Jadestwilight

AA 24🩵 Reader/Ranting

[heavenlypining]

toji sends you a video of him giving sukuna head. 18+

they're always sending you this shit when you least expect it.

they don't care where you are or what you're doing; they're always finding some reason to send you their sex videos. they get off on it.

so when you get that one attachment text from toji, you already know to find somewhere secret and put on your headphones.

and when you open the video, you can't look away.

toji's arm is extended, holding the phone so you can see everything. he's on his knees while kuna's standing up. the older man's dick already hard and slightly bobbing up and down, leaking precum. toji looks up at him with those eyes and smiles before leaning in to place a kiss on his tip.

sukuna grabs his chin and pulls him closer. toji's warm mouth wrapped around his girthy cock. his head moving back and forth on his dick.

kuna takes a fistful of toji's hair, hips slamming into his mouth in a beautiful rhythm. you watch as saliva pools down from toji's mouth. all that's heard is the lewd noises from toji's mouth and deep grunts from sukuna's. toji's eyes water from lack of air, his free hand clawing at kuna's thigh.

toji backs up a little to slowly swirl his tongue around his tip, making sukuna hiss, knowing he's most sensitive there.

when sukuna finally cums on his tongue, he slaps his dick a few times on his tongue and face, making toji laugh a little.

toji brings the camera closer and sticks out his tongue, showing kuna's mess. sukuna grabs his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss, sharing the taste of his cum.

when the kiss unfortunately ends, toji turns his attention back to the camera. his hair a mess with that drunk-in-love look in his eyes.

"thanks for watching, make sure you like and subscribe," he says in that cocky but playful tone.

and the video ends.

oh tojikuna tojikuna...

@veilist @ickology @nctwayv127dream @h3avenlyglory @princesscore504 @valkyrieanqel @v4mpyyb4tzz

[krys4h]

𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡, 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐩𝐞,

౨ৎ                      𝐠𝐚𝐤𝐮.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧ .  As an introvert and fan of romance games, you've always lived in your own world, too socially awkward to make friends. However, if there's one person who really likes your nerdy personality, it's Gaku, your brother Uzuki's best friend. His eyes are always on you when you enter a room, and the few times you talk, he listens with attention and without judgment. He has a soft spot for you, and during a car ride your friendship turns into budding love.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . 5.6k words, black!fem!reader, plus!size!reader, fluff, romance, hyperfeminine!reader, nerdy!reader, stoner!gaku, affectionate!gaku, mutual pining, insecurities, intimacy, otome references, car ride, smoking weed, declaration of love, kisses, neck kisses, hickeys, first time, virgin!reader, unshaved!reader, smut, body worship, dry humping, oral sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, tits sucking, nipple play, car sex, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex, size kink, missionary, gentle sex, sex with feelings.

𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ . [repost + edited] i love gaku downnnnnnn if you didn't know…

The smell of marijuana and the sound of your brother and his friends' voices drifted into your room. Even with your cat-eared headphones on, you could hear them laughing. You drew your lips into a thin line, wondering if you were going downstairs to see them.

A burst of laughter caught your attention, and you left your room holding your Nintendo Switch in your hand. Dressed in a pink pajama set consisting of a crop top with thin straps and mini shorts with lace details on the bottom, you walked down the black wooden staircase. You dreaded the moment you would meet a familiar red gaze that would travel over your chubby body with a slowness exaggerated by weed.

“The homebody is finally out of her room,” Uzuki turned his head toward you, sitting on the sofa in the living room. The large television set against the main wall of the room was playing the game ‘Resident Evil,’ with Uzuki playing Leon Kennedy. You didn't know your bookworm brother was playing and not the man you didn't want to name because his own name made you shiver.

“You're making way too much noise,” you sighed. You fiddled with your necklace as you approached your brother's group of friends.

Kumanomi, sitting next to Uzuki, gave you a smile that warmed your frantic heart, and you smiled back, even though it was shy and awkward. The closer your steps got to the person who was making your body hot, the harder you swallowed. Head lowered to the floor, your eyes darted to the black sneakers in front of you. The only free seat was next to him. You sat furthest from him, staring at your Switch as you chewed the inside of your cheek.

“Can't I get a smile too?”

Gaku's voice, low in the octaves, a nonchalant timbre, everything that makes you throb your cunt, rose next to you. You mustered all the courage you had in you to turn your head toward your crush. Weed-red eyes met you. His face partially hidden by the hood over his head, he was smoking a blunt, leaning back on the backrest of the sofa. The shadow of the hood on his head made him intimidating, and you struggled to swallow. Even in his dark baggy jeans, you could admire the muscular appearance of his thighs spread apart by his manspreading stance.

He tilted his head, and his heavy gaze swept over your entire silhouette, lingering in places where your skin was visible, like your thick thighs, your lower pudgy belly, and your cleavage. You scratched the back of your neck, unable to find the will to smile at him, your face motionless. Gaku had a magical power over you: it was to completely short-circuit your brain with just a look or a word.

“You good?” he asked, bringing his blunt back to his mouth to take a drag.

“Yes,” you cleared your throat. “Did you have a good day?”

“Same shit every day, you know.” He exhaled smoke from his mouth. “And you?”

Embarrassment washed over you. You had spent all day playing your otomes. You thought for a few seconds to come up with a lie.

“Y-Yeah, I had a busy day.”

“Why are you always stuttering when you talk to me? I don’t bite.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you want me to.”

Was your crush flirting with you? You had known him for years, but you had always been too shy to confess your feelings. The temperature in your body rose, and you suddenly felt too hot even in your tank top.

“You’re just kind of intimidating,” you dared to say.

He moved closer to you, so that your thighs were touching.

“Yet, I’m nice to you.”

“You’re mean to others?”

“I just don’t care about people,” he rested his head on your shoulder, and butterflies took flight in your stomach. “But I care about you,” he added. “Stop being so shy with me.”

His words were like a blanket over your heart.

“I’ve been playing my romance games all day,” you finally admitted. Blood rushed to your cheeks, your voice hesitant.

He glanced at your Switch.

“Don’t be embarrassed, I spend hours playing my games too,” he reassured you. “What’s your game this time?”

As if a switch had been turned on in your head, your passion for otome games overwhelmed you, and your voice became enthusiastic, losing its trembling.

“It's Hakuoki. It's a historical otome. It follows a group of samurai investigating our father's death. It's one of the best otome games out there; it has an anime and tons of different games. The characters are super endearing, the found family trope is super well-written, and the romantic endings are awesome. Even though you're only following one character's route, the characters are so well-developed that you become attached to all the others at once. It's a popular otome, so the voice actors are popular; one character is voiced by Nanami's seiyuu in Jujutsu Kaisen,” you said in one breath, your voice cheerful and your eyes sparkling as you talked about your passion. “Do you know Jujutsu Kaisen? I'm playing a visual novel fangame of that manga, it's awesome. I have to pay for the erotic endings, tho.”

Gaku had a gentle look over his face as he listened to you, finding you so cute to be so passionate.

“What’s your favorite character?”

“Okita,” you pointed to who he was on your Switch screen. “He has tuberculosis, and there’s a real focus on his relationship with his role as a samurai and his illness. Being a samurai is his whole life. He doesn’t feel capable of living if he can’t be useful to his friends. He’s extremely loyal and does anything for his loved ones. I love him so much.”

“You always love characters who are loyal and devoted to their loved ones. It was the same for Nicola in Piofiore.”

Your heart swelled.

“You remembered.”

He looked up at you. “Of course I did. You think I don’t listen to you?”

You shook your head, your face offered a shy smile.

“It’s just that everyone doesn’t care about my yapping about otomes.”

“Not me. I think about you when I have love and deepspace ads on tiktok.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips. “You should download it.”

“Nah.” Gaku shifted on the couch, lifting his hips to sit up better. The gesture was sexy, warmth pooling low in your belly. He still had that natural sensuality; it was in his aura; he walked through the world with indifference and confidence, and it was so attractive to you.

You continued your otome route, Gaku's head still resting on your shoulder as he watched the choices you made. He let out low chuckles when he saw you get excited by a physical connection between the main character and the love interest.

Gaku smelled of weed and the masculine scent of expensive cologne. The scent enveloped you in a comforting and familiar hug. You wanted to snuggle up to him, but you were too shy. Actually, you didn't even know if your feelings were reciprocated; Gaku was so nonchalant, you never knew what he was thinking.

“Do you have a girlfriend right now?”

Your mouth had moved faster than your brain, and you wanted to facepalm yourself for being so tactless. Gaku kept a straight face, his eyes fixed on your fingers as they tapped the screen of your game console.

“Nah.”

Gaku had many relationships, but laidback as he was, he was easily bored with them once the routine set in. In fact, the only person he'd been interested in for so long was you. When he met Uzuki many years ago, when you were still young, he noticed you immediately. You walked around with ribbon bows in your braids and pink ballet flats, adorable and coquette, while most kids didn't care about fashion. Routine with you was comfortable. He could hear you talk about your passions without ever losing interest in the conversation.

Gaku's eyes lingered on your bare thighs a few moments before speaking.

“And you? I've never seen you in a relationship since I've known you.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks again.

“I don't even have friends, so no, I don't have boyfriends.”

“Ouch.” Gaku placed his hand on his heart, in mock-pain. “After all these years, you don't consider me your friend.”

You widened your eyes.

“Of course I do! I meant besides my brother's friends, I don't have anyone.”

“That's because you're focused on your inner world with your romance stories and don't pay attention to reality.” Gaku poked your temple. “If you opened up to the outside world, I'm sure everyone would adore you.”

Your eyes grew warmer.

“Thank you, Gaku.”

“No need to thank me, I'm just spittin’ facts.”

The rest of the evening passed with Gaku pressed against you, and you felt safe and interesting as he listened to all your monologues as you explained the lore of your games. When it was time for him to go home, he gave you a kiss on the temple before getting up from the couch and leaving the house. You already missed his scent.

──────── 

The next day, you were home alone when you heard a knock at the door. Surprise flashed across your face when you saw Gaku in front of you. His hood was down, his handsome face on full display. His height towered over you; he stood with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing his usual navy blue hoodie and black baggy jeans, with a silver chain around his neck. His gray hair was messy from the humidity, the strands slightly wavy.

His eyes roamed your body from head to toe, appreciation in his gaze. He lingered on your usual bows in your hair, the frilly hem of your pink dress that was the perfect shade for your brown skin, and your Mary Jane shoes. As usual, you looked like a princess.

“Uzuki isn’t here.”

“Didn’t come for him.”

“You came for me?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, I've been thinking about our conversation. We only see each other when your brother is around, so you don't consider me a personal friend of yours. I thought we could go on a car ride together.” He raised his arm, revealing a grocery bag you hadn't noticed. “I bought some snacks.”

The butterflies from yesterday were returning to invade your stomach. You stepped back to grab your bag at the entrance and join Gaku outside. Your heart was beating a little faster; it was the first time you'd spent time alone with him, and you were excited. Gaku was an orphan and still a student, so his car wasn't the most expensive, but it was perfectly clean, and when you stepped inside, a pleasant scent of jasmine filled your nostrils.

“Want some?” Gaku took a blunt out of his pocket, and you shook your head.

“You’re always so proper and doing the right thing.”

You swore you heard a smile in his voice, but his face remained impassive. He started the car and put on a playlist. “More than ever” by Lucki was playing in the car, a soft rap song with a soaring instrumental. Gaku jerked his chin at you to get some food from the bag, and he drove with one hand on the wheel.

“What were you doing before I came?”

“Playing love and deepspace.” You nibbled on chips. “I’m trying to understand the lore of Rafayel and Sylus in their myths. I spent too much money on them again, my mother will scold me.”

“Rafayel, the fish?”

“Gaku! Don’t call him that. That’s my husband right here.”

He let out a low chuckle. “My bad. Right, I forgot you’re married. To like… 10 fictional men?”

“Marius from Tears of Themis, Yang from Piofiore, Chevalier from Ikemen Prince, Lance from Court of Darkness, Harada from Hakuoki, Yanagi from Collar x Malice-”

“You’re so greedy.”

You nudged him playfully. “You’re jealous because your life is boring without characters to obsess over.”

“Right, I’m so jealous.”

He stopped at the red light to let pedestrians cross and turned to you. His gaze was soft, his red eyes shining with a warm flame.

“Why do you like these games so much? What’s the psychological mechanism behind them? Escapism?”

Your mischievous smile faded, giving way to a serious expression.

“You really want to know? Do you promise not to make fun of me?”

“Do I look like I have enough emotion on my face to make fun of you?” He reassured you, focusing on the road again.

You took a deep breath, hands on your bare thighs.

“I don’t really think I’ll end up in a relationship one day.”

“Bullshit.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Gaku, you’re my friend, of course you’re going to believe in me. But I never managed to make friends in high school, and boys think I’m weird. When I play these games, I can immerse myself in a person who is loved for who they are. It’s very therapeutic for me; I always feel full after completing a route. These are games designed for women, so the love interests are written to meet our emotional needs.”

“You just haven’t found your person yet.”

“I’m afraid she doesn’t exist.”

“What if it’s me?”

Your hands, which were playing with the em of your dress, froze. “What?”

“What if I’m your person? I find you gorgeous, you’re not weird to me, and I love hearing you yapping about your game lore.”

His words made you dizzy. You opened your mouth, then closed it. Gaku didn’t have a smile on his face, just his usual calm face, which made you unsure if he was serious or if it was just a friendly way of showing his affection.

“Gaku, you can’t say words like that to a girl unless you’re in love with her.”

“You didn’t know?”

“What?”

He gave you a look, the intensity in it making you swallow hard. “I love you.”

It felt as if all the air in your lungs was trapped inside, unable to supply you with oxygen. Your hands trembled on your thighs.

“You can’t be serious,” you whispered.

“I’m not Nagumo, bullshit doesn’t come out of my mouth often. When I say that I love you, I mean it.”

Maybe Gaku was a man like that. A man who took what he wanted without asking himself several questions first. He was your opposite, you were socially awkward and was overthinking all of your interactions. Like yin and yang, you complemented each other, and maybe he was right when he said he was your person.

“I had a crush of you for years, I never thought it would be mutual,” you murmured, your voice shy, still wondering if it was a dream.

“We’re on the same page then.”

Gaku parked in a parking lot, took out his blunt and lighter, then lit it to wrap his lips around it. He leaned back on the backrest of the seat, smoke coming from his mouth. He turned to you.

“I don’t know how to be a good boyfriend. I don’t really care about a lot of romantic stuff, so just tell me what you want. I’ll remember and do whatever you want.”

It was a gentle side of Gaku that you didn’t know existed, but you deeply appreciated being able to witness it.

“I want it to be natural between us, so I’d like you to take the initiative. When you see me, aren’t there things you want to do with me since you like me?”

“Smoke weed and listen to you talk about your husbands.”

You chuckled. “Besides that.”

“You’re going to say I’m misogynistic and objectify you.”

Flustered, you looked away.

“You want to have sex with me?”

“Who wouldn’t? You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. But you’re more than your beauty. I swear I love you for more than that, I just don’t know how to be a good boyfriend. I didn’t have any love models when I was young; I always grew up in an orphanage. There is no love there. I just know how to have sex and… Smoke weed with you.”

His jaw tensed. You took his free hand in yours and intertwined your fingers.

“We'll be a team. I know a lot about romance. I can write a list of scenarios and activities I want to do as a couple with you, and you'll do them in any order you want. We'll establish rules for managing conflicts and arguments, and how to communicate when the other person is upset. We got this.”

You smiled at him, and his gaze grew warmer.

“Wanna go to the backseat? I have blankets, I wanna hug you,” he proposed. Smooth talker. 

Your eyes lit up and you nodded. 

With a few maneuvers, you found yourself in the backseat, sitting on his lap. Hands on your hips, he buried your head in your neck to press soft kisses, giving you goosebumps. His hands moved down to your ass to grip it firmly. The light kisses turned into open-mouthed kisses, his tongue caressing the skin and his mouth sucking the bits of flesh.

“I never did that,” you whispered.

He lifted his head from your neck, his red eyes dilated. A few grey strands fell in front of his gaze and his forehead, a different look from his usual slicked back hair.

“I'll take care of you. I'm good at this. It's the only thing I'm good at, actually.”

“Don't say that, Gaku.”

You dug your hands into his hair. He leaned into your touch and closed his eyes. He continued to kiss your neck and suck on the skin. A budding heat crackled low in your belly, and desire began to take hold of you. You wanted him.

Actually, you'd always wanted him. On Instagram, there was a photo of him at the beach with Uzuki and his friends. You couldn't even begin to count how many times you'd masturbated to the sight of his abs and biceps, how you wanted the hard planes of his body to rub against your softer ones, and how you wanted his nonchalant expression to turn into a blush of physical exertion. Every time you had a romantic scenario in your otomes, you imagined them at night with him.

“What are you thinking in that pretty head of yours?”

“Thinking about the fact that I've liked you for years.”

His mouth moved up to your face, tracing your jaw.

“I'm not as special as you for you to love me this much, you know.”

“I didn't know you had such an insecure side to you, Gaku.”

He nuzzled his nose against yours for an Eskimo kiss.

“I'm not insecure. I'm realistic. I don't do much with my life except go to the gym, play games, go to college, and smoke weed with my friends. I'm a dull work of art when you're a masterpiece filled with bright colors. I can't compete with your mind.”

His lips gently touched yours, and you closed your eyes while he kept them open, narrowing at the sight of your peaceful expression, pressed against him. You looked like an angel, a pretty princess, with your pink ribbon bows wrapped in your braids and the pastel colors of your eyeshadow. He could eat you alive if he could.

The soft presses of his lips became more demanding, his hands placed on your waist to pull you closer to him, and he lifted his hips to sit better against the back of the seat. With a small sigh, you opened your mouth, letting him enter, his tongue curling around yours in a slow, languid dance. His cock twitched in his pants as he sensed your inexperience in your kisses, understanding that he would be the first man to win your heart, and he resolved to be the last.

“Are you in love with me or do you just like the way I make you feel because I'm the only boy who listens to you?” he murmured against your lips.

“Don't say that,” you repeated, your heart aching that Gaku would think that of you. “I love everything about you. Whether it's the way you feel like you don't care about anything, or your ability to contain your emotions while mine overflow everywhere. You're like a quiet, reassuring force that I want to snuggle up to every time you're near me. I love your confidence, your diligence in the things you enjoy, and how you don't seem to be affected by the tragedies of our world; it speaks to a great strength of mind. You're still very caring with those close to you, and very attentive; you make sure your friends are comfortable around you. You're like a big teddy bear.”

For the first time in his life, Gaku's heart began to beat faster, and he couldn't explain why something twisted in his stomach as he listened to you. His hands tightened their grip around your waist, and his kisses became more aggressive. He nibbled your lower lip, sucked on your tongue, and rocked his hips against you so you could feel his erection against you. He noticed your flustered expression at his gesture, and the blood rushed even more to his bulge.

“Did the main character in your video games have their first time in a car?”

“Not really,” you chuckled against his lips. “It's romantic, and on a bed.”

“Are you implying I'm not romantic? I can be for you.”

He angled his hips to rub his clothed cock against your panties under your dress, and you arched your back, nibbling his lip as you closed your eyes. With each roll of his pelvis, you gyrated yours to meet his, in a dynamic rhythm that sparked a fire between you. The more his erection ground against your clothed cunt, the more desire engulfed you like a crashing wave, making you want more.

“Tell me how I can become like your otome love interests. Sylus, how does he take care of the main character?”

“You will never be him.”

Gaku suppressed an eye roll.

“Of course, I'm not a criminal.”

“Sylus is kind of submissive; he worships the main character. He wants her to feel safe with him. Even if she hurt him in the past, she's still the love of his life, transcending time and reincarnations.”

“Fuck him, honestly, how do I compete with that?”

Your quiet laugh filled the car. “But I can show you how you should make love to me. I've imagined this moment many times.”

You took his hand and placed it on your neckline.

“You can worship in your own way, no need to reincarnate.”

“I'm not used to being gentle in bed.”

“Maybe because you didn't like your previous partners. When you see me, don't you want to take care of me?”

His eyes softened. “Of course, I do. I want to treat you gently. You deserve the best of me.”

“So show me what the best of you is.”

Gaku cupped your clothed breast, kneading it through the light fabric of your dress, and licked his lips as he felt your nipple harden against his hand. He lowered the cups, and his lips closed over your right nipple to suck it while he pinched and rolled the other between his fingers. Your back arched more, and you let out a soft sigh, riding his erection.

He undressed you vertically, removing the thin straps of your dress and sliding it down so that your upper body was bare. He pulled his head back for a few moments to admire the view of your breasts, your nipples slightly moistened by his mouth. 

You looked like a buffet, a buffet of sweet desserts, which anyone would pounce on if they had the chance to see it. Having your breasts in his mouth wasn't enough; he really needed to be able to eat you, just to keep you with him forever. But he couldn't tell you that without sounding like an orphan disturbed in his head.

He pressed soft kisses between your breasts, his mouth moving down to kiss your pudgy belly, your arms, your hips, and suck on any part of your flesh that had an excess of fat. Your brown skin was dotted with dark marks from his hickeys, but he didn't care. Now that you were his, he would claim you every day. And he hoped you would do the same, claiming him as yours.

He gently laid you down on the backseat and took off your dress. He kissed your feet, making you tickle, and his heart swelled at the sound of your little chuckles. His mouth traveled down your entire leg, and not a single part of your body hadn't experienced his lips on you. He kissed your inner thighs, but you suddenly clenched them. He looked up and noticed you looking away, flustered.

“What is it?”

“I’m not shaved.”

He cocked his head to one side, frowning. He waited several seconds to see when the joke would come, but you remained silent and embarrassed.

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

To show you he wasn’t intimidated by your pubic hair, he slid your panties down your legs, and his hands parted your hairs to find a path to your tight heat. He indulged in your arousal, the tip of his tongue wiggled through your wet folds. You bent your knees on the seat, pushing yourself up on your elbows to watch his head disappear between your thighs. His eyes were closed, as if savoring the taste of you in his mouth. A gentle pulse warmed your lower abdomen, and your breathing quickened as he drove his tongue deeper into you.

A slight tremor ran through your skin as he brushed your clit, the flicks expert and precise as he traced circles. You put your hand over your mouth to keep from moaning too loudly, but the pleasure overwhelmed you, your body burning.

“Keep makin’ pretty noises, f’me,” he hummed against you, a deep crease between his eyebrows as he saw you muffle your moans. Either way, he was going to pleasure you so much that you wouldn’t have a choice but to scream his name, he promised you.

He wrapped his lips around your clit to suck it greedily, you clenched your thighs around his face and ground your cunt into his mouth. He parted your folds before pushing a finger inside you, and he shuddered at the sensation of how tight you were. He plunged his digit in and out before inserting a second, while he abused your throbbing bud.

He curled them to hit that spongey spot inside you. The combination of G-spot and clit stimulation made you lose your mind. A hot coil wound tighter and tighter in your stomach before exploding like an inferno seizing your body to set you ablaze. You whimpered a loud 'gaku!' before throwing your head back, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

Gaku withdrew from your crotch, the bottom of his face glistening. He took off his clothes and threw them on the floor of his car. You caught your breath and glanced at him. You bit your lip at the sight of his massive muscles in front of you, his defined abs and V-line, after spending nights staring at that Instagram photo. But when your eyes fell on the erection, your eyes widened. His size was demonic.

“Um…”

“Mhm?”

He wrapped your legs around his waist, leaning over your body as his height towered over you, his hair falling in front of his eyes and hiding his gaze full of lust and desire. His girthy cock rubbed through the folds, still not inserting itself, lubricating itself with your arousal.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

“I will make it fit.”

He began to push his dick into you, your pussy wrapping around the head. You winced at the pain since it was your first time, but Gaku eased your pain with his hand, massaging your clit as he moved his hips backward, withdrawing from you to sink again, but gaining more inches into you this time.

His thrusts were gentle and slow, he remained attentive to your needs and expressions. He stilled inside you when you needed to adjust to his size. When he saw your face relax, he flushed his pelvic floor against yours, his happy trail rubbing against your hairs, and sank in completely. Your air froze in your lungs, but you endured the feeling of being full.

“Atta girl.”

He lay on top of you to press a kiss to your forehead. You wrapped your arms around him, pulled him close, and caressed the hard planes of his muscular back. He peppered your face with kisses, lingering on your jaw, cheeks, and nose. As he plunged in and out, and you panted, an electrifying tension coursing through your muscles, vibrating to the rhythm of your desire. It was a new, overwhelming, but definitely pleasant sensation that took hold of you like a wild fire igniting in your lower abdomen.

Holding onto his elbows, at each corner of your head, his silver chain tapped against your forehead with every movement of his body, a small, reassuring sound that immersed you in the sweetness of the moment. The wet slapslap of skin filled the car and the windows misted up. He pressed his forehead against yours and closed his eyes, his breath caressing your face.

You felt close to his heart, connected to him intimately beyond the physical, and the feeling of security that invaded you made your eyes water.

“You know, you’re my favorite boy ever.”

He kept his eyes closed, but for the first time you'd met him, his lips curved into a smile that reached his eyes. Your heart pounded at the sight, wanting to immortalize this moment forever.

“I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not special, I-”

You crushed your lips on his, your arms wrapping around his neck. His lips parted in shock, and you took the opportunity to mingle your tongue with his. You ravished his mouth, putting all the love you could into the kiss, and making him stop putting himself down.

“Okay, I get it, I get it,” he whispered against your lips. “Sorry.”

“Make love to me. Make me yours. I wanna be your favorite girl too.”

“Stop saying dumb shit like that, you’re always my favorite human in the world.”

He picked up the pace, his hips slamming against yours. He swallowed all your moans, continuing to kiss you, his cock stretching your pussy out. Each of his thrusts was an affirmation of love, and each roll of your pelvis to meet him and follow his dance was a reassurance he mattered in this word. In your own way, you reassured your aching hearts, like a soft blanket over your ache. Like yin and yang, you complemented each other, and in this present moment, you were united forever.

──────── 

𝟑 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

“What’s this?”

Uzuki looked curiously at the box Gaku was carrying. They were heading to Uzuki’s house, to spend time with you.

“It’s for your sister.”

Walking through the front door, he looked for you, eager to give you your gift. You came out of the kitchen, and even though you still had your satin bonnet on, you were still the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

“What’s up?” you greeted him, snuggling up to him. He hugged you, craving your warmth and scent.

“Just open this.” He jutted his chin at the box on the table.

You began to open the box, your eyes lighting up when you saw the acrylic stands from Tears of Themis and Love and Deepspace. You jumped up and down, and a wide smile stretched your lips as you rushed to unwrap everything from the plastic bags, discovering the otome merch your boyfriend had bought.

In that moment when you beamed with happiness, Gaku really thought he wanted you to have that expression all your life, and he hoped you would. In any case, he'll do anything to be the case. You were his favorite girl, after all.

──────── ✃- - - - - - - - - - - you liked it ? please support fics you liked with a reblog or a comment ! writers never know how we impact you if you don't say anything <3 ── .✦

[conniesministallion]

So cuteeee🩷🩷🩷

[krys4h]

𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞,

౨ৎ                    𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧. The love of his life betrayed him. Now Eren is alone. Alone with the burden of paying for his father's debt with assassination contracts. Alone with the burden of getting revenge on his rivals who killed Armin. Everything is so painful now he is alone, and he hates you so much for that. You ruined everything, every dream he had with you, every ‘I love you’ he said to you. Now he has to hurt you to feel better. Your tears and the pain in your eyes don’t faze him, he knows what you are. A manipulative traitor. He is too hurt to remember the genuine love you both had, too angry to even wonder if that's really what happened. Because did you really betray him? In any case, you have Jean if he never forgives you. Even though he would never be Eren.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ 9.6k words, dark content, heavy angst with no comfort, tragedy, black!fem!reader, thick!reader, bimbo!reader, love/hate relationships, fully!tattooed!eren, crimes, strip-tease, murders, hitman!eren, revenge, heavy backstory, heavy sexual trauma, depression, traumatic mutism, rough sex, violence, impact play, sex toys, fingering, vaginal penetration, public sex, backshots, no aftercare.

𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ .  extremely scared to post this……

“You’re pissing me off,” Eren muttered.

You kept giggling like your joke was the funniest thing ever, even though Eren's expression was sinister. He moved his tongue against the inside of his cheek to calm himself, but when you repeated your stupid thing, he wrapped his hand around your neck and shoved you violently against the mattress.

He glared at your playful eyes. “I said you’re pissing me off.”

“Then why do I feel your erection, dumbass ?”

“You’re just prettier when you laugh but I’m serious right now.”

“Mhmm, just fuck me to punish me then?”

He rolled his eyes but glanced at the time on your alarm clock on the bedside table.

You always did that when he had to go to work. And not the legal kind of work. Eren was a hitman and a literal criminal outside of killing people for money. He couldn't disappoint his boss for too long before being killed or, at best, tortured.

“I was here all day and you preferred to talk to me about astrology,” he sighed.

“No astrology slander in my house!”

“It’s my house, I pay the bills, you’re just here for decoration.”

You spat on his face. Deadass. Eren blinked for a few moments, trying to understand if the saliva on his cheek was a hallucination or if you really wanted him to strangle you to death.

“You want to play that game?” he asked, his voice as sinister as his expression.

You shivered, fighting the urge not to smile out of excitement. “I…”

“I’m going to play with you, don’t worry.”

He released your throat and moved away. You whined, disappointed, but swallowed hard as he went to get the object whose name was not to be spoken.

“Eren… I was joking…”

“What?” he chuckled. “You don’t think the game is funny anymore?” He leaned down to kiss the exposed parts of your stomach through your crop top, his hands slipping under your denim mini-skirt. Your legs trembled, and he lifted his head to smirk at your scared expression. He waited for the safe word, to know if you were really against it, but it never came.

“Fucking performative,” he scoffed.

He roughly pulled off your panties, and his fingers caressed your core, preparing you for the long hours of overstimulation the sex toy would provide.

“Eren, I can’t do that shit, I’m stripping tonight, I can’t be aroused during work.”

You tried to stop rolling your hips to take more of his fingers inside, but it was impossible.

“I forgot I was ‘Captain Save a Hoe’ because my girlfriend is a fucking stripper,” he grumbled.

It wasn’t that simple. He knew it was a coping mechanism for you, and he never judged you for it. You were both very troubled people. BDSM had always been the best way to externalize your traumas. So your need to regain control of your body by making money from its objectification wasn’t a problem.

The problem with stripping was that not all clients were respectful. He fought his urges to lock you up in your apartment when you came home with a new experience of unwanted touching.

“Watch your tone when you talk about me I’m gonna spit on you again.”

“Yeah?” His fingers plunged into you while his thumb rubbed circles on your clit. “I’m so excited to see that. You want me to be mean?”

You clenched your thighs around his wrist, moaning. “Shut your damn mouth.”

The stimulation of his hand didn’t last long because he put the sex toy in place, at a low intensity for the moment. He had the remote control to increase when he's at work to lead your clit to burnout.

“Rennieeeeeee!” You threw yourself at him when he got up from the bed and hugged him from behind. “Just have sex with me, stop doing that. You work too much and now you do weird stuff like this. They are exploiting you.”

“Complaining about laws for an illegal job,” he laughed and pushed you away to put on a black t-shirt.

You already missed seeing the tattoo about your own astrology sign on his lower abdomen. Eren loved to talk shit about your love for spiritual stuff, but he always respected it secretly. His whole body was just tattoos about you, your favorite things he always mocked in real life. When you were almost hurt about his mean tone, you just have to undress him to remember he is a loverboy spirit in a jerk body.

At this point, he should just accept he was a simp. The cute blue penguin keychain he has on his jeans that matched your pink one was a sign he should accept this very quickly. He didn’t fool you when he said he was a feminist and won’t do that immature stuff as a grown ass man. He had it on him the next day, and was unfazed by Connie’s reaction at his job. He was the best hitman in his organization, people needed to leave him alone and let him wear matching stuff with his woman, especially Connie who burst out of laughing every time he saw the penguin.

“You know you’re kinda cringe with that,” you mocked when he put on his sneakers.

He glanced at you, and then at the bed with many plushies of anime male characters he was forced to sleep with, and decided he wouldn’t fall for the ragebait of the queen of cringe herself.

After some whining from you, you accompanied him to the front door.

He pushed the braids that were in front of your shoulders to let them in your back, the sound of the beads at the end clashing together made him smile. He wasn't stupid, you always wore the hairstyle he found you the most beautiful with when his birthday was near. And that asshole was specific. Boho braids that stopped around the shoulders with beads. Even your braider knew it was Eren's birthday when you asked for that hairstyle.

He leaned to kiss your forehead. “Send me a video when you will cry because it's too much, I love seeing that,” he said softly, but his soft tone didn't hide his sadistic tendencies to force you to wear sex toys.

“I won't cry for your lame ass punishment.”

“You love lying, baby.”

He kissed you but pushed you away when you wanted to add your tongue. You made an indignant expression and cursed him out as he chuckled, leaving the apartment.

The pleasant late afternoon air caressed his skin as he touched his pocket outside the building. His eyes softened as he realized you'd bought him another pack of Malboro cigarettes without him telling you he was out and had slipped it into his jeans. He was an asshole, so that information didn't make him feel any guilt about his punishment. Your brave ass spat on him. You deserved it.

He sat in his car, driving unconsciously with one hand on the wheel and the other outside the window because you'd told him one day he looked sexy like that.

He parked near the organization disguised as a home cleaning company. Connie was smoking, sitting on the sidewalk across the street, and Eren took a breath to endure his umpteenth joke about his keychain.

“You wear that penguin for her here when she wears nothing at all at her job,” Connie snickered as they did their usual handshake.

“And I have hair and you don't, guess life is unfair ?”

“Man, fuck you.”

Some people walked near them, so Eren spoke in their secret language for their organization.

“What type of household chores should we do?”

“Tidy up mainly the office, there’s no big mess at the moment.”

Eren let out a groan. He hated doing the administration and logistics of drug and weapons dealing. It's sad to say but he was more comfortable killing people.

“You're the only one who applied for every job here, I don't know why you don't focus on one task.”

Eren tensed. Connie was just a good friend but he knew nothing about his father's debt he had to pay he didn't have time. The only friend who was so close to Eren, to the point that man followed him in his crimes, was Armin. But he had been murdered by his organization's enemies. Now, he avoided creating deep bonds there.

The organization was located in a remote corner of the city, its monotonous buildings bearing an old, cheesy commercial slogan for a home cleaning company. Once you entered, every floor seemed legitimate; there were even closets stocked with cleaning supplies. All criminal documents were hidden away in drawers secured with unbreakable locks.

Eren sat at his desk and began the tedious task of verifying that drug suppliers had been properly contacted with favorable prices. Then he had to contact all the associated dealers in the city to find out if they had been threatened recently, given the tensions that had arisen since Armin's murder.

He spent hours doing administrative work, ignoring his criminal colleagues who came to greet him. He was well-liked by the lower ranks and disliked by the higher ranks, who realized how much better Eren was than them and could be replaced quickly.

Joke on them, Eren had been ordered to take on more important missions, he refused and was tortured, but he kept his word. He wasn't there for loyalty, he was there for money.

It was only towards the end of his shift that he received a hidden call. He let out a heavy breath, already knowing it was his enemies. He always answered the call though, it was funny for him. They were only able to kill one man in a rivalry of 10 years when his boss killed 13 of their men. A very, very precious lost, but they were only an angry dog ​​that barks a lot and never bites.

“I fucked your girl,” one of them said on the phone first, Eren rolled his eyes. They always said that to any man in the organization who had a wife or girlfriend.

“Yeah, me too, every night. What do you want?”

“No, I really did. Look at that.”

The unknown number sends him a video. Eren frowned, thinking they wanted to install a virus on his professional phone, but clicked anyway since the phone was protected.

That's surely what the dinosaurs felt when the meteorite crossed the planet's atmosphere. The end of the world. That's the image he had in mind when he recognized the butterfly jewelry on the navel piercing of the woman in the video who was being fucked.

The angle of the video changed and he let out a painful noise when he also recognized the tattoo on her hip. The cute doodle tattoo they created when they were 15 and had it on both of their bodies. Showed on a video where multiple men fucked you.

He genuinely couldn't watch the dick comes in and out of her because the creamy arousal on it made him sick to his stomach.

He left the building without respecting his working hours, throwing the keychain in the trash before. This fuckass organization didn't even respect laws, who cares. 

He drove to your strip club in the deep darkness with his hands gripping the steering wheel far too tightly.

He should have reacted rationally. Thought. Considered whether you were capable of doing that. Found a logical explanation for why the love of his life would have done that.

But Eren was incapable of it.

Maybe his fear of being too much because of his mental issues was real. He felt things too deeply, too intensely. His impulsivity. His rage. His job as a hitman that makes him forget empathy. His morbid attachment to you. His passion and determination. Everything about him screamed borderline personality disorder. He knew that, he just refused to see a therapist. 

Was he really too much for you ?

He shook his head, he couldn't believe the hollow ache in his heart.

There was no way. There was no way the girl he knew since 10 years, was in love since he was 14 years old, engaged since he was 18 had cheated on him. With several men. He wanted to throw up when remembering the many hands on your thighs in the video.

But everything made sense. Since a few weeks, you asked for rougher sex, he had to learn knife play now for you. Everytime he wanted to be gentle, you asked him to go harder.

You felt guilty, and didn't think you deserved his gentle side.

He parked in the strip club's parking lot and lied to your manager about one of your closed ones dying, telling them you had to end your shift early when he went inside.

He couldn't hear the music while waiting for you, couldn't even look at the dancers around the poles. Everything was blurry and clear at the same time. His body was seething with the urge to blow up the entire planet, and he was bleeding so much he was surprised he wasn't crying with all the hurt you'd just caused him.

When you came in with hurried steps and a surprised voice about the supposed death, Eren just ignored you and left the strip club.

“You're that shocked about the death, who—”

“When you told me the sexual abuse made you obsessed with being objectified for money, was that a lie too?” He slammed your head violently against the hood of his car, ignoring your surprised and painful moan. “Because it seems to me, you are just a fucking traitor.”

“E-Eren, what the fuck? What are you talking about—”

“You know,” Eren cut in, his voice so cold that you trembled, “I really believed you when you told me sometimes rape victims aren't perfect victims. It made a lot of sense. But you aren't ashamed of yourself for faking a trauma just to cheat on me? Rape victims are a joke to you?”

Your whole body freezes. The most violent sentences he ever said to you and the most hurtful he could say to the helpless child you were when your mom's friend abused you.

You knew what he was talking about.

It was so dumb, so stupid, so ridiculous, but you thought what happened was a nightmare. When two weeks after it Eren still didn't know anything, you were reassured.

Deep down, you knew it was real. They told you they were gonna kill him if you talked.

“E-Eren, I—”

“I really loved you, you know that?” There was so much pain and resentment in his voice, he sounded like he was dying, breaking down in front of you. Tears prickled in your eyes, but your voice wouldn't come out to defend yourself.

You had a feeling of déjà vu.

Not just a feeling. This was the second time it had happened.

Your mother had the same voice. But tinged with a lot of misogyny. Because who in their right mind would believe a 35-year-old man saying a 13-year-old child seduced him?

Your mom, apparently, thats why she abandoned you in foster care. To cope, you thought it was good that she abandoned you so that you could meet the love of your life, even if he hated your guts now.

The trauma of her never believed your victim status was a ghost that never really left your body and mind.

And now, the ghost was as pained as you at the situation with Eren.

They could kill him if you told the truth. He could not believe you if you told the truth. Both of these options were death sentence for you, so you accepted the painful one of being seen as a cheater.

“I'm sorry, Eren,” you only could say as the tears fell on your face and accepted your fate.

“You're not sorry at all,” he chuckled darkly. “Your tears don't fool me.”

The sound of a belt being unfastened sent shivers down your spine, and you glanced around the parking lot, which was deserted except for a few unoccupied cars. Your fellow strippers were finishing at the same time as you, in three hours, so there shouldn't be too much trouble. Besides, it was the employee parking lot, behind the club.

“Eren, I—”

“Shut your damn mouth. I'm going to give you real sex since you want it that badly you searched for it from my own enemies.”

Eren's body trembled with rage. He needed to channel the destructive suffering he felt into something—sex, always sex. Because otherwise, he'd kill you in this parking lot.

For betraying him. Betraying your relationship. Betraying the ring on your finger. Betraying his initials tattooed on your finger. Betraying your name tattooed on his ribs.

You were his whole world, why did you even do that ?

Eren couldn't know. You were so scared. It was you enduring his rage or him getting killed. 

