very-bunny
63 posts
Latest Posts by very-bunny
a writing competition i was going to participate in again this year has announced that they now allow AI generated content to be submitted
their reasoning being that "we couldn't ban it even if we wanted to, every writer already uses it anyway"
"Every writer"?
come on
I bet iwa gets stressed out whenever you have a tummy ache and anxiously webMD’s reasons for tummy troubles and works himself into a crazy spiral, meanwhile, you just drank more coffee than usual or smth like that
kirishima is not a homebody and also he makes you sit in his lap everywhere you guys go. you literally never have your own seat bc kirishima will manhandle you into his lap if he has to
oh god. oh my god. iwaizumi and milf reader. you're freshly divorced, finding yourself after being in a relationship with you ex, and you're going back to the gym again. you're so nervous about being surrounded by all the beefy gym rats, and you're self conscious about how your belly hasn't never full snapped back after you gave birth, and how much your metabolism has changed and has started to store weight in new places. it never once crosses your mind that the surly looking lifter who is 10 years younger than you, is absolutely panting over you, and thinks about nothing else but pinning you up against the wall and rocking his dick up inside you, and showing you just how strong he is.
nanami mhm mhm yeah yes mhm mhm
iwaizumi who is so careful about his strength whenever it comes to you. who holds the back of your head whenever so it doesn't bump into a hard wall whenever he's pressing you up against it to kiss you. who is so nervous about spanking you in bed, even when you insist that you can take more, and never lets it be more than just a warm little love tap. who spends all his days yelling at athletes, but never raises his voice with you.
iwaizumi who just cannot control himself when you pick up a cheap multi-pack of white panties that cling and frame your booty cheeks just right, to the point where he has to cram his hand down your panties and working you over until he's dripping up his elbow and you're keening in near hysteric panic to try and wrestle him away. but he's just too strong.
"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."
There's nothing hotter than when a man puts his weight on you. Fucking into you from behind but you're pinned to the bed and his chest is on your back. Fucking into you in missionary and his chest is on yours. There's something so intimate about it. Being pinned by his weight while he ruts into you... completely enclosed by him
i think it also means he's really into it when you do a lot of cute, domestic things. gets butterflies when he sees the laundry you've folded for your little household, and gets a little too excited when he finds you cooking or baking something yummy. loves it when you pack him a bento, and write him a little love note. he's a staunch feminist, so it embarrasses him a little when he realizes just how manly he feels when you cling close to him when weaving through a crowd together, or how important he feels when you watch him take his first few bites when you both have dinner together.
I think Iwa just really thrives in that traditionally masculine role. Just really to takes being a provider, protector, and pleaser. Def the kind of guy to touch his lady’s waist when he needs to skirt by her, and who gets up early to shovel your car out from the snow. Calls you at the supermarket when you ask him to pick up some groceries if he has a question about something on your list, and keeps an eye out for any interesting treats that you might like. Brings home flowers on the regular, and has a strict no checking work rule for the weekends because he values his quality time with you. Makes sure he’s always walking between you and the road, and stays eagle eyed for any unsavory figures. just a solid, dependable man.
I think Iwa just really thrives in that traditionally masculine role. Just really to takes being a provider, protector, and pleaser. Def the kind of guy to touch his lady’s waist when he needs to skirt by her, and who gets up early to shovel your car out from the snow. Calls you at the supermarket when you ask him to pick up some groceries if he has a question about something on your list, and keeps an eye out for any interesting treats that you might like. Brings home flowers on the regular, and has a strict no checking work rule for the weekends because he values his quality time with you. Makes sure he’s always walking between you and the road, and stays eagle eyed for any unsavory figures. just a solid, dependable man.
the cakes turn out gorgeous: for the team, an airy almond chiffon cake with blackberry-lime curd and a dreamy raspberry swiss meringue buttercream and for the training staff, a nutty sesame olive oil with a blackberry-shiso jam, and salty swiss meringue buttercream. for the female-led and hired social media team, a lush devil's food cake with raspberry coulis and and an espresso buttercream, and finished with fresh flowers for a touch of style. the cakes are set up on display for everyone to ooh and ahh after, and for the last time, you check over the exact headcount of guests before the cakes are rolled back into the make shift assembly space to be portioned out and served.
the staff members protest when you insist on helping them serve the cake, saying that they couldn't ask you to do even more than everything you've already done, but you wave them away with a smile.
