HE’S NOTHING COMPARED TO ME Miya Atsumu 18+

A/N: HI! I rewrote these, because I hated them. Now you can expect a part two lol.

Synopsis: These are separate drabbles of Megumi x reader encounters where his dogs come and visit you when he’s getting it on. These are just progression encounters in an strangers to lovers timeline. I intend a part two, but here are the first five in the series.

All of the characters in this are aged up, despite still living on the campus of Jujitsu Tech. (They live in the teachers yard) I never really specify, but the readers job is to research the places sorcerers are to vacate curses from. They then hand the info over to ijich. They are called the Jujutsu Librarians.

One

Your cheeks coat in cold moist streaks. Your half asleep state chalks it up to a window left open, likely a November chill nipping your skin, but then its warm, then cold and wet. Licking.

You snake your hands around your attackers neck, pulling them into a snuggle, soft fur puffing between your fingers. You beg for five more minutes with a promise to give them all your attention at a waking hour, but as your mind begins to slip back into a blissful rest you are presented with two absolutes.

You are not home, and this is not your dog.

With a grog you have to fling yourself from a black dog leans on your side while another white on peaks at you from the foot of your bed frame. You’d ask who they belong to, but the red symbols on their foreheads tag them as Megumi’s.

The black dog weaves through your still packed suitcases hopping to your unoccupied side. You look around wondering why they could be here.

The only times you’d seen the pups was when they were hunting curses and from the look and feel of your surroundings their was none.

White dog pants onto your nose, slathering you in a slobber gooped kiss.

“oof,” you say, rubbing your nose, you voice caught between normal and sandpaper. “thanks for that, um-” you look around the shut window and door. “how did you?”

Behind your studio apartments door three knocks echo through the room pulling your and the dogs attention.

“Come in-”

Megumi peaks over the lip of the door, freshly showered hair dripping onto the rug. “hey,” His eyes find both butts of his dogs wagging at him as he steps inside. “I’m sorry about them. They uh- Tend to wander when not working.”

“it’s fine. I don’t mind the company,” you say, thinking about the millisecond of peace you felt in the animals familiarity. “My dog hasn’t yet arrived from my home country, so they’re being very comforting.”

“right um-” he holds out his hands, the dogs dissipating from reality. He goes to turn before pausing in the doorway. “you’re the new librarian, right?”

You pull your pajama shirt straight wishing this wasn’t your first official meeting of the sorcerer. “At standing yes.”

He nods. “what is your name?”

“L/N.”

“Hm,” he says, “nice to meet you L/N, sorry again about the dogs.”

Keep reading

Gojo is the type to flirt endlessly with the person he likes. All inappropriate jokes, invasion of personal space and wildly descriptive insinuations about how he'd be the best damn lover you could ask for if you give him a fucking chance.

But he is Gojo Satoru. The Gojo Satoru. So you know better and guard your heart as best as you can.

It wasn't the winks and kissy faces that made you blush. It wasn't the way he would introduce you to everyone as his future wife that made your heart beat erratically either.

It wasn't the relentless flirting and sappy declarations of love that made your students extremely uncomfortable that made you do a double take at him. It wasn't his loud proclamations and flamboyant gestures like filling the school field with your favorite flowers after learning you've never received a bouquet of flowers before in your life that made your heart swell with joy.

But..

It's the way he stood up to the elders defending your name when you're under scrutiny, the way he'd menacingly state so plainly, in such a calm clear voice, that he'd end everyone in the council if anybody tries to hurt you.

It's the way he would sit quietly with you after a tough job or when you lose another colleague, the way he would ease you into an embrace and hold you until you fall asleep in his arms. It's the way he would grab your cold hand as you stand in the rain hours after one of your beloved students had been buried 6 feet under.

Gojo would pout at you when you tell him you like him better when he's not as raucous as he usually is.

But he doesn't know that you mean you've fallen for him because of how much more loving and caring he is without even trying.

No grand stunts, no gimmicks. Just.. him.

Him and his ways that show you he'll always be there, without saying a damn thing.

Some summery wave studies! Inspired by Henry Wong’s gorgeous water studies that he did a few months back.

in which: bakugou only shows his dimples around you

sfw, fluff, dialogue heavy, humour, this is a quick drabble i whipped up from an idea i created ages ago bc my 8k word bkg fic WON'T POST AGHHH!