When he lowered the shorts part of your pink Juicy Couture set, your cheeks heat up at the disgusting damp thong you had on because of the sex toy.

“Always with these bimbo clothes. You should just stick to the whore clothing style, I wouldn't have confused you with the love of my life.” 

He tore down the underwear. He raised your head roughly, pulling your braids back and shoving the arousal-filled thong into your mouth, your muffled shocked sounds ignored.

“Just taste, baby. How does it taste ? The games we had ? The sexual routines ? Our hard limits ? Tell me how does it taste after you let these motherfucker be inside you.”

He nudged with his dick the feverish warmth between your legs, the disgust on his tongue making him pasty in the mouth and want to stop everything. He hated doing things like this. He wanted to make love to you, brutally, maybe, but lovingly. Not this weird hate fuck.

“I’m not your mom’s friend. I’m just mad,” he mumbled, embarrassed to even care about you. He spanked you, making the pillowy flesh of your ass bounce. “Don’t forget this.”

The brutal way he slid in, your wet folds welcoming him like a warm home, made you jolt. Your own taste on your tongue accentuated Eren's dominance. You couldn't see him, bent over the hood of his car, but his presence was everywhere. In the way he gripped your braids to harshly to make you see the starry sky, your mouth agape. In the way his dick just kept hitting and hitting the best spot, at the best pace, like he always did.

You wish you could see the anger in his eyes. The madness, the one he had when he came back at home after a paid murder. You always knew your boyfriend was mentally ill, but at this moment, his disturbed mind made you hot all over.

The loud noise of his pelvis hitting your fat ass echoed in the parking lot. You looked regularly towards the staff door to check that no one was going to see this humiliating spectacle.

But you loved that shit. You didn't want him to stop talking with you, kick you out, or block you. You wanted him to continue hating you while loving you so much that it was only when your sweaty bodies rubbed together that there was a moment of understanding.

Maybe one day he would forgive you.

A way of having a happy ending without revealing the tragedy you suffered at the hands of these men. A way of having the man of your dreams alive.

He will give you all his hatred and you will welcome it in a hug, cherishing it. Because at least, it will mean his heart still beats. And if it does, you won over these evil men.

“I need more,” I whimpered, spitting out your thong, begging him to even ruin you if he wanted.

“I think you forgot who’s taking the lead now,” he rasped, his pace picking up as he smashed your head against the car hood again.

The pain made you sobbing, part of your face swelling from the contact. But he angled his hips in such an exquisite way, your eyes closed just to savor how he killed this.

You wished things could be different as you sobbed against the hood.

It’s like you were doomed. You never had any chance in life.

If all you deserved was Eren’s violence, then you were going to take it.

At least he’s alive when he hurts you.

  ────────

You had locked yourself in the shower for hours because you couldn't hold back your tears. After coming home, Eren had destroyed all your favorite plates, the ones he'd given you for a birthday, torn down all the couple photos on your bedroom walls, and smashed the mirror by the bed that you'd specifically used for mirror sex. You had to watch him do all of that, unable to ease his pain by telling him it wasn't consensual when it happened.

Your brown skin hid the faint bruises they left when they held you down. They deliberately didn't hurt you too badly so the abuse would go unnoticed. A gun was pressed against your temple when they filmed it from an angle that showed telltale signs of you. They were so clever.

You spent so many years falling asleep on his chest, and he was the one who put on your satin bonnet. He was the one who made your breakfast when you got back from your shift. He was the one who ran your bath. He was the one who went to get your new makeup products once you'd finished using the old ones. He knew the shades of blush, foundation, and concealer by heart. 

What will your life be like now that he hates you?

You got out of the shower wrapping a towel around your body, thinking Eren was sleeping. But as soon as you came out of the shower, you encountered his murderous gauze, freezing you on the spot.

“Why didn’t you wear the waist beads I bought you during it? A way of respecting me when you let them penetrate MY woman?”

“Eren, I…”

“Answer, I don’t give a shit about you anymore.”

“I didn’t want to feel your presence during it, I forgot it there,” you whispered, your tearful eyes looking at the floor. Being raped with your boyfriend’s gift around your body was too heartbreaking.

“So loving of you. I’m gonna make your life such a nightmare. You’re gonna regret betraying me forever, love.”

You didn’t know until now we could use the ‘love’ pet name with so much hatred in a voice.

“Do you…” You struggled to speak. “Do you still want me to live with you?”

“I already told you why you can’t live alone.”

You hid your relief, your shoulders relaxing. “But you hate me now, why do you care if your enemies kill me?”

Eren tensed, looking away. “Mind your damn business.” He sat on the sofa. “You're going to sleep here. I threw away your useless anime stuffed animals.”

You took a deep inhale. “Okay.”

“Did you give them information?” Eren asked as  you sat on the couch.

“Why would I do that?”

His gaze hardened. “Why would you let them be inside you?”

I stared at the floor. You hated how he genuinely believed you let them do that, but you can't tell him. Eren will absolutely want to destroy them and they will know you talked and kill them or even both of you. Eren always told you how much they weren't very skilled, but they were. They just killed Armin, a very smart element in the organization and now they are stressing out the other one who is important.

“I wasn’t very… satisfied with you lately.”

Eren chuckled, a sad chuckle, a broken chuckle. You knew he wanted to cry. You want too, again.

He just left you in the living room and slammed the door.

You fell asleep on the couch, heart heavy.

────────

Eren looked at you sleeping, wondering how the fuck that shit could have happened. 

Was it during a sleep over with your stripper friends?

How could you do this to him?

You were getting married. He was supposed to take your last name.

You understood each other on so many levels. So many people were uncomfortable with foster kids. People didn't want to deal with your pain. Nobody had the same trauma as you. A boy abandoned by his father and used for his father's debts. A girl, a victim of sexual abuse by a family friend and abandoned by her mother. You only had the two of you to feel less alone, more seen and more heard.

So why did you do this?

The video played in his brain, constantly, all night.

Now that you were asleep, his rage left, replaced by just sorrow and pain.

He loved so badly, what did you mean you weren't satisfied anymore?

He nuzzled his head against your soft stomach, inhaling the mixture of scents between your cocoa butter oil and the Sol de Janeiro body cream he always bought you. They touched your stomach. They must have even cummed on it; his own belly twisted at the thought.

He clenched his fists, fighting the disgust inside him.

He cried a bit, but he wasn't sad. Maybe he tried to connect with you with his tears on your skin; maybe physiologically you would understand how much you had hurt him. Maybe you still didn't care.

He wiped away his tears and left the apartment. He was so tired, but he had to return to the organization at dawn. He had to alert everyone that his enemies were planning something nasty. Even if you were a cheater, he knew damn well they had found you and not the other way around.

────────

You were woken up by a torrent of water on your face, making you feel like you were choking.

“I wasn’t that mean yesterday, but I came to my senses,” Eren scoffed. “I really realized that shit. You let several men sleep with you? While you're engaged? You deserve hell.” 

You coughed but froze when you saw he was shirtless, clearly fresh from the shower, wearing only sweatpants and with damp hair. It wasn't the fact that he was shirtless that made your eyes widen in pain. It wasn't missing his abs rubbing against your thick body, his hard planes against your softer curves, that you missed.

You missed his tattoos about you. He had covered them. All of them. Your name under his ribcage had been replaced with something else.

“Eren…” 

He stiffened at your trembling voice. He hated hurting the woman he loved so dearly, but you didn't care about him. Or that's what he thought.

“What? Surprised? I don't want your name on me anymore.”

Was this really how you were going to end up?

When he's finished paying off the debt his father forced him to bear by disappearing, is this what you'll have left? You, with all your tattoos about him, hoping he'll forgive you one day, and him with all his tattoos about you forgotten under a new ink?

Maybe death would have been a better choice.

“You're going to stop stripping.”

“Eren—”

“You weren't protected during it, I saw their dicks,” he spat with disgust. “I don't know what you're doing with your clients during private dances.”

“I took a pill, Eren.”

“I hope so, I would have killed that baby.”

You shivered, a bit horrified at how mean Eren can be when angry.

“Anyway, it's not about pregnancy. Sexually transmitted diseases are a thing, if you didn't know. You disgust me anyway. Find another job. I don’t buy your coping mechanism bullshit anymore.”

Your body was vibrating with him screaming they raped you so he would stop ruining the good things in your life but you couldn't because that scream might kill him as a result.

“Can I ask Jean if I can work with him?” you asked, apprehension in your voice.

He glared at you.

“So you fucked him too?”

“Eren, you know damn well I'm only friends with people from my club. Jean left it, but kept my number. He works in another bar now.”

“I also thought I knew you loved me.”

“I do, Eren. A lot. So much.”

He burst out of laughing and you looked away, drying your wet braids.

“You're really funny,” he muttered before leaving the living room.

Getting tattooed for hours just to let go of the urgency of not having you on his skin anymore was painful, but such a relief. Ony, his tattoo artist was so talented.

But he loved you so much, it felt so strange to not see your big ass name on his sides when he looked in the bathroom mirror. You were all his life but he was just a chapter for you.

He still hadn't slept yet. When he woke up, his hand was grabbing your breast and you rubbed your ass against his morning erection on purpose, but now you cheated on him because you weren't satisfied anymore. Life was so weird.

He loved you deeply so of course he winced when he remembered what he said about your trauma with your mom's friend.

He didn't truly believe you lied. He was here when you cried during sex when you were still a teen. But he was just confused.

It didn't make any sense, and he was too hurt to even seek answers from you.

He put on a t-shirt and he flinched when you came in the bedroom to get dressed.

“Who you’re gonna fuck now?” he asked, disdain barely hidden in his voice.

“Jean.”

It's like you stopped trying to deny what he thought of you. You had already made your choice, now you had to play the game.

He let out a heavy breath.

“Have fun, since hurting me is your new kink. Must be the weird graduation of the dominance you wanted since a few weeks ago.”

You almost lost control of your resolve to tell him you need rougher sex to numb yourself from the trauma but you kept your mouth shut and tried to act bored. Even though it was still raining in your heart.

────────

“Wow, I would never thought you and Eren would be over,” Jean said, drinking his cocktail.

The Emerald, the bar where Jean worked now, used its name perfectly. Luxury green was everywhere with chairs, tables and plants. Drinking in this bar was like drinking in a comforting lush jungle.

“Yeah, time changes relationships,” you lied.

Jean looked at you nervously, not knowing if it was the right time to tell you that he had a crush on you.

“So you…”

“How can someone who cheated be forgiven?”

He widened his eyes. “He cheated?”

“Jean, please answer the question.”

“I would never forgive cheating.”

You stiffened. “Even it’s the love of your life?”

“The love of my life wouldn’t cheat on me.”

You fell silent, your eyes watering but managed to leave your slight tears unnoticed.

────────

Eren was so tired. Tired of you. Tired of his life. It's been 48 hours and he's still awake because he had to work.

As he was stalking a new target, parked in front of a restaurant, he tried not to fall asleep even though his eyes kept closing on their own.

He needed money. He never refused assassination contracts.

But as he drove behind the target's car after he finished his dinner and headed home, other cars were behind him.

“Fuck, I'm so dumb,” he grumbled. He got in his fucking car and forgot to take the ones with tinted windows from his job.

Of course, a mafia boss would want to eliminate a novice who was stalking him and realized he was being sent by someone.

He drove like a maniac and accelerated to escape the cars chasing him, his need for sleep forgotten. His life was at stake. This mafia boss was Russian, the assassination contract was from his Italian rival, they didn't know the streets of the city very well. Unlike Eren, who had grown up here.

In the deserted streets, the men behind him tried to shoot him, damaging the car. Eren let out a groan, grabbing a handbag you'd left on the passenger seat floor and putting all your personal information in it. They'll maybe find him. But he can still protect your life.

He used the car's full speed to get ahead before jumping out and running between alleyways he knew they couldn't come by car. He looked ridiculous with your Miu Miu bag in his hand, which cost him almost three thousand dollars. But it was your engagement gift; he would do anything to please you and buy everything on your wishlist. When he arrived at the apartment after half an hour of intense sprinting, he collapsed on the sofa to sleep, covered in sweat.

────────

The soft sound of the television finally woke him, and he frowned at the sight of a plate of kuru fasulye with rice on the table. He glanced at you, watching yet another Cheetah Girls movie, and it made him roll his eyes.

“You need to get off these movies.” 

Your heart swelled at his calm tone; maybe you were lucky today. You opened your mouth to say happy birthday, but fell silent at his outburst.

“Who told you to cook my favorite Turkish dish? You think I’m that stupid to forgive you for that?” 

He pushed the plate away, and it crashed to the floor with a loud clatter, the food spilling out. An uncomfortable lump formed in your throat. You wanted to tell him that you'd followed the true recipe of his culture and had soaked the beans for hours in cold water, just the way it should be, while he slept, but he'd think you were trying to manipulate him.

You had enough self-respect not to just bend down and clean up the mess he'd made. You ignored him and watched the TV again, focusing on the movie.

But Eren grabbed a handful of your braids and pulled them so you fell onto his chest. You let out a groan of relief at the thought of him being close to you after hours of hatred. And he was sweaty. It was disgusting, but you nuzzled his chest.

Eren's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, inhaling your scent. His shoulders relaxed when he recognized the cocoa butter oil scent and that one popular body cream.

"You didn't fuck Jean. You still smell like yourself."

"Maybe I just sucked his dick."

“Oh my god, I’m going to kill you.” He pulled on your braids even harder, glaring at you, but you chuckled nervously at the absurdity of the situation. You kept lying and he believed your nonsense, but he thought you lied on the only real true thing: your love for him.

He was still too groggy, so he rubbed his eyes. He looked so cute like this, you leaned down to kiss his cheeks. He narrowed his eyes but stayed silent, as if he needed that kiss after all.

“Don’t open the door to anybody if I’m not here and don’t leave home without a gun.”

“Why?”

“You made me act like a moron at work with all this exhaustion,” he treated the subject in a trivial manner before looking at you better. “Do you remember how to use a gun?”

“Of course, you taught this when we were still teenagers.”

“When you still acted like you loved me.”

Your lips parted, you paused. Silence. You stared at each other, you trying not to cry because you loved him more than anything, he trying not to kill you for what he thought you'd done.

You were thinking about your engagement.

Marriage was an obligation for some. An act of love. Or a religious reason.

For you and Eren, getting married was your chance to connect with others. To be more than just foster kids. To finally be normal, to have people ask you normal questions. No more pity, embarrassment, or discomfort. You were a married couple who had gone through so much trauma together, and people would find it beautiful. Nobody would think you were broken.

But what about now?

“About…”

“Shut up, go clean up.”

“I’m not going to clean up the mess of a grown ass white man.”

Eren's eyes shot daggers but he got the message, and you chuckled again seeing him cleaning up his own mess. You wanted to cry so badly, everything hurts, but you were laughing. Maybe you will end up with dementia at this point.

  ──────── 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

Eren acted like like a fucking lunatic.

One hour, he will be teasing you, the next one you would cry because he has his gun against your temple, forcing you to show him your text messages. 

He struggled with so many stuff that stressed him out. The debt. Armin’s death. Your “cheating”.

So today, when he came home from work, dark circles under his eyes, you thought it was normal. He had always been tired of his job as a hitman, and you always took care of him when you could.

But he collapsed in the entryway of your apartment.

Worried, you wrapped your arms around him, and he let out a pained groan.

“Eren?”

“Leave me alone,” he muttered, his voice weak.

Your hands went to his back to help him up. His back was damp; you thought it was sweat. But when he rested his head on your shoulder and leaned on you to walk to the sofa, you realized with horror that you had blood on your hands.

Once he was seated, you took off his clothes and tried not to get goosebumps at the sight of his muscular thighs, abs, and how blessed nature had him.

When you saw the deep, bloody wounds on his back, you shivered.

"Did they ask you to change ranks again?"

"No," he whispered, his voice so frail it twisted your stomach, "I'm just being punished for the target I missed a few weeks ago."

"Why does your boss torture you all the time when you're one of his best men?" You started disinfecting his wounds.

“He’s not my boss. He’s the higher-ups. They’re jealous because they want to keep their positions,” he breathed.

“But you don’t want their positions!” 

He chuckled but groaned at the pain it caused since he’d also been hit in the ribs.

“That’s why they’re idiots.” 

You quickly forgot the context of your current relationship and began to tend to his wounds as best you could, gently. You gave him painkillers and herbal tea to help him relax. Then, you took his face in your hands to see if he had a scratch.

“Don’t be fooled by my state, I still hate you.”

The venom in his voice made you stiffen and your eyes sadden. He pushed you away.

“You didn’t have those sad eyes when they were pounding into you.”

I had, actually, I even sobbed, you thought.

“Are you feeling better?”

“It’s not like you’ll give a damn.”

“Eren…”

“Call me Yeager. My name is too intimate for a whore.”

It was like receiving spit on your face. You glared at him, but for what? He thought you had group sex behind his back. You were the one at fault.

“O-Okay.” You swallowed hard, you no longer had dignity. “Then… Yeager… Do you need some help with showering?”

“No, fuck off.”

He tried to get up but always fell so you helped him while he snarled insults at you.

You were undressing him and preparing his bath, but you realized he was staring at you with a particular intensity as he sat in the tub.

“Um…”

“Why don’t you kill me?”

“What?”

“Why. You. Don’t. Kill. Me. That’s what you wanted to do, right? Make me feel so exhausted from the grief of our relationship, distracted at my job because of the hurt, and still getting close to me like a poison because of my love. You wanted to kill me. You’re having fun watching me being tortured. Why didn’t you just shoot me in the head? It would be faster.” 

Your hands trembled as you soaped his neck, avoiding his gaze.

“I guess I want you to feel pain longer…”

“You know… You’re weird. The situation is so weird. Something doesn’t add up.” 

Your brain worked quickly to find something to stop him from discovering the truth and being killed.

“I was just tired of you. You promised me you would take care of me and our life is a nightmare. It was fine when we were minors. But your job as a hitman ruined everything. You just ruin everything with your mental health and your family debt problems. I want more in life.”

You immediately regretted this way of doing things with the sight of his eyes which gave a glimpse of the soul bruised by your words.

“I meant…”

“You’re right. I never had been the best man for you.”

“Eren, I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

He stared at the bathtub floor without saying anything.

What you said made a lot of sense.

He knew that.

He just ruins, ruins, and ruins.

Kills, kills and kills. 

He wasn't a good person. But he thought you liked him that way.

Maybe your romance was all a lie.

  ──────── 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

Eren tucked the stray curl of hair into your satin bonnet, pushing it back with his gun, his other hand holding his blunt. He held his breath so as not to make a sound and wake you when you stirred on the bed.

He'd always loved watching you sleep before. It was funny seeing your angelic face drooling on the pillow, a far cry from the needy expression you had when you asked him to slap you in bed.

But right now, watching you sleep made him want to kill you and then himself.

How could such a beautiful woman be such a traitor? A girl so caring, who did everything for him, with him. It didn't make any sense. He was so close to the truth. Too hurt to see it.

He stared at your forehead for long seconds and squeezed the trigger against it, wondering how he would react if you were dead. He hated you, but he'd rather you were alive somewhere on this planet. Alive with Jean, maybe. His jaw tightened as he pictured the brown-haired man with you.

He placed the gun on the mattress. His hand slipped under your t-shirt to caress your soft stomach. Was Jean going to be the father of your children now?

His whole body was churning; he wanted to reject this fate.

For the past few days, Eren hadn't recognized himself.

He kept replaying what you'd said in the bathtub. That he was destroying everything, ruining your life with his mental and family problems. That you wanted more.

He was having trouble eating and sleeping these days. The fog in his head was taking over.

"Eren?" Your hands in his hair pulled him out of his inner darkness. He hadn't noticed he'd lain down on top of you, his head on your chest.

"Why are you crying?" 

He touched his wet cheeks, confused.

“Nothing,” he grumbled, sniffling. “Acting like you don’t know why.”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s not my problem.”

He let out a quiet laugh—a sad, hoarse one.

“Nothing is your problem. You only care about shaking ass at the club. Aren’t you ashamed?” He snapped, his voice raising. “You could have left way before than betraying me like that.”

You wished you could make the tears in the corners of his eyes disappear.

“You fuck good.”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched even more. “That’s all? That’s the only thing you like about me?”

Tell him he mattered. Tell him his mental battles weren’t such a burden.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and brought his head close to yours.

“Yes. Now do something.”

“You don’t deserve it,” he spat, venom in his voice.

That’s what you wanted. His hatred. His anger. Something that proves he’s alive. You could keep the secret of what happened your whole life if it was to keep him safe.

Even if his hands between your thighs were rougher than usual when he fingered you, despite what he said. Even if it was your turn to cry when he fucked you, his hand on his bedframe, a full view of the tattoos on his chest covering the ones about you. Even if there was more pain in his gaze than lust when he finished.

Eren hurriedly got out of bed, pulling on sweatpants. Eren needed to stop sleeping with you when his emotions were uncomfortable. He needed to detach himself from his ex. It was over between you. You didn’t love him. You were going to become the mother of Jean’s children. He was nothing to you. His hands trembled as he smoked on the balcony, barely able to hold his blunt.

He had your mouth forming an O in his mind as he gazed at the city lit by illuminated skyscrapers and streetlights. Your little whimpers. Your hands caressing his sculpted abs. Your pleas to go faster, harder, more intense. As if it wasn't already heartbreaking enough that he had to be so sexually rough with you to satisfy you.

Was that why you cheated on him? Always needing more. He's never enough and always too much for you.

He glared at you as you slept.

He resented you so much.

  ──────── 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

“You look terrible, man,” Connie observed, his feet up on his desk, smoking a joint as he surveyed a gaunt Eren with deep-set dark circles under his eyes.

“Focus on your work. We have to avenge Armin, and you know my own reasons for wanting to kill them all.”

“You don’t look very ready to hear what I’m about to say.”

Eren slammed his fist on the desk. “Just spill the beans on what you found, damn it.”

He had asked Connie to hack into their enemies’ security cameras several weeks ago to prepare an attack plan behind his boss’s back.

“Eren, I don’t think you want to see that, I’m serious.” 

He shoved Connie’s chair aside with a “tsk” and opened the surveillance video folder. With the mouse cursor, he watched the fast-forward footage of the men entering and leaving the organization. “You’re playing with me, Con. That’s boring as hell.”

“Go back two and a half months. Don’t scream. What we’re doing is against protocol.”

He did as Connie asked. He frowned as a woman was helped out of a car trunk by several men. The hot knot in his stomach grew and grew as the cogs in his brain assembled the pieces of the puzzle. 

The woman had a bag over her head and was struggling, but it was easy to recognize you. You were wearing a House of CB dress Eren had bought you. A long, floral bustier dress. One he hadn’t seen since you came back from your night out with your stripper friends, and you were avoiding his gaze with the oversized men’s clothes on you.

You had asked for rough sex that day. No matter how much you cried, you had asked him to be even rougher. He thought it was your way of dealing with your sexual trauma.

He was right; he didn't know at that time that you had a new one. 

His whole body burned, his trembling fingers clicking on the internal cameras, but Connie turned off his computer by unplugging it.

“I know you don't want to be friends with me since Armin died, but I like you. Don't beat yourself up watching this. It was very long and painful to watch.” 

The hotness rose in his throat, and he vomited his breakfast onto Connie's desk. He winced but understood his reaction.

“Why didn't she tell me?” he murmured, lost and horrified.

“Why would she? You're going to try to kill them all, and they'll kill you. We underestimate them a lot; that's how they killed Armin.”

“Who cares?” Eren sneered, incredulous. “They hurt my baby.”

 “You’re not going to make her suffer from your death on top of everything else? She must have been so scared for you all this time.”

While Eren put you through hell.

He kicked the desk, cursing.

──────── 

He nuzzled your neck affectionately; your scent no longer made him nauseous. It was what you had been a victim of that made him feel sick now.

He couldn't talk to you right now; he would break down and show you he knew. He preferred to cuddle you while you slept and plot his revenge.

He wasn't sure he would come back alive. But he had to, for his girl. He wouldn't be able to look at himself in the mirror if he didn't do something to bring you justice.

"You're gonna be okay if I die, right?" he whispered against your skin. He lowered his head to listen to your heart—the most important sound in his universe.

You're gonna be okay if he dies getting revenge on you, you have Jean.

Even though he's already dead to the thought of you with someone else.

    ──────── 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

“Give her this if I don’t come back,” Eren said to Connie in the car, handing him an envelope. “Give it to her personally. She’s not stupid enough to come to my funeral and get caught or even open the door.”

“A love confession?”

“A will of love.”

“You don’t really have to do this, Eren. You can leave the organization and have your happy ending with her.”

“Happy ending? I have a fucking debt to pay, Connie. They’re already threatening me enough because I’m not paying it back fast enough, according to them. I’ll be in a life of crime for a long time. And even then, the men who abused my girl can’t be alive. I’m going to try to kill at least one of them to rest in peace.”

Connie chuckled nervously.

“You don’t understand that’s exactly what they’re waiting for, Eren. You’re the best member of the organization. Losing you is good for them. They’ve chosen low-ranking members to carry out their massacre.” 

“And they made me hate and hurt the love of my life for weeks. They all deserve to die, I don’t care about their ranks.”

“Your girl can’t say I didn’t try to save you.” Connie watched Eren walk away toward the place where he had ambushed the enemies. Eren seemed calm, smoking a cigarette, his hand in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Connie knew he was going to kill at least two of them, we were talking about Eren. But just him against the six men who abused you? Connie gripped the steering wheel of his car, already mourning a man he wished he could call a friend.

  ──────── 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

It had been several days since Eren wasn't home.

You weren't stressed. Eren sometimes had to travel long distances for his assassination contracts.

You broke a glass by rubbing it too hard. You bumped your head on a cupboard door while cleaning it. Your toe stubbed on the bed while sweeping. Distracted but not stressed. Eren sometimes had to travel long distances for his assassination contracts.

You glanced at the door at least once every three minutes. Then you looked at the kitchen clock, counting the hours. Four days and eight hours since he'd come home from work.

You weren't stressed. Eren sometimes had to—

The doorbell rang, but your body remained tense because Eren never used that option to announce his arrival.

With incredible calm, you grabbed the gun Eren had bought you. A hitman wouldn't get involved with an incompetent woman.

"Who's there?" you asked loudly, pressing your ear against the door.

"A friend of Eren's. He... died. I have some things to return. Sorry, it took me a while to find his address." 

Several seconds passed in heavy silence. Connie finally knocked, but you were already back to your housework.

Eren is dead.

You scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. You didn't know if it was your own arm you were scrubbing.

Connie kept knocking, as if he had something important to give you.

But you were far away.

In a world where the sun had gone out.

  ──────── 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞,

“Thank you for the kind words about my work. But don’t put me on a pedestal, I’m nobody.”

You reread the sentence in your email and sighed. It sounded insecure, when you wanted to be humble.

You’d been freelancing as a graphic designer with your boyfriend, Jean, for several months. He came from art school, so he had the expertise your creativity lacked.

It was the perfect job because you didn’t have to speak.

You lost your voice that day.

Your hands would tremble when you thought about him.

You were okay. You saw a therapist, you had your antidepressants, you’d stopped BDSM and learned to enjoy gentle sex with Jean after your rapes. Because life still has things to offer, even if he’s not there. That’s what you tried to believe.

“Isaree wants to go to the mall for candy,” Jean said softly, his hand on your shoulder. “We could go to the park first.”

You tensed at the touch, wishing it were someone else’s. Even your baby girl, you wanted her to be someone else’s. That’s why she was called ‘freedom.’

You said ‘no’ in sign language and plunged back into the social media story template you were creating.

“Isaree would like to spend more time with you, love.”

You paused, your hands sweating. Was it so bad not to be passionate about life, your boyfriend, and your child?

You were okay. You had a job, no insomnia, ate healthily, had shed tears of joy when Isaree was born, and you did her homework with her. An average mom. If we ignore your muteness. If we ignore the blank expression you have every day. If we forget your feeling of drowning in the depths of an endless ocean. With no way out, and with the hope of seeing him again at the end.

—

“Does Eren like the park?” Isaree asked, playing in the grass. Jean tensed at the sound of his name, but he knew that Eren was the only way your daughter could connect with you. Isaree had understood early on that something had happened to her mother. She had gone through your things and found photos of a mysterious dark-haired man with green eyes. It was the only thing you ever paid attention to.

You fed her, took care of her, took her to school, and hugged her when she cried. But Isaree kept watching the mother-daughter pairs around her, wondering what she was doing wrong to lack the sparks they shared. You signed to her that he preferred the sea, and Isaree's eyes lit up with excitement.

"Wow, he's so cool. Why is he always sleeping? I'd love to meet him." 

She had Jean's eyes, bright and enthusiastic. You didn't want to break her childlike heart, so you allowed your lie.

"He's in another country right now, but you'll be able to see him someday," You signed.

She twirled in the grass, already thinking about writing down the information about the sea in her diary. Isaree wrote about everything she cared for, because Eren was one of them in her eyes. Not a friend or a father, a secret thing where death and life create an in-between. 

Jean was painting a portrait of his daughter and you on the grass. With colors, colors that reminded you that life was beautiful, even if you weren't quite sure anymore if it was worth it.

─

As your lineage continues to reproduce, Eren has disappeared from everybody’s memory, and nobody knew who should have been the father of your children, decades after your and your daughter's death. 

  ──────── 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫,

“Dear brat,

If you're reading this letter, it means I've failed.

I'm sorry I can't control my emotions. I feel like it's genetic. Be careful with your future children; maybe they'll have the will to fight from birth.

I hope they'll have the will to fight for you.

You deserve for everyone to fight for you.

I hope you know how hard I fought for you. My death will be proof of that.

I'm sorry our story ended like this.

I should have reacted differently. I knew you. You wouldn't have done that to me. I shouldn't have been so horrible and angry. I said things I didn't mean.

I'm sorry my fears were stronger than me. You don't know what it's like to have a baddie and not be mentally healthy for her.

Let Jean take care of you.

Never talk about me to your children, please.

I'm the worst.

I know I will die, abandon you, that I will no longer be there to protect you.

But I’m still doing it because we are still engaged. For life.

Jean can make you babies, but your soul will always have my name on it. Just like mind has yours.

Never talk about me, and please see a therapist for what happened, baby.

Take care and be happy for me, okay? 

So that I can rest in peace, while that horseface is lucky as hell.

(I took your pink keychain to be buried with it just in case, don’t panic if you can’t find it).”

──────── ✃- - - - - - - - - - - you liked it ? please support fics you liked with a reblog or a comment ! writers never know how we impact you if you don't say anything <3 ── .✦

[minyoonjin]

[otakufilms]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰……‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

pleaser. eren.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count—11.4K, southern domestic family vibes!, dad!eren, husband!erenyeager, shyblack!femreader, blackwife!reader, lumberjack!eren, southerncoded!femreader, southerncoded!eren, aggressive!eren, dominant!eren, gruff!eren, sweet!eren, size kink!, pet names!baby!, cabin!sex, pussy eating!, face slapping!, slightly aggressive sex!, squirting!, creaming, condomless sex, family drama!, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— hey, i was missin’ my country boy eren. i know you did too. love you guys. enjoy.

YOU ENJOYED BEING A MOMMY. 

Maybe it started from the beginning—watching your belly swell up from below, knowing the life growing inside you would alter your entire brain chemistry. Late nights, the hushing of cries, to the giggles as you blew raspberries on miniature toes. Or maybe it was at this very moment—six years later, those little toes now standing barefoot in the middle of your plush carpet tugging on a hello kitty plushie, thumb in mouth as round eyes fixated on Gracie’s Corner flashing against the screen.

Everything was perfect. 

That’s what you’d tell yourself every morning—muscled arm draped over your waist, your body curled into him like you were scared he’d vanish if you let go. Seven years of marriage, a daughter with your curls and his sharp stare, a farmhouse tucked deep in Baton Rouge’s countryside where the cicadas sang louder than the radio. A life he built for you—for all of you—with his own two hands.  

But it hadn’t started there.  

It started in that godforsaken hardware store you worked at part time—some tiny, dust choked place with warped floorboards and fluorescent lights that buzzed like pissed off hornets. You were always tucked behind the counter, all curves and those big brown eyes that flicked away every time his shadow darkened the doorway. He’d loom over you, smelling like pine resin and sweat, dropping nails or saw blades on the counter just to hear you stutter through the total.  

“You gonna’ look at me when you talk?” 

You’d huff, but he caught the way your cheeks warmed. Learned quickly that beneath all that shyness was a woman who’d argue with him about the difference between Phillips head and flathead screws just to prove a point.  

So he came back every day.  

Found out you hated the texture of raw lumber—“It’s too splintery," you’d whine, scrunching your nose—but loved the smell of it after it was sanded down. Learned you hummed old Anita Baker songs under your breath when you thought no one was listening. That you bit your lip when you were concentrating, left little love notes in his lunchbox when he was in vocational school, and that your fingers fit perfect between the gaps of his own calloused ones.  

Then came the farmhouse. The way your face lit up when he showed you the deed, how you squealed like a kid when you saw the porch swing he’d built just for you. The nights spent tangled up in sheets, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. The first time he held your baby girl, his life changed for the better. 

But you—you never changed. 

That was the thing that struck him most—how after all these years, you were still you. Still soft spoken, still sweet, still smelling like bourbon and vanilla even when you hadn’t touched a drop of liquor, something about your skin just carrying warmth like honey in sunlight. Still folding his socks into neat little bundles even though he’d toss them into the drawer anyway. Still humming Anita Baker under your breath while you stirred pots of gumbo, hips swaying slow to a rhythm only you could hear.  

Opposites. That’s what people said when they saw you together—his towering, rough edged frame next to your smaller one, his growl against your honeyed giggles, his tattoos stark against your bare, freckled skin. But that was exactly why it worked. He needed your softness the way the earth needed rain—something to gentle the edges of him, something to remind him that tenderness wasn’t weakness. And you? You needed his steady hands, his sharp mind, the way he’d press you into the mattress and remind you that submission wasn’t surrender.  

And now? This. 

A rhythm, a life. Him coming home smelling of sawdust and sweat, peeling off his flannel to wash up before pressing a kiss to baby girl’s curls while she practiced her letters at the kitchen table. You in your little cotton dresses, barefoot on the hardwood, grading homeschool worksheets with one hand and stirring a pot with the other. Nights spent with your daughter tucked between you both as y’all read stories, her tiny fingers tracing the words as you sounded them out.  

It was enough—for the most part. 

Because every family had its cracks—little fractures in the foundation, and yours was coming in fast.

Here you are, humming again. That soft, wordless tune under your breath as you tuck the last dish into the glass cabinet—careful fingers settling porcelain into place like you’re handling something sacred. The late afternoon sun slants through the curtains, catching the gold in your tiny hoops, the curve of your neck as you glance over your shoulder.  

“Isla.” 

Your voice comes out slow, Creole curling warm around some syllables—“Back up from the TV, bébé. Sit yourself on the sofa ’fore you hurt those pretty eyes."

And there she is—your baby, his baby—all wild curls and big green eyes too sharp for a six year old. She pouts, just a little, bottom lip jutting out like she’s considering rebellion, but then she’s shuffling backward, bare feet whispering against the hardwood. 

“Sorry, Momma,” she mumbles, and your heart clenches. 

She’s a perfect blend of you both—your freckles dusting her golden brown cheeks, his sharp brows framing those deep-set eyes. Even the way she folds her hands in her lap is him, all quiet stubbornness wrapped up in softness.  

You can’t help it. You smile, “You want a snack, ’Lala?”

Her face lights up like you’ve offered her the moon.

That silky cream scarf of yours—the one you'd knotted into a makeshift top—clings just so around the full swell of your full breasts, the ends tucked neatly between where your cleavage dips. Your deep red skirt hugs your hips like it's jealous of them, swaying with every little shift as you pad barefoot across the kitchen tiles.  

You catch the clock's hands in your periphery—nearly eight—but it's fall, and rules bend like willow branches this time of year.  

The knife in your hand moves in smooth, practiced arcs—chop, chop, chop—slicing strawberries into fat little hearts before nudging them toward a small plate already dotted with cubes of melon and a drizzle of honey.  

“Do you want a snack 'cause Momma asked..." your voice lilts, teasing, as you glance down at Isla's dark curls bobbing near the counter's edge, “…Or you still hungry from dinner?"

She's stretching onto tiptoes now, chin propped on the counter as she peers at your handiwork. You watch her nose scrunch, considering, before she finally shrugs.  

"Chicken sausage gumbo wasn’t enough for you?" 

Isla grins, all baby teeth and mischief—“I got a big belly like Daddy."  

You hand her the plate with a sigh, “Yeah, baby... you do." 

Speaking of, that telltale roar of his truck cuts through the evening quiet, engine growling like a pissed off beast as he barrels down the gravel road like the devil himself is on his tail. You don’t even have to glance out the window to know he’s kicking up dust, tires spitting gravel.  

Your eyes roll skyward as Isla bolts from her chair before you can blink, her little feet slapping against the hardwood in her rush to the door. You turn the opposite way, hands dipping into the soapy water—one last dish, just to keep busy—but you feel it the second the front door swings open.  

Him. 

Loud. Heavy. Gruff. His keys hit the wooden TV stand with a clatter, his boots thudding against the floorboards like he’s trying to announce his presence to the whole damn parish.  

And God, is he a sight.  

That lumberjack uniform clings to every thick line of him—flannel sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing arms sleeved in ink, fingers decorated with blackwork that disappears under his cuffs. His dark brows are furrowed, but his bandana’s shoved back now, hair pulled into a low messy bun that only sharpens the angles of his face.  

“Daddy!” Isla squeals, arms already reaching.  

“Hey, little mouse.” 

His voice rumbles, swooping her up like she weighs nothing, pressing a noisy kiss to her cheek that sends her into a fit of giggles. His voice drops, German rough but warm as he murmurs something—“Hast du deine Mama heute gut geholfen?" 

Did you help your mom well today?

Isla nods, giggling again before she smacks a wet kiss to his own cheek.  

And then, his eyes find you. 

You keep your back to him, hands buried in suds, but you feel his stare like a brand. The second Isla’s feet hit the floor, he’s crossing the room in three strides, and before you can feign ignorance, his palm cracks against your ass—hard. 

Your breath hitches, eyes flying wide as you twist to glare at him, but his arms cage you in before you can scold him properly. All you can huff is, “‘Ren.” 

That deep, rough grunt vibrates against your back as his arms tighten around your waist—“Actin’ like you didn’t hear me come inside." 

You tilt your head just enough to catch his gaze over your shoulder, voice soft but laced with warning—“I told you about driving fast. I can hear you all the way from Metairie." 

His smirk is downright sinful—“That’s how you know your man’s home, baby.”

You sigh—exasperated—but your body betrays you, melting back against his chest like you’re drawn to him by some invisible force. Your fingers curl into the damp fabric of his flannel as you murmur, “…Missed you today." 

He hums, lips brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear—“I’m knowin’. That’s why you’re mad." 

Mad? Maybe a little. But mostly just hungry—for him, for his touch, for the way his presence fills up every hollow space in this house.  

You turn fully in his arms now, hands lifting to cradle his jaw as you drink him in. Olive skin kissed by the sun, his bandana pulling his hair back in a way that should be practical but just makes him look dangerous. The tattoos creeping up his neck peek from beneath his collar, ink stark against warm skin, and you can’t help tracing one with your thumb.  

“‘'M not mad," you whisper, gaze flicking back up to meet his—“…Just wonderin’ why you came home so late." 

His eyes—dark green, almost predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail. The way your deep brown skin glows under the kitchen light, the smattering of freckles across your nose, the fullness of your lips. The deep rumble of his apology rolls off his tongue in German first—“Es tut mir leid, Schatz,” I’m sorry, darling—before shifting to English, his voice rough like gravel under tires.  

“Work almost had me cuttin’ down that old oak near Magnolia Creek. The city’s project." 

Your frown is instant, lips parting in disbelief—“What? They can’t do that. That tree’s been there longer than my granddaddy.”

Eren huffs, peeling away from you just enough to tug the bandana from his head. His dark hair spills loose before he’s twisting the bandana playfully around Isla’s tiny fists, then tying it over her curls like a makeshift crown. She giggles, mouth full of honey-drizzled fruit, and you can’t help but shake your head.  

“You’ve been sweatin’ all over that, ‘Ren. C’mon.”

He ignores you—just grins—and taps Isla’s nose, “What’d you do to Momma today, huh? She’s extra fussy."

Isla giggles again, and you watch as Eren finally relents, plucking the bandana back. He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he turns back to you.  

