Hi Hii!! Opinions On Dilf Nicholas Wolfwood?

hi hii!! opinions on dilf nicholas wolfwood? 🤲

DILF! NICHOLAS is a tease. perhaps he gets too much kick out of whispering pure filth in your ear in that low drawl of his voice, or the fact that his touches always linger far too long when you're doing domestic things around the house. he's got some scruff and he's cut back on his smoking but he's still got a cross around his neck that dangles in your face when he fucks you — pure blasphemy. the type to spank your ass whenever you're bent over. sleazy smiles and low chuckles cause "aren't you the cutest lil thing?" he knows he's got you hooked <3

DILF ME UP!

tags: p.2 to THIS DRABBLE but can be read alone i think, yakuza!suna/escort!reader

It took you a long time to learn how to walk in heels.

It didn't come to you naturally like it does for some, the movement instinctively fluid and swanlike and effortlessly simple. You had to practice at it, starting with shorter heels and smaller steps and a slower pace, before eventually working your way up to any degree of grace.

The process wasn't without its failings, to be sure. Not without stumbling or blisters or icepacks that you had to press to your aching feet at the end of a long day. But you got the hang of it eventually, it just took a bit of time.

It feels like a lifetime ago now as your steps click across the marble floor of the lobby with an easy, steady gait. You listen to the rhythmic noise each meeting of your heels make against the tile and remember the girl you were all those years ago, in much shorter heels, with a whole lot less life under her belt.

She'd never be able to walk in these shoes.

Especially not in this place.

The day had started out like any other, showing up to the club in the evening and getting yourself ready in the little room you'd been assigned to for the day. It was neither particularly luxurious nor notably shabby, the same as the rest of the suites that line the hallway at the back of the members only club at which you're employed—each close to any average hotel room, though perhaps a little more sterile. First you showered in the adjoining washroom, and then you changed into the outfit you'd brought with you for that evening. You were just in the process of styling your hair when a knock at the door interrupted you.

Your eyes flashed to the clock hanging on the wall, a little startled—you still had almost 25 minutes to the start of your scheduled shift, so no one ought to be calling on you so soon.

"Come in," you'd called out, though your voice sounded a bit confused.

Your manager's face appeared around the edge of the door once it creaked open, and your confusion only grew.

Kaito has never been someone you like. He isn't far from your age, from what you can tell, but he's a man who errs perpetually on the wrong side of sleazy—what with his over-gelled hair, his tastelessly flashy suits, and his sharp, insincere smile that always has the infallible effect of setting your own teeth on edge.

That day was no different.

"You're out today," Kaito said as you dipped your body in his direction in greeting. You froze, still hunched in your shallow bow.

"What?" you asked him as your head popped up in shock, your tone cold.

You'd checked your schedule at least three times that day. You were sure you'd been on the schedule to start at 7, and the guy manning the front desk had given you the key to this suite when you checked in, so clearly when you'd arrived half an hour prior he'd seen your name there too.

"Change of plans. You were requested." Kaito shot you a particularly implicative look you didn't like, and you cared for the way his gaze slipped down to the dip of your neckline even less. "You've been so popular lately."

"Who called for me?" You questioned him, clearing your throat pointedly as Kaito's canine caught his lower lip in a subtle bite. His eyes flickered up to meet yours after another moment of appreciating your tits.

"Who do you think?" he asked you as his brows lifted tauntingly.

Heat flared in your face at his words, and at the sudden prospects they implied.

"A driver will pick you up in half an hour," Kaito added dismissively before stepping back towards the door to leave.

"Why can't Toma take me to the hotel?" you asked, referring to the club's driver who usually took you to your calls out.

(You're fond of Toma—a quiet man in middle age who always treats you kindly. Just knowing that he'll be there waiting to pick you up at a scheduled time always feels like a quiet reassurance on nights like these.)

"They've been nice enough to send one of their own tonight, and you're not going to the hotel," Kaito paused to explain.

Not going to the hotel?

