doidoii

[doidoii]

(she's drunk)

B: -(Ningguang. Are you sure you haven't heard?) -(I have to introduce you) -(let's go, ladies, to the jade palace)

(background: talks about Ningguang)

bonus

[doidoii]

[doidoii]

SAVE A HORSE!!!!

[doidoii]

🙏 hope I wont get bonk this time

[doidoii]

imagine shibari/bondage with dark era!dazai 🫣🤭

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — n.sfw content (mdni), fem!reader, dubcon just in case, bondage, gagging, reader is implied to be an enemy/hostage of the mafia, overstimulation, spitting, hair pulling, pet names, degradation, all characters are aged to 18+ etc

“you look so pathetic right now, it’s almost adorable,” dazai huffed out a laugh at your sorry state — red ropes keeping you bound against the headboard of the executive’s king sized bed, a small bullet vibrator taped to your little clit as you writhed in seemingly endless pleasure.

the ball gag in your mouth kept you from cussing the man out — who was now kneeling in-front of you with a devilish smirk on his stupidly handsome face. “gonna speak up now, princess, or what?”

dazai reached a hand down to ghost over your drooling cunt, which had soaked the bedsheets underneath you almost completely. a finger traced your inner lips before dipping in your hole — gathering some of your slick on the slim appendage before popping it in his mouth. your eyes widened at the view he was giving you — you wanted to punch that smirk off of his dumb face so bad.

his hands then reached for the gag, which was tied behind your head. “let’s get this off, yeah?” dazai mumbled before opening it with a ‘click!’

“now, you better speak up befo—“ dazai’s eyes widened when he felt a certain wetness sliding down his cheek — did you just fucking spit on him?

“fuck you,” you growled, a smirk splaying on your own lips at the demon prodigy’s bewildered face. unfortunately for you, it took him only a moment to regain his composure.

a pained yelp escaped your lips when you felt dazai’s bandaged fingers entangle themselves in your roots and yanking you close to him — “what the fuck did you just say?”

the low tone of his voice sent shivers down your spine — you didn’t know if it was from fear or excitement — or both.

you didn’t notice he had taken off his belt and slacks until he slapped the tip of his cock, your eyes widening at the sheer length.

“since you wanna act like a bitch, you’re gonna get treated like one. open up.”

[doidoii]

͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏𓆤ꦿᩙ #����𝗎𝗍𝗍𝘦𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 𔓐༉ ෫ੳ

͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏⋆ *ೃ ▗▬̸̎͞/̄͆̅ ̎ ̎̿͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞ι̚━─ ஊ ވ౿

͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏✧྅ (≖､≖���) ਉl̈́ਉ * :.･ﾟ･ ⚒

[doidoii]

dazai w 23

23 — they fuck you at a sleepover

tw. fem!reader, somnophilia, dub con, n/sfw, cunnilingus etc (mdni)

dazai carefully got up from his futon, his throat begging for a glass of water. his eyes scanned across the darkness of your room, only for his gaze to land on you. you apparently kicked the blanket off in your sleep — your loose night dress flipped up to reveal your thighs, your tits practically spilling out of the low cut garment.

the sight instantly made his cock throb, and mouth water — fuck, did you really have to tempt him like this?

dazai slowly creeped closer until he was standing right at the edge of your bed, you looked so pretty, he thought — a bandaged hand reaching down to skim over your thighs, making you shiver. so adorable too, he huffed out a soft laugh at your cute reaction.

it didn't take him long to settle between your thighs — water was overrated, anyways. he'd much rather have this. dazai planted a soft kiss on your clit through your panties, his tongue darting out to lick at the cotton.

eventually, he grew impatient from licking at your undergarment. he thought about taking your panties fully off — but that would take too much work, so he opted for shoving it aside instead.

the sight of your bare cunt almost had him groaning — dazai licked his lips in anticipation.

he pressed soft, open mouthed kisses all over your cunt. thumbs spreading your pussy lips and spitting directly in your hole — watching you clench and ooze out more of that sweet slick.

god, you tasted heavenly — dazai wasn't a believer of anything but fuck, he might've just become a believer of your pussy.

dazai mentally cursed himself for not doing this sooner, but chose to relish in the moment instead.

slowly, his licks and sucks got more aggressive — shaking his tongue in zigzag motions as he felt you tense and shiver under his touch, it was all so damn exciting. he knew you were close, so close to reaching that peak —

"d-dazai?"

send me prompts !

