Rose

Himiko - Needs to ingest blood to let her quirk work, ingest someones blood and the gray goop that is on her is what her quirk turns their blood into. Maybe she has a special organ that holds the blood until she decides to use it. Blood can stay in that pocket for 24 hours before her body simply converts it into energy or something.

Monoma - doesn’t need to ingest anyone’s blood to use his quirk (as far as he knows cause he’s never tried it before) BUT his quirk uses his own blood as an energy source. His body converts his blood into the energy needed to use the quirk he’s “stolen” think of it like everytime Monoma uses his quirk he is bleeding. As long as he is using his quirk he is losing blood. In theory if he drank the blood of another person he could convert their blood into his energy but he doesn’t know this.

Maybe he also has that special organ people with blood quirks tend to have that doctors know about. he just doesn't know cause he was never diagnosed with "blood quirk" when his quirk was assessed.

Aoyama - Born quirkless HOWEVER his body is outfitted (born) with the right components for someone with a blood quirk, though he lacks a quirk his body understands how to converts iron into power or something else. The quirk AFO gave him probably consumes his own blood to make a energy blast even if the blast isn’t blood it’s converted from his own blood. The way the quirk AFO gave him is hooked up to him is wrong for his body and causes terrible backlash.

Hawks - im gonna have to leave you on read because i for the life of me do not remember what my friend said about Hawks except "his wings are made of blood and that's how he controls it" or "he's controlling the blood in them" cause she thought "he can control it with his mind" sounded dumb.

Blood quirk attributes

fangs, they are a clear sign of someone with a blood-quirk. If they have fangs, short or long doesn’t matter, if they manefest with the quirk when they become of age or are born with them. you can tell it’s going to be related to blood in someway probably.

having that special organ i talked about. If they are diagnosed (which they usually aren't) cause nobody wants to go out of their way to tell you if your child has a blood quirk cause society fails us yet again. But if they are properly diagnosed they will tell the individual that they have a organ called a "blood bag organ" if the individual isn't diagnosed with "blood quirk" when their quirk is assessed they wouldn’t know about it which probably is nearly 90% of the population.

if Hawks slides by in this hypothetical scenario people aren't putting that label on him or they are taking the label away from him and others because it's seen as "UNCLEAN" to be associated with such a "disgusting" thing such as having a "blood quirk" when in reality it isn't anything bad but they make it out to be that way.

your husband was fiercely protective of you, finding it blatantly comical when you proposed the idea of sparring with him in the first place. he'a disarmed villains and deactivated quirks with unrivaled efficiency and stealth. his civilian wife wouldn't stand a chance regardless of if she had any bit of leverage over him.

"do you actually want to spar with me, or what. and since when did you become interested in hand to hand combat?" he lets his guard down for a split second on purpose, effortlessly catching your fist before it reaches his chest. "that was pretty sad, princess. i say we play another game, on my terms."

his following movements are deathly swift - clasping your wrists together in a firm grip to be pinned at the small of your back, instantly caging you with his intimidating body looming over your trembling form. "unfair, sho." the muffled sound of his name only encourages him to press your cheek further into his pillow. "completely fair. you wanted to spar with eraserhead, after all."

nothing warms up his cold bed quicker than the intimate collision of your naked bodies, especially after your pitiful defeat at the hands of a pro hero.

your husband knows you better than anyone else, and concludes your initial proposition to spar had an ulterior motive. "you really didn't think you stood a chance in fighting me, did you angel?" the position he's trapped you in already has your pussy dripping, the width of his knee slotted between your legs making matters worse. "would you look at that," he taunts. "such a desperate wife, grinding her pussy on me like that."

he's tempted to continue teasing you, but figures that your feeble attempt at sparring with him qualified as enough humiliation for the night. "if i release my grip on you, will you be a good little wife and let me use you?" this was your chance - to catch him off guard for real, prove to him that you're not as defenseless as he makes you out to be, so you nod to give him the green light.

big mistake.