"i really love seeing people eat my cake," you beam a little harder than you really need to. "you can't imagine the joy i feel whenever i get to see it."
the second you step into the dining area where everyone is sitting after the banquet dinner, your eyes start scanning across the room for the guy. that one, beefy, surly looking guy.
and there he is, at the mixed staff table, sitting between an older bearded man and a man with wildly spiky hair. you paste a cheerful smile on your face, and roll your cart right over, setting down slices of cake for each person.
when you come around to him, his eyes are wary. good. the prick recognizes you.
"h-hello," you force a timid tremor in your voice and smile as nervously as you can. his brows furrows. "w-would you like a s-slice of sesame oil c-cake, or a different cake?"
"sesame," he says tersely, and you make a show of flinching and forcing a tight smile.
"of course, r-right away!"
"i know iwa-san's face can be a little scary," the spiky haired man sitting next to him pipes up with an easy going smile. "but there's no need to be intimidated by him. he's a nice guy."
you push out a high little laugh. "ah, yeah, i'm - i'm sure he can be. i ran into him in the hallway, and he, uh. he can really raise his voice."
the social media girls sitting at the end of the table look up from their conversation, while the bearded man frowns. the spiky haired man raises a brow.
"oh?"
"oh, but it was an extenuating circumstance, i would never blame him!" you exclaim. "he was handling two guys who weren't feeling well, so I'm sure he was just caught up in the heat of the moment."
"that's-!" iwa sputters indignantly. "you were-!"
"ah, wrangling those boys gets the better of us all at some point, iwazumi-kun," the bearded man claps his shoulder sympathetically. "you should take care to rest well, especially now that the year is over. have some cake."
"she-" he sputters, feeling utterly accused. you blink at him, innocent as a lamb, and set down his slice.
"i hope y-you like it, iwaizumi-san," you simper. his eyes narrow at you, gripping his fork and stabbing the cake with more force than necessary.
"is it good?" you ask, eyes gleaming with hope. the bearded man smiles at him encouragingly, and the spiky haired man sits back, watching with some measure of amusement.
"it is," he swallowed, forcing a smile that looks like someone is pointing a gun at his head. "it's very good."
"well, i'm glad," you smile. "i love it when people enjoy eating my cakes."
meet ugly with iwaizumi hajime athletic trainer where you’re catering the dessert table at the Olympic Training Center's End of Year Celebration. You’re covered up to your elbows in swiss meringue buttercream, iwaizumi is wrangling two drunk volleyball players about to vomit all over him, and there’s only one available bathroom left to use.
your eyes and his meet from either end of the hallway - he can clearly see you're covered in buttercream and you can clearly see two gigantic men being wrangled like puppies by the backs of their shirts, both slurring happily about how much they love volleyball and how much they love each other, bro.
in the center of the hallway, equidistant from either one of you, is the door to the only unoccupied sink on the first floor of the building.
of all the men in the world you would normally be willing to pick a fight with, a surly looking athletic trained with flexing biceps is not the first one you would choose to tangle with. but between your mixer dying on you, the two previous batches of buttercream that split on you, and the gigantic celebration cakes for the team, staff and the social media team still waiting to be frosted, you're willing to take your chances.
"hey!" he barks in shock, as soon as he realizes you're booking it to the door. Atsumu and Bokuto make alarmingly queasy sounds when he starts running in earnest to get to the door before you. "hey, stop! seriously?"
bokuto squawks, when Iwaizumi bodily swings his limp body across the threshold of the door, eyes narrowed at your buttercreamed hand just beginning to pull the door handle.
