🜼 Being the child of Tengen Uzui—the Sound Hashira, the most flamboyant and self-proclaimed flashiest man alive—is like being born from a firework.
🜼 Loud, colorful, dazzling, and sudden. You’d never expect him. He could be waiting around the corner or perched in a tree and then—BOOM!—he makes his grand entrance.
🜼 He scares the life out of you, no matter how old you are. And if his little theatrics ever make you cry? He panics immediately, utterly clueless about how to fix it.
🜼 His wives, however, know exactly what to do: scold him relentlessly. Doesn’t matter how old you are, he gets an earful every time—especially if you’re still little.
🜼 For all his flaws, he’s a good father. Planning the flashiest hangouts, parties, gifts, and surprises is his specialty. That’s how he shows love—by making every moment unforgettable.
🜼 He adores playing dress-up. Hair, makeup, clothes—whether sewing, designing, or styling, he’s always down for it. Anywhere, anytime, no hesitation.
🜼 Emotional parenting, though? That’s where he stumbles. Tears, tantrums, teenage moods—those baffle him. He tries to fix it the only way he knows: bribes, gifts, money, anything to make it stop. Not the healthiest, but it comes from a place of love.
🜼 Usually his wives handle the emotional storms, though he does try… just never alone, and almost always with at least one of them by his side.
🜼 He couldn’t care less what path you choose in life. Demon Slayer, farmer, chef, medic—whatever brings you joy, he’ll support it. Though in true Uzui fashion, he tends to go overboard—signing you up for classes, calling in favors from his fellow Hashira, arranging “the finest training money can’t buy.”
🜼 He’s very affectionate, too. Expect dramatic kisses on your cheeks and forehead, tight hugs that sway side to side, and endless, theatrical compliments. Sometimes he even forgets you’re his child and critiques your outfits for being “not flashy enough.” His wives always shut that down quickly.
🜼 Growing up, you either loved or hated the muscle mice—no in-between. That’s because Uzui often used them in his surprise appearances… whether intentionally or not.
🜼 Every Hashira is introduced to you as “Uncle” or “Aunt.” Never just “Dad’s friend.” Most of them play along. Some… not so much.
🜼 At some point in your childhood, he almost certainly dressed you in his headband, painted a little mark around your eye, and wrapped you in a handmade, miniature version of his uniform. To him, you were the flashiest baby alive. (Even if the headband was far too big and kept falling over your eyes.)
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really, you didn’t!!! the plan was simple: try on the lingerie set you panic‑bought for your first ever tinder date this weekend, snap a quick photo of the lacy orange set in the mirror, and send it to mina for her honest opinion. easy.
except you weren't paying much attention. and now your phone screen is staring back at you in horror: Message sent to: Katsuki Bakugou.
you swear your heart might have actually stopped. The phone almost drops as you scramble to type WRONG CHAT before he can even open it, but the three little dots appear instantly. of course he saw it. bakugou’s annoyingly fast like that.
the call comes through 30 seconds later.
“you fucking serious right now?” his voice is low, rough, carrying that familiar mix of irritation and something else you haven't heard before.
you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing the phone to your ear. “imsosorry. it wasn’t for you, katsuki. I swear I was sending it to mina.”
“yeah, no shit?” he scoffs, but there’s a pause on the other end, long enough that you feel heat creeping all the way up your neck. “the hell you sendin’ her pictures like that for anyway?”
you freeze. “because she’s my friend? because i wanted an opinion?”
his exhale is sharp, static buzzing in your ear. “you’re wearin’ that for a date?”
you swallow, throat feeling strangely dry. “yeah. why?”
another beat of silence. and then, lower, almost like it slips out of him on accident. “he doesn’t deserve that.”
your stomach flips. bakugou never says things like that. not to you, at least. he’s your best friend, your anchor, the one who’s been around since forever. you try to laugh it off, shaky and thin. “it’s just lingerie, katsuki.”
“‘just lingerie,’ my ass.” his voice drops even further, rasping now, deliberate, pulling the words slow. “don’t go wearin’ shit like that for some random extra. he won't even know what to do .”
your chest tightens. the warmth in his tone makes you bite your lip without thinking. “and you would?”
there’s a pause. a faint chuckle. “don’t know. maybe.” his voice is low, teasing now, and you can almost feel him leaning closer.
your breath catches. you don’t answer for a minute. you can’t. because suddenly you’re replaying the picture in your head—except it’s not some faceless tinder dude seeing you in it anymore. it’s him. "katsuki?" is all you can comeuppance with when you finally do speak.
“don’t start something you can’t finish,” he mutters, quieter now, his voice rough in your ear.
and then the line goes dead. your phone feels impossibly heavy in your hand.
⤷ fandom : heated rivalry
⤷ pairing : shane hollander/ilya rozanov
⤷ wordcount : 8.3k
⤷ rating : explicit
⤷ tags : impact play, pussy spanking, body dysphoria, breeding kink, dom / sub undertones, cunnilingus, masturbation, face-sitting, porn without plot
⤷ summary : on their first day of summer vacation, shane wakes up with a pussy. he decides to hide it from ilya and wait for it to go away. this decision has consequences.
