⊹₊ 𐔌 🏎️ THIS IS FORMULA 1 DRIVE TO SURVIVE ! ★ 🏁 aali ⋆ she her ⋆ twenty five ! mdni - nsfw + dark content is featured. writing blog for @tteokdorokimain ! now that's podium, baby ! my alter ego's smiling. watch me - watch me !? my heart shouts. like an x-game, you’ll start to drive me crazy. now i’ve got adrenaline running through my veins. p1 in katsuki's heart ! ♡ i do not take requests.
Notes: *gestures vaguely* the Dottores are so ridiculously bad at feelings. I typed out this post earlier and then wrote this after dinner.
Tags: Il dottore x reader, pure silly crack and fluff, romantic and perhaps even nsfw implications from the older segments
Minors dni with me thank you
You'd been recruited to fill the role of 'assitant'. To replace a long list of people who'd tried to do the job and ended on the autopsy table.
Instead of cold blades cutting through your flesh, The Doctor had offered you something else entirely. No longer were you just an extra set of hands.
Over time, you'd become a friend, a comfort, perhaps even what some would call a lover, to various versions of one of the most feared men.
Segment 8 was the first who sought you out. A little boy with striking eyes, always glancing around like he expected danger to emerge from the shadows. Knowing his later selves perhaps that idea wasn't too far-fetched. Hands that were far too small to bear the weight of future deeds had reached for the blue vial hanging from his ear.
"Tongue out," he'd said while you stared with wide eyes. The top of the vial had been popped off.
You'd always figured the earrings were an aesthetic choice. You should've known better.
The youngest segment had tugged on your hand insistently (the touch itself surprising) while hurriedly urging you to kneel down. You'd smacked at his hand while he tried to pry your lips apart, any frustration with him gone the moment you saw the petulant pout on his lips when you didn't oblige.
"It's good for humans. Just a few drops so no one notices.." You'd seen the hesitation in his eyes before he softly added 'do it for me?'
It swiftly became routine. Every few weeks, the little 'boy' would bring appear out of thin air and clasp your hand tightly, dragging you into a corner of the laboratory where he'd feed you a little bit of what you came to learn was an elixir of immortality.
Segment 25 was the second to offer you this boon of their research. Perhaps you shouldn't have been as surprised as you'd been, 25 had always been the most forward.
He'd cornered you one day just before you'd retired for the night, exhausted after a long day of maintaining equipment and preparing various experiments for them.
Gloved fingers had squished your cheeks together before you could do as much as ask what he wanted. That usual feral grin on his lips bared the sharp teeth of a predator.
When you hadn't tried to fight him, he'd cooed and praised you although surprise had been clear.
"You really trust me this much? I'm flattered." You'd been released with a pat on your cheek before he put the earring back on. "Consider this a little gift, one the others don't want you to have. It will keep you young, and you will keep me company."
There'd been no uncertainty within him, only pure confidence that he knew what you wanted. Or knew that you would be too afraid to argue with a harbinger.
It only took a week or so before segment 18 appeared uninvited in the doorway to your private chamber. He'd refused to look at you while expaning the purpose of his visit, the contents of the vial they all carried, and what he expected in return for this favor.
For all the severity in his crimson eyes, the 'demands' were so tame you'd almost laughed. An attentive listener when he rambled on about his ideas. The so called privilege of resting his head atop your thighs and having you comb your fingers through his hair.
18 looked like he wanted to slip through the cracks of the floor while he listed what he wanted in exchange for 'wasting resources keeping you alive' as he'd put it. There'd been particular emphasis on how the rest of the segments did not want the precious drops wasted on some lowly assistant like you. It had taken all your composure not to chuckle at that.
45 and 65 had appeared together. The older looming as 45 explained their awareness of what 'the youngsters' had been doing. They both found it quite amusing how the three had been trying to cover their tracks. Elixir disappearing (to refill what they gave you from their vials). Their sneaking around. The furious and harebrained arguments they'd make when questioned.
But, as 45 had said, what the three had been independently giving you was only enough to stagnate the aging process, not halt it completely.
While your attention had been focused on 45, the older one had moved, making his presence known with the touch of his beaked mask nuzzling against your cheek from behind.
"Which is why 45 and I decided to step in. You see, we have grown quite fond of you as well."
"Of course," 45 had chimed in, "we expect a little more in return than innocent pecks on our cheeks and hugs. We're certain you understand."
