mimi

painter! suguru geto who’s favorite muse is you.

♡ reblogs very appreciated <3.

the renowned painter of the city, Suguru Geto, was assuredly known for his taste in sophisticated goods: gouache of great price and pronounced pigments, mahogany easels coated by translucent varnish, generously quilted sofas that seemed to be made out of pure silk, but most importantly, delicate and enticing muses.

of course, there was the most crucial point. from his gracious models was coming his inspiration, his desire to create ever more cherished paintings which would soon get sold at exorbitant prices that would make a simple passer-by go crazy.

so many auctioneers would hear by word of mouth that The Suguru Geto created an another feast for their eyes and wallets. they wouldn't waste a single second to splash cash into the work of art they would be quick to call their prized possession.

but, what lured the eyes of anyone who’d walk by one of his masterpieces so much, that they'd have the feeling that they needed to stop a minute and admire?

well, thanks to his treasured and favoured muse. you.

oh, he loved you. You were his model, so perfectly fitting and in line with him, like two pieces of a puzzle that can only match together. you were his greatest source of creation, and he was forever grateful for that.

he loved the way you’d sit and put yourself in the fucking ideal pose he had in mind for you, a wisely chosen pose that would have the certitude of enlightening only your best assets, only if you had bad ones.

he loved the way you gazed at him when he was skilfully portraying your flawless figure, pupils dilated and full of passion he could only reflect in his own eyes, conveying the perpetual longing he had for you.

his love was nothing more than raw worship, making his heart sink to his stomach out of adoration. He truly thought he was a chosen one, a gods-favorite to whom we had sent a deity as a reward.

and to paint you was his way of expressing that indescribable feeling that tormented his wit so deliciously.

He always made sure to start his sketch with a pristine and high-quality canvas devoid of any charcoal stains or paint splashes. Next, he’d sweetly invite you to take place on the marbled dais covered by a white sheet and pose, like you always do for him.

And now, his favourite part ever, the sketch. he’d neatly choose his sharpest and most precise pencil to outline the curves of your body, so beautifully garbed in a burgundy lacy dress.

From then on, he’d drag the moment and relish in the sight before him. He would carefully choose his colours to get them to match the most, he would only take the softest brushes to get the softest result, and that process could last days, weeks and mostly months.

that was his saying, the longer it took, the better it looked, and that is true.

he could only be proud of the result of his hard work, and he’d never forget to thank you and praise you lots, as he deemed that he could only be able to do that by your grace.

Auctioneers may call his works of art their prized possessions, but he’d only considered them that because of you.

hey it’s me, the bitch that deserted for 5 months to come back with an half-assed story (actually it’s false i put my whole life into that)(yes into that shitty piece of a drabble)

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄’𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐅 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄 𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐁 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄. angst. no comfort.

‟even the strongest will see their hour come.”

he was having a hard time. every time he would find his way to you and cross the door frame of the warm appartement you shared, you would find him drowsy and drained from any form of energy, in a state that can’t be described.

so, as his legit lady, you would scurry over him and lead him to the silkened mattress of the chamber satoru knew so well now —a room of sheer restfulness that can merely be interrupted by any hassle, a sanctuary for you two. you would tuck him in the bedcovers that held in your scent that he’d never be tired of; a scent that can reminds him of your radiant figure and your nimble fingers carding through his pearly-frosted strands, tapered around your index.

thus, he would find peace for a very moment while dozing off in your arms, patterning letters on his lower back with slow strums, —but the constant stabbing in his ribcage wouldn’t completely wear off, only racking up even more. continuously having something to watch out for was a grueling ordeal, not being able to fully live.

always having obstructing thoughts refraining his way of existing, serenity was a misconception and a odd concept that would never be a part of his short career. the career of being the strongest. putting your life on a line but also those of your beloved ones, a dread tugging at your heartstrings whenever you grazed death, with no way of retuning home. his home.

no need to be material, it’s all in the touch, the feel. the caresses, the pat-pats, the atmosphere remaining far away from sweltering and ruthless, that what made home, a home. and the longer you could hold him in your embrace, the longer he would have the false impression of calm.

but all things must come to an end.

now it was your turn to be the strongest ; and bear the weight off his shoulders to let him completely light from any inconvenience and regret. to finally let him have a break, the rest he always deserved.

the upper side of your finger ghosted his cold cheeks so lightly like he could shatter in a hurried move of yours. despite everything, your loving gaze stands unchanged, carrying your unabashed love.

still, you can’t stop the overflowing tears and the sniffling blaring in the musty room enclosing his frosty aura. in a wobbly gesture, you sweep his hair back like you once did and hug him.

—“Farewell, angel. I wish you the better.”

now, the moment came for you to turn the page of a long and tragic book, letting the teary-drenched paper consume itself and disappear.

in the end, he claims to always win, but reality takes over and you’re now ruing the outcome (but it’s too late).

©𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐀 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒-𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃

synopsis. in which itadori loves the way his pretty extravagant girlfriend always makes his day better than the previous.

contains. . . itadori yuji x fem! bimbo!reader, kind of ‘idiots in love’ trope?, reader kinda has no friends, reader has a huge a$$ and is taller then him when she wears heels (do you see what i did there😼?), slightly suggestive in the penultimate part, drabble then hc’s, downbad! yuji, make out sesh, NOT PROOFREAD 😞😞 pls tell me if you notice a single. mistake 🙏.

word count. 2. 229k (a literal miracle)

an. yuji w/ a bimbo gf sounds so fitting to me they’re both dumbasses.. PHEWWWWW that was so fckng cool to write, have a good read !<33

𝜗𝜚 please if you liked, reblog! it helps me a lot <3

ughhh i’m here again talking about this but like i already said!! you canNOT tell me akaashi doesn’t adore small tits!

he can’t help it! they just look so enticing to him, so charming and so kneadable. they make you you, and he loves that characteristic of yours.

you may be saying that you’re flat as a breadboard but it’s the least of his worries when he gets to lay his head on your chest and nuzzle himself warmly in the valley of your breasts. he finds shelter in the confort it gives him, especially after a day where he clearly needs it.

he knows you struggle with them sometimes and you’re insecure, and he understands. you cannot see what he sees in them, the utter beauty he relishes in.

that’s why, as your husband, he makes it a mission! a mission to cheer you up by small actions: he showers you and take care of your body, reminding you how much you deserve to be taken care of. how much your physical appearance doesn’t define who you are. and that you are more that just a pair of small assets.

he buys you dresses that will amp up your confidence and allow you to feel pretty and confortable in them, massages you to relieve soreness, trails kisses all over your chest, and still takes you on dates, because his love for you doesn’t stop after a month or two.

ughhh i’m here again talking about this but like i already said!! you canNOT tell me akaashi doesn’t adore small tits!

he can’t help it! they just look so enticing to him, so charming and so kneadable. they make you you, and he loves that characteristic of yours.

you may be saying that you’re flat as a breadboard but it’s the least of his worries when he gets to lay his head on your chest and nuzzle himself warmly in the valley of your breasts. he finds shelter in the confort it gives him, especially after a day where he clearly needs it.

he knows you struggle with them sometimes and you’re insecure, and he understands. you cannot see what he sees in them, the utter beauty he relishes in.

that’s why, as your husband, he makes it a mission! a mission to cheer you up by small actions: he showers you and take care of your body, reminding you how much you deserve to be taken care of. how much your physical appearance doesn’t define who you are. and that you are more that just a pair of small assets.

he buys you dresses that will amp up your confidence and allow you to feel pretty and confortable in them, massages you to relieve soreness, trails kisses all over your chest, and still takes you on dates, because his love for you doesn’t stop after a month or two.

his acquaintances and friends can’t bear him anymore because he won’t stop ranting about you and about how much he wants you by his side right now! it’s almost like he needs you to breathe and live properly.

in a bar, at work, and especially abroad when he know he won’t be seeing you for days or worse: weeks, he braces himself for suffering and surrounds himself with and almost sacred shrine of you composed of basically every props that you regularly use: a dirty pillowcase (da heck), your favorite underwear (but it’s purely with no bad intentions: he just likes you), your old face cream pot, and i could go on and on. that’s the moment his friends dreads the most.

bokuto can’t resist you. in a ride back home, he’ll desperately cling to your arm like a helpless puppy who needs comfort and rub his head (and spiky hair) on your shoulders, murmuring you in a soft voice that he can’t wait to arrive home to kiss you and cherish you.

he’s also not self aware. the man will throw his whole being at you, literally megaknighting you just because he wants a hug (and ends up swallowing you in his big beefy arms)

his acquaintances and friends can’t bear him anymore because he won’t stop ranting about you and about how much he wants you by his side right now! it’s almost like he needs you to breathe and live properly.

in a bar, at work, and especially abroad when he know he won’t be seeing you for days or worse: weeks, he braces himself for suffering and surrounds himself with and almost sacred shrine of you composed of basically every props that you regularly use: a dirty pillowcase (da heck), your favorite underwear (but it’s purely with no bad intentions: he just likes you), your old face cream pot, and i could go on and on. that’s the moment his friends dreads the most.

bokuto can’t resist you. in a ride back home, he’ll desperately cling to your arm like a helpless puppy who needs comfort and rub his head (and spiky hair) on your shoulders, murmuring you in a soft voice that he can’t wait to arrive home to kiss you and cherish you.

he’s also not self aware. the man will throw his whole being at you, literally megaknighting you just because he wants a hug (and ends up swallowing you in his big beefy arms)

his acquaintances and friends can’t bear him anymore because he won’t stop ranting about you and about how much he wants you by his side right now! it’s almost like he needs you to breathe and live properly.

in a bar, at work, and especially abroad when he know he won’t be seeing you for days or worse: weeks, he braces himself for suffering and surrounds himself with and almost sacred shrine of you composed of basically every props that you regularly use: a dirty pillowcase (da heck), your favorite underwear (but it’s purely with no bad intentions: he just likes you), your old face cream pot, and i could go on and on. that’s the moment his friends dreads the most.

bokuto can’t resist you. in a ride back home, he’ll desperately cling to your arm like a helpless puppy who needs comfort and rub his head (and spiky hair) on your shoulders, murmuring you in a soft voice that he can’t wait to arrive home to kiss you and cherish you.

he’s also not self aware. the man will throw his whole being at you, literally megaknighting you just because he wants a hug (and ends up swallowing you in his big beefy arms)

his acquaintances and friends can’t bear him anymore because he won’t stop ranting about you and about how much he wants you by his side right now! it’s almost like he needs you to breathe and live properly.

in a bar, at work, and especially abroad when he know he won’t be seeing you for days or worse: weeks, he braces himself for suffering and surrounds himself with and almost sacred shrine of you composed of basically every props that you regularly use: a dirty pillowcase (da heck), your favorite underwear (but it’s purely with no bad intentions: he just likes you), your old face cream pot, and i could go on and on. that’s the moment his friends dreads the most.

bokuto can’t resist you. in a ride back home, he’ll desperately cling to your arm like a helpless puppy who needs comfort and rub his head (and spiky hair) on your shoulders, murmuring you in a soft voice that he can’t wait to arrive home to kiss you and cherish you.

he’s also not self aware. the man will throw his whole being at you, literally megaknighting you just because he wants a hug (and ends up swallowing you in his big beefy arms)