“‘City wants a new park or some shit. Tried to refuse, but—" he shrugs, jaw tight, “Contract’s a contract." 

The resignation in his voice doesn’t match the fire in his eyes. You know that look—he hated every second of it.

“What does the city have to say for the story behind that tree?"

Your arms cross over your chest, fingers gripping your own biceps just to keep from shaking—“The bodies that hung from it? The reminder of what this South was before folks decided they wanted to pretty it up?" 

“Me and a few others signed off on a vote before the city moved forward."

His hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing your cheekbone like he’s trying to soften the weight of his words—“Can’t cut a tree in the South without askin’, baby. Even then—“

You lean into him before he can finish, pressing your temple against his lips. His kiss is rough, warm—an apology without words.  

“You got fire in you," he murmurs against your skin, voice dripping honey despite the gravel in it. 

“That’s why I love your ass." 

You sigh—weak for him, always—before tilting your face up. His mouth crashes into yours before you can speak, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy, possessive swirl that curls your toes against the kitchen tiles.Your face burns when he pulls back, lips still tingling from his kiss. That familiar shyness steals your words—a quiet that Eren already knows too well. He reads it in the dip of your lashes, the way your fingers fidget at your sides. With a low grunt, he lets you be—stepping away before the silence can suffocate you both.

He moves to the table, his heavy frame settling next to Isla with a creak of the wooden chair. 

“Does Daddy get a bowl of gumbo?” he rumbles, flexing his forearm as he props it on the table, “Or is Momma still fussy?"

You’re already pulling out a bowl—rolling your eyes as you murmur, “Hush, boy."

His grin shifts to Isla, broad and warm—“What’d you learn today, mouse?"

Isla perks up immediately. Her small hands pushed her notebook across the table—“I drew pictures!" she announces, her excitement bubbling over as she points to crayon scribbles of trees, a house, and three stick figures—undoubtedly your little family.  

Eren hums, flipping through the pages with rough fingers. Then, softer, he murmurs, “Sag mir was auf Deutsch." 

Tell me something in German.  

Isla puffs her cheeks, concentrating hard before stumbling through, “Ich... liebe... Mama und... und Papa!" 

Her pronunciation is messy, syllables slurred together—adorably imperfect. She giggles at herself before declaring, “Momma’s German isn’t as good as yours, Daddy!" 

"Ain’t nobody’s as good as mine.”

You slide the steaming bowl of gumbo in front of him with a smirk, leaning down just enough to whisper—"Küss meinen Arsch." 

Kiss my ass. 

Then, louder—“Sound about right?" 

Isla’s little gasp turns into a burst of giggles—she might butcher German verbs, but she knows a bad word when she hears one.  

Eren’s hand cracks against your ass in warning—not hard, just enough to make you jump—before he growls, “Say somethin’ our daughter wouldn’t recognize." 

You bite your lip to hide a laugh, nudging Isla gently—“Tell Daddy what you learned about his job today, baby." 

“Lumberjacks gotta know ‘bout tree types,” she announces, pointing to a crooked drawing of an oak, “An’ how to cut ‘em so they don’t fall on houses, an’—an’ you wear special boots so chainsaws don’t chop your toes off!" 

Eren’s chuckle is rich, proud. 

“Daddy’s job is hard, mouse," he admits, ruffling her curls—“But I’m glad you’re interested in it." 

Then, like the damn animal he is, he attacks the gumbo—shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth with zero grace, broth dripping down his chin as he eats like he’s been starved for weeks.  

You and Isla ignore him, turning back to her book—a worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are—finishing the last page as Eren’s slurping fills the kitchen.  

Home. That’s exactly what this was.

The quiet hum of the evening settles around you as you fold laundry—freshly dried cotton still warm between your fingers. The scent of detergent lingers in the air, mingling with the faint trace of bourbon still clinging to your skin.  

Your gaze drifts to the kitchen, where Isla—tiny hands gripping a damp bowl—passes it up to Eren. He takes it without looking, his focus locked on wiping down the counter. His arms flex with each swipe, thick veins rising beneath ink-stained skin, tendons pulling taut as he works. Tendrils of dark hair have escaped his low bun, curling against the dampness at his nape.  

Lord. 

Eren’s voice slices through the quiet, rough with amusement—“You keep lookin’ like that, Mommy and Daddy may need some play time.”  

A soft giggle escapes you—“Eren.” 

He doesn’t glance up, just keeps scrubbing at an invisible spot on the counter. But his next words are deliberate, low—“Isla, go wash up for bed.”  

From your spot on the couch, you catch the shift in Isla’s face—her nose scrunching, brows knitting together in a way that’s all him. It’s the same look Eren wears when he’s biting back irritation, when patience wears thin but he’s trying not to snap. 

Your fingers pause mid-fold as Isla plants her feet, chin jutting out in defiance—“‘M not ready to go to bed, Daddy.” 

Eren still doesn’t turn. Just keeps methodically wiping down the counter, his voice calm but edged with steel—“‘Didn’t ask what you wanted to do, mouse. It’s nearly ten. You’re past what time you usually lay down.” 

A foot stomp. Once, Twice. Uh oh. 

 “I’m not—“ 

That’s when he pivots, looming over her with that look—the one that makes grown men second-guess their life choices. His gaze flicks to you, one brow arched—“You hearin’ her?” 

You press your lips together, suddenly very invested in smoothing out a wrinkled sleeve—“Mhm.” 

Eren’s nostrils flare—“Baby.” 

“Why do I have to get in it?” 

He exhales through his nose—“If I say anythin’ else, she’s gonna cry.” 

You sigh, surrendering—“Isla—” Your voice softens as you meet her big, stubborn eyes—“It’s your bedtime, ladybug. What’s going on?” 

“‘M not tired!” 

“Okay. Well, maybe you can stay up a little—” 

“We’re not givin’ her ultimatums,” Eren cuts in, sharp. His stare bores into Isla, unblinking—“Bed. Now.” 

He waits until the bathroom door clicks shut behind Isla. The faucet runs, muffled, and only then does he turn toward you. His broad frame blocks the kitchen light, casting you in his silhouette.  

“Teaching her ultimatums ain’t gon’ teach her respect when someone gives her an order.” 

You flick a sock into its pile, unfazed—“She’s not in basic training, ‘Ren. Relax. Maybe that’s just her expressing that she’s upset without knowing how else to communicate it.”  

Eren crosses his arms—the movement makes his biceps strain against his rolled sleeves, “That’s fine. But that’s when you correct it. She shouldn’t be upset over somethin’ as simple as brushin’ her teeth and preparin’ for bed.”  

Eyebrow arching, you meet his stare dead-on—“A six-year-old isn’t purposely trying to defy you. You do know that, right?” 

He doesn’t blink.

“Small shit leads to bigger shit in the future. You know that?” 

The sock in your hand crumples. You toss it down, straightening—“You don’t have to hint me in on cause and effect, Eren.”  

“I’m ‘Eren’ now?”

You give him the look—the one that’s equal parts exasperation and really, nigga? 

He exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand over his face—“I’m not tryin’ to argue, goddamn.” 

His voice drops, gruff but controlled—“I’m just sayin’—this is shit we should be payin’ attention to before we put her in public school.”

Your frown deepens, “And when did we discuss that, Sergeant?” 

“That small interaction just showed she’s lackin’ in social cues. She’s too cooped up beneath us—thinks shit revolves around her.”

He shrugs, jaw tight—“She needs to be around other kids. Make her realize it ain’t the Isla Show.”

“I wonder where she gets that from?” 

His lips smack—hard—before he turns abruptly, grabbing the dishrag again and wiping down the counter with more force than necessary.  

Silence settles between you, thick and prickly. The faucet’s still running in the bathroom—Isla’s probably taking her sweet time just to stall.  

Okay, maybe that was a little mean.

So with that, you rise slowly from the sofa, bare feet padding across the hardwood until you’re pressing yourself flush against his back. The heat of him seeps through his thin shirt—always running hotter than anyone else.  

Your lips part, humming Sweet Love—the same Anita Baker melody you’d hummed the day you met him, the same one you’d murmured against his lips at your wedding. He tenses for half a second—then exhales, shoulders dropping as he leans into you. Still silent.  

“Li tètdi kou papa'l," you murmur in Creole—Stubborn as her father. 

No response.  

You press your lips between his shoulder blades, voice softening—“Maybe we’re all just too cooped up in this house…maybe we need a mini vacation this weekend, hm?"

Silence. But you know him—the way his breath hitches just slightly means he’s listening. 

“How about…Bayou Teche?" 

Your fingers tease the hair at his nape—“A nice cabin…weather’s perfect. ‘Means you can go fishing."

A low grunt—almost imperceptible.  

You bite your lip, sliding your hands around his waist—“You can barbecue…drink a beer…Isla’ll tire herself out at the park. And then we can—" 

Your fingers dip lower, brushing against the heavy swell of him through his jeans—already half hard, just from your voice, your touch.  

"Fuck—" 

He turns abruptly, gripping your hips as he yanks you flush against him. Your giggles die against his mouth as his forehead presses to yours, his breath ragged.  

“Devil woman," he growls, but there’s no heat in it—just hunger. 

And God, you love winning.

"You see where I'm goin’ with this?"  

Eren grunts, hands tightening on your hips—“Loud an’ clear." 

Your arms loop around his neck, hips swaying gently against his as you press closer—"So?"  

He doesn't answer. Just captures your mouth in a searing kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy, possessive growl before he yanks back, leaving you tugging at his bruised lip.  

And then—

“Sergeant Yeager’s cool with that." 

Victory. 

Your grin stretches wide, heart thumping—  

"Isla, mouse—" you call over your shoulder, voice singsong—"Daddy’s takin’ us on a trip!" 

Before you can gloat further, Eren’s arm hooks under your thighs and wrenches you over his shoulder in one rough motion. You yelp, kicking as he strides toward the bedroom, his free hand swatting your ass—hard, again. 

"Get dressed for bed, Isla," he barks, voice dripping with feigned irritation—“I’ll be there in a minute."

The bedroom door slams behind you both—your laughter echoing against the walls as Eren tosses you onto the mattress, his smirk dark with promise.  

Game over.

THE RUMBLE OF EREN’S FORD F—150 GROWLS LIKE A BEAST BENEATH YOU, tearing down the Louisiana backroads like the devil himself is chasing him. You don’t even bother fussing about his speed—just flip another page in your book, legs tucked beneath you in the passenger seat as the world blurs outside the window.  

The bassline of Helena by My Chemical Romance thrums through the truck, loud enough to rattle the damn windows—another thing you’ve long since surrendered to. Eren drums his fingers on the steering wheel, rough voice half mumbling lyrics under his breath while Isla belts them from the backseat, completely off key but beaming like she’s performing for a crowd. His daughter through and through. 

Bayou Teche unfolds in shades of deep green and honey-gold—Spanish moss dripping from towering oaks, sunlight dappling through the leaves onto the winding dirt road leading to your cabin. It’s different now—more polished than the rustic huntsman’s shacks from years past, elevated on stilts with wide porches and kid friendly docks. Still wild, though. Still Louisiana. 

You step out first, stretching as the humid air wraps around you like a second skin. Isla scrambles from the truck, tiny hand slipping into yours as you lead her toward the water’s edge.  

“Look, baby—“ you murmur, pointing to the slow moving bayou, where an old man in a faded cap casts his line with practiced ease, “See the fish jumping?”  

Behind you, Eren moves with that same efficient, muscular grace—hauling duffle bags, fishing gear, and the cooler like it weighs nothing. His brow glistens under the midday sun, tattoos flexing as he adjusts his grip, jaw set in that I-refuse-to-make-two-trips stubbornness.  

“Daddy’s gonna catch the biggest one,” Isla declares, bouncing on her toes.  

You smirk over your shoulder—catching the way Eren’s mouth twitches, that quiet pride he’ll never admit to.  

“Yeah?” you tease. 

“Bet he’ll still complain about cleanin’ it.” 

“Keep talkin’ crap ‘bout me to our daughter," he rumbles, voice dripping with mock threat—but his lips twitch, betraying him.  

You giggle as you guide Isla inside—her tiny fingers gripping yours, practically vibrating with excitement. The cabin wraps around you like a hug—rustic wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling, leather couches softened by knitted throws. A large flatscreen TV mounted above the stone fireplace plays Bluey, with WELCOME HOME, ISLA! scrolling across the bottom in bold letters.  

But it’s the table that steals her breath.  

A spread of snacks—goldfish crackers, sliced watermelon, chocolate-covered strawberries sits beside neatly wrapped gifts. One tiny box topped with a bow—pink fishing lures, another holding a book called Dragons Love Tacos, her current obsession and a third—dolls, little trinkets here and there. 

Isla shrieks, scrambling toward the table like it’s Christmas morning.  

A nudge against Eren’s shoulder.  

"You did good, Daddy.”

His lips press against your temple—lingering, warm—before he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Who’re you lookin’ this good for, huh?” 

You’re dressed like a daydream—a vintage white baby doll dress hugging your curves, spaghetti straps straining under the weight of your heavy tits. That golden heart pendant he bought you rests right between them, dipping into the swell of your cleavage like it belongs there.  

Your side-parted curls are piled up in a loose, messy ponytail, secured by a golden heart shaped claw clip—soft tendrils framing your freckled face. Knee high brown boots hug your legs, making your skin glow even richer against the pure white fabric. Southern belle meets sinful. 

Eren’s throat moves as he stares—his own outfit mirroring yours in that effortlessly rugged way. A plain white tee stretches across his chest, clinging to every thick muscle, making his tattoos stand out even more. Dark blue jeans hang low on his hips, tucked into those damn brown boots—nearly matching yours once more. His cap’s on backwards, the brim shadowing his sharp gaze, shirt half-tucked into his belt like the country boy he is.  

“Have I ever told you I love you on your days off?” you whisper, tilting your chin up.  

His nostrils flare—“You flirtin’ with me, Mrs. Yeager?” 

Instead of answering, you rise onto your toes, swirling your tongue against his bottom lip before slipping into a deep, filthy kiss—all heat and slow-dripping promise. He growls, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise as you melt against him. 

“I forgot my Hello Kitty outside, Mommy!”

Before either of you can react, Isla’s already darting past, small feet slapping against the wooden floor as she bolts out the door.  

“Isla!” 

Eren’s voice snaps like a whip—sharp, alarmed—as you both scramble after her. Your heart hammers in your chest, boots slapping against the porch steps as you rush outside—only to freeze at the sight before you.  

Isla stands frozen a few feet away, staring up at a beautifully brown skinned couple—early thirties, dressed in relaxed weekend attire—with their little boy, who couldn’t be more than a year or two older than her. The boy holds her pink Hello Kitty plushie delicately in his hands, dark eyes wide with curiosity as he extends it toward her.  

“Did you drop this?” 

Eren reaches Isla first, large hands gripping her shoulders as he pulls her back slightly, his jaw tight. You exhale, stepping forward as you gently scold, “Isla Marie, you do not run off like that!” 

Her bottom lip quivers—but before she can fully pout, you shift your attention to the family, offering a warm, apologetic smile. 

“I’m so sorry—we didn’t expect her to just bolt like that. Thank you.” 

The woman laughs, shaking her head—“No worries. Boys are just as bad.”

You grin, eyeing their son—who’s still clutching the plushie with care—before asking softly, “Are you guys out here for the weekend too?”

The man nods, slipping an arm around his wife’s waist—“Yes ma’am, rented one of the cabins near the water. Figured we’d let the kid burn off allat’ energy.”  

Eren who still stands protectively behind Isla, lets out a low chuckle—“Same here.” 

For a moment, the tension eases—just parents exchanging knowing glances over the chaos of kids. 

With a gentle nudge, you murmur to Isla, “Take your toy and say thank you, ladybug." 

She reaches out carefully, grasping Hello Kitty with both hands before flashing a shy smile—“Thank you." 

The little boy grins wide, one tooth noticeably missing—“Hello Kitty’s cool," he admits, shrugging, “But not as cool as Batman." 

Isla’s eyes light up—“I like Batman too!" 

His father chuckles, running a hand over his son’s low fro—“Looks like you’ve made a new friend."

He extends a hand towards Eren, “This is Elias. I’m Malik, and this is my wife, Noelle."

You kneel down, meeting Elias at eye level with a warm hum—“Elias, hm?" Then, in smooth Creole—“Ou pale lang sa a?" 

You speak this language? 

His cheeks pinken as he nods, responding softly in the same tongue—“Wi... yon ti kras." 

Yes... a little.

You giggle, glancing up at Noelle—“He’s precious."

Then, turning back to Elias—“Well, this is our daughter Isla."

Your gaze flicks back to Eren, who’s standing slightly behind you, arms crossed, expression locked in that stoic-but-watching mode he defaults to in unfamiliar social situations.  

You smirk—“And this is my introverted husband, Eren Yeager." 

Eren’s jaw ticks—but he dips his chin in greeting, reaching a hand out with a gruff voice—“Appreciate you helpin’ with the toy." 

Isla, tugs at Elias’ sleeve—“You wanna see the fish Daddy’s gonna catch?” 

And just like that, the ice is broken.  

Eren exhales beside you while Malik chuckles—“Guess we’re all about to see some fish." 

Noelle grins—“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a playdate now, hm?”

Your voice is warm but cautious as you glance between them—“I’m sure you guys already had plans...we wouldn’t want to impose."

Noelle waves a hand, grinning like she’s already made up her mind—“It’s no worries at all, mon cheri. We have a big enough boat.”

Malik nods, reaching into their nearby cooler before pulling out a six-pack of unopened craft beer—the good kind—holding it up with a smirk, “And… I brought backup supplies." 

Noelle laughs, nudging him—“Anddd, I packed my best bottle of wine—so really, this works out perfectly. I can’t drink this all alone!” 

You hesitate, flicking your gaze up to Eren—searching for that silent yes or no in his eyes.  

His jaw works for a second, then—“…Let me grab my rods and stuff." 

Eren-approved. 

A small smile tugs at your lips as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before striding back toward the cabin—his boots crunching against the gravel.  

Noelle watches him go before grinning at you—“So. That’s Sergeant Yeager, huh?"

You exhale a laugh, “Unfortunately."

Isla tugs at your dress, bouncing—“Mommy, can we go now?!”  

You smooth a hand over her curls—“Yes, baby. We’re goin’, alright? Just let daddy come back.” 

And just like that—what was supposed to be a quiet weekend of fishing and cabin sex has turned into impromptu group bonding. 

You were gonna owe Eren big for this one.

The moment your feet touched the semi-large, definitely expensive boat, your stomach flipped—despite the calm water. Eren’s hand engulfed yours instantly, fingers tightening in that silent I got you way he always did when he sensed your nerves. You pressed into his side, letting his solid frame ground you as the gentle sway of the boat made your knees wobble.  

“Batman wouldn’t lose to Hello Kitty in a fight!" Elias declared, arms crossed.  

Isla gasped—“Yes he would! She has magic!" 

They went back and forth, arguing over superheroes, cartoons, and whether chocolate or strawberry milk was better—completely absorbed in their own little world. You bit back a smirk, tilting your head toward Eren.  

“See?"

You whispered, nudging him—“She’s fine."

Then, Noelle appeared with a glass of wine and a small charcuterie board, grinning. 

“‘Figured you could use this more than me." 

You hesitated—but one sip of the rich, velvety Cabernet had you sighing in surrender.  

“Oh my God," you groaned, “This is perfect." 

Noelle laughed, settling beside you as she admired your wedding ring—a delicate gold band with a vintage oval diamond. She gasped, “This is stunning, girl.”

You smiled, twisting it absently—“Thank you…Eren actually picked it." 

Her brows lifted—“Damn. Sergeant Yeager’s got taste." 

You snorted into your wine.  

The conversation flowed easily after that—Noelle mentioning how Elias had been homeschooled for a while before transitioning to public school. Your ears perked up, leaning in as she shared her own worries—too sheltered, too attached, too sensitive to noise. 

“I swear, I cried every day for a week after dropping him off," she admitted, swirling her wine, “But kids adjust easier than you think. ‘Baby girl will be just fine.”

Your gaze drifted toward Eren, and for a moment, you were stunned. There he was—actually relaxed, sharing beers with Malik like they were old friends instead of exchanging stiff, awkward small talk. His deep laughter rumbled through the air, mixing with Malik’s as they swapped crude jokes, their voices low and comfortable.  

God, he looked good. 

Sunlight gilded his olive skin, tattoos standing out starkly against the golden hue. His jaw worked lazily around a toothpick, cap tugged backward, shadowing his eyes just enough to make them gleam when he glanced your way. And then—wink. Arrogant, knowing, all yours. 

Everything was perfect—until it wasn’t.

Eren and Malik now shifted toward the edge of the boat, settling with Isla and Elias perched on their laps, tiny hands gripping fishing rods.  

“Alright, little soldiers," Malik suddenly boomed—in a full-blown Australian accent, “We’re on a top-secret mission. The enemy? Big bloody fish." 

The kids shrieked with laughter, wiggling excitedly as the boat glided toward a spot where fish flipped wildly near the surface—massive, shadowy shapes darting beneath the water.  

Eren smirked, reaching for his bait bucket—“Gotta lure ’em in just right.”  

You and Noelle exchanged amused glances, watching as the men played up the theatrics—until—  

A sharp jerk on Isla’s line.  

Her gasp was instant—“Daddy—DADDY, IT’S PULLING!" 

Eren’s arms flexed around her, guiding her grip—“Hold on, baby—hold on—“ 

The fish gave one last violent jerk—then plop—disappeared back into the water, leaving Isla’s hook empty. Her bottom lip trembled instantly, but before the first tear could even form, Eren pressed a quick, playful bubble against her cheek with his lips—"Pffft!" 

The unexpected sensation made her squeal, dissolving her sadness into giggles as she wiped her face.  

“Daddy’s gonna get you the biggest fish in the pond, Mouse.”

Time passed lazily—laughter, clinking beer bottles, Malik dramatically retelling fishing stories. And then? 

"I GOT ONE!" 

Elias shrieked this, nearly launching himself out of Malik’s lap.  

Malik wrapped an arm around him, helping him reel in the line as a fat bass broke the surface, thrashing wildly before landing with a wet smack into their bucket.  

Cheers erupted—you and Noelle clapping, Malik lifting Elias onto his shoulders in victory while the little boy waved his arms like he’d just won the Olympics.  

But then—  

You saw that look on Isla’s face.  

The same one from days ago—when Eren had told her to go to bed. The unflinching, determined, plotting look.  

Isla's little voice cuts through the laughter—“That was

my fish!" 

Malik chuckles, “It's alright, baby girl. We can catch you one soon—" 

“NO!" 

Isla lunges forward, tiny hands snatching the rod right out of Elias' grip with a strength that shocks you. Her green eyes—Eren’s eyes—narrow into slits, her voice firm and indignant—“MY fish!" 

Noelle's expression shifts from amused to concerned instantly. 

“Hey, Isla," she says gently but firmly—“That's not okay. We don't do that."

But Isla doesn't care.  

Her face scrunches up, cheeks flushing red, and before you can even react—she explodes. 

“IT'S MIIIIINE!" 

A full blown tantrum erupts—screams, flailing limbs, tears streaming down her face like a damn hurricane. Your eyes widen in horror as you lunge forward, wrapping your arms around her writhing little body before she accidentally smacks someone with the fishing rod.  

"Isla Marie Yeager!" you snap, trying to keep your voice steady despite the utter shock coursing through you.  

She kicks, screams louder—“DADDYYYYY!"—like he’s her last hope.  

And when you look at Eren, begging him with your eyes to step in? He just...  

Takes a slow swig of his beer.  

And says completely deadpan—“This is how she expresses herself." 

Malik blinks. Noelle's mouth drops open. Elias looks terrified. 

And you?  

You stare at Eren like he’s just grown a second head.  

"Eren,” Your voice is lethally calm. 

“What?” 

Oh, you were gonna kill him. 

You bit your cheek—hard—clutching Isla tighter against your chest as you forced the politest tone you could muster. 

“Can we be let off?" 

Malik doesn’t argue—just nodded silently and swung the boat back toward the dock. You were off that deck before Eren could even blink, storming down the pier, Isla hiccuping against your shoulder.  

The cabin door slammed behind you.  

You set Isla down, kneeling instantly to meet her watery gaze—“That was absolutely unacceptable, Isla!” 

Her tiny chest shuddered, tears spilling over freckled cheeks as she whimpered, “‘M sorry, Mommy…" 

You exhaled sharply, cupping her face—“I know you are, baby. But you just can’t do things like that!—“ 

The door opens, Eren strolling in like he hadn’t just watched his child lose her damn mind in public.  

“I explained the situation," he murmurs, tossing his cap onto the couch—“Malik says they’re grillin’ later—we can head back out around seven." 

You stood so fast your knees popped.  

"Are you serious?” 

Your voice was dangerously low, “You’re not gonna say anything about what just happened?" 

He raised a brow.

“Is there somethin’ I was supposed to do?” 

Your body physically vibrated. 

For one glorious, violent second, you imagined yourself lunging across the room. Instead, you scooped Isla back into your arms, murmuring through clenched teeth, “Alright, Eren," and headed for the bedroom.  

His heavy footsteps followed—“What’s the attitude for, huh?" 

You whip around so fast Isla’s little arms tighten around your neck in surprise. Hot Creole words rise like fire in your throat—  

“Ou wè sa k pase, epi ou fè tankou ou pa konprann? Sa k nan tèt ou?!"  

You see what’s happening, and you’re acting like you don’t understand? 

But you stop yourself—swallowing the language thick with fury—and force it into English before it explodes out of you.  

“Eren, I begged you for help—and you take what I said days ago and spit it back in my face? In front of a family we just met. What’s wrong with you?” 

Eren’s jaw ticks, but his voice stays low.

“I saw what happened. I left the chastisin’ up to you—cause when I say somethin’, I’m the ‘mean dad,’ right?"

Your hands shake.  

You gently place Isla down, murmuring “Go play with your toys, baby,” without even looking—too locked into Eren’s infuriatingly blank expression to notice her still standing there, wide-eyed, gripping the hem of your dress.  

And then—  

“You’re fucking ridiculous."

Your voice seeps with venom. 

“You did this to prove a point? Are you a goddamn child, Eren?” 

His nostrils flare—finally, “It didn’t take shit for my point to be made.” 

Your vision tunnels red, every muscle in your body coiled tight as you stalk forward—“Ou vle blagè? Mwen ka twò komik!" 

You tryna’ be funny? 'Cause I can be hilarious! 

Eren doesn't retreat—he never does—just leans down into your space, voice dropping into rough, warning German—”Pass auf, was du sagst." 

Watch your mouth. 

“Ou menm, ou pa bon anyen!" you hiss—hands flying up to gesture sharply.  

You—you're no damn better! 

Eren’s jaw locks, temple throbbing—“Du bist kurz davor, mich richtig wütend zu machen."

You're about to make me real fucking mad.

”Alò fè sa!" you snap—nose nearly brushing his, ignoring the way your pulse screams at the danger—“Mwen pa pè ou!" 

Then do it! Ain’t nobody scared of you! 

A thick silence. And as sniffles come below both of you, reality hits as you feel a tug on your dress. Eren exhales sharply through his nose—eyes flicking down to Isla, who’s now openly crying.

“…Scheiße." 

Damn it. 

He runs a hand over his face, “We're scarin’ her." 

And just like that—the fire gutters out.  

Behind you, Isla sniffles—”Papa...Mama...pe pa fache?" 

Daddy...Mama...no mad? 

Eren's entire posture softens. He crouched down, opening his arms—“Kommen Sie hier, kleine Maus."

Come here, little mouse. 

She doesn’t hesitate—barreling into his chest as he tucks her close, pressing a kiss to her curls.  

You’ve always clashed with Eren—always survived the disagreements that burned hot behind closed doors, where the echoes of arguing never reached innocent ears. But this? This was different. This was the first time Isla saw the fire between you—really saw it—and it scared her. 

Your breath catches. Without hesitation, you lean into her, pressing yourself close against Eren’s chest where he holds her, voice trembling—“Mwen regrèt anpil, ladybug—okay? Mommy’s so sorry."

Isla’s arms fly around your neck shortly after, her face burying into you, dark curls spilling over your shoulders. She doesn’t say anything—just holds on tight, tiny fingers gripping your dress like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. Then, finally, she rubs her teary eyes against your skin and sniffles—"‘M sleepy, Mommy."  

Your throat burns.  

You nod, scooping her up into your arms, crushing her against your chest like you can press the fear right out of her—"That’s okay, baby. We can ‘go nap, yeah?"

Eren watches silently—and then he sees it.  

The way your hands shake. The way your lashes flutter too fast—eyes glossing over with unshed tears. The way your whole body folds inward like you’re about to collapse under the weight of your own guilt.  

His voice was low, “Baby.” 

You tuck Isla’s face deeper into your shoulder, hiding your own tears—“No, Eren. I wanna go lay down."

The bedroom door clicks shut behind you—soft, final. It leaves Eren standing alone in the hallway with nothing but the silence he gave you when you needed him most. And yeah, that was it. 

Moonlight spills through the window hours later, painting silver streaks across the dark room. The reflection of your pendant catches in your half lulled gaze, but it isn’t what wakes you—it’s the smoky, rich scent of charred meat and spices curling through the air.  

You blink, groggy, realizing you’re curled protectively around Isla, her tiny body rising and falling in peaceful sleep. A stray sniffle escapes her—remnants of earlier tears—and your chest aches. You press your lips gently into her wild curls, whispering, “‘Love you, ladybug." 

You carefully slip out of bed, feet padding silently across the cool hardwood floor. The house is dark, still—except for the faint glow flickering from outside— a sliver of golden light cutting through the shadows of the cracked front door. 

You step forward, pushing the door wider—and freeze.  

Eren set up everything. 

String lights zigzag between the trees, casting a warm glow over the small outdoor table draped in a checkered cloth. Two plates sit waiting—one with a tiny pink fork you instantly recognize as Isla’s, and your own Eren had specially made as a wedding gift. The grill smokes beneath its closed lid, embers glowing beneath.  

And then? There’s him. 

Shirtless, tattoos on full display under the moonlight, backward cap snug over his messy bun. A towel drapes over one shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips as he adjusts the grill vents with a flick of his wrist.  

He doesn’t turn around, but he knows you’re there.  

“‘You hungry?" 

You wrap your arms around yourself, watching him. 

"What’s all this?" 

“‘Just cookin’ for my family." 

He pauses—then glances over his shoulder, lips quirking around the cigarette, “Hold on—" 

Before you can react, his large hands are on you—gentle but firm—guiding you toward the table and pressing you onto the bench. His voice drops into that ridiculous, exaggerated nobleman’s drawl—“Relax, m’lady. I’m at your service." 

He flicks the towel over his arm with dramatic flair, “Steak? Hot dog? Burger? What would madame desire this fine evening?"

You press your lips together, fighting it—but the smile tugs free anyway. 

“Steak is fine." 

"Ah! A woman of refined taste!”

He snaps his fingers, rushing back to the grill with exaggerated urgency before returning with a plate piled high with perfectly charred steak, veggies glistening with seasoning.

“And would the lady care for a glass of our finest vintage?"

He gestures grandly to a cheap bottle of red wine sweating beside two plastic cups.  

A giggle slips out, “That’s perfect." 

He beams, setting everything in front of you before leaning in, voice dipping low—“And a tip… for your humble waiter?" 

You roll your eyes—but your fingers curl around his jaw anyway, pulling him down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips.  

Eren howls—loud enough that you swat at him, giggling—“Shh! You’ll wake Isla!"

“I missed that smile,” he roughly admitted, “‘Can’t have my woman cryin’ ‘cause we argued over stupid shit anymore.” 

Eren’s words settle between you, soft but firm. You exhale, replaying the scene—the shouting, Isla’s tears, the way your anger swallowed reason whole. Regret claws at your ribs.  

Before he can grab his own plate, your fingers curl around his wrist—gentle, silent—tugging him toward you.  

He doesn’t hesitate.  

Eren swings a leg over the bench, straddling it backward, knees spread wide as he pulls you flush against him—nestled right between his thighs. His hands find your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles.  

“…I hate when we fight," you murmur, forehead tipping against his.  

His breath is warm, laced with smoke and sincerity—“I was bein’ an ass." 

“Yeah, you were.”

He grunts, playful but chastised—“‘Heard you the first time, woman." 

You giggle. 

Then, quieter—“I don’t make choices as a father just to be a dick. I know what it’s like—bein’ that awkward kid at school, feelin’ like you don’t belong. I just don’t want shit like that happenin’ to Isla."

Your fingers trace the ink on his collarbone.  

“And I know what it’s like goin’ from homeschooled to public,” you murmur, “Full of memories, but full of trauma too. I don’t want her to live that either.” 

Eren nods, calloused palm cradling your cheek. 

“She’s a big girl, baby. We just gotta learn to let her fall—let Isla have her own experiences.” 

A beat.  

“I’m sorry." 

You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips to his forehead—“‘M sorry too." 

Outside, the grill smokes. Inside, Isla sleeps.  

And between you two—nothing but quiet, and the weight of love heavy enough to crush every argument left unsaid.

Creak.

The front door nudges open.  

Isla stands there in her little nightgown, curls wild from sleep, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. She doesn’t speak—just stares at you both, searching for the reassurance she craves.  

"Aww, ladybug," you coo, voice dripping with tenderness—"C’mere." 

She doesn’t hesitate—practically scrambling toward Eren’s lap, her small hands gripping his shoulders as she climbs up. You watch as he adjusts her effortlessly, one arm cradling her close while his free hand wipes a stray tear from her cheek.  

Then? Pfft. 

She blows a wet, sloppy raspberry against his jaw, her way of testing the waters—Is Daddy still mad?  

Eren huffs a laugh, his voice dropping into low, steady German—“Du bist nicht in Schwierigkeiten, kleine Maus."

You’re not in trouble, little mouse. 

He exhales through his nose, fingers gently combing through her hair before his voice drops—low, but firm.  

"Ladybug… there’s somethin’ Daddy needs to talk to you about, though.” 

Her little head tilts up, wide, forest green eyes blinking at him—innocent and waiting.  

Eren adjusts her in his lap, cupping her cheek with one rough hand—“Listen. Tantrums and attitudes ain’t nice, pretty girl. You wouldn’t like it if someone snatched somethin’ from you, right? Or if Mommy and Daddy screamed at you every time you asked us for somethin’—how would that make you feel?" 

Isla’s lips quiver—her tiny face scrunching as she shakes her head no, burying herself against his chest with a muffled, “…’Wouldn’t like that.”

Eren rubs slow circles on her back, pressing a kiss to her crown—“I know you’re sorry. But you gotta use your words—tell us what’s goin’ on in that big, smart head of yours."

A pause.  

“But today? With Elias?" His tone hardens, just a fraction—“That wasn’t nice, Isla. He was excited to spend time with you—with us. How do you think he felt when you snatched that rod, huh?” 

Isla sniffles—her tiny fists balling in his shirt.  

“He’s…sad?" she whispers.  

Eren nods.  

“Yeah, baby. ‘Real sad." 

Your chest tightens as you watch—her little shoulders curling inward, the weight of guilt hitting her in waves.  

Eren’s thumb swipes under her eye—catching a tear—before murmuring, “But you know what?" 

She peeks up.  

He grins—suddenly playful—“If you say sorry, I bet he’ll still let us catch the biggest fish after.” 

Isla’s eyes light up—just like that, the storm passing—and you exhale, reaching over to tuck a curl behind her ear. 

And that apology? Well, that’s exactly what happened. 

The walk to Elias’ cabin is quiet—Isla swinging the little yellow paper bag in her hand, her fingers occasionally tightening around Eren’s as nerves flutter in her tiny chest.  

When the door swings open, Elias stands there—one cheek smeared with melting ice cream, the cone dripping in his other hand. His eyes widen when he sees Isla, and for a second, nobody speaks.  

Behind him, Malik leans against the doorway, brows lifting in amusement, while Noelle wipes her hands on her apron—already smiling before a word is spoken.  

Eren clears his throat, nudging Isla forward gently—“Hey, Elias. We came ‘cause Isla had somethin’ to say to you." 

Isla takes a deep breath—then holds out the yellow bag, her voice small but sincere—  

“…’M sorry for bein’ mean, Elias. I got you somethin’." 

Elias blinks. Then—because he’s seven—he immediately peeks inside the bag. His eyes light up when he sees the toy fishing lure inside—the same one he’d been eyeing at the dock’s little shop earlier.  

In true kid fashion, Elias skips straight to acceptance—“Whoa, thanks!"—before gasping, “Wanna see my bug collection?!" 

Isla glances up at you, hopeful.  

You bite back a laugh—“Maybe tomorrow, ladybug."

Malik shakes his head, grinning—“Nonsense. We’re ‘bout to put on a movie for Elias—how ‘bout she stays and watches? Got marshmallows to roast too."

Your lips part to gently decline, but before the words can form—Eren’s voice cuts in, warm and easy.  

"That’s fine. ‘Go ‘head, mouse." 

Your gaze flicks to Noelle’s—seeking reassurance. Noelle rolls her eyes playfully, waving a hand like she’s swatting away your worry. 

“Girl, stop bein’ so sweet! We got this!"

"Okay—well, just call or come knock if anything happens again, or if she needs—" 

Eren’s low chuckle interrupts you, his fingers brushing the small of your back, "She ain’t goin’ to war, baby. Relax.”   

Your eyes narrow at him briefly before you relent—“We’ll just be cleaning up and packing, okay?" 

Malik and Noelle exchange a glance—then look back at Eren, both grinning as they chuckle in unison—"Okay." 

Eren’s arm wraps around your waist, tugging you back against him—as he murmurs into your hair, “Breathe. She’s good." 

You exhale.  

The door clicks shut behind you—filled with laughter, sticky fingers and forgiveness—while the two of you walk back into the quiet evening, hand in hand.

The cabin hums with serenity—the golden glow of dim lighting casting soft shadows across the wooden walls. Without Isla’s usual whirlwind of energy bouncing from couch to kitchen, the space feels almost sacred—still and warm, like a breath held too long finally being released.  

You’re folding one of her tiny shirts when you glance up, spotting Eren just outside the screen door, sleeves rolled up as he cleans the grill with methodical swipes of a towel. The scent of charred meat lingers, but soon enough, he’s ducking back inside, arms loaded with leftovers wrapped in foil.  

You smile, smoothing out the fabric in your hands before tucking it into her bag—  

And then, beneath the quiet, comes the soft hum of Anita Baker’s Sweet Love—your voice wrapping around the melody without thought.  

Eren listens.

“Haven’t heard that in a couple days." 

Your smile softens, fingers lingering on the zipper of Isla’s bag.

“Had no reason to hum it," you murmur, “My brain was too busy." 

The bag gets placed gently beside the couch—and the moment you straighten up, Eren’s there.  

Large hands slide around your hips, pulling you back against him with effortless ease. His chest is warm against your spine, his chin resting atop your head as he sways—just slightly—to the rhythm you’d been humming.  A giggle slips free—your hands covering his that rest against your stomach, and you hum again, softer this time. A melody meant only for moments like this—when love isn’t loud, but deep, quiet, filling the spaces between breaths.  

“This has all been so sweet, baby. I’m so thankful for this—for our child, for you."

His arms tighten, lips pressing against your temple.  

And then, softer than the music, your voice wraps around the words—“‘Couldn’t ask for a better husband."

A low, deep rumble. 

“‘Think I don’t give you enough credit for how much you ground me.”

Eren murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with affection—“…Couldn’t ask for a better wife in this lifetime.” 

His lips press against the curve of your neck—soft, lingering, before trailing up to that spot behind your ear—the one that makes your breath hitch, the one he knows will have you react. 

You shudder, as you always do. A shaky giggle escapes as you instinctively lift your hand back, fingers threading into his hair to tug as he nips at the sensitive skin there.  

”The perfect momma," he growls, his free hand curling around your throat—his grip just tight enough to make your pulse jump beneath his palm.  

His mouth is relentless—sucking, biting, leaving heat blooming beneath your skin, until your teeth sink into your bottom lip, thighs twisting together as pleasure curls low in your belly.  

Eyes fluttering shut, you exhale—slow, shaky—your grip tightening in his hair as you arch back into him. 

Your head falls back against the solid curve of his shoulder, surrendering to the possessive heat of his touch. The vintage material of your dress slides under Eren’s rough fingers as they trace the dip of your ribcage—slow, deliberate—before curling under the thin straps and tugging them down in one firm motion.  

