#dumb drabble

[urumashunistheonlyone]

best friend

pairing: toji fushiguro x reader

genre: → smut, comedy, crack-fic, romance, situational humor

warnings: → explicit sexual content, strong language, mild degradation kink, humor mixed with smut, sexual banter

synopsis: toji’s cock is your best friend/emotional support cock.

a/n: this is so dumb but so funny to me so here u go.

toji fushiguro had seen a lot of things in his life.

he’d killed men with his bare hands, fought curses twice his size, and gone days without sleep or food — but nothing, and absolutely nothing, prepared him for the moment he stepped out of the shower, towel low on his hips, and realized you were kneeling right in front of him, staring at his cock like it was its own separate person and whispering to it like a therapist with too much patience.

“hey, don’t be shy now,” you were saying gently, pressing a soft kiss to the flushed tip. “you’re strong. you’re beautiful. you’re so, so powerful.”

he froze in the doorway, dripping water onto the floor, chest still damp.

“…what the fuck are you doing.”

you didn’t even look up. “he’s having a bad day.”

“he’s—” toji blinked. “he?”

you nodded solemnly. “your dick.”

he stared. deadpan. completely silent.

you kissed the shaft lovingly. “he’s been through a lot.”

“…you know it’s not a person, right?”

you finally looked up at him, eyes wide, lips glossy. “don’t talk like that in front of him.”

he blinked once. then twice.

“you’re actually insane.”

“he’s sensitive,” you insisted, wrapping your hand around the base like you were shielding it from emotional damage. “he needs positive reinforcement. you treat him like a weapon. i treat him like a friend.”

“he is a weapon.”

“and he’s also my emotional support cock.”

toji exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

you gave the head another kiss, slow and dramatic. “i just think it’s sad how you never tell him you’re proud of him.”

“jesus christ,” he muttered, stepping closer.

you didn’t move. if anything, you licked a slow stripe up the underside like you were proving a point. “see? look how pretty he is today.”

“i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

but his cock was hard now. twitching slightly in your grip. and his eyes dropped to where you were stroking him, thumb swiping along the head with practiced ease.

“you think he missed me?” you asked sweetly.

toji grunted. “i think you’re giving him a complex.”

you smirked. “he deserves one.”

his jaw flexed.

he watched as you slowly took him into your mouth, moaning like the taste of him alone could cure a headache. your hands gripped his thighs, steadying yourself as your lips stretched around the fat head of his cock. he was thick. long. the kind of size that made your jaw ache if you weren’t careful — but you didn’t seem to care. you sucked him like you’d been thinking about it all day. maybe you had.

he hissed through his teeth, one hand gripping the back of your head lazily. “you’re fuckin’ filthy.”

you pulled off him with a pop, spit trailing from your mouth to his cock. “filthy and loyal.”

“don’t talk like that.”

“what, too intimate?” you smiled and licked your lips. “he and i have a bond.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you and it.”

“no. him.”

toji raised both eyebrows. “you wanna fuck him separately?”

“i already do.”

his laugh was low and dark. “you need help.”

you went back to sucking him off without answering, eyes fluttering shut as you took him deeper, your throat relaxing with every pass. your tongue curled beneath the shaft, working him over in a way that had his hand tightening in your hair.

he didn’t stop you. didn’t push. just let you work.

his abs tensed. a low growl rolled from his throat when your hand slipped down to cup his balls.

“needy little mouth,” he muttered, half to himself. “always know how to get what you want.”

your answer was another moan — this one high and throaty, sending vibrations through his cock so good he cursed under his breath.

“shit, babe…”

and then he was pulling you up by the hair, kissing you like he was punishing you for it — tongue deep, filthy, tasting himself on your mouth. he lifted you with ease, one hand cupping your ass, the other sliding between your thighs to test how soaked you were.

you gasped against his lips.

“you get wet talkin’ to it like that?” he murmured against your mouth. “sick little freak.”

“maybe,” you whispered. “you gonna do something about it?”

he smirked.