"pardon me," he says, low and deadly serious. "but i have two sick idiots about to blow chunks all over the walls."
"i have buttercream in my hair," you huff, eyes narrowed. "and three unfinished cakes waiting for me. i get you're in some sucky shit, but work trumps pukey people."
"urgh, iwa-san," atsumu mutters, strained, his forehead beading with sweat. "i think i'm gonna be sick."
"hold it in, you little bastard!" iwazumi barks, before turning back to you. "come on, can't you just wait 10 minutes?"
"i'm already running behind on my cooling and setting schedule," you snap back. "and i'll literally be done within in, like, two minutes!"
bokuto groans, hands coming up to hold his belly. "oh, man. i don't think i can wait 5."
iwaizumi gives you a sharp look. "you want shit and puke on the carpets?"
"you want to fuck with my job?"
"i don't give a damn if your cakes come out late!" he snarls. "frankly, it sounds like you have bad time management skills."
"and you sound like you can eat my ass!"
at that moment, atsumu lurches forward, hand slapping over his face as he shoves past the two of you and steps over bokuto. before the door even closes, you can already the retching sounds of him vomiting into a toilet.
"oh shit, i'm gonna shit myself," bokuto mutters, pushing up onto his hands and knees, drunkenly crawling on all fours as he pushes open the door.
"oi! bokuto, at least stand up!" iwaizumi shouts, only to get a vaguely panicked "no way, man, it's about to come out!"
Iwaizumi gives up, rubbing his forehead and counting slow breaths, almost as if he's completely dismissed the fact that you're even there.
spite is like acid on the back of your tongue.
fine. fine. you're not unwilling to recognize when you've been defeated. but this is not how you go out against this guy.
meet ugly with iwaizumi hajime athletic trainer where you’re catering the dessert table at the Olympic Training Center's End of Year Celebration. You’re covered up to your elbows in swiss meringue buttercream, iwaizumi is wrangling two drunk volleyball players about to vomit all over him, and there’s only one available bathroom left to use.
your eyes and his meet from either end of the hallway - he can clearly see you're covered in buttercream and you can clearly see two gigantic men being wrangled like puppies by the backs of their shirts, both slurring happily about how much they love volleyball and how much they love each other, bro.
in the center of the hallway, equidistant from either one of you, is the door to the only unoccupied sink on the first floor of the building.
of all the men in the world you would normally be willing to pick a fight with, a surly looking athletic trained with flexing biceps is not the first one you would choose to tangle with. but between your mixer dying on you, the two previous batches of buttercream that split on you, and the gigantic celebration cakes for the team, staff and the social media team still waiting to be frosted, you're willing to take your chances.
"hey!" he barks in shock, as soon as he realizes you're booking it to the door. Atsumu and Bokuto make alarmingly queasy sounds when he starts running in earnest to get to the door before you. "hey, stop! seriously?"
bokuto squawks, when Iwaizumi bodily swings his limp body across the threshold of the door, eyes narrowed at your buttercreamed hand just beginning to pull the door handle.
"pardon me," he says, low and deadly serious. "but i have two sick idiots about to blow chunks all over the walls."
"i have buttercream in my hair," you huff, eyes narrowed. "and three unfinished cakes waiting for me. i get you're in some sucky shit, but work trumps pukey people."
"urgh, iwa-san," atsumu mutters, strained, his forehead beading with sweat. "i think i'm gonna be sick."
"hold it in, you little bastard!" iwazumi barks, before turning back to you. "come on, can't you just wait 10 minutes?"
"i'm already running behind on my cooling and setting schedule," you snap back. "and i'll literally be done within in, like, two minutes!"
bokuto groans, hands coming up to hold his belly. "oh, man. i don't think i can wait two."
iwaizumi gives you a sharp look. "you want shit and puke on the carpets?"
