#mimi's notes

vergil's fingers slip under rumpled bedsheets to trail softly along the surface of your bare back, and you moan softly, knees bending gently towards your belly. there's still a lingering languidness to your body, that of thorough pleasure turning your very flesh into something more akin to a pleasant moldable jelly than person, and thus you don't turn - not yet.

but the bid for attention is still recognized.

"you okay?" you murmur, eyes closing with comfortable slumber.

"yeah," vergil replies. he presses kisses at the base of your neck, light touches still, then his finger pauses just over your scapula. there his touch is firmer, and his whole palm covers this area, caressing gently.

"there should be wings here," he whispers, almost too venerably.

"wings?" your eyebrows furrow as he kisses there too, then wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest.

"like an angel."

you chuckle softly.

"is this an attempt to flirt?"

with his knee, he gently parts your legs, pressing the surface of his thigh flush to your bare crotch.

"is that so ridiculous?"

his thigh starts to grind softly at the already wet space, satisfied from earlier but still receptive, still wanting.

"no," you sigh out, the grind of muscled thigh against your clit too precise, too trained, as if he's figured out your body and how to make it sing rather than tease. your head lolls back into him with the friction, and a free hand slips around your throat, applying gentle loving pressure.

"as i was saying-" he starts, before posing a kiss on your forehead,

Journaling can be fun with lots of creative activities, but sometimes regression isn't as happy or bubbly as most journal prompts seem. Big Feelings can be especially hard and scary to work through in the moment when you're small and don't have the words to talk about them. Having the comfort of a caregiver and letting those feelings out in a safe place is good start, but not everyone has or wants a caregiver and working through the feelings is a big part that I don't see many people talk about in the agere space.

It helps to have other ways to show and get out your feelings when they get overwhelming, but some regressors need a bit more of a structured, guided way to make sense of the messy feelings in their head. My little Kokki is one of them, so I decided to put together some more guided questions for journaling through Big Feelings in a way that hopefully will feel safer and still maintain that small, more simple headspace to make it feel less scary to do. Something that a regressor could do on their own or with the extra guidance of a caregiver.

I may add more as new ideas come to me, and other caregivers are free to suggest additions as well. I hope they help!

You approach slowly to inspect him, but he murmurs something that resembles your name, and with affection surging inside you, you decide you'll give him a taste of his own clingy medicine. After a quick check around to make sure no one can see - thankfully, everyone else seems to have found something to do, with the deck now deserted - you decide to plop right onto his chest, trying to match the outline of your body to his, chest to chest, limb to limb.

"Huh?" Luffy mumbles, in a daze. You pull off the hat from his head, placing it on yours for safekeeping, then give him a big grin.

"You spent too long without bugging me so I got worried."

He blinks.

"Bugging?"

Despite this, he has a wide grin on his face, his arms looping around your waist eagerly.

"I never bug you," he insists.

He's right, he doesn't, you decide, a smile creeping on your lips yourself. Changing the topic promptly, you ask, "What did you dream of?"

Your head finds its usual spot cradled in the space between his cheek and his shoulder, one hand trailing down the length of his arm to intertwine with his fingers. Like this, you are engaged in a sort of horizontal ballroom dance, even if your preferred dance partner is hard to imagine as elegant more than boorishly endearing.

"You," he says, promptly.

"Convenient," you tease, but he means it, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"You did something just like this, actually, but we were both huge from all the food we just ate. Like two big balloons."

Your mouth twists in mild apprehension.

"This sounds kind of terrible since I don't stretch like you."

He shakes his head, a few fingers idly trailing in your hair.

"You were cute. Like always."

Your cheeks grow warm like the gentle sun decided to focus its undivided attention on you.

"Go back to sleep," you say, thumping his chest gently.

"Mm... okay!" he agrees, wrapping his legs now around you too, too securely, and you consider that you might have accidentally booked yourself busy for the next hour or two. "This nap will probably be even better now that you're here."

"Luffy? Hold on-"

The latter clearly has heard the jeer, but he's not the same as perhaps a decade ago, where any one of Sero's teasing comments could have set him off. Glancing back for a second in the direction where you left just moments ago to go to the bathroom, followed by most of the other women at the table, he then turns to look directly at Sero.

"Yeah, that's love, right?" he says, calmly.

Kirishima blinks for a moment, incredulous, then exchanges a look with Kaminari beside him.

Katsuki, as if he hasn't said something highly uncharacteristic of himself, reaches for a bread roll in the middle of the table and then a butter knife.

"You didn't see me follow her into the bathroom, did you?" he adds. Sero snorts, but leans back into his chair.

"I mean no, but-"

Katsuki smears butter on the roll, and sets it on your empty plate, then takes another piece of bread to and butters it the same before taking a bite.

"But what?" he asks. The edge to his voice is back, something that paradoxically puts Sero back at ease.

"It looks strange on you," Denki finally points out.

Katsuki chews for a moment, then swallows, his eyes making a quick scan across the room. At another table, Midoriya's partner is focused on adjusting the lapel of his suit, and at yet another table, Iida is trying to convince Mei to keep her gadgets off the table before the MC starts another toast.