“oh, he will.”

he bent you over the bathroom sink without warning, shoved your panties to the side, and slid into you in one deep, brutal thrust — and you saw stars. your legs buckled immediately.

“f-fuck, toji—!”

his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned, his cock dragging out and slamming back in hard. merciless. deep. you could barely breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but let him use your body like it was made for this — for him.

“you love this shit,” he growled, pace brutal. “gettin’ split open by your best friend, huh?”

“yes—fuck, yes—!”

he grunted behind you, hips snapping against your ass, the sound obscene — wet and heavy and perfect.

“you gonna tell him you’re proud now?” he sneered.

you sobbed, walls fluttering around him. “i’m so proud, he’s doing so good—!”

he laughed again — feral, breathless — and wrapped his hand around your throat, yanking you upright so your back was flush with his chest. you could feel him pulsing inside you, feel the way your pussy clenched every time he hit that perfect spot.

“look at you,” he rasped into your ear. “fucked stupid over a dick with a name.”

“i-it’s not his fault he’s so—” you gasped when he slammed into you again. “—so talented!”

“shut up.”

you came hard — legs shaking, thighs soaked, eyes rolling back. and he didn’t stop until he spilled inside you with a low, guttural moan, holding you still, grinding deep.

you both stayed there for a moment. panting. silent.

finally, you whispered, “see? he was feeling down. he just needed a little love.”

toji leaned his forehead against your shoulder, still catching his breath.

“…next time you start talkin’ to my dick, i’m recording it.”

a/n: was this not so ridiculously dumb? 😂

[stringendos]

i. as a thank you

{boku no hero academia} → tamaki!centric; mirio/tamaki | wc: 1793

the way you said ‘i love you’ | prompt #7

a series of ‘i love you’s throughout the years future fic: graduating third years

With spring looming into view, rushing headfirst towards him, Tamaki finds himself standing in a world that stretches too wide.

From the point where he is settled, he looks beyond the crowd and tries to search for a future that feels certain. When he fails, he breaks away, casting his gaze back down to his feet, and swallows the lump that threatens to form in his throat.

In his hand, the graduation scroll sits heavy, the only thing that seems to be weighing him down to this earth, this very moment in time, carving his heels deeper into this rocky ground beneath him. Everything he once knew and grew so comfortable with is being pushed further away with every slap he gets on the back from his classmates, every teacher that congratulates him, every misty eyed kouhai who greets him.

It feels like he’s trying to hold onto time, like he’s stuck between two freeze frames, and his grip is becoming more slack as the seconds tick by, as if a phantom timekeeper keeps wrenching it from his grasp. Like oceans are stretching out wide before him, sweeping up all the boats in one quick motion, to a land far away from the home soil that Tamaki has sunk his feet into.

There is that horrible feeling that begins to crawl up his torso, squeezing his ribcage until each breath rattles his very bones, his lungs wheezing, straining under the weight; that tightens each individual finger around his neck, the crook of each knuckle nestled against the bob of his adam’s apple.

But when it all becomes too much, when the world seems to crowd him, starts collapsing into one tiny spot, a singularity in the vast galaxy that spans Amajiki Tamaki’s entire universe, his heart slows, swells, as a body settles into the space beside him. Their shoulders brush for a snapshot of a second.

He feels his bones start to fall into place and the unease starts to bleed out of his shoulders, slowly, slowly, like the falling of sakura around him. Mirio, once again, manages to anchor him to this very spot and is a light through this darkness, guiding ships home.

Beyond the stretch of concrete, he can see Nejire, a walking heartbreaker, accepting flowers with a bright smile paired with that tilt of her head, and there’s a warmth that spreads through his chest like no other.

“Hadou is having fun,” Mirio laughs out, mirth dancing in his eyes, as a second greeting; his first in the momentary press of shoulders that speaks volumes in its silence. In return, Tamaki lets out one of his own, a barely there chuckle, with a glance to his left and lets the backs of their hands brush in just a slight skim of their knuckles.