Omega had, unsurprisingly, been the last to approach you.
"You've not aged a day in decades. I've been willing to turn a blind eye since you're useful. Don't you think that deserves special thanks?"
Masterlist
author's end note: I need to be between 45 and 65 so fucking bad it's not even funny.
✩꒱ something, someone to live for — ft. yuuji itadori .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ smut ⋆ mdni ⋆ characters are adults. modulo yuuji itadori & fem!reader. smoking, implied age gap, somnophilia sorta, daddy kink -> an aged yuuji itadori finds something worth living for in you.
yes because that’s dada man. big dreamy sigh…
modulo yuuji all rugged and worn out by the world. his eyes ache with exhaustion, the kind that burrows deep within your cheek bones and settles within his sockets. his shoulders sag from the weight of power hanging unevenly between them. yuuji is tired. of the world of everything in it — the killing, the fighting. it never seems to end. it’s encapsulated in time, evidence littered along his body in battle scars and war wounds that only seem to heal with pale jagged lines along his tanned skin.
yuuji leans back against his dresser, muted and murky brown gaze traversing the solitude of his room until he finds something to live for. something like you.
his pretty baby, a sweet young thing who believes the world starts and ends with yuuji. you melt his rough exterior as though it’s candle wax lit by a warming flame — tended to by careful hands that love their craft all too much. you’re curled amongst bed sheets that wrap around you the same way they drape amongst marble statues — a modern day work of art amongst old bones and ancient artefacts.
the old man, by age and not by physicality, takes a drag of his cigarette and tacks it between rows his perfect teeth — pushing back strands of silky pink hair that never seem to stray far from his eyes before he makes his way over to the bed.
“baby,” yuuji settles over you, straddling your stomach with his length hard against the supple rippling flesh. “spread yourself open for daddy.” he taps your inner thigh, then taps ash onto the blankets below.
“can’t, ‘m tired.”
“are we now? that can’t be…” he tuts, without malice, not scolding you. please, baby? let daddy do all the work.”
you’re tired because he’s pushed you. stretched your body until your skin is paper thin and he can see your heart pound for him in your chest. his tongue traced the outlines of your cunt for at least an hour before yuuji decided to let you cum. it’s been days since you left the bed too, the room smells like tobacco, ash and sex and the little hint of love you seem to have laced between every orgasm.
even still, sleepily, your thighs spread as though he’s taken a key to unlock something precious and the crown jewels reside inside. you’re coated in his signature, a pretty picture of his release webbed and dried over your mound that pulses around nothing — waiting to be filled to the brim.
“that’s my girl,” he soothes you with praise. “always so ready for me. so sweet for your man, huh?”
your head shakes amongst your plethora of pillows stained with invisible ink in the form of tears and drool. “not my man, my daddy.” you heave as you correct him, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths and breasts bouncing with the barrage of thrusts oncoming from yuuji. he pounds at your quivering hole until it froths with bubbly white around him, more and more spewing every time his meaty girth dips in and out of you.
at your candy dipped moans and dulcet words, yuuji’s pace builds like the spark he had once lost. in the same way a firework draws a lightening trail across the sky before it explodes — the sorcerer’s hips wind back slow, pull away from the source of heat ( your dripping cunt ) before punching into you, tip nestled against your g-spot with a brilliant explosion of ecstasy behind your eyes.
colour returns to his life when yuuji gets to be with you like this, when your lips part and he catches a glimpse of the saliva that ties your tongue to the roof of your mouth. when you shakily reach out to rake your fingers through his sweaty pink roots, when you blink up at him and bow into him and trust him to be the man that takes care of you. “just like that,” you sigh dreamily, doing your best to roll your hips up and meet his own rabidly rocking hips. “right there, keep fuckin’ me here, daddy. gonna cum like this again.”
his cock twitches within the depths of you, rippling walls welcoming him home and soaking him in your personal claim. the word, the honour of daddy on your lips is enough to drive yuuji on — to keep him going because he knows that there’s someone who needs him at the end of every day. he’s your daddy and you are his saviour — the thought makes him weak in the knees and dissolves his resolve until it’s nothing but crumbling wet sand.
“let me see it then, feel you cum around me like a good girl,” yuuji pants his promise to pleasure, nose nudging the sweaty side of your head. “be daddy’s good little girl one more time. all for me.”
