#fights

A sample of the many boards I did on Arcane Season 2. This one was made for episode 3 in 2021 (a lifetime ago it seems).

Yuta Okkostu (timeskip) DO NOT COPY OR REPUBLISH MY WORK!!

I got this idea when i was listening to an audio made by MythosVa on reddit and well he said the word meanie in such a submissve way. I decided to write about it but with Yuta because I personally think it fits so well.

The myth of Yuta Okkotsu’s innocence remained stubbornly intact at Tokyo Jujutsu High, even after two full years of him being openly paired with you

To everyone else he was still the same gentle, soft-spoken boy who blushed at the slightest praise, who apologized when he accidentally bumped shoulders in the hallway, who looked away shyly whenever Gojo made one of his crude jokes about “young love.” Maki still called him “kid” with fond exasperation. Nobara still teased that he probably didn’t even know what a hickey was. Panda still treated him like the baby of the group. No one—not even the sharpest eyes in the school—could picture quiet, polite Yuta Okkotsu doing anything more scandalous than holding hands.

That was what made it so delicious.

Because the moment the door to your pitch-black suite clicked shut behind them, that shy, flustered boy transformed into something entirely different—still shy, still easily flushed crimson from neck to ears, but utterly, helplessly devoted beneath you.

Tonight was no exception.

Yuta had barely stepped inside before you pushed him back against the bed with two fingers to his chest. He went willingly, eyes already wide and darkening, a faint pink stain creeping up his cheeks. He was hard before you even straddled his lap—his uniform pants doing nothing to hide the impressive length straining against the fabric. No one outside these walls would ever guess that sweet, stammering Yuta was above average in every way that counted: thick, long, and so sensitive that the lightest touch could make him whimper.

“Clothes off,” you ordered softly.

His hands shook as he obeyed, fingers fumbling with buttons while he kept stealing flustered glances at you. When he was finally bare, cock flushed dark and leaking against his stomach, he lay back against the pillows looking equal parts embarrassed and desperate.

You took her time undressing, letting him watch. His breathing grew ragged, chest rising and falling quickly. When you finally climbed over him and settled your weight on his hips, grinding slowly against his cock without letting him inside yet, Yuta’s head fell back with a broken sound.

“D-Dovie…” he breathed, voice already cracking. His hands hovered at her thighs, not daring to grip without permission.

You caught his wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. “Keep them there.”

He nodded frantically, cheeks burning hotter. “Y-yes… angel.”

You sank down onto him in one smooth motion—slow enough to savor every inch as he stretched you open. Yuta’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, eyes squeezing shut as his back arched off the mattress. He was so thick it bordered on overwhelming, but you took him to the hilt without pause, clenching around him deliberately.

“Ah—! Hah—” The sound that tore from his throat was high and needy, the kind of whimper that would have shocked anyone who still believed in his innocence.

You began to ride him with deliberate, torturous rolls of your hips—lifting almost all the way off before sinking back down, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every downstroke. Yuta’s wrists flexed uselessly above his head, fingers twitching as if dying to touch you. His head thrashed against the pillow, dark hair sticking to his damp forehead.

“You feel so good,” you murmured, voice low and teasing. “Look at you—already falling apart and I’ve barely started.”

He whined, hips jerking up involuntarily to meet you. “P-please… faster—Dovie, I—”

You stopped moving entirely, seated fully on his cock, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that made his thighs tremble.

“No,” you said calmly. “You don’t get to come yet.”

Yuta’s eyes flew open, glassy and desperate. A fresh wave of pink flooded his face. “Mhm….meanie…” The word slipped out soft and plaintive, half-moan, half-protest. His cock twitched hard inside you at the denial.

You smiled, slow and wicked, and resumed her lazy rhythm—barely enough friction to keep him on edge, never enough to push him over. You rode him like you had all night, savoring the way his breath hitched every time you clenched deliberately around his length.

Every few minutes you would speed up just enough to make his moans turn ragged—only to slow again the moment his hips started chasing you with real urgency. Yuta’s head kept throwing back against the pillows, throat bared, lips parted on constant broken sounds.

“Meanie—!” he gasped when you edged him for the third time, voice cracking on the word. His wrists strained against her grip, but he never tried to break free. “You’re s-such a meanie—ahh—Dovie, please, I’m so close—feels too good—”

Tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes now, lashes wet. He looked utterly ruined—flushed, sweating, cock buried deep inside you while she controlled every roll of your hips with merciless precision. Still so shy even like this: every plea laced with embarrassment, every whimper muffled against his own shoulder when the pleasure spiked too sharply.

“Mean, am I?” You leaned forward, changing the angle so the head of his cock dragged perfectly against that spot inside your gummy walls while you ground down harder. “Then why are you getting even harder when I call you on it?”

Yuta let out a sob-like moan, head snapping back again as his spine bowed. “Because—hah—you’re so mean to me—angel—please let me—please—I’ll be good, I swear—”

You released his wrists only to brace both hands on his chest, riding him faster now but still refusing to give him the pace he needed. His hands flew to your hips instantly, not to guide but to hold on like she was the only solid thing in the world. Fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, but he never tried to force your rhythm. He just clutched at you, whimpering every time you lifted up and left him aching.

“Look at me,” you commanded.

He did—eyes hazy, pupils blown wide, face a mess of flush and tears. “Meanie… you’re being so mean—gonna die—can’t—can’t hold it—”

You slowed again, grinding in tight little circles that kept him right on the razor’s edge without letting him tip over. Yuta’s whole body shuddered violently beneath her. A fresh tear slipped down his temple.

“Meanie—!” The word came out louder this time, raw and desperate, his head thrown back so far the tendons in his neck stood out. “You’re such a meanie—ahh—, please—let me come inside you—been so good—please—”

You watched him with dark satisfaction—watching the boy everyone thought was pure and untouched fall completely apart under you. No one would ever believe that shy Yuta Okkotsu could sound like this: whining, begging, calling his girlfriend “meanie” in that broken, flustered voice while his cock throbbed helplessly inside her, leaking steadily, body trembling with the effort of holding back because she hadn’t given permission.

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear again. “Not yet. You can take a little more for me, can’t you? My sweet, sensitive boy.”

He nodded frantically, even as another whimper tore free. “Y-yes—anything—meanie—yours—ah—Dovie”

You rewarded him by riding him harder—still controlled, still denying the final push he needed. Every thrust pulled fresh, mortified little “meanie”s from his lips, each one more wrecked than the last. His praises mixed with the complaints in a dizzying stream: “So good—so tight—, you’re such meanie—angel, love you—please—!”

When you finally decided he’d earned it, you braced your hands on either side of his head and rode him with purpose—fast, deep, relentless. Yuta’s eyes rolled back, mouth open on a silent scream before the sound finally broke free: a long, keening moan that cracked halfway through.

“Come for me,” you ordered.

He did—instantly, violently—back arching clean off the bed as he came with a broken cry of “Dovie—!” His cock pulsed deep inside her, flooding her with heat while his whole body convulsed beneath her. Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. His hands clutched at her back like he’d drown without her.

Even after the peak, he kept twitching, whimpering softly as aftershocks rolled through him. You slowed her movements to gentle rocks, milking every last drop while he panted and trembled.

When she finally stilled, still seated on his spent cock, Yuta looked up at her with glassy, adoring eyes—face burning crimson, lips swollen, hair a complete mess.

“𝓨𝓸𝓾’𝓻𝓮 𝓢𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓮,” he whispered, voice hoarse and shy, the faintest pout on his lips even as he nuzzled into her hand when she cupped his cheek.

You smiled, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “And you love it.”

He nodded without hesitation, still flustered, still shy, pressing a soft kiss to her palm. “Yeah… I do. Love you.”

Outside the suite, the rest of the school would continue believing in their innocent, untouched Yuta—the boy too pure for anything beyond gentle hand-holding and blushing compliments.

Inside these walls, only you knew the truth: that the same shy, easily flustered boy could be reduced to a whining, tear-streaked mess beneath you, calling you “meanie” with his head thrown back and his cock buried deep, completely and irrevocably yours.

Commission for @syrinq

Thank you for commissioning me☆◇☆◇☆

Contradicting the long-held belief that they would just go off and destroy anyone who tried to mess with them, a Department of Health and Human Services report published Thursday revealed that U.S. males would be on average 4,000 percent less effective in a fight than they imagine. “Despite the typical American male’s conviction that he would viciously beat down anyone who came at him and end the whole thing with one punch, we found that in the event of an actual violent altercation, most adult men would almost certainly injure themselves far worse than any assailant,” read the 80-page report, which went on to confirm that nearly all American males would be unable to execute a single maneuver they envision themselves capable of performing, be it an uppercut, a roundhouse, or grabbing an opponent by the back of the neck and smashing his face down into the bar.