"you want to fuck with my job?"
"i don't give a damn if your cakes come out late!" he snarls. "frankly, it sounds like you have bad time management skills."
"and you sound like you can eat my ass!"
at that moment, atsumu lurches forward, hand slapping over his face as he shoves past the two of you and steps over bokuto. before the door even closes, you can already the retching sounds of him vomiting into a toilet.
"oh shit, i'm gonna shit myself," bokuto mutters, pushing up onto his hands and knees, drunkenly crawling on all fours as he pushes open the door.
"oi! bokuto, at least stand up!" iwaizumi shouts, only to get a vaguely panicked "no way, man, it's about to come out!"
Iwaizumi gives up, rubbing his forehead and counting slow breaths, almost as if he's completely dismissed the fact that you're even there.
spite is like acid on the back of your tongue.
fine. fine. you're not unwilling to recognize when you've been defeated. but this is not how you go out against this guy.
You’re asking him if he likes your lilac cardigan better than your gingham blouse and he’s wondering what the best breast pump and baby seat on the market is right now.
Nanami sees you dressed up for the masculine gaze, and compliments you on how nice you look, pulls out your chair at dinner, is ever the gentleman because he wants you to know how much he respects you, no matter what you wear.
Nanami sees you dressed for the feminine gaze, and seems completely fine on the outside, but is panicking internally because he's about to get you pregnant.
Practice ♻️
After Shibuya, he thinks to himself. After Shibuya, he’ll call it. No more fighting, no more soldiering. He’ll call up Mei Mei, ask her about property interest rates in Malaysia, surprise you with something lovely that you can both make a home from. He’ll bring home mangosteen and passionfruit, and you’ll bike to the beach and read on the sand, until you tug him onto his feet and make him dance with you in the water, just like how the tide tugs the earth wherever it pleases, and how the earth is utterly, irresistibly drawn in.
After Shibuya, he thinks, his chest warm and full with dreams of you in a cozy little cottage by the sea, laughing in sunshine, and always, always happy. After this nonsense is settled.
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.
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.
unconditionally love
oh god his hands would be so rough
My piece for the MSBY: Game changer zine 💕
i can’t write and i only have my meager drawing skills to offer but pls accept my humble doodle of what i imagine osamu to look like when i read about omah 👉👈 it’s not very clean but i hope it’s okay omg 💦 i just wanted to let it out of my system 🙃
INSERTING MY FUCKING SELF HERE BECAUSE FUCK OKAY YOU TRYNA HURT ME DROP YOUR @ GIVE ME OSAMU ASKHDKJSDHA THE GLARE. would also love to be able to properly credit you.
Dilf!Osamu who’s unsure of what to do for your first Valentine’s Day together. Who doesn’t mind pulling out all the usual stops: roses, chocolate, presents, and a fancy dinner, but also knows that eating too much food and having a bit too much wine is definitely going to make his dick flag. Who also isn’t sure if you’d rather do something more intimate at home with him. Who wants very much for you to have an incredible Valentine’s Day that makes you feel loved and spoiled and pampered. Who confers with Atsumu (who suggests a pretty piece of jewelry and a low-key dinner out), Kita (who suggests taking on some of your chores, flowers, and a home-made gift that isn’t an onigiri), and Suna (who simply tells him to lay down some good pipe, because he has all the romance of a pair of dirty gym socks). Who asks you what you want for Valentine’s Day, and is surprised when you blush and tell him that you’ve already planned the day out, so don’t worry about anything.
Who wonders if this is all a test, to see what he will do. Who frets back and forth if he should get flowers or chocolate or a pretty necklace or maybe a nice purse? Who decides that he’ll get a lovely bouquet for you and ask Atsumu to get some of the French chocolates Atsumu had last year (apparently, Ushijima on the Schweiden Adlers has a buddy in Paris who makes the most exquisitely chocolate).
Who’s jaw drops when you tell him that he’s on pussy probation for the two weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. Who sputters and protests at your idea, trying to logic you out of it.
“But–but for what!”
“Because, Daddy,” you murmur, pressing coy kisses against his and running a very, very distracting hand down his chest, abdomen, and dangerously close to his dick. His dick, who, by a damn near Pavlovian response, starts to stand up, eager to greet you. “It’ll make it so good when we have sex again on Valentine’s Day. You’ll cum so hard. Won’t it be romantic?”
He stares at you, laughing in disbelief and dismay. “It won’t be romantic when I cum in you on the first stroke.”
“Oh, speaking in strokes,” you drop your voice into that low purr you know he likes. His dick strains to attention. “No masturbating until then, okay?”
“WHAT.”
Who, for some insane reason, agrees to these terms. No cumming. No masturbating. Well, agree is a bit of a generous term for you-stopped-busting-it-wide-open-for-Osamu.
Osamu doesn’t like it, but he has to admit that there’s an incredible allure to the anticipation and build up. And it’s two weeks. He can do two weeks. He won’t like it, but if it’s what you want, he can do two weeks. He figures he’ll just throw himself into working and working out.
He does not, however, anticipate you being an outright demon.
He nearly drops his morning coffee when you come out from the bedroom, naked as a new born, and boldly press your ass right up against his dick, who’s desperate to remind you of his presence. You kiss his neck, rubbing his chest teasingly and hook your thigh around his waist, with a sultry “daddy, come back to bed, it’s the weekend”.
He throw himself into work and lifting weights, but that doesn’t help either. Not when all your clothes magically fall off when he’s home, you’re pressing your body right up against him, and pressing all the right buttons. Not when he wakes up to his dick in your hungry, eager little mouth and hands. Not when you quickly crawl up his body and press the tip right up into your entrance, drunkenly talking about how much you miss is cock, how good it’s going to feel when you guys finally have sex again, how much you miss daddy’s stretching your pussy out, how you wanna milk all of his seed until it’s in your pussy, your throat, your titties, your ass, your face.
“Want you to spend your cum all over me like an animal,” you moan, grinding your clit against his cock. Osamu feels his dick pulse hard and he’s sure that he’s about to but when you pull away and start grinding your pussy on his thigh until you cum. He thinks he just might cry.
He cracks on day five of your two week torture. It’s 2 AM, and you’re rubbing on his cock again, and filth is spewing from your mouth.
“Daddy,” you whimper, pussy juices all of his cock, his abdomen, his face (you gave him 30 glorious seconds to penetrate you with his tongue before you moved from his face, much to his despair). “Oh, Daddy, can–we can just do the tip, right? Just the tip? Please, it’ll feel so good.”
And he knows it’s a fucking trap. That you’re going to sit all the way down on him, eating up inch by heavenly inch no matter what he says, and that you’re gonna make it so good, before you take it all away. And Osamu isn’t sure he can handle that.
“No,” he nearly shouts, slurred and dizzy with arousal. The squelching sound of your pussy is nearly enough to tip him over the edge. “No, ‘s gonna make me cum.! ‘S too much!”
You whimper, and tilt your hips until the tip catches on the entrance. Osamu’s hands fly to your hips, grabbing hard, harder than he’s ever grabbed. He’s so close. God, if he just bucked up just a little bit…
“No,” he slurs. “No, bunny, no.”
“You can take it,” you whimper, and you sit right down on the head. Osamu’s head flies back, making strangled, garbled noises, like he’s been electrocute. Your cunt is so slippery and it’s already sucks him in to welcomingly, like his cock has was always meant to be there.
“No!” Osamu gasps, much more frantically now. “No! I can’t! I’ll cum, I’m gonna cum—“
“Daddy,” you moan, and you sit right down on the hilt. This is it, he thinks, Im going to cum. Not a goddamn thing he can do about it. Especially not when you’re rolling your hips like that, with all those low, crooning you’re doing.
