He's Alive And Happy In Our Hearts 💕

Practice ♻️

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

God, I’m so weak for big dilf!Kirishima

Dilf!Kirishima who is so in love with his sweet lil cry baby girlfriend. Sweet lil girlfriend who bawls her eyes out at the sad parts of movies and animes and who always makes a soft little sad noise before hiding in Daddy’s lap and wetting his shirt with her tears. Who is absolutely livid whenever anyone dares to bash her big lover. Who absolutely hates it when she and Kirishima argue, and who will cry if Kirishima decides to sleep on the couch (he never does this, he’ll always sneak back in after making a fuss because he hates going to sleep with her and he can’t bear the thought of her in so much distress). Who cries her eyes out of Kirishima gets hurt while working, and will fight anyone who tired to make her leave his hospital room. She totally makes him cry when she earnestly promises to take care of him and protect him from anything bad, because she’s so small and gentle and caring and he’s scared about how everyone will see him as a creepy old man and how physically battered his body will be after years of throwing himself in front of civilians and fires. Who makes him feel like such a big man and also like he’s a horny teenager all over again when they’re in bed together. Dreams of having chubby and happy babies with her, with hearts as beautiful as their Mama’s.

sob. :((( crying ‘cause he sleeps on the couch is what got me :(((

trapping him inside when he promised to pull out. his hips stuttering, moaning "oh god, baby, baby fuck- let me out. m'gonna cum" but you just tighten your legs around his waist, push your pelvis up further to meet his, keep him locked inside so he can only grind and roll his hips in tiny circles, can't get any further. gripping the sheets on either side of you as his eyes roll back and his balls start to empty the first load; right into your warm pussy. "god you fuckin' little brat- fine. take my cum, fucking take it. gonna g've it to youuu- fuck- s-stop milking me, 'm gonna get hard again you bitch-"

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. 

cardboard beds wouldn’t stop me i’d fuck the life outta kageyama tobio on one

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.

offers to put lotion/baby oil/whatever on your legs for you after you shave because he just wants an excuse to feel you up:

iwaizumi, OIKAWA, yaku, fukunaga, ATSUMU, suna, aran, SAEKO, sugawara, futakuchi, KOMORI, tendou, semi, and KONOHA.

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

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