"seems you forgot who you married, no?" he predicated your lame version of a sneak attack involving the use of your leg, one missed kick to his lower half weaker than any villain he'd encountered. "sho, 'm sorry, really. promise i didn't mean it-" the borderline obnoxious sound of your bare cunt gushing back and forth from behind on his thick length practically bounced off the walls.

"you really could have just asked me for a hard fucking instead of carrying out all that nonsense. think that kick was weak?" the cloth around your wrists and neck tightens, forcing your body upright as you melted into the mattress. "these legs will be useless tomorrow, gonna have to carry you everywhere." that future was guaranteed - you could envision him tomorrow morning carrying you to the shower and the table for breakfast.

he'd fucked you mean and nasty before, but something about asking him to spar (and failing horrendously) flipped a switch in his brain. "sweet wife, thinking she can outsmart me. fuck, so glad i married this pussy. drives me crazy every time." his words don't register, only the gruff noises and occasional deep moans he releases into your shoulder shamelessly.

"so damn good, pussy's made for my cock. like getting fucked good 'n raw by your husband?" he loosens the bindings for a moment to wrap his fingers around your throat. his body weight is downright crushing as he leans forward, desiring skin on skin contact that has his dick nearly spearing your guts. his fingers are more satisfying than the cloth when he places soft and delicate kisses along the side of your neck. "perfect wife you are."

"so, so deep. you're too big-" his cock throbs hearing you whimper and whine, ego fulfilled and overwhelmed with pride. you're his woman, his slut, ownership he takes very seriously. "too big? pussy feels like heaven though, letting me in so deep." his slow, shallow thrusts are torturous - not quite bumping your cervix but still providing a delicious stretch. "you just wanted me to toss you around."

in a heartbeat, your husband is slamming into your poor cunt faster than your body can handle. "fuck, fuck- can't stop now, need to fill you. right fucking now." his frantic thrusts contribute to the sticky mess between your thighs, mind delirious with pleasure with how damn close he is to orgasm. "you ready, angel? can feel how close you are too."

"fuck. 'm so close, can feel it in my stomach-" the filthy praise sends him right over the edge, pouring everything he has into your welcoming, warm pussy. your synchronized orgasms are the result of relentless fucking, memorizing each other's bodies and prioritizing mutual pleasure. he's shooting blanks at this point, intoxicated with dopamine and the aftermath of an intense sexual release.

"you alright, honey? i didn't go too hard, did i?" knowing better than to touch your clit, he slides his softening cock out carefully as not to overstimulate you. "did so good for me, took my cock better than you ever have."

That was when fear set in.

Slowly, your expression shifted. Your eyes darkened, and that devilish grin curled across your face… one that always meant trouble.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” you said softly, your tone changing in a way that made his shoulders tense.

You crossed the room, each step measured, predatory. Aizawa swallowed.

“Yeah,” he replied, already nervous. “For close stuff. Reading. Grading.”

He gestured vaguely to the papers. He really needed to finish these by morning.

You leaned over him, close enough that he could feel your presence, warm and distracting. “They suit you,” you murmured.

Before he could respond, you bent closer, your breath hot against his neck.

“I’m going to need you in the bedroom,” you whispered. “Right now.”

His hand tightened around the pen. “I—”

“Keep the glasses on,” you added, fingers curling around his wrist as you pulled him up from the chair.

That was it. That sealed his fate.

The exams were abandoned on the table, red pen uncapped and forgotten.

No exam was corrected that night.

2. Morning voice — Aizawa groaned softly as he felt you carefully remove his arm from around your waist, the sudden absence of your warmth making him grumble in protest. He cracked one eye open just long enough to see you slip out of bed, sunlight catching on your skin before you disappeared down the hall. Moments later, the bathroom door clicked shut, followed by the familiar sound of the shower turning on.

He loved sleeping in on the weekends; basking in the quiet, in the rare absence of responsibility.

But you always seemed to have other plans.