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!
✩꒱ something, someone to live for — ft. yuuji itadori .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ smut ⋆ mdni ⋆ characters are adults. modulo yuuji itadori & fem!reader. smoking, implied age gap, somnophilia sorta, daddy kink -> an aged yuuji itadori finds something worth living for in you.
yes because that’s dada man. big dreamy sigh…
modulo yuuji all rugged and worn out by the world. his eyes ache with exhaustion, the kind that burrows deep within your cheek bones and settles within his sockets. his shoulders sag from the weight of power hanging unevenly between them. yuuji is tired. of the world of everything in it — the killing, the fighting. it never seems to end. it’s encapsulated in time, evidence littered along his body in battle scars and war wounds that only seem to heal with pale jagged lines along his tanned skin.
yuuji leans back against his dresser, muted and murky brown gaze traversing the solitude of his room until he finds something to live for. something like you.
his pretty baby, a sweet young thing who believes the world starts and ends with yuuji. you melt his rough exterior as though it’s candle wax lit by a warming flame — tended to by careful hands that love their craft all too much. you’re curled amongst bed sheets that wrap around you the same way they drape amongst marble statues — a modern day work of art amongst old bones and ancient artefacts.
the old man, by age and not by physicality, takes a drag of his cigarette and tacks it between rows his perfect teeth — pushing back strands of silky pink hair that never seem to stray far from his eyes before he makes his way over to the bed.
“baby,” yuuji settles over you, straddling your stomach with his length hard against the supple rippling flesh. “spread yourself open for daddy.” he taps your inner thigh, then taps ash onto the blankets below.
“can’t, ‘m tired.”
“are we now? that can’t be…” he tuts, without malice, not scolding you. please, baby? let daddy do all the work.”
you’re tired because he’s pushed you. stretched your body until your skin is paper thin and he can see your heart pound for him in your chest. his tongue traced the outlines of your cunt for at least an hour before yuuji decided to let you cum. it’s been days since you left the bed too, the room smells like tobacco, ash and sex and the little hint of love you seem to have laced between every orgasm.
even still, sleepily, your thighs spread as though he’s taken a key to unlock something precious and the crown jewels reside inside. you’re coated in his signature, a pretty picture of his release webbed and dried over your mound that pulses around nothing — waiting to be filled to the brim.
“that’s my girl,” he soothes you with praise. “always so ready for me. so sweet for your man, huh?”
your head shakes amongst your plethora of pillows stained with invisible ink in the form of tears and drool. “not my man, my daddy.” you heave as you correct him, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths and breasts bouncing with the barrage of thrusts oncoming from yuuji. he pounds at your quivering hole until it froths with bubbly white around him, more and more spewing every time his meaty girth dips in and out of you.
at your candy dipped moans and dulcet words, yuuji’s pace builds like the spark he had once lost. in the same way a firework draws a lightening trail across the sky before it explodes — the sorcerer’s hips wind back slow, pull away from the source of heat ( your dripping cunt ) before punching into you, tip nestled against your g-spot with a brilliant explosion of ecstasy behind your eyes.
colour returns to his life when yuuji gets to be with you like this, when your lips part and he catches a glimpse of the saliva that ties your tongue to the roof of your mouth. when you shakily reach out to rake your fingers through his sweaty pink roots, when you blink up at him and bow into him and trust him to be the man that takes care of you. “just like that,” you sigh dreamily, doing your best to roll your hips up and meet his own rabidly rocking hips. “right there, keep fuckin’ me here, daddy. gonna cum like this again.”
his cock twitches within the depths of you, rippling walls welcoming him home and soaking him in your personal claim. the word, the honour of daddy on your lips is enough to drive yuuji on — to keep him going because he knows that there’s someone who needs him at the end of every day. he’s your daddy and you are his saviour — the thought makes him weak in the knees and dissolves his resolve until it’s nothing but crumbling wet sand.
“let me see it then, feel you cum around me like a good girl,” yuuji pants his promise to pleasure, nose nudging the sweaty side of your head. “be daddy’s good little girl one more time. all for me.”
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!
