I Genuinely Am Getting A LITTLE Tired Of Straight Smut Plots That Are In The X Reader Tags. By No Means

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔𝟕: 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Thinking about how Atsumu is the type of guy to never use your name again once you’re in a relationship.

From the moment you accept his confession, it’s pet names galore ranging from classics like “baby”, “princess” (if he feels spicy (or condescending)), and “love” all the way to absurdities he brings out when he is in a great mood such as “my plump little dumplin’ supreme”, “main squeeze”, “schmoopy” or his personal favorite, born out of a night drinking with his team, “babelicious”. You had him sleep on the couch for the crime of using that last one.

But as soon - and I mean as soon - as he gets a ring on your finger it’s always “my wife”, “me and the wife” and “wifey”.

“What am I doin’ this weekend? Oh, ya know, me and the wife are gonna hit the farmer’s market.”

“Hang out tonight? Can’t, wifey asked me to pick up some groceries for dinner.”

And god help the poor soul whoever asks about how you are doing because Atsumu will pull out a three-page essay, put up a slide projector, and dim the lights to tell that person all about what his wife is up to.

(tbf you’re not much better because you loooove saying “my husband”)

隣の.....？？？　（トトロパロ）　

All drawings about Bakugou from 2019 to 2024

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

special mention to Stikugou:

and the Kiribaku references in Kirishima’s belongings and hoodie Dynamight:

drawing Nanamin and Yuuji-cub makes me weak

🤨why isolate the variable when i can isolate myself? ネコ！！🍚🥟　like or reblog please, albedo is asking :[

©gif: kokoneakita on tiktok

⌢⌢⌢⌢୨୧⌢⌢⌢⌢ With your hugs, I found my safe haven ⌢⌢⌢⌢୨୧⌢⌢⌢⌢

crawling back to you

pairing: sukuna x reader

genre: angst

inspired by the song do i wanna know? live at bbc by hozier

it’s been three months.

three months since the door slammed shut behind you, leaving nothing but silence in your wake. three months since you walked away, and sukuna didn’t chase after you—not that night, not the morning after, not the weeks that followed. he told himself it was for the best. that this was what you wanted.

but now, as he sits alone in his dimly lit apartment, the weight of your absence pressing down on him like a vice, he wonders if he made the biggest mistake of his life.

the buzzing of his tattoo machine is the only thing that keeps him sane most days. his clients come and go, faces he barely registers as he inks intricate designs onto their skin. it’s the only time his mind goes quiet—when his hands are busy, the hum of the machine drowning out the thoughts he doesn’t want to face.

but the second the machine powers down, reality creeps back in. and reality is cruel.

because no matter how hard he tries, you’re everywhere.

he sees you in the smallest things—things that shouldn’t remind him of you, but somehow always do. In the flicker of a neon sign outside the shop that hums the same soft glow as the fairy lights you used to hang in your room. in the faint scent of vanilla and jasmine that lingers when someone walks past him on the street, never quite matching the way it clung to your skin. in the half-empty coffee cup sitting on the counter, lipstick smudged at the rim, and he’s reminded of lazy mornings when you’d steal sips from his mug, laughing when he grumbled but never really minded.

you’re in the song that plays softly from the radio while he works—one he never paid attention to before but now knows every word to because it was always on your playlists. in the chipped black nail polish on his coworker’s hands, a fleeting reminder of the countless nights you sat cross-legged on his couch, painting your nails and teasing him for being too still as he let you paint his, too.

but worst of all, he sees you in his reflection—tired eyes that have lost their edge, the weight of regret carving its place in the lines of his face. in the faint traces of your touch that still linger like phantom sensations along the tattoos you used to trace absentmindedly with your fingers, as if memorizing every inch of him.

and when his coworkers scroll through their phones, laughter echoing through the shop, there you are again—captured in a fleeting Instagram story from some party last weekend. grainy, imperfect, but unmistakably you. smiling, carefree, eyes crinkling in that way that always made something in his chest tighten. and god, how he hates the way it guts him, wishing—aching—that he was still the reason for that smile.

you unfollowed him. he noticed immediately.

one day, your name was gone from his notifications, your profile nowhere to be found. he tried not to care. tried to convince himself that it was just social media. but it gnawed at him. you were cutting him out piece by piece, and all he could do was watch it happen.

he lurks in the shadows, hoping one of your friends posts something—anything—that gives him a glimpse of you. It’s pathetic, he knows, but it’s the only thing he has left.

there’s a bitter irony in it all. he was the one who pushed you away first. always keeping you at arm’s length, never letting you in too close. you wanted more—deserved more—but he couldn’t give it to you. not when vulnerability felt like a weakness he couldn’t afford.

and now? now, he craves your presence like a man starved.

the shop is quieter than usual tonight. it’s late, and everyone else has left. sukuna leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of traffic outside barely audible through the thick walls. the glow from his phone screen flickers beside him, but he doesn’t touch it.