[doidoii]

❝ and you’re startin’ to bore me baby. why’d you only call me you’re high? ❞

╰ ♡♡ 𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐘𝐄𝐕𝐒𝐊𝐘

REQUESTS : haiiii can i request nsfw jealous fyodor with prompt 1? (@texchou) ／ I LOVE your work soo much ! its all right if you cant do this right away but is it ok to request you to write a fyodor smut where he is really mean and slaps/ spanks and puts his hand around (her) throat, just overall filth with him? if possible can it not be him as a priest? have a wonderful day!! thank you <3

NOTES : hii! so the original req was by texchou but for the anon that requested the second ask, i decided to mix the two because your request also inspired this prompt. hope you two don’t mind!

TW/CONTENT : general smut, fem!reader, mean!fyodor, jealous!fyodor, possessive behaviour, spanking, orgasm denial, choking, noncon filming, office sex, unhealthy relationship, manipulation, dom-sub dynamic, dark content, minors dni!

“You’re staring too hard, Dos.”

Fyodor’s daydream cut off quick when Nikolai spoke out. His violet eyes turned to the man in front of him who was cutting the steak. The two of them were at a diner, just sitting at the table that was located far from the crowd — the corner of the premise.

“I’m impressed that you could notice that even with your eye covered,” Fyodor said. Nikolai grinned before he feed himself the steak. His clothes were casual but his card eyepatch did not leave his face.

“Well! Seems like someone’s bothered with his subordinate’s date!” Nikolai exclaimed, grinning mischievously. “Come on, Dos. You’re better than this, no? Grab her hand and kill that guy in front of her eyes, shoot him a couple of times and say ‘This is why you don’t ditch your work for a date, missy.’ or something!” Nikolai said.

“Want a revolver as an assist?”

Continuar lendo

[doidoii]

— BUT TONIGHT, YOU BELONG TO ME

RECEIVERS。secretary!nikolai gogol x fem!reader

WISHCARD。who could have guessed the timid secretary could be such a pervert stalker?

BOUQUET。nsfw mentions, dark content, yandere, possessive behaviour, panty stealing, noncon illicit pictures, stalking, noncon

FREEGIFT。tonight you belong to me - patience & prudence

ﾟ･✿ヾ secretary!nikolai is extremely careful when he takes your pictures — his ability is always handy and you never notice when a detached hand appeared under your table, snapping a picture of your panties today.

“Akaky, good afternoon! Have you taken your lunch?” you greeted the man in a black suit — whom you know as Akaky. He awkwardly gathered his cutlery and left the pantry quickly, much to your confusion. He only spared a glance at you.

Regardless, you shrugged your shoulders. Akaky was always an oddball. Forgetting about him, you reached up to the high cabinet, wanting to get your bowl and cutlery to prepare your lunch.

Completely unaware of several silent snaps in between your legs.

Continuar lendo

[doidoii]

LONG-HAIRED YANDERES 🔪💖✨

why do they need to be hot??? I can't stop giggling while drawing this nggghhh....

Damon - Br<3kenColors (@inkly-heart) || Sol - The Kid at the Back (@fantasia-kitt) || Redacted - 14 Days with You (@14dayswithyou)

[doidoii]

I wasn't too happy with the previous images of Sol and Rendacted cause I think I made them look too baby-ish, so here is the retry

Solivian Brugmansia belongs to @fantasia-kitt who created the game he is in TKaTB_VN

Tagging @yoshinosans-blog my campus friend I managed to get onto tumblr cause she liked Sol hehehe

[doidoii]

Cow yn x stud yuan

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𐙚‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ .‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ RENTRY FRAMES!! : FREE TO USE

[doidoii]

[doidoii]

crush

good men die too, so i’d rather be with you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 3.5k

cw: gn!afab!reader, bathing/washing, alcohol, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, implied/referenced self harm, implied/referenced substance abuse, post-dark era, intimacy, explicit sexual content, spitting, soft (ooc?) dazai

reid: this has been sitting a bit and i finally got around to fixing it up :,) sorry again for my absence i am unwell but surviving and i hope to keep sharing with you guys what i can. thank you for all your patience

. . .

