♡ mostly fic recs ♡

emm ⩺ 27 ⩺ she/her

[merelydaydreaming]

It's 11:13 pm on a monday rn, and tomorrow at work if i get independent work time. I'm going to waste my time writing fics instead of doing the work we are assigned. I like my job, but i hate the people at my job. so rn im working on fics for Jason Todd, Tsukishima, Gojo, Atsumu, and Touya. I think I have more, but these are the ones i open the most.

[mattsundaes]

imagine finding out that your best friend bakugou has never sent anyone a dick pic. everyone's razzing him over it, and he's just like whoever i'm fucking can just come the fuck over at look at my dick why the fuck do i need to do a photoshoot with it????

"my dick ain't in fuckin' vogue you fucks" end quote

[mattsundaes]

anyway so naturally he's a little Drunk one night still annoyed about it so he starts taking pics. of his dick. out of spite.

and then you text him some dumb meme of a cat and he's drunk enough to think that hitting send on several pictures is a Good Idea.

accompanied by the message "i can take a fuckin dick pic"

[mattsundaes]

unfortunately. you realize you've created a monster in that moment.

because years worth of resolutely ignoring your very secret very unspoken never to be mentioned crush on bakugou katsuki are violently tossed out the window in favor of the knowledge that (1) bakugou has a very big dick (2) bakugou has a very nice dick (3) bakugou takes very very very flattering pictures of his nice, big dick.

[mattsundaes]

naturally your fight or flight response leads you to send the only string of words that your brain is capable of putting together as you otherwise muffle a pathetic moan against the hand clasped against your mouth, face hot.

no videos????? coward

(bakugou forgets to stop recording after a few strokes. forgets that his phone can pick up every sound, every pant. every rough groan of your name as he fucks his fist till he cums hard all over his bare stomach.)

[merelydaydreaming]

i domt usually post little whispers from my brain cause im talking to the void but, this whole summer ive been working on a jason todd fanfic and it was going well and then i forgot what it was about when i finally sat down to write it down physically.

[mintmatcha]

Minto pls tell us more about Beau’s uncle 👀

My working name for him is Dell Russell. He's Beau's paternal uncle: his dad's older brother. The werewolf gene missed him. They aren't really sure how or why; its not like there's studies and punnet squares around lycanthropy to explain it. When it didn't happen to him, they assumed it would skip Beau's father as well, but it appeared in his late teens. Dell's always been kind of the. Shepard. of the town, keeping the wolf at bay.

he's a quiet man. tough, but not as tough as Beau's dad was. never laid a hand on anyone violently or otherwise. never dated. loved a soul. Treated Beau like the son he would never have, but also left beau with a lot of baggage around relationships, love, and children

[mintmatcha]

Beau notices that there's someone Dell watches in the diner. He follows her with his eyes, but not in the way his brother does. He doesn't lean over to watch her skirt flit around her legs or peer down her shirt when she bends over, no. No, Dell watches her face, how she smiles at her customers, how she wrinkles her nose at the cook in the back. Sometimes, when she laughs, he nearly laughs too-- well, almost laughing for Dell Russell is his broom of a mustache twitching ever so slightly in the corners, but it's there and its real.

"You should-" Beaumont's voice cracks high with puberty. His shins ache with growth spurts, but he's taller than his mother now. "You should ask Miss Suzanne-"

"Boy." Dell slams his fork into his grits. Today, they're so thick that the fork stands up when he lets go. "When there's something wrong with your family tree, you don't give people the fruit."

Beaumont looks side to side.

"What does that even mean?"

Dell sighs, rubbing his temple in tight circles. It takes a long moment before he reaches back to his plate, grabbing that fork like a weapon, tight and overhanded.

"Means your daddy was cruel, havin' you." He shovels in a mouthful of the glop in, barely chewing before continuing. "Put a shot gun in your mouth and hoped it wasn't loaded."

Dell's mustache has a bit of butter stuck in it, right about his lip. He has another mouthful of food before he's even swallowed the first and Beaumont works really hard on swallowing the lump thats formed in his throat. He knows what his father is, even if no one will directly tell him.

"Best thing either us can do is never touch a woman." Dell leans back and catches the waitress' eye. She comes over, straightening her dress with a preened excitement that makes Beau feel weird inside.

"Suz', darlin', can you get the boy another order of eggs? Starting to think his ma don't feed him."

Beau stares at his empty plate, unsure if he should feel guilty or something else.

"Boy."

Dell's foot collides with his shin and Beaumont jumps in his seat.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Anything for Dell Russell." Suzanne reaches out and pinches his sunburnt cheek, then reaches then reaches with the other to pinche Beau's at the same time. "And anything for you, sugar."

It's five years later that Suzanne gets married. He's a fine guy, someone who buys her a house and gives her a growing belly that Dell can't stand to look at when he comes into the diner.

[wttcsms]

a snippet of a long one shot i was working on for a beloved follower who requested a second chance romance with kiyoomi <3

title; my heart surrenders

question: where does the love go when we leave each other?

Hands shoved in the pockets of his black track pants, Kiyoomi Sakusa stands outside the MSBY Black Jackals’ private gym. 

He likes to consider himself a level-headed person, someone who can remain calm and collected at all moments, but there’s nothing quite more anxiety-inducing than seeing your ex-wife not even two days after the divorce has been finalized. 