not yet.

he’s been doing this every night. sitting here, contemplating. the urge to reach out is unbearable, but something always stops him. pride, maybe. or fear.

fear that you’ve moved on. that you don’t want to hear from him. that he’s too late.

his chest tightens at the thought.

he tried to fill the void, but nothing ever worked.

not the long hours at the tattoo shop, where he threw himself into his work until his fingers ached and his mind blurred. not the mindless scrolling through social media, hoping—not that he’d ever admit it—that he might catch a glimpse of you. not the empty nights spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to drag him under.

nothing could distract him from the ache of missing you.

his friends tell him it’s time to move on. they say three months is long enough to let someone go. that there are plenty of people out there. but what do they know? they didn’t spend endless nights memorizing the shape of your smile, or the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, like he was the only person in the world. they didn’t hear the quiet affection in your voice when you whispered his name in the dead of night, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his chest like you were trying to commit every line to memory.

his friends didn’t feel the weight of your absence like he did—the way it settled deep in his bones, heavy and inescapable. they didn’t know how every morning, he still reached for you instinctively, only to be met with the cold, empty space beside him. how even now, he still slept on his side of the bed, as if leaving room for you just in case.

how could he fall for someone new when he was still so busy being yours?

they didn’t see how badly he broke you when he shut you out.

the memory of your last fight is still fresh, even after all this time. you stood in the doorway, tears brimming in your eyes, asking him—begging him—to just let you in. to tell you what he wanted. and all he gave you was silence.

he thought you’d stay. you always had before. but that night, you walked away. and now, the silence is all he has left.

his fingers twitch toward his phone, but he stops himself. what’s the point? you deserve better than a half-assed apology three months too late.

but then he thinks about the what-ifs. what if you’re waiting for him to reach out? what if you’re lying in bed right now, staring at your phone, wondering why he never called?

he can’t take it anymore.

the weight of missing you presses down on his chest, suffocating and relentless, until it pushes him off his chair and out the door before he can even think twice. it’s reckless, stupid—but so is love, isn’t it?

the streets are quiet at this hour, the hum of the city softened under the cloak of night. his hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, but none of it matters. all he can focus on is you. the thought of you, maybe asleep, maybe curled up in bed with your phone just out of reach. maybe dreaming of something—someone—that isn’t him.

the thought twists like a knife in his gut.

he walks with purpose, even though every step is a silent war between hope and dread. what if you don’t open the door? what if you tell him to leave? what if someone else is there?

he shakes the thought away.

it’s been three months, but it feels like no time has passed at all. and yet, it feels like forever.

before he knows it, he’s standing outside your apartment building, staring up at your window. the soft glow of light seeps through the curtains, and he wonders if you’re still awake or if you’ve just fallen asleep with the lamp on, the way you used to when reading late into the night.

his heart pounds so loudly he’s sure it’ll wake the whole block, but still, he climbs the stairs. each step echoes in the silence, a quiet reminder that there’s still time to turn back. but he doesn’t. he can’t.

and suddenly, he’s there. in front of your door. it’s familiar and foreign all at once.

he doesn’t have a plan. he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say. all he knows is that the thought of another night without you is unbearable.

he raises his hand to knock but hesitates. his breath is shallow, his pulse erratic.

but then, before he can stop himself, his knuckles rap gently against the door.

seconds pass. each one heavier than the last.

then, the faint sound of footsteps. the quiet click of the lock.

the door opens, and there you are.

soft, bleary-eyed, wrapped in a blanket, and so heartbreakingly familiar that it steals the breath from his lungs.

“sukuna?” your voice is quiet, confused, and laced with something that might be disbelief.

he swallows hard, the weight of the past three months pressing down on him all at once. “i know it’s late,” he says, voice rough and barely above a whisper. “i know i shouldn’t be here. but… i couldn’t stay away.”

you blink at him, and for a moment, there’s only silence. then, softly, “why now?”

his throat tightens, and he runs a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “because i’m tired,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s held back. “tired of trying to forget you. tired of pretending i’m okay. i’ve tried. god, i’ve tried. but i can’t. i miss you.”

his voice cracks at the end, and he hates how raw he sounds. how vulnerable. but it’s the truth. And right now, that’s all he has left to offer.

he sees the flicker of emotion in your eyes—the conflict, the hurt, the love you’ve tried to bury—and it guts him.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with regret. “i’m sorry for not being enough. for not being what you deserved. i know I fucked up. i know i wasn’t always what you needed me to be.”

his hands tremble as he clenches them into fists at his sides. “but i swear… i’ll do better. i will. i promise you.”

his voice is raw now, barely more than a whisper. “just… tell me it’s not too late.”

you stare at him, eyes glossy, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. and then, finally, you step back just enough to let him in.

and for the first time in three months, sukuna breathes.