“Ughhh,” he slurs, drunkenly, lightheaded, release mounting higher and higher in his belly. “Hnghh, ugh, ugh—don’t stop, don’t stop.”
You wriggle your hips, looking pleased as you lean down to kiss him. And then slowly, but evilly, you start lifting off his dick.
Osamu’s eyes widen, hands grabbing at your hips, hips thrusting urgently. “No, no! No, no, no, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
But you’re too quick and you’re giggling shakily as he’s left thrusting cool air. And finally, finally, against all his intentions and strength, Osamu begins to sob.
“Noo,” he moans, shuddering rolling over on his side, torn between jerking his cock at a punishing pace and being good and listening to what you asked of him. He cradles his cock tenderly, the head screaming with the absolute agony of losing all that blissful heat and silk. He’s still slick with your juices, the scent of your pussy making him tear up in earnest. “No, oh, God. Please. Please. Please. Oh, god.”
“Aww, Daddy,” you murmur soothingly, slotting yourself right behind him, your breasts hot against his back, hands tenderly caressing his arm and flank, before encircling his belly—
“No!” Osamu wails like he’s in physical pain, entire body clenched. “No, you can’t do that. It’s too much, it’s too much. I’ll cum.”
You lay off the teasing for a few days, just to let him recover a bit. Not that it helps. He still wake up, very hard, and he can’t help but grind the bed a bit to just try and take the edge off, but it’s like an itch. The more he scratches, the hotter and itchier it gets. You ease off the physical teasing, and instead start sending him selfies that have him moaning out loud and grabbing and shaking at his cock to get it to calm down.
He wakes up on Valentine’s Day with a wet pussy grinding languorously on his dick.
“You’ve been so patient, Daddy,” you smile, shyly. Osamu can only whimper when you begin easing your way down his cock, nearly vibrating with need. “This is your surprise. Happy Valentine’s Day. I’m just got on birth control.”
He makes it 17 desperate pumps, holding onto your hips as though he’s afraid you’ll slip away and blue-ball him again. He cums with a broken moan, half disbelieving and half in sheer relief. He pants and shudders in your breasts, mouthing at them like he’s trying to self-soothe.
You promise him that this is only to just take the edge off. And the rest of the day is wonderful. You’ve both taken the day off, you have some quick onigiris for breakfast and you spend the afternoon fucking and eating and watching TV and napping. In the evening, you make huge portions of carbonara that you both wolf down before you bring him downstairs to the Onigiri Miya kitchen and you reveal your surprise: homemade chocolate croissants, made with the French chocolate he gave you. You had prepped the pastry the night before, and now all that’s left to do is bake it.
Osamu isn’t a baker, and so he watches with rapt attention as your fingers tenderly lift the edge of the long triangle and begins rolling up until it form a crescent, the wedge chocolate on the inside of the pastry hidden from sight. His whole body feels warm when you spoon him from behind and gently guide him through the motions, your fingers caressing and touching intimately.
“There’s a bunch for at least four days,” you murmur shyly into his sleeve. “You take such good care of me. I want to take care of you, too.”
Osamu’s chest feel overfull and bright at your words. And the pain au chocolat is delicious, every bite flaky and perfectly bittersweet. It is a testament to your devotion to him, to have made something so complex, so detailed, with such love.
That night, Osamu take you in the shower before he make love to you in the bed. And he swears that on White Day, he’s definitely going to out-do you.
kjhahagkhjsd??!?!? Nini, I feel edged rn 🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴
Pls?? Now let's add in a spicy little dilf!Osamu who decides the best way to get you back is to cockwarm him. Who decides that's the cherry on top of him lapping at your puffy folds and curling his fingers inside your greedy cunt every day, making you whine and shake and sob as you grab at his hair. Who tells you the exact same thing you told him "It'll make it so good" as he watches you cry and grab at the sheets. Who hasn't let you do anything but sit pretty on his dick in the week leading up to White Day, who hasn't circled his finger along your clit in weeks, who gets such a rush of power when you arch into the feeling of him pinching at your tits or palming at your ass.
Who languidly strokes his dick in front of you and mourns that he can't fuck you sweet little pussy the way he wants while you try and change his mind, who love the feeling of you dripping all over his thigh when you try to ride it, loves the broken cry of his name when he stills your rocking hips and tells you to be patient. Who kisses you and cajoles you into admitting you love him too in return when he's smearing his cum along your skin, spreading it along your folds, over the soft skin of your tits, feeding it into your mouth and feeling you suck along his fingers as your eyes flutter.
Todoroki who can't relate to the bawdy locker room talk he hears all the time in pro-hero rings. Who can't find the appeal in face-fucking, pussy pounding, or anything of that or shoving your face into the bed or tearing your clothes off. Who doesn't find the appeal in blowing you back out.
Who wants to watch you slowly undress, as you look at him through your lashes. Who would rather make you melt in his arms, under his touch. Who would rather take his time, slow and intense, tenderly kissing the full swell of your pussy lips, nosing tenderly at your clit until your legs are shaking and you're panting like he's knocked the break out of you. Who wants to look at your face when he presses the head of his cock inside of your pussy, your lips parting and your eyes closing, dreamily. Who wants to feel the soft exhale of your breath against his cheek, as he lowers his head to kiss along the line of your jaw. Who shivers when you reach around to cup his ass, squeezing and caressing in a way that's far too distracting. Who spends hours, squeezing his abs and flexing his ass as he fucks you, the headboard rhythmically bouncing against the wall with each pump of his hips.
Who hisses when you ask to be on top, eager to watch you sit astride him and pleasure yourself with his body. Who tenderly cups your breasts and whines with each languorous circle of your hips. Who pants excitedly when you start to cum, and only lets himself finish once you've had at least two orgasms.
barking
i love rough sex and kinky sex obviously buy honestly reading sweet and romantic sex does something bad to my fucking heart but especially thinking of it being todoroki who is so wholly in love with you. like his dick gets hard for romance.
todoroki who doesn’t really have many day-dreams of fantasies but when he does, there almost innocent. stuff like seeing you in his shirt or other simple shit that gets him so riled up. he learns things about himself slowly, not oblivious really but that everything is brand-new and honestly, the most appealing part of anything is you and not whatever kinks attached to it.
you in his shirt, you in lingerie, fucking you in different areas of the house. all of it’s exciting cause he’s into you particularly and that makes him eager. makes his stomach churn bc he’s in love.
I’ve given you dilf!Osamu, crybaby!Atsumu, supportive!Iwa, and shy!Omi but I think it’s time for a new character for my growing canon—
*inhales deeply* possessive dilf!Suna’s a Tokyo high school volleyball coach, once he stops playing pro. Who though he wouldn’t like the job at first, but finds that he rather enjoys likes coaching younger players, who all have varying dedications and varying reasons why they love volleyball. Who meets you, a young MFA candidate, while he’s getting drinks at Osamu’s Tokyo location. Who can take his dry and cutting banter and turn it right back on him, 10 times harder. You’re bantering with one of Osamu’s staff, who seems to be a friend, and you’re chattering on excitedly about your recent admission into the program of your choice and Suna can’t help but murmur under his breath “nothing wrong with getting another useless piece of paper for money”. You turn on him, clearly affronted.
“Says the man who was once a professional ball smacker and who’s, now, what? Teaching other boys to smack balls?”
Suna raises a brow at that. “I went to the Olympics, you brat.”
You smile sweetly. And somehow, Suna just knows. Knows he’s about to take the L. “I know. I saw. You were in your prime when I was a little girl. It’s a shame you
Osamu laughs hysterically at him, and Suna has to smack him to ignore the burst of butterflies (and heat) in his belly.
Who knows he’s attracted to you, but resists the attraction for as long as he can. He has a baby sister, you know. She’s an annoying pain in his ass, but he’d blacken anyone’s eye out for being mean to her, let alone let an older man get his hands on her and take advantage of her youth. Who knows he wants you so bad, but never lets himself go too far. Who thinks that you’re also probably just young, with a taste for danger, and you’re just curious about being with a bachelor in his 40s. Who doesn’t even let himself indulge in your curiosity, out of his genuine concern that if he were ever allowed to get his hands on you, he’ll never be able to let you go.
Who can’t help but keep going back to Onigiri Miya, hoping to catch a glimpse of you and hopefully draw you into another play-argument as he nurses a beer and rubs absentmindedly as his five o’clock shadow. (You had once said that facial hair was sexy, but that has absolutely nothing to do with why he started to let his grow out a little). Who feels something ugly churning in his belly when he sees you with a man your age. Who feels like some stupid 20 year old again, scowling and huffing and downing more beer. Who wants nothing more than to stomp over and to pull you into his arms and kiss you, right in front of the stupid little shit you’re laughing with right now. Who hates himself for letting some girl in her 20s for getting him like this. Who feels so guilty for wanting you hen you’re so much younger than him. Who misses the way you keep looking over at him, hungry and hopeful, all through the night until he storms out, bitter and ashamed.
Who avoids Onigiri Miya for a while, hoping that distance will be enough to kill his crush. But who finds that he can’t stay away from more then two weeks. Who comes back and chats idly with Atsumu and Bokuto, all while watching Osamu with his little girlfriend. Who’s gut tugs hard when he sees Osamu’s arms encircle her, and how Osamu’s girlfriend looks up at him with hearts in her eyes.
Who feels a burst of butterflies when you walk in by yourself. Who feels his palms sweat, as you sit down along the counter and order some tea and a few onigiris. Aran and Atsumu eye him knowingly, and grin behind their beers when Suna finally, FINALLY, gives up trying to hold out on the attraction and walks to you.
“Hey,” he says, heart hammering. You look up at him, lips parting in surprise. “Let me buy you a drink.”
Your eyes widen, before you come back with another witty retort, because of course you wouldn’t make it easy. “Maybe I want to make a point about how my MFA is gonna help me pay my bills and buy my drinks myself.”
“Then let me buy you dinner,” Suna says. “Let me buy you dessert, afterwards. Let me buy you whatever you want.”
His heart does a flutter when you smile up at him, cheek resting in your palm. “Are you trying to buy your way into my pants, you old dog?”
And Suna thinks then, he’s had quite enough of your sass, sitting down and boldly cupping your knee in his palm and give it a sensual squeeze. He has to admit, he relishes the way you inhale shakily and jump a little, looking like a caught little rabbit. It’s good to know he’s still got it, and that you want him.
“Have mercy on this old man,” he murmurs, leaning in close. Close enough for you to smell the beer on his breath, his cologne. “He hasn’t in a while, and he likes you so much.”
You blush a little, looking up at him through your lashes. “I like you a lot, too. I want a TKG onigiri and a curry onigiri . Now, please. Thank you.”
Suna gapes a bit, opening and closing his mouth because of course he had to go and start falling in love with an incorrigible brat. He wracks his brain for a comeback, before sighing and giving up. He’s too old to be arguing with a 20-something year old over if he’s actually going to buy her onigiri. He grumbles about disrespectful brats, all while Osamu gleefully takes his money and Aran and Atsumu laugh at him from up the counter.
It’s still worth it when you leave together, your hand in his, and the smell of rice on your mouth when he finally bends to kiss you.
I love him. I love him so much, your honour. Suna is just...so sexy and dilf Suna is even sexier... 🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴
Your latest dilf!Osamu not only had me craving him, but also croissants 😂😂 It’s not even 10am, but you made me hungry for bakery and I’m really tempted to run out and get some now asdfghjak
Dew it!!! It’s always time for a croissant!!
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 ✌️