Divorce. 

He doesn’t ever anticipate the word meaning anything to him. Doesn’t expect it to hold much relevancy, doesn’t expect the weight of it to be as soul crushing as it turns out to be. 

Separation. That’s supposed to be a euphemism for what’s happened between you two. When he shows up to events in the future, when he stops leaving the locker room first because he’s in such a hurry to come home to you and Masatomi, when the frown on his face becomes a permanent feature, he will eventually have to answer all of his teammates and family’s concerns with a simple, supposedly euphemistic we decided to separate. 

It doesn’t cut as deep as the d-word, but it’s so hilariously inaccurate that even the idea of using it to describe what has been done between you and him leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Separated. You and him. Separate.

As if.

He’s known you since middle school, loved you since high school, has felt like he’s been with you since the creation of the damn universe. There’s no easy way to say this, but your life is so interlinked with his that it’ll take an eternity to ever get yourself fully untangled from him. 

What that means is: there’s this whole long, legal, drawn-out process of changing your name once again, only this time, you’re reclaiming your original surname. He had foolishly hoped that the irritating process would prove to be such a hindrance that you keep Sakusa trailing after your first name, that you would recall the way just two years prior, you had excitedly practiced writing [Name] Sakusa. 

(My given name, you point to your name. My chosen name. The tip of your index finger travels to your neatly written Sakusa. You look up at him smiling. 

He keeps this memory tucked inside one of his arteries, wants every version of you close to his heart, wants you to be what gets pumped into his veins.) 

How could you ever possibly be separated from him? He knows the specific shape you contort your body into when you’re in deep sleep, can communicate with you through microscopic facial expressions alone, has heard you whisper into his ear every birthday wish that you’re going to make before you blow out the candles on your cake. And you — will you set the dishes in the dishwasher how he does, because muscle memory guides your movements? Will you subconsciously keep his side of the bed empty? 

(Will you find someone to fill in that empty space? Will you forget all about him, while he’s still stuck years in the past, dress shoes rooted to the altar where he still expects to see you as his blushing bride?) 

“Is everything okay?” Your hair and makeup are done, makeup done in a way that’s a bit heavier than it normally is.

It all disappears on camera is what you told him when he first visited you on set. Believe me, I can’t wait to wash this all off.

You must have came as soon as you received the call. 

That shouldn’t make him as happy as it does, shouldn’t make his heart do that annoying, excited pitter-patter that it always does when he sees you after a long time (it’s been less than forty-eight hours). The irritation of having his coach and the team medic both agree to contact you since his sprained wrist is considered “an important and noteworthy condition to report” disappears when he sees you.

(Like with most of his problems, the root of it traces back to Atsumu. The bumbling idiot tried to cover up a sprained ankle from his wife, and the way she chewed him out for hiding this from her could be heard from miles away. To protect everyone’s eardrums, the coach and medical team make an agreement to report any and all ailments.) 

It’s barely been two days since the divorce; surely you don’t expect him to remove you from being his emergency contact. 

Surely you know that there would be no one to fill in that blank. 

“It’s nothing serious.” He tells you, and he knows that it’s the wrong thing to say when he sees your expression falter. 

You’re an actress; started your career young, so you became a recurring character on a drama. Former recurring character — you decided to go into an early retirement to focus on raising Masatomi, but with Kiyoomi and you agreeing on frequent visitation rights that alternate equally between you two, you have more free time. He guesses this means you must be back on a part-time basis. The network was devastated when you left, it’s no wonder why they’re so happy to have you back, no matter how little they get of you. He can relate.

The reason why you’re such a beloved actress is the way a whole entire story plays out on your face. Kiyoomi is the opposite. He’s revealing nothing; no discomfort is evident even with the way his wrist still kind of burns, and you can’t even tell that him seeing you look so pretty in the daylight, set makeup on or not, is doing something devastating to him. He keeps his hands in his pockets, knowing that he can’t reach for you. He doesn’t have the right to anymore. 

“Your coach said you sprained your wrist, though.” 

“I’ll still be able to play this season.” 

He’s not used to having awkward silences between you two. The two of you have been together for so long, he thought that there would be no more room for awkwardness to fit in. 

“Alright. Well—”

“I just—”

The both of you try to break the silence at the same time, only to find the other fumbling for anything to say. Kiyoomi makes that microexpression on his face, a barely perceptible, incredibly slight raise of his right eyebrow. It means you first. 

“Well—” you find yourself clearing your throat before daring to take a few steps closer to him. Somehow, the distance seems to grow despite every step forward you take. Kiyoomi realizes this and is terrified, panicking, drowning. “I just realized that things kind of happened in a hurry.” 

That’s one way to put it. You told him that you wanted a divorce on a Monday morning, then handed him a stack of divorce papers already initialed and signed by you. He didn’t protest, didn’t even look over the documents — he just filled in the blanks as necessary, and you gave it back to your lawyer the same day. By Wednesday afternoon, it’s been finalized. 

Obnoxiously fast. 

Kiyoomi knows so because he holed himself up in the gym’s bathroom before practice, scrolling through search results, Reddit threads, and Quora answers on how long does it take for a divorce to be finalized. He supposes it’s different when the two of you are technically celebrities. Money talks, too.