Your heavy tits spill free with a soft bounce, the fabric pooling at your waist as Eren palms them greedily. His calloused hands knead into your supple flesh, fingertips dragging over your nipples until they stiffen beneath his touch. A whimper escapes your lips as you twist to look up at him—only to meet his darkened gaze, his pupils blown wide with hunger.  

“Missed these perfect fuckin’ tits,” he rasps, voice thick with desire.  

Before you can respond, his mouth crashes onto yours—hot, suffocating—swallowing every needy sound as his thumbs flick over your aching nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Your back arches, pressing deeper into his grip as pleasure sparks through your veins, your thighs trembling where they press together. His lips move against yours, relentless, stealing every ragged breath as his hands claim every inch of you—rough, possessive, worshiping.

Your tongues slide together in a filthy, wet rhythm—messy and loud—lapping at each other like neither of you can get enough. The kiss leaves you breathless, panting against his lips as your gaze drops down between your bodies—Eren’s rough hands still knead your heavy tits, fingers tugging at your stiffened nipples, making you whimper even more. 

“Eren—" you plead softly, voice trembling, “Isla will be home soon..."   

"Then make sure to fuck me good ‘fore she gets here." 

In one swift motion, his grip tightens on the nape of your neck—shoving you forward onto the sofa with a roughness that sends a jolt through you. Your body bows beneath him, spine arching as he looms over you, his breath hot against your ear.  

“Take this shit off,” he orders, voice low and rough, “Hurry up." 

You don’t hesitate—shimmying out of the rest of your dress, the fabric pooling at your waist before you kick it free entirely. Your brown skin glows in the dim light, curves soft and supple—an erotic dream made real.  

Eren’s gaze burns over you, lingering on the cursive script of his name tattooed just above the dimple of your lower back—his claim, his mark.

Smack!

“Need to keep this shit movin’ like that."

Eren's voice is thick, rough with hunger as he hooks a hand around your hip and yanks you back toward him, “C’mere."

Your legs are spread more before you can even process it—his palm pressing into the small of your back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch. Your face burns as you tuck it against your shoulder, but there’s no hiding—not when he’s got you like this, your glistening folds on full display, inches from his mouth.  

Smack! Smack! Smack! 

His hand lands again—sharp, stinging—and your fingers fly to your lips, sinking between your teeth to muffle the whimper that trembles free. Eren’s thumbs snatch over your folds, spreading you wider, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.  

“Fuck," he growls, low and reverent—“Always had such a pretty ass pussy, baby." 

The words send a shudder through you—his praise filthy, his grip possessive—as he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up your slit. Your thighs jerk, toes curling against the couch cushions, but he doesn’t let you squirm away. Not when he’s got you right where he wants you. Open, aching, his.

Eren never eats you the same way twice, each time is a new kind of calculated torment.  

Sometimes, he wants to drag—his tongue slow and methodical, teasing out your pleasure until you’re shaking, convinced it could last forever.  

Sometimes, he wants you desperate—laving over every inch of you except exactly where you need him, forcing you to whimper, beg, pleasepleaseplease— 

And then there are moments like this. 

Where he just wants to make you squirt right on his fucking face.  

His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into the plush flesh of your ass cheeks as he drags you flush against his mouth—no teasing, no build-up. Just slop. His tongue laps at you messy, loud, filthy, spit frothing against your folds as he eats you like a starving man. Your body tenses all at once, caught off guard by the sheer ferocity of it—because no matter how many times he does this, you’re never prepared for this Eren.  

Your fingers press deeper into your mouth, biting down on your knuckles as you whimper— “B—baby…"—your gasps pitched high and sweet, tortured.  

He doesn’t care.  

He just groans into your cunt, tongue swirling in a rhythm on your clit that turns your brain to mush, pleasure so mindless you forget how obscene this must look—how embarrassing—your hips arching, thighs trembling as he devours you.  

Then, his lips latch onto your folds, shaking his head side to side—  

The wet, sloppy sound echoes in the quiet cabin. Your mouth falling open in silent shock, nearly going slack. 

Pffft. 

Your pussy farts right against his lips, frothy and obscene from how drenched you are. 

“I feel you, baby.” 

Eren drawls, his voice vibrating against your dripping flesh as he keeps shaking his head—messy, relentless—letting you feel every hot exhale against your sensitive skin—“Get it out for me." 

Your frown deepens—lips pressed together, brows knitted—nearly looking mad at how easily he pulls this reaction from you. But then—your thighs jerk, a whimper breaking free as your body betrays you—  

A gush of slick spills over his chin, his lips, his nose—and Eren groans, deep and satisfied, grinding your pulsing pussy against his face like he’s savoring it.  

“Fuck," he rasps again, “That was sooo fuckin’ good, baby."

His fingers tangle in your curls as he comes up, gripping tight as he yanks your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. Dark, possessive, commanding. 

“‘Keep them eyes here." 

His other hand fists around his cock—thick, heavy, precum glistening at the flushed tip—stroking himself slow as he watches you squirm.  

This is Eren in sergeant mode—voice rough, tone brooking no argument as he orders, “Come sink down on it." 

You listen, even when you don’t want to. Your spine arches deeper, folds spreading on their own as you lower yourself—his tip catching your entrance in a suffocating chokehold before you finally sink down.  

Your pout returns instantly—“Mmmph—!"—a shuddering moan escaping as your pussy creams around him, clamping down in slick, desperate pulses.  

Eren grunts, hand cracking against your lower thigh—“That’s what the fuck I like to see."

His grip bruises as he forces you to take more, “Already ‘bout to split you open." 

Your eyes roll back the moment you’re fully seated—his cock growing inside you, hitting that deep, deep spot—your cunt lets out another wet pffft as you whimper, ”Mmmmygod, fuhhhck.” 

Eren’s gaze burns into yours—mouth curling into that evil glower as he grinds up into you, “It’s curvin’, huh?” 

You can’t even answer—too busy gasping as he drops you down again—slow, aching strokes that drag against every swollen inch of your walls.  

“Ou twò gwo…”

You're too big… 

Eren chuckles, dark and satisfied—watching your brain turn to mud as he fucks it right out of you.

Eren fucks you with the same relentless intensity as he ate you—no mercy, no reprieve. His fingers tighten in your hair, dragging your head back as he punches deep into your trembling pussy—each slow stroke deliberate, each thrust burying his cock to the hilt.  

His voice drops into low, rough German—“Du kannst das schaffen. Du bist ein großes Mädchen.” 

You can take it. You’re a big girl. 

But you aren’t—not right now—not with the way his cock bulldozes your walls, his heavy balls slapping against your swollen clit, his thick shaft painting white streaks inside you every time he pulls halfway out.  

A broken mewl slips from your lips—Creole spilling in shaky protest—“Mwen pa...M’nottt…” 

“You think that’s gonna stop me from fuckin’ you?” 

You gasp, “‘R—Ren—“, but before you can finish, his palm cracks against the side of your face—not harsh, but firm, a warning.  

Both hands circle your jaw from behind, tilting your head back as he uses you—leverage to tug you onto his cock with every punishing stroke.  

“Actin’ like you don’ want every inch of this shit poundin’ you out,” he growls, voice fatal—hot breath against your ear as you cling to his wrist, muffling your sounds into his palm.  

They’re long, whiny, stupid—pleasure so sharp it borders on pain, your pussy clenching around him like it’s trying to milk him dry.  

And this is where you lose. 

It wasn’t just the way he handled you all the time—it was the way he talked to you. Eren knew. That sweet, patient rasp of his voice could lull you into submission, but right now? Right now he wielded his tone like a weapon—rough, cocky, mocking—and you were helpless against it.  

Your pussy relaxes, letting him sink deeper with no fight, even as your face twisted in protest.  

Eren notices.

"Look at you," he drawls, hips rolling deep, "’Not even fightin’ my cock." 

His palm smoothes over your trembling stomach—possessive.

"Daddy’s so proud of you, mommy." 

And—fuck. 

Your moans halt, just for a second—eyes watering, lips trembling—before a broken sob escapes you, your cunt clenching around him as you cream in surrender. 

Eren groans, fingers digging into your hip as he repeats it—“Daddy’s so proud, mommy. So fuckin’ proud." 

Your ass claps against him—wet, obscene—as he pounds into you, your cries dissolving into weak, defeated whimpers.  

He coos, like you’re some fragile thing—“I know, baby. Keep milkn’ me. Just like that." 

“…I’m—I’m cumming…!” 

It’s barely a whisper—pathetic—but Eren grins, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he fucks you through it—relentless, merciless—until you’re nothing but a trembling, dripping mess in his hands.

Your squeal is pitiful as you squirt again, your face tucking into the crook of Eren’s arm as he pulls you into a rough headlock. His bicep presses against your lips, muffling your whimpers as his groan rumbles directly into your ear—  

“Fuck, you feel so good.” 

Your cries are stifled, swallowed by his skin as he fucks you through your orgasm, each stroke punching another broken sound from your throat. His hips stutter—then lock as he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, his cock pulsing as he fills you up.  

You’re desperate for his mouth. Twisting in his grip until you find his lips, you kiss him sloppy, wet—teeth clashing, tongues tangling—both of you still grinding against each other like you can’t stop. The cabin air thrums with it—love, passion, heat—until the frenzy finally slows, your bodies slick and trembling.  

Eren pulls out, your body shivering at the loss. But your mouth stays on his, chasing his taste like you’re starved for it.  

Then—arrogant as ever—he growls against your lips, “‘Gonna give you another baby." 

Your giggle is weak—dazed—as you peck his swollen mouth, “Your brain is overdosing on endorphins. You don’t mean that." 

"Another girl," Eren grunts against your lips, his voice still rough with pleasure, "Iceland." 

You giggle even more, “They’d be nearly ten years apart." 

Eren huffs, nudging his nose against yours.

 “Maybe a sibling would help her social skills,” his smirk is smug as he adds, “‘See how I’m always stayin’ on topic?"

You roll your eyes but gently pull him forward, letting his heavy body settle over yours, his head nestling between your breasts with a contented sigh. The moment quiets—just the sound of your breathing slowing, your fingers threading lazily through his hair as the afterglow hums between you.  

“…She’ll get to learn all of that in school.”

Eren’s closed eyes flicker open—his head lifting slightly as he studies you.

"Like…public school?" 

You nod, watching his expression carefully.  

“What made you change your mind? 

“…It’ll be good for her," you say softly, fingers still combing through his hair—"’Like you said. Her experiences won’t be yours, or mine. They’ll be Isla’s." 

Eren stares at you for a long moment—green eyes tracing over your face—before his lips curve into something warm, something proud. 

"You’re a fuckin’ woman," he murmurs, voice thick with admiration, “My woman." 

Then he’s surging up, capturing your mouth in a deep, searing kiss that makes you giggle against his lips one more time—your heart full, your body still humming with the echoes of him.

"Iceland," Eren growls, his hot breath fanning over your inner thighs as he drags your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself between them again.

“‘Perfect fuckin’ name for my second daughter.” 

His thick tip slaps against your soaked folds, already teasing, already possessive. And then?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Mommy? Daddy?"

Panic shoots through you like lightning. You barrel off the couch, scrambling for your discarded dress, hands shaking as you yank it over you. You’re smoothing your hair, wiping at your swollen lips as you squeak out, "Coming!" 

Your eyes narrow at Eren who hasn’t moved an inch—still lazily sprawled on the sofa, half-hard and smirking. You smack his shoulder, hissing under your breath, "Eren, get dressed!" 

He just chuckles—deep, unbothered—before calling toward the door, “Hold on, Mouse. Momma and Daddy were just having a play date." 

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. Creole slips out in mortified protest—“Eren, pitié!” 

But it’s too late. Noelle and Malik’s muffled voices drift through the door now, "See? Told you they needed time alone!” 

Eren’s laughter rumbles through the cabin—warm, unrepentant—as he finally stands, tugging his pants up with one hand while the other pulls you close. His lips press a tender kiss to your temple—soft, sweet—a silent promise.  

Yours. Forever.

And despite the chaos—despite the embarrassment—your heart swells. This was the perfect life, and it was always meant to be yours. 

[bunnyuser]

Eren and his bunny gf

─ ˚₊⊹ᰔ Bunny hybrid reader, squirting, use of daddy

“It’s a bunny thing” is what Eren told his friends when they asked why you became so damn hyper the minute you laid your eyes on his pretty face. Oh how adorable you were with your little nose twitching side to side, your tail flicking itself like crazy and dragging your face all over his neck like you haven’t seen him in ages! (It had only been 10 minutes)

“It’s a bunny thing” is what Eren told himself when you’d nudge his biceps with your little nose, only to end up nuzzling your face in his arm. Eren knew this was a sign of neediness and you demanding his upmost attention, and who was he to deny you?

“It’s a bunny thing” is what Eren told himself when your small body rolled onto its side as he gently massaged you. Your eyes were closed and you were purring in a satisfied manner as he ran his smooth hands across your soft fur, occasionally petting your long floppy ears lying flat and relaxed amongst your thick curly hair.

“It’s a you thing?” is what Eren tried to figure out after realizing that you hump on anytning that was remotely related to him. His pants, his shoes, even his own pillow…are bunnies normally supposed to act like this?

“It’s definitely a you thing.” Is what Eren finally realized when how horny you got for this man. A deep suck to your neck and your panties were already drenched in milky cream, leaking onto his sweatpants. Small murmurs of praises has you whimpering like a fool and begging for more. The last thing that set you off was Eren’s touch on your body as he pounded into you.

“Uh…f-fuck eren!”

“That’s it bunny….keep moaning for me, okay?”

He coo’ed in your ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers up your spine that was currently arched up against the counter. Each thrust was more brutal than the last, making you whine out in pleasure.

Your pussy was basically dripping onto the floor, a long thin string of slick forming a puddle im between your feet. This was your second, no, third orgasm? You couldn’t keep track anymore. Not when he’s fucking you dumb like this.

“D-dad-mmm! It’s too much!

“Been begging for my attention all day, daddy’s finally giving it to you so take it.”

His hand that had a firm grip on your waist slid up your body until it reached your neck, not squeezing yet, just holding you. Making sure you you’re in his hold.

“Is bunny gonna cum?” He whispered as he nibbled on the shell of your ear, knowing how sensitive you are there.

You were too fucked out to speak, making Eren let out a deep chuckle as you slurred the word “daddy” over and over all while trying to lick up the drool that was leaking on the corner of your plump lips, only for Eren to lick it up and pull you into a nasty kiss.

That was the last straw before you came with a strangled moan, eyes rolling as your legs began to shake. Clear slick dripped down your thighs before squirt started to come out as Eren continued to thrust into you. The sound of water hitting the floor was the last thing you heard before passing out.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ — been trying to get out my comfort zone a bit, not sure I like it tho…

[otakufilms]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

dogtooth. eren.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count—7.0K, onlyfans!contentcreatorcouple!, originalblackfem!reader, boyfriend!erenyeager, bubblyslightlybimbo!femreader, gymrat!eren, gymrat!femreader, southerncoded!femreader, southerncoded!eren, aggressive!eren, dominant!eren, gruff!eren, sweet!eren, submissive!eren, size kink!, pet names!baby!bunny!, kitchen counter!sex, pussy eating!, face slapping!, fingering!, foot rubbing!, slightly aggressive sex!, dick sucking!, riding!, missionary!, stand and carry fuck! squirting!, creaming, condomless sex, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— …it’s me again. i’m kinda obsessed w/ them? idk. somebody chain me up. part three of a new couple unlocked—part’s one + two, here. here. enjoy, love you. muah.

૮₍ ៸៸ ᵜ ก ₎ა

…..piscesbimbobunny is now live!

CINNAMON DUSTED FRECKLES FLUSH AN APPLE RED BENEATH THE STUDIO LIGHTS, CHEEKS ROUND AS YOUR GIGGLES FILL THE AIR BEFORE YOU EVEN PRESS RECORD.

The lens flickers to life, capturing the sprawling luxury villa kitchen in Seoul, Korea—warm golden light spilling over marble countertops and gleaming stainless steel appliances. The space is immaculate but lived-in; half-opened bags of Korean snacks clutter the island, a bottle of soju sits half-finished near the stove, and two wine glasses still glisten with condensation from earlier sips.  

Behind the camera, your boyfriend's deep voice rumbles—rough but tender—“Check connection for me, baby.” 

Then? You stumble into frame with clumsy giggles—dark curls bouncing as you adjust your lace camisole— sweetheart neckline hugging heavy tits that threaten to spill over, your dimples digging deep when you flash a wave at the chat already flooding in. 

BUNNY AND EREN ARE BACK! 

You play innocent, batting anime-thick lashes as you plop onto the stool beside Eren. He’s in a stupidly tight black tee that strains over his tattooed arms, fiddling with an apron string you’ve forced around his waist.

“‘Chat says ‘happy anniversary’”, his low voice rumbles, “‘Said they miss us.”

You lean into the camera, eyes sparkling with genuine emotion as your hands clasp together. 

“Awe—we missed you too, babies! Thank you so much for all the sweet messages—seriously, you guys have been so good to us." 

Your lips purse in a playful pout as you exhale dramatically, “Eren and I have just been...away, y'know? Enjoying each other." 

You perk up again, “But guess what? Thanks to all your support—” You clap excitedly, “A brand reached out to partner with him on meal prep kits!" 

The chat explodes instantly—

’REN DESERVES IT!

Eren rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish despite his usual rough exterior—deep voice dropping even lower, “Thanks, everyone. But I wouldn’t have ‘none of this shit without you, baby."

That’s all it takes for you to melt entirely. 

With a soft whimper, you grab his chin and smother him in sugary little kisses between giggles until he grunts—startled but amused as you bounce onto his lap unannounced.

“Okay, so—I know we usually keep things…spicy for you guys," you tease, tapping one painted nail against his chest, “But in all honesty? ‘Ren likes us a little more private off camera."

Eren being Eren, squeezes at your hips in a way that means agreement—“But since you guys have been so supportive from day one? We figured—let's switch it up today!"

You slide off his lap—ignoring his reflexive tch at the loss of warmth— sashaying toward the counter with a natural sway of hips, bending just enough to give the chat an eyeful of your mini skirt before reaching into sleek bamboo drawers to pull out ingredients for hotteok ; a Korean stuffed pancake that was Eren's latest culinary obsession.

A bag of brown sugar glitters under studio lights alongside cinnamon sticks and roasted walnuts waiting to be crushed into filling. You brandish them like prizes toward the lens with dimpled glee, “We're making dessert tonight. And while we do?"

You pop onto tiptoes over the marble countertop, “Ask us anything you wanna know!”

Eren moves with that quiet, focused intensity of his—rolling up the sleeves of his shirt before deftly retying his bun, a few dark strands escaping to frame his sharp features. His hunter-green eyes flicker over the ingredients like he’s assessing a battlefield, methodical as always.  

“Baby—we should’ve gotten you a bigger size.” 

His grunt is exasperated—“This was the biggest size.” 

Cue your instant giggle as you tug at the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to reveal those unfairly sculpted abs—deep ink swirling across taut muscle.

“Four months of chicken and keto,” you announce,“And somehow? He’s even bigger.” 

“Imma’ heavy man, baby.”

He murmurs those words to you—leaning down to then catch your tongue between his teeth—just long enough for you to melt into a sweet little whimper against his lips.  

You pull back with mock sternness, patting his chest—“Okay, focus.” 

But your little smile ruins it entirely. 

“Go ahead, Chef.” 

His deep voice takes on that teaching cadence—patient but firm as he walks through mixing the dough as the first step. Meanwhile, you bounce on your toes beside him until your eyes flicker to chat again and light up—“Ooh! First question—” You tilt the phone screen toward Eren, “‘How did we meet?’”   

A soft smile curls over your lips as nostalgia hits.

“Hm…‘bout five years ago? Back in Baton Rouge…” 

You glance at Eren like you’re sharing a secret—already giggling at the memory,  “‘Ren was an exchange student looking for food outside of the dining hall at LSU.” 

He smirks, but doesn’t deny it.

“I thought he was so mean at first. All eyebrows and grumbles,” —your impression of early days Eren has the chat flooding —“‘Til I dragged him to this lil' Cajun spot off campus—”

Eren interrupts dryly while kneading dough—“She lied ‘bout how far it was.”

Your gasp is tiny—“So dramatic, it was one extra block!” 

His chuckle says otherwise, but when you press closer? His free arm wraps around your waist automatically—like even now? He still needs touch confirmation you're really there. Your fingers pause mid-air as you sprinkle cinnamon, a wistful smile softening your face.

 "Funny thing—back then, English wasn't even my first language," you admit softly, dusting sugar off your hands, “Fresh off the bayou with more Creole in my mouth than proper sentences." 

A quiet hum leaves Eren's throat—his hands never stopping their rhythmic kneading of dough as he listens like he's hearing it for the first time again.

"I didn’t talk to anybody at LSU ‘til this big ol' grumpy German exchange student kept popping up at my study hall—“ you nudge his shoulder playfully— “…’Ren learned Creole just to talk to me.” 

Eren shakes his head but doesn’t deny it—knuckles brushing flour onto the counter with practiced ease. His voice rumbles low when he finally speaks, “You said ‘Ça va?’ to me every damn mornin’. Only thing I understood was that pretty ass voice.”  

You lean toward the camera with a grin, translating for chat—“Ça va? means, How are you? in Creole.”  

A giggle bubbles up as you add, “And I was just being polite!”  

Eren lowly chuckles, “Kept thinkin’ if I learned her language, she’d finally look at me,” he admits—voice gruff but fond, “Took me weeks just to get her to stop dodgin’ my eyes.” 

His thumb brushes your chin in a quick reenactment of that first time he got your full attention—his smirk widening when you instinctively tilt into his touch even now.  

“Then? She agreed to one date and never left after.”   

The teasing glint in his eyes returns as he adds dryly—“I was real scrawny back then though—probably wasn’t even her type.” 

“That’s not true!" Your pout could rival a child's tantrum, “I loved you the same, even when your arms were noodles.”

You huff dramatically before melting against him again, muffling into his shoulder, “‘Sides…you were always pretty."

Eren’s voice drops to that low, rough murmur as he leans in—“You’re pretty.”  

The simple words have your cinnamon-dusted freckles darkening immediately, even as you bite back a smile and turn toward the camera again.  

“Oh—this one asks, ‘Wait, Eren’s German?’” 

You nod, “He is! But ‘difference is—his first language was English since his mom was American. ‘Still fluent in German, though.” 

You shoot him a playful side eye while kneading dough next to him, “He acts like it's not a big deal.” 

The chat erupts instantly with demands.

SAY SOMETHING IN GERMAN, ‘REN!

Eren exhales through his nose like they’re personally inconveniencing him, flicking flour off his hands and leaning toward the mic on impulse— 

“Ihr könnt mich alle mal.’” 

His tone drips with playful arrogance before adding flatly—“Means ‘happy anniversary.’” 

Of course, the chat floods with—

LIAR! THAT MEANS ‘YOU ALL CAN SUCK IT!’ 

Eren's deep voice guides you through the next steps—“Dough needs to rest. Brown sugar filling next." 

But between instructions? His hands grow distracted—cupping your jaw to steal slow, lazy kisses against your flour-dusted lips like he needs the contact more than air. Your murmured Love you’s slip out between each press of mouths—natural as breathing, forgotten mid-sentence when his teeth catch your lower lip just to feel you shiver. 

When you finally peel away to check the chat again, a nervous giggle escapes at the new question.

“First time you had sex? How was it?” 

You scratch idly at Eren’s scalp as he leans into your touch like a contented predator before answering softly—“‘Ren took my virginity. Wasn’t ‘til a year into dating, actually.” 

A sheepish shrug follows—“We weren't always…like this."

Your fingers slow in Eren’s hair as you process the comment—Touchy as y’all are, that’s a shock!

A soft sigh escapes you.

“Yeah…well, it wasn't always like this, either.”

Your thumb strokes absently at his temple while he nuzzles into your shoulder—his arms tightening around your waist in that grounding way of his. Always reading you.  

“Early days? ‘Ren was the clingy one—” You grin when he grunts against your skin—"And I was…the opposite.” 

Your voice quiets slightly, eyes flickering down to where his hands grip you like a vow.

“My family raised me with discipline—traditional values, not much affection. Sometimes even a hug from him made me freeze up."  

The confession sticks briefly in your throat before Eren gently rocks you side-to-side—wordlessly pulling you back to the present just by existing.

You giggle then; wet but warm—“But ‘Ren's family? They shove love right in your face." 

Your thumb swipes over his smirk, “Taught me to crave it.” 

Eren doesn’t say anything, just pressing a kiss below your ear that says everything anyway. 

His voice rumbles against your shoulder in rough German— “Ich liebe dich.”

You don’t need to look at him to know his expression—softened only for you. Your smile blooms instinctively as you translate for chat, fingers still buried in his hair—“He said ‘I love you.’”  

The moment lingers before Eren clears his throat and redirects—all business again. 

“Dough should be ‘proofed by now. Roll it out—stuffin’ goes in the center before sealing.” 

His hands guide yours briefly over the flour-dusted counter, demonstrating the motion with practiced ease.

A new question flashes on screen.

What’s the hardest part of being in the adult industry?

Eren answers before you can even glance up from shaping dough balls —voice sharpening like a blade unsheathed, “Outside of the judgment? The fuckin’ invasion. I can come on here and fuck my girl ‘cause that’s what we enjoy doin’.”

His thumb swipes sugar off your bottom lip possessively — “But that doesn’t change an ounce of respect I have for her. And sure as hell doesn’t mean randoms get to forget it either.”

He leans into the mic deliberately; tone dropping to something dangerously quiet—“Boundaries exist for a reason.” 

The tension breaks when you nonchalantly pop a walnut piece into his scowling mouth — unfazed as ever while kneading another pancake round between sticky fingers.

Comments flood the chat as expected.

TEA?

Your fingers pause mid-knead, a heavy sigh leaving your lips as the memories bubble up—unwanted but unavoidable.  

“Alright, so—there was this one time,” you begin, rolling the dough between your palms, “We took my family to Turks and Caicos—supposed to be all pristine beaches and stiff drinks, yeah?”  

Eren’s jaw tightens beside you before he even hears the rest—already knowing where this is going.  

“Guy recognizes us at dinner.” 

You shrug, voice flat now.

“Now—my folks already side-eye my whole career enough as it is,” a bitter little laugh escapes you—“So we politely declined when the man asked for a photo with us.”  

Your grip on the wooden spoon tightens involuntarily as your tone drops lower, “Then this nig—” 

You cut yourself off briefly before forcing composure back in place—“‘Had the nerve to lean over our food, grinning about how he wanted me to ride him while ‘Ren watched.”

You raise an eyebrow at chat exploding with—

AND WHAT DID EREN DO? 

You flick flour off your fingers nonchalantly before looking dead into the lens—“Baby…what do you think a six-foot-four rage case does when someone disrespects his woman in front of her parents?” 

That silence speaks louder than any graphic retelling ever could.

“Let's just say I’m banned from Turks and Caicos." 

Your response is almost instantaneous— “He's being dramatic. ‘Ren damn near flipped the table when he got up and the man took off—we ended up being escorted from the restaurant ‘cause Hulk wouldn't calm down.”

Eren flexes his biceps with an exaggerated grunt—“He wasn’t ready for all this pure muscle of chicken and keto!" 

He smacks your ass so hard it echoes, making you jolt with a glare.  

“What’s the next step for the hotteok, boy?" 

“You'll never know if you keep up that attitude."

“Y—“ you shoot daggers at him, “Eren Yeager.” 

The way you say his full name makes him chuckle darkly before relenting, explaining the frying process with amusement lacing every word.

Then chat distracts you again.

Favorite thing about each other?

You perk up instantly, batting those anime lashes at him—“Ooh, What's your favorite thing about me?"

His answer comes without hesitation—rough hands gripping your waist as he murmurs against your neck, “‘S how softhearted you stay, even when life tries to steal it from you."

Funny enough, your heart softens in that moment. He didn’t do sentimental well—but when he did? It wrecked you every time.

Eren murmurs low, his voice thick with something tender—“S’your turn, Bunny.” 

Your lashes flutter as you exhale softly. 

“The way you take care of me… I never feel unsafe with you.”  

His expression shifts—eyes darkening with that rare, unfiltered devotion. He leans in to press a slow kiss against the curve of your neck, lips dragging deliberately along your skin like he’s memorizing the taste of you all over again.  

You squirm when his jaw tickles, giggling breathlessly before nudging him— “C’monnn’, we gotta finish these treats or they won’t be ready for dessert!”  

Eren scoops a bit of the cinnamon-brown sugar filling onto the back of his palm, raising it to your lips with a gruff murmur to the camera—  

“Family tradition. Gotta’ make sure it’s sweet enough.”

You don’t just taste it—you indulge. Your tongue drags slowly along his skin before sucking his finger fully into your mouth, lips working around him in a way that has Eren growling low in his chest.  

The second you release him, he yanks you into a searing kiss by your waist—all teeth and possessive hunger until you push against his jaw with a breathless laugh.  

Still flushed, you turn back to chat with faux innocence—reading aloud, “Favorite positions and why?” 

Your shrug is casual, “Mine’s doggy. ‘Let’s me feel…every part of him.” 

Eren doesn’t let that slide for even two seconds before retaliating—voice thick with taunting intent, “I like puttin’ your little ass over my shoulders while I stand up—” He smirks at how instantly your eyes go wide—“But you can’t take that shit. Just whinin’,” —his thumb swipes your bottom lip mockingly— “Squirtin’ all on me ‘til—“

“Okay! Okay! Jesus, sorry.”

Eren smirks as you bury your burning face in his chest, his deep chuckle vibrating through you.  

“Hope that answered the question,” he murmured, “We don’t do it too often ‘cause I don’t wanna hurt her—but when she lets me? Fuck.” 

Then another question pops up—one that makes him pause for a second, then answering with that trademark bluntness. 

What's your favorite thing about not just having sex with her, but sharing it with other people? 

Eren exhales through his nose—not even hesitating. 

“The way people see her.” 

His thumb brushes your chin possessively—“Most watch ‘cause she’s pretty as hell—and yeah, that shit strokes my ego.” 

His grip tightens slightly—“But when they realize how smart she is while we work together? How much control she actually has?” 

A dark smirk curls over his lips—“That’s the shit that makes 'em stay.”

Your freckled face flushes as you bury it against Eren’s bicep—his deep chuckle rumbling through his chest once more as he presses a kiss to the crown of your curls.  

A question you didn’t expect.

Marriage? Kids?

You move to fry the hotteok, but let out a tiny squeak when grease pops against your skin. Instantly, Eren’s hand catches yours, lifting your palm to his mouth so he can press a slow, soothing kiss over the sting. 

“C’mere. Stand behind me.”

You don’t argue—just wrap your arms around his waist and press yourself flush against his back, letting him take over at the stove while you nuzzle into his shoulder blades like they were made for this exact purpose. 

When he picks up where he left off,  his voice is steady with conviction—“A day never went by where I didn't think about marryin' her."

The sizzle of frying dough fills the pause before he continues, “‘Got a big ass family... want that shit passed on for generations. Bunny's an only child—I want her to know what real love feels like."

Your arms tighten around him reflexively at that. 

He doesn’t even stumble under your grip—just keeps flipping golden-brown pancakes effortlessly before finishing with rough-edged sincerity, “She's my fuckin' wife already, paper or not. But she wants us to be devoted in front of God first.”

Eren’s voice softens slightly as he flips another perfectly golden hotteok, clarifying for the viewers—  

“She ‘don’t feel comfortable still doin' this when we got kids runnin' around and our marriage tied to faith. But right now?"

He glances over his shoulder at you still clinging to his back—his smirk warm and private, “She's happy. Travelin’, filmin’ just us and the world."

The admission lingers in the air before he adds quietly—almost too low for the mic to catch— 

“...Can't wait to hold her swollen belly, though." 

His free hand drops briefly to cradle an invisible curve against your stomach before returning to cooking like it was nothing.

Your breath hitches against him as Eren continues gruffly, “Gonna see her cry even more than she already does... ‘Love her harder than I already have."

The words are raw in a way that makes your arms tighten around him even more—like if you squeeze hard enough, this feeling might never fade. And judging by how his palm presses over yours where they're locked at his waist? He doesn't want it to either.

Eren gently pulls you forward as the last hotteok finishes frying, his large hands reaching for toppings—cinnamon dusting, crushed walnuts, a swirl of whipped cream—all while you murmur a sweet, “Thank you, baby." 

You lean back against the counter with a satisfied sigh—“That's all the answers we got for now, guys. Let’s try this hotteok!” 

Taking an exaggerated bite, your giggles bubble up immediately—cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk as you nod enthusiastically, “Mmf—so good!” 

Sugar clings to your fingers as you absentmindedly swipe at them before leaning toward the chat again—heavy tits pressing into the counter’s edge when someone asks about your top. You brighten instantly.

“Oh, I got this from this adorable boutique in Seoul!"

You glance over at Eren just as he takes a bite of the hotteok—but there’s a shift in him. 

That usual cocky ease is gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. You rub his arm gently in silent question, but when your eyes finally meet his?  

That look. 

It hits you like a punch to the ribs—his gaze isn’t just hungry anymore. It’s devouring. Every answer you two gave tonight flashes behind those green eyes—every confession, every tease—and it all condenses into one brutal realization for him. 

He loves you so much it pisses him off.

It’s the little things that make you realize—he swipes cinnamon sugar off the corner of your lip roughly before he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to rein himself back in. But then? You turn away from him entirely—giggling as you hop onto the kitchen island to get closer to the chat.

Your legs cross gently, thighs pressing together as you adjust your top absentmindedly—the fabric tightening over full tits that bounce slightly with each little movement. Eren watches silently from behind while cracking his knuckles once…twice…

Your curls spill over your shoulders as you lean slightly to read another question—What did y'all study in school?  

A playful grin tugs at your lips as you answer, “Eren was a double major—kinesiology and culinary. That’s why he’s the one doing most of the cooking."

You giggle before adding, “Funny enough, I was an English lit major before switching to bioengineering—"

Before you can finish, Eren moves beside you with slow intent. 

His large hands slide around your waist, tugging your small frame flush against him without breaking stride in conversation. Your arm automatically loops around his neck like second nature while your fingers idly toy with the hair at his nape—soothing him absently as you keep talking to chat.

But then his mouth finds your throat.

At first it's just a teasing press of lips that makes you smile mid-sentence…until he drags his tongue along a slow, torturous path up the column of your neck. The second he sucks just below your ear? Your breath stutters visibly and those lashes flutter shut for half-a-second too long. You shiver when he deliberately takes even longer on the next open-mouthed kiss—forcing every nerve under your skin to alight with sensation, the chat remaining none-the-wiser about why words briefly fail you.

“‘Ren…c’monnn, baby.” 

As you try to regain your composure and continue answering questions, Eren’s hands slide under your skirt—slow, deliberate. His thick fingers hook into the waistband of your panties just enough to make you gasp softly before he drags them to the side slightly—just enough to expose the flushed pink beneath.  

Your toes curl against the counter’s edge instinctively—hips shifting as if they can’t decide whether to press into his touch or shy away from it. But Eren doesn't let up; he swipes once through soaked fabric with a roughness that has you biting back a whimper,  clutching at his shirt like it's the only thing keeping you upright.

“Shhh,” he rumbles against your neck—voice all honey-dark promise—“Keep talkin', baby. ‘Ain’t tryna’ bother you.” 

Then comes that gruff murmur against the shell of your ear, “‘Missed your pussy wrapped around my fingers.”

And that?

Your breath hitches as Eren’s fingers glide roughly over your folds through the fabric—squelch—the sound loud enough to make your face burn with embarrassment. Your hips jerk instinctively, a soft squeal escaping as you squirm against his touch.  

Eren’s growl is pure, sinful satisfaction. 

“Oooh, shit—” His fingers press harder, spreading your arousal shamelessly over the lace, “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby.”  

You clutch at his shoulders helplessly, burying your pout against his bicep with a whimpered apology to chat—“‘‘M sorry, guys…” 

But Eren doesn't stop there; he hooks his thumb into the soaked lace of your panties and tugs them fully aside—revealing swollen lips glistening under studio lights.

“Oh fuck.” 

His voice is gravel-deep with awe as he drags two fingers down slowly from clit to entrance, just to watch how easily they slide through dripping heat.

“Look at this shit.” 

Your inner thighs are already glossy when he leans down again—spitting directly onto where you're most sensitive before pressing your foreheads together in some twisted mimicry of intimacy—then, he’s sinking two thick digits inside, so torturously slow. 

“Nngh!” You sob weakly, hands flying to grip his wrist as if that would stop him, doing nothing more than trembling pathetically as those calloused pads rub exactly where it hurts best.

Eren swallows every broken noise in a bruising kiss when he murmurs against lips—“All those eyes on you…” 

A cruel curl of fingers has your back arching off the counter as he finishes darkly, “Give ‘em that show they wanna see."

The moment Eren’s fingers sink even deeper, your body arches—betraying you with a weak little sob as your pussy clenches shamelessly around him. The wet squelch of his thrusts fills the air, messy and loud, and your legs tremble where they’re spread wider against the counter.  

“U—ughnn...!" 

Your plea gets lost in his neck as you nuzzle helplessly against him, palm gripping his bicep like it's the only thing tethering you to reality. But Eren? He just watches, lips curling into that infuriating glare before he turns toward the camera—voice thick with arousal.

“Remember that question earlier?"

His fingers twist inside you cruelly on every word—just to feel how your walls flutter in response, “‘Bout my favorite thing when pleasurin' her?"

A slow pump of his hand has tears gathering at your lashes before he growls—

“This shit right fuckin' here.” 

His thumb swipes over your clit once—just enough to make you jerk with another pitiful noise.

“When she can't even take it..."

Another deep stroke has your back bowing off the counter entirely.

“…But this greedy little cunt's jus’ sobbin', beggin' for me anyway.”

And God help you—the worst part is knowing he's right.

Eren’s gaze burns into the camera, his voice gravel rough with arrogance as his fingers pound into you without mercy—  

“Look at how she just submits to me. Brain fucked stupid.”

His mouth hovers right above yours, lips brushing as he growls—  

“Open m’fuckin' pussy wider." 

Tears spill fat and hot down your cheeks, your legs shaking as you obey instantly—spreading yourself even more for him, every weak gasp punched out of you in time with his brutal thrusts. The obscene slap-wet pfft of your pussy swallowing his fingers fills the air shamelessly.  

He sneers down at you—hot breath mingling between open mouths—“You love me, huh?”   

For a second, all that comes out is airless whimpers until he crooks those fingers hard inside and suddenly— 

“I—I love y—you—” spills out like a broken prayer in between choked gasps. Your body seizes around him violently when your orgasm rips through you completely unprompted —gushing so hard around his knuckles it practically forces them halfway back out while juices dribble messily onto the counter below.

You can't even control it anymore—your voice cracks pathetically under another wave—“Il—loveyou...loveyouloveyou—” each word weaker than last one as if every ounce of sanity got fucked clean from your skull in a matter of seconds. 

Eren’s hand fists in your curls, yanking your head back with a dominance that makes your thighs clench. His other hand shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock—heavy, already glistening at the tip, veins straining as it bobs thick and impatient between you.  

“I give her the control she deserves,” he grunts to the camera, “‘Let her use me however she needs.” 

His grip tightens in your hair until your scalp burns—  

“But sometimes? I want shit my fuckin' way.” 

The moment those words leave his lips, he drags you forward by the roots of your curls until his cockhead bumps against trembling lips—“Come swallow my shit," he commands darkly, voice roughened by lust, “‘Get it wet ‘fore I go in." 

You barely have time to gasp before he rams past your lips—your throat stretching obscenely around him on first thrust as spit dribbles messily down chin within seconds of him pistoning into your mouth. The sounds are fucking filthy — GLRRK!, GLRRK!— each one louder than last as Eren fucks up into weeping heat without pause or mercy. 

And the worst part?

He watches every second through hooded eyes like this isn't even about pleasure anymore; it's about proving a point neither one of you will ever forget.

The chat explodes—messages flooding in too fast to read as they witness you stuffed full, tears pricking at the corners of your swollen eyes while thick curls spill around your face. Your cheeks bulge around Eren's cock, saliva glistening down your chin and onto your heaving chest.  

He drags his cock out just enough for you to choke on a gasp, slick lips clinging desperately as he grunts down at you—

“‘This shit yours, huh?”

Your answer is immediate—fingers trembling but determined as they wrap around the base of him, twisting in time with sloppy sucks at his leaking tip. The drool and spit make lewd shlick-shlick sounds echo through the room between muffled whimpers—your pitiful little nod sending fresh arousal coiling hot in Eren’s gut when paired with how greedily you keep jerking him off between messy swallows.

Eren’s voice is a dark, possessive growl as he watches you struggle around him—  

“‘Shit don’t matter if her throat sore, jaw clenched. She’ll keep goin’ ‘cause I fuckin' said so.” 

His head tilts back with a sharp groan the moment you force yourself deeper—gagging loudly as you swallow him whole like your life depends on it. His hips jerk forward on instinct, nearly knocking against the back of your throat before he sneers down at you cockily—

“‘Never gonna find another dick this fuckin’ big.”

You whimper around him but still manage a wet giggle—your fingers smacking his length playfully against your flushed face before whimpering in desperation and shoving him right back into your drooling mouth. The way your throat flutters, struggling but obediently taking every inch? It makes his jaw clench hard enough to crack.

Because nobody else gets this version of you—desperate, messy, his. 

Eren yanks you back onto the counter with a deep grunt, your legs hoisted effortlessly into the air as he spreads them wider—giving the camera a full, shameless view of your glistening folds. His tongue drags up your soaked slit in one long, filthy stroke before swirling slowly around your clit—lips sealing tight as he sucks and twists in vicious little circles that make you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.  

Your hands scramble for purchase on the counter behind you, nails digging into nothing as his mouth works relentlessly—fucking his tongue against every trembling nerve until all that comes out is a broken whine—“‘R—Ren…fuck…” 

Eren pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick with your arousal as he addresses the audience with that signature arrogant drawl—  

“Look at the way she just lets me bury my face in this pussy."

His tongue swipes up your folds again, slurping loudly just to emphasize how wrecked you already are. His gaze locks onto yours as he nods toward your infamous pout—the one that has your lips trembling, eyes pleading—even as you keep holding those legs up for him like the good girl you are. 

“That little pout? Fuckin' lethal." 

And then he buries himself back between your thighs with zero mercy—shaking his head side-to-side against your clit while low grunts vibrate through every stroke of his tongue. The sounds of him feasting on you fill the room, muffled only when he growls directly into soaked skin—  

“‘She loves this shit.”

You can barely process it before he’s circling his head messily again, lapping at everything like a man starved while keeping those thick fingers hooked under knees to hold them open wider.

Your head lolls back helplessly—fingers pinching and tugging at stiffened nipples on instinct as broken sighs spill out—“F—Feels so…so good…!”

Eren moves with predatory intent, climbing onto the wide island counter and caging your smaller body beneath him—his massive frame looming over you like something monstrous, something hungry. You whimper softly beneath him, already missing the cruel heat of his mouth. .  

“‘Must want me to fuck that pout off your face.”

A firm smack lands against your cheek—not enough to truly hurt, but enough for the sting to linger as he growls one simple command, “Fix it." 

Instantly, you relax your expression into something obedient—whispering a shaky, “Sorry…”  even as his cock slides between slick folds below. Your lower body trembles when he nudges at your entrance—your tight warmth fluttering uselessly around just the tip before he grunts in amusement.

“Always fuckin’ complainin’ every time I push in...”

Then with one brutal roll of his hips—he’s sheathing himself inside to the hilt.

Your back arches off the counter immediately at how deep he fills you—your pussy struggling desperately to stretch around him while Eren spreads your thighs wider against cold marble.

His voice is gritted teeth and dark satisfaction when he mutters down at you—

“Actin’ like this shit don't belong t’ me.”

Eren feels your small hands press hesitantly against his lower stomach—trying to ease the overwhelming stretch—but he clicks his tongue and grips your wrists in one rough motion, pinning them against your own chest as he growls—

“Tuck ‘them fuckin’ hands." 

Your breath hitches, fingers curling helplessly against yourself as you nod, eyes rolling back when he finally starts moving, dropping his thick cock into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Your pussy clenches around him desperately—greedy even as tears prick at the corners of your squeezed-shut eyes.  

A high-pitched whine escapes you when he bottoms out again, and Eren grins, savoring the way your entire body trembles beneath him like a live wire. You pout up at him pitifully between ragged breaths—voice cracking under the weight of pleasure already threatening to undo you. 

“M—mygod…Eren.”

Eren leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs in German—“Du weißt genau, wo deine Hände sein müssen." 

You know exactly where your hands need to be.

Your body trembles as you obey instantly—fingers uncurling from your chest and instead reaching down to hook around your ankles. You tug yourself into an exposed arch, legs folding at the sides of your head as you give him everything. 

Your mouth falls open in a sloppy gasp—voice slurring with each punishing thrust—“O-oh my g–God…yes…!” 

Eren smacks his palm against your ass cheek beneath you—the sharp clap of skin-on-skin making you jolt. 

He grunts through clenched teeth, “She’ll fight me...” His hips snap forward brutally on the next thrust, “But she’ll take this shit, too.”

Your hand scrambles for his hip weakly—tugging him deeper even as overstimulation makes tears spill over, proving his filthy point. The moment he drops all his weight into you again? Your head lolls back like it's too much to bear...only for you to snap forward seconds later with a shattered whimper as your thighs slap violently against his abdomen without restraint.

Eren’s powerful arms scoop you up effortlessly, his grip bruising as he plants his feet flat on the ground before dragging your legs over his shoulders—forcing you into that deep, arching position you hate.

“‘R—” 

But before you can even whine his name fully, “Shut that shit the fuck up.”

Tears spring to your eyes instantly as strong fingers force your face into the crook of his neck while he sinks back inside without warning. You sob weakly against hot skin as one hand fists in your hair, the other clamping onto your hipbone—controlling every movement with ruthless precision. His strength is terrifying like this; no matter how much you squirm or whimper beneath him, Eren just bounces you harder onto cock like a punishing rhythm...flesh slapping together obscenely under studio lights while drool smears across collarbones from where lips part around silent cries. 

His voice comes out soothing, yet the aggression of fucking you is like no other. 

”So verdammt eng..."

So fucking tight.

“Nicht weinen."

Don't cry.

Eren's gaze snaps up to the camera—eyes blazing with arrogant, possessive pride as chat explodes in real-time, witnessing you utterly wrecked against him. Your face stays hidden, buried in the crook of his neck like a shameful little secret—only muffled sobs and the desperate scrape of nails against his skin giving away just how gone you are.  

But he won’t let you hide.  

A rough hand fists into your curls again and tugs, forcing your head back to expose tear-streaked cheeks, swollen lips parted around hiccuping breaths. His other hand grips the full globes of your ass hard enough to bruise as he bounces you down onto cock with zero mercy—the filthy slap, slap, slap of skin echoing like a metronome gone feral.

“Show ‘em that fuckin’ face,” he snarls against your mouth—sealing lips over yours in brutal kiss meant more suffocate than soothe. And when those brown eyes finally lock onto the lens? There it is.

The perfect broken pout—your expression twisted between overwhelmed pleasure-pain while surrendering completely beneath Eren’s dominance...until your orgasm rips through violently without warning. Your body seizes mid-air before gushing around him messily—gasps dissolving into pathetic whines as thighs quiver uncontrollably from oversensitivity already setting deep under skin.

“F—fuhhhhck…Daddy,” spills out between shuddering breaths followed by another weak sob, “I’m cumming.” 

Eren doesn't give you a second to recover. With one last sharp smack to your ass, he hauls you out the air and onto his lap on a chair nearby—his cock still buried deep as your legs tremble around him. 

“Finish me off,” he growls, gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks, “Hurry the fuck up.” 

You whimper weakly but obey—toes curling against his thick thighs for leverage as you start bouncing yourself on him with shaky desperation. Your hands grip the plush flesh of your own asscheeks, spreading them wider just to feel him deeper, while Eren watches you through hooded eyes—not lifting a finger except as you do all work chasing his release.  

“She’ll bounce on my dick ‘til I fuckin’ cum.”

A particularly rough drop of hips has you choking out a high-pitched moan—“‘Cause I own her.”

Tears drip down flushed cheeks, yet you still find yourself mewling pathetically between gasps—you’re spanking your own ass a few times more in a needy, sultry rhythm—tits jiggling close to his face as you swirl your hips down.

Eren's palms slide up the curve of your back as he begins to control your movements, forcing you down harder onto his cock with each punishing tug. His voice is rough with possession—  

"Always gonna take care of her. Fed. Fucked. Loved." 

Each word punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin as you ride him desperately, “That's what keeps her suckin' me dry like this."

Your eyes flicker back toward the camera—cheeks flushed, but a sweet smile plays at swollen lips while your ass twerks shamelessly above him, each downward grind drawing a guttural groan from his chest. You spank yourself lightly once more—an arrogant little show just for him before giggling through a slurred whisper—  

“'M yours, baby..."

Eren snarls, fingers clawing into your hips as his head knocks back against the chair with pleasure bordering pain. The possessive fire in his gut ignites completely when he hears those words spill past trembling lips—hands flying to grip your waist tighter while slamming upward one last time before pulling out abruptly.

Thick ropes of cum stripe across your asscheeks messily—your giggles turning breathless when large palms smear it even lower, rubbing sticky warmth between already ruined folds just prove how thoroughly his you are.

Eren’s hands instantly shift from rough to gentle, his calloused fingers tilting your chin up as he searches your face with a tenderness that contradicts everything primal just moments before.  

“‘I smacked too hard anywhere?”

His voice is low—almost hesitant—as thumbs brush over tear-stained cheeks, checking for even the faintest sign of real discomfort. You melt beneath his touch, shaking your head with a smile so sweet it makes his chest ache. 

“‘‘M perfect,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before giggling softly—  

“Best anniversary I could’ve asked for.”  

The tension in Eren's shoulders collapses at that—his usual arrogance dissolving into something vulnerable as he buries his face against where your neck meets shoulder, like he’s the one overwhelmed now. Your fingers card through dark strands gently while your other hand lifts toward camera lazily with a playful wave—

“Hi, sweet babies…”

Eren tucks his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his usual cocky bravado replaced with a rare shyness—body still thrumming from the intensity of it all. His palms slide slowly up and down your back in quiet reassurance, though he refuses to lift his head for the camera just yet.  

You grin at the screen as comments flood in, giggling softly before murmuring—  

“They have one more question for us…” 

His only response is a low hum against your skin, but those warm hands continue tracing soothing circles between shoulder blades—telling you silently that he’s listening. 

What does love mean to both of you?

Eren finally shifts just enough to press a kiss below your ear before settling back into hiding like an overgrown cat, seeking comfort after being too loud earlier. You smile, tilting toward the lens with a softening gaze, fingers combing through disheveled strands behind him lovingly. 

“Love means…getting fed scrambled eggs at three in the morning because someone heard my stomach growl.” 

A pause.

A muffled grumble from where Eren’s face stays stubbornly buried, “…Means she steals all my hoodies but I buy ‘em bigger anyway so they drown her.” 

Another pause—before both voices overlap without thinking—

“‘Means mine.” 

And really? That sums it up better than anything else ever could.

You nuzzle your nose gently against Eren’s, feeling his breathing steady as he curls even deeper into you—his body molding against yours like two perfect pieces finally clicked together. You can feel the goosebumps rising on his skin beneath your fingertips, his usual arrogance softened into something tender and raw in this quiet aftermath.

With a contented sigh, you turn just enough to flash the camera one last smile—eyes sparkling with unshakable certainty as you murmur—

“We’re gonna go, guys. We’ll see you after we leave Seoul, okay?” 

The livestream flickers for a second—just long enough for the world to catch your final whisper before it cuts off completely. 

“Biggest advice for today? Wait for your person.” 

A beat. A breath.

Your fingers lace through Eren's hair without looking down—already knowing every scar, every freckle, every hidden corner of him by heart.

“They're at the ends of the earth searching for you, too.”

Then, darkness swallows the screen whole—leaving behind nothing but silence, and the sound of two heartbeats finally syncing up after lifetimes spent chasing each other.

[conniesministallion]

I luv them and you downn badddd😩💋

[fuzzy]

whats the point of mfm threesome fics if the boys dont kiss!!!!!!

[fckwritersblock]

Know Your Place

Sukuna x Black Reader

Description: as a grown woman with a touch of hyper-independence it was hard to accept things from and allow you boyfriend?…Partner?…Situationship? Well damn there’s another problem. What were you? Nothing wrong with a little bit of clarity.

Word count: 2k+

A/n: dedicating this thang to @suckthatskittlebiiitch since we both been looking for sukuna and black reader fics and struggling to find them 😭

Was fighting for my life trying to stay awake and finish this last night lmao forgive me if there are any errors

There IS an explicit version of this because I wrote two lmao I don’t think I’m much of a smut writer since I like to read things that immerse you into the plot of something versus fucking all day ( not judging if that s your jam, obvi ) but sometimes that’s where my creativity takes me so I feel it! With that being said, if yall want it, let me know and I’ll drop that one too!

Working my way back into the writing space since being somebody mama with kid and nephew who is in sports is beating my ass but I’ve been writing! I wanna focus on finishing the things I’ve started for the rest of the year, but that’s a story for another time so.

Enjoy!

———————

Sukuna felt your energy before you even burst through the palace doors.

“Sukuna!”

You announced yourself loud enough that everyone in the throne room heard you before they saw you. The large double doors flew open to reveal an angry you, a frazzled Uraume at your elbow.

Thirty heads turned in your direction, curious about the commotion.

Shit. I forgot about the clan meeting, you thought, heart racing. You’d been so upset you’d forgotten to check his schedule.

Too late for that now. You were here, and you know what they said:

Gots to see it through, my boy.

“Mistress Y/n,” Uraume intoned with a bow—too late, but formal nonetheless.

A part of you wanted to sink into the floor from embarrassment—barging into a room like a petulant child throwing a tantrum? In front of all these people no less. Shame. Your eyes briefly scanned the room. You recognized a few faces: Jin, who grinned; Toji, snickering like an idiot; Sukuna’s nephews, Choso and the happy-go-lucky Yuji—Yuji waved just to earn a smack upside the head from Choso who looked at you giving a respectful nod. You almost cracked a smile at those two, but this was business.

“Woman.”

Your eyes immediately snapped back to Sukuna.

“Sukuna.” You folded your arms under your chest and planted your feet.

If a vague, disinterested frown wasn’t his default, everyone would have known something was wrong. He hated it when you called him by his last name; the two of you were well past formalities. It was Ryomen to you. In fact, you barely used his given name anymore—Ryo, Ry baby, bae, ’men. Occasionally Kuna. But never Sukuna.

It was only ever Sukuna when you were truly upset.

The last time he’d felt that particular tension from you was the first time you’d had raw sex. You’d insisted—“for research purposes”—to feel him, to know him. You’d been the first piece of pussy he’d had in centuries, wrapped around him, begging him to ruin you. He couldn’t help but come inside you.

Afterward, when you’d calmed, you’d been furious—so furious you’d called him Sukuna for the first time in weeks. He’d explained, between smoothing your hair and answering questions, that because he was the King of Curses you couldn’t get pregnant unless he willed it. He only told you once you were calm enough to listen. Then he’d fucked you right there in that very room, on the same table where his subordinates sat at that very moment.

He couldn’t help the grin surfaced at the memory, but Jin’s whistle snapped him back to the present. “Somebody’s in trouble.”

Sukuna cut his eyes at his brother.

“Get out.” He dismissed the room with a single wave.

Most clan members—those smart enough to fear Sukuna—filed out in a hurry, bowing as they passed and murmuring apologies. His family, however, took their time, exchanging knowing looks with Sukuna before shutting the door.

“Sukuna’s in trouble, Sukuna’s in trouble,” Jin and Toji teased in the hallway—Sukuna could hear them, of course.

“I should’ve ate him in this life too,” he muttered, then took you in.

Shamelessly, his eyes traveled over you. Half your braids were pinned up, a few curly strands framing your face. Light makeup softened your lashes and a two-toned lip color caught his attention—his absolute favorite. A simple tube top, jeans that hugged every curve, and slides instead of heels—practical for storming a palace he was sure. You were covered in gold: nose ring, large hoops, bangles at your wrists. At your collarbone rested the nameplate necklace he’d given you 2 months ago—“Ryo” it said. It was Yuji’s idea for your birthday and you’d never taken it off. Seeing his name on your body did something to him.

“What is the meaning of this, woman?” he asked. Though he sounded like he was, he wasn’t angry—at least not in the way you expected. He hated those meetings. Still, he feigned mild annoyance because he liked fucking with you and you riling you up.

“Why did I come home from brunch to find some random bitches cleaning my house?!” you snapped voice raising a bit.

“This morning you said your home was in disarray. I took care of it for you.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t that please you?”

“That’s not the point!” you fumed.

“No? What about it isn’t to your liking, then?” His bored, clipped tone made your vision blur red.

“What I don’t like is you fucking me and then shoving a bunch of random gifts in my face—like it’s payment and I’m supposed to accept it like like I’m some type of gold digger.” Your hands flew to your hips.

“Gold digger?” he repeated, incredulous.

You took a breath and pinched the bridge of your nose. Sometimes being with a man whose soul was thousands of years old was difficult. He’d only been awake in this era for five years; there were terms and modern nuances he didn’t always get.

“A hoe. A prostitute—“ you groaned about ready to stomp your feet at his confusion. “A whore, Sukuna! Whatever the fuck you used to call it.”

He heard the word “whore” and the room shifted. Sukuna stood slowly; the 6’7” frame, hundreds of pounds of muscle, tensed. All four hands slammed on the table as he leaned in, red eyes flashing maliciously—his curse energy bristling.

“Who—who called you a whore?” he demanded. His voice carried a cold intent.

“No! No one!” you blurted before stating calmly, “No one called me that. Because I’m not one.”

“I’m aware.” He gave you a curt nod, the fire in him cooling as quick as it had flared. “What I’m unaware of is what the problem is.”

“All this…wining and dining and gift-showering. It feels like you’re buying me. I’m not like that.”

Silence. Sukuna loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves on all four arms, then slouched back on his throne, clearly making himself comfortable.

“So let me get this straight. You like when I fuck you, but not when I give you gifts?” he asked bluntly.

“I—no—yes—no. Not when it’s hundreds and thousands of dollars of shit and I look like I’m materialistic. All these expensive things—it’s not me.”

He raised an eyebrow. You were 100% THAT GIRL. All woman—independent, self-made. You’d moved to Tokyo on your own, now having the luxury to work where and when you wanted, paid your bills, drove a nice car, lived in a nice place. You earned everything you had.

Hell you deserved.

You knew it. He knew it.

So why did it bother you that he wanted to give you things?

“I don’t follow,” he said.

You grew frustrated with yourself . “It’s not my place to accept these things from you.” You shrugged, a little defeated.

“Not your place?” The four-armed man looked at you like you’d sprouted a third head. “You are mine, are you not?”

Your head jerked back—shock flooding your face. You and the King of Curses had never had a clean conversation about the label. You’d assumed—being a king—that this was a situationship. Temporary. Seven months in, you’d already fallen though you’d told yourself you shouldn’t. Maybe that was the problem: you wanted more and didn’t know where you stood. You feared getting used to this and falling too deep—probably too late. Most men did things conditionally; Sukuna didn’t seem like that type, but feeling this good seemed too easy. Something had to give.

“Come.” He beckoned, watching the gears in your head turn.

You crossed the room slowly, hugging yourself as if for protection, eyes on the floor.

“Sit.” He tapped his thigh.

You sat on his lap, arms tightly crossed, trying to avoid his eyes. He reached up, gripping your chin firm yet gently and tilted your chin, and turned your face to him.

“I show you nothing but respect. You do the same and look at me when I’m speaking,” he commanded.

You swallowed a curse. His authoritative tone made you yield—submissive—almost instantly, and you hated how easily it flipped a switch in you.

As an independent woman you were used to running things. The dynamic was new and it made you hot and annoyed in equal measure.

You were not suppose to be horny right now but lordt were you fighting for your life already. You couldn’t help it though. You loved big men and Sukuna was a big as it got. You loved how small he made you feel.

“I will ask once more. Do not make this mistake of making me ask again. As you know, I hate repeating myself. Now. You’re mine are you not?”

Nevertheless you nodded you’d be damned if you said no. Lord knows you wanted it to be.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Ryōmen.”

“Good girl.” He pecked your lips roughly. “Mine. And because you are mine, it is your place to accept what I give.”

“But—” In a blink, your ass hit the throne, your back against an armrest, him looming and caging you in. Your hands gripped his button-up for balance—as if he’d let you fall.

“No. There are no buts.” His red eyes bored into you. “My woman deserves nice things. I will give them to you.”

“Technically, having someone detail my car isn’t giving me a nice thing,” you mumbled.

“Is that not something you told me you needed to go do the other day?” he asked.

“In casual conversation. I didn’t think you were going to have someone do it.” You continued to pout, knowing you were being difficult. “What about the concubines?”

“Servants,” he corrected.

“Yeah, well having them come clean my house isn’t giving me things either.”

“Were you not complaining about how much you didn’t want to do it this morning when you FaceTimed me?” he asked.

You said nothing.

He hummed and wrapped two arms around your waist, pulling you closer while the hand on your chin remained turning your face to the side. Dipping his head down he kissed the tip of your ear before speaking, deep voice as close to a whisper as he could get.

“As my woman, it is your place to have nice things given to you. As my woman, it is your place to have nice things done for you. As my woman, it is your place to be showered with whatever you desire—whether you’ve had them before or not.”

“It is my woman’s place not to penalize me for doing so,” Sukuna pulled back turning you back towards him.

“Who is king?” he asked.

“You are, my king.” You tacked on his title for good measure, knowing he liked when you called him that.

“That’s right. And I can have whatever I want. I’m rich. If I am, so is my woman. You benefit.”

The hand that had been on your chin now threaded to your throat as he dipped his face closer applying a little bit of pressure, just the way you liked. “So if you’re waiting for me to be some ordinary peasant on the street, you’re shit out of luck.” He hissed in your ear. “I’m not ordinary.”

Sukuna released your throat and cradled your cheek with one hand. His thumb traced the bottom of your lip.

“Neither are you,” he murmured.

Then his lips were on yours—hungry, claiming. You gripped his shirt, wanting him closer as his hands roamed needily over you. A moan slipped from you as you tried to rip his shirt open only for him to break away but not before he nibbled at your bottom lip. High on him, you chased his mouth with a plaintive whine. He smirked, standing and effortlessly pulling you with him.

“Know your place, woman,” he said, adjusting you so you straddled his lap as he settled back onto the throne.

Sukuna was rock hard and you could feel everything through your jeans. This wasn’t only about sex though — even though he wanted to ruin you—it was about making sure you understood. One hand threaded through your braids, anchoring your head just enough as he peppered kisses from your neck to your jaw and ear.

“You know your place?” he licked the shell of your ear.

“Yes, ’men.” You bucked against him as he nipped your ear.

“Needy thing,” he chuckled, lower hands caressing your thighs, one at your waist. “Let me hear you say it pretty.” He pecked your lips, leaning back to look you in the eye.

“My place is right here with you, Kuna,” you breathed.

His hands were everywhere now—two palms on your ass, one hand sliding up your front to tease beneath your top, the other cupping your chin. “That’s right. It is right here with me. Every day. All day. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, baby,” you nodded, your fingers picking at his buttons, testing the waters by unbuttoning two.

“Good. Now give me a kiss.”

You obliged.



[conniesministallion]

So cuteee💜💜💜

[suckthatskittlebiiitch]

Patch Made in Heaven

Pairings: Sanemi Shinazugawa x !Black Reader

Summary: Reader and Sanemi are off doing a traditional fall activity! Picking out a pumpkin at a pumpkin patch! 😊

“Sanemi what about this one?! Look!!” Y/n picked up a small pumpkin to show Sanemi. He tilted his head eyeing it skeptically “babe honestly they all look the same to me..” he shrugged looking around at the other people who were on the hunt for the perfect pumpkin. It’s a beautiful autumn day, not to cold or warm just perfect for a nice light sweater and some jeans. The patch was run by a local shop who put out all types of autumn decorations, lines and lines of various colors and sizes of pumpkins as far as the eye could see. There was even a little gift shop to purchase goods from and food! You also noticed a setup where kids or adults could take pictures with a dressed up scarecrow.

You all but dragged the wind hashira to the patch despite him not being totally interested. But he saw how excited you were about going that he just couldn’t dull your smile so..he went.

“Baby!! Look!” You picked up a decent looking pumpkin and showed it. He smiled softly “that looks great my love but how much longer? Feels like we’ve been here for an hour” he said while scratching his head.

“Oh stop it’s only been like 20mins, we still need to buy the carving tools for when we carve them tonight!! It’s going to be so much fun.”

“Why do we need tools?! He looked genuinely confused.”You’ve seen my sword and knife collection I have everything we need. You laughed while grabbing a second pumpkin that looked identical to the first and handed it over to the hashira who already had his hand out waiting.

“No! You’re gonna mess it up you can’t carve a cat or a spooky ghost into it with those! You whined. Sanemi smirked the way he does when he’s about to say or do something stupid “…that’s not what you said last night when I used my tool to carve into your pumpkin”

The way you looked at him was a mixture of disappointment and shock. “Boy that was corny as FUCK! get away from me” you covered your mouth keeping from laughing to loud at the crowded area. Lord knows you don’t need anyone to hear what he just said.

Later that night

You looked over from the rim of your glass of wine watching a very frantic and determined Sanemi try to carve a picture of a ghost…with a knife. You look over across your dining room table where you had newspapers sprawled out to keep the pumpkin mess to a minimum; though your loving boyfriend wasn’t making that easy btw.. and the carving tools that you ended up buying.

“Baby please just use the-“ he cut you off before you could finish. “tch!! No! I am a HASHIRA I don’t need those measly dumbass tools to make my creation! Look at it!” He turned the pumpkin toward you to show off. It was mostly zigzags a random circle and two very different size eyes. You tried to keep from laughing you honestly did but it couldn’t be helped. “Sugar plum what in the hell?! Um..you know what it looks like as if an earthquake happened while you were attempting to make a ghost” you laughed harder, Sanemi frowned then started laughing himself. “It’s fuck ugly ain’t it” you grabbed his face giving him three little pecks on the lips. “It’s so bad boo” you both took a few sips of your drinks he a beer and you a relaxing red wine.

“So…what was that about carving my pumpkin tonight?” You winked at him.

[conniesministallion]

So cuteee💕💕💕💕

[conniesministallion]

Omggg I really wanna write kny x black reader it’s so hard to find especially tengen and his three wives! I NEED ITTTT!!!!😩😩😩 please request some I’m also gonna write my own ideas as well🤭

[krys4h-deactivated20260517]

𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬,

౨ৎ                          𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧ . Almost 10 years have passed since you sent Sukuna to prison after he broke your heart. In the meantime, you've become a famous model who wants to create her own fashion brand, and Sukuna became a Formula 1 World Champion after getting out of prison. However, your story isn't over yet. To support your brother Satoru during his new Formula 1 season, you choose to accompany him during the long months he'll be racing. But fate chooses to mock you because your brother's new teammate is none other than Sukuna, his rival for years. Forced to cohabit with your evil ex-boyfriend, you expect to spend months having fun traveling, but instead, you're targeted by Sukuna—your stalker. He wants revenge for the years he spent in prison. But no matter how hard he wants to break you, his love for you will always win.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . 18k words, dark content, dead dove do not eat, black!reader, fem!reader, the reader has short hair, plus!size!reader, chubby!reader, pov alternating, modern au, heavy angst, heavy backstory for sukuna, hurt/comfort, past sexual abuse, trauma, racing au, formula one, underground fighting, modeling, racer!sukuna, model!reader, enemies to lovers, dark romance, unhinged!sukuna, ghost face mask, messy relationship, stalking, stalker!sukuna, threats, tension, hate/love, morally grey characters, pyromaniac!sukuna, murder attempt, revenge, violence, smut, dacryphilia, cock piercing, pussy grabbing, vaginal fingering, dry humping, cnc, voyeurism, non-con recording, fear play, panties ripping, gunplay, hate sex, rough sex, breath play, choking, slapping, degradation, gun sucking, vaginal penetration, orgasm denial, prey/hunter, aftercare.

𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ i hope it's not triggering, and that you'll understand sukuna's psyche and enjoy the dark romance. i recommend listening to dark light by night lovell, hotel by montell fish, supermodel by sza and futile devices by sufjan stevens. happy reading <3

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟎 - 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐫𝐤 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

If Sukuna were a god, he would be the god of wrath, of destruction. Seth, from Egyptian mythology. A spiritual entity that destroys everything in its path, possesses people, and delights in the tears it causes. The people who worship him wanted revenge, to bring chaos to the world.

As his fists crashed into his opponent's face, Sukuna's heart pounded with excitement. His dick twitched every time his victim whimpered, the corners of his mouth lifting beneath his black balaclava, revealing only his red eyes, full of madness. Adrenaline coursed through his blood and took hold of his being, making him invincible. The dangerous gleam in his eyes intensified with every punch, every blow, every moan of pain. It was his drug. Hurting others, listening to their sobs and pleas, Sukuna thrived in barbarity.

The spectators of the fight screamed with elation and clung to the railings that demarcated the ring. Sukuna was a showman; he gave his fans what he wanted. Violence. Suffering. An expression of pure domination. Dressed only in military pants, his bulging muscles glistened in the room's artificial light. The black ink of his tattoos contrasted with his tanned skin, and the people around him were too distracted by his brutality to dwell on the self-harm scars on his forearms, testifying to a dark past that might explain this savagery.

“You're going to kill him! The fight is over!”

The one in charge of financial bets grabbed Sukuna by the shoulders to separate Sukuna from the poor man with the bloody face who was barely standing. Sukuna huffed, letting him do it. The victim coughed up blood, and Sukuna smirked under his balaclava.

“You made thousands of dollars last night, Ryomen. You're truly the best,” the manager rubbed Sukuna's back appreciatively. Sukuna's eyes narrowed.

“Don't touch me until I make you as messed up as him.”

His interlocutor winced at his cold voice and moved away from Sukuna. The ruthless fighter left the ring without a glance at his fans who reached out to touch him. Sukuna was a celebrity in every area of ​​his life: in the world of Formula 1 and in the world of underground fighting. He was used to being adored, and that was what he craved.

When we didn't receive love from your parents, we became addicted to external validation. Sukuna learned very quickly that if he was going to be noticed by his parents, who were too busy taking care of his twin brother Yuji, he had to be the problematic and troublemaking brother. He embodied his role perfectly, and even at 27, he constantly had this need to prove to others that he existed.

He changed in the locker room and put on a black shirt. When he left the secret facility where clandestine fights took place, he was greeted by the light New York breeze, characteristic of January. He put on his helmet and climbed into his luxury vehicle. He drove down the road for several minutes, replaying the scene from earlier where he beat the shit out of his victim. A bulge formed in his pants and a wave of desire took hold of him. He stopped at a gas station, too excited.

Not caring about being in public, he took off his helmet and unbuttoned his jeans, still on his motorcycle. His hand palmed his erection through his boxers and let out a soft sigh as he visualized his opponent's frightened face, tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, his breathing increasing as the images became more and more vivid. He freed his hard length of the fabric, and his thumb rubbed the slit, his digit pressing against his silver piercing. He smeared the precum onto the metal ball, and shuddered as the wind cooled him.

He leaned and spat on his dick, and with his palms, he massaged it up and down. He closed his eyes and imagined a pretty girl with a tearful face, sobbing pleas. Automatically, you materialized in his mind, and he squeezed his cock so hard it hurt.

He hated it when you crossed his mind. Despite the many years that had separated you, he felt like he was still that teenager pathetically in love with you. Except that wasn't the case. He wanted your downfall more than anything, to get revenge for the years of suffering he experienced in prison because of you.

It didn't matter that he deserved your revenge since he broke your heart; you were a traitor. And he despised people like you. One day, he would make you pay.

A noise next to him made him open his eyes, and an elderly woman was looking at him wide-eyed, her gaze fixed on what he had in his hands. Sukuna didn't care. He continued to run his hand along his length, maintaining her gaze. He hoped she was uncomfortable, and bonus points if she felt violated and hurled insults at him. The woman blushed and cleared her throat. She lowered her head to refuel her car. Sukuna rolled his eyes. Boring. He lost all his excitement, disappointed. He got dressed and took control of his vehicle to return home under the moonlight.

𖥸

Instead of going straight to his fiancée's apartment, Sukuna entered the basement of the building where he had a private shooting range. He grabbed a gun and positioned himself to fire. Focused and expert, Sukuna never missed the center of his target. Having fallen in love with karting around the age of 6, it wasn't until he was 12 that he developed a passion for weapons. It started with collecting daggers he found beautiful, until Uraume, his best friend, got him to play Call of Duty, and he discovered more powerful weapons. In another universe, Sukuna wasn't an F1 driver but a sniper.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Yorozu's soft voice echoed behind him as he stared at his target, his left hand supporting his left wrist while his arm was raised. Sukuna didn't turn to look at her.

“I already told you not to call me that.”

“You’ll have to get used to it, we’re getting married at the end of the next F1 season.”

“I don’t even see you as human, stop acting so dumb and trying to romanticize our bond. You’re a tool for me,” he chided, and lowered his arms to put away his gun. He turned to his future wife, looked displeased, his features sharpening. Yorozu’s long black hair cascaded down her back, her light-colored eyes shone with a glint of desire as she wore a red lace nightie. The shade of red looked more vivid against her fair skin. Sukuna looked away, his fists clenched.

“You’re not my type, don’t try to seduce me. Just play your part.” Sukuna walked past her without a glance and slammed the door behind him.

Once in his luxurious, minimalist apartment (he didn't spend much time there with his F1 races), he took a shower and wrapped himself in the blankets of his king-size bed. A notification flashed on his phone screen, and his heart tightened when he saw that it was his twin, Yuji, sending him a photo from a show he had participated in.

Being autistic, Yuji's special interest was the piano. He was non-verbal, and therefore communicated his feelings through music. Sukuna had learned the piano out of jealousy, hoping his parents would compliment him as they did with Yuji, but it was as if Sukuna was invisible. All that mattered to the family was supporting Yuji and creating a safe place for his autism. Sukuna belonged in the trash.

He liked the image and replied with a short message. Sukuna knew it wasn't his brother's fault if he was neglected, but he still felt jealousy and resentment every time he interacted with his brother. But he loved him too much to cut ties, so he tolerated his mixed feelings toward him.

Sleep took over him, and he began to doze, his head on his pillow. Some time later, he felt hands caressing his back, his stomach, and a breath on the back of his neck. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and fear gripped him. Still lost between the world of dreams and reality, he thought it was his mother who had sneaked into his bed again to rape him at night. With a swift movement, Sukuna sat up, grabbed the person by the throat, and pinned them against the bed. His eyes fluttered open, his breathing rapid.

“You fucking whore.” He tightened his grip, a shadow passing over his gaze. “Do I have to kill you to get you to leave me alone?”

Yorozu's eyes were wide, her hands on Sukuna's wrists to stop him from choking her. “Kuna’, we've lived together for years and we haven't made love once.”

Sukuna winced at ‘kuna’, you were the one who called him that when he was little. But hearing the rest of the sentence, he snickered, the rough sound rumbled in his chest. "Make love to you? Who do you think I am, you fool? I don't make love."

Yorozu's breasts rose and fell with her ragged breathing. “Fuck me, then.”

“You wish. I wouldn't even fuck you on our honeymoon.”

Yorozu's face paled. “Why not?”

“Because all that shit is an arranged marriage. Nothing forces me to touch you. You didn't write 'sex' in your conditions.”

“Because it goes without saying!” she protested, her voice indignant.

“Buy yourself a dildo and leave me alone.”

Sukuna released her throat and stormed out of the bedroom. The only women who had ever touched him were you and his mother; he loathed women. If he didn't care about his F1 career, he would kill Yorozu right away. Maybe he should see a therapist for his fear of intimacy, but he didn't particularly want to heal. Sukuna loved how ruthless, violent, and selfish he was right now. It protected him from the thing that destroyed his life: love.

𖥸

You were the most beautiful woman Sukuna had ever laid eyes on. Yorozu was nothing compared to you.

Wearing a thick belt to serve as a bra, a long denim skirt, and black mules heels, you walked the runway with elegance and confidence, each step demonstrating your expertise in modeling. Your smooth brown skin glowed and your makeup was light; you didn't wear much artifice to highlight your naturally bewitching beauty. Your short hair was defined into beautiful coils, the dramatic baby hair on your forehead were decorated with white pearls in the bends. 

With narrowed eyes, Sukuna only paid attention to the show when you were there. He had been invited to New York Fashion Week this year, and it was the first time he'd seen you in real life since he broke your heart when you were 18.

He was used to seeing you on television, in magazines; you were one of the most popular models of your generation. But it was nothing to see you face to face. You were famous for your voluptuous body, which defied the standards of a model. Many people said you made it big in the modeling world thanks to your mother, who was a '90s supermodel. But Sukuna knew you'd worked hard to get there; he was there during your sessions learning how to walk and pose for runway shows as teenagers. You were both icons—you, the plus-size model, and your mother, one of the most respected black models in the fashion world.

Everyone's faces were filled with wonder as you walked near the audience, while Sukuna glared at you. The people around him looked uncomfortable next to him, because Sukuna had a terrifying reputation. Having spent five years in prison for manslaughter, rumors spread that it was his money that saved him, that he had killed the victims in cold blood. 

Only he knew. Only he knew you were with him when he killed those people. Only he knew you laughed when he set fire to that abandoned house in the forest. Only he knew you were merciless, vicious like him. Only he knew you were a manipulative girl hiding behind a baddie persona. You weren't the bold, confident girl you showed the world. 

One day, Sukuna would shatter your heart. To put the pieces together and create a better you that would align with him. When Sukuna hated someone, he wanted to kill them, beat the shit out of that person until they were disfigured. But he couldn't do that to you. That pretty little face of yours was worth millions; Sukuna wouldn't ruin your career, right?

No, Sukuna had other plans. When the time was right, he would unleash his revenge. He would break you the way you broke him. Make you taste the miserable life he experienced in prison. He'll fucking own your body and soul, and you won't be able to escape him, reducing you to a little thing begging to be spared.

Being married to Yorozu wasn't going to stop him from doing what he'd wanted to do for years. He will find a way. He had to.

𖥸

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Dim red and blue lights danced across your body as you swayed against strangers with a cocktail in hand. It was a fashion week afterparty, and you were surrounded by nothing but celebrities and models. You're the one by KAYTRANADA was playing in the bar, the song filling the room with a good vibe. Everything was going well until your eyes fell on the ghost of your heart in the middle of the dance floor.

Hands in the pockets of his baggy navy jeans, Sukuna stood straight, his expression cold and distant. 6 feet 6 tall, with thick eyebrows and the right slit, a multitude of ear piercings, tattoos that stretched all the way down his neck, and massive muscles that made him imposing, Sukuna was the kind of man you always noticed when you walked into a room. His slightly wavy pink hair fell over his forehead, and framed his angular face. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt and a burgundy tie that was mostly undone. A classy, casual look.

You frowned, not liking how flawless he looked. It would have been quicker to move on from him if he were as ugly as a louse. Rolling your hips, you approached him and took advantage of his vague gaze to bump into him. The contents of your glass spilled all over him, staining his clothes. You placed your hand over your mouth in mock surprise.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Sukuna looked up and his face hardened. 

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”

He had a way of saying your name, saying the syllables slowly, as if each one counted. Your stomach twisted at how your name rolled on his tongue. 

“Ryomen,” you smirked. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. The last time I saw you was…” You pretended to think with your index finger on your chin. “Oh,” Your eyes lit up with a cruel glint. “It was when I sent you to jail. So, how was it?”

His handsome face looked terrifying. His features sharpened and his red eyes darkened. 

“You want to show you how it was?”

With a swift movement, Sukuna grabbed a handful of your hair, ruining the defined curls and pulling you closer to him. Your body bumped against his muscular chest. You tried to back away, but his grip was so strong it hurt. He lowered his head to your ear.

“You’re fucking lucky you live in California, I would have ended your life a long time ago.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and your smile faded. It was Sukuna’s turn to smile, his lips curled into a menacing grin.

“What is it, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚? I thought you were pretty confident. Where did your arrogance go?” His deep voice next to you made it hard to concentrate, and you glared at him.

“Let go of me, you son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, you’re right, my mother is a bitch. But so is yours, right? That’s why we loved each other before, remember?” His breath brushed your face, and your stomach churned at his threatening look. You swear that he was like a demon. “Don’t you get nostalgic for when we were teenagers sometimes?”

“You mean when you cheated on me to go with Yorozu, you bastard?” Your gaze was full of venom.

“I’m not a traitor like you, I never cheated on you. However,” he let out a low chuckle, “I admit it makes me happy to know that your childhood memories are tarnished by me. It even makes me hard, actually.” He pressed his erection against you and you placed your hands on his shoulders to push him away but he yanked you against him. “Women like you don’t know how to behave, you want me to teach you how to be a good girl? Maybe with that you’ll stop fucking all your model colleagues.”

“You’re so obsessed with me that you keep up with my relationship news?” you asked in disgust, feeling his dick against your belly. “A killer and now a sexual harasser. Your situation doesn’t seem to be improving with time.”

“Oh baby, I always been a sexual abuser, have you forgotten what we used to do? All the kinks I created for you? I corrupted you.”

A shadow passed across your face. You didn’t want to think about all the twisted sexual things you did with him. You were two young and traumatized teens, so your sex life was doomed from the start. 

“Let go of me.”

“Tell Satoru that he will admire me from second place next season,” Sukuna let go of your hair and turned around without saying anything else.

You huffed. “You wish! My brother will beat you this year!”

He walked away, ignoring you, and you gave him the finger in the back.

𖥸

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟎 - 𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

For as long as you could remember, Sukuna had always been an asshole.

You met him at Merklay Park, near Beverly Hills, California. It was some time after your mother divorced your father and married Satoru's father, when you were 13. You used to design your clothes outside, inspired by the nature around you.

He was fighting with a younger boy he'd extorted. Ruthless. Violent. Barbaric. There was something sinister about seeing a teenager capable of such brutality, and the worst part was that he smirked while he beat his victim.

A normal person would have looked away or called the police. But you weren't a normal girl. You were an artist who aspired to be a fashion designer. So when people expressed intense emotions, it inspired you. In fact, you found him handsome. There was something poetic about the way he unleashed himself on the boy, something raw.

Caught up in it, every time you came to the park and saw him fighting, you hid behind a tree to watch him. Your heart always pounded, and you were still too young to understand why you got tingles down here as soon as your eyes landed on him.

He still had that effect on you, even after he'd broken your heart.

Sitting in the Ferrari team's conference room in the Italian capital, you shifted uncomfortably in your seat as Sukuna's gaze pierced you. Sukuna was the frightening definition of darkness. He wasn't an F1 driver who was adored for his good looks; most of his fans were intimidated by him. Rumors of his murders were still rife even four years after he was released from prison.

Early in his career, people said Sukuna had gotten into Formula 1 on the money and didn't deserve his place, but the second he became a driver at 23, he won every championship. There was no denying his talent.

“Why ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ is here?” Sukuna's deep, cold voice echoed through the room.

“My sister is going to follow me for the entire F1 season,” Satoru stated, adjusting his tie. “She wants to cheer me on since you ruined my last race last year.” He glanced at you and gave you a smile, which you didn't return because you were tense.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed on you, and the corners of his mouth lifted into a wicked smile. “You can't be that dumb and want to be close to me after what you did.”

Your face hardened, and you knitted your eyebrows.

“I'm doing what I want with my life, and I'm not afraid of you, Ryomen.”

The Ferrari team principal took a sip from his glass of water, watching you silently. Satoru grew impatient.

“Can we know why you invited us here? You know very well that Sukuna and I have been rivals for years. He stole first place from me.”

A dark chuckle escaped Sukuna's lips.

“Did I steal first place, or did it not belong to you?”

“You know perfectly well that you deliberately made contact with my car.” Satoru’s face twisted into a frown. “You never respect the rules.”

“The FIA ​​didn’t find any violations. Maybe you have trouble admitting that you’re no match for me,” Sukuna goaded.

“That’s enough,” the director sighed. “The reason I brought you here, Satoru Gojo, is because Mercedes wants to make a transfer. They want to choose a rookie for their team and get rid of you because you’ve always finished second for the past four years. We agreed to remove Mahito from the team to accommodate you. You’ll be Mr. Ryomen’s teammate for the coming seasons.”

Your lips parted, your eyes wide. “But they hate each other!”

The old man shook his head.

“They're the best in Formula 1. We'll easily win the constructors' championship with you two.”

“Actually, that's a good idea,” Satoru grinned, and you turned to him, surprise flashing across your face.

“What are you talking about, 'toru? Sukuna is a bastard who made you miss out on last year's championship. How are you going to get along with him?”

“Exactly. Being on his team will make me improve more. And don't forget that I'm better, sister. It's even more gratifying to crush him by being his teammate.”

“You're not going to crush anyone, dickhead,” Sukuna snickered. “All F1 drivers are below me, you're all my sons.”

“Okay, Nicki Minaj,” Satoru rolled his eyes. “Sorry to exist in your world.”

“But that's not all I wanted to say,” the director began. “Since you're the most popular drivers, everyone's going to be curious about how you'll compete together. So the marketing director decided we're going to do a show during the season.”

“I'm not here to do reality TV,” Sukuna scowled.

“It's so cool!” Satoru beamed, always loving to be the center of attention.

Sukuna glared at Satoru.

“You're a fucking child. I can't believe I have to work with a fool like you.”

“A child, yes, but the fool always ends up in pole position.”

“That's a bare minimum as a driver, idiot,” Sukuna muttered.

You fidgeted your hands, anxiety running through your body. You had agreed to follow Satoru during his Formula One season, to cheer him on after his defeat last year against Sukuna, but you hadn't anticipated him leaving Mercedes for Ferrari, and thus becoming your worst enemy's teammate.

The director gave more information about the program's schedule and what the big changes would be for Satoru. You weren't listening anymore and were lost in painful memories that dated back several years.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 - 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“Why do you always cut yourself?” you asked, curiously looking at the still-red wounds on Sukuna's arm. Curled up against his chest as he lay on the grass in Merklay Park, he caressed your back with lazy movements. The sun beat down on you, the typical California heat, but you were too comfortable together to care.

You were Sukuna's best friend, of course you were going to ask him this kind of question one day. His cold expression betrayed no emotion, but he let out a soft sigh.

“To better cope with what I feel.”

“And what do you feel?” You cocked your head to one side. His eyes locked with yours, as your breath caressed his face.

“Despair.”

You played with the wavy locks that fell over his forehead. “I feel despair too.”

“Because of your mother?”

Your face darkened. “This bitch doesn't deserve my emotions. She's just a whore who can't keep her legs closed.”

Sukuna smirked.

“What you're saying is misogynistic, you know?”

“She's the one setting feminism back years by constantly getting remarried. It's like she can't be alone, it's pathetic.”

At 16, you were mature and noticed that your mother had psychological problems. She was a compulsive liar, a manipulator, and a cheater. She was awful to you, constantly putting you down because she saw you as a rival. You thanked her for remarrying into the Gojo family because that way you met Sukuna and Satoru.

“Do you prefer your father or your mother?”

“Kuna’, my father is basically absent in my life.”

“I know,” Sukuna’s face softened. “But you always criticize your mother and never your father.”

“You do the same thing. You always complain that your father ignores and neglects you while your mother rapes you.”

“Because my mother acts as if I exist, so I guess I resent her less for violating me.”

“You exist, but at what cost? What's the point of her paying attention to you if it's to steal your innocence?”

“I'm seventeen, baby. My innocence is long gone. You still think of me as a fragile boy, even though you helped me burn down a house a few weeks ago. We killed people together.”

You chuckled, your eyes lit up with a playful glow.

“That was so much fun. We should kill people more often.”

Sukuna burst into a deep laugh, hugged you even tighter, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Something is wrong with your head, baby.”

“That's why you love me so much.”

“Right, I love you so much.”

When you looked up and met Sukuna's piercing eyes, devoid of the warmth he used to have when you were teenagers, your heart sank. How could a boy who had been your safe place for years become your enemy, toward whom you harbored boundless hatred? You were troubled teenagers, wounded by life, with no one to understand you, and when you met, it was as if the shattered pieces of your hearts had come back together to form one.

You thought your story was over, but it all started again. For many months, you were going to live with the man you hated. You should be scared. You knew Sukuna. He was everything a human shouldn't be. Merciless. Brutal. Cruel. But it wasn't fear that gripped you when his eyes lit up and he gave you the most sinister smile you've ever seen.

It was excitement.

𖥸

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟏 - 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐡𝐢𝐫, 𝐛𝐚𝐡𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You were the stupidest woman Sukuna had ever met in his life.

You knew he hated you, knew he was dangerous, that taking another's life didn't affect him, that he was an arsonist who hid his crimes behind his pyromania, that he was completely crazy. Yet, you agreed to be near him for the entire season. A normal person should have escaped and fled when they learned of the transfer. No, you had given him back his grin in the conference room. Sometimes, Sukuna forgot that you came from the same realm of darkness.

While you were with your brother doing race simulations, Sukuna placed cameras in your hotel room. His family was wealthy and owned a luxury perfume company, Rose Noire, so he had the means to do whatever he wanted. Asking for your keys by sliding bills across the counter was easy for him.

His revenge had just begun. He was going to break you, make you cry until you begged him to leave you alone. Make you his in the most twisted way, fucking you until you're sorry to even exist.

𖥸

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

'I will make you so terrified that you will pray everyday that I leave you alone.'

You were reading your usual dark romance books—the kind of problematic, unhealthy book that allowed you to escape and experience your worst fantasies—when you received this message from an unknown number. You chuckled and ignored it. It was probably a joke. Immersed once again in your protagonist's story, you sighed when you received a second message.

'˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. 26 years old. Gojo Satoru's half-sister. On bad terms with your mother because your ex-boyfriend cheated on you with her. Want to have a fashion brand but is afraid of not living up to her famous mother. Enjoy CNC.”

Your whole body froze, a sense of dread taking hold of you. 

'Who are you?' you answered him with trembling hands.

'You don't need to know me. Just do what I want.'

'What do you want?'

'Destroy you.'

You swallowed with difficulty. Your heart raced, your whole body still. Your intuition told you this wasn't a joke; this person couldn't randomly reveal such private information.

'You want money?'

'You think money will fix what you've done, you fucking bitch?'

'I don't understand what's going on.'

'I know, you've always been dumb.’

Always been? It was someone you knew. It was even more terrifying.

‘You don't want to tell me who you are?’

The stranger stopped responding, but your heart was still racing. You took deep breaths to calm your anxiety and went back to reading your books.

'How are you?'

A notification flashed on your phone; it was Nanami. He was a driver at McLaren, and you had met him during the press conference on Saturday, before qualifying. A handsome man, you naturally gave him your number. You were always looking for your perfect man to spend the rest of your life with, so you multiplied your partners.

'I'm waiting for the race to start so I can go to the VIP area.'

‘You’re going to encourage me?’

You grinned.

'I'm here for my brother, Nanami. But I'll throw champagne at you if you're on the podium.'

The stranger sent you another message.

'What's making you smile?’

Your smile faded. You studied your surroundings, looking for cameras.

'Stop talking to Nanami.'

Your eyebrows furrowed. How did he know you were talking to that man?

'I do what I want.'

'You think I'm playing with you?' I will end the life of any man who touches you.’

‘I don’t know how you got that information about me, but I’m not going to be intimidated by a stranger.’

‘Dumb bitch ‘til the end, I guess.’

A door knock sounded in the room, and Satoru entered your room. He shot you a goofy smile.

“It’s race time. Ready to scream my name for two hours?”

“That’s extremely weird put like that, ‘toru,” you chuckled and put your phone away. You didn’t want to worry your brother with your new stalker; it would distract him from Formula 1.

“Sukuna qualified first and I qualified second on the grid as usual,” he grumbled.

“That just means you only have one person to pass, look on the bright side!” You got up from the bed to pat him on the shoulder.

Satoru was your safe place. You'd never had a real family before your mother remarried, and you were grateful to have met him.

Even though he'd been a huge obstacle in your relationship with Sukuna when you were teenagers, you loved him more than anything. The Ryomen and Gojo both lived in Merklay, a town generally inhabited by millionaires, near Beverly Hills. The two families harbored endless hatred for each other because they both had the same background: they were Japanese who had settled in California and owned a luxury perfume company. They were competitors in America, and they'd warned you not to get attached to a Ryomen.

It was too late the day they told you that. You were already seeing Sukuna secretly, meeting up at Merklay's central park.

“Father is here,” Satoru scratched the back of his head, and your voice softened.

“Are you nervous?”

“I'm just tired of disappointing him every day.”

Satoru's mother was the CEO of the luxury brand; Satoru's father was a successful former F1 driver and eight-time world champion. Satoru had always grown up in his father's shadow.

“You know he's proud of you, no matter where you finish.” You hugged him. He leaned into your touch. “You're the one who puts this pressure on yourself to be as good as him.”

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, they call me Cursed Toru because I always finish second.”

“You've already been world champion twice, you forget that quickly.”

“That was before that asshole Sukuna got into Formula 1. I don't know how he managed it when my dad did everything he could to avoid it. It's probably thanks to Yorozu.”

Your eyes narrowed. Yorozu was a girl who lived in the same neighborhood as you and Sukuna, and she was a childhood friend of Sukuna's (if he was capable of having friends). You had never been able to be friends because she was extremely jealous of your relationship with Sukuna. Your relationship worsened when Sukuna cheated on you with her. At least, that was your version. You hadn't forgotten how he claimed he'd never cheated on you. Maybe that idiot had a short memory.

“Her family works for the FIA?”

“Yeah, her father is one of the assistant managers, and her uncle is the principal of the Red Bull team.”

Oh.

“Imagine if their relationship is fake and he got together with her because he knew your father would keep him out?” you mumbled, realizing it was very likely since Sukuna treated Yorozu like a pain in the ass in high school.

Satoru shrugged. “That manipulator would be capable.”

A hollow ache pierced your chest. If that were really the case, why did Sukuna have to break your heart and abandon you? Sukuna had never been anyone's first choice. His family only cared about his autistic brother. A glass child. The healthy child neglected while the rest of the family only paid attention to the one who was sick or disabled. That's why no one had ever noticed he'd been a victim of incest.

Sometimes, when you thought about his life, you wanted to cry. He was successful now, but he'd suffered so much. He was incredibly strong and resilient. But deeply damaged. That's why you'd loved him so much. Looking at Sukuna was like looking into a mirror. You had the same wounds and you knew how to heal them for each other.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, are you coming or not?”

You shook your head. “Yes, sorry.”

𖥸

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel as he slowed to take the turn. The landscape around him was a blur due to the speed he was driving. He couldn't wait for the race to be over because the red Ferrari suit was making him hot.

“There's no one near you, you can go full speed,” the race engineer told him over the radio. “You really are the best, Ryo.” Sukuna smirked. He recognized the voice; it was Kenjaku. He'd been around since Sukuna started in F1; he would have called him 'friend' if he weren't so heartless.

He pressed the accelerator and enjoyed the adrenaline rush this action gave him. The car sped along the straight, before reaching a second turn. The soft tires squealed on the asphalt as he boldly took the turn. The Sakhir circuit was a succession of straights and slow corners, lacking the sweeping curves that made Formula 1 so spectacular.

“Easy,” Sukuna chuckled, recording yet another lap.

“Satoru and Nanami are behind you.”

The sweet sound of the engines roaring filled his ears, his favorite music. His car sped like a red lightning bolt, zipping around the track with ease and confidence, even as Satoru's car closed in on him. Sukuna gave him the finger and used his maximum speed to pull away.

He crossed the finish line and ended the race with a yawn. Too easy. He let the mechanics take care of his car as he took off his gloves. Journalists rushed towards him, but Sukuna pretended they didn't exist.

He took off his helmet, and fangirls shouted his name with signs featuring his face in close-up. His lips quirked up, amused. Did these stupid women know he was a psycho?

Nightcrawler by Travis Scott was playing during the trophy ceremony as Sukuna, Satoru, and Nanami took the top three spots. Your brother wore a tense expression and glared at Sukuna.

“Toru the Cursed always confirms his curse,” Sukuna sneered.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Satoru gritted his teeth. “It's only the first race.”

“And your first loss of the season. Congratulations.”

The tradition of splashing champagne brightened Satoru's mood, and Sukuna slipped away to the VIP floor reserved for his family.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his mother greeted him in a soft voice. Her long pink hair cascaded down her back as her body was wrapped in a fur coat.

“Kill yourself,” he muttered, walking past her without a glance.

His father was sitting on the couch reading a newspaper. He didn't look up, just gave him a thumbs-up. Sukuna's jaw tensed. Of course. Everyone didn't care about his victory except his brother.

A gentle look passed across his face when he saw his brother watching ASMR videos of soap cutting. It had always calmed him.

“Sup.”

Sukuna ruffled his twin's hair without hugging him because Yuji hated being touched. His brother lifted his head and offer him a smile that reached his eyes. Since Yuji was non-verbal autistic, Sukuna had learned to speak sign language to communicate with him.

Yuji would raise his hands and say 'congratulations'.

“Thank you, but you should be used to having a talented brother. We're both prodigals.”

A chuckle slipped out of Yuji's mouth. 'Of course, we are really THAT boys,' he communicated silently.

Sukuna nudged his shoulder. 'The pride of the Ryomen.'

“I'm proud of you too,” his mother joined in. Sukuna's eyes darkened.

“What don't you understand about 'kill yourself'?”

“Talk to your mother better,” his father interjected.

“I talk how I want to whomever I want, and you won't do anything,” Sukuna raised his voice.

“Don't shout, Yuji doesn’t like noise.”

“As if Yuji is the center of the world!” Sukuna clenched his fists.

An uncomfortable silence fell in the room and Sukuna stormed out, slamming the door. Breathing rapidly, he ran to the nearest bathroom. Once inside, he vomited. He'd met his mother's gaze for a few moments; it had disgusted him.

He wiped his mouth with toilet paper before going out and bumping into you.

“What the fuck are you doing in the men's room?” Sukuna asked, his voice cold.

“Why are you throwing up like you're sick? You should be in a good mood, your lame ass stole my brother's victory again,” you jabbed, your chin held high.

“The lame ass is your brother, dumbass.”

You washed your hands, ignoring him, and Sukuna's eyes fell on your round ass and thick thighs, molded into your slim jeans. He licked his lower lips, his eyes predatory.

“Nice ass.”

“Kill yourself.”

“That's exactly what I told my mom earlier. She didn't listen.”

Your face softened. “You saw… your mother? Are you okay?”

“Don't be so stupid to worry about me. I'd kill you if I could.”

“I'm not an idiot. I just have empathy for anyone, no matter what's been done to me. Which you clearly lack.”

“Empathy is a weakness. I'm not interested in other people's suffering. But I am in yours, if I caused it.”

Your eyes shot daggers at him. “You're an awful human being.”

“You loved me before.” Sukuna left the room without looking at you.

𖥸

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟐 - 𝐣𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐡, 𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐢 𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐚 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The crew filming the show arrived during the second week when you arrived in Saudi Arabia. They were there mainly for Sukuna and Satoru, but they occasionally interviewed you. Satoru was in his element; he had an outgoing and cheerful personality and loved being filmed. Sukuna, on the other hand, was grumpy. He ignored most of the questions and often slipped away to escape the cameras.

'I know you're still talking to Nanami.'

You were taking off your clothes in the hotel locker room, getting ready to go to the private pool when you received a message from your stalker. You rolled your eyes.

'I already told you I'll do what I want.'

'I think you don't quite understand your position in our relationship. I'm a predator and you're my prey.'

'Stop this corny ass shit.'

'You really want to provoke me? I wanted to start slowly with you.'

You ignored his message and put on your swimsuit. The pool was empty because it was 10 p.m. You dove into the water and made a few strokes before letting yourself lie on your back, arms outstretched from your sides. With your eyes closed, you jumped when you heard the lights go out, the area illuminated only by the underwater lights.

“Is anyone there?”

Your heart raced, and you approached the edge of the pool, inspecting your surroundings. You hadn't heard the door open, which meant the person had been there since you'd been undressing in the locker room. It sent a chill down your spine.

You waited a few minutes, your senses alert, before starting to swim again, thinking it was a technical problem. You turned in the water and hummed music, moving quickly and easily around the pool. You stopped looking around, busy thinking about what you were going to do tomorrow and playing in the water. When you reached the edge and turned around, facing the exit, your heart gripped with dread.

You screamed when you saw an imposing man leaning against the doorway. He was so tall that his head touched the top, and he was impossible to identify because he wore a ghost face mask. Dressed entirely in black, he took a few slow steps toward the pool. Petrified, you were unable to move, your eyes wide with fear.

He circled the pool to get to you, each step accentuating the pounding of your heart in your ribcage. Every cell of your being vibrated with terror.

“You’ve been a bad girl lately, am I right? You think you’re in control here?”

His voice was vaguely familiar, but deeper than what you were used to hearing. You swallowed with difficulty. He knelt beside you and raised a large, tattooed hand to caress your cheeks with his rough knuckles. You stood frozen, your whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Your stalker slapped your face violently, making you spin your head and let out a gasp. He grabbed a handful of your hair to pull you back close to him. His grip was so firm that you moaned in pain.

“Next time you don’t act like a good prey, I’ll rape you. Do you understand?”

You gave him a shy nod, sweat trickled down your brow.

“But today, I’m going to give you a little punishment. Call that an appetizer, baby.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he plunged your head into the water. You struggled, clawing at his wrist until it bled to let you breathe. You held your breath with difficulty. A sense of dread, slow and cruel, crept your spine, making every second feel like an eternity. When you began to stop moving, unconsciousness took over your body, and he let go of your hair.

You coughed, taking deep breaths, your body panicking from the near-drowning you had experienced. By the time you had finally regained your normal breathing, your stalker had disappeared.

𖥸

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Sukuna was only 18 when he entered prison. He was used to fighting with people younger than him, but for the first time in his life, he was confronted by someone older, bigger than him.

The first week had been the hardest. His roommate had tried to rape him in his sleep. An old man with a beer belly had rubbed himself against him before trying to undress him.

“Ryomen…”

He had been paralyzed, because he immediately understood what was happening. Except it wasn't his mother who was slim, it was a man much larger than him. He let himself be touched; the man ran his hand over his stomach and kissed his neck. Sukuna fought not to vomit. It was when his hand slipped into his jeans that he choked him, like a reflex.

He'd been forced into solitary confinement even though he'd explained what the man had tried to do. The prison staff didn't care about that. He posed a threat to other inmates, and he already had aggravating circumstances.

In an isolated cell for two weeks, he'd spiraled. Being alone with his thoughts for more than 24 hours, without seeing sunlight, with nothing to do but sit and pace in the small room, it drove people crazy.

Sukuna still had these kinds of nightmares. He relived the moments when he was locked up, alone, a scared young adult, cursing the only girl he'd ever loved for doing this to him.

Sukuna woke up with a knot in his stomach. A hollow ache in his chest made it hard to breathe properly. He hated it when he had these kinds of cursed dreams. He'd rather relive his rapes than be locked in a room and spiral.

Dressed only in his gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, he put on his sneakers and left the hotel. The hotel had a garden, and Sukuna began to walk around it, hands in his pockets.

“Are you a nudist?”

He turned where the voice came from and narrowed his eyes on you. Dressed in your mini pajama shorts and tank top, you had deep dark circles under your eyes.

“Don’t disturb me, I’m not in a good mood.”

“I almost died a few hours ago. A little traumatized, but you must be happy, right? Someone is granting your wish.”

His lips curved into a wicked smile. “Tell me more.”

“I think they'll really kill me if I tell anyone.”

You already understood the implication of not telling anyone; Sukuna was doing his job well. Judging by your dark circles, you were already starting to get scared, and that was all Sukuna wanted. To make your life miserable like his had been in prison.

“Are you still cutting yourself?” you whispered, looking at the red marks on his wrist.

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, taken aback. He hid his hands behind his back. If you looked too closely, you'd realize they were your scratches.

“None of your business.”

“I hope you see a therapist one day.”

Sukuna's face twisted into a scowl. “I would have been much better off if you hadn't sent me to prison. This is all your fault.”

“You talk as if you didn't actually commit these murders, Ryomen.”

“It doesn't matter, we promised each other we wouldn't tell anyone.”

“I would have kept my promise if you hadn't stood me up for our first date and then I saw you in Yorozu's arms the next day, and you ignored me.”

Sukuna looked away, silent. In his contract with Yorozu, he was forbidden from explaining to you that his relationship with her was fake. Yorozu wanted everyone to think he was hers. It irritated Sukuna, but he had no choice if he wanted to secure his place in Formula 1. You folded your arms and gave him a glare at his silence.

“Are you ever going to explain?”

“You don’t deserve my time.” Sukuna stared at the flowerpots, avoiding your furious gaze.

“You're mad at me for sending you to prison, but what was I supposed to do? I was in love with you, Sukuna. So madly in love. I would have done anything for you. If you suffered in prison, how do you think I suffered when I waited for you at the restaurant and you never came? You think I didn't cry when you ate next to Yorozu the next day at school even though you knew she hated me? You think I was happy when I saw you blocked me everywhere without saying anything?” Your eyes stung, and your voice was hoarse. “I'm sorry you suffered in prison. I can't imagine what it's like to be locked up with strangers for five years, but you should have thought before breaking my heart. I'm not an idiot who lets people walk all over me easily.”

That's exactly why he loved you for so many years. Oh god, he loved you so much.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The love he felt for you was like a tsunami he was unable to control, overwhelming him in moments when he didn't want to be a slave to his heart. Then he remembered. The attempted rapes by his roommates. The solitary confinement cells. The indifference of the prison staff. The long training sessions outside to become stronger and defend himself better. The many times his life would have turned into a life of crime because of offers to work for a gang. His revenge, which he had planned long in advance. He remembered the hell of the facility, and he opened his mouth, his voice harsh.

“So for a few minutes of heartbreak, I have to suffer all my life? Do you think this kind of wound can be healed?” He approached you dangerously, a threatening look on his face. You backed away from the hotel wall. “You managed to move on while I'm affected every day.”

“Who told you I moved on?” you murmured. “You think I can move on from the love of my life? You think I don't think about you when I'm with other men?”

“You're talking nonsense, are you drunk?”

“I drank a few cocktails. I was anxious.”

“Dumbass.” Sukuna sighed. “There's no love between us anymore. I was never the love of your life. Stop saying stupid shit like this.”

“She'll never be me, you know that, right?” Tears of rage prickled at the corners of your eyes. “Understanding, acceptance, being seen for who you truly are without judgment, all of that, only I can give you. She isn't even the half of me. You're miserable because you're making the wrong choices. You're staying with a woman who will never satisfy you, and you're breaking the heart of the only one who was your equal.”

Sukuna bit the inside of his cheek. You were pretty when you cried. He wanted to kiss you.

“Since when you're so sappy? Our relationship wasn't that deep.”

“We killed people together, Sukuna.”

“I killed people, you watched. You were never as crazy as me.”

“Oh, I need to kill people now to prove I'm the better choice?”

“Maybe, it will turn me on.” He rested his forearm above your head on the wall, his breath mingling with yours.

“I’ll never prove my worth to anyone, I know what I’m worth. Too bad for you if you can’t see what you’re missing.”

“Because if I left Yorozu right now, would you take me back?”

You paused. You sniffled and avoided his eyes. Sukuna smirked.

“Oh, you’re so down bad.”

“Shut up.”

Sukuna wrapped his hand around your throat and pulled you closer.

“You’re a lover girl, I forgot. Are you still reading your romances?”

You inclined your head, acknowledging.

“You know you'll never find protagonists like me. Crazy men who can kill, and can fuck you in a way that will earn me more years in prison? All your dark romance fantasies, you can have them with me. Too bad, I will never be yours. My type isn't the traitorous whores.”

He tightened his grip until your eyes widened and your breath hitched. You struggled against him, but Sukuna was stronger than you. It was when your eyes began to close that he let go of your throat.

“My love for you is in the past. You ruined everything when you betrayed me. Now, move on. Don't be so pathetic. I will end your life if you bother me again with your sappy shit.”

Sukuna put his hands back in his jeans pockets and moved away from you.

“You're the one who ruined everything!” you shouted. “Why is the blame always on me? Okay, five years in prison isn't cool, but you betrayed me first, you fucking asshole!”

Your outburst was met with silence as Sukuna walked back into the hotel without a word.

𖥸

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Nanami had won first place in this race, so to reward him, you gave him your body. Or was it the alcohol from the afterparty that had inhibited you?

The problem was, you were broken.

His slow thrusts bored you. You wanted him to treat you like a whore, to fuck you like he hated you. You thrived in pain. You wanted to be choked, spat on, hit, and slapped. Motionless and lying in the starfish position, you stared at the ceiling, absentminded and waiting for it to be over quickly.

It was moments like these that you missed Sukuna. Only he knew how to treat you in bed; he could fulfill any of your fantasies without judgment and in complete safety. He was an asshole, but he fucked you so well.

You avoided Nanami's gaze when it was over, hoping he hadn't noticed your moans were fake. You put on the miniskirt and bikini top you'd worn to the party again and left the hotel to smoke. Once outside, your eyes watered.

“Fuck,” you sniffled, wiping away your tears. You walked around the hotel and paused when you saw someone familiar.

Sukuna was still in the garden, looking at the flowerpots, his bare, shiny chest and messy hair as if he'd been struggling in his sleep because of a nightmare. Hands in his pockets, he had his usual cold expression.

“You fucked Nanami and are disappointed,” he stated bluntly, without looking at you.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, unable to stop them. You didn't even know why you were crying.

“It's none of your business,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse.

“I bet he was bad at it, he can't handle all that.”

His gaze roamed your body with a glint of appreciation and desire in his eyes, lingering on your big breasts, accentuated by your bikini top.

“You wanna fuck me?”

“We both know you don't want to be fucked and you want something more sinister.”

“Will you give it to me?”

“I gave it to you enough when we were teenagers, find yourself another guy.”

“But what if I want you?”

Sukuna glanced at you, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Have you been drinking? You're always emotional like that when you're drunk. When you're sober, you'd rather die than say stuff like that to me.”

“I'm just…” You sniffled. “I don't know. I hate you, but sometimes I miss you. We were so compatible.”

“It was just sex.”

“It was so much more than that, you fucking asshole. Do you think Yorozu can do the rape roleplays we used to do?”

“I don't touch her, and I don't want to know.”

Surprise flashed across your face. “But it's been nine years since you're together?”

“And?” His voice was defensive.

The weight of realization made you dizzy. You gave him an arrogant smile.

“You still love me. You can't touch another woman because I was the only one you felt safe with.”

His face hardened and he remained silent, a storm in his red irises. You were awfully right. You burst into laughter, your shoulders shaking.

“I miss you and you can't move on, but we hate each other. Why are we so messy?”

“Shut up.”

“Just know if you wanted to rape me for revenge, you can,” you smirked.

He drew his lips into a thin line, a blazing fire in his eyes.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” He pushed past you and disappeared into the hotel.

𖥸

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟑 - 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞, 𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

'I told you not to fuck Nanami. You need to be punished for real now.'

Goosebumps ran up your arms as you read the notification. Maybe something was wrong in your head, but you loved having a stalker. It was so much fun being afraid someone would hurt you. You were the worst prey, because being hunted was your kink.

You ignored the message and put on a pair of mini short and a sports bra in the gym locker room. The hotel you were staying at in Australia had a pool, sauna, and private gym. You waited until 11 p.m. to use the gym in peace.

To maintain your body shape for your modeling job, you did pole dancing. It was a tough sport that deeply worked your abs, arms, and thighs. You'd been pole dancing since you were a teenager. Sukuna used to come see you at your sessions and ravish you afterward.

Your heart ached. You missed that bastard painfully.

You grabbed the pole confidently, and in one fluid movement, you rose into the air and gripped your thighs around the metal bar. You spun and wrapped yourself around it with grace and elegance. Once you were hoisted to the top, your head touching the ceiling, the feeling of being watched paralyzed you.

You turned your head to inspect the room. The pole dancing room was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down on the weight room, so if anyone was there, you'd see them.

Like vertical poetry, you began to continue your figures, one by one. With absolute mastery, you perched your body on top of the pole and sat down abruptly on the metal bar, performing a perfect pole sit.

As soon as your ass touched the ground, the lights faded, plunging you into darkness. Your breath caught in your lungs, your heart pounding.

Footsteps sounded beside you. Out of survival instinct, you silently rolled on the floor to press yourself against the wall. You held your breath to prevent the stranger from hearing you. Your cunt throbbed, adrenaline and fear coursing through your body, making you so turned on. You felt like you were in a game.

“Hide well because if I catch you, I fuck you.”

The stalker's voice made the hairs on your back stand up. You put your hand over your mouth, your breathing quickening. You shifted to find a better hiding place but instead kicked a flowerpot.

“Stupid bitch,” your stalker knelt beside you and reached out to touch your body. You trembled.

He lay on top of you on the floor, his erection pressing against your ass. His weight on you was similar to Sukuna's when he fucked you in brone prone, and the thought made you roll your eyes in pleasure. He buried his head in your neck, his hot breath caressing your skin. His hips rocked against your ass, rubbing his body. You weren't sad, traumatized, or scared. No, you were fucking alive. Every cell in your body vibrated with excitement, and you moved your ass to meet your stalker's fake thrusts.

He paused when he realized you were enjoying what was happening. His body tense against you. He pulled your hair to lift your head off the floor, his grip firm and rough.

“That's rape, you dirty whore. Stop gyrating your hips against me like you enjoy it.”

His mouth closed around your flesh, he bit down hard, his teeth sinking into your neck. You gasped, a wave of pleasure snaking through your lower abdomen. His free hand dug into your mini shorts to grab your clothed pussy. He grunted at the feeling of the wet fabric. His hips crashed against your ass, your pelvic pressing against the floor, and your hipbones slammed against the hardwood, making you moan in pain.

“What do I have to do to make you afraid of me, huh? Don't you understand what position you're in?”

His fingers slid under your thong, stroking the glossy folds. You ground against his hand, pants escaping your lips. This was so much fun. A boiling storm raged within you and overwhelmed all coherent thought. You were just vibing, living your darkest fantasy.

He parted your lips, gliding through your folds, to shove two digits up to your cunt. He plunged his fingers in and out, the lewd, wet sound of friction making your cheeks warm. The tips curled at your sweet spot and your legs trembled.

“Please, keep going,” you moaned.

Your stalker froze.

“The fuck you’re talking about?”

Blood rushed to your cheeks, making the tips of your ears hot.

“Mhm…”

“You're enjoying being raped?” he asked, his voice gruff and furious. “You’re broken, baby. I can’t save you.”

He got up from you, and you made a noise of protest. He couldn’t stop now! You heard his footsteps in the dark, and a door slam. Your shoulders slumped in disappointment.

𖥸

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Sukuna watched you masturbate through the camera he'd left in your hotel room with knitted eyebrows and a clenched jaw. The bulge in his pants might have indicated he was enjoying what was happening in front of him, but the truth was, he was mad as hell.

He tried every way he could to scare you, but everything he did turned you on. Right after his attempted rape, you'd run to your room to stick your fingers in your pussy and hump your pillow. His eyes lingered on how your breasts bounced with every movement you made, your hips undulating against the cotton fabric.

"Fuck it," he muttered, pulling down the fly of his jeans. He was about to start palming his erection through his boxers, but he paused when you started moaning his name. A shiver chased down his spine, and his eyes narrowed on you.

Of course, you were thinking about him. It was with him that you did consensual non-consent when you were teenagers. You lived with constant pressure from your mother, always having to be perfect, so you let go with him. Being submissive wasn't something degrading for you, but something liberating. It was as if you released all the anxiety, all the tightness in your chest every time you saw your competitive mother, and let Sukuna take care of you.

An uncomfortable feeling he couldn't name bloomed in his chest. Even with all the pain he'd caused you by breaking up with you for Yorozu, without explaining his true intentions, he was still the safe place you came back to when you needed him. His dick softened, no longer in the mood. He looked away, avoiding seeing you on the screen, his gaze fixed on the wall of his room.

The unpleasant hollow ache in his heart, reawakening like a wound that had never healed, made him sigh. He zipped up the fly of his jeans and his eyes fell on his gun on his bed.

It didn't matter that Sukuna still loved you. It didn't matter how his chest fluttered when he thought about how much you still needed him. He had revenge to exact. He had to end up traumatizing you like you did when you sent him to prison.

If raping you in the dark turned you on, why not threaten you with his gun?

𖥸

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟒 - 𝐬𝐮𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐚, 𝐣𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

In the show that followed you, Sukuna and Satoru had decided to go for a hike in the forest. F1 drivers needed to exercise, and sometimes they took advantage of their travels to discover new places to practice their sports.

Surrounded by dark green trees with brown leaves, you shivered in the breeze that swirled around you. Dressed in a miniskirt and a crop top, you hadn't expected the temperature to drop so much upon arriving in Japan.

“Satoru's sister is really fine as fuck,” one of the sound engineers murmured next to his coworkers behind you, admiring the curve of your fat ass. You instinctively turned around to see who said that.

“You only have one job and you're already bad at it. Should I show you what a real brother would do if they talked like that about my sister?” Sukuna's heavy hand crashed down on the man's shoulder, as he wobbled under the force of his palm.

“Uh, n-no…”

“Right, so shut the fuck up.”

Sukuna took a few long strides away from the idiot, coming up alongside you. You cocked your head to one side.

“You're such a feminist, defending me when I'm objectified,” you teased him.

Sukuna's cold eyes remained fixed in front of him, his palms tucked into his jeans pockets.

“I just want him to focus on his work. It's my reputation that'll suffer if the show is poorly recorded.”

“Right, Sukuna. You care so much about people's opinions.”

“I do.” His voice grew lower. “Why do you think I'm an F1 driver? Only attention whores would like my job.”

“Is my evil ex-boyfriend confiding in me about his mysterious personality?”

“You're the one who normally talks to me as if we don't hate each other's guts.”

You let out a heavy breath.

“I decided to be nice to you just for the duration of the Formula 1 season. We're constantly being filmed, I don't want to get backlash just because I was a bitch to the fan-favorite driver.”

His lips quirked up, curving into a wicked smile.

“Oh, you're going to be nice to me? How kind of you. I can break your heart and you will still be mature. You're the perfect woman.”

You crushed his foot and walked away, rolling your hips, fuming with anger. Behind you, Sukuna chuckled and licked his lips, staring at your ass, which moved with every step you took.

𖥸

Lost in thought, you walked along the forest path, not noticing that the group had moved away from you. You thought about Sukuna, your stalker, your mother, and your future fashion brand.

Being a model wasn't your dream; what you wanted to do was be a fashion designer. To have your own clothing collections and be able to showcase them at fashion week. But your mother criticized every choice you made, competing with you to ensure you were never the best anywhere. Are you a model? You'll never be better than her because she was the best Black model of her generation. Do you want to be a fashion designer? You'll never be better than her because she was now the art director of Chanel.

Focused on your thoughts, you didn't notice Sukuna behind you, who had put on a ghost face mask and taken his gun out of his jeans.

“I'm back. Missed me?” He asked in your ear, pressing the barrel of his gun against your temple. You froze, your heart pounding in your chest, threatening to explode. “Let's play a little game together.”

“Y-Yeah?” All your senses were waking up, alert and hypersensitive. But it was the excitement coursing through your veins that was the most overwhelming feeling.

“I'll let you escape, but what if I catch you? I'll fuck you like you've never been, you hear me? And I won't stop even if you cry, you fucking traitor. Someone needs to ruin you for you to realize the consequences of your actions,” he threatened, his voice harsh and gruff.

He shoved you in the back, and you staggered but didn't dare run or turn around yet. You took a few steps before he fired on you, and it grazed your ear, which turned bloody. The fear of dying invaded you, like a sweet poison in your body, and you ran towards the deep forest, away from the group where your brother and the cameramen were.

The sweat on your back was building up quickly as his heavy footsteps echoed behind you, intensifying the frenzy that was about to take over your entire body. This was so much fun! Your breathing quickened, you took deep breaths every time your foot touched the ground, crushing the dead leaves.

You jumped and screamed every time he fired between your feet. He had frightening accuracy in his shots; he was probably a sniper. You hadn't thought about him much because you treated him like a real-life fantasy, but you were curious about who he was. After Sukuna, he was the first man who had really made you wet.

You scampered between the trees, but a branch that hit your head made you fall. You crawled to hide under a pile of leaves, not having time to get up, but your stalker easily grabbed your calf and pulled your body towards him.

“I should give you a safe word, right, baby? Because I'm going to destroy you.”

He knelt between the leaves, and with his gun, he ran over your body, pressing the barrel of it. Your chest rose and fell frantically, your breathing ragged from the chase, and he pushed his gun against your clothed breast, making a dip in the soft flesh. You remained motionless, staring at his ghost face mask as your cunt throbbed and you took quick breaths. You hoped he was really going to fuck like crazy like he'd promised because you hadn't been satisfied with Nanami.

“Strip,” he commanded, positioning his gun in the direction of your head.