Christmas toji

₊˚⊹。by expensive tiles and elite gym pools | gojo satoru

wc: 935

summary: you visit gojo during one of his training sessions for his upcoming swim meet.

contains: written with f!reader in mind but no pronouns stated, only gendered term is ‘boyfriend’ pertaining to gojo, swimmer!satoru, non-curse au

a/n: wrote this as a lil surprise blurb bday gift for @kedsandtubesocks (but it got longer than expected... oops) i know how much you love your sports aus erika!! also inspired by some swim!satoru thoughts i had a few days ago!

You hear a splash! the moment you enter the doors of the gym pool.

The lanes are empty save for one, vast crystal blue shimmering as it reflects the light passing through the glass ceiling. You don't know much about pool construction, but the tiles here look clean, with each edge perfectly cut to fit seamlessly into the other; the markings of luxury, expensive but simple enough not to distract—

—which is what you shouldn't be doing walking into this exclusive gym pool reserved only for the best of the best, the elite. Top tier professionals.

Ones like your gold-winning pro-swimmer boyfriend, Gojo Satoru.

He's approaching the end of his lap when you settle into a squat in front of the lane he’s on, towel hanging off your shoulders as you cross your arms over your knees, wiggling your toes as you wait. The moment he breaks through the surface, you can't hide the smile on your face.

You haven’t seen him in days. 

Everything about him feels like he was made for this—how the ripples make way to accommodate his breathing, the dips and curves of muscle on his shoulders, flexing; how his fingers glide his goggles atop his head without resistance, smoothly. Even with his hair held back by the elastic, the few wet clumps that fall out still frame his face so perfectly. 

It's unbelievable how your boyfriend can look so much like the water he swims in—brilliant and white like glimmers of reflected light, and clean blue, striking, always glistening the moment your eyes catch his. 

Sometimes, looking at him feels a lot like drowning.

"How did I do?" he smirks, squinting into what would have been a suave wink, if not for a drop of water causing an involuntary eye-twitch. 

He already knows the answer, but you indulge him anyway, "Good, as always."

"Just good?" he pouts.

There's a droplet of water hanging by his lips, desperately clinging as it trembles while he breathes. You know he knows you're looking by the way he runs his tongue over it, taunting. 

You narrow your gaze and shrug, teasing, "Maybe you missed something."

He swims closer to the ledge you're squatting by, palms pressing on tile to hoist himself up. You try not to fixate on the way his triceps flex as they hold him up, but he lives for this kind of attention from you—he’d do anything to keep you looking at him the way you do. 

Half of his left leg remains submerged when he settles himself on the edge of the pool, the other one bent as he tilts his head in mock wonder, “Did I?”

It's your turn to pout now as he pretends not to know what you’re after, and you're about to say something on it until—

"S'toru!"

—you scream, pulled off-balance with your heart nearly dropping to your stomach at the fear of being dragged into the water. Except you aren't, because with a simple tug at the towel around your neck, he's managed to tip you over to fall into his lap, steadying you against his very wet and very broad chest instead.  

You smack his shoulders, mouth agape and eyes wide as you push back to look at him. He looks pleased with himself, almost laughing even as his arms settle on your hips, grabbing the flesh and squeezing.

"Mean," you scrunch your nose, and he chuckles.

"Excuse me," he holds you closer, "who hurt my feelings first?"

You roll your eyes fondly, sliding your hands to clasp at the back of his neck, "Okay, big baby."

"Do you want your kiss or not?"

You glare at him, lips pursed tight, "As if you don't—"

So he does—kiss you, lips soft and a little damp. You can taste the chlorine from the hours he's already spent here prior to you coming, but it's comforting, a taste entirely too familiar that you sometimes find yourself looking for it during the long stretches he’s on break. 

He kisses you because you're right, something was missing, and it's always this same thing.

You smile against his lips before breaking away, heart gleaming like pool water. The moment is tender, soft, touched by the magic of being together amidst expensive tiles and elite gym pools.

But you should have known better than to trust your pro-swimmer boyfriend, Gojo Satoru—full-time athlete, and part-time the most insufferable person you’ve ever met.

Because with the way his arm has been wrapping itself inch-by-inch around your waist, he's managed to shift his body back to face the pool, only to dump the both of you back in the water, together.

"Satoru!"

He laughs, voice carrying throughout the gym. You grumble about still having your slippers on and he dives under to get it off you, throwing it to the side when he emerges. 

"Race me!" he ducks to the other lane, sliding his goggles back on before shooting you a thumbs up.

And you’d think this silly of him, really, because this is your back-to-back-to-back gold-winning pro-swimmer boyfriend asking you, a survival swimmer at best, to race him—but you can tell this is his cover for you. 

You’d get in trouble if anyone caught you here in the first place. His schedule's been tight lately, locked down with the need to focus for his upcoming swim meet. Being focused meant no distractions, and you being the worst of them all meant less time spent with you, too. 

Still, he'd insisted that you come today, so.

You can't technically be a distraction if you're going to 'train' with him anyway, right?

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