He hates that you refuse to take any of his.

He knows that not looking over the documents is probably a poor choice. The realist part of him berates him for being so stupid; the part of him that belongs to you (so, basically the entirety of his very being) trusts you more than he does himself. You’d never do anything to ruin him.

[ae-de]

oikawa regrets very little of his high school experience except that he let you slip through his fingers. he feels it most now, as he's making his way around school looking for you. leaving like this would mean regret. you'd caught his eye during the graduation ceremony, a solemn look so different from his usual teasing glint.

and you know he means it.

and it shoots through you like the very arrow cupid struck him with the first time your eyes met.

except now it carries the weight of everything you two were during these past two years, everything you could have been in the future had he not decided to move so far that you're not sure you'll even share the same sun every day.

and the arrow twists as you see him hugging his team for a final time out by the gym.

and you know the bile creeping up your throat is not just because you hurt, it's the now growing limbs, and eyes, and breath inside you. the nose, you know, will probably be his. the slender fingers you'll one day have to hold as you give the best answer you can muster to "mommy, why does everyone else in my class has a dad except for me?"

you spiral as you walk down toward the gates to go home and cry some more. eventually you'll have to figure out what the fuck you'll tell your parents when enough time passes and you start to show while still having to complete your last year of high school.

except a warm hand tugs at your wrist and makes you stop in your tracks because it's exactly who you think. because you can smell his shampoo in the breeze and feel the softening callouses on his big palm where it meets your skin.

his eyes are desperate and fearful, a tear runs down your cheek. you turn to him and are enveloped by the warmth of arms strengthened by years of hard work and dedication.

and realize that you'll eventually also have to hold his slim fingers while giving the best answer you can muster to "why didn't you tell me sooner?"

because you know that day will come, because makki will still insist you two hang out while he tries to make it on his own. mattsun will still invite you to go shopping with him on the weekends.

and oikawa will be on the other side of the world, following the dream you couldn't bear keep him away from as you nurse your broken heart back to a stable enough place that you can pour what's left of your love into the piece of him that's now growing inside you.

[mintmatcha]

The Gojo and Geto vampire thing you posted…….yes🫨🫶🏽.

Their eyes are human, yet so much more.

Gojo's are a dazzling blue, so intensely bright that you could swear they're diamond filled, refracting glimmers in all angles. Light finds him, even in the dark. In the pitch of night, you can see the flash of him looking your way, a ghost cutting through the room to haunt you.

When you flip on the light, he flinches comically hard. The man has perched himself on your kitchen island, legs tucked under him with a child, watching the front door with rapt interest

"Ow, geez-" He throws a hand over his eyes in mock pain- on second thought, maybe real. "That's bright."

You drop your bag on the table and shrug off your coat. Gojo's shoes are off of the rack, scattered as if someone tripped over them and kicked them into oblivion. You regret letting him into your house because he treats it as an open invitation. Somehow, through locked doors and barred windows, he's in there, waiting for you.

"It's creepy when you lurk in the dark like that. Turn a lamp on or something."

"I don't need light." He stands with a mischievous smile, far too many teeth showing. In a stride, he's on you, pushing forward with such a speed that you're forced into stepping back against the door. Those bright eyes focus on you completely, but they don't feel like they're boring into you. No, the blue is inviting, pulling you in with a siren's song to lure you into swimming in them. "And maybe I wanted to surprise you."

His skin is chilled. It's uncomfortable when he brushes against your arm, trailing up towards your shoulder. He tips his head with a slow tilt, like an owl eyeing it's prey. The pupils constrict hard, angled, sharp, strange, a shark in the ocean-

"Or-" His tongue flicks over a sharpening molar. "Maybe I wanted to scare you."

A breath is caught in your throat. It's a vampire tactic, an ability they lord over humans without a second thought: the thrall. It tickles the outskirts of your mind, pulling you along.

"Unbotton your top."

And you obey. A puppet string moves your hands, bringing your hands to the buttons and popping them open one by one. Gojo leans back to get a good look, stopping you once your tits are exposed.

"You got a nice vein right here on your boob, under the surface. Could sink my teeth into it and just go to town. Drink until your heart has nothing left to pump," Gojo says, dipping in, icy breath against the crook of your neck as his fingers meander over your collarbone and down your sternum. "Wouldn't it be so embarrassing to die from me sucking your tit?"

Through your bra your skin goes electric with his touch as he glides over you-

and then honks your tit like a play horn.

"Or I could just play with 'em."

The thrall releases and you shove him away with all your strength. He's laughing all the meanwhile, stumbling over his own goddamn shoes like a moron.

"You're such an asshole." Your heartbeat is wild in your chest and you know that he hears it.

"Come on, baby," Gojo croons. "I was just playing-"

He juts out his lower lip in mock sorrow, batting his white eyelashes like he's a Disney princess. With a roll of the eyes, you brush by him and he follows into the kitchen.

"I was waiting for you all in the dark so I could surprise you with a little quickie by the door." He comes back to you and walks his fingers up your arm. "Lights off... Maybe you wouldn't even know it's me-"

"She'd know."

Geto's eyes are black. Impossibly black. They swallow light, engulf it. Everything in the room seems to warp when you stare into them, as if time and space cannot escape their draw.