With a tired sigh, he rolled onto your side, burying his face in the pillow that still smelled like you. The steady rhythm of the water lulled him, and, he drifted back to sleep.

He wasn’t out for long.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you returned, and then your nails. Slow, delicate, patterns scratched along his bare back. He exhaled deeply, tension melting away almost instantly.

God, that feels good.

His eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep, and he tilted his head to look up at you. Your hair was still damp, clinging to your neck, your expression soft and fond.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you whispered, brushing his messy hair out of his face, fingers lingering.

He hummed, voice rough and low as he tugged you closer with minimal effort. “Come back to bed.”

You stilled, watching him closely. Something sparked in your eyes, bright and unmistakable.

“Mm,” you murmured, smile curling. “You have such a sexy morning voice, Sho.”

A slow, lazy smile spread across his lips. “You think everything I do is sexy,” he said, chuckling quietly, eyes already sliding shut again.

“Because it’s true,” you replied easily.

You shifted from the edge of the bed, moving until you were straddling his hips. The weight of you pulled him fully awake. He opened his eyes again just in time to hear you add, “Talk to me some more, baby.”

He looked up at you, taking you in—the way the morning light traced your silhouette, the warmth of you settling against him. His hands gravitated instinctively to your hips, thumbs brushing slow, familiar circles.

“I like this view,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

That was all it took.

Your mood shifted instantly, undone by something so simple, so him. And Aizawa, for once, had no complaints. If anything, he tightened his hold on you, fully prepared to abandon any lingering plans of getting up.

After all, he’d managed to get you back into bed…

For a few more hours, at least.

3. Happy trail — You’d been gone for a week-long work trip. He hated it. You hated it. Being apart never got easier, no matter how busy life became. He still had school to manage, students to look after, and endless paperwork to drown in—but every night, without fail, he called you. Hearing your voice before bed was the only thing that made the distance bearable.

By the time he realized it, you’d be home in an hour.

That was all the motivation he needed.

Aizawa jumped in and out of the shower, towel-dried his hair halfway, and pulled on a pair of sweats. He moved around the kitchen with quiet focus, cooking one of your favourite meals from scratch. He knew you’d be exhausted, that travel-weariness clinging to you, and he wanted to give you something warm. Something familiar. Something that felt like home.

———

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” you said softly when you arrived, voice still tired but full of affection. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

But your smile—that smile was the entire reason he had.

You disappeared to clean up, and when you returned to the kitchen, you stopped short.

There was your husband, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed loosely, shirtless. His sweats sat dangerously low on his hips, and to your surprise—

A happy trail. It lead right to his—

Something inside you stirred instantly.

He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow before opening his arms, wordlessly inviting you closer.

You stepped into his space, fingers brushing his lower stomach. “What’s this?” you teased, lightly tugging on the newly grown hair.

He let out a quiet laugh. “Didn’t have time to trim before you got home. Dinner felt more important.”

“Never shave it again,” you said, suddenly serious.

He chuckled, amused but pleased. “Really? You like it that much?”

He already knew the answer. Your fingers had drifted to the hem of his sweats, toying with the fabric absentmindedly. The way you looked at him made him yearn for you even more—made him want you close.

You cleared your throat, suddenly very purposeful. “Let’s put the food in the oven for a bit,” you said quickly. “So it doesn’t get cold.”

And just like that, the exhaustion from travel faded, replaced by something eager and electric.

After a long week apart, you had every intention of making up for lost time…starting in the bedroom.

That was when fear set in.

Slowly, your expression shifted. Your eyes darkened, and that devilish grin curled across your face… one that always meant trouble.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” you said softly, your tone changing in a way that made his shoulders tense.

You crossed the room, each step measured, predatory. Aizawa swallowed.

“Yeah,” he replied, already nervous. “For close stuff. Reading. Grading.”

He gestured vaguely to the papers. He really needed to finish these by morning.

You leaned over him, close enough that he could feel your presence, warm and distracting. “They suit you,” you murmured.

Before he could respond, you bent closer, your breath hot against his neck.