Mirio sounds normal as he continues, chattering on about his day as if they had spent months apart and not a few hours where they were saying goodbyes to friends. After today, the time will grow longer to years, the distance stretched further to 458 kilometers, no matter how much Tamaki tries to deny it. (The reality still stands that he would rather not be anywhere but here, by Mirio’s side, but he pushes that thought down even further.)

Mirio sounds almost normal perhaps to everyone else, as he smiles brighter, and accepts gifts and flowers (‘flowers,’ Tamaki’s head supplies unhelpfully, ‘probably paired with confessions and second buttons’). But Tamaki has never been just anyone, not when it comes to Mirio anyway. Tamaki can hear it underneath it all. He knows better, has spent years having his body attune to the other’s. There is happiness in there, definitely; nothing but fondness for his friends and a pure relief that is twisted in amongst it all; relief that they’ve all made it through, a little battered, a little bruised, but there together at least.

But there’s that uncertainty, misplaced almost, now that Mirio is next to becoming the Number One Hero and is still running on the path forged for him that can lead to nothing but greatness.

It’s almost reassuring that Mirio, Toogata Mirio, the best of them all, who manages to gain the trust of almost anyone; who managed to break down Tamaki’s walls with one blinding smile, arm slung across his shoulders; reassurance more overwhelming than any other feeling; who kept a hand outstretched, waiting, kind but never forceful, with a disarming grin and a “so you like heroes?”

It’s almost reassuring that Mirio feels like him sometimes, how Tamaki feels so small, so tiny, in this vast world, when Mirio burns so bright.

Mirio, who could have retracted that hand as quickly as he outstretched it; Mirio who tells him to keep his head up.

Sometimes, he wonders what a life without Mirio would be like.

In his memory, a moving van comes into view.

Tamaki doesn’t remember it completely; can just about make out the stacks of boxes, that characteristic sandy shade with the lid dipped from when his older brother sat on it. But he remembers small random snippets, like a view obscured with a hand: two L shapes cutting out the storyboards and pulling the insignificant points into view. Like a sun too bright to look at, hand obscuring the view to the trees around it or the sea below it; a bicycle propped up outside a convenience store.

Like a movie with all the main characters cropped out, the camera panning out, only to focus on the drifting clouds, the flutter of the laundry lined up in the garden. Their muted voices pushed underwater and instead an amplified audio clip of the noise that lies beneath it all; the crunch of asphalt underneath tires, the rustle of paper with directions; the background pulled into focus.

He remembers the first walk to school, clutching onto the end of his mother’s skirt as she spoke to his first homeroom teacher in Musutafu, that swooping feeling in his stomach as he stood in front of a class of less than thirty, the way his words died on his tongue and shrivelled into nothing. He remembers his brother decked out in a new gakuran, a little tap on his forehead, flick of his nose, a promise that he’ll make friends here. (Tamaki will never forget that disappointment that seemed to loom, that fear that reared its ugly head when he worried about letting his brother down.)

And he remembers, with an ache in his chest, nostalgia bursting at the seams, Mirio, as the first light in this stretch of darkness.

It is Mirio who has stayed with him despite it all. He owes Mirio this.

And so much more.

So Tamaki forces his head up, looks up, beyond; instead of down at his feet and the ground that threatens to crumble beneath his soles.

‘Head up,’ he thinks.

He will say it now. He must. So he tilts his head up a little higher, tries to be a little braver. There is so much he wants to say to Mirio but it doesn’t sound right no matter how he words it in his mind.

Beside him, Mirio, ever patient, waits.

Breathes in, holds it, one, two, three and-

“Mirio,” Tamaki starts off, but falters when he sees the boy turn towards him. Threading his fingers into his pockets, he picks at the nonexistent lint lining them but keeps his chin up. Keeps looking, far, far beyond where his eyes can see. He follows with, “for these three years,” and tries to ignore the look that flickers across Mirio’s face. It’s a look that he doesn’t quite understand despite the years between them. The pause makes him stop, halting abruptly, so once again he thinks-

‘Head up.’

Swallows, shakes away the nervousness that thrums through his body.

And tries again,

“For these last three years.” A pause. Head up. “And those before that.”

For being there when no one else was. For reaching through the darkness, filling in the silences when I needed you to; and for being silent when I didn’t.

There are so many things that Tamaki wants to say; a whole lifetime’s worth of words pulled back, trapped in a cage, with the lock still closed shut, and the key tucked safely in a box that he pretends to have misplaced. Words that stretch past entire galaxies and spiral into distances approaching infinity.

But really, through all of that, there is one thing (just the one, always just that one) that he wishes he could voice.

That one thing that falls out so easily when he presses a water bottle to Mirio’s forehead, reassures him with a heavy palm to his back, resting in the space between his shoulderblades, the dip from where his wings would stretch wide. It slips out effortlessly before Tamaki can even think of reeling it back in, snatch up these words that spread so clumsily, when he pulls a blanket over Mirio’s shoulders, steps into place beside him on the walk home after school; filling in with easy laughter, like the quiet soundtrack that Tamaki has grown so used to.

It is said in his ‘good morning’s, his ‘go to sleep’s; his ‘I’m here’s and ‘you can do it’; in a presence that gives him enough space to breathe but one that never wanders too far.

How could he possibly put this into words?

So instead, Tamaki steels himself and hopes that Mirio can hear what he really means. Can hear what he has been trying to say for so long, what he’s trying to cram into words, what he couldn’t even begin to form in sentences; not when he wants to say so much.

(Head up, head up, head up.)

“For everything.”

One by one, the petals fall, like a flurry of snowflakes in slow motion over a scene ripped out of an old movie reel (one that never does make it into cinema: its only screening in a makeshift theatre from drawn curtains and a stuffy room, in amongst stacks of papers marked with the name of the director.

An unremarkable scene from an equally unremarkable story.)

But for Tamaki, who is standing, a little bit bolder than he used to, more confident than what he thinks he deserves; as Suneater (and more importantly, Toogata Mirio’s best friend), it’s one of the most memorable.

(He wishes, he wishes, that Mirio can hear it; can figure out what he’s trying to say.

After all, Mirio’s never failed him before.)

Around them, the world falls silent, muffled into a thin hum that hangs in the air. Tamaki lifts his head up, tilts it to his left, and smiles back when Mirio grins at him.

“Thank you.”

[crazyfanatic97]

Transformers Drabble.

“I am you’re new commander, and henceforth my orders are law!”

Everyone cringed. Especially Ratchet and Bumblebee. Both agreeing on the situation. It wasn’t good.

Standing in front of the team was a large mech. Primarily black and grey, with hints of purple. Only his optics and insignia proved his faction. He was an Autobot.

But he sure didn't act like one.

“Until Optimus Prime returns, I am in command.” The mech stated.

“Oh sure, like I haven't figured that out yet,” Bumblebee quipped. This earned the bots face in his.

“Are you mocking me soldier?” He snapped. Bee leaned back, terrified.

“Uhhh.”

“If I hear you’re voice again, it’s tank cleaning duty!”

“Uh sir, but we don’t..have any um..tanks,” Bulkhead pointed out. The mech turned and yelled,

“Then I will find some and have you both scrub them!”

Sari, Ratchet and Prowl watched on. Prowl looked hard at the mech.

“This was the best they could send?” He whispered.

“Apparently,: sneered Ratchet.

“Then why do I feel like he's worse then having Sentinel lead?”

“Maybe because he’s literally named Megatron?” Asked Sari. The mech stopped yelling and whirled around. Stomping over he glared at her.

“My name is Megatronus Prime,” He bellowed, “, I was given the name for being strong enough to fight Megatron himself!”

No one said anything. They just stared. Sari couldn't believe what she’d just heard. It sounded like something an eight year old would claim. And she’d know. She’d only been eight last year.

Megatronus scowled, and stood up.

“For this insubordination, you’re all doing 10 laps around the city!”

“WHAT?!” Came the collective response.

“In robot mode!” Megatronus finished. Again, no one moved. So he pointed out toward the city. 

“Get moving or You’re confined to quarters in cuffs!” 

Everyone jumped and sprinted. Megatronus stood back and watched them run. 

“Something tells me he’s named Megatronus for another reason.” Stated Prowl. 

[unlimitedcircuits]

Restless. He had been out there for hours, waiting for a response; so little a sign that he could return, and yet he could not do anything but desperately attempt to connect with the support Master’s mana. Gloved fingers had dropped the Black Bow onto the ground, before it’s clatter fading into a spark of blue-stardust. Panting ensued, his eyes shutting in response... mana was low. He could not keep this up forever, but he hadn’t disappeared yet. There was hope, but it was faint. No contact, no reassurance, and almost no mana to back him up. Truly being a Servant with a limited mana supply was not this aggravating? He could not keep calling out his trump cards for how much they sacrificed; these things not only took time, but they were meant to end opponents he knew the end to. These mobs were endless.

Huffing out, the male had emerged from his one-knee, bearing nothing but confidence. How hard he had to try to be a support Servant. Silver eyes narrowed down his awaiting opponents, multiple eyes upon him like prey...

A copy of the Married Blades materialized in both hands, as he reached up to clean up some of the wounds upon him... he could manage a few more of Kanshou&Bakuya’s before he would be in definite trouble. He could not tell the outcome of this fight, but it would not be spent slacking as long as he could tell the other was alive.

[ask-the-vargonians]

Adrik sits atop the roof of Dio's mansion, glancing around. He looks over at the sled he abandoned here a few days ago, and smiles wryly. At this point, he can't even muster up the energy for dumb shenanigans.

He kicks his feet a little, biting his lip. He could go back to vargon? The drugs there always make him feel alive, and God knows the place itself is crazy enough to bring some kind of emotion.

But then he might run into his dad, and he knows that'll just bring trouble...He wonders, vaguely, if emotions are like water filled rags. Do you have to redip the rag to get emotion? Can someone be so wrung out that they just...stop functioning?

Sighing, he pulls out a flask - one of Dio's that he stole - and he runs his hands over it. It settles something in his chest, to have something of Dio's. He takes a drink from the flask, and feels a little warmer.

Maybe he just needs a nap, curled between Ryan and Dio? Maybe Delilah under him if he can finagle it. Adrik laughs at the thought, imagining himself as a blanket, to wrap around his loved ones.

"That's so fucking stupid." He says, standing and heading back inside. "Adrik blanket..."

[controversial-lesbian]

Word Vomit

You can feel yourself already feeling regret for what you haven't even said, but you still can't stop yourself. As you're saying it you're already backpeddling in your mind, screaming at yourself, thinking about what you SHOULD be saying and what you actually mean to be saying. But these horrible half truths created by hurt are still all that come out. Everything you say in defense of yourself. They get angry, hurt, upset You shut them out More out of guilt than personal hurt at this point, you've already gotten over whatever you've perceived them having done, now all you feel is regret. You expect them to hate you now, arguments like this always leave you feeling guilty to the point of self hatred It always colors itself as them hating you. You feel too scared to reach out You miss them, but you've missed plenty of people before. If you don't talk to them, don't contact them, it's not like it'll make a difference The world keeps spinning, seasons change the tapestry surrounding you, nothing stops moving They won't hurt for your loss, they can't. You believe it, fully You hurt for their absence, you always get like this, talk yourself out of being worthy of contact Talk yourself out of feeling worthy of care You sink Work, eat, sleep, repeat If you don't do anything else you don't have time to mess up If you keep moving, you don't have time to think Keep busy, disappear into your work Hell, you need the money, it's easy to just go missing from the world Your life narrows Work, sleep, repeat Sometimes you cry, sometimes you read You pick up a pencil just to put it back down Your world shrinks Work, repeat ... Your world collapses You get up You do better You reach out You smile You laugh You try again Repeat

[sinningsithlord]

It felt good to have you pull me close to you again. I had missed being so close to you. I had missed the feeling of your arms around me. The feeling of you playing with my hair. The smell of you was clinging to my sweatshirt for the rest of the day. It feels good to have you back.

[daffochill-blog]

pizza guy: thank you!

me: me too