The bride and groom continue to cruise around the venue, and Katsuki cannot stop thinking about how beautiful you would look in that exact dress.

Or something of your own.

"I just can't imagine what the fuck she did-" Sero starts again before Eijiro cuts him off.

"Just knock it off for a second," he says, gently but assertively. Katsuki doesn't pay any mind to him as he observes the table favors.

These flowers are beautiful, but they aren't your favorite. They're gorgeous, but made of plastic while you'd prefer hundreds of real ones.

You've told him small weddings feel more intimate. This wedding isn't in the right season for you, but it's your second choice. You don't yet know how many people will be in the bridal party but you've floated some ideas.

You don't yet have a ring on your finger.

The many thoughts dissipate when your hand rests gently on his shoulder as you slip back into the seat next to him.

"Oh, they didn't bring out the food yet," you say, and Katsuki points to the bread on your plate, reminding you to eat.

His friends are captive audiences as you smile and take a bite, and perhaps horrified as he smiles back warmly, genuinely.

Love does look strange on him, perhaps.

Sometimes Vergil just can’t help it. 

There’s something about the sensation of his teeth grazing along the surface of your skin - a bare shoulder, the curve of your neck, the mound of your breast that incites something primal in him, an augmented form of desire that beckons to the part of his self that isn’t human, the one he both venerates and abhors if it really comes down to it. There’s something that tells him to grow fangs and bite, to sink deep into your flesh, and let your voice cry out in the erotic nature of pain that is indulged, not unexpected.

But, pent up as he is today, the fear of devouring you outstrips the desire to bite, because of how your eyes look, pupils dilated and dark, lips gently parted and wanting.

How could he ever harm you?

He means to sigh, but it sounds staggered, like drawing in a deep breath that’s more like a gasp.

“Turn around.” 

You don’t fight him this time, not because you’ve already been pinned down to the bed, hopeless and helpless but because you’re needy. An index finger transformed into a claw has already torn down the midline of your nightdress and the open piece slips off effortlessly as you turn, presenting yourself to him. Rump angled upwards, pussy in full view, lips glistening and wet, docile. Human.

At some point in his younger years, he may have purported that he’d never kneel for anyone, no less a weak human of your ilk, but he’s on his knees as his tongue explores that precious space, sucking and slurping as if it were a sort of ambrosia that dripped from between your thighs. His teeth gently raze the surface of your labia and the desire comes back - to nibble, to bite.

He can’t harm you, he thinks, as his tongue circles your clit from behind, as he inhales your scent and massages your thighs and draws out your first tremors with his treacherous mouth alone.

Breathy, soft, you call his name, as you collapse forward, and once your knees have folded under you, he’s ready to slip his aching cock in and you gasp at the fullness, just as he shudders at the precious clamp of your body around him.

Such a weak, petulant thing, and yet you might as well hold him physically and emotionally in a vice grip. Recovering himself, he lets his hand slide down the arch of your back to take a fistful of your hair. And then it loosens. 

How could he ever harm you?

“Breathe,” he whispers, gentler this time as you whine, adjusting. It’s an order to both you and him, and his eyes close as he slots himself in firmer, more flush with your ass. You exhale, and he moves.

Slow first, gentle, taking advantage of long arms to cradle the front of your delicate neck, tilting your head upwards, a finger creeping into your mouth. Then fast, hungry, both hands squeezing at your waist, grabbing at skin and flesh. Then needy, again, pressing weight atop you as he presses his chest close to your back.

Your hand creeps backwards, bold, to caress a cheek.

“You can look at me, you know,” you offer softly between sighs. “I won’t run.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but he allows himself the indulgence of nipping at your earlobe.

“You can’t run.”

It’s true and yet said, tentatively, begging for you to say otherwise.

“Nor would it ever cross my mind.”

Your waves flow to a stop, which only seems to accentuate how thick he is inside you, how heavy and warm his body is despite the ice he surrounds himself with, the beat of his long-neglected heart. Suspended together for a moment, without movement, you inhale the moment.

“I do want you. Terribly. You don’t have to take anything from me... you don’t have to worry about hurting me - you never can.”

His hand finds yours spread against the mattress, his fingers intertwining with yours.

“You’re foolish.”

“Love and logic don’t necessarily mix,” you murmur, a smile on your face.

Another bite at your shoulder, sharp enough to draw blood. You wince, but you endure. 

Another stroke, harder, faster this time, and you cry out, but hold his hand tighter.

“Want you,” you eke out in soft reassurance.

"you know... you're too heavy for this."

'this' is zoro who has suddenly shown up as you were re-stitching the hem of a torn shirt (yours, but with one of his repaired and draped over the chair beside you), kneeling before your feet, and pressing his head into your lap.

it's disturbed your stitching slightly, but deftly you've moved your handiwork out of the way, careful not to use your needle and poke out his other eye - something he really should consider the next time. ordinarily, you'd try to pay him no mind, and let him rest as you continued your work, but today he holds on so tightly you wonder if he's attempting to tell you something without actually saying a word.