“I’m going to need you in the bedroom,” you whispered. “Right now.”

His hand tightened around the pen. “I—”

“Keep the glasses on,” you added, fingers curling around his wrist as you pulled him up from the chair.

That was it. That sealed his fate.

The exams were abandoned on the table, red pen uncapped and forgotten.

No exam was corrected that night.

2. Morning voice — Aizawa groaned softly as he felt you carefully remove his arm from around your waist, the sudden absence of your warmth making him grumble in protest. He cracked one eye open just long enough to see you slip out of bed, sunlight catching on your skin before you disappeared down the hall. Moments later, the bathroom door clicked shut, followed by the familiar sound of the shower turning on.

He loved sleeping in on the weekends; basking in the quiet, in the rare absence of responsibility.

But you always seemed to have other plans.

With a tired sigh, he rolled onto your side, burying his face in the pillow that still smelled like you. The steady rhythm of the water lulled him, and, he drifted back to sleep.

He wasn’t out for long.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you returned, and then your nails. Slow, delicate, patterns scratched along his bare back. He exhaled deeply, tension melting away almost instantly.

God, that feels good.

His eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep, and he tilted his head to look up at you. Your hair was still damp, clinging to your neck, your expression soft and fond.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you whispered, brushing his messy hair out of his face, fingers lingering.

He hummed, voice rough and low as he tugged you closer with minimal effort. “Come back to bed.”

You stilled, watching him closely. Something sparked in your eyes, bright and unmistakable.

“Mm,” you murmured, smile curling. “You have such a sexy morning voice, Sho.”

A slow, lazy smile spread across his lips. “You think everything I do is sexy,” he said, chuckling quietly, eyes already sliding shut again.

“Because it’s true,” you replied easily.

You shifted from the edge of the bed, moving until you were straddling his hips. The weight of you pulled him fully awake. He opened his eyes again just in time to hear you add, “Talk to me some more, baby.”

He looked up at you, taking you in—the way the morning light traced your silhouette, the warmth of you settling against him. His hands gravitated instinctively to your hips, thumbs brushing slow, familiar circles.

“I like this view,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

That was all it took.

Your mood shifted instantly, undone by something so simple, so him. And Aizawa, for once, had no complaints. If anything, he tightened his hold on you, fully prepared to abandon any lingering plans of getting up.

After all, he’d managed to get you back into bed…

For a few more hours, at least.

3. Happy trail — You’d been gone for a week-long work trip. He hated it. You hated it. Being apart never got easier, no matter how busy life became. He still had school to manage, students to look after, and endless paperwork to drown in—but every night, without fail, he called you. Hearing your voice before bed was the only thing that made the distance bearable.

By the time he realized it, you’d be home in an hour.

That was all the motivation he needed.

Aizawa jumped in and out of the shower, towel-dried his hair halfway, and pulled on a pair of sweats. He moved around the kitchen with quiet focus, cooking one of your favourite meals from scratch. He knew you’d be exhausted, that travel-weariness clinging to you, and he wanted to give you something warm. Something familiar. Something that felt like home.

———

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” you said softly when you arrived, voice still tired but full of affection. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

But your smile—that smile was the entire reason he had.

You disappeared to clean up, and when you returned to the kitchen, you stopped short.

There was your husband, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed loosely, shirtless. His sweats sat dangerously low on his hips, and to your surprise—

A happy trail. It lead right to his—

Something inside you stirred instantly.

He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow before opening his arms, wordlessly inviting you closer.

You stepped into his space, fingers brushing his lower stomach. “What’s this?” you teased, lightly tugging on the newly grown hair.

He let out a quiet laugh. “Didn’t have time to trim before you got home. Dinner felt more important.”

“Never shave it again,” you said, suddenly serious.

He chuckled, amused but pleased. “Really? You like it that much?”

He already knew the answer. Your fingers had drifted to the hem of his sweats, toying with the fabric absentmindedly. The way you looked at him made him yearn for you even more—made him want you close.