I LOVE YOUR YUJI WORKS and i see u love yuji sm sm sm and i’m here to share a little earworm cuz it’s got me in a chokehold
yuji in boxers… like…. those tight boxers that don’t do anything to hide his outline……
AAUFHFHFHF FAT COCK YUJI
✩꒱ tighty whities — ft. yuuji itadori .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ smut ⋆ mdni ⋆ characters are adults. yuuji itadori & fem!reader. handjobs, big dick yuuji, counting the inches, roommates to lovers -> every once in a while yuuji pulls out his tightest, teeniest pair of underwear and every once in a while you’re curious enough to see what they’re hiding.
thank you sm friend! i love him so much i want to live between his heart and lungs sooo bad idk what this is im feeling Lustful.
yes yes yuuji in those sickening tight white undies. i feel like perhaps he bought them by mistake and only wears them when he’s out of his usual boxers. super tight, hugging the slender curve of his waist and perfectly outlining his girth even though it’s tucked away. you can clearly see whenever he leaks through them because the thin white fabric stretched over the meatiest parts of him barely conceals anything. a darkness patch at the seam always gives yuuji away.
he’d be kind of embarrassed about them, constantly adjusting himself around you, shifting because his balls are practically bursting through the threads. if you’re roommates or best friends, you’ve definitely seen them in the wash or the laundry you do together and he always snatches them up with blatantly obvious red cheeks because they’re stupidly small for him.
and for a while, you think that yuuji really is that small.
until you hear the way his short-term flings cry his name in bed like it’s the only prayer they know. until you start listening out for the quiet, whimpering praise he offers them when they take all of him so well, inch by inch like good girls.
one girl stops you by the fridge one morning, yuuji’s shirt clinging to her curves and covering the fingerpad shaped bruises on her hips. “i don’t know how you live with him without jumping his bones,” she’d giggled, reaching for your milk. “he’s got the whole package, you know?”
you start looking at itadori a little differently. your eyes fall from his face to his print when you greet him after work or in the mornings when he’s back from the gym — attempting to discern the type of underwear he’s wearing based on what shows through his sweats. and you’ve always been touchy with each other, you’re friends and he’s great for cuddles, but now when you’re relegated to his lap during movie nights with fushiguro and his girlfriend, todo and nobara, oh! and maki and yuuta — you can feel the difference in his girth pressed against every time he shifts.
when he’s got those little tight boxers on that struggle to contain his hard on. the one you both ignore.
it’s one of those same movie nights where you cross boundaries for the first time. nobara stays over, too drunk to go home and be on her own, so you offer up your room and hunker down with yuuji because todo’s got the couch this time. in the mix, you some how manage to convince your pink haired roommate that you sleep better when he’s around. not just because he sleeps naked, you know this — you’ve been waiting on it just to see if the rumours are true.
yuuji scratches the back of his neck sheepishly with a soft blooming blush as you undress for bed and you try not to be obvious when your eyes trace the hardlines of his body right down to his crotch. those stupid tight white boxers you can’t seem to ignore now.
“sorry, know it’s a lot.” because you keep staring and he keeps twitching underneath the fabric and you have no idea how to tell him he’s making your mouth water. “i can put some sweats on—?”
you’re all too eager when shake your head no. “i-it’s your room. sleep however you’re most comfortable!”
naturally you end up snuggled with itadori in bed. surrounded by him. an excuse to be close. yuuji in nothing but those evil little boxers and you in morning but his shirt. your face in his neck for safety from the horror movie you’re watching and his arm loose around your waist. and you really can’t help it, when his cock is sitting there all fat and heavy and weepy, kicking because the air in the room is against his feverish skin — your fingers dance down to the waist band playfully at first. you’re touchy. friends do this… but then they hit the sinful swirl of his pink happy trail and everything shifts.
lust starts to bubble within your eyes, usually so sweet and innocent. you just have to know if he feels as big as he looks in them.
yuuji exhales shakily. not looking at you. “you’re not watching the movie, are you?”
a hint. a chance. you take it. “can i touch it?” your ask is a breathless whisper — as light as summer’s breeze and barely there. like a figure in the night. touch him, rub on him, do everything you’ve been thinking about for months.
he’s already straining, clenched at the abdomen to keep himself from cumming from the friction against his inner seam. yet he grows under your inquisitive attention, throbbing in a dull rhythm that calls up your greed as though it were following the beating lull of a siren’s song.
yuuji’s cheeks glow warm in the dimness, a rose tinted flame in the dark. he swallows. “if you wanna… j-just be careful, yeah?”
that’s all it takes.
his head tips back in a filthy shameful moan — pink hair askew like the flutter of petals — and his throat bobs as he swallows down a flurry of curse words once your hand slips past the waistband. your grip curiously stretches the tightness of boxers as your tiny hand wraps around his fat girth. sticky, pulsing with arousal, prominent veins forming indents in your palm.