He leans against the door frame to your room like he belongs there, hair still wet from a shower. Geto has the decency to pay you something for rent and utilities, so you don't really mind him using all of the building's hot water. (You do mind him using your fancy shampoos, but-"

"How would she know?" Gojo presses.

"I don't fuck like a jackhammer."

Gojo and Geto are a joint deal. They aren't Together, but they are always in the other's periphery, circling. Sleeping with both of them wasn't your plan, but they don't seem to mind. It's not a secret; you spend some nights with Gojo in your bed and some nights with Geto. They never share you at the same time, despite your hints that you wouldn't mind.

"Oh, she likes The Hammer." Gojo cups his crotch. Geto rolls his eyes and looks towards you with a knowing smile. Gojo fucks, Geto caresses. He works you slow until you cum and cum and cum, so much so that you're more sore with him than the "jack hammer."

"Are you with in tonight?" Geto asks.

"I was planning on it," you reply.

He paces around tying his hair up with a tie at his own pace. His clothes smell like... something. You can't place it and you wish you could bury your nose in him and breath it in until you knew it by heart. "I'll be out."

"Shame.'

His gaze flickers up and down you and a chill runs down your spine. The buttons of your too are still undone and half of one nipple is out; he clearly enjoys the view. His dark hair slips a bit, running down the back of his neck. He carries an exhaustion, one that sits heavy in his shoulders and dark under his eyes. "It is."

You eye him back. He might be the vampire, but you want your teeth sunk into him, so hard he can never attempt to disappear into the night again. You don't know where either of them go: presumably to feed. A lick of jealousy eats into you whenever you think about him with his mouth on someone else.

"More time for me," Gojo says. The two of them share a look as Geto silently heads towards the door. He slips on his shoes (placed neatly in the rack) and turns to you once more.

"Bye." He makes the word sound intimate.

"Bye," you say back, equally as cool, but with an undercurrent of warmth.

Once the door closes behind him, Gojo whines.

"You like him more than me."

Of course you do. Gojo is all teeth and threats, a turbulent sea that would carry no guilt in drowning you, while Geto is a comforting force, a cave you could lose yourself in forever.

You shrug and walk towards the bathroom.

"I'm not having sex with you after that shit you just pulled." The two of you always have sex when you're alone.

"I could thrall you into it," he calls after you, trailing five steps behind. "Gimme some pussy. Lemme eat it."

There's a tease of compulsion, but nothing real, just a tease to rile you up. Gojo, in all his faults, would never force you into that. He likes an active participant too much for that.

"Oh, it's working," you say sarcastically, even as you begin to shed your shirt. "Oh, I just have to have you."

Gojo laughs.

"Let's see if Suguru left us any hot water," you say. "Bring the hammer."

[mintmatcha]

The sun is about to crest when Geto slips in. You're watching your coffee percolate on the stove, leaned over that damn kitchen island. It's good that Gojo has already settled into sleeping or else he'd be trying to slip into you again.

"You're cutting it close," you say. "Sun's almost up."

Geto's body silently presses up behind you, hands guiding you up into standing. His chest is stiff and unbreathing, but you find comfort in it anyway when you lean against him.

"You shouldn't worry about me," he whispers. "It'll make me feel guilty."

"Mm," you hum, going lax in his hands. "You shouldn't feel guilty. I just missed you."

Geto doesn't respond. You can feel him watching the back of your neck and the top of your head.

"Did you have a nice night?" you whisper.

"No," he says quietly. "Not at all."

You make a sad sound in genuine sympathy and reach up behind you. His face presses into you palm without prompting and you run your fingernails over the rough of cheek. Before you can savor it, he's pulling away.

"Are you jealous that Gojo and I were home, becau-'

Pain blisters across your shoulder. At first you think something from the stove has somehow splashed up and burnt you, so you try to jump back, but your body is locked in place. In fact, you can't even open your mouth to scream. No, your body won't move at all, every joint frozen in place, every muscle rigid and bunched so tight that they already ache. Thinking has become sticky too- it's like every thought is trudging through tar, sinking deeper and deeper until, you fear you may stop thinking all together.

Geto's mouth is on your neck. It took you multiple moments to realize it. His teeth have ripped into your muscle and jerked through skin, pouring blood into his waiting mouth. You want to yell or fight, but you feel him there, blanketing over your consciousness.

He's going to kill you.

Gojo's thrall is frightening in the way he uses it liberally, but it's never crushed you like Geto's does. It's heavy, sinking you down into a dog as dark as his eyes. Your brain loops over the same thought, skipping and hiccuping like a scratched CD.

He's going to kill you.

He's going to kill you.

He's going to kill you.

His jaw unlatches for a moment and you think its over. He grabs the spot he's cut and drags his warm, wet hand across your face, your own blood metallic against your lips.

"You're right," he whispers. "I shouldn't feel guilty."

He leans back in, jaw unhinged.

"This is what I was meant to do."

[lvmimis]

"You follow her around like a dog, man," Sero says finally, and even if the surrounding ballroom chatter doesn't cease for a moment as the table set for ten starts to receive their first course salads, the parallel conversations among the group of old friends halt abruptly to a stop. Eijiro gives Sero a raise of the eyebrow, then turns to Katsuki, expecting to have to mitigate his hot temper.