"Inarizaki has been incredibly good to us, you know." Kaito's voice suddenly lost the affectation of charm that he usually laid on thick. The mere mention of the name was enough to make goosebumps raise along your skin. Still hesitating in the doorway, Kaito glanced over at you—and for a moment you wondered if the look you were seeing behind his eyes was insistence or worry. "Just... be sure to return the favour, yeah?"

You're not sure where you were dropped off by the driver.

It's not that you find yourself in some remote place on the edge of town—you're in the heart of the city's centre, on a street you've travelled a hundred times—the high rise just isn't one that you've ever frequented before. As you step across the threshold, you can't help but think the sumptuous interiors remind you more of a luxury hotel than a complex of condominiums like the sign says outside.

There had been a note waiting for you in the back of the sleek black car that had picked you up at the club, though all that had been written on the piece of paper was an apartment number and a code—which you could only assume was for a door. It's tucked away in your pocket now, out of sight, and you've committed the code to memory.

As your heels click against the marble while you cross the glistering lobby towards the elevators—the tap, tap, tap counting out your pace metronomically—something squirms in the pit of your stomach.

Up on one of the highest floors of the towering building, your fingers shake slightly as you type in the code to the keypad outside the specified door. You pause and fight to steady them after you begin to press the six digits into their corresponding keys—no one likes a girl who's trembling, after all—and after a few breaths you manage to get it right: the light on the upper right hand corner of the automated lock blinks green three times, and you're able to turn the knob of the door.

It's quiet when you step inside, which surprises you.

You half expected to be walking into a party, or an orgy, or the former that would eventually lead to the latter. But instead, you're met with a perfectly still, and pristinely tidy, living space.

You hesitate for a moment as the front door swings closed behind you, processing the shock, and then you bend down to slip your shoes off of your feet. If he wants you to put them back on later, you'll do so without complaint—but for now you don't want to make any presumptions. Next you shuck your thin coat, folding it over your arm, and you tiptoe across the threshold of the genkan—creeping further into the home as quietly as you can.

Your pulse is thrumming under your skin unpleasantly, the unfamiliarity of the place setting you on edge.

"Hello?" you call out weakly in the condo, but you receive no answer back.

You're alone.

Or you seem to be, at least.

You pause in the middle of the expansive living space, next to a long L-shaped sofa in the centre of the room with a square table in front of it. Along one side of the high ceilinged home is a kitchen so sparkling you can't help but think it's never been used. There's a broad dining table with eight chairs poised before a wall of windows not far from you too, with a remarkable view of the city just beyond the glass. Along the opposite side of the space to the kitchen is a set of stairs that passes more windows, leading to a second level that you can't see much of from your place on the first floor, but can only assume is where the bedrooms are found.

The place is gorgeous, you make no effort to deny it. You just don't know where the hell you are.

You rest your hand on the back of the sofa as you stand beside it, and the leather is buttery-soft under your touch. You run your fingers along it to appreciate it for a moment.

"Oh, you're here."

Your eyes snap up to the top of the stairs, in the direction of where you hear the words originate.

Suna stands at the landing of the second floor with a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and a towel around his neck. His hair is wet, seemingly fresh from the shower if the droplets of water clinging to his tattooed neck and chest are anything to go by, and he's got one hand ruffling through it with the edge of his white towel. He peers down at you, his usual secretive little smile on his face.

"Hello, Suna-san," you greet him with a polite little bow.

"I wasn't expecting you here so soon," he remarks, letting his towel drop to rest around his neck again and shuffling towards the staircase's railing. He leans over it, peering down at you. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, I only just arrived. Thank you for sending a driver for me," you say quietly, averting your eyes down towards the coat still looped over your arm. You bite the inside of your cheek as you gather up the nerve to say more. "There's really no need for you to go out of your way like that. I'm more than happy to be escorted by the club's—"

Suna clicks his tongue, interrupting you before you can finish your thought. You don't even have time to be frustrated, because his reply is so perplexing. "No can do, unfortunately. This place has to stay just between the two of us."

Your gaze snaps up to him again in surprise, and you catch the way the corner of his mouth curls up more noticeably. Even from the opposite side of the grand room you see the flash of mischief behind his eyes, warm and mirthful. He lets his long arms dangle over the railing, leaning his body further out across it.