"you okay?" you finally ask.

face still buried in your lap, you hear a muffled 'yes', and snort to yourself.

"are you being a big baby because you need to be or is there something i should be asking you?"

still muffled, without moving his face, he mutters,

"you're not very nurturing, are you?"

"nope!" you offer cheerfully.

it's his turn to snort, but he hasn't let go still. your free hand rubs carefully over the short crop of his hair, then you let out a sigh.

"you sure you're all right?"

zoro still doesn't say a word. your mind passes quickly through the last few days - conversations, battles, meals, anything that could upset or anything that could cause a surge of emotional fondness... you find that with zoro, all of his emotions mingle and mesh together, muddled and compressed so tightly that they come out as one thing.

which may be him holding you so tightly right now without a word.

as you ponder this for a moment, your hand in rhythmic motion as you stare out at the expanse of the deep blue sea before you, he finally inhales deeply, then sighs.

"you're doing it again."

you blink, then look at him. finally, his head tilts up, his chin resting on the curve of your knee.

"doing what?"

"treating me like i'm some kind of puppy."

your head tilts gently to the side.

"you're the one who came here wordlessly for a hug. do you not expect to be petted when you come in that fashion?"

he gives you a long, appraising look, but in this reverent, practically clinging position, attempting to look upset is futile, even cute.

"difficult," he murmurs.

“hey.”

aizawa’s eyes slide up towards you as you position yourself in front of the work desk on which he’s been laying face down at for the past ten minutes. as usual, he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, and if it weren’t for the fact that you know him like the back of your hand, you’d think he were in a bad mood. but to his dismay, nothing can stop you from delivering your terrible joke.

“hey.” he replies, not bothering to rub the sleep out of his eyes. there’s something you’re hiding behind your back and he squints. this could be very good or very bad.

for one, you’re not supposed to be here. although class 1A had an early release and are somewhere in the dorms enjoying a well needed afternoon off, he’s technically still on the clock for a few more hours. it’s 1pm and he’s already had lunch. 

the way your lips curl into a smile immediately has his heart racing - it’s that look.

“…” he braces himself.

“riddle me this,” you start. he would groan, but you’d pout so he doesn’t.

you continue.

“what’s the holiest day of the year?”

he raises an eyebrow then finally sits up.

“i don’t know, i’m not religious. christmas?”

you narrow your eyes, but there’s a gleam in your eyes as you pull out a box in front of you.

“national donut day!” you grin.

he blinks.

“get it? because they have holes,” you say, still grinning, as you open the box. there’s a pretty generous assortment of about a half-dozen. he looks at the box, and then to you. 

“what?”

“you couldn’t just bring me the donuts without the joke?” he asks.

you pout and he frowns. “never mind. thank you.”

you reach for one, and take a bite, and you encourage him to try one too, but he only has eyes for the half bitten one in your hand. you stretch out your hand and he bites one, watching you as he chews. it’s a little too intense of a look for the two of you in this empty classroom, but he loses himself in his stares sometimes. especially when it’s in your direction.

“what?” you tease.

“i was just thinking,” he says as he leans back in his chair.

you raise an eyebrow. “about what?”

“what else has holes?”

it’s your turn to blink in confusion, and his turn to grin widely.

“i don’t get it,” you say between bites.

"what are you doing, shoto?"

you're the first person to break this game of nonchalance you're playing with him, where he gets closer and closer and you pretend that you don't notice the weight of his body first laying in the bed next to you as you read, nor the warmth of his skin pressing closer, but now his head is halfway up the bottom of your loose-fitting pajama shirt - really one of his shirts from a convention that's faded out over multiple washes - and you can't pretend to be nonchalant any longer.

"i thought you couldn't see me," he muses, voice soft and low. he's acting like an overgrown cat now, partially hovered over your outstretched legs, supporting his weight by his forearms as he draws even closer. you huff, and he kisses right below your breastbone softly.

"can't feel me either."

despite the titillation from the contact, you keep both hands on your book, arms spread wide to avoid him, and neck craned over the peak formed by his head tenting your shirt.

"i'm not indulging this," you warn, a threat with no teeth.

even if you can't see him, you can tell he smiles before pressing yet another kiss closer up your breastbone, and you involuntarily bite your lower lip, a flush of warmth in your cheeks.

"mmm, you don't have to," he murmurs almost sleepily. he lets his weight rest on top of your thighs, pressing his cheek against your chest, as though listening to your heart beat.

"shoto," you start, softly, but he digs into the space below your legs with his arms to clutch them close to him.

"i'm not bothering you, just go ahead and read."

"but-"

"indulge me."

"i just said i wouldn't-"

shoto doesn't reply explicitly to that, but hums a bit in satisfaction. a few more moments pass like this, where you can barely concentrate on reading, and you let out a sigh, tossing your book to a side.

"you win."

"win what?" he says, but he's shimmying up higher and you consider for a moment that your very broad boyfriend might stretch this shirt too much, but once his mouth closes around the point of your nipple, you let out a soft gasp.

"shoto...," you say softer, your arms wrapping around him, as his tongue laves around the areola before closing around the nipple again.