Searching I woke up with a pussy brings anything from porn results to Creepypasta forums. Shane miserably clicks on a Reddit thread, trying in vain to find any sort of answers when there's a knock on the bathroom door.
I hope you’re doing well, my lotus. Between missions, meetings, and tracking demons, we haven’t had much time together. I miss you… more than I can really put into words. But I think I’ve found a little way to fix that.
The drawstring bag tied with this note holds a small gift, a reminder of me. You can wear it, keep it close, or set it somewhere safe—whatever feels right. It’s just so you’ll remember that I’m always with you, no matter the distance.
I love you, always, my lotus.
P.S. I have one too, and I’ll never take it off.
Giyuu’s eyes lingered over the note, his thumb brushing along the edge as if tracing the words would somehow tether him to their presence. In his other hand, he held the small cloth drawstring bag, fingers curled loosely around it. Slowly, deliberately, he set the note aside and tugged at the opening.
Tilting the bag, he let the contents spill into his palm. A warmth spread through his chest at the sight of the beaded bracelet. His shoulders, usually stiff and guarded, eased slightly, and his fingers fidgeted with the accessory, turning it over to watch the blue and [favorite color] beads click together quietly.
A rare, small smile tugged at his lips. Eyes glistening, he slid the bracelet onto his wrist, lifting his hand as if to hold it closer to his heart. With a gentle, almost reverent motion, his lips ghosted over the beads, a soft murmur escaping him.
The flower trembled in his grasp, his fingers curled tight around the fragile stem. Akaza remained kneeling in the grass, the moon hanging high above like a watchful eye. He could not recall ever feeling nerves like this—this restless quake inside him, this unfamiliar weakness. He hadn’t even believed he could feel such a thing.
“I… found this botan flower,” his voice wavered as he raised it forward, the petals quivering in the night air. “And the moment I saw it… I thought of you.”
He watched their hand hesitate, trembling as it reached for the offering. The sight of their flustered smile struck him deeper than any blade ever could. His chest pounded with violent rhythm, each thud like a war drum echoing through his ribs—proof that, even as a demon, he had never felt so alive.
So unbearably alive.
The weight of it ached within him, clawed at him, burned through him. God, he was so utterly, hopelessly in love. And the thought of them ever slipping from his grasp was something he knew he could not—would not—allow.
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You should've known what you were getting into the second you signed the lease. Gojo Satoru. You'd heard of him, of course. Everyone had. Tall, loud, impossible to miss. Half the campus either wanted to punch him, fuck him, or both. The moment you walked into the shared apartment and saw him shirtless, sprawled out on the couch, wearing sunglasses inside, and eating straight from a Costco-sized tub of cheeseballs, you knew living with Gojo Satoru would be a problem. Not a “he’s messy” problem (he is). Not a “he throws parties every other night” problem (which he also does). No, it’s the way he looked up and said, “You’re my new roomie?”, lips already quirking into a grin. “Oh, we’re gonna have fun.”
And he meant it. Fun, to Gojo, includes (but is not limited to) weekly keggers, drinking games, stripping shirtless every time he loses, blasting music at 3 a.m., and somehow always ending up in your personal space.
Like the time you were doing yoga in the living room and he sprawled out on the floor next to you, chin propped on one hand, sunglasses still on.
“Downward dog looks real good from this angle, angel.”
You hit him with a throw pillow. He winked.
You’ve developed a sixth sense for his presence. You can feel him behind you before he says a word; tall, warm, always standing way too close. In the mornings, when you shuffle into the kitchen in nothing but his oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, you can feel his eyes trailing over you like it’s the first time. Every time.
“G’morning, sunshine,” he purrs, coffee mug in hand, white hair sticking up in every direction. “You always wake up this pretty, or is that hoodie just magic?” You never give him the satisfaction of an answer. Just sip your coffee with a flat stare and ignore how your pulse jumps.
Except it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the way Gojo really looks at you when you’re walking around in your big T-shirt and tiny shorts. The way he suddenly gets quiet when you’re laughing at something on your phone, biting your nail. The way he leans a little too close when you’re cooking.
His room is a mess. Protein shake powder dusted on the floor like it’s seasoning. Two different girls' earrings left on the nightstand (he swears he’s going to return them). Your room is off-limits. You made that rule clear on day one. “No parties in here. No girls in here. No you in here.” He’d raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel. Unless you invite me, of course.”And weirdly… he’s honored it. Even when he's drunk. Even when he's sleepwalking. “Sacred space,” he shrugs. But his eyes linger when your door is cracked. The one time you fell asleep with it open and he caught a glimpse of you curled up, wearing one of his old shirts you 'borrowed', he stood there for a full ten seconds, silent, before backing away like he just witnessed a crime.
Parties are weekly. sometimes his, sometimes Geto's down the street. You never intend to go. But he always pulls you in. “Just wear that little black top,” he says, leaning on your doorframe like it’s his full-time job. “You know, the one that makes all the other girls at the party mad.”
“Because they think I’m trying to steal their man?”
“Nah,” he grins. “Because you’re already have me.” (You don’t answer. But you wear the top.)
The teasing is constant. You argue about laundry, over his collection of identical, stupid sunglasses, about why he keeps using your expensive shampoo. “It smells like you,” he shrugs. “I like it.” One day, the arguing gets heated. Voices raised, faces inches apart. You’re glaring up at him, and he’s leaning in, chest heaving just a little. The air between you shifts. “You done?” he asks, voice lower now, eyes flicking to your lips. “Are you?” you fire back. He doesn’t kiss you. But he almost does. You feel it in the curl of his fingers at your hip. The way his jaw clenches like he’s physically holding himself back.
Sometimes you catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. But it’s not casual, it’s hungry. Like he’s imagining exactly what you’d sound like moaning into his pillow, or what you’d do if he slipped his hand between your thighs instead of the blanket you share during movie nights. He’ll tilt his head, tongue poking his cheek, blue eyes sliding over your lips like he’s already kissed them a hundred times in his mind. “What?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. He smiles, slow and shameless. “Nothing. Just... trying to remember if you always look this good when you’re ignoring me.” You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, still smiling. Later, you hear him groan through the paper-thin wall. You tell yourself you imagined it. But you know you didn’t.
One night, you almost say it. You're buzzed after a party, warm from the inside out, barefoot in the kitchen, eating cold pizza from the box. Gojo strolls in, shirtless again, hair wet from a shower, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He watches you for a moment. You're wearing one of his t-shirts with no bra underneath, and he knows it. You swear his gaze burns through the cotton. He corners you in the against the counter, hands braced on either side of hour hips. The scent of his cologne, rich and citrus-y, envelops you.“You keep looking at me like that, angel,” he whispers, voice rougher than you've ever heard it, “and I’m gonna stop pretending this is friendly." You swallow, hard. “Who says we’re pretending?” That’s when he touches your waist. Large, warm hands with enough pressure to make your breath catch. "You gonna let me kiss you yet?" He murmurs, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. And you want him to. But you stop him. Barely. Fingertips curled into his shirt like a warning. “Not like this.”
He makes pancakes the next morning. No shirt. Just low-slung sweats and sleepy eyes. “Didn’t even touch you, and I’m still wrecked,” he mutters, flipping a pancake like he’s trying not to look at you. You’re standing there in your tiny shorts and one of his old hoodies, arms crossed, pretending to ignore the way his gaze keeps dropping to your legs. “You always cook for the girls you don’t fuck?” He grins, devilish. “Just because I didn’t hit doesn’t mean I’m not a gentleman." You tell him he’s insufferable. He tells you that you look really good in his hoodie.
You leave the hoodie folded on his bed later, along with a note that says:
if you’re gonna touch me, do it right next time.
And that night, you swear you hear him groan again, louder.
His gaze was hazy, lost somewhere in the drifting clouds. Fingers rested lightly on his thighs, unmoving even as the wind whispered past. His lips parted with a quiet breath, head tipping back as his eyes followed the endless sky.
“Muichiro-san?”
The sound of their voice caught him like a thread pulling taut. His head lifted instantly, misted eyes blinking back into focus. The fog cleared, replaced with a startling clarity as he turned toward them. Their smile filled his vision, his mind momentarily blank as he stared—eyes tracing the curve of their lips as they spoke again.
“Ah, welcome back from your daydream, Muichiro-san. Would you like some tea?”
He blinked once. Then again, slower, as though their words were sinking through water before reaching him. His lips parted, head tilting slightly, hair falling against his cheek as he answered softly.
“Yes… that would be… nice.”
He lingered on the word nice, a faint warmth brushing over his features before he quickly looked back toward the clouds. But his gaze kept straying, flicking back to them, caught between sky and smile. He didn’t know why his chest felt so light, or why his fingers twitched as though reaching for something unseen.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.
Either way, he found himself wishing the moment would last just a little longer.
⤷ fandom : heated rivalry
⤷ pairing : shane hollander/ilya rozanov
⤷ wordcount : 6.5k
⤷ rating : explicit
⤷ tags : sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, no refractory period, consent play
⤷ summary : Ilya wanted to push Shane to his very limits- see how much he could bend, and see if he could make him break. Ilya just needed the opportunity, and that finally came during their game against the Toronto Guardians.
"You want it."
"N-nng-no." Shane choked. Tears slipped down his cheeks, his knuckles white where they helplessly gripped the bedsheets.
Ilya slowed his thrusts, cupping Shane's face. "Tell me it's too much."
Shane sobbed. "'S too much."
"Tell me you don't want this."
"I don't deserve this." Fat tears slipped from Shane's eyes.
"Want."
"I don't-" Shane gasped, his eyes rolling back as Ilya hit his prostate. "I don't want- Jesus Christ."
Ilya cupped Shane's face, swiping at his wet cheeks before running his fingers along Shane's bottom lip, letting the salt mix with saliva.
"You can say no," Ilya crooned, reaching down with one hand to palm Shane's barely-hard cock. "But I know this. You can't resist, can you?"
(read on ao3)
day 1 of @hollanov-kink-week : toys / consent play