"i love dimples, they're so cute!" mina squeals from beside you whilst you were hunched over the dorm's coffee table, finishing outstanding calculus questions you hadn't completed during class.

"me too," you absentmindedly murmur, reaching for your calculator to input a definite integral. "people say that they are kisses from angels, as if that isn't the cutest thing ever."

the pink-haired wails, "stop it! i wish i had dimples."

"if you try hard enough, then maybe," you snort before turning the page of your maths textbook. "i remember people would press pencils to their cheeks to make it appear. it would work for like five minutes."

"well, duh they're not gonna be permanent, i'm not that stupid."

"you always ask me what two plus five is."

"uncalled for, that's not the same!" mina slaps the back of your head, causing you to hold it whilst hissing in pain.

"okay, i'm sorry!" you exclaim, shielding yourself in case she hits you again.

thankfully, mina is pacified again, returning her chin to her palm as she fiddles with her nails. she remains quiet for a few minutes, allowing you to concentrate on your work before she pipes up again. "jirou has cute dimples."

you hum in agreement. "yaomomo too, on both cheeks," you add.

"kaminari too!"

"and bakugou."

mina darts up, back now as straight as a pole as she gawks at you with the weirdest expression. did you grow two heads or something? what was so weird about bakugou having dimples?

"no he does not!" counters mina.

"he does! on his right cheek!" you even point to it for good measure. "surprised me too when i saw it for the first time but it's actually really prominent! i don't know how we never noticed it before."

"you're lying to me. bakugou katsuki could never have dimples, he's too evil for that."

"he's not that evil."

"are we talking to the same bakugou? he threatened to blow me up the other day."

you laugh at the memory, an action mina doesn't appreciate. "i was there for that. anyways. his dimple is just something he's born with, it's not ordained by personality, what's the big deal?"

"what part of bakugou being too evil to have something as pure as a dimple do you not understand?"

your homework now lays unfinished and forgotten as you begin having a quarrel about your classmate and the mystery surrounding a feature that was given to him from birth. the blond shows it quite often, how come mina's not seeing it?

she then begins pulling up numerous photos and selfies; none of which have the evidence of bakugou's dimples. you furrow your brows in confusion, swiping through and zooming in to no avail of finding any remnants of a dimple.

strange.

you know you can't be imagining this.

"yo mina, y/n!" a deep, raspy voice comes from the entrance of the common room. you both turn around in shock to see your fellow red-haired classmate approaching.

immediately, you turn off mina's photo to rid any evidence of your previous conversation. because wherever kirishima is, bakugou normally follows.

"i'm gonna kick your ass in mario kart!" comes an explosive voice from behind. there he was.

kirishima leans over the couch where mina was sitting on. "what are you both up to?"

"oh y/n and i were just chilling. why?"

"oh bakugou and i just wanted to play a round of mario kart, that's all! hope we're not bothering you."

you pipe up from where you were still trying to figure out maths equations, "mina talks my ear off whilst i'm trying to solve these questions. i think i'll be okay with you two."

before mina could slap the back of your head again, a shadow looms your textbook and tufts of blond hair appear in the corner of your eye.

"you got that wrong," bakugou says after not even two seconds of reading your equation.

"eyes off my book," you exclaim, about to cover the pages with your hands when the explosion-quirk user snatches it away from under you. he continues reading through it like it was some newspaper article.

he does this all with a proud smirk on his face. "question 2 wrong, question 7 wrong, question 15 wrong," rambles your classmate, ignoring the way you were demanding it back.

"i'm going to fuck you up. give me back my book."

"damn your handwriting is messy."

your punch his arm lightly. he laughs at the impact, uneffected. "yours is illegible!" you shout back, challenging him with a nasty glare.

mina and kirishima watch with amused expressions at the disputation occurring in front of them. however, the pink-haired feels the world stop for a moment when she notices something very interesting.

a dimple. on bakugou's right cheek. just like you said.

something she has never seen before.

then she notices the way he looks at you. despite teasing you and making fun of you, there's an undeniable look of fondness evident in his eyes, one that grows the more you threaten him with unspeakable acts of violence.

his smirk grows softer, becoming that of a lopsided grin when bakugou gives you your textbook, confessing that none of the questions were wrong and that he was just 'messin' around'.

as it turns out... bakugou katsuki does have dimples, but they only appear around you.