You cleared your throat, suddenly very purposeful. “Let’s put the food in the oven for a bit,” you said quickly. “So it doesn’t get cold.”

And just like that, the exhaustion from travel faded, replaced by something eager and electric.

After a long week apart, you had every intention of making up for lost time…starting in the bedroom.

Crossing paths with the infamously feared Ghost nearly two decades later on a joint task force.

Being taken aback by his authoritative demeanor and downright scary new look. If it weren’t for the shine in his baby blues hidden under an ounce of eye black and a thick white skull mask, you’d have hardly taken him for your bootcamp crush.

When you get Ghost in your bed after the mission was a success and the liquor flowed freely, you notice every difference with sparkling clarity.

Simon was trembling; Ghost is steady.

Simon was nervous; Ghost is cocky.

Simon barely lasted two minutes; Ghost coaxes an orgasm out of you with his mouth before making you arch your back through another one on his thick cock.

He fucks like he walks now, his sexual prowess finally matching his impressive stature and deadly skillset.

But when you end the tryst back in missionary, he thrusts slow and shaky again just like he did at 18 years old.

You reach up nervously to pull his mask off his face. You don’t want to have a staring contest with Ghost while he ravages you; you want to see Simon.

Simon Riley isn’t there anymore, not the way you remember him at least. His cheeks, once smooth and pink, are now littered with puckered scars and grown-out stubble.

His hair has faded from platinum to dirty blonde, his eyes have an edge that wasn’t there two decades ago and he’s grown into his features in a way that makes him look sharper. Meaner. Tougher.

When he tucks his head into your shoulder and fills the condom buried inside you, you breath a sigh of relief.

Because your name still sounds the same when he moans.

Soap caught him at it in the mess — Simon parked against the far wall with a coffee going cold in his fist, focused on watching you eat. Soap followed the line of his stare, found you at the end of it, and grinned like the cheshire cat. "Oh, her," he said, delighted. "Aye, she's one of the hybrids. Mantis." He said it the way you'd mention someone supported the wrong football team. Then, because Soap cannot leave fuck-all alone, he leaned in and cheerfully added, "You'll want to be careful there, big man. Mantis females, ehh— they eat the fella after. During, sometimes. Bite the head clean off and finish the job. Read it somewhere once." He clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Best of luck."

And then he left. Wandered off to find some grub, whistling.

Simon stood very still against the wall, then. Felt the information go into him like a splinter you can't find to pull.

Bite the head clean off?

He looked back at you across the room — you'd tilted your head to listen to the person beside you, smooth and too far round, big dark eyes catching the strip-lights — and the want did not go anywhere, that was the horror of it, the want stayed exactly where it was and the new knowledge simply moved in alongside it and started rearranging some things.

He wanted you.

And being Simon, he did not do the sensible thing and walk away. He did the research.

The thing about dating Simon, you would learn, is that you have never in your life been so well fed.

You understood it maybe six weeks in, when you opened his fridge expecting the usual bachelor wasteland and found it stocked like he was provisioning for a siege. Yogurt. Three kinds of cheese. A bowl of cut fruit under cling film. A tin labeled ‘FROG LEGS’.

It was risk management dressed up as romance, which in fairness is mostly what romance is… Isn’t it?

He'd taken Soap's splinter and built a guideline out of it. He knows — he has read, in studies he will deny owning — that the trouble starts when you're hungry. Or stressed. Or both, which is the cocktail that turns a nice evening into something a coroner writes up.

He has constructed an entire relationship on the single principle of never ever letting you get to that point.

You'll be reaching for him on the sofa, hand sliding up under his shirt, mouth at the hot pulse in his throat, and he'll go rigid and say, in that flat  rumble of his, "When d’you last eat?"

"Simon," you sigh,

"Tha’ s’not an answer, love."

"I'm not hungry–,"

"I saw you skipped lunch."

He watches a lot. He watches you eat with open, naked satisfaction, and the first time you caught him at it you'd put your fork down and said ‘did you want some?’ and he'd said ‘no, you have it,’ and meant it with his whole strange heart.