He’s never admitted how much he delights in crawling back to your apartment after he’s been gone for too long — long enough to make you worry a little. It’s cruel of him, really, to keep you waiting around so much. But you’re going to be here waiting anyway! So, he figures, why not? It’s a few miles off Port Mafia turf, and you always have hot food and plenty of sake. Not to mention that your hands were the first to ever hold him so gently — to hold him like a lover — and that’s plenty to keep him coming, even if he sometimes takes weeks at a time to find his way back.

It’s always worth it to have Osamu half undressed in your bathroom. A decent meal and the humidity fogging up the tile walls usually melts his resolve just enough so you can work his crumpled white tee off without him sending you any sort of eyes; tonight though, the human spirit is unbreakable. You brush the small of his back as you lift his shirt and it has him hitching his hips toward yours.

He’s truly a sight.

His brown mop is greasy. Accumulated sweat is beginning to force the dramatic lengths of bandages to curl away from his skin. He looks little more than empty and tired, but there’s a shadow of contentedness in his sharp features — you’ve just fed him seafood boil and a couple of Tokyo Mules (heavy on the American vodka), after all.

You reach down and dip your fingers in the filling basin; scalding, how he likes it.

“Drawers off, please.” You poke his chest with a damp finger pad and disappear into the hallway in pursuit of linens.

Dazai sits naked (save for bandages) and curled in on himself on the edge of the bathtub when you return. You stack a change of clean clothes on the sink, and his ankles knock together as he waits for your attention to fall back on him. Your towels sling over the door before you turn to him with your hands tucked together. He looks uncharacteristically meek, not unlike a fawn before it first walks -– the way he only ever does before what happens next.

He holds his arms out, wrists up, and smiles like the sunshine.

You smile back uneasily, appearing much less enthused than he; you know that sunshine smile well enough to know it only ever comes out as a shield. You know no matter how many times you unwrap his dressings, he's always going to hate it.

So, you start with the butterfly clip secured at the crook of his elbow, and you talk.

"I have a slice of tiramisu in the fridge for after."

"From that place I like?" His eyes get wide.

"From that place you like," you sigh, grinning.

"You must've had a feeling I was dropping by."

You usually encourage him to reuse the strips of fabric when possible, sometimes going so far as to let him hide from the city while you take them to the laundromat with your own clothes, but these ones are far past help —barely white, significantly bloody in spots and dirtied in others, so you just ball them up and toss them in the trash. You're stocked anyway, and you reassure him of this by retrieving a few fresh rolls from under the sink.

"Maybe I did."

You finish one arm and move to the other. Osamu lets his marred, bare skin dangle in the air. The sunshine is gone. He’s zoned out. You know he’s protecting himself.

You push his hand down to rest in his lap and your mind selfishly drifts to later, where you hope he'll sleep without his bandages, too — he had traipsed into your apartment lined up to his fingers, and all you had wished for was that you could’ve felt his palms, his knuckles, his nails when he hugged you back. You take as much of him in as you can in these kinds of moments; it’s just the kind of person you are. Damaged or not, his skin is your favorite place to be. You’ve told him this, but it seems to come across much clearer when you look into his sad brown eyes like they’re the only ones in the world while your fingers trace the tracks across his thighs like they’re no one’s in particular.

“So pretty,” you mumble.

It’s so well received this time around that Osamu sinks into the water with barely a shred of apprehension. Granted, he’s still a bit glazed over.

He really snaps to once his shoulders are beneath the water and you’re lathering shampoo — the coconutty one — between your hands.