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.

But they'll have to get used to it because it will not go away.

[hawnks]

Would Valko let you win the playfight

Yes

No

Only when he's in heat

Only when he's not in heat

Voting ended onJul 12

[kechiwrites]

| kinktober week one | ♱ don’t make me say it ♱ | atsumu miya x reader |

synopsis: “it’s not your fault osamu is the better twin, atsumu just rubs you the wrong fucking way.”

wc: 2.6k

cw: enemies to lovers (but still kinda enemies), pet names (baby, angel), unprotected sex, degradation, d/s dynamics, hatefucking, spanking, spitting, hair pulling, dick slapping, mentions of masturbation, fingering, exhibitionism, facials, swallowing, humiliation, ATSUMU I HATE U SO MUCH KISS ME. NO MINORS.

author’s note: my god he is so annoying. this one goes out to @kweenkatsuki​, her monoma fics are probably my fave “enemies who fuck” fics i’ve ever read. This one’s filthy, im afraid.

♱ find the rest of my kinktober masterlist here ♱

Keep reading

[mintmatcha]

"I know the perfect guy for you."

The fabric swatches in your hand -an array of sunset colors- goes ignored. Instead, your boss' attention is locked entirely on you. Her eyes are narrowed, but her lips are pressing thin with a smile.

"Mitsuri," you sigh, still good humored. "Are you trying to set me up with your son?"

"Oh god, no. You're too good for him." Her heel taps against the linoleum as she leans back into her chair. There's a litany of overdue projects strewn about her desk, with an organizational system only the two of you could ever understand, but her work had been at an standstill all day. "But he's got friends and some of them are-"

She pauses, nose wrinkling even harder. "I can't say hot because they are my son's age, but-"

"I get it." You try to push the samples into her hand again, but Mitsuri shakes her head. Her son Katsuki is a frequent topic of conversation and she says equally positive and negative things about the man: he bought a car (she's so proud, but what a waste of money), he's successful in his career (but he could be more successful if he could fix his atttitude) and he's even bought his own apartment (but ever since his divorce, he's been alone in that damn apartment-)

"They're sweet guys," she continues. "One of 'ems this darling lil' teacher, tiny little dimples you just wanna bite-"

"Oh my god-" You throw your fabric over your face. Your single-ness has apparently become infamous. While you and Mitsuri are closer than boss and intern should be, this conversation is making your cheeks go hot.

"Or there's this red head who has biceps that are as big-"

"Mitsuri!"

"Or this beautiful boy with -"

"You're just peddling me to your son's friends!

"I'm peddling them to you! They are nice boys and you need a nice boy!" The last guy you were with was nothing of the sort. "Besides, if they ever do misbehave, I'll tell their mothers!"

With another awkward laugh you give up, just throwing you hand into the air in defeat. Truthfully, it has been... kind of hopeless lately. Dating apps certainly aren't giving you the next great romance you need in your life-

"I'll think about it."

"Think quick, because I'm having a party tonight and you're coming."

[mintmatcha]

You figure out very, very quickly that Mitsuri is wrong. These boys are way too good for you.

Izuku -freckle boy- locks you into a conversation relatively quickly and you realize he's truly the button Mitsuri promised. Every topic he blabs about is dripping with passion and knowledge. On his side is a princely looking guy, who seems very content to simply listen and nod along.

The red head talks to you for a while and seems very, very normal. When your glass is empty, he brings you a refill without being asked. The party is a gaggle of people, just enough that when another person comes in, you can dip away to grab your shoes-

"Sneaking out?"

A voice catches you as you're closing the front door behind you. Mitsuri's house is in a quiet neighborhood, the soft glow of streetlights already kicking on as the sun settles into the horizon. April still has a chill on the breeze, so you pull your jacket close; Bakugo Katsuki wears only a tee shirt.

"Don't tell your mom."

Katsuki barks out a laugh, one a bit too loud. He's pressed against the brick wall that serves as a fence, one leg propped back for balance.

"Fuck, I wish I was leaving," he says, kicking gravel with the toe of his boot. A thin vape is tucked into his palm and you nearly cringe at the sight, but you decide to let him keep that a secret for now. "But it's supposed to be my party, so-"

"That's right. Happy birthday." It doesn't actually seem to be a party focused around him, despite his friends being most of the guests, but you wonder if he prefers it that way. His mother can be... intense. Having her full focus is a heavy weight to bear.

"Thanks."

There's a couple flecks of grey at his temple, accenting the blonde. It's charming, you decide. Ages him in a very attractive way. When his eyes dart to yours, you realize you're been staring at him for a long while.

"So," you clear your throat. "Your mom has no idea Midoriya is gay, huh?"

"Oh, fuck, no idea." He gives you a cock-eyed grin. "Not that she would have a problem with it, the gay thing, they just-- once it's out, it's out."

"She thought he was my 'perfect match,'" you laugh.

"Yeah, if you had a cock and your name was Shouto, you'd be his match." His smile slides a bit. "Listen, sorry the old lady made you come."

"It's okay. She just wants me to get laid."

You're joking, but he doesn't laugh. "Yeah, she bitches about that a lot."

You scoff. "No, she does not."