“you feel so big, yuuji,” your nose brushes his pulse point with the same gentleness you would with your lips for a kiss. it’s as if you’re trying to inhale his life force, tuck yourself impossibly closer. he feels swollen in your hand, cock beating as unsteadily as his heart, and he oozes premature white into the crevices of your finger prints. “sensitive too.”
“nngh, i know,” whilst itadori’s hips jump without his control and forces his length through your first, the weight of his crown drops to yours. the two of you share a view, your slippery hand in his near-see-through boxers doused with slick and precum beading from his sappy mushroomed tip. “s-sorry, fuck. ‘m just so hard and you’re so pretty and you smell so good.” he admits to you quietly in a high pitched whine, like a secret exchanged between two lovers at a rendezvous point. for your ears only. no one else gets to know how wrecked you have him.
the bulbous head of his cock is raw and red, shiny, as it peaks out from the elasticated band of his boxers — only because you’ve stroked him to full hardness. he no longer fits in the fabric. you thumb him there in comforting circles, spreading his arousal in the same manner that drool spreads across your tongue.
long, dark lashes flutter against your forehead like angel’s kisses and you squeeze around every inch that slides through your hold — sharing airy moans the more yuuji leaks against your tight knuckles. “you could make me cum like this, y-y’know? in my boxers like a — fuck — like a teenager,” yuuji stutters, chasing words that don’t make sense on his tongue. hips running after the solace your soft strokes. “makes me feel so filthy, but i’ve been waiting for you. t-to notice? how badly i’ve wanted it to be you touching me like this. i’d do anything for you. anything, baby girl.”
his honesty turns and twists your guts into feverish knots.
“then will you?” you purr artlessly. eyes on the string of drooly white leaking from his sensitive tip. “wanna see how much you cum too.”
“god yes, i can cum. i’ll cum for you. just —!” yuuji’s large hand slips around your wrist and he guides you. helps you tug on the parts of his dick that make him gargle and struggle for breath. he bucks upwards, chasing pleasure and the heavenly solace your fist has to offer. “that’s it, just like that. make me cum, been waiting for so long.”
you’re in awe of it all. the ripple of his abs as he thrusts, the way moans coil in between the letters of your name as they leave his lips. you touch yuuji like you were made for it, jerk him off as though it were instinct. squeezing him every time his hips draw back, circling his tip over and over in languid runs of your thumb around the world.
he takes that as a sign, permission to let go of the unravelling knot he’s been trying to hold together since first laying beside you. on instinct, like his body knows nothing else, he squeezes you tight against him — cheek smooshed against your crown, shaky loud and whimpers in your ear that have your own underwear damp and he snaps.
like a twig with little resistance to pressure.
“oh my god — baby, shit!”
yuuji’s release is sizeable, viscous like lava flow as it rockets hotly up his abdomen and pools amongst the ridges of his abs and belly button. white against gold. his underwear is positively soiled all the way through, crude stringy cum gathering amongst his balls and your wriggling fingers as you jerk him through his high. where his back bows towards the ceiling as though the heavens have come to collect his sweet soul and his thighs shake like his foundations are unsteady.
and even after all that, all the ropes of hot white that hit his skin — he’s still hard and swollen, monstrous in size that suddenly dawns on you as yuuji rolls you onto your back. landing on top.
his shoulders, as they heave, block out the glow of the movie playing behind him — crowding you against the pillows, acting as a shield to hide you away from the world and you feel him heavy against your tummy. cold with slick but heated with arousal at the same time.
your roommate grins, buzzing and slow. “how many inches is the biggest dick you’ve ever taken?”
“i don’t… know? i’ve never measured?” you squeak, suddenly flushed with a delicious mix of horniness and fear. “why?”
yuuji clicks his tongue then, big hand sliding up your face to cover your mouth — his free one guiding his erection between your now parted thighs.
“just wondering, how much of me you’ll be able to take tonight.”
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!
