is beyond shattered when he realizes he’s going to be alone some day. so he leaves —because he thinks it’s easier for you, less confusing for your foggy brain — without saying goodbye. pressing a kiss to the wrinkled skin of your forehead. leaving a letter on your nightstand. gone with the moon.

thinking about growing old with yuuji, who only returns after you succumb to old age and a broken heart. whose grief is exacerbated when he sees his kids who look so much older than him.

thinking about yuuji, who leaves orchids by your grave every week. who sits in solitude, weeping. it’s the first time he experiences what the rest of his miserable life is going to be like. he’s going to be alone forever. your son and daughter will die eventually. and he’ll be left in solitude to mourn you forever. with the same face, year after year, like time has simply stopped considering him worth touching.

thinking about yuuji, who can’t bring himself to look at your children, with wrinkles of their own, with children of their own, and eyes full of pity so thick it chokes him.

thinking about yuuji, who watches his reflection in shop windows, in puddles after rain, in the polished surface of your headstone. forever fifteen. forever the boy who confessed with shaking hands and a voice that cracked on your name. he traces the faint scars on his face and wonders if this is his punishment. not the screaming in his head, not the blood on his hands, but this eternal youth where he’s forced to watch everything he loves turns to dust.

thinking about yuuji, who’s slowly starting to struggle to remember your face. to remember what your voice sounded like. to remember your touch. and finds himself wishing he’d never told you how he felt in the first place.

꒰ 切島鋭児郎 ꒱ › kirishima is terrified of hurting you. mdni. pro hero! kirishima x fem! reader. öral ⇢ m! receiving

eijirou kirishima is the perfect boyfriend in every conceivable way. he remembers your coffee order. he brings you back little trinkets from patrol routes that made him think of you. he ties your shoes for you because he doesn’t want you tripping over your laces. he guides you through crowds with his hand on the small of your back. he’s respectful, he’s kind, he’s your rock.

and he’s the perfect gentleman. he’ll kneel at the foot of your bed, broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart, ruby eyes dark with reverence that almost makes you feel shy. he’s meticulous, tracing every dip and curve of you with his tongue until you’re a writhing, whimpering mess, clawing at his spiky hair and the sheets.

he gets off on it, you know he does. he lets low groans out against your skin, his hips rut against your mattress, and he dons a blissed-out grin when he finally emerges, face glistening and eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. he loves it. he loves pleasing you.

but the second the tables turn, he pulls away from you so quickly it gives you whiplash. your lips will trail south, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses against his toned abs. your fingers will slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, intent on returning the favor he so eagerly bestows upon you. and without fail, he’ll stop you.

he’ll thread his fingers through yours, stopping their descent, and cup your chin, angling your face up towards his to capture your lips in a kiss that’s meant to distract you.