"Yeah, she does." Katsuki's eyes flicker to your lips. A glimmer of something bubbles in your chest, something that no one else at this party sparked. "'That girl's so smart, but she only sleeps with losers-'"

"No!" Your giggle is so high and girlish that you have to cover your face after it escapes you. "She did not say that."

"I bet she says worse about me."

Oh, yes, she does.

"She loves you a lot," you say instead. "She wants you to get a girlfriend."

"She wants me to fuck my ex."

The word 'fuck' leaves his lips and something thickens in your chest. His eyes flick back to your lips, then to the ground.

"I should get back in there before they notice I'm gone-"

"Or we can leave before they notice."

Katsuki blinks, eyebrows cocked, and you think you've miscalculated.

"You serious?"

"I mean, I-- yeah? If you want-"

"Yeah, duh, yeah." Bewilderment is the only expression he can make. "I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth, fuck."

[mintmatcha]

getting high with your guy best friend and he starts listing reasons you should let him put his cock inside you

[mintmatcha]

halfway through his list of reasons he's toying worh himself through his pants, stroking and moving it, showing off the outline. his other hand is over your shoulder, gently brushing fingertips over your tit.

"you know i'm huge, right?" he says. "Pornstar big."

"Shut up."

"i'm serious. im massive." "touch it and see."

when you go to reach, he's pushing down his pants to give you a proper handful of the biggest cock you've ever seen-

"holy shit. that'll break me."

"god, i hope so."

[mintmatcha]

wait. sukuna and the maid he absolutely torments because you can't deny him. calling you in to clean up a mess but he's laying there, fisting his cock.

you duck your face in embarrassment and he snaps. "don't you ever look away from me."

you turn back and watch how he furiously jerks himself off, his wicked smile pulls taut.

"where is the mess, my lord?" you stammer.

"I have not made it yet." He doesn't need to elaborate. A string of clear fluid has already dropped down the head of his member. "Have you ever seen a cock before?"

You hesitate, nearly turning away. "Yes, my lord."

"Was he gentle with you?"

The skirt of your dress is stiff in your hands.

"No, my lord."

and sukuna laughs with this breathy noise, head tilted back. He's close-- you can hear it in how he draws in a breath.

"Girls like you: no true man could be gentle with them. You're meant to be used. I can smell it on you. The weakness I need to exploit-- Look at me. In the eyes."

When you pull your eyes from his member to his face, sukuna grits back a deep groan. he cums across his barely stomach and chest, warm spend pooling on the skin as he pants. You have no choice but to stay there watching until he acknowledges you again.

"There's your mess. Clean it." He waves a hand dismissively and you turn for a rag. "You know how I want it."

You meet his eye a final time before you lean over and drop your tongue through the mess in a long strip, glazing your lips in the process.

[mintmatcha]

love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...

[mintmatcha]

you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.

you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.

When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.

"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.

"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.

"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.

"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"

"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"

Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."

That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.

"Until next time."

He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.

"Until next time," he repeats back.

[mintmatcha]

In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.

(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)

none of the gifts come with a note.

one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.

the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.

-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.

The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.

"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."

You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.

-Dearest husband,

Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.

Your patient and thoughtful wife

A second letter arrives within the week.

-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?

The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.

-Dearest, sweetest husband,

A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your family name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.

Your less than patient and less than adoring wife

The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.

tortured wife,

I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.

your loving husband

[merelydaydreaming]

man, this guy from Gal's can't be kind to Otaku!? was so hot! so sad that it's a Shojo anime, cause a lot of fans watch Shonen. 😮‍💨

[tteokdoroki]

🛞 HOT SHOT ✩  zuko .ᐟ

🏁 pit stop ! 𖦹 zuko finds a way to make up for the burns he leaves by accident. for my lovely @peachversace i kiss u and i love you very much! (2.4K)

🏁 safety car ! ⋆ not safe for work ⋆ smut ⋆ eighteen plus only. sorta canon compliant, adult atla characters, established relationship, strength kink, blowjobs, overstimulation, hot cum ? … cum swallowing, squirting, cum play, unprotected sex, fire lord zuko & princess, water-bender fem reader.

── © tteokdoroki ╱ 2026.

the air in the room is heady. threaded with notes of acidric blackened ash and choking smog. elements of salt on skin, a familiar tang of sex heavy amongst particles that flicker to life with randiness, buzzing in the small gap of air between yourself, and the burning flesh of the firelord bending at your will. 

zuko’s thighs tremble with the something of a man who’s been standing tall for too long. each and every one of his muscles screaming for some kind of merciful release, the tension wound into bundles of myocytes and protein fibre builds high and tightly — like a spring waiting to bounce back, and through gritted teeth and pursed lips, the fire lord lets out treble-esque, quaking moan that crackles in the small gap between your brain and your skull, launching lust right down your spine. 

you release his seedy shaft from your mouth with a pop that’s loud enough to break the sound barrier and lewd enough to have another orgasm coil between his organs and take up space in the small lull of time he should be using to breathe, soul barely sinking back into his body. amber eyes, bright like licking flames, traverse the scope of your sweaty face and swollen lips and lad on their part. your mouth full to the brim like a silver chalice, translucent white in loose ropes decorates your slick tongue reminiscent of spider’s silk and dew drops that sparkle in early hours when the sun rises in the east. 

it’s a sight that makes zuko feel like lead, molten rock that’s set in place and can’t be moved without effort. he feels out of body, watching you swallow — the haze of his own gaze finally clearing enough to see the way your throat bobs and your breathing finally evens. your chest, beneath falling blue and aquamarine robes, heaves at the smokey air down pouring into your lungs and you manicured fingers curl over his knees for steadiness. you stay there, on your own knees,  like a faithful follower of the fire nation despite the colour of your clothes and the power you possess — licking the cum, his cum, from your plush lips like it’s your first taste of heaven, putting on a good show for the man that usually has his wits about him. 

zuko’s soul still struggles to stay put amongst the working muscles of his body.