You swallowed hard and nodded. You slid your skirt down your legs, the wind caressing your skin covered in goosebumps.

“Why are you already wet?” The man glared at you through his mask.

“It's kind of my kink,” you murmured, your voice shy. “I'm not afraid of you. You could have killed me several times, but it seems like you're just trying to scare me.”

Fed up, your stalker removed his mask and your eyes widened when Sukuna shot dangers at you.

“You fucking whore, what do I have to do to get revenge on you?” He leaned down and grabbed your throat, squeezing it hard. You struggled against him, but in vain. His red eyes were furious, full of lust and madness. The eyes you loved the most.

“So you were the one doing all this? You're trying to get revenge for the years in prison?” You managed to utter in a frail voice with a weak smile. “Why can't you just kill me?”

“You know exactly why I can't kill you,” he snarled. “You're…”

He closed his lips, looking away, his face hard. He released your throat, and you coughed, hand on your chest.

“Rape me.”

His whole body tensed, but he remained silent.

“Kuna, rape me. Show me how much you hate me.”

“As if I'll give you the thing you want most,” he huffed.

“You don't want to see me cry and beg you to stop?”

He looked around to make sure no one was around to overhear their morally incorrect conversation. His eyes fell on you, dark and burning.

“Take off your top.”

You grinned, and he wanted to hit you to make you stop smiling like that. But you knew he was never going to actually hurt you. His hatred came from a place of hurt, not malice. You had both hurt each other a lot and now had a messy relationship because of it. A mixture of hate and love that few could understand.

Your top met your skirt in the grass, and he caught sight of you wearing only a thong. He missed your wide hips, which he could cling to when he thrust into you, and the little pudginess of your lower belly that made you authentically you.

“You gained weight since the last time I saw you.”

“Is that supposed to hurt me? I don't care if you don't like my body.”

“Never said it wasn't a good thing and that I didn't like it.” He smirked. “Now, open your thighs.”

You spread your legs as he wanted, wincing as you felt the twigs dig into your flesh. Sukuna positioned himself between your thighs and rubbed the barrel of his gun against your clothed pussy, running along the clothed slit. Your thighs clenched around his hand, a heat crackling in the pit of your lower abdomen, the danger heightening the thrill of the situation. He slapped your leg and you flinched.

“I said open these fucking thighs.”

“Sorry.”

“Ah.” His smirk widened into a full sly grin. “Are you already in sub mode? Did you miss it?”

Before you could reply, he yanked away and ripped your thong and threw it somewhere in the forest where he didn't care. You made a sound of protest, but it was quickly replaced by pants as he stroked your slick folds with his weapon. It was so wrong and unhinged, but you were hooked. You rocked your hips against the revolver to push it deeper inside you.

“Needy slut,” he muttered. He leaned down, spread your lips with his fingers, and spat on your tight heat. He lifted his head, your gaze locked as he thrust his gun into you. A blazing red in his eyes, his stare electrified you. An 'o' formed on your mouth as you felt the metal sink into you, your walls clenching painfully around it.

“Kuna, you're such a bastard. You didn't prepare me beforehand.”

“You love me that way, am I right?”

You let out a chuckle, but your chest tightened. If only you didn't have this mutual hatred, this resentment, you'd be a happy couple. He'd encourage you in your career as a fashion designer, tell you to not care what your mother says, tell you that you're the best in his eyes, like he always did when you were teenagers. You'd be there for him every time he saw his mother, rub his back when the sight of her made him vomit, and not judge him for the way his brain worked, knowing that it all stemmed from trauma.

“You really ruined everything, ‘kuna,” you said, hurt in your voice.

“I don't deny that I did things wrong, but you didn't need to send me five years to hell.”

“What was I supposed to do? You—Oh my god!”

With his free hand, he stroked your throbbing bud, his index and middle fingers tracing circles around your clit. His other hand continued to move back and forth, plunging the gun in and out of you. Lewd, wet noises came from the union of your weapon and you. He angled his hand perfectly to hit that spongey spot inside you, making you writhe and moan.

“You're still the same unhinged bitch.”

“Speak of me with respect because we're the same.”

His eyes almost softened, almost. He quickened the pace of his gun-thrusts, his gaze narrowing on the way you were milking the weapon, a white ring around the rear sight. He stopped touching your clit to press a hand on your lower pudgy belly.

“Pochari,” he whispered, pressing harder to increase the sensations of his gun inside you.

That was the nickname he always called you when you were little. You always fought with him, thinking it was an insult, but over the years you'd learned it was a cute Japanese word for "chubby." Heat rushed to your cheeks at the sound of him calling you that, your chest fluttering.

“Don't call me that.”

“Why not?”

“You're the one who wants revenge and I'm the victim, there's nothing more between us than that.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He pulled out his gun—you protested, wanting your orgasm—slicked with your arousal, and brought it to his mouth. His tongue swirled around the weapon, and it was so nasty that your cheeks burned. After that, he set it down in the grass and pulled down his pants and boxers just enough to be comfortable enough to fuck you. Your mouth watered at his pierced girth, thick and big, just like you remembered.

“Can I?” You held out a hand.

“Fuck off. You're my victim today.”

He pushed your hand away and wrapped your thick thighs around his waist, letting out a sigh at the sweet sensation of being surrounded by your plushness.

“Say red if you want to stop,” he murmured before sliding his dick between your folds, plunging between your velvet walls. He cursed under his breath at the familiar feeling of your warmth around him.

“Since when are you so considerate?” you teased him, placing your hands on his abdomen.

“Don't play with me, I've always fucked you with a safe word.”

His gaze lingered on how his girth disappeared inside you, gaining inches every time his hips moved forward a little more. He lifted his head and noticed your wince. He shot you a sly smile.

“What? Can't handle that dick?”

“Shut up. You gave me a safe word, but you're not doing anything special.”

“I'm not even deep inside, woman.”

You mock-punched against his muscular belly. “Don't call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you then?” His hips moved backward in an obscene wet sound before slamming against you. Hands gripping your sides, he was really getting into it, pistoning up into you. “Tell me, baby. What do you want me to call you? Sweetheart? My love? Do you want me to play the perfect boyfriend after you sent me to hell?”

“I was angry, I didn't want you to suffer so much, I—”

The sharp slap he gave you made your head spin, your cheek burning.

“You think I'm dumb, right? That you snitched on the police without meaning to hurt me?” He grabbed your throat again, his large tattooed hand wrapping around your neck. His aggressive and hard thrusts continued to abuse your cunt, making your walls spasm. “I see right through you, you traitorous fucking bitch.”

He squeezed your throat so hard that you rolled your eyes in pleasure, the sensations raised to the maximum.

“Keep fucking me like you hate me, please,” you manage to say, your voice trembling, panting softly as his dick plowed into you.

Sukuna's glare made you pulsate around him, turned on by how he was mad at you.

“You shouldn’t like this, woman.”

“I love how you fuck me, ‘kuna. You’ve always been the best at this nasty shit.”

A low chuckle escaped his mouth.

“Literally begging for my dick, aren’t you ashamed at all?”

“Nah, you won't tell anyone, it'll stay between us, right, 'kuna? You've always been the best at keeping secrets.” You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pressed him against you, forgetting that you were in a forest and you were going to have the marks of the twigs on your back.

Sweaty chest squashed your own, he fucked to oblivion as he rutted into you, cock buried deep in your cunt, your pussy swallowing him and glinding up and down with each of his strokes. His piercing nudged your cervix every time he bottomed out, making you squirm and whimper.

Your pussy clutched onto his cock, and every time he brushed against your G-spot, you gripped his hips, telling him to go harder, as if you were never satisfied with his pace. He laughed at that, a brief moment of affection before he released your throat to take his gun.

“You're not scared enough f'me.”

He pushed the barrel of his weapon into your mouth as surprise flashed across your face. The metal tasted like you. Once deep in your mouth, he placed his index finger on the trigger, making you shudder with fear.

“What if I shoot?”

Tears welled up in your eyes.

“Awww,” he cooed, “don't be so upset, baby. Isn't that what you want? To get killed by a big, muscular, tattooed man who hates your gut?”

The wet squelching sounds of your pussy coating his dick could be heard as he rocked his hips into you—with force, with aggression, with greed. He craved, needed to see your lips parted, your eyes watering as you nails digged into his back. He coveted your distress. Choking sounds came from your mouth as he pushed his revolver as far back as possible.

Ironic or not, it was like that you came. Almost humiliated, your cheek burning from the slap, and strangulation marks around your neck, your body was riddled with spasms of pleasure, like an overwhelming wave that took hold of you and left you quivering.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his handsome twisted into a frown, as your pussy pulsated around him. Your walls fluttered around him, and he slid in and out of you again, his violent thrusting stopping brutally as he emptied himself inside of you.

He pulled out of you and lowered his head just to see his cum coming from your twitching hole. With a smirk, he got dressed and stood up. Without a glance at you, he grabbed his gun and was about to leave before you grabbed his wrist.

“I'm not a cumdupster. We do whatever you want as long as there's aftercare afterward.”

Sukuna looked up in exasperation but leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. The action made butterflies swell in your stomach, and you smiled at him like an idiot—the smile a woman in love would give her husband.

“Don't look at me like that, I'm still an asshole, I hate you and—”

“Aftercare isn't just a kiss, 'kuna. You could carry me, my legs hurt.”

“And why would I do that?”

“You ripped my panties.”

“It bothered me to fuck you.”

“It was a Victoria Secret, it's expensive, you dummy.”

“You're probably richer than me.” Sukuna waited until you were getting dressed before wrapping his arms around you to carry you bridal-style. You played with his wavy pink locks, a deep smile on your face.

“Are we back together?”

He paused and glanced at you with his eyebrows knitted.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Why not? If you're still mad at me, come release your hatred in my bed.”

His lips curved into a devious smile as he walked through the forest to find the path where your brother and the cameramen were.

“Oh, now you plan to make me come to your bed when I have too much hatred inside me?”

“Why not?” You yawned, hand on your mouth.

“I'm getting married, woman.”

Your whole body froze, his words creating a heaviness in your chest. Yorozu, of course. You'd forgotten about her, too happy to have "found" your boyfriend again.

“You don't love her, you love me." You frowned.

“Even if you're right, I'm under a contract.”

“Why, 'kuna? You do whatever you want, you don't respect any rules, so why would you respect a contract that separates us?”

“You should have asked your father-in-law to stop preventing me from entering Formula 1; I would never have accepted the contract otherwise.”

You fell silent, unable to find anything to contradict him. Their love story was forbidden, doomed from the start. Sukuna's family would never accept a Gojo in their home, and Satoru's family would never accept a Ryomen. And now, Yorozu entered the equation. Thinking about all this was making your brain foggy so you rested your head on his chest, letting him carry you, wondering how much longer you had with him before he went back to his life with Yorozu.

𖥸

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

The weeks passed, punctuated by Sukuna's races and the nights he came to your hotel room to slut you out. There was nothing morally correct about your relationship: Sukuna was in a relationship and getting married, and you were his rival's sister.

Yet, it was impossible for the two of you not to touch and be intimate with each other. Grabbing your ass when you were alone, cuddling after sex when you were exhausted, a kiss on the forehead after a particularly violent intercourse... He even came to spend time with you when you were getting ready for the afterparties after the races, watching you affectionately do your baby hair, define your coils, and put on a short dress that revealed your voluptuous curves.

Sukuna loved you. He really did. In his own way, in a twisted way, with a little hatred, a little resentment. His love for you was like a rose, beautiful, blooming, but dangerous because of its thorns. Every time he saw you, he thought back to his misery in prison, to all those nights he fell asleep with a knot in his stomach, the fear that his roommate would try to rape him in his sleep because he was younger than him.

In a way, he had become a 'real man'—from a patriarchal point of view—thanks to you. Prison taught him how to defend himself no matter the size and age of his opponent, to trust no one, to be cold and impassive, and to observe people carefully, because you never know what's going on inside people's heads.

An uncontainable wrath was born within him after his release from prison—an anger directed at you. That's why he started underground fighting. Now, it's something that allows him to release the pressure of his job; it's part of him. He always wore a balaclava to avoid recognition, and was known worldwide for his tattoos, his muscles, and the fact that he never lost his fights.

As he pounded into you, one hand on the bedframe and the other around your neck, with your legs on his shoulders, he panted as if he were in the middle of a fight with an opponent. And it was real, because you were a formidable opponent—the guardian of his heart.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, you whimpered at every drag of his dick, the pace so brutal that the bed slammed against the wall with a deafening thud. His thick veins pulsed against your walls, the squelch of pussy filled the room, and your tits bounced with each of his hungry thrusts.

Sukuna was traumatized by incest, he was unable to have sex while being submissive, it reminded him too much of how helpless he was in the face of his mother's sexual abuse. You were a perfect match, you, the woman who needed to let go by being submissive, and him, the man who needed to regain control over his body by being dominant.

“You're really the best 'kuna, I love you so much,” you moaned, hugging him tightly.

His eyes lit up with amusement.

“The fuck you're talking about? I'm fucking you like you mean nothing to me.”

One thing Sukuna noticed about you was that you had trouble moving on from people you loved deeply. You were unable to cut ties with your toxic mother, and you were unable to completely hate Sukuna for breaking your heart. It wasn't naiveté, but more love. When you loved someone, it was so intense that it was impossible for you to let that love evaporate. You treasured your loved ones in your heart, and when they did something bad, you always kept a door open for them.

In fact, it was already almost impossible to be close to you. You were a confident woman, a little arrogant and passionate. You had grown up wealthy, so you had very specific requirements for your boyfriends. You slept with Nanami because he was rich and successful, but he didn't meet all the criteria you wanted.

The only man who met them all was Sukuna. That's why you couldn't move on. This man was your perfect match, your safe place since childhood.

“I don't care how you fuck me, I know you love me. Besides, everyone adores me.” You gave him an arrogant smile.

You looked pretty like this, he thought. He leaned over to kiss you and traced your lower lip with the edge of your tongue to coax you to open your mouth. Your lips parted and your tongues tangled together. He continued to roll his hips at a beastly pace, your thighs clenching around his head, and heat pooling low in your stomach.

The scene was domestic, intimate. You still had your satin bonnet on your head, your nightie still pulled up to your waist, and his silver chain tapped against your forehead every time his hips snapped forward. With an affectionate gesture, Sukuna pushed a curl back into your satin bonnet.

After you were done making love, you snuggled up to Sukuna.

“Do you still hate me?” you asked.

“Let's say I tolerate you. And you?”

“I tolerate you too.” You grinned. “You're still a selfish asshole, but I've grown to like you that way.”

A lazy smile on his face, he rubbed soothing circles over your back. He rested his chin on the top of your head and let out a soft sigh.

Sukuna couldn't have sex with other women who weren't you; you were the only one he felt safe with. He wouldn't be able to hug Yorozu like he does with you now. He saw women as manipulative, abusive, and rapists.

Secretly, he was jealous of all the boyfriends you'd had since him, even though his heart had never forgotten you.

He lowered his head, taking in the sight of you dozing off, and he told himself that you were meant to be together.

𖥸

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟐𝟏 - 𝐬𝐚õ 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐨, 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐥 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Wrapped in your blanket, crouched in your bed in your hotel room, you sobbed. The rain outside tapped against the windows; the sound was comforting but couldn't soothe your inner turmoil.

Sukuna entered your room without knocking as usual, hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, before tilting his head when he saw you crying.

“Who stole your smile so I could break their jaw?”

Sukuna didn't like it when other people made you cry. You were his victim, his prey, his to break.

He arrived at your bed and leaned down to dry the tears that rolled down your cheeks with his fingers.

“My mother,” you mumbled. “I showed her the clothing collections I wanted to do for my fashion brand, and she criticized everything as usual.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you persist in having a relationship with your mother when she hates you?”

“I don't know. You hate your mother too, yet you're still in a relationship with her.”

His face hardened. “Our situations have nothing to do with each other. I can't tell my father what my mother did to me, because… Fuck, baby. You know exactly why I can't tell anyone.”

A gentle look passed across your face. “I know, 'kuna. It's hard as a man to admit that you were sexually abused by a woman. But you shouldn't feel like this; you were a child. You can't defend yourself in front of an adult when you're under 13.”

“Let's focus on you and your mother and not on the whore who act as my mother,” Sukuna cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Show me your collections.”

You grabbed your laptop from your bedside table and opened the canvas pages where all your clothing designs were stored.

“The inspiration is Afrofuturism. It's the idea of ​​imagining Africa without colonization, but among African Americans it became very popular in the 2000s with R&B,” you explained, your voice serious. “Music videos with black girls in futuristic outfits, platform boots, and lots of silver in their clothes, that's Afrofuturism.”

Sukuna's lips quirked up, amused by your nerdy expression and how passionate you were about your subject. But he never mocked you; he was as interested as you were; everything about you interested him.

“So I analyzed the work of African designer Chris Seydoux, who brought mudcloth, an African fabric, to international fame. I took inspiration from Senegalese and Cameroonian fashion and researched different traditional fabrics.”

You showed your dresses, skirts, and tops, all with different patterns, inspired by different African fabrics, but with your own personal touch, so there were stars everywhere and silver.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, it's amazing.”

Flustered, you lowered your head.

“I want my models to be exclusively Black and plus-sized women. I don't really care if my brand doesn't appeal to everyone; my focus is Black women.”

“Why is your stupid mother criticizing such a good idea? I don't understand why she wants to crush all your dreams like that when you're talented.”

You shrugged. “I feel like all the fame she had in the '90s made her afraid of getting old and no longer being famous. So me, her daughter, a girl in her twenties, makes her competitive.”

“That's bullshit. Her famous time is over, it's your turn now.” He wrapped his muscular, tattooed arms around you, and you found comfort in them. “Don't listen to what she tells you, you're talented. You've been doing this since you were little. That's how I met you, remember? You were drawing in Merklay Park, and I was fighting with some innocent guy who didn't ask for anything.”

You chuckled and nuzzled his chest. “Yeah, I remember. I thought you were super fashionable while you were fighting.”

“There's something wrong with your head, baby.”

“You like me that way.”

He held you tighter. “Don't listen to that bitch. You'll be one of the best fashion designers of our generation, I'm sure of it.”

“You're so cute when you're like that, kuna.”

“Do you want me to stay in my 'my girl is the most talented artist ever' mode?”

“I'm your girl?” You raised your heads to look at him, and your gazes locked.

“No, but I wish you were,” he whispered, his voice intimate.

“You know the SpongeBob meme with the huge handcuffs with lots of space, so he wasn't really restricted? That's how I see you.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes. “You don't understand. You're not even supposed to know that my relationship with her is fake, I'm already breaking the rules.”

“No sex tonight, you put me in a bad mood with your bullshit.” You pushed him away to sit up in bed away from him, and he sighed.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”

You ignored him and slipped your headphones into your ear to work on your fashion designs. Sukuna stared at you silently before leaving your room with a frown.

𖥸

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟐𝟐 - 𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You hadn't spoken to him all week, not even to congratulate him when he won the twenty-first race. Sukuna was in a sour mood. He had found the girl he loved again, but his past choices had to ruin everything. He didn't care about Yorozu; all he cared about was getting a spot in Formula 1.

Hands in his pockets, he moved through the crowd of people at the party, grunting every time a woman brushed against him, trying not to strangle them. His eyes searched for you, and when they found you sitting on the lap of Suguru, a McLaren driver, his stomach dropped.

From where he was, he saw your tongue curling around his, your smile against his, and Suguru's hands on your ass. He hurried to find the nearest restroom and threw up his dinner. There were two things that made him vomit: seeing his mother, and seeing you with someone else.

Was this the future that awaited him? Marrying Yorozu, having children with her while his heart longed for you? Seeing you go from boyfriend to boyfriend because no one satisfied you better than him, seeing you kiss and fuck other men while your perfect match was waiting for you in New York, stuck with a woman he didn't love as much as he did for you?

He sat on the bathroom floor, running his hands over his face, his body trembling.

Nothing had gone as planned these past few months. He had to get revenge on you, destroy you, break you. But all he did was fall even deeper into the abyss of love. Now, going back to Yorozu felt like sin. The mere thought of having to undress in front of a woman other than you gripped his heart with dread.

Just then, as if fate were mocking him, Yorozu called. He stared at his phone with a grim expression, but took the call.

“What do you want?”

“I sent the wedding invitations to everyone, and everyone will be there. Your mother wants to make the cake, does that bother you?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took deep breaths. It was Formula 1 or you. And the more time passed, the more he regretted choosing Formula 1.

𖥸

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝟏 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 - 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Yorozu's wedding took place in the park where you and Sukuna had met, ironic as the situation was. Dressed in a black suit, Sukuna kept his lips tightly closed throughout the ceremony. He didn't laugh at Yorozu's family's jokes, didn't acknowledge the compliments he received for having finished first at the end of the Formula 1 season and Satoru only second, and didn't play with the children who tugged at his pants to play with dolls in the grass.

No, Sukuna, he was contemplating the disaster of his life.

Spending those few months with you had reminded him why he loved you. It was the little things like your focused expression while working on your laptop, how your brown pussy swallowed his reddened tip, how you constantly held your high as if you felt superior to others—you really felt it, how you curled your toes every time orgasm threatened to overwhelm you, how you smirked every time you found something funny to say against his mean remarks, how you never let yourself be pushed around by others but remained vulnerable in front of people like your mother and him.

Yorozu wasn't even half of you. She didn't have your passion, your intelligence, your beauty. When Sukuna painted pictures of the woman of his dreams, it was a black woman with short curly hair, who always spent hours doing dramatic baby-hair styles, who wore a proud smile no matter what, and had curves that made any man drool, not Yorozu. It was even an insult to compare you to her.

Yorozu's wedding dress was a sequined white, with a low back. Sukuna held back his cussing, thinking you would have killed it in that outfit with your wide hips and deep arch. His face was cold and distant, and he let himself be led around by his fiancée, who held his elbow. He was even depressed, realizing how miserable it was going to be. Just thinking about his honeymoon made his hairs stand on in disgust.

Yorozu was saying his wedding vows, talking about eternal love, shit that Sukuna couldn't care less about. He looked away, toward the west, where your mansion was. You still lived with your mother. Sukuna didn't know why you were such a masochist, but he didn't judge you. He, too, had affection for a mother who didn't love him.

"Mr. Ryomen?"

The priest addressed him urgently, as everyone was staring at them, waiting for the pink-haired man's wedding vows.

"I have nothing to say, continue the ceremony," he muttered.

The priest scowled but couldn't say anything more, as the ceremony had to continue anyway.

"I pronounce you husband and wife," he stated, raising his arms as all the guests began to applaud. Yorozu leaned forward to press a kiss to Sukuna's cheek, but he pushed her away. The applause stopped, an uncomfortable silence in the park.

“‘Kuna?” Yorozu frowned.

“Don’t call me that.” His heart squeezed painfully. Only you could call him that.

Yorozu’s eyes darkened, and she grabbed his arm with a tight grip to forcefully kiss him. Sukuna froze, shocked.

This was what was waiting for him. This was how women operated. They took what they wanted by force, making abusive contracts, without asking your opinion, like when his mother raped him. Shock slowly gave way to fury when he pushed her away so roughly that she fell backward. Screams rose in the park, people rushed to help Yorozu up, but Sukuna was already far away, hurrying to find his driver who was napping, waiting to be called for the honeymoon.

“Take me to ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚’s house,” Sukuna ordered, sitting down in the tinted-window bus. His whole body was shaking with rage, anger, and helplessness. How could he have chosen Yorozu for almost ten years when the woman of his life was right under his nose?

The driver, who had known Sukuna since he was little, wrinkled his forehead in confusion. He knew your address very well, because for years, it had been a secret between him and Sukuna to take him to your house when your parents were away.

“Yes, master.”

He did exactly as Sukuna asked, parking in front of your mansion. Sukuna took off his seatbelt and turned off his phone so he wouldn't receive incessant calls from his mother or his fiancé. He knocked on your door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Mhm, yeah?” A sleepy voice answered, you opened the door in your nightie, still wearing your satin bonnet. "Who—Sukuna?"

Surprise flashed across your face, and Sukuna's lips crashed against yours. He cupped your face, stepped back into your mansion, and slammed the door with his foot. Craving, want, need—everything he felt was reflected in his kiss as you parted your lips, shocked by his brutal display of affection. The soft presses of his lips against yours transformed into devastation as his mouth molded against yours, and his tongue slid over yours.

“Sukuna, the wedding—”

“I don’t give a damn about that thing right now.”

He put his arms under your ass to lift you up and carry you to your room.

“Sukuna, my parents will be here any moment…”

“It’s a bit like when I used to sneak in to see you, right?”

You chuckled against his lips and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Yeah, it’s like that. Except back then, you were mine.”

“The thing is that I’m yours, baby. Painfully, absolutely, forever yours.”

“And the Formula 1?”

“I don’t care!” he sneered. “I don’t give a damn about that, I just want you damnit.”

He laid you down on the bed and took off your clothes, his own joining the floor. He gave you a little foreplay, but he was too eager to feel himself inside you to really get into it. When his dick sank into you, he sighed with relief, his eyes watering.

“‘Kuna… My pussy is so good you got emotional?” You smiled sweetly at him, raking a hand through his thick, unruly pink strands.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. “I loathed you for so long, I planned my revenge for 5 years, I had lots of ideas, what I did to you wasn’t even 10% of what I intended to do, but the second I was with you, I… Fuck, I’m so sappy right now, it’s so embarrassing.”

His hips rose just enough to drag his dick against your walls, then sank back down with a slick, obscene sound. Your breathing quickened, and you clenched your thighs around his waist. He peppered your face with kisses to relax you because of the sudden stretch.

“I don’t even know what to do, my mother will be so mad, Yorozu will break my contracts with the FIA, but… I don’t know, I don’t give a fuck. I just want…” He kissed you. “Be with you.”

Your hands clapped in his back, his pelvis pressed against your clit, rubbing at each of his slow thrusts.

“Does this mean you’re mine now?”

Sukuna nodded, his gaze locked with yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours.

“Painfully—thrust—absolutely—thrust—forever—thrust—yours,” he repeated, each roll of his hips sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

In the privacy of your bedroom, a place he had long missed, you reconnected with the only man you had ever truly loved.

𖥸

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝟓 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

The São Paulo sun caressed the skin of Sukuna, you, and your 3-year-old daughter, Naya. Being autistic, Naya hated the feeling of sand on her body; she sat comfortably on her father's lap. He stroked her back, looking at her with affectionate eyes.

After the disaster at Yororzu's wedding, she complained to her father about ruining Sukuna's career. It worked because they replaced him with a talented rookie, who went on to win the next few races. But Sukuna was sure of his choice. He had decided to enter the world of professional boxing and was a famous MMA athlete. His years of underground fighting had taught him everything he needed; he just needed to learn the rules so as not to actually hurt his opponents.

A lot had changed in your life since you married Sukuna. Encouraged by him, you finally created your own clothing brand, and it was a success. Satoru's family didn't want to have any contact with you anymore, finding your choice unforgivable, but your brother still checked in from time to time. As long as you had him, everything was okay. You were now living in Brazil with your little family.

"Are you sure you don't want to go swimming, sweetheart?" you asked your daughter, and she looked at you with terror in her eyes.

A quiet laugh rumbled in Sukuna's chest.

“Don't torture our daughter, woman.”

“Okay, okay,” you chuckled, and leaned over to kiss her forehead.

This was the life Sukuna wanted. He wanted to protect his daughter as much as possible so she wouldn't have to go through what he had gone through when he was little with his mother. He trusted you, and that was the most important thing in your relationship. He had taught his daughter to always refuse to be touched if she didn't want to be, always asked her permission when he had to shower her, and was careful never to force her into something she didn't want. Consent was learned very early, and it was the focus of his education.

After your swim at the beach, it was late at night. You tucked your daughter into bed and started your favorite game. Sukuna, wearing only his sweatpants, hanging low and revealing his hip tattoos and sculpted abs, and his ghost face mask, with his gun in his hand, walked into your house. Hiding under your bed, you placed your hand over your mouth so he wouldn't hear your breathing, your heart pounding at each of his steps next to you.

Except he always found you. He grabbed your foot, trying to drag you out of bed, and you let out a small scream. You pretended to want to escape—you wanted him to slut you out like never before, but he knew that.

“Strip,” he threatened, his gun aimed at your head.

With a pout, you took off your clothes and knelt in front of him. Sukuna lowered his sweatpants and boxers, and gestured for you to come closer to take his erection in your mouth. You licked your lips, eager to please your husband. You took his hard length in your hand, looking up at him with soft doe eyes, making his dick twitch. When your lips wrapped around his cockhead, Sukuna closed his eyes in pure bliss.

It took a while, but you were finally together, the wedding ring around his back glinting in the artificial light, a testament to his loyalty to you. And now you had all of eternity to have fun, do the most unhinged things, and heal from your traumas in a morally incorrect way, but without judgment because you loved each other. You were bound. Bound by darkness.

𓍯 𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬

[conniesministallion]

Loved thissss so bad

[zikariogirl]

— hear you me.

pairing: fem!readerxsanemi

genre: slight angst, fluff

a/n: ugh this idea was on my mind all day. the song with this scenario? perfect

You and Sanemi Shinazugawa had been inseparable since childhood.

Long before the scars, long before the corps, long before the world tore him apart, he was just a rough little boy who endured his father’s beatings. And you were the one who patched his cuts with clumsy hands, showed him never ending kindness, and walked home with him when the streets grew dark.

Neither of you ever said it out loud, but the feelings were there. The way his cheeks flushed when you teased him, the way you clung to his sleeve when you were nervous, the way his voice softened when it was just the two of you.

Then came the night everything shattered. His father was gone, his mother turned into something monstrous, and Sanemi fought until his body broke just to keep Genya alive. By morning, his family was gone, his childhood stolen, and so was he. No goodbye, no promise, just absence.

You waited. For days, then weeks. You told yourself he’d come back. That he’d never just leave you like that. But the days bled into years, and eventually, you forced yourself to keep living, even with the ache that never really left.

What you didn’t know was that Sanemi did come back, just never to your door. He came in the shadows, standing at a distance, watching from rooftops or hidden at the edge of the street. He saw you grow, he saw your smile soften, and he saw the way you filled the air with laughter. For a time, that was enough.

Until one evening, when he saw you in someone else’s arms.

Your laughter carried in the air, softer, happier than he’d ever heard it. The way you leaned into that person—the way they touched you like you were the most precious thing in the world—it felt like a blade straight through his chest.

Sanemi’s breath caught. His fists trembled. He wanted to scream, to tear the world apart, to demand why it couldn’t be him.

But deep down, he knew.

You deserved this. You deserved peace, love, a life untouched by blood and loss. You deserved everything he could never give you.

But fate has a cruel way of tying knots that can’t be undone.

One night, years later, you were walking home from a trip through the forest, the path darkening under the stretch of dusk. The air was too still, too quiet. Then the snarl came, low and vicious. Your heart lurched as a demon emerged from the shadows, its claws glinting in the moonlight. You stumbled back, breath caught in your throat, but before you could even scream, a figure tore through the clearing. A blade flashed silver, and the demon’s head hit the ground.

Your body froze, your eyes wide. The man standing in the moonlight was taller now, scarred and hardened, but unmistakable.

“…Sanemi?”

His sword lowered, his eyes meeting yours. The years between you collapsed in an instant. He looked at you like he was staring at a ghost.

Tears welled hot in your eyes before you could stop them. You didn’t think, didn’t hesitate… you just ran forward, flinging yourself into his arms. His breath hitched, and for a heartbeat he stood frozen, before his arms wrapped around you, strong and trembling, holding you as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

“I missed you,” you sobbed against his chest. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

He shut his eyes tight, his heart ripping open at the sound of your voice, older but still the same as the girl he once knew. When you pulled back just enough to look at him, the words spilled out before you could stop them.

“I never stopped thinking about you. Not once.”

Sanemi’s chest constricted. The confession was everything he’d ever wanted to hear and everything he feared most. He cupped the back of your head, pressing his forehead to yours for one lingering second before pulling away, his voice ragged.

“We can’t,” he said, the words tasting like poison. “You’ve got someone. And me? I can’t give you the kind of life you deserve. If you stay near me, all I’ll ever bring you is danger.”

“Sanemi—”

He cut you off by stepping back, sheathing his sword. His expression was agony masked by steel. And then, just like before, he turned and vanished into the trees, leaving you with your tears and a heart tearing apart all over again.

You tried to go back to your life, to the man who waited at your side. But it all felt wrong now. His touch wasn’t Sanemi’s, his smile wasn’t the fire you’d always carried in your heart. Weeks stretched on, but the memory of Sanemi’s arms around you burned brighter than anything else. Finally, you broke. With trembling hands and an aching chest, you apologized, telling him you couldn’t go on pretending, that your heart had always belonged elsewhere. And then you left.

Finding Sanemi wasn’t easy. The Corps was hidden, unseen by the public. You asked questions in towns, grasping at whispers, but no one could point you in the right direction. Desperation ate at you until only one reckless plan remained. If demons always drew slayers, then you would become the bait.

It was terrifying. Every instinct screamed against it. But the thought of never seeing Sanemi again was worse.

And so you walked the forest paths at night, heart hammering, fear curling in your stomach. When the demon came—red eyes gleaming, fangs bared—you froze, knees threatening to buckle. Its claws swiped, and you braced for pain…

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMN MIND?!”

His voice ripped through the night as his blade tore clean, the demon crumbling to ash at your feet. You spun, tears already in your eyes, as Sanemi stalked toward you, fury burning through every line of his face.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Using yourself as bait? You could’ve been killed!”

The words tumbled from your lips before he could say more. “Because I knew you’d come.”

He froze.

And before he could snarl another word, you surged forward and kissed him. His body went rigid, his eyes wide in shock, but when you pulled back, your tears and trembling smile broke him apart.

“I don’t care what you do, or how dangerous it is,” you cried, gripping his haori like a lifeline. “I don’t care about the Corps, or demons, or anything. I just want to be with you, Sanemi. I’ve wanted you since we were kids. I’d rather be dead than spend another day pretending I don’t.”

He stared at you, chest heaving, every wall he had built threatening to collapse. His hands trembled as he grabbed your shoulders, pulling you close like he needed to feel you were real.

“You’re a damn fool,” he rasped, voice raw, breaking. “But you’re mine.”

And before you could say another word, he crushed his mouth to yours, fierce and desperate. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight, like he would never let go again.

For the first time since that night so long ago, Sanemi didn’t run.

[otakufilms]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

sugar talkin’. onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 8.9K, original!blackfemreader, pouty!blackfemreader, domestic!countrylifecoded, husband!onyankopon, father!onyankopon, mechanic!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southernwife!femreader, jealous!onyankopon, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, car sex! reverse cowgirl!, cow girl!, pet names! dirty talk! , aggressive pet names!, big titty kink,titty sucking, titty fuck, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, overstimulation, talks of pregnancy termination, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— just really been into cute, sexy, domesticated southern marriages lately. anyways, this part 2 to baby makin’, you already know what you in for. enjoy.

ビジュアル。ビジュアル。ビジュアル。

WHY WERE YOU CRYING?

You asked yourself this for the thousandth time today, swiping the French tip of your nails beneath your glistening freckled cheek as you tried to pull yourself together. Maybe it was the constant scent of rice milk lingering in your nostrils from your toddler, or the musk mixtures of bourbon vanilla base notes of your husband’s cologne—either way? You were a wreck. 

It was nearly seven in the evening, close to the time your husband would be home with Asaan—therefore, you had to get it together. Crying over frivolous things had to be a routine of yours, but none of these issues were so frivolous to you. Your husband never made you feel bad for the tears that dropped from your eyes more than the baby you’d carried for nine months, but that didn’t make you any less dramatic. 

6:47PM. 

The burmese curl of your cinnamon tresses draped around your face, matching the hue of your full eyebrows that you’d constantly re-dyed as your natural color soaked up the chemicals. Your caramel skin blushed from the reoccurring tears, to which you padded your cheeks beneath your lash extensions, blowing a puff of air from your full lips as a way to ground yourself. With that, you rushed back to the kitchen, preparing the rest of dinner with five more minutes to spare. 

You’d been making your signature dish—red beans and rice, paired with beignets for dessert—they were your husband’s favorite, a born and raised New Orleans’ man like no other. You needed the distraction of finishing off dinner as he walked into the door, just hoping he wouldn’t catch your pouting.

The door swings open, and there he is—your husband in all his imposing, magnetic glory. Onyankopon’s black long sleeve clings to every defined ridge of his muscular frame, the fabric straining slightly over broad shoulders as he moves with that effortless charm of his. 

The ink on his neck peeks above the collar—intricate patterns that tell stories you’ve traced with your fingertips more times than you can count—and that small cross tattooed near his temple? A quiet reminder of faith etched into brown skin like a prayer.  

His cornrows are freshly done, tight against his scalp and trailing toward the back where they lay perfectly against his nape. The low cut beard framing full lips only add to that rugged aura as he steps inside, balancing Asaan effortlessly on his shoulders like it’s nothing.  

And your son—oh god, one year old and already mirroring him in miniature form—curly dark hair wild from the wind outside, those big brown eyes wide with excitement as he clutches a tiny football in tinier hands. He’s drowning in an oversized black tee tucked into little cargos, matching Papa down to the last detail, kicking his legs gleefully against Onyankopon’s chest when he spots you by the stove.  

Onyankopon doesn't even wait for you to scold before leaning down to press a firm kiss against your lips—“Missed yo' ass,” murmured low enough just for you. He ignores how your hands immediately fly up to steady Asaan's back anyway, as if either of them needed help. 

Your hands immediately find your hips as you level a look —“You know not to be carryin’ my baby like that. ‘He coulda' fell and cracked his head open, Onyankopon.”

You’re scolding, but your protest is immediately undercut when Asaan beams down at you, tiny fingers gripping his football tighter as he waves excitedly.  

"Hi, Mommy!” 

His voice is sweet but still baby slurred—halfway between a toddler’s coo and a real sentence. It melts you instantly.  

Your stern facade cracks into an adoring smile as you reach up to smooth his wild curls, "Hi, pretty boy. How was your day?"  

Asaan kicks his legs again with pure enthusiasm, “Payed baa-ball wif’ Papa!” 

The words tumble out in that adorable, clumsy way of his—still getting the hang of forming full sentences but so proud of himself anyway.  

"That’s great, baby. Did my boys have fun today?"  

Onyankopon smirks at how easily you softened—already knowing he’d won this round. 

“‘Course we did," he rumbles proudly, "This lil' nigga got hands like Odell Beckham Jr. Swear to god. ‘Had that ball sailing from across the damn park like pewwww. Yo’ son? Cool as hell, one hand catches like it was nothin’.” 

Your smile lingers as you watch the two of them, heart swelling with affection—until Onyankopon grins that mischievous smile of his, suddenly flipping Asaan upside down mid air, tiny legs kicking as your son erupts into giggles.  

“Onyankopon!” 

Your voice jumps in exasperation, arms outstretched like you’re about to snatch him back—but then comes the sharp smack of his palm against your ass, cutting off your protest before it even fully leaves your lips.  

“Quit allat’,” he rumbles lowly—all amusement and authority wrapped into one word while gently righting Asaan onto his feet, “Boy ain’t scared.”  

Asaan wobbles for half a second before sprinting off toward the living room, still clutching his football like nothing happened—proof enough that Daddy was right, as usual. 

"Smellin’ good as hell in here, girl. But why yo' face look like somebody stole yo' last dollar?” 

Did he know everything? Of course he did. 

"Who makin’ my wife cry?” 

His voice drops dangerously soft now, a seriousness now within his tone.

Your hands lift to cup his face, thumbs brushing along the sharp line of his jaw in a deliberate distraction.  

"Dinner's ready,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the stove like that would be enough to shift his focus—but Onyankopon’s gaze doesn't waver. Instead, it flicks past you, landing on the open textbook sprawled across the opposite counter.  

Nursing Neonatal Care: 5th Edition.

His brow quirks up instantly—that knowing look settling into his features as he exhales through his nose.

“Aight,” he starts slowly, "So we gon’ act like yo’ studies ain't got nothin’ to do with it?” 

You sigh, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of both exhaustion and frustration. 

"It's just—a lot right now." 

Your gesture vaguely at your notes—pages upon pages highlighting neonatal resuscitation protocols and IV calculations, scribbled in margins looking more chaotic than helpful lately. 

"Pharmacology's kicking my ass this semester,” you admit quietly, “And sometimes I think maybe I'm not cut out to finish school—”  

"Nuh-Uh. ‘Knock that bullshit off."

"Mwen jis gen bagay nan tèt mwen, renmen…” 

Your words are already tumbling out in protest; a rapid fire string of defiant Creole that Onyankopon just looks at you dully through. 

“Talkin’ to me in a different language ain't gon’ make me change my mind."

You sigh again, voice smaller this time.

“Maybe I should just stay home with Asaan, Papa.”

“Baby. The whole reason we ain't go for that second kid kid is ‘cause yo' ass got dreams outside this house. You remember that?” 

His gaze softens, “Mechanic shop boomin’. You finna be out here savin' lil’ babies like some kinda superhero—” He shrugs like it's already decided—because to him? It is.

But then comes the real truth.

"You nervous ‘bout Asaan bein' in nursery school,” he knows, “‘Scared somebody ain't gon' love on him right when you ain't lookin’. Ain't that it?"  

And there it was, laid bare between steaming pots and abandoned textbooks where all fears lived lately. 

"It's—scary," you admit quietly, “He's never been away from me like that before. What if—“

“What if nothin’,” Onyankopon interrupts gently but firmly, “That boy got my blood in him—he gon’ be aight. And so are you."

You rub your arms, trying to soothe the lingering anxiety as you roll your eyes and turn away—but Onyankopon catches you instantly, his large hand hooking around your waist to yank you back against him with a playful grunt. 

"You done talkin’, huh?” 

His palm cracks against your ass twice in quick succession—sharp enough to startle a giggle from you despite yourself. When he does it again? You’re full on laughing, arms looping around his neck as he holds you close.  

“Papa.” 

You finally relax into the warmth of his skin, fingers idly tracing the ink along his nape, “You really think Asaan’s ready for nursery school? They’ll have him in an older class, you know.” 

“Girl. That boy smarter than half my mechanics already,” he chuckles, “And if them lil' bad ass two year olds wanna try him? I’ll shut that whole fuckin' school down ‘fore lunchtime.” 

The threat is ridiculous.

But so comforting anyway.

Onyankopon's gaze lingers, tracing over you like he’s memorizing every detail all over again—your freckled cheeks, warm under the golden kitchen light. That cinnamon brown mane of Burmese curls cascades down your back and around the soft curve of your face, framing those slanted eyes and thick lashes that always make his chest tighten.  

His hands slide up beneath the oversized tee you wear—fingers brushing against skin that still carries the faintest traces of change from carrying his son. Milk heavy tits, nipples pebbling against fabric no matter how loose it is; full hips that sway even when you’re just standing still, a fat ass so plush it makes his mouth water just looking at it. And that scent? Rice milk clinging to your skin like a second layer—something sweetly nostalgic, reminding him of late nights with his swollen bellied wife curled against him in bed.

"’A nigga love you like no other, girl.” 

Then comes the command—low and graveled, “Come gimme’ that mouth.” 

You stick out your tongue between baby pink lips before he crashes his mouth to yours, swallowing every giggle as he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth just to hear you whimper. 

The kiss deepens until Asaan comes barreling back in with excited squeals—football held high like some tiny trophy as he wedges himself right between both parents effortlessly.

“Ball go zooom’!” 

Onyankopon scoops Asaan up effortlessly, tossing him high into the air just to hear those infectious baby giggles burst free like tiny fireworks. You roll your eyes—again—but the sound of their laughter pulls a matching one from your lips anyway, soft and endeared.  

Dinner is warm and loud—spoons clinking against plates as red beans and rice disappear bite by bite, followed by powdered sugar beignets that leave Asaan’s cheeks dusted white. The one year old smears his tiny hands in the food before attempting to share bites with Onyankopon—only for your husband to dramatically pretend to swallow the boy’s whole fist instead, making him shriek with giggles even more. 

Later, Onyankopon sits cross legged on the floor with Asaan between his knees, gently working through his tender headed curls to mimic his own cornrows—his thick fingers knead carefully through tight coils, all while Asaan whines teary eyed against his stuffed Batman plushie from sensitivity. 

"Shhh, Papa.”

Onyankopon murmurs comforting sounds as he parts his hair into sections, detangling gently before weaving cornrows like tiny rivers down his scalp, “I’m almost done, aight?”

You lean against Onyankopon's shoulder as cartoons flicker across the screen—watching until Asaan's cries finally ease into sleepy blinks against cotton fur. Only then does your voice drift softly over their heads—

“...’You ever regret it? Not havin’ our second baby?”

Onyankopon doesn't pause detangling the last braid before answering plainly, “Nah.” 

His fingers gently maneuver as he confirms, “Hell nah. ‘Want you livin' yo' life too, girl. Not stuck home waitin' on me if that ain't whatchu’ want."

You sigh softly, leaning into him a little more.  

"I just don't want any regrets between us. That’s all."  

Onyankopon’s hands still to cup the back of your head—pulling you close enough for his lips to press against your temple in silent reassurance before murmuring, "Ain't nothin' in this house but love. Regret? Don’t live here."  

Asaan whines between you both, tiny fists rubbing at his damp lashes—slurring a barely coherent, “S'eepy…” 

Onyankopon chuckles while securing the last braid with a small rubber band, "Yeah? ‘Coulda sworn you was just cryin’ ‘cause yo' scalp tender."  

The baby just blinks slowly up at him, then flopping backward dramatically onto his thigh like it's all too much. Your smile was soft. 

"...Think I might be havin’ prolonged postpartum or somethin’,” you sigh, “My nipples still leak when he cries sometimes.”   

That makes Onyankopon pause mid scoop of lifting Asaan into his arms—eyebrow quirking as amusement twitches at the corner of his mouth.   

"’You real smart, huh?" 

His eyes drop towards your nipples, “You learn that in class?”

Your hand flies up instantly—forefinger flicking sharply against his forehead with an indignant scoff.

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

Onyankopon carefully shifts Asaan against his shoulder, the baby’s damp lashes fluttering as he nestles into the crook of his father’s neck—tiny thumb slipping past his lips in that familiar self soothing rhythm. Onyankopon adjusts the plushie under his arm, securing it so it doesn’t fall before murmuring to you— 

"M'sorry, Mama," he says softly—not mocking now, just steady, “You ain't trippin’. You just ain't ready for him to grow up yet. Nothin’ wrong wit’ that.” 

You exhale slowly, your fingers tracing absent patterns along Asaan's back while he drifts off.  

"...Some women can't produce milk at all," you say quietly, “And preemies? Their stomachs are so small they can barely take enough in even if their mamas can feed 'em." 

Your confession feels guilty, “Learning things like that makes me realize how lucky I am to have had a healthy pregnancy. But then I feel bad for not wanting another one right now—or terminating our second baby…just makes me feel like a bad mommy.”

Your husband listens without interruption until you finish—his silence heavy with understanding before shifting Asaan higher up onto his shoulder again when the baby stirs.     

"Aight. Listen,” He leans closer to you,“Every time yo’ ass start feelin’ guilty ‘bout that? Remember one thing.” 

His free hand finds yours where it rests near Asaan’s back, weaving fingers through yours tightly—“Nobody else livin' yo' life but you. Ain't no rulebook sayin’ happiness gotta look one way only—we made a decision for our family, and you made a decision for yo’self. You’re the perfect Mommy, no nigga needa’ tell you that.”

You press a soft kiss against Onyankopon’s shoulder, leaning into him with a playful mimic of your son’s sleepy whimper—“S'eepy…”—which earns you a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you both melt into the quiet comfort of the moment.  

“You still leakin’, huh?”

He grins when your fingers immediately flick his thigh in warning, “I’m just sayin’, if Asaan ain't drinkin’ it—“  

Another flick. Harder this time.  

The next morning comes with the slow glow of dawn creeping through the curtains—Onyankopon already awake beside you, rough palms smoothing over your bare hip in gentle strokes as he murmurs a low prayer between kisses pressed to your forehead, “…Cover her and my son while I'm gone. Keep my family safe…”

He lets you doze longer before slipping out of bed to start his routine—clippers buzzing along sharp edges of his lineup before stepping under steaming shower spray. By the time he steps out and dresses in his mechanic's uniform—a white muscle tee clinging to every ridge of his muscles beneath an unbuttoned navy blue shirt embroidered with Orleans Auto & Customs across the back—brown skin glowing where tattoos flex along his biceps with every move. 

Then comes Asaan’s turn. His tiny limbs wiggle impatiently as Onyankopon wrestles him into a Batman tee paired with tiny shorts and black Nike dunks, socks stamped with bat symbols on each side for good measure. The backpack completes it all—same logo stitched proudly onto black fabric filled only with extra clothes today since anxiety already had you packing emergency outfits the night before. 

“Aight lil’ man.” 

He surveys his work critically, “Lookin’ like money, boy! Let’s go show momma to see if she approves.”

He scoops him up under an arm effortlessly despite protests—“Papa! No upsiiide!"”—the sleepy giggles filling the hallway in your direction, always.

Asaan plops onto the bed like a tiny hurricane, wiggling his way toward you until his little hands pat your cheeks—"Mama! Waaake!” 

You stir with a sleepy smile, blinking up at him as sunlight catches on his Batman clad outfit.  

"Look at my handsome boy," you coo, smoothing the shirt over his tummy before glancing up at Onyankopon leaning in the doorway—arms crossed like he’s waiting for praise.  

"You clean too, Daddy.” 

His smirk widens as he taps his temple, “A nigga already knowin’.”

He steps closer to brush knuckles against your cheek where morning warmth still lingers on your skin, “‘You sleep aight?" 

His thumb swipes beneath your eye where lashes fan dark against caramel freckles—no need for makeup when nature blessed you this good already.    

After kissing your forehead as you nod, he scoops Asaan back up under one arm while calling behind him, “Imma’ start breakfast so yo' ass can shower in peace.” 

When you finally make it downstairs after getting ready—your Burmese curls twirl in a soft bounce that frames your face—cinnamon lashes fan over those almond shaped eyes as golden hoops and minimal jewelry glint against caramel skin. Sandals adorn manicured toes while brown glasses rest atop freshly moisturized freckles—your mottled sundress clings just right, accentuating the curve of heavy breasts and full hips swaying as you walk toward the kitchen.

“That’s whatchu wearin’ out?"

Blinking, you glide past your husband as you place a quick kiss atop Asaan's head while grabbing pomegranates from the fridge— “I got class after drop off, remember?”    

All he can do is shake head, chuckling darkly beneath his breath. 

“Mhm.”

You’re half way through a pomegranate—juicy pulp staining your lips a blushing red that matches the plump flesh of your mouth. His gaze flickered down the slope of your body, lingering on how your sun kissed skin stretched over curves that had changed since pregnancy—heavy breasts and fuller hips heavily enhanced by the dress you had on. His gaze flits to how your tits jiggle beneath the fabric when you lean over to feed Asaan. 

"What, Ony?" 

His chuckle is deep as he watches you pick up another piece of fruit, Asaan continuously dropping it onto his eating mat with tiny giggles.    

“Nothin’,” He murmurs, “‘Ain’t say shit, pretty girl.” 

Breakfast passes with soft chatter—Asaan babbling excitedly while smashing blueberries between sticky fingers. But then? Comes the inevitable moment when reality hits you again like a freight train.  

“Wait—” Your hands suddenly grip the table's edge like you're bracing yourself, “Did we pack extra clothes? What if he gets hungry? Should I put more snacks in his bag? And what if they don't let him keep Batman—”   

"Breathe, girl. Damn.” 

You huff, crossing your arms under the weight of your chest—sending them pushing up even more against the dress’s fabric.  

“Mwen respire, wi!” 

“Aight then,” he counters smoothly, “Since breathin’s all handled—what ‘bout yo’ school stuff? You pack yo' lunch? Hell—” His gaze drags over you pointedly, “You even thought ‘bout yo'self once today?”  

Before you can even pout out a defense—he cuts you off with a shrug and drops the ultimate bomb, “Don’t even worry ‘bout it. Packed yo' bag. Notebook, pencils, lunchbox with them lil seasoned shrimp & rice cakes—”   

Your face melts instantly into that giddy smile he loves so much—the one that makes dimples peek at him like hidden treasures.    

“You’re the best husband, baby.”

You giggle loud enough to make Asaan clap from his high chair like it's entertainment—chest bouncing in ways that absolutely did not help Onyankopon’s focus.

“Let’s gon’ head and make it out the door. ‘Fore I change my mind and keep yo’ ass home.” 

Onyankopon’s lifted RAM 1500 rumbles beneath you—jet black with tinted windows and a gleaming wax job that catches the New Orleans sun just right. The interior smells like peppermint oil and faint traces of Asaan’s toddler shampoo. 

You twist in the passenger seat, freckled hand reaching back to squeeze Asaan’s tiny knee strapped securely into his car seat.  

“Listen baby,” Your voice is warm but firm—mama mode fully activated, “Remember what we talked about? Nobody takes your stuff, okay? Say please and thank you, even if they don't. And—” Your voice softens at the end as your thumb brushes his cheek, “…Be mommy’s little superstar, yeah?”

Asaan blinks up at you with those big doe eyes—half processing, half distracted by the way sunlight dances through leaves outside his window, oak trees lining the streets within the Garden District. 

“He gon’ be straight, Mama.”

The school looks straight out of a postcard.

Baby blue stucco building adorned with rainbow painted handprints trailing along its front steps like confetti—from parents guiding toddlers inside while some kids skip ahead eagerly, others clinging tight onto stuffed animals the same way yours clings to his Batman plushie. 

You all walk past the bustling classrooms, each door revealing a different scene—some rooms filled with older children tumbling around like energetic puppies, others with kids clinging to their parents’ legs as if they might vanish.

Then you reach Asaan's assigned room—the “Little Lambs,” class for two year olds or younger. Inside, it's pure chaos in the most adorable way—one child wails into their mother’s shoulder like it’s the end of the world, another sitting stiffly in tiny Nikes, staring at nothing but looking ready to bolt if given half a chance. A few brave souls are already running wild across an alphabet patterned carpet while a frazzled but cheerful teacher claps her hands—“Okay friends! Who’s ready for morning story time?” 

Before your anxiety can kick back in full force, a warm faced woman with honey brown braids bounces over immediately—her smile bright and hands outstretched towards Asaan as if he were already her favorite student.   

Onyankopon shakes her hand first—introductions smooth as always, “Onyankopon. This is my lil' man.” 

He nudges Asaan forward slightly, which has you step out of your daze instantly. 

“Good morning!" You beam nervously while guiding Asaan closer by his little shoulders—he immediately buries half his face into Batman’s cape—“This is Asaan. He loves superheroes, obviously."

You’re nervous giggling, which you hated. 

The teacher crouches down instantly, tapping the Batman plushie playfully between its pointy ears—

“I see we got ourselves Gotham City royalty up in here! It’s nice to meet you.” 

And just like that? Your baby peeks out from behind his stuffed hero—tiny lips twitching upward despite himself, murmuring against fabric, “…Batman…my toy.” 

The teacher grins wider, “He absolutely is! And we’re gonna’ make sure he protects you in class all day long.”

Your fingers twist together as you lean in a little too close, voice brimming with anxious energy.  

"So, um—what exactly will they be doing today? Like—activity wise? And how often do you potty train or—“ 

Onyankopon’s deep chuckle cuts through your spiral as he drapes an arm over your shoulders, “My wife a lil’ nervous,” he explains to the teacher, like it isn't already obvious from how tightly you're clutching Asaan’s backpack strap.   

The teacher just giggles warmly and launches into reassurance mode—“Oh honey, we got a whole schedule posted right here! They start with circle time for songs and stories, then sensory play stations after snacks—we do potty breaks every hour for the littles still training…”

You bite your lip before blurting out another worry, “He can be kinda shy at first around new—”   

And just then?   

Asaan's brown eyes lock onto something across the room—another toddler gripping a Superman plushie like his life depends on it. Without warning, your baby suddenly wiggles free from where he'd been half hiding behind Onyankopon's leg and bolts straight toward the boy with zero hesitation.

By some miracle of childhood social codes incomprehensible to adults everywhere? They immediately connect.

Within seconds? Both boys are babbling nonsense at each other while aggressively smacking their action figures together in what can only be described as an epic crossover battle between Gotham and Metropolis right there on the classroom rug. 

Your eyes go wide as Asaan completely shatters your expectations—no tears, no clinging, just pure toddler confidence as he dives headfirst into playtime. It melts your heart so much that you almost forget to be embarrassed for bombarding the poor teacher with questions.  

“Thank you so much for explaining everything. I’m sorry if I was being annoying,” you admit with a guilty smile.   

The teacher just waves you off warmly—“I was the same way with my little. We get nervous mommas every single day—you’re completely fine.”   

Onyankopon murmurs, "Aight nah’—let’s let our baby be somebody."  

“Wait—” You look up at him pleadingly until he exhales dramatically through his nose, nodding anyway in defeat—already knowing how this will go down.

You now crouch low near the rug where Asaan is fully immersed in smacking Batman against Superman's chest like it's an MMA fight, while his new little friend squeals happily beside him.

“Mama has to leave now—” Your voice wobbles slightly even though you're smiling wide enough for dimples to appear under freckles—“But I'm coming right back after school gets out, okay?”

Asaan casually turns halfway toward where Onyankopon stands behind watching silently too, before puckering tiny lips loudly—

MWAH!

A dramatic kiss blown directly at both parents followed by arms outstretched, briefly squeezing each neck tightly before mumbling against skin, “Bye—bye…see you laaater.” 

He immediately flops backwards onto carpet again, resuming superhero battle like absolutely nothing happened. 

Your teary giggles escape like bubbles through syrup—sweet and wobbly as you try to compose yourself, wiping at damp lashes with the back of your hand. Onyankopon just watches you with that mix of amusement and softness only he can pull off, rubbing your back in slow circles until your breathing evens out again.  

Just when you’re finally pulling it together, he curses under his breath—“Fuck. Left his damn lunchbox in the truck.”  

You wave him off weakly as he jogs out to grab it, still sniffling but smiling now—until a deep voice cuts through the classroom chatter beside you.  

“First day drop off?”  

You turn to find a tall man in well fitted jeans leaning against a cubby shelf—a smile too practiced as his gaze lingers on yours just a beat longer than necessary. Oblivious, you nod brightly while tucking a curl behind one ear.    

“Yeah! My baby’s usually so shy but—” Your hands gesture toward Asaan, currently body slamming Batman into Superman’s face mid playfight “—Look at him go!”   

The stranger chuckles lowly before opening his mouth again—but whatever flirty remark that was brewing dies instantly when heavy footsteps approach from behind.    

Onyankopon reappears like storm clouds rolling over sunshine—lunchbox dangling without breaking stride or blinking once. His presence alone sends that lingering male eye snap away abruptly, looking at alphabet posters or shape charts lining the walls instead. Somewhere much, much safer. 

You notice the storm brewing in Onyankopon’s expression the second you turn back toward him—that deep, dangerous set of his jaw that only appears when his possessive streak kicks in. With a soft sigh and an even softer smile, you glide your palm up to cup his face, thumb brushing lightly over the rigid line of his clenched jaw.  

"Relax, baby," you murmur sweetly—so close your breath fans warm against his ear, “He was just askin’ about Asaan. No harm in that.” 

The kiss you press to the corner of his mouth seems to dissolve some of that tension—especially when he catches sight of how plush your ass jiggles as you walk toward Asaan's cubby with lunchbox in hand—filling out that sundress like it was personally tailored for temptation alone. 

"Baby?" 

God, you were too good. You slip a hand gently around bicep muscles flexing subtly under touch, blinking up at him all doe eyed happiness—“Nou ka ale jwenn beignets anvan klas mwen an kòmanse, wi?”

“Fuck wrong wit’ niggas…” 

His dark gaze flickers down at you—half exasperated, half helpless against your charms—before responding in a gruff Creole murmur of his own, “Wi. N’ap ale pran beignets.” 

You beam up at him like he just promised the world, throwing one last cheerful wave toward Asaan's teacher before looping delicate fingers around Onyankopon's massive wrist to tug him along. Except—he doesn't budge immediately. Instead, he plants himself firmly for another few seconds, letting his glare do all the talking as it sweeps across the man one last time. If looks could kill, he’d be dead.

“Papa…Ou vle swiv mwen oswa non?” 

Onyankopon finally huffs out something between chuckle and growl—long legs closing distance fast enough to have you squealing, fingertips grazing your waist from behind just outside the classroom door, “Gon’ head, girl. ‘Fore I get yo’ ass.”

The RAM's engine rumbles beneath you as you cruise back through the Garden District, Spanish moss dripping from ancient oaks lining streets like nature’s own chandeliers. Onyankopon taps rhythm against the steering wheel—WASTELAND by Brent Faiyaz humming low through speakers—before grunting suddenly, “A nigga head all over the place. Forgot my fuckin' tools at home."  

His free hand reaches back to pat the empty space where Asaan’s car seat usually sits—now left at school for pickup later.    

You hum, “That was nice though, right? Teacher seems sooo sweet with them babies—” 

“Mhm.” 

Your voice lilts higher as excitement bubbles up all over again—“And did you see how fast Asaan made a friend? Like —no crying or nothing! Just boom, best friends!”  

“Mhm.”

Cheeks flushed from pure joy now instead of nerves, fingers reach across console to squeeze Onyankopon’s bicep while leaning close enough that vanilla perfume drifts his way—“I love when our baby surprises us like that—” 

Then comes a confession whispered against his tattooed shoulder —“...Love you more than air sometimes.”  

“Love you too, girl.” 

Your fingers trail down his arm with slow admiration—fingertips tracing ink and muscle like a prayer.  

“You’re such a good daddy,” you sigh dreamily, “Handled everything so perfectly today.” 

His brow quirks before he cuts a sideways glance at you—that knowing smirk already forming because oh, he recognizes this tune. Your voice might be innocent right now but your energy? Yeah—it was no fooling him.   

“You better keep them eyes off me ‘fore I pull this truck over.”    

Your pout is instant—lashes batting dramatically before withdrawing hands to fold primly in your lap, “I was just saying thank you—” 

“Uh huh.” 

His chuckle rumbles deep beneath music crooning through speakers—“Tell that shit to somebody who ‘don't know yo' freaky ass get amped off good dad moments.”   

“Me?” 

Your gasp would've been convincing if your thighs weren’t pressing together, “I’m fine!” 

Onyankopon just shakes his head, that deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he watches you squirm in the passenger seat. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, those sensitive nipples already begging for attention beneath the thin fabric of your sundress, aching with every shift of your body against the seat.  

The truck rumbles to a stop in front of the garage, and before he can even cut the engine completely, you’re hopping out of your seat with playful urgency—flinging open the back door like there’s some desperate need to search for something buried under jackets or forgotten toys.   

You bend all the way into those plush leather seats—hips cocked just right while you pretend to search around. 

Onyankopon doesn't even hesitate. 

A heavy palm lands square on that ass with a sharp, smack!, loud enough it echoes against nearby parked cars—making you yelp, then giggle instantly as heat floods your caramel face. 

“Papa! Tout moun kapab wè ou la!”  You gasp between laughter, despite arching back into his touch shamelessly.

“Then why yo’ ass bendin’ over like we ain't got neighbors?”   

You seize fistfuls of his work shirt, dragging him down into the backseat leather with zero warning—mouth crashing messily against his before either can breathe properly in return. Between hungry, wet kisses, Onyankopon grunts against your lips, his deep voice rough with restraint—  

“‘Thought you wanted them beignets.” 

His hands grip the curve of your waist tight as you whimper into his mouth—tongue sliding slow and filthy against his like a promise. He tilts his head back just enough to break the kiss with a sharp inhale when your teeth tug at his bottom lip in retaliation. But before he can even think about pulling away completely, you're dragging him right back in—your soft whines vibrating between tangled breaths as heat pulses between your thighs.  

That’s when you finally pull back just enough to yank the top of your sundress down with trembling fingers—heavy tits spilling free as they bounce from sudden release. 

"They feel too heavy, baby.”

Onyankopon's groan is dark and ragged—eyes flickering down before locking onto yours again with possessive hunger burning behind them. His thumb swipes roughly over one aching peak while snatching you back into a kiss, the schmack of your lips obscenely loud within the car doors.

His large palms engulf your heavy tits completely—fingers pressing deep into plush flesh as he kneads them roughly, his tongue still tangled with yours in a slow, filthy dance. Every firm squeeze has you whimpering into his mouth—your back arching off the seat as your nipples stiffen beneath his touch.  

“Love these mothafuckin’ tiddies,” he rasps, “You lookin’ for a nigga mouth, huh?”

You nod fast, so fast. 

“Yeah?”  

And god help as you’re already a mess, hips grinding down on nothing as you whimper out—“Suck ‘em, baby. Yo bezwen ou tèlman mal.” 

Onyankopon’s mouth latches onto one swollen nipple with a wet shlurp, tongue swirling tight circles before sucking hard enough to pull your whole body forward. Your gasp shudders through the car—head falling back against the seat, then snapping right back down just to watch him devour you.  

His lips tug at each peak greedily—one hand gripping your waist while the other kneads the neglected tit possessively, making them bounce obscenely between his rough palms and hungry mouth.  

"All for you, baby.”

Your fingers rush through his braids desperately, "Nobody else gets to taste em’ but you, Papa…mmph.” 

His response is nothing but low grunts vibrating against your tits as he sucks harder in approval—eyes flickering up once just to see yours roll back from pleasure.

Then? You slide your dress down to your hips shamelessly, “Gonna’ ride until I milk you, baby. Just need you to lay back an’ let me take care of you, yeah?”

“You better fuckin’ mean that shit.” 

Your giggles melt into hungry moans as you lean in to kiss him again, fingers already working at his belt and yanking his work pants down just enough to free him.  

The moment his heavy tip springs free against your lips, you don’t hesitate—mouth sinking down on him with messy enthusiasm, slurping obscenely over the thick head before bobbing eagerly, movements quickly turning sloppy and desperate.  

Shhlurp, Schmack. Every wet noise competes with Brent Faiyaz’ sultry melody of PRICE OF FAME vibrating through the truck speakers. Onyankopon growls low in his throat—one hand still tangled in your hair while he reaches back blindly to slam the seats flat behind you both for more space.

“Good lil’ bitch,” he grunts, “Just like that, baby. You doin’ good as fuck.”

With a wet pop, you pull off just enough to whimper breathlessly against his shaft—  

“Tastes so good, Papa…” 

Before dragging your tongue down slow and sloppy, you lap at the throbbing veins along the way until you reach his heavy sac—letting out a soft moan as you suck one ball into your mouth while twisting him expertly between your fingers. The way Onyankopon's abdomen twitches tells you everything—his gruff curses spilling ragged above sultry crooning through the speakers.  

Then? You lift up just enough to let a thick string of spit drip straight from tongue to tip with filthy precision—watching it land before smearing it with slow rolls of those plush tits against him. Your giggles vibrate over flushed skin when he jerks slightly at sensation—“‘Feels good, baby?” 

His response? A sharp slap on that already bouncing ass cheek while he grips the back of your neck possessively—“You know it feel good. Quit playin’.”

Onyankopon’s grip tightens at the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your curls as he tugs you down deeper—each messy gulp sending vibrations straight through his dick. Your throat flutters around him, whimpering every time that thick tip hits the back, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes yet you don’t pull away.   

"That’s it,” he grunts between heavy breaths, “Gon’ lay back an' let chu’ do all the work…bounce that fat lil' ass on me ‘til I drain.”  

Your moan is muffled around him—your fingers digging into his thighs before finally pulling off with a wet gasp, spit lips swollen and glistening as you pant up at him with hooded eyes. 

"Promise, baby.” 

The way Onyankopon's jaw clenches says everything before words even leave his mouth—“Nigga bet’ not hear one complaint when yo legs start shakin’. Move.”

You drag your tongue up the hard ridges of his abdomen, tracing each tattoo with worshipful strokes before settling into his lap—his unbuttoned work shirt barely hangs onto those broad shoulders as you feast at the sight of him. The uniform, the ink, that rough masculine energy rolling off him in waves—it makes your thighs tremble before you’ve even taken him inside.  

Onyankopon leans back against the truck door with a dark stare, one arm draped lazily over the seat while those heavy lidded eyes rake like he owns every inch of your body. His free hand grips your hip possessively as you rock forward—smacking that thick tip teasingly against your slick folds until he groans low in his chest.

Then? You sink down onto him slowly—so slowly it burns. A whimper claws its way out from between clenched teeth at how full he makes you feel, stretch so deep and perfect it nearly whites out your vision for a second.

Before sanity can catch up? His hand snakes around to fist in your hair again—yanking you into a filthy kiss mid descent just so he can growl hot against swollen lips, “Ain’t no half steppin’. Take all this dick.” 

And when you finally sit—the sound you make together could’ve woken up saints from eternal rest.

Your deep, shuddering breath fills the air as your hair cascades around your shoulders like a wild, curly halo. The moment his full length stretches you to the hilt, a broken moan tears from your throat—long, deep, and utterly shameless as your hips already begin rolling in slow, filthy circles against him.  

Onyankopon doesn’t move—doesn’t need to. He just watches with that dark, predatory gaze while you grind down on him like he’s all you’ve ever craved—your head lolls back briefly, snapping forward again with another high pitched whine as his girth hits that perfect spot inside.  

"Fuck.” 

Smack! 

His heavy palm lands sharp against your ass, the sound cracking through the truck like a gunshot—forcing a mewl from your lips before rolling into a moan.  

"Ride this dick like you mad at it.”

His voice is continuously gruff, “I ain’t movin’ ‘til I feel you creamin’.”

And oh—you listen. Hips bucking in greedy circles, thighs trembling as you work yourself up and down his thick length—each bounce making your tits jiggle shamelessly while you whimper in that sweet mix of pleasure and overwhelming stretch.  

You gasp when he bottoms out deep inside again—toes curling against leather seats, tears prickling at your eyes from how good it hurts.

“Fat ass dick, baby.” 

“Yeah? That’s why you droppin’ down on me like that?” 

You tuck your feet against his thick thighs for leverage, lifting yourself up only to slam back down—each bounce making that clap, clap, clap of skin echoing through the truck like a filthy metronome. Your moans pitch higher with every desperate drop, body trembling as pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside you.  

Onyankopon watches with a lustful glare—the moment he sees your cream glistening around where he disappears inside you? His grip on your hips tightens like steel traps, forcing you down harder onto him while growling against your lips, “Open my muhfuckin’ pussy. You know I’m not askin’ twice.” 

His mouth hovers just barely over yours—your mewls and whimpers ghosting between shared breaths as you squirm in his lap. Every tremble of your body draws another rough grunt from him until finally? 

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders—words barely escaping in a shuddering whisper, “Mwen renmen ou…Renmen ou anpil…” 

Onyankopon lands another sharp smack to your ass, watching with dark amusement as your mouth trembles against his—every whimper swallowed by his rough chuckle.  

"Love you too, Mama. Missin’ yo’ pussy on my tongue.” 

His hands slide under your thighs before you even catch your breath—lifting you like you weigh nothing before laying you back on the flattened seats. Your legs instinctively fall open, thighs quivering as he wastes zero time diving between them—mouth sealing over your slick with a wet schlorp. 

The first swipe of his tongue makes your back arch off the seat like lightning struck straight through your core—“F—Fuck, baby.”

“Relax, you been too muhfuckin’ good to start actin’ up.” 

His nose drags through swollen folds with a deep inhale—your scent flooding his senses—thick, sweet and so familiar. The memory of how you smelled when you carried Asaan hits him all over again—headier, richer—and it makes him groan into your pussy before burying his face even deeper. His tongue lashes slow then flicks fast against that throbbing bud until your whimpers pitch higher, thighs twitching under the force of holding back from clamping around his head. 

The way he shakes his lips further between your legs, tattooed fingers digging bruises into supple flesh? Yeah, there was no stopping him.

Your moans mingle with panting—voice all high pitched and breathy, eyes fluttering at the way his braids slip through your fingers like cool ribbon against your heated skin, “Nng…you’re so sweet. ‘So handsome, baby.” 

“I’m sweet, huh? Gon’ head and milk this dick, then. Bring yo’ ass back up here.”

In one swift motion, he flips your position—your thighs now straddle him in reverse against the middle back seat, hands braced on the console between the front seats for balance. The second you sink down onto him again—spreading yourself open just to take every inch deeper—your head falls forward with a breathy moan, eyes rolling shut at the overwhelming stretch.   

His palm cracks against your ass again. 

“Whatchu’ doin’ allat’ for?”

 He grunts behind you, “You finna’ take this shit like a pro, huh? Like a nigga taught you?”

Your pout is downright precious—lips quivering slightly as you nod, fingers intertwining with his from behind before shifting your weight to begin a slow, deliberate grind. From Onyankopon’s angle, the silhouette of your curvy frame is nothing short of breathtaking—your dress bunched up around your waist, that luscious ass jiggling with every teasing roll of your hips while strands of wild curls cascade down your back like silk over smooth caramel skin.  

Then? The slow torture turns into something hungrier. Your hips bounce eagerly now—each drop forcing a gasp from your swollen lips as he bottoms out inside you at just the right angle.  

“Fuck!, Ony—” 

You mewl between staggered breaths, peering back over your shoulder at him with hooded eyes while gripping the console for leverage. 

"Mmm. I’m knowin’. Look at you.” 

Your praise spills between breathless whimpers, “You’re such a good Daddy…”

Onyankopon doesn't need words—his heavy lidded glare says it all, those dark eyes drinking in every reaction in your body. His hums are low and taunting, vibrating through the air like he’s enjoying unraveling you bit by bit. 

Then his fingers dig into the plush flesh of your ass—lazily gripping, yet with enough power to yank you down hard onto him.  

Clap, clap, clap.

The sound of skin fills the truck as his thrust meets your drop perfectly—knocking the breath right outta you in a silent gasp before pleasure crashes over you so hard, all that comes out is a weak squeal.

Your thighs tremble wildly as that familiar coil snaps tight inside you—hips stuttering uncontrollably while cream spills around his thick length, “Ughn, Fuckkk.” 

“Mhm,” He grunts from behind, watching those tits jiggle like crazy between staggered gasps, “You creamin’. ‘Knew you was finna’ paint my shit with all that poutin’.”

Your mind short circuits—pleasure so intense it turns your thoughts into static, words tumbling from your lips in a breathless, rambling mess. 

“O—Ony…God, I love you so fucking much—mmph! Always m—miss you when you’re gone.” 

But Onyankopon doesn't need convincing. His grip tightens on your hips, tugging your body down in slow but punishingly deep bounces now—the fat flesh of his dick pounding your pussy at this point. 

Your voice hitches on a weak sob as tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, legs shaking uncontrollably while he works his way deeper inside with each measured drop.

"Yes...yes!” You whimper brokenly between gasps, head falling back onto his shoulder, crying within his ear. 

Onyankopon reaches around to your stomach, sliding down to find your clit—he works his fingers in tight circles,  hips beginning to snap up roughly into you.  

His other hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding—the rough pads of his fingertips pressing into delicate skin as he grunts against the shell of your ear, “Clenchin’ like you scared to fuckin’ drown me.”

The dark chuckle that rumbles from his chest is pure sin—tongue dragging a hot stripe up the side of your neck before murmuring in finality, “Gon’ head, Mama. You know I ain't mad if you make a mess.”  

Then? He fucks into you harder—harsh strokes that somehow still carry tenderness in their brutality until finally? A tiny whimper escapes past your swollen lips. And just like that—his encouragement cracks you open completely; pleasure erupting in waves so intense it leaves no room for anything but total surrender beneath him, drenching his thighs as you squirt on him. 

"Ooh, girl. That shit pretty’ than’ a bitch.” 

His praise is thick with approval as he feels every last tremor wrack through your body—“Mmmhhh,”  the way Onyankopon hums against damp skin says everything words couldn't, holding your shuddering body against his.

Your body quakes violently in his arms—little tremors rippling through like aftershocks, each one drawing a soft, whimpering gasp from your puffy lips. Onyankopon has to brace both palms against your hips just to keep you steady as you collapse backward—eyes fluttering shut with wet lashes clinging together.  

“Goddamn.” 

He buries himself inside you completely with a shuddering growl that vibrates through your back, spilling so deep inside that your toes curl at the heat flooding you up—he’s spilling everything he had left in him with a final thrust, tugging out entirely while placing another kiss on your lips.

The heated moment dissolves into something softer as your whimpers melt into breathless giggles—lips still pressed messily against Onyankopon’s while he pulls back just enough to raise a thick, skeptical brow.  

"Laughin'? ‘The ‘hell so funny?” 

You bite your lower lip sheepishly before murmuring—cheeks warm from more than just exertion—"We... were s’posed to get beignets, Ony.” 

Onyankopon stares at you for a solid beat before bursting into rough chuckles himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

 "Disrespectful. I make yo' pussy sing an' you worried ‘bout some fuckin’ sugar bread.”

“Why you’ gotta be mean, hm?” You pout lightly, dragging yourself off of his lap to adjust your dress—you giggle as he yanks you closer to him by your hips, “Leave me alone, Ony!”

Onyankopon smirks, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from pulling away completely—that cocky glint in his eyes flashing as he drags a slow, teasing palm up your thigh.  

“Leave you alone? After allat’?” he smacks his lips, “Nah. You owe a nigga some beignets after fuckin’ me inna’ backseat when we both got shit to do today.”  

He nips playfully at your earlobe before finally releasing you with a lazy pat to your hip—watching with smug satisfaction as you fuss with your dress like it wasn’t him who ruined it in the first place.  

“Quit poutin’. I’ll buy yo’ crybaby ass two boxes.”

That makes you pout even more, “I’m not a crybaby,” tugging the spaghetti straps of the flecked dress upward—you pause, “Baby? Are my boobs really that big—you think that’s why that guy was tryna’ talk to me?” 

“Hell yeah they’ big. You walk around lookin’ like this—” His thick palm smacks lightly against one plush tit, making it vibrate slightly beneath the fabric, “If I wasn’t yo’ husband, I’d stare too. Shoulda’ let me break that nigga fuckin’ jaw, though.” 

You roll your eyes—especially when he leans in to nip at your collarbone with a grumble.  

“Tch. My tiddies.”

“Wanna’ suck em’ one more time?” You release your straps, letting them fall freely once more, “Just for good luck, of course.” 

Onyankopon groans—half exasperated, half amused—as you let the straps of your dress fall again. 

“You ain't playin' fair," he mutters, but he's already leaning in, his warm mouth latching onto one peaked nipple with a filthy suction sound that makes your breath hitch.  

"Mmmh! O—Ony!" You giggle between little gasps as his teeth graze lightly over sensitive skin—his large hands kneading and squeezing both breasts possessively while he growls against them.  

"These mine?”  

His voice is muffled against your flesh as he sucks another dark mark into the swell of your tit, slurping up your nipple loudly. 

Your whimper comes out shaky with laughter as you nod frantically—fingers tangled in his braids to tug him closer for emphasis—“Y—Yes… all yours, baby.” 

But just when his grip tightens like he’s about to get real serious again? You press a hand to his chest and push back gently, “C’mon, Ony.”

His scoff is dramatic—and entirely unconvincing—before releasing you reluctantly, “Nigga just doin’ what you said…” He grumbles under breath while readjusting himself, knowing full well you’d been stalled here longer than necessary between beignet cravings and impromptu titty worship sessions.

You smooth the wrinkles from your dress and adjust your glasses, fingers fluttering self-consciously as you reach over to button Onyankopon’s shirt with practiced ease—your voice quieter now, more vulnerable than playful.  

"You just—always... keep me together," you murmur, tucking a loose curl behind your ear, “Even when I'm spiraling about stupid stuff."  

The confession lingers between you two for a beat before you exhale sharply, the real worry now slipping out. 

“It’s just… Asaan’s in school now. The shop is thriving. You got new contracts coming in every other week,” your fingers pause on his collar before dropping away weakly, “And I’m still here, stuck in coursework while everything else is...” 

A vague gesture of frustration comes, half formed before dissolving into silence.  

Onyankopon studies your face for a moment—his usual cockiness softening into something steadier as he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing those watery eyes to meet his own unshaken gaze. 

“Ain't no race, Mama." 

A calloused palm taps lightly, “You really my wife, man. Smart, pretty ass woman trippin’ ‘bout time when she already got everythin’ handled? Nah."

A small, grateful smile tugs at your lips as his words settle deep in your chest—that unwavering love and support only he can give. You shift closer, climbing back onto his lap with a quiet sigh, your fingers tracing the tattoos along his collarbone before murmuring against his skin.  

“I love you so much…’Can’t wait ‘til we got a whole basketball team runnin’ around,” The thought makes you giggle softly—already picturing more tiny versions of him wreaking havoc in your home.  

Onyankopon feels something tighten in his chest at that—your dreams wrapping around him just as tightly as he wