Men In Suits Are My Weakness

AS HE SHOULD FFS MY MOUTH IS WIDE OPEN AT ANY TIME SIR

suna would make fun of me for being obsessed w him but then threaten to shove his tongue down my throat if another dude makes eyes at me in public smh

THE DILF OSAMU U SENT TO CHICOREEKXKMQLXJDK I AM SCREAMING ON MY KNEESJCOQMXOCK ITS SO GOOD HOLY FICKKSCMLWMZ🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

Thanks! It’s based off a real-life experience I’ve had ✌️

It's time for Nini's Soft and Horny Violence—

dilf!Miya Osamu who's packed on a some weight after years of running a restaurant and who's mostly given up on finding love after the ugly divorce he had with his ex. Who constantly feels guilty, for not being a more attentive husband, for getting complacent, for being impatient and short and snappish. Who's resigned himself to a life as a workaholic.

Who blushes a mottled pink when you first walk into his onigiri shop and after eating one onigiri and laughing at his stupid jokes, you start aggressively hitting on him. You're young, he tells himself, you don't know what you want. (But you do. You're chasing your dreams, living your best life, and now, you want him to take you on a date and make love to you.) He can't deny how easy the chemistry is with you, and how easily you make him laugh. He tries to turn you down gently, but you dig your heels in, insisting that he take you a date. Why? Because you're a pretty girl and he's clearly feeling the chemistry and you're feeling the chemistry, so what does he have to lose?

Who eventually relents, and invites you to Onigiri Miya after hours. Who painstakingly cleans the countertops and carefully arranges a menu for you based on your favorite onigiri flavors. Who frets when you're five minutes late, wondering if he's the sad older man who's been flaked on by some pretty girl that he really thought he had a chance with. Who feels a rush of relief when you run in, panting and sweaty, apologizing profusely because of a detour you had to take on the way due to construction. Who feeds you every single onigiri, preferring to hear you babble on and on about your interests, because your enthusiasm and excitement is so infection that he can't help but also grin and get excited, too. Whose jaw drops when you grab his finger and slowly, slowly suck sauce off of it. Who thinks "fuck it" before grabbing your chin and kissing you.

Who can barely manage to get you upstairs fast enough (his pants are already unbuckles by the time you two reach his door, your hand working far too distractingly on his dick). Who can tell that how young you are because you're so eager and desperate, barely capable of slowing down and actually enjoying the sex. Who whispers in your ear, "slow down, beautiful, we've got all the time in the world", and savors the shiver and weak little noise you make because you've been so aggressive and you've kept him on his toes all night, so it's nice to get to turn the tables. Who eats your pussy, slow and intense, until you're wailing after multiple orgasms and you're shoving him away (he just grins, wipes his face with the back of his hand, and says "wow"). Who teases you cruelly, dipping into your pussy with the fat stretch of his dick, until you're nearly sobbing for it. Who spends the night making intense love to you, showing all the wonderful things that come with fucking an older man. Who feels like a fucking god, as he kneels over your sex-slick body and drinks in your desperate wailing, knowing that you'll never want a younger man. Who makes a broken noise when he finally cums, dick pulsing insistently when you whine longingly for it down your throat, all over your titties and the lips of your pussy.

Who makes you blueberry waffles and an omelet for breakfast the next morning. Who smiles, eager and hungry, when you tell him that you want to keep seeing him. He wants to play it cool, he really does, but God, if he doesn't want to take you back to bed and make love to you over and over again. He's over ten years older than you, but God, if you don't make him feel like he's just a teenager falling in love for the very first time all over again.

Oh my god my pussy and eyes are wet right now aljkshdjkasd please I love all of this. Dad bod!Osamu just hits different and dilf!Osamu?!?! Lord have mercy on my poor brain I can't. He's skilled and he knows it, but he's spent more time working on the business than his bedroom skills lately, and he's worried he's a little rusty. But you fall apart so easily underneath him, reduced to a babbling, begging mess that has his ego and cock swelling. He knows he doesn't have the stamina of his youth, so he takes his time pulling you apart.

He's always liked eating pussy, but you make it that much sweeter tugging on his hair and whining his name like that. And you're so enthusiastic, grinding against his face, rutting your hips along his tongue, making him feel wanted and desired.

And PLS. The "slow down, beautiful" made my heart FLUTTER.

promotional illustrations celebrating the release of the new official haikyuu!! illustration book + a bonus christmas-themed sketch from furudate-sensei

"Kenma."

The game buzzes on, the battle music intensifying. The thing his character is facing has changed, taking on its second form as Kenma's character rolls and swings its sword. The man himself is curled into his knees, chest tucked forward in anticipation, like he's about to hop out of his chair.

"Ke-"

"In a second," he cuts you off. His unblinking eyes never leave the screen, peering through his blonde bangs. "I just have to beat this boss."

With a huff, you sink back into your chair.

"Last time you said 'just a second' it took you two days to beat the damn thing," you remind him. "I'm not immortal-- I don't have time to sit around for you."

Frankly, you often forget Kenma is immortal until moments like that. You had always thought that vampires would be menacing or carry some sort of grandeur, but everyone you've met has been so spectacularly normal. Kenma, for instance, seems like every other guy your age: aloof and obsessed with video games.

"Get bitten then," he shrugs. "Kuroo would be happy to."

Your spine trills at the thought of it. When you first met Kuroo, you thought her was odd in the most normal way possible. He was practically nocturnal because he claimed to work remotely overseas, but he still went to bars and played indoor volleyball: average activities for an average man-

Or, that's what you thought, until you learned about the whole vampire thing.

Honestly, it's only made you more attracted to him. The mystery, the danger-- what's not to love? You'd be lying if you said you had never thought of his teeth on you, his hands on your body-

"That's what I wanted to talk about."

Kenma's head whips around. This game doesn't pause; the monster smacks his avatar across the screen.

"You're turning?" His voice is either bright with surprise or shock. You've known Kenma for a while now and you still can't seem to read his motivations. You're not sure why Kuroo incorporated you into the fold of his undead friend group, but here you are, sitting in their living room.

"No, uh-" What you're about to ask suddenly feels silly. "I wanted to... Can I see your teeth?"

Kenma's expression settles and he picks up the controller that you hadn't realized he dropped.

"I died for that?" He flicks the game off. "You could have waited for that. I'll still have teeth in a week."

You have to bit your tongue to stop yourself from losing your mind. Kenma just goes back to gaming, eyes narrowing with effort.

"I could be dead in a week."

"You won't be."

"I could be," you say. "I could have a stroke at any moment."

"You won't." He mashes the buttons extra hard, so hard the plastic creaks. "And if you did, we'd know before you did."

The character dies much earlier than it usually does.

"How would you know if I had a stroke before I did?"

"It smells sour when..." His eyes finally turn your way again. "Whatever. It's fine."

"Fine to touch?" you say.

He beckons you over with a nod of his chin. "Yeah."

Pushing off from your seat, you walk over to where he's sitting. Kenma doesn't bother to stand. He tilts his head back, looking up at you with a slight smile.

Already, you can see them. The sharp, vivid white teeth behind his pale lips. They have the usual shape, but anything uncanny edge makes your skin crawl. It's something you can't quite place, maybe something not there at all.

To get closer, you slide a leg onto his chair, angling yourself over him the best that you can. You're surprised when his hand rests on your thigh for support.

"Don't look so scared," Kenma says, a bit too coy for your liking.

You hadn't realized you'd been making a face at all.

"Just don't bite me."

Kenma opens his mouth and his teeth catch the dim light, strange for how dry his mouth seems to be. His canines are slightly elongated, just a hair more than a usual human. Gingerly, you run your fingers across the front of his teeth, then down to their edges. There's almost a razors edge to them, enough that you can feel the ridges of your fingerprint catching.

"Sharp," you quip. You leave a pause for Kenma to respond, but then you realize he can't, not with his mouth open for you. He just watches you, eyes flickering from one of your eyes to the other.

This isn't intimate, you remind yourself. It's scientific curiosity.

It can't be intimate, because you like Kuroo. Not Kenma. No, you don't like it at all that his hands are around your waist and you're cupping his cheek with your free hand, that his breath somehow smells soothing-

His canines seem longer now. More jagged, sharp. You press the pad of your thumb against it and watch how your skin easily skins in, no resistenxe whatsoever. Then, you pull away. A drop of blood wells up at the spot; there's no pain whatsoever, but the thumb tingles, like menthol and cocaine, riveting and calming all at once.

Kenma leans into the palm of your hand, then cranes his neck ever so slightly to envelop your finger in his lips. It's the most delicate of touches, a ghost of a memory of a kiss, but when he pulls away, crimson has settled into the cracks of his lips.

"Your heart's beating-" his tongue runs over his lower lip. "Really fast."

Kenma pulls you closer, arms now tight around your waist. You don't know when you got so close, when your bodies suddenly were pushed together, but now they are--

and now your finger is in his mouth. The gentle, crushing pressure of suction surprises you, but not more than the desperate whine he makes when blood hits his tongue.

That buzzing had spread up your arm and you can suddenly feel it, feel how your heart runs heavy and fast for him. Kenma's eyes are so lidded, barely open, heavy with want, that you can barely make out how his pupils have narrowed into cat scratch slits.

"Oh," you babble. "Oh, it's--"

"Feels good?" Kenma isn't speaking, but you can hear his voice.

"Y-yeah."

"I can make you feel good." There can't be that much blood from that tiny spot, but Kenma swallows deep as if there is. "Anytime you want."

The plush of his tongue swipes up your digit. Oh, maybe you are bleeding out. Maybe he's killing you. You're hot and cold and weak and strong and, and, and--

"You never have to ask Kuroo for-"

The front door of the apartment slams closed. A familiar set of boisterous laughter echoes through the halls-- Bokuto and Kuroo are hone. When you pull away, Kenma gives no resistance, his eyes still fixated on you.

An unjust guilt rises in your throat. You examine your hand, expecting a torrent of blood, only to be greeted with the smallest blossom on your finger tip.

"Were we supposed to do that?" you whisper.

"It's fine." Kenma adjusts himself in his chair, pulling at his pant legs. "They'll scold me, not you."

That doesn't make you feel better.

"Thanks," you say, awkwardly heading for the door. "For the-- thanks."

"Hey," he's using his real voice this time. You pause, turning back to him to catch his wide, Cheshire grin. "Thanks for the snack."

kita would probably throw a hydrocolloid patch on it 🥺

i have this giant ass pimple right under my lip from both stress for packing for school and my goddamn period, and i just know kita would have a home remedy to make it better. that, or scold me every time he walks past me picking it, and distract my hands by jerking himself off with them <3

-🍌

and he'd make you sit on the counter, stands between your legs, and dabs the balm on your giant ass pimple with all his giant ass love for you <3

Fake pipe attacks by Japan 2019/2021

Osamu who punishes you by only eating your ass.

No fingering. No pussy eating. No tit grabbing. No blowjobs. Nothing- not even the smallest brush against your clit.

He just eats your ass and refuses to give you anything else, anything more even when you plead so very sweetly and apologize in your prettiest voice and promise to be a good girl.

He'll eat your ass in public to humiliate you and huff whenever you sniffle and protest meekly that it's dirty, grumble that back that you brought it on yourself. When you're teary eyed a week later crawling into his lap and begging him to please just let you suck his cock, he'll push you away and scold you with a blank, stoic face, tell you that your punishment isn't over yet.

It's only when you break down and bawl like the crybaby you are that he'll ease up. He'll gather you into his strong arms and let you blubber into his neck, pet over you patiently and ask if you've learned your lesson- if you're ready to be a good girl; if you're ready to stop being such a brat.

(It might be a bit funny that you can't remember how you ended up in trouble if you weren't so miserable, felt so worthless)

A pathetic, weak "yes, daddy" will earn you a cherished kiss and a hip squeeze, a muttered promise to give you his attention.

If that attention glosses over your pussy and goes straight to your ass, well, Osamu better not here you complain- you're lucky you're getting anything at all

Really, he calls it punishment, but all it is is Osamu slowly molding you into his lil anal queen 💕

Women have many belongings. It used to vex Nanami. But it doesn’t anymore.

The first thing to migrate to his home, was your face lotion. He has a face lotion, a perfectly serviceable one, but you insisted on bringing your own. Your routine was important to you, you had told him, and Nanami understood. Routines, rules, structure – these are all things he has always respected, found meaning in. And so, in his bathroom, his drugstore razor, toothbrush, and facewash sat together, lined up like toy soldiers, right next to a luxurious indigo jar of face cream.

The rest of your routine follows shortly: the lilac bottle of mist that smells like aloe, the golden serum that smells like summertime, and the periwinkle tube of your green tea face wash. Your bergamot and sandalwood soap linger on his pillow, and when he can’t smell you on his sheets anymore, longing sits heavy and sticky in his throat.

Your clothes are next. Amidst his practical navy, gray, and blacks, appear pops of warm lilac, royal blue, and torched orange. He doesn’t mind it in the least – it would be entirely unreasonable for him to demand that you stop bringing such colorful clothes in his home, especially when he never really wants you to leave.

When the two of you finally just bite the bullet and put your name on the lease, Nanami imagines that his life will certainly become more colorful. But he doesn’t have the first idea of how many more things will be in his house.

All his life, Nanami has lived quietly, abstemiously. He is a jujutsu sorcerer – while his non-sorcerer peers were learning trigonometry, he was learning how to kill curses and how to die as a soldier dies: with resolve and bravery, to the bitterest end. His life has been fat trimmed from steak, practical solid color towels, plastic storage bins with plenty of clearing near the edge, never packed to capacity. A man who walks on the very edge of life and death doesn’t require more than the necessities. The very few things he indulges in are sensible: good whiskey, grade A rice, custom leather shoes (no broguing) built to take a beating.

You bring in your life to his, and it is completely different. You’re striped linens, fresh flowers, scented candles on every corner. Baby blue drinking glasses shaped like beer cans, artisanal ceramicware made by friends locally. Your life is marked by comfort, simple pleasure, and (dare he say it) the sweetest, most innocent frivolity. He supposes it’s really what he loves most about you, honestly. He’s always tended drawn closer to brighter, bolder personalities: earnest and warm, like Haibara and Itadori, not bombastic and irreverent, like Gojo or Tsukumo. You belong in the same shades of sunlight as Haibara and Itadori, but…tender. Like the dream-like throw of warm, rose tipped dawn that thaws the chill of his lonely apartment.

Now, in the mornings, he doesn’t wake to the desolate silence of a man alone. He wakes to the sound of your fluffy slippers in the kitchen, the smell of dark roast coffee, the sight of your toiletries sitting side by side in the bathroom, cozy and couple-like.

Somewhere between your checker print tea kettle, and the warmth of your body on the sheets, Nanami falls so in love with you that he looks back on his life and wonders how he ever lived, starved of the sun that is you, for so long.