The Onion’s journalism is the only journalism that matters. Holy fuck.

School is starting back so I've asked around and compiled some advice and tips to help you do amazing this semester!

Make a calendar and put your class times in it. Schedule in lunch and dinner (and hopefully breakfast) and see what you have left. Schedule in study and homework time, social time, work time, sleep, and chores. I know this is a lot and can be overwhelming, but having a time table helps you to keep to due dates with minimal stress.

Join a club! Make connections. The club doesn't even have to be in your field, just something you enjoy. It helps you make friends, feel more comfortable, and gives you something to look forward to!

Look at your library's calendar. A lot of libraries have events like therapy dogs, book sales, free lunches, and the like that are always fun!

Always have a snack with you. Sometimes that project takes a bit longer than expected and snacks make things so much easier. You can't work well on an empty stomach.

A lot of campuses have trails and stuff. Find them and walk them at least once.

Experiment with your style and identity. Literally no one there cares. Everyone is just as tired and focused on graduating as you are and they won't remember how your hair was or what shoes you wore yesterday.

It's ok to drink and party and have fun! There seems to be a stigma around partying in the academic circle. You can go out every now and then and do stupid stuff and still get good grades.

Do not buy that brand new $2,000 laptop. You don't need it.

Buy that $30 umbrella that won't break in the wind and is big enough to keep you and your backpack dry. You will need it.

Go to office hours. It's a great way to get that recommendation letter.

You failed a test? Oh well. You failed a class? Retake it. Don't stress. This isn't going to be the end all. I promise these things don't matter much after you graduate.

Your GPA isn't a reflection of your abilities. Life happens and you will fumble and fail.

Participate in class. You're paying way too much so take advantage of that. Drain every bit of information from that teacher. I promise they love it.

Take a class that isn't directly related to your degree. If it sounds cool, take it!

Stress eat an entire cake at least once.

Dollar tree seasonings work just the same as fancy, fresh market ones.

Walk campus a few times. Learn where things are. I promise you'll find something weird. My campus used to have a small clown shrine in the woods.

Find someone who has a pet and befriend them.

Learn to cook a vegetable.

Make a Google doc with all the class info and email the link to your classmates. Tell them they can add to it. Notes questions, whatever. At the end of the semester yall will have a giant document with literally anything the teacher could put on a comprehensive final.

Don't buy your textbooks until after the first week or two. 90% of the time you don't need the textbook. A lot of classes (and all common core classes) are required to have a mandatory textbook. But like I said, they probably won't ever use it.

Buy the textbooks and field guides you like and keep them!

Get sleep. Every night. Bragging about not sleeping or hardly sleeping is stupid and very bad for your health.

Slow down. Life goes too fast and I hope you don't have to learn what's actually important in life while at a funeral wishing you spent more time with someone. Please slow down. You don't get time back but you can always make up ah assignment or a class.

Take a semester or summer off. No one cares if you graduate a bit or a lot late. You won't ever get this time again so enjoy it

Have fun! You have an opportunity not granted to a lot of people. But that doesn't mean to work constantly. You should enjoy yourself.

And lastly: calculus made everyone cry it's ok. No one will judge you for it I promise.

i wanna see usurper!gojo's courting shenanigans plsplspls

in which gojo satoru, your beloved king and betrothed, knows his time is best spent in your company riling you up.

gojo satoru x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k genre: fluff, royal au, childhood friends to lovers type: one-shot reader: fem (she/her pronouns, fem terms, fem clothing including dresses) warnings: once again hes pushy n the reader's a lil bit hesitant but hed stop if she rlly wanted, vague references to violence note: see i was gonna do a few lil scenes but the first one got away from me.... but basically the period of him courting the reader (which full disclosure isnt technically courting bc that should be happening before one proposes but this occurs while theyre engaged bc Gojo Didnt Get That Memo but i digress) is just him being WILDLY inappropriate for cultural standards, everyone silently pitying the reader, and the reader having a whole ton of conflicting emotions but ultimately rlly liking it 😭😭😭

usurper!gojo tag || masterlist

“they say you’re inhuman, you know.” you’ve finished the flower chain. his eyes don’t stray from your fingers as they nimbly connect the two ends and tie them together with a final stem into a thick circlet. “they said it a lot that night. they said you were the gods’ fury made mortal.”

he snickers. “how dramatic.”

you lift yourself up onto your thighs, shuffle towards him further and reach out, and he bows his head to let you place your creation upon it. your hand trails down when you let go, drifting over his ear and along his jaw as he lifts his head from its bow to look at you. you certainly mean to pull it away but his hand beats you to it, darting up to keep your palm against his cheek as you settle back down on the backs of your heels.

“i know why they came to that conclusion,” you say. “you terrified me when i saw you.”

“did you think me inhuman?”

you hum, eyes tracing along the band of flowers now gracing his forehead, falling to rest on his hand over yours. “no. never. monstrous, perhaps. odious. but very human.”

Satoru finds you out on the grounds, tucked away at the edge where the manicured gardens give way to rough forest. The weather has been turbulent, but for the first time since the coup there’s enough sun to stand being outside the castle longer than a scant few minutes. You’d said that morning that you planned to venture out, now that early spring flowers were beginning to bloom.

You’re cloaked in heavy furs, layers of skirts and wool protecting you from the cold, all elaborate garments that he’s gifted you. It's adorable (satisfying) to see you dressed up in his presents. He tells you as much when he finds you, delves into the treeline long before you see him so that he can sneak up upon you and whisper it into your ear to make you yelp and jump away.

“You mongrel,” you accuse with wide eyes and a hand on your heart as you work to steady your breathing. “Have you no respect for your future wife?”

“Ah, she admits it readily now? Progress.”

Your face twists as if someone has struck you. He chooses to ignore it and drops to sit sprawled out on the grass, beckoning unabashedly for you to join him on his lap. You won’t relent, he’s well aware, but he’ll have his desires known either way.

“Presumptuous,” you say. He'd die a happy man if you kissed him as many times as you called him that, but in lack of the former he’ll be content with the latter.

“Sit with me, my queen. I've missed you.”

“I am not yet your queen, Satoru,” you correct out of obligation. “You saw me an hour ago, we ate together.”

“Ah, but every moment apart is agony.” Satoru wonders if you know how serious he is beneath the breezy tone. From the way you wrinkle your nose, he doubts it.

“You have a meeting with your advisors now. You should not be out here.”

He pouts. “But you’re out here, and if I have to spend more time with those old fools than you today then I'll throw a tantrum tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, let out a sigh that sounds long-suffering, but you shift your skirts and ease yourself down to sit gracefully before him with your legs tucked next to you. His threats aren’t empty and you know it.

“Fine.” You look down, as if inspecting the grass, spreading fingers along the blades as you begin to pluck wildflowers. Then you pause and glance up at him. “Remove those… oh, whatever they are. Let me see your eyes unhindered, at least.”

“Anything for my darling bride,” he coos at you, immediately doing as asked. He’d have done so anyway, if only to watch you lose yourself in staring when he reveals his eyes, catching yourself once he blinks and snapping your head back to the ground to busy yourself once more with plucking your blooms.

“How do you see a thing through those,” you grumble lowly, certainly just to break yourself from being flustered. It works too well; Satoru immediately jumps on the chance you’ve given him.

“Would you like to try them?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a response, mind already conjuring an image of you draped in every golden chain and precious stone gracing his chambers.

He removes them from his face, pulling the chain from around his neck, and swiftly transfers them to yours before you can refuse—tilts your head up to look at him and tugs your hair out of the way with deft fingers, eases the gilded extremities onto your ears and lets the pads of his digits linger on either side of your head before pulling away. Pausing in your work and tilting your head back down to peer at him over the top of the frames, you blink at him owlishly from behind the glass, unused to staring through it. Precious, he thinks, and wishes briefly to kiss you—but he has to be smart about kissing you, calculating. Too much attention too fast and you have a tendency to pull away from him like the ebbing tide. It's agony for him, wanting nothing more than to hold you as much as he wishes, but as much as he wants there’s very little he hates more than when you tense under his touch and turn away from him.

“They suit you better,” he tells you, because they do. You look good adorned with jewelry of his design. “You oughtn’t wear them in public, though, or all the courtiers will be scrambling to get themselves a pair. Just for me, I suppose.”

Your nose wrinkles at the mention of your newfound influence, eyes darting to the side and lower lip pouting, an expression that makes him cast aside all his convoluted schemes to ease you into his affections. He leans down to peck at your lips, kiss away the pout, gone before you can complain. It’s fast enough that you don’t immediately recoil and give him a lecture on decorum, or perhaps you’re simply getting more used to it.

Satoru’s attention doesn’t stray as you return to your work. You’ve gravitated towards flowers with long stems, he realizes; collected them in a pile on your skirts, which you seem to have deemed large enough as you pick a notably long one up and begin to string them together in a chain. You don’t bother removing his glasses either, simply allowing them to slide down to the end of your nose. The golden chain clinks softly with every movement of your head.

He wonders when you learned to make them. You’ve always been so careful about the skills you acquire, but he thinks perhaps your mother might have taught you. Or his aunt, for how much she loves flowers, and for how much of her time as queen (he’s been told anyway) was spent doing such frivolous things as making daisy chains in the gardens. You’re so very meticulous with your actions, every choice carefully constructed. He knows you’ve been doing that less and less around him—perhaps it’s finally sinking in that he cares very little about your actions, that he finds everything you do to be enthralling. More likely you’ve exhausted yourself trying. You’ve certainly exhausted yourself attempting to rein him in, though he’d like to believe you’re beginning to allow yourself to enjoy his antics.

Posterity, he thinks, will paint him as you do—bold, brash, uncaring of tradition, unapologetic in pursuit of a woman far beneath his status. There are a great many reasons you hesitate to marry him, he doesn’t blame you for your doubt. Certainly when he was younger he’d never imagined himself the type of man you’d end up betrothed to; he couldn’t count on his fingers the number of more suitable matches for the both of you in the eyes of society, but whereas in his youth he might silence himself and go along with the whims of his advisors he’s lost all sense of decency now. His close call with death and the coup he’d spent years preparing for had rid him of any desire to compromise, and he stands now in a position where he can certainly refuse the very people who once held sway over him. And you appreciate all of that, he knows it. It’s one of the reasons he adores you so; beneath your veneer of decorum lies not a lady but a queen with desires all too different from those you’ve been forced to portray. He’s always known this, and to an extent he can’t find it within himself to regret the events that have led him to where he is today because if they hadn’t transpired he wouldn’t have you.

Satoru remembers a time in his youth when his mother made a passing mention that she enjoyed a certain hairstyle on young girls—two long braids, tied with ribbons. For months afterward all the upcoming court ladies wore it diligently, yourself included. He found it painful to see on you until he discovered that they made a lovely way to pull your nose from a book and fix your attention onto him, and that he could tug on the ribbons at the ends until they unfurled and he could pocket them to return later by tying them around the necks of one of his hunting dogs and sending it after you.

(If he were the kind of man you’d marry without hesitation he’d feel remorse for his childhood actions. Instead he’s the man you will marry, and he plots how to steal one of your hair ribbons again and return it in the same way. For memory’s sake.)

“They say you’re inhuman, you know.” You’ve finished the flower chain. His eyes don’t stray from your fingers as they nimbly connect the two ends and tie them together with a final stem into a thick circlet. “They said it a lot that night. They said you were the Gods’ fury made mortal.”

He snickers. “How dramatic.”

You lift yourself up onto your thighs, shuffle towards him further and reach out, and he bows his head to let you place your creation upon it. Your hand trails down when you let go, drifting over his ear and along his jaw as he lifts his head from its bow to look at you. You certainly mean to pull it away but his hand beats you to it, darting up to keep your palm against his cheek as you settle back down on the backs of your heels.

“I know why they came to that conclusion,” you say. “You terrified me when I saw you.”

“Did you think me inhuman?”

You hum, eyes tracing along the band of flowers now gracing his forehead, falling to rest on his hand over yours. “No. Never. Monstrous, perhaps. Odious. But very human.”

“You wound me. I might die by your cruelty.”

“Die, then.”

Satoru makes a show of it just for you. Falling back to sprawl on the ground, he gags violently, stabbing at his own heart with an invisible knife and convulsing with his tongue hanging out until you shriek for him to stop, voice filled with giggles. He takes that as a cue to still, to fall limp as if truly dead with eyes fluttering shut—then beckons you closer.

“I need…” he rasps out, barely audible.

You indulge him and do so. “My king?”

“…iss…”

“What?”

“True love’s kiss,” he repeats louder, pursing his lips expectantly. He doesn’t truly think you’ll do it, and you don’t—you lean in like you will, but bypass his lips entirely and bite his cheek instead.

He yelps, just for you, just so you’ll feel accomplished. And so he can see your smile, hear the smugness in your voice as you say, “It’s a miracle, you’ve come back to life.”

But he doesn’t give you weakness for free. No, he snakes his arms around your waist before you can pull back, and uses the grip to all but pull you on top of his lap as he sits up. Perhaps it’s his lack of insistence on you giving him a kiss, or perhaps he’s simply started to break down your walls enough, but whichever it is you don’t protest. Instead you seem to find flaws in the flower crown you’ve gifted him. Your lips purse, hands coming up to fiddle with the blooms. He realizes that he can’t stand a single moment of your attention on anything other than him, even if your fingers are nearly tangled in his hair.

“If I return to court with a crown of flowers made by my lover still on my head, do you suppose they’ll think me less inhuman?”

Your face falls at the suggestion, eyes widening in mortification. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“It's far more comfortable than that heavy gold. And I happen to personally adore the artisan who made it, so—”

“I don't trust you anymore, take it off! You’ve lost the right!” You attempt to remove it, but he reacts with the very reflexes that make him so inhuman, uses that monstrous height to lift his head higher than you can reasonably reach, though it doesn’t stop you from trying.

“It'd be rude of me to refuse a gift, my queen.” Laughing, Satoru holds you back with ease, eager for the excuse to put his hands all over you while you’re too worked up to feel self-conscious.

“Not yet,” you wail. “Not your queen yet, you knave!”

“Mine either way, though,” he replies smugly with a playful tug to the chain you still wear. “Covered in my presents. It’s only fair that I get to display a token you’ve given me, no?”

“No, it is not. You’ve stolen all of my outerwear and replaced it with these, I've no other choice. But you will not return to your advisors displaying that—that childish trifle, I won't allow it, you will not expose to the court that I made such a thing for yo—oh!”

He tackles you to the ground, careful not to even knock the wind out of you, though he steals your breath the moment you’re safe in his arms by pulling you into a kiss to keep you from talking further. He’d intended it to be faster, but his nose crashes into the tinted spectacles still upon your face and he’s filled with such ardor that he can’t help but deepen it.

Your hand slides behind his head, threads through his hair. He feels you snap a single stem between your fingers. The crown comes apart just as he takes a moment to pull away, and the flowers fall to scatter in the grass beneath him, a halo around your head. There’s a little smile on your face, your chest huffs with quiet laughter, and your palm slides down to the base of his hair. You use that hold and your other hand, which has fisted his tunic, to yank him down and connect your lips again.

Above, a cloud passes. Satoru can feel the sun shine warm on his back, hear the wind in the budding trees, smell the bite of melting snow and the petals of your wildflowers, yet there’s nothing that could distract him from the feeling of your kiss. His eyes close, he pushes closer though he hardly needs to with the way you still tug on his shirt. His arm comes up to brace next to your head, just to make sure he’s holding his own weight rather than crushing you, and the other leaves your waist to trail down your thigh and grip beneath your knee, shifting your leg to hook around him. If your mouth weren’t occupied he thinks you’d be lecturing him for such an obscene display in a place where anyone could stumble upon you—so he does well to keep it occupied, refusing to part even as your grip on his tunic loosens and he’s forced to grab your newly freed hand to pin it to the ground with fingers intertwined.

It's the first time you’ve ever kissed him. He already plots how to push you into doing it again when he finally pulls away, eyes locked on your swollen lips.

happy mothers day to the mothers of palestine who have lost their children and to the mothers who were forced to give birth and be separated from their children in congo.

milf (motivation i’d like to find)