The man can produce a plate of food out of thin air, and there's no point arguing, because he'll simply outlast you, planted there immovable as a boulder until you've eaten enough that his shoulders come down from around his ears.

He's never once said the word out loud. Cannibalism. He skirts it like a tripwire. Early on you'd tilted your head at him a degree too sharp while he was shaving — honestly just affection — and caught his eye in the mirror, and he'd nicked his own jaw and not flinched at the blood at all, only at you. Razor frozen halfway up his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped and his pupils shrank to pinpricks and you'd thought: Oh. He's frightened. Big, terrible Ghost, who garrotes men in their sleep, scared witless by the tilt of your head. 

You felt bad for almost a full minute.

You have, in fairness, never confirmed or denied a thing. When he goes still and careful you let him. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you, this grim devout terror, and you're not about to spoil it with reassurance.

Soap, for the record, has really no idea what he started. He'll see the two of you in the canteen, Simon angling the better-fed plate toward you and think, good lad, taking my advice.

Simon had you down — the eyes that hold on him no matter where he moves, that dark point in each one that stays, tracking, while the rest of your face goes soft and human; the too-far head-turn; the way your hands fold up against your chest when you go truly still, wrists tucked, prayer-shaped.

He did not account for the wings.

You hadn't told him because you genuinely forget they're there — folded flat along your spine, a faint seam under the skin, a sheen across your shoulder blades he'd assumed was an old scar. You can't really fly. You never thought to mention them. Plus, it seemed like he knew plenty.

But now he's got you under him with your shirt long gone and his mouth working at the junction of your neck and collar, and there's none of the careful bracing tonight — he fed you an hour ago, he made sure, he watched you finish — and now there's just his weight and his hands and the husky sounds he makes against your skin. One big palm splays flat on your stomach and slides lower, fingers finding you already slick, stroking slow over your clit until your hips chase it on their own. "So soft, love," he murmurs, like he's not shaking. He gets two fingers inside you, curls them, and your whole spine bows off the mattress.

That's when they snap open.

In the dark it's monstrous; a sudden unfolding of something unknown and far too wide for the room, fanning from your back in a wash of color he can't quite name in the half-light. A deep iridescent purple shot through with flares of red, eyespots blooming towards the tips. One instant flat girl, the next a thing twice your size.

Simon goes to stone, shuts down, every system offline. This is it, he thinks — this is the bit where she takes the head. His fingers still inside you. He holds his breath, bracing.

You make a small strangled noise and pull them back down.

They fold away almost as fast as they came, gone into brackets around your spine, and you throw an arm over your face and refuse to look at him. Your ears are hot. He can feel it where his jaw rests on your cheek.

"Sorry," you whisper. "That just— happens sometimes. It– it doesn't mean anything bad, I swear… just… you… just feels good, is all.”

The single most dangerous woman he's ever shared a bed with has flashed her startle display because he got two fingers knuckle deep inside of her, and now she's mortified, hiding her face like a kid. Four months of Soap's splinter works its way loose, pushing out of his muscle, and falls out somewhere in the dark, and Simon — who has never in his life felt safe and certainly never expected to find it here, of all the deranged places — starts to come softly apart with relief. He pulls himself back to look at you.

"Le’me see you," he says, and peels your arm off your face, and when you do his eyes are doing something you've never seen on him: wet at the edges, wide open, not afraid of you at all. 

Worse than not afraid. Pleased with himself.

He leans back down and kisses you hard, pushing his fingers deeper and says it against your mouth because he’s got nothing left to lose: "Do it again. Want to watch."

So you do. 

And Simon fucks you slow and then not slow at all, and every time he tips you over they snap wide behind you and fill the room with color, and by the third time he's stopped flinching and started hunting it, smug, learning the exact angle that does it. When he finally comes it's with his forehead pressed to yours and your wings open around the both of you like something out of a church window, and he's saying something into your jaw, rough and ruined, that takes you a second to parse as all mine, there she is, there's my good girl.

Afterward you bite him. Just a little on the shoulder, just to be a menace, licking the taste of iron from your canine. 

He doesn't even twitch. "Knew it," he says into your hair, wrecked and grinning where you can't see. "Tellin’ Soap he was right."

Re-read your favorite smutfics and specifically focus on the parts that worked for you. Try to figure out why and emulate that in your writing. (It can also be helpful to figure out what didn't work for you, or what you felt was lacking, either in your favorite smutfics or ones you didn't like.)

This one kind of echoes a tip in the first article, but: try to pay attention to what you focus on when you're fantasizing. What details draw the inner eye? What sensations do you find yourself dwelling on? And then add more as needed.

When researching how things feel, Reddit is your friend. While you'll get articles from sex positive/sex education websites---which can also be helpful, don't get me wrong, but I prefer them for more technical things---you can get a lot of good info by adding "reddit" or filtering by "site:reddit.com."

I keep a numbered list of my favorite smut dialogue prompts. When I first started writing---and even now when I feel like writing smut but none of my established ideas are calling to me---I would roll 2-3 numbers & then brainstorm how I would link them together. I found this helpful not just for generating ideas but also stringing together / picturing a scene. (a vision in black lace & drape me in your warmth both spawned from this exercise.)

As with most writing / creative endeavors, the best thing you can do is just start. You'll learn what the gaps in your knowledge are as you write (and thus can research more targeted questions), and you can always fix what you don't like on a second pass---but sometimes you won't know what's lacking (or what's too much!) until you've written more.

leona going down on you always goes one of two ways: slow and lazy, like he’s savoring his meal, or he’s gonna be doing everything he can to make your thighs clamp around his head

more often than not, he’ll be laying in your lap or arms, and he’ll suddenly decide that he wants to see you shaking in front of him

he can smell your slick, and the very thought of it makes his ears twitch and cock throb

sometimes, he’ll just bury his head in the space between your plush thighs, pressing his nose to your damp panties

he’ll kitten lick them if he wants more, or just push them aside

(as long as you say he can, leona is a consent KING)

bc he’s a lion beastman, his tongue has this texture that feels so incredible against your tiny, puffy clit

it’s hard not to cum right then and there

it feels even better inside you, when he’s fucking his tongue into your sensitive pussy

he’s feasting on you like you’re some kind of precious delicacy

at other times, though, he’s desperate to satisfy you

more specifically… to make you squirt

it’s usually when you’re mad at him, honestly

you’re his woman, and his mate, so it’s his responsibility to bring you pleasure, especially when you’re mad at him

and he’s damn good at it, too

it’s hard to stay mad at him when he’s doing everything in this power to make you cum >-<

Ruggie Bucchi

if there’s one thing ruggie knows how to do, it’s EAT

he savors every last meal, you included

that sweet nectar between your thighs practically has him drooling

he’s definitely asked to glaze donuts with it— WHO SAID THAT

so, once he’l down there, ruggie is taking everything you have to give

he’ll lap at your slick for hours on end, watching tears well up in your eyes as he overstimulated you and your poor, puffy pussy

he can’t help it, his pretty girl just tastes so good!!

if he’s feeling extra needy, he’ll have two fingers stretching you open as he desperately tries to make you squirt again

his other hand is kneading your thighs and ass to stop you from even trying to squirm away from him

dont worry, he’s always so sweet to your after he (admittedly sometimes accidentally) overstimulates you

he’ll shower the skin all over your thighs with little kisses and hickies, pressing the occasional soft kisses to your twitching, leaky pussy

he can’t leave his sweet girl all messy and sensitive, can he? that’d be too cruel :(

Jack Howl

sit on his face and grab his ears

do it.

just do it.

jack’s face is just so perfect to sit on

more specifically, to ride

he’s got the beautiful, big nose that you can ride, bumping against your clit while you grind your hips onto his willing tongue

he loves when you grab his ear while you ride as well

he moans up into you, the vibrations stimulating you clit until you’re spilling into another orgasm

honestly, jack doesn’t even have to try

for him, our instincts take over once he can smell your pussy inches from his face

his tongue moves on his own as he groans into your wet cunt

he’s trying to get you to smell as much like his as possible right now

he doesn’t care what he has to do

he’ll just be satisfied once you’ve painted his face in cum

and made your clit swell from grinding on his nose

he’ll be so rough on your little clit, loving how just it can make you spasm so desperately

he drinks up your reactions and your cum

just let him work his magic as you just grind down onto him

he’s a good boy, he’ll make you feel good, promise!

SUPER brief hcs of how you got together (I WANT SMUT RN!!)

keith has always loved how shy you were, although he never said it out loud

you were almost always silent, behind everyone twiddling your thumbs or always finding something else in the room other than the people interesting

he found it endearing, although sometimes he knows he has to hold back his anger from you

every time he talked to you before you got together, you would blush uncontrollably and hesitate responding to him

so that's why it surprised him when you cornered him in a hallway, looking especially nervous

he saw a crumpled up note in your hands, and for the first time, you were holding eye contact with him

"i-uh, i like you a lot," you blurted out. you might be shy, but you were brave

immediately after that you shut your eyes, believing that he would reject you, or even worse, simply walk away

. . . but the kiss he gave you after was unmistakable.

nsfw hcs

you would always cover your face whenever it got too good, and keith would always pull you hands away, sometimes even pinning you wrists above your head with one hand

"i want to see you."

GRRABABARBKARBARK

definitely has the strength to overpower you, and if you love that you know what i mean

an example is if he's eating you out and you try closing your thighs around his face

he'd quickly wrap his hands around you legs, and spread them back open, no matter how hard you try to close them

or using his strength from training constantly to fuck you against a wall, if he's feeling particularly rough that day

definitely fucks you if he's stressed about a day in the training room (or stressed in general)

i don't make the rules

has THE best ways to ask for consent

"you want this?/tell me how you want it."

"you want me to make you feel good?"

OR HE'D JUST DESCRIBE WHAT HE'D DO TO YOU

fave position is probably the mating press cause he loves being able to go down and kiss you and see your face

or you riding him because he loves the way you lean onto him and eventually tire out

and when you do, his grip on your waist is harsh enough to cause bruises as he harshly thrusts into you

probably has a thing for restraining you

loves how shy you are when you come to him asking for sex

he'd usually drag it out to tease you even more before finally giving you some relief

fingering god i love to say it

you see the way he works his hands!!!

definitely whimpers here and there, especially when you're giving him a blow job

if you have enough hair, he'll personally make a makeshift ponytail for you

if not, he'll simply run his hand through your hair

praisepraisepraise all day

probably goes feral once he's close to cumming

would start babbling literally any dirty talk that comes to his mind

"you're doing so good for me."

"gonna cum for me, yeah?"

extra: DON'T GET ME STARTED ON HIM IN HEAT.

idc what anyone says he goes through it since he's half galra

the first time, he'd lock himself in his room and hope that it would eventually pass

but of course, as clueless as you were, you walked in and questionably gazed at all the stranded tissues on the floor

he'd try ushering you out, but after a moment to decide, you wanted to help him

definitely WAY more rough than usual

you'd come out with bruises everywhere and hickeys as far as the eye can see

a lot more vocal during this

he would love the way you would try to speak up but couldn't because it felt too good

you might be shy yourself, but whenever you got into the mood. . . you definitely weren't thinking straight

during heat he wouldn't even have the time to make you beg or tease you, he'd go all in immediately

definitely praises and degrades you a lot more

"being such a perfect little slut for me, hm?"

just know that after you guys finish, you're both too out of it to even speak or move, until eventually keith snaps out of it and helps you get cleaned up

sometimes you would get up first, wanting to return the favor

and he'd repay you with a lot of tired kisses until the two of you fall asleep