✩꒱ you know what he said to me? he was like, you’re so mean! — ft. eijirou kirishima .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ suggestive ⋆ mdni ⋆ pro hero eijirou kirishima & fem!reader. mean bf kiri and sweet gf reader. protectiveness, possessiveness, sleazy kirishima, subtle dollification, established relationship. -> sometimes your boyfriend likes to make you cry, only to kiss it better in dirty ways later on.
me too me tooo … it really tickles me !!!!! like eijirou with a sweet baby gf who cries so much all of the time. even better if you weren’t like that before you met him, you were sweet but not a pushover except he’s made it so easy to break you down these days, you’re always a few seconds from being on the verge of tears.
it’s like a test to him, to see if eijirou has you well trained enough to always come back to him now matter how far he’s pushed you to your limits.
“you didn’t have to do that.” you snap harshly even though your throat twitches tight as you turn the words over on your tongue. they land with very little bite, lost to the ambience of the city’s night life and the clickclack of your expensive heels against concrete pavement.
kirishima walks a few paces behind, leisurely, but his hazy ruby gaze tracks your movements — he’d never allow you to stray too far from home.
“do what, baby?”
that’s what makes you stop. his careless ease and the sound of a smirk stitching together his voice. eijirou kirishima is amazing at playing pretend — he lets tension roll off of his back as though it were nothing, as if he hadn’t nearly broken several fingers and severed a few nerves of your coworkers hand just for talking to you at the company dinner mere moments ago. your spine straightens but the edges and the lines of the world before you start to blur and smear as though someone has spilled water on your ink. tears bleed through your paper cheeks — where he’d be able to see how distraught you were just by holding you up to the light.
“he’s my coworker, eijirou. he was just being polite.” you sniff, not daring to look up nor force yourself to be level with his eyes. you rummage through your little purse for the car keys you’d sworn you had stashed beside your gloss earlier — because it distracts you from the sweltering heat of the man towering over you. “he’s nice.”
eijirou smiles, dangling silver keys and riot themed key chains before you. they glint tauntingly under the street lamp.
“am i not nice enough to you? is that why you let him get so close?” he taunts you further.
denying him would be a lie. eijirou takes care of you, the point where your only concern, really, is breathing. there are groceries stocked in your fridge every weekend thanks to his dime, you get your dream clothes and dress pretty and the pro hero takes you for dinner at least three times a week. to say you live in luxury would be an understatement, every step you take is cushioned by comfort and at first… you loved it. you were pampered a little too much to notice the signs, the slick and grimy version of your boyfriend hiding deep within.
nowadays you grimace when he brings you flowers and cringe when he kisses the back of your hand at a steak dinner — but you’d never leave him, you’re caught like an insect in a treacly web or an ant who’s downed in sugar water.
“you’re being awful right now, eiji.” you cross your arms instead — keep your honesty close to your chest. you give an inch and eijirou runs a mile because he lives for the way you can’t help but blubber when he makes you mad. it seems that his expression, all pearly white teeth and bright eyes, bleeds into his cheeks and his skin there folds with smile lines. you mirror his opposite — lip drawn into a pout.
the red head circles you, coming to stand before you. his smart leather shoes become a muddled blur alongside the stone grey pavement and atoll, his red is vibrant. like he’s supposed to be the only thing you focus on. “i am, aren’t i?” comes his patronising coo, the sound settling in your chest. “poor baby, i’m just so mean to you and i’m such a bad guy.”
“stop it.” you simper like a child, going on to deny the cotton words he puts in your mouth. “i — gosh — i never even said that.”
god, you feel like a child. being scolded for a lie you never told and he relishes in the way you shrink down to feel smaller than you are next to him. his sweet, sweet girl who takes being picked on like a champ.
kirishima bends to your height, head tilted to the side as he regards you with a blameless expression. “are you crying? you know, you’re real pretty when you cry.” the world would never believe you if you told on him. that their manly hero who strikes with red is no better than a high school bully.
he twirls the hem of your pale pink dress — a romantic sight to passers by. a taunt to you. a threat that sends a thrilling shiver down the segments of your spine that hardly help you stand tall. “c’mere.” kirishima mocks your pout — puckering up. “can i kiss you?”
you nod more with bambi eyes glossed over with angel’s tears. the hero stands high and mighty then, rough palms melding to the curves of your hips so that he can better drag you into him. they provide warming comfort where his eyes are cold and cruel — bemused by the silent snivels you weakly attempt to swallow down.
irregardless you’re magnetised to eijirou — standing on your tippy toes, craning your neck, lips pressed to his like you’ve sealed them with a promise. his thick, hot tongue swipe over the seam in an attempt to pry you open because you’re a flower. something precious and winds towards him and blooms just for him. he tastes like whatever sweet cocktail had happened to pass him by at the dinner table — syrup and sugar coated lies and love held underneath his tongue. he’s mean to you, yes, but oh does he adore you.
he kisses you like he owns you, right there amongst twinkling city lights and strangers passing by. you think you’ll learn to live with that, being his property, belonging to someone with enough power to protect. he’ll push and poke you but never away. always within reach, always so that he can lead you home.
you mewl in frustration when kirishima lets your lips go — following a filthy smack.
red riot laughs. “you told me to stop.”
“didn’t mean it.” you’re honest.
“you never do.” his grip steadily traverses your back, two hands enough to map out the entire expanse. “wanna take you home. be all over you. will you let me?”
…
he doesn’t take kind to your silence. “words, sweet thing. talk to me.”
“yes, you can take me home. i-i’d like that.” nodding again like a dumb little thing, you link your arms behind kirishima’s head — fingers finding purchase in his ruby mane. you bring him back to you.
eijirou pats your cheek. just once, not enough to be considered a slap. “and what else?”
“‘m talkin’ eijirou, i am!” you huff, close to stomping your feet. the tantrum brews like a tropical storm just off the coast — warm, with rain cloud tears that bring a sense of humidity in the form of arousal. kirishima gives you a pointed look and then: “i’m sorry for calling you mean.” you say in defeat, batting your eyelashes apologetically.
once more, he smiles. “that’s right baby girl,” then he laughs, growling at the little nip you give to his bottom lip. “when we get home, i want you on your stomach. ass in the air. no touchin’. i’ll show you how mean i can really be.”
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!
bkg winning one of the biggest awards of his career and the interviewer says “this must be the best day of your life!!” and bkg blankly looks at him (even though inside he is very excited) and ominouslysays “one of them.” lowkey gets awkward so the interviewer moves on but in a later interview perhaps on another day he’s asked “so what is the best day of your life??” and he’s quick to say, “meeting my girlfriend.” (after you then it’s the day he won that award) (he loves being the best)
i think bakugou’s pretty romantic, he strikes me as someone who’d let you take off your heels and carry you out to the front door if you said you were tired after a party
✩꒱ you know what he said to me? he was like, you’re so mean! — ft. eijirou kirishima .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ suggestive ⋆ mdni ⋆ pro hero eijirou kirishima & fem!reader. mean bf kiri and sweet gf reader. protectiveness, possessiveness, sleazy kirishima, subtle dollification, established relationship. -> sometimes your boyfriend likes to make you cry, only to kiss it better in dirty ways later on.
me too me tooo … it really tickles me !!!!! like eijirou with a sweet baby gf who cries so much all of the time. even better if you weren’t like that before you met him, you were sweet but not a pushover except he’s made it so easy to break you down these days, you’re always a few seconds from being on the verge of tears.
it’s like a test to him, to see if eijirou has you well trained enough to always come back to him now matter how far he’s pushed you to your limits.
“you didn’t have to do that.” you snap harshly even though your throat twitches tight as you turn the words over on your tongue. they land with very little bite, lost to the ambience of the city’s night life and the clickclack of your expensive heels against concrete pavement.
kirishima walks a few paces behind, leisurely, but his hazy ruby gaze tracks your movements — he’d never allow you to stray too far from home.
“do what, baby?”
that’s what makes you stop. his careless ease and the sound of a smirk stitching together his voice. eijirou kirishima is amazing at playing pretend — he lets tension roll off of his back as though it were nothing, as if he hadn’t nearly broken several fingers and severed a few nerves of your coworkers hand just for talking to you at the company dinner mere moments ago. your spine straightens but the edges and the lines of the world before you start to blur and smear as though someone has spilled water on your ink. tears bleed through your paper cheeks — where he’d be able to see how distraught you were just by holding you up to the light.
“he’s my coworker, eijirou. he was just being polite.” you sniff, not daring to look up nor force yourself to be level with his eyes. you rummage through your little purse for the car keys you’d sworn you had stashed beside your gloss earlier — because it distracts you from the sweltering heat of the man towering over you. “he’s nice.”
eijirou smiles, dangling silver keys and riot themed key chains before you. they glint tauntingly under the street lamp.
“am i not nice enough to you? is that why you let him get so close?” he taunts you further.
denying him would be a lie. eijirou takes care of you, the point where your only concern, really, is breathing. there are groceries stocked in your fridge every weekend thanks to his dime, you get your dream clothes and dress pretty and the pro hero takes you for dinner at least three times a week. to say you live in luxury would be an understatement, every step you take is cushioned by comfort and at first… you loved it. you were pampered a little too much to notice the signs, the slick and grimy version of your boyfriend hiding deep within.
nowadays you grimace when he brings you flowers and cringe when he kisses the back of your hand at a steak dinner — but you’d never leave him, you’re caught like an insect in a treacly web or an ant who’s downed in sugar water.
“you’re being awful right now, eiji.” you cross your arms instead — keep your honesty close to your chest. you give an inch and eijirou runs a mile because he lives for the way you can’t help but blubber when he makes you mad. it seems that his expression, all pearly white teeth and bright eyes, bleeds into his cheeks and his skin there folds with smile lines. you mirror his opposite — lip drawn into a pout.
the red head circles you, coming to stand before you. his smart leather shoes become a muddled blur alongside the stone grey pavement and atoll, his red is vibrant. like he’s supposed to be the only thing you focus on. “i am, aren’t i?” comes his patronising coo, the sound settling in your chest. “poor baby, i’m just so mean to you and i’m such a bad guy.”
“stop it.” you simper like a child, going on to deny the cotton words he puts in your mouth. “i — gosh — i never even said that.”
god, you feel like a child. being scolded for a lie you never told and he relishes in the way you shrink down to feel smaller than you are next to him. his sweet, sweet girl who takes being picked on like a champ.
kirishima bends to your height, head tilted to the side as he regards you with a blameless expression. “are you crying? you know, you’re real pretty when you cry.” the world would never believe you if you told on him. that their manly hero who strikes with red is no better than a high school bully.
he twirls the hem of your pale pink dress — a romantic sight to passers by. a taunt to you. a threat that sends a thrilling shiver down the segments of your spine that hardly help you stand tall. “c’mere.” kirishima mocks your pout — puckering up. “can i kiss you?”
you nod more with bambi eyes glossed over with angel’s tears. the hero stands high and mighty then, rough palms melding to the curves of your hips so that he can better drag you into him. they provide warming comfort where his eyes are cold and cruel — bemused by the silent snivels you weakly attempt to swallow down.
irregardless you’re magnetised to eijirou — standing on your tippy toes, craning your neck, lips pressed to his like you’ve sealed them with a promise. his thick, hot tongue swipe over the seam in an attempt to pry you open because you’re a flower. something precious and winds towards him and blooms just for him. he tastes like whatever sweet cocktail had happened to pass him by at the dinner table — syrup and sugar coated lies and love held underneath his tongue. he’s mean to you, yes, but oh does he adore you.
he kisses you like he owns you, right there amongst twinkling city lights and strangers passing by. you think you’ll learn to live with that, being his property, belonging to someone with enough power to protect. he’ll push and poke you but never away. always within reach, always so that he can lead you home.
you mewl in frustration when kirishima lets your lips go — following a filthy smack.
red riot laughs. “you told me to stop.”
“didn’t mean it.” you’re honest.
“you never do.” his grip steadily traverses your back, two hands enough to map out the entire expanse. “wanna take you home. be all over you. will you let me?”
…
he doesn’t take kind to your silence. “words, sweet thing. talk to me.”
“yes, you can take me home. i-i’d like that.” nodding again like a dumb little thing, you link your arms behind kirishima’s head — fingers finding purchase in his ruby mane. you bring him back to you.
eijirou pats your cheek. just once, not enough to be considered a slap. “and what else?”
“‘m talkin’ eijirou, i am!” you huff, close to stomping your feet. the tantrum brews like a tropical storm just off the coast — warm, with rain cloud tears that bring a sense of humidity in the form of arousal. kirishima gives you a pointed look and then: “i’m sorry for calling you mean.” you say in defeat, batting your eyelashes apologetically.
once more, he smiles. “that’s right baby girl,” then he laughs, growling at the little nip you give to his bottom lip. “when we get home, i want you on your stomach. ass in the air. no touchin’. i’ll show you how mean i can really be.”
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!
