Never Related More To A Tweet

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.

"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."

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.

Please the way you fed me with that Eremin ask I'm so full!!!! Ugh, I love jealous bratty Armin and dom Eren so much. If you do end up writing more I always have room for dessert 👀

I just came from a great chair class and I'm feeling good so let's go—

happy eating, anon @ringpop-poppy @johnsrevelation

Eren means it when he says he loves both of his babies equally. He loves the punishing pucker of his baby boy's ass and he loves the warm, sucking silk of his honey's pussy. So Eren absolutely means it when he looks down at his baby girl, who's sobbing hysterically from the overstimulation, and the feral bare of Aremin's teeth, and says that he doesn't know who looks better. Fuck, he's sure that this is will seared in his memory permanently. The drooly gape of your mouth, Armin's urgent grunting, and the damp slap of skin almost seems to be happening in slow motion, with Eren's cock thrusting up into Armin as the impetus of it all.

"Doesn't our honey's pussy feel good, baby boy?" Eren growls into Armin's ear, eyeing the way your arousal has slicked all the way Armin's nipples. "Doesn't it make you wanna lose your mind?"

"Yeah," Armin grits out, thumbing your nipples and grinning at the way you twitch and gasp helplessly. "Ugh, yeah, fuck this pussy, Daddy, fuck our pussies."

Eren swears, and snaps his teeth against Armin's shoulder. "Squeeze baby girl's throat, choke this bitch out."

Your eyes fly open as Armin fists the base of your throat hard, and your pussy squeezes so naughty and nasty that Armin sucks in a breath like he's been the one choked out and jerks his cock back. It still doesn't matter—you're outright drooling and crying as you cum for the umpteenth time, and Armin finally, finally blows his load, babbling a garbled chant of "fuck, fuck, fuck, oh daddy, pussy, pussy, pussy so nasty, fuckkk—"

Eren's ass flexes five, six, seven more times before he shoves hard at Armin's back, cumming in him with a victorious hiss. "See? Always listen to Daddy."

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. 

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 ✌️

NINJA SHOUYOU IS FAMOUS Y'ALL

OUR SON IS FAMOUS

Your anime crush is so fucking weak for you. They practice asking you out in the mirror, stammer, blush, and lap up the barest scrap of your attention like it’s a four-course meal. Thanks I don’t take criticism

i’ve been doing my homework on how to break into a writing career and honestly. there’s a Lot that i didn’t know about thats critical to a writing career in this day and age, and on the one hand, its understandable because we’re experiencing a massive cultural shift, but on the other hand, writers who do not have formal training in school or don’t have the connections to learn more via social osmosis end up extremely out of loop and working at a disadvantage. 

mhm