He speaks your name with an earnest that’s almost mocking. “What are you doing?” But he knows what you’re doing, or what you’re not doing, rather, and he’s not going to let you get away with it.

“What?” Your hands are sudsy and he has the audacity to be yanking at your shirt now. You bat him away as well as you can, flinging some bubbles at him in the process. “What?”

His bottom lip pokes out as his wet hands find purchase around your wrists. Dazai has manipulated a lot of people with nothing but the look in his eye, but it’s never this one; this specific look is reserved for you, and he figures it’s hardly manipulation if he knows you’d enjoy it too. “Get in with me,” he whines, drawing out his ‘e.’

You grumble something about your soapy hands, something about not wasting a perfectly fine handful of your good shampoo, but it just allows him to insist even more on helping you out of your clothes. You sigh, but really, it’s these silly idiosyncrasies about him that make you cry when he’s gone. So, you indulge him. You commence an awkward and wiggly dance in which his fingers stretch your sleeves over your hands with care. You kick your pants off and shimmy out of your undergarments, feigning annoyance as you give into his whims so easily.

The bath is still nearly boiling. You make peace with it by hissing hot, hot, hot, hot, hot (he chuckles at you) until either of your knees are nestled underwater on either side of him. You rub your shampoo hands together and — now that Osamu’s gotten his way for one of many times tonight, for the millionth time ever, never for the last time — he graciously lets you wash his hair.

You inhale all the little hums and sighs he gives you. He tastes like every emotion you’ve ever felt. Heaven is a bathtub in a crummy apartment.

“You smell much better. Let’s rinse.” You go to push yourself up after you’re finished with him, but Osamu grips you unceremoniously and by both of your ass cheeks, so you look sternly into his face.

“Wait, wait, wait, just—” he pleads.

You flick water at his eyes. “We’re wading in your filth, thank you. Get up.”

“Just a second, damn it.” He clutches you closer, hands clasped behind your back, and you settle with shattered resistance against his chest. He mumbles something about who you think you are, telling me what to do.

Not that you try all that hard with him anymore; you both know well he’ll get what he wants, and right now he’s intent on holding you in the cooling water, so you loop your arms around his neck, unable to help the kiss you press to the side of his jaw or the stifled roll of your hips against his.

He’s silent for a moment as he traces the expanse of your back. You hope his eyes are closed. You know they’re probably not.

“Thank you.”

It’s something Osamu says quite a bit. He doesn’t get terribly sentimental often, but it’s usually after you’ve rid him of those wrappings that he comes close. Although, he never says exactly what for. For bathing him. For feeding him. For loving him. You understand well enough.

He’s still a little shit. He squeezes your ass and bites the shell of your ear.

“That’s it,” you yelp. “We’re rinsing.”

His laugh is whole as you pull the drain and start the shower, dodging your (mostly) dry hair.

The promise of dessert lets you get him into a pair of shorts at the very least. Once again you return to him — you wait on him like he’s a prince, and he looks like one on your bed with the blankets pooled around him as he towel dries his hair.

It’s so unfair, you think, how angelic he gets to be no matter what he’s doing. It’s something so mundane; his scars are on display, he’s tipsy and damp and has your plush cat-printed blanket acting somewhat like a cape, yet he steals your breath as you enter your bedroom. To top it all off, he pretends not to notice your presence right away.

You fold your legs beneath yourself, unfinished bottle of sake in one hand, delicate plate of tiramisu in the other, and Osamu finally acknowledges you with owlish eyes, raised brows, and a grin that reprograms the pattern of your heartbeat. He tosses the towel aside, eager, and reaches out.

“This—” his mouth is full, “this shit is…God. Heavenly.”

“Share.”

“Should’ve brought two forks.” He makes a show of lifting the plate out of your reach. You grasp at it lazily, uselessly, and he laughs, taunting you. You’re tired so you hoard the sake in response, which he’s fine with only until the tiramisu is gone — you only got two bites in — and he goes for that as well.