"I wouldn't want just anyone knowing where I live, after all."

Your heartbeat is still racing in your throat, but it feels less threatening now—a hum of anticipation singing underneath your skin. You swallow over the knot of your pulse.

"You live here?" you ask him, your voice sounding a little higher than you intend it to—the surprise you feel evident in the tone even in spite of your efforts to conceal it.

He hums, pushing himself back from the railing and descending the staircase at a lazy pace. Once he reaches the last step, and eventually the main floor, that hammering of your pulse kicks up in intensity again.

"What do you think?" he asks, looking around at the home—his home—around you.

You glance around, though you barely register anything you're looking at, too overwhelmed to take anything in. You clear your throat a little before replying, "It's very nice."

Suna tilts his head to the side, a look of quiet confusion on his face as he considers you. He approaches you slowly, his eyes fixed firmly on you all the while.

"You're nervous," he remarks.

He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against the skin of your shoulder—not dissimilarly to the way you'd been appreciating the smooth leather of his sofa a few moments prior. You shiver at the gentle touch.

"I'm not nervous," you say, a lie if you've ever told one. But you shouldn't be nervous. You've been doing this job for too long to get so rattled over a simple change of scenery.

But the change of scenery isn't simple. Nothing about Suna Rintarou is, after all.

It's not lost on you just who the man you stand before is. Just what he does that affords him such a beautiful home. Why it's imperative that the address be kept secret.

Suna Rintarou is a dangerous man, even as he stands at your side running his fingertips along the ridge of your clavicle with the ends of his hair still dripping wet from the shower and hanging in his deceptively sweet eyes.

But it's not his profession that you fear might bring you harm, it's the little smile that shows his teeth which spreads across his face when he catches how you shiver under his touch, and the way it makes your heart knock against your ribs when you see it that scares you more than anything.

"Okay, you're not nervous," he says quietly, but there's a knowing, placating lilt in his low voice. He reaches up and takes your coat from your arms, laying it over the back of the sofa. Next, he catches your wrists in his large hands, his touch slipping slowly along your arms until he uses his hands to guide them up around his neck. You let him move you how he wants to—obliging, just as you were trained to be—and in one easy movement he wraps an arm behind you and hitches you up to his waist.

You cling to him tightly, your lips hovering a hairsbreadth away from his own. The hem of your dress has crept up in the movement, now rucked up around your hips like a belt. You can feel the heat of Suna's skin radiating through the thin lace of your panties where your core is pressed against the firm plane of his lower abdomen, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat when the sensation registers.

Suna groans a little at the soft sound you let out, pulling you even more firmly against him as his mouth descends upon your throat. The hand he's not using to support your weight cradles the crown of your head, tipping it back slightly so your neck is bared to him more openly. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses right over the place when your pulse is beating most violently.

"I planned to give you a tour," he murmurs into your skin, and your fingers tangle in his hair as you feel the brush of his teeth against the sensitive little spot where your throat slopes down into your shoulder. He pulls away, staring up at you with eyes heavy-lidded with desire. "I think it's gonna have to wait."

Suna carries you over to the massive dining room table on the other side of the room, but keeps his mouth pressed to yours all the while, his tongue sliding noisily against your own. Your head is spinning so terribly as you try to match his pace that you hardly even realize what's happening before he lays you down flat against the cool marble tabletop, and you hiss as the stone meets your heat-flooded skin.

Suna pulls away and stares down at you from above, your legs still wrapped around his waist. The weight of his gaze is overwhelming, and you turn your face away as you fight to catch the breath that evades you. The cityscape lit beyond the glass makes you pause for a moment, even prettier from up close than it was on the other side of the room. Suna's hands slip up your thighs, inching towards the delicate waistband of your underwear.

"This view is nice," you comment breathily, and in the faint reflection that you can make out in the window's pane you see Suna glance in its direction only briefly.

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, before taking your chin in his hand and tipping your face back up in his direction to kiss you again. You whimper against his lips as you feel his fingertips dip beneath the lace between your legs, and he pulls away from your mouth only far enough so he can mutter a final, rasping "I've seen better."

Geto x reader

A/n: @public-safety-network serve conversations sometimes can inspire and motivate oneself to actually write. Some inspo by a conversation in the past with @heavenlyevil and by this and this (@vampnyx ) on the psn server

Warnings: 18+. Masturbation. Spicy Video. Cum eating (??). Public.

Wc:  358 | JJK Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You can’t help how your thighs clench as the low breathy curses from your phone echo in the bathroom. Hot breath hits the palm of your hands as you fight back a whimper. Fight back the urge to drop your hand beneath your skirt as you watch thick fingers gliding up and down the thick girth they were all too familiar with. 

But you’re entranced by the sight in your hand. Phone placed where you had a perfect view of Suguru’s abs and upper thighs, spread on your white couch. Of his hard veiny cock, which was slick from pre-cum. His large hand that slid up and down, thumb barely applying any pressure on the swollen head, hips slowly bucking into his own hand.

That wasn’t the only thing that had your legs rubbing together. God no. It was that and the combination of breathy grunts when he’d rub the tip before running his hand back down. The soft sound of your name slipping from his lips as his thighs spasmed. It was, the strangled moans as he releases, a rather large load, onto his stomach and hand. 

The bathroom stall falls silent save for the heavy breathing from your phone and the soft click of the ac. And you watch as Suguru lays back on the couch, stomach rising and falling slowly while his cock softens a bit. The inside of your mouth floods with saliva when he moves his hand to wipe the excess cum on his fingers on his inner thigh, a shiny trail left on the soft skin, before he reaches for the phone sitting on what you think might be your coffee table. 

You get a glimpse of his chest before his face comes into view, framed by dark hair. He brings his fingers, some traces of his climax still staining his fingers, and puts them into his mouth. His cheeks hollow for a moment before a soft pop rings throughout the bathroom along with a heavy sight from you. The corners of his lips curve upwards, his now free hand pushes his hair back while he huffs out, “Your turn now, love.”

© Copyright 2023. Dearestgojo. All rights reserved.

tags: pls look away, inspired by this art by @/iinoruu, yakuza!suna/escort!reader

The first thing you recognize as you stir from the loosening grip of slumber is that your body hurts.

An ache, tender and warm, has rooted itself deep in your muscles. Your back. Your thighs. Your hips. Just rolling over under the soft cotton sheets exacerbates the pain, makes it throb a little hotter underneath your skin.

The second thing you recognize is the familiar smell of smoke.

"You should quit, y'know."

At the window of the hotel room, Suna stands. He's half-dressed now, silhouetted by the breaking day beyond the pane of glass beside him, his trousers on but his button-up still unbuttoned—it leaves just the faintest curl of the ink that spans his arm and his back on display, a sliver of black swirling next to the divot of his collarbone, as well as the design that spans the column of his throat. He looks at you with the burning cigarette still held to his lips, and you watch as the cherry flares brighter on his inhale.

You're not supposed to smoke here. Not in a hotel this nice. But you doubt anyone will be complaining to him, or will even say anything at all, given his particular influence and his reputation in his line of work.

"I should?" he replies in his usual low tone. The corner of his mouth is ever so slightly turned up, and a wisp of smoke rushes out along with his question.

He pauses for a moment, and then stamps the mostly-unfinished cigarette out in the ashtray on the table in front of him—where it came from in a room you're not supposed to smoke in to begin with, you can't be completely sure.

You push yourself up in bed, wincing at the pain such a simple movement causes. You rub at your eyes a little, still bleary from sleep. "It's bad for you."

Suna hums.

"I didn't realize you cared."

You bite your tongue from letting a comment slip out that could get you into trouble. Instead, you flop back down into the embrace of soft cotton and feathers that the plush hotel bed provides.

"Do what you want, then," you say quietly.

He's good at that, after all.

"What I want?" you hear him ask, and let your head loll to the side against the pillows just in time to see him approach the bed. His movements are slow, unhurried—like a predator as it stalks in the night.

You don't offer him any substantial reply, just a breathy, affirmative sound.

You're lucky to have this job. Lucky to be the one that Suna Rintarou calls for so often. Of all the girls that work at the club, you seem to be the only one that's caught his eye as of late. You know that if you do something to mess that up it might cost you more than just the thick stack of crisp bills you leave the hotel with a few times a week.

You've never been the most successful girl at the club, nor the least. Your performance and popularity has always been relatively middling, comparatively unremarkable. You're not bad at the job by any means, you know what to say and do, the line you have to walk, the fantasy you have to satisfy when duty calls.

Lately that line has proven harder to toe with him.

Suna kneels at the edge of the wide mattress, leaning across the bed towards you. His shirt falls open as he angles his body nearer to your own, revealing more of the tattoo that's etched into his skin. It's always a stark, indelible reminder of just who and what he is.

"It's pretty bold of you to assume to know the things I want," he murmurs, holding himself over you on one of his arms. His other reaches down to the top of the sheet that covers you, peeling it gently away to reveal your skin.

On instinct, you grab for it, rushing to cover yourself. You realize quickly it's not your place to hide yourself from him, that it's not what he pays you for, and you let your grip on the sheet slacken, looking away as a shameful heat crawls up your throat.

He doesn't try to pull the blanket away again.

"You woke up too early," he says quietly, still hovering over you. "You should sleep, you're still sore."

You watch as his eyes trace your face in the dim light of the hotel room.

"Are you leaving?" you ask.

That same little smile appears, lifting the edge of his lips ever so slightly. This expression always confuses you, though he makes it often. There's no real joy behind it, it's a drier, almost sardonic twist of his mouth, like he knows something you don't.

"Work," he says, though he owes you of all people no explanation. "I'll leave the cash on the table by the door as usual, I won't short you for any of your time."

You nod slightly. You hadn't been thinking about payment at all.

The corner of Suna's nose twitches. It's a movement so slight that if you weren't so terribly close you might not notice it at all. There's something behind his perpetually heavy-lidded eyes that makes you nervous.

His hand, the one that had just reached for the blanket, comes up to cup your cheek. You can still detect the scent of tobacco that clings to his skin, and you've never liked the smell but for some reason you don't mind it so much anymore. He dips down, your cheek cradled in his palm, and slots his mouth against yours.

His kiss isn't innocent—no one kisses a whore chastely—but there's something about the way he's holding you that feels different. Something in the gesture that's wholly and completely him.

He pulls away, and his warm breath fans across your mouth and catches in the slickness of your lips. Your eyes flutter open to look up at him.

Something aches in your chest, different from the way the rest of your body has been left tender but no less his fault.

Maybe Suna isn't the only one with habits that are bad for him, after all.

omg what about dilf toji 🤰🏽🤰🏽

DILF! TOJI is dangerous. he got a bit of a scruff but he hasn't lost an ounce of muscle, he's still as powerful and quick as he use to be. uses his strength as an advantage, will hoist you over one shoulder if you're being a brat or... alternatively, wrap one thick arm round your neck while he's pounding you in doggy. sleazy and a tease, loves riling you up until you get impatient with him, all the more reason for him to put you back in your place. takes you lingerie shopping, but it's more of gift to him as he sits in the waiting room, thighs spread wide, thumbing at the scar on his lip as he watches you show off the pretty pieces. "do a lil twirl for me? yeah, that's it. so pretty 'f me, aren't cha?"

DILF ME UP!

stella !!

I've been on the most awful blue lock brainrot with the most horrendously, god awful taste in men ໒꒰ྀིっ ̫ ‹̥̥̥ ꒱ྀིა

may i shamefully ask for ryusei or nagi crumbs

DILF! NAGI is a catch. they call him a silver fox for a reason. if he wants something he'll take it — and that includes you. picks you up at work in one of his sleek black sports cars with a box tied with a silk ribbon on the back seat, "something pretty for you to wear tonight" fine dining and drives through the city at night. spoils you rotten with high end luxury brands. the type to let you taste the finest wine and then kiss and lick it off your lips. adores it when you ride him, slow and deep strokes as he presses his forehead to yours, moaning into your mouth, his lashes fluttering against your cheeks. will whine if you pull his hair. lets you sit on his face after you've had a long day, eats you out like a fucking champ. "still overthinking? should I fuck every little thought out of you then?"

DILF ME UP!