“that burned, zuko,” you squeal — a childish air about you. your annoyance is by all means faux, your mirthy eyes give you away, but you push your lips into some kind of irresistible pout nonetheless. leaning forward, you nuzzle against his softening bulge, half hard and dripping with opaque white at the tip. bright red, burning, blistering. your finger slides through the slit despite his sensitivity, before you peer up at him expectantly. 

it was hot when he came in your mouth. 

he’s barely recovered, static ringing true in his ears — clear hearing but a distant memory. “sorry, ‘m sorry,” zuko slurs and reaches for you at the same time, an ecstatic drawl extending the space between vowels and consonants. “know it gets hot, c’mere. does it hurt? you okay?”

even while trawling through the mugginess of his own mind — he still finds reason to pamper his princess. keep it gentle. caring. much more merciful than any fire lord before him. without any bother and a testament to his strength, zuko pulls you from your knees over the spread of his thighs, ensuring you stay open. that your barely clothed cunt can ooze directly into his lap from underneath your unnecessary abundance of robes. 

“it hurts,” you stick out your drooly tongue because you know exactly what you’re doing — breasts practically spilling out into his heated face, bright red enough to make the scar match the rest, pink muscle drooly, and your cunt so warm over his growing erection as you lean into him like a trust fall. “kiss it better.” 

demanding. much like the princess of a water tribe.

zuko tilts his head upwards, mouth finding yours as though you’re a magnet pulling him into orbit. like a soothing balm, his tongue rolls over yours in an attempt to heal a burn he knows your bending is more than capable of handling. his large palms, calloused from a lifetime of stoked flames, span up your spine and pull down the mast of your dignity. the furry collar of your robe now at the dimples of your lower back. 

“better?” he sighs into the kiss, breath warm where your noses nudge. “‘m sorry, mouth felt so good. should have pulled out….”

“you don’t mean that,” there’s no rush to your movements despite the feverishness that builds against your bodies, but you’re not undetectable either. the slightest rock to your hips causes a hitch in the firelord’s breathing and a hiccup in the way he clings to your kisses like a life line. he knows,  by the way your fingers dip into a sea of obsidian locks and pulls just enough to make him whimper, that you’re yet to tire and finish with him. “you’re not sorry.” 

an abundance of slick trickles into his lap, a small stream that could soon turn into a rushing river. you grind down against zuko’s cock in circular, sinful motions — enjoying the press of his thick shaft between folds that swell with arousal. the veins that spiral down him pulse against your puffy clit — he’s almost surprised at how much swallowing him down your throat turns you on, the wet pull and push of your sexes against one another echoing across the four walls of his chambers. you lick over rows of perfect teeth and he sucks the drool from your tongue, he’s never been one to waste a good meal.

“i am.”

it’s a quiet, determined statement that tapers into a pathetic whine. a sound too pretty to be kept a secret, which is why you draw back from the sloppy exchange of kisses to watch a flurry of dark hair fall back against the wall behind him — fire sealed eyes rolling away into the shadows to meet the dusk behind his eyelids. 

“then prove it.” you murmur carefully.

like you’ve placed your chess piece dangerously on the board. like you’re daring him. like you’re a little trickster come out to play.

you find your place, face nestled into his neck and curtained by dark hair. zuko is steady, warm, heavy-set and firm beneath you by all physical means — but his restraint is fragile, like it’s something burnt to ashes seconds away from flaking into a gentle summery breeze. surprise unfolds neatly in your lower belly swirled with wanton when his palms splayed against your back turn into a hardened grip at your waist. his eyes remain locked away from the word, his breathing as even as the seas back home in the tropics just before a hurricane, his cock kicking against your syrupy cunt that falls to him in a tune familiar to those fallen victim to a mythical siren. 

the wisps of a soul leaves you this time. 

for similar reasons, for the way zuko grinds up to meet you just at the right time — the blunt tip of his cockhead nuzzled against your clit unlike strangers and more like soulmates. a lock and key that fits just perfectly. your lower lips spread to accommodate the size of his girth, chubby and long enough to keep you satiated. for a princess, your appetite remains largely, inappropriate, improper — not that you’d ever cared for behaving yourself and not that zuko couldn’t handle it. couldn’t handle you. 

the fire lord hauls you back and forth over his lap, fingertips pressed into the fat at your waist — their prints seared earnestly into your skin without fully meaning to. the marks darken, deepen prettily against the tone of your skin once your fluttering hole catches deliciously on his bulbous cockhead — milky against the gooey ring of muscle. zuko doesn’t push, he teases, deciding that he’s spoiled you with so many riches you can at least play nice for once. ask politely. he knows you can.

“does it feel… feel like i’m sorry yet?” midnight hair tickles your cheeks as the side of his head cuddles up against yours — searching for a kiss that he knows will soon come. on instinct to squirm down, try to steal an inch or two like a thief searching for jewels with a blind reach into the dark. zuko doesn’t withdraw, too used to indulging you, one hand moving to grip your falling robes — using it to tug you down into the rhythmic pulse of his dick just begging to breach your silken walls. he’s so hot, yes physically, but the torridness of his shaft against your weeping mound nearly burns you from the inside out. your organs tangle from the salaciousness of it all, the only way to loosen the knot would be to have the firelord dig it out with his cock himself.

you pout into the crease of his neck, lips balmy on his skin. “zuko…”

you clench against the rigid veins decorating him, pulsating with blood rush, carrying lustful hormones straight to his sticky arousal soaked tip. 

“princess…” he matches your warning.

“fine,” you divulge, petulant and petty. “i forgive you. you’re sorry.” 

the fire lord lets his mercy rain down on you, at the end of his own patience, and fills your needy hole with a single — calculated thrust. zuko knows how much you can take and when, you’ve been wet through your clothes from the start and this build up has left you sodden for far too long. once more, his lips find yours like a practised tune, the notes easy to find again, the song of mouths meeting familiar to two. its deeper and full of an unwavering promise of pleasure, the broad stroke of his saliva spewing tongue against yours sends brilliant sparks ( like stones to start a flame ) through your entire being, aiding the lustful lurch in your stomach where zuko practically hits.

skin meets skin, damp with sweat and essence of ruin, there’s so much precum and slick he thinks you might have bended the fluid out of him. “does it still hurt?” he manages to speak, words insistent as he presses them behind your teeth like a secret exchanged between lovers that only meet under moonlight. the rest of him, burly arms and burning limbs, gather you up as if you weigh nothing — holding you inches above his cock as the pace turns febrile and delirious, to be expected of someone who plays with scalding temperatures on a daily basis. 

“mn— n-no!” you babble, hugging his head now, anything you say or do muffled by luscious locks or overlapped with sounds of sex. your ass ripples against the tops of his thighs, your breath mingles like a puff into cold air, foggy, and zuko never stops plunging deep into your silken walls to kiss your cervix, knock at that one spongy spot that has you wailing at a whistle tone only the finest of singers and entertainers can reach. 

“better, see?” zuko hums into your mouth, pouring in praises he can hardly find the brain function to say. it’s shaky but pleased. a short response because he wants to spend more time  drinking in your fractured mewls, the ones that come with the stacks of pressure building within you, cemented into place by powerful bucks of his hips upwards, into that dreamy core of yours. he drops you down a few inches on his girth, yearning for that high pitched little cry you do when you’re close and suddenly those fiery fingertips belonging to him flex against your cute clit. “can you cum like this?”

a meek nod from you, a clench from your creamy cunt. “yes — zuko please!” 

a crack at your bratty resolve, one that dissolves like sand in water. you’re a princess through and through, made to be pampered, easy to break once indulged. at least you’ve said please. your nerve endings are ruined and raw, your stomach muscles taught from attempts at working yourself down to zuko’s base, you quiver with every rise an squeak with every fall, bounced about like a useless little toy on the length of one of the most powerful men in the world all because you asked him to prove it. that he loved you, that he’d never hurt you; even though you’re entirely too aware of the fact. 

you had goaded him into something he’d excel at, something he looks so disastrously handsome at doing. fucking you with mussed black locks that tickle your temperate skin, disheveled red robes that pridefully boast the fire nation emblem as opposed to the delicate water tribe symbols you’ve known since your birth. his chest tinged pink with a blush zuko can never help when he has you like this, dripping into his lap enough to warrant a flood warning and crying his name like its word of worship. a testament to your faith. golden irises warm with tender love, something so soft and valuable that only you are able to set your sights on it.

something once in a lifetime, something rare like an eclipse.  

the thought alone is enough to have you undone. if not for the ravenous circles on your clit and the unrelenting pounding at your abused, flittering entrance. it’s his devotion and dedication for fighting your made up wrong, soothing the burn from the inside out. zuko senses the crescendo of your peak before you can even begin to think of announcing it, lifting you high from his lap when you gush obscenely and cry out to whatever higher power might be watching you make a mess on him right now. your sobs are choked and his groans are loud, whimpery and simpering as your honeyed nectar rolls in warmed waves down his stomach and pelvis. 

“there you go, love,” zuko praises you through your twitches and aftershocks without a second thought — breaching your rippling walls so that they milk a second orgasm out of him, selfishly he may admit. “you’re so pretty, so beautiful. i love you.” he says, apologetic when he doesn’t need to be, when he’s given you the stars and hung them amongst your whitening vision. 

he whimpers whoreishly, filling you to the brim with a frothy layer of his white seed — lining your entrance with a claim you refuse to let leak. you grip him tightly, both with your cunt and your shaky arms locked around his head for stability.

and even after all that, zuko’s shot of cum is just as hot lining your womb as it is landing on your tongue.

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[smol-ackerman]

ZENIN NAOYA

JUJUTSU KAISEN - THE CULLING GAME: Pt. 1 Ep. 01