“Greedy!” you accuse, but you can’t help your laugh. You’re warm — the few swigs from the bottle are doing their job, and you let Osamu know this by giving in; you steady his head with one hand, and with your other you press the bottle to his lips and tilt it up. He drinks like it’s cider, and comes up for air with a soft curse.

The way he licks it off his lips wants to draw a gasp out of you, but you’re trained like a skilled gunman when he gives you targets like these — you’ve built up trigger discipline, and there are some things, you suppose, that you don’t let him have so easily after all.

Nonetheless, it’s like Osamu reads this mechanism working in your mind and takes it as a challenge. The bottle is transferred from your hands to his somewhere in the searing kiss he gives you; you fully register a hunger buzzing between you both that has nothing to do with tiramisu as you reach out for him, fumble toward him until you’re in his lap — you almost overwhelm his lithe frame with your tenacity, but he catches you, bottle tapping your back as you engulf each other.

Osamu is sneaky, he is; he never executes even the smallest action without meticulous thought. The way you end up under him might’ve been planned out from the bath, or maybe even before he was on your doorstep — either way, you give way to his weight; the bottle’s in one hand, somehow your wrists are in the other, and his waist connects with yours.

If nothing else predicts what you say next, it’s his restless hand clutching your hip, pulling at your shirt, clawing up your side.

��Missed you,” you slip into his mouth. You’ve already said this over dinner, but it’s different, heavier, when you’re breathing him in. Osamu lifts away from you for a kiss from the bottle. In brief control again, you wring your hands.

He’s statuesque above you. You wish you could snapshot the seconds in which he tilts the bottle back, where his drying hair falls in those loose waves around his angled jaw and his eyelids flicker. You reach out to trace him. His severe collarbone to his lean shoulder, down the thin valley between his bicep and tricep. You ghost around the fingers suspended in midair and bridge the gap to end on his pretty waist.

The bottle disappears onto your nightstand. Your eyes are wide as he grips your chin. He holds his breath, plants an elbow by your head, thumbs your bottom lip — all a means to waterfall the sake into your open, waiting mouth.

Liquor drips off him, into you; how are you supposed to keep from the way your legs demand his hips toward yours? The way you grind into him from below? You’re a live wire and he’s fraying the hell out of everywhere you end and begin.

You swallow what he gives you before he pulls back. You’re breathless, and he’s laughing. He’s laughing. This is what he does — he gets you under him and he laughs, so beautifully that you can hardly be mad, and sultrily enough that you flush pink.

“You should see your face!” he exclaims. Osamu is truthfully at his most joyous when he’s catching you off guard. “Little too filthy for ‘ya?”

“Please,” you scoff, willing him toward you again as you recover, more from the sting in the back of your throat than anything, pressing all your love into each of his mangled wrists with your palms and fingers. “As if that’s the filthiest thing we’ve done.”

“Jog my memory,” he suggests as he puts his smile back to yours, and so you work him out of the shorts you just got him in less than ten minutes ago.

As for yourself, well — you’re only naked from the waist down before you’re working your own slick up and down on him, biting your lip with anticipation, all but pulling him into you. You don’t even care if it hurts, and you almost say it, but you don’t — everything you’re doing is saying it for you — you just want him in you right now, right now, and he touches you between the gasps you draw from him; he watches the way he slides into you like you’re meant for him, like he’s meant for you, and you dig your heels into him as you whisper his name.

“Baby,” he whispers back. Those sad brown eyes flicker, shut, open, find you. “Oh.”

He rocks into you softly, such a contrast from the urgency with which he was kissing you mere moments before. Osamu’s a natural at giving you whiplash, sometimes in ways you didn’t know him to be capable of. He’s concentrated; you watch him, the slightest bit confused as his lips purse shut. You want to hear him, he knows, but it’s all welling up within him, he can feel it on his lash line, so he tucks his face into your neck and hopes you won’t say anything. You don’t, not for bit. You just circle your arms around his neck and groan at the way he grips you, feels you all over; you clench around him and pretend you don’t feel the tears beading along your shoulder.

“Too filthy for you?” you finally tease, but gently; you cup his face in your hands, push his hair from his forehead, and kiss the wetness away. He half-laughs, half-sobs. He obviously wasn’t expecting this. “Oh, ‘samu. Honey.”

“Don’t know what the fuck’s going on.” It’s his way of apologizing. He sniffles and follows it with an explanation. “You feel so good.”

You know they’re not tears of pleasure, but you let him write it off as he fucks into you. “You- uhn- you feel so good,” you echo.

It’s not unusual for him to be vocal — he moans, he gasps, he gives you delicious noises to make up for the words he can’t ever find, but tonight is so different; you don’t know what it is, but he talks. He’s talking, and it’s not the lewd musings you expect from Osamu Dazai, much less while he curls his hands into your hair and begins to pound into you. Yes, it’s much different tonight.

“Missed you too,” he finally gives you. “Missed you. So fucking much- fuck- I’m- oh, fuck…”

“Stop leaving,” you say breathlessly. “Stop leaving me. Just move in.”

“Shit, I might.” His hair is your lifeline. You knot your fingers in it like you hope you become part of it. “Might just have to come home to this every day. Y’take such good care of me. Don’t know wh- hah- what I did to deserve this pussy.”

“Please, please, Osamu.” You’re begging for more than one thing. “Fucking stay.”

So he keeps his pace, staying in one way or another — at least he can say he’s done that much. Whether or not you’ll wake up next to him tomorrow morning doesn’t matter right now; right now he’s fucking you, right now he’s yours, right now he’s ripping himself open a little further to let you see his rotten soul and you’re giving him everything he could never ask for, everything he doesn’t think he deserves — it’ll be enough, you’re sure, even though it’ll hurt when he disappears again; at least you’ll know you opened up in return, reflected his rottenness in the way that you know how. You’ve made a place for him in your home. You’ve made a place for him in your heart. He knows you want him to take it. Take it.

“So pretty, my baby, takin’ it so good.” He looks at you with those wet eyes between pressing bruising kisses to your lips, chin, neck. “Y’feel like fucking heaven. God, fuck. Don’t know if I- don’t know if I deserve it. So fucking good. So good. So good.”

“You d- you don’t have to do anything to deserve it- just fucking stay, please,” you plead with him. You’ll plead with him until he understands. “Oh- Osamu- ah!”

Your hands flail for a resting place — his head is restless with his kisses, his calloused hands and ridged arms are moving too fast for you to keep up with, the expanse of his back isn’t nearly close enough amid his wild pace, so you claw into the peaks of his shoulders and give all your sound and breath back to him while he rains praise upon you. He’s almost frantic in his task, like he needs you to know.

“Need you to know how much I love comin’ back here.” Osamu grabs one of your hands and guides you to your clit. “Touch yourself, please- please- want you cummin’ on me, baby, give it to me. Please.”

He pleads with you until you do.

You’re well aware that everything you can give him might not be enough to convince him. Convince him he’s not rotten. Convince him he does deserve it. Convince him he’s worthy of love. You know the best thing you can do for him right now is rub yourself quick and hard in time with his heavy thrusts. You keep giving him what he needs — you give him all your moans, grunts, curses, and he reflects them right back — you match each other, sobbing, twitching, biting, heaving until the wave rolls over you and you’re collecting him, throbbing around him and telling him it’s all for him, he’s so perfect, don’t stop, it feels so good while he spills into you, fills you up in that familiar way you don’t think you want to live without for weeks at a time anymore. Osamu’s tense as he drags both of your climaxes out for as long as he can; you’re crooning out his name and Osamu’s panting out yours and he’s so beautiful as he cums, he’s so beautiful while he cries, he’s so beautiful when he’s raw and selfish and fucked out of his brain, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful.

“So afraid to hurt you, baby,” he mumbles into your cheek minutes later, half-asleep and tipsy and still pulsing inside you. “You don’t deserve my shit. Get caught up in my shit.”

You don’t care about his shit, is what you tell him in return. You want him. You want to show him all the wonderful things he does in fact deserve.

Like the picturesque breakfast you cook him after you do wake up next to him in the morning. Like the tender way you rewrap his dressings as the afternoon sun gleams in white columns through your window. Like the first day he spends completely sober and well-fed in a long time.

“I don’t know if I deserve it.” All this, he means. You, and how wonderful you are. He says it again and again.

“I don’t care if you don’t deserve it.” You secure the butterfly clip in the crook of his elbow and meet his eyes. Far off. Waning sunshine. “Wanna give it to you anyway.”

For a moment the sunshine returns, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, you see it reach his eyes. They don’t look so sad. Big, brown, maybe hopeful. Maybe sweet with preemptive regret. You hug Osamu in the still air of your apartment.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He hugs you back, limply, like he’s scared to break you. He trembles out, “I will.”

[doidoii]

need her

[doidoii]

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭...

ღೀ๋࣭ ⭑𝒄𝒘: nsfw, age gap implied, subby men~ they cry a bit, overstimulation, wish that was me

Men who live for those few hours between work and sleep that they get to spend with you. Their job is awfully stressful– just problems after problems and incompetent underlings they need to deal with every day. There's too much responsibility, too much pressure and weight on their shoulders, but you're always there to take it away.

Men who don't even bother with pleasantries before loosening their tie and grumbling about how tiring work is. When they slump on the cushy mattress in your bedroom you're right beside them, helping them take off their clothes while you listen to them vent about their day. "Don't worry, dear, I got you" you reassure them in that soothing voice of yours and they can already feel their frustrations melting away.

Men who let you take the lead, willingly submitting to you because they're so tired of always having to be in charge and ordering people around. It's a nice change of pace– them laying limp between the crisp sheets while you rock your hips against theirs, their cock nestled deep inside your sweet cunt. In moments like these, they finally allow themselves to slip off the mask they're forced to wear every day and just be.

Men whose minds go blank when you praise them for their work. Just knowing that you appreciate and value what they do, that you acknowledge their worries makes the knot in the pit of their stomach thighten. It doesn't take long for them to grip your hips and squirm under your weight, their breath coming out quicker, shallower as gruff moans fall from their lips. When they cum their whole body tenses up, milky white seed spilling deep inside you. "You're so good for me tonight, darling. Think you can take more?" you ask and of course they can. They're good for you, always.

Men who lose all their composure after you coax a few more orgasms out of them. They can barely keep their gaze locked on yours from that sweet mixture of pleasure of pain making their head spin– it hurts, they feel like they can't physically take it anymore, but they don't have the heart to stop you. After all, this is their only escape from those straining jobs and duties and if relishing this sheer bliss meant being so vulnerable and completely at your mercy they'd gladly do it.

Men who don't bother to hide the pretty tears brimming at the corner of their eyes and choke on heavy sobs as you keep riding them. "Poor you..." you coo, brushing away the tears with your fingertips, your touch soft as silk against their rougher skin "You really needed this didn't you darling?" They nod eagerly, hissing sharply when you start bouncing on their cock again– they can feel each drag of your gummy walls against his cock and it's driving them crazy. Frankly, the fact that they're still hard after cumming so many times is a miracle, but you seem adamant to get another orgasm out of them. "Come on, you can do it just one more. Wanna make sure you really fill me up this time, ok?" you urge nonchalantly as if his lap wasn't already covered in sticky cum and slick.

Men who cry out praises and thank yous as they reach their high for the nth time that night, their back slightly arching off the bed before melting back into the mattress. They peer at you through droopy eyes, their grip on your thighs or waist loosening as you lay on their chest with their cock still sheathed inside you. Their heart flutters when you kiss their face oh so softly and lovingly, they feel so warm and welcomed in your embrace and swear they could fall asleep like this every night. But hey, they actually can and do, because you're always there for them, ready to soak them in your love.

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨��𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺: 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐢, 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐞, 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢, 𝐊𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐚, 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐮𝐲𝐚, 𝐅𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐳𝐚𝐰𝐚, 𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐨, 𝐍𝐚𝐨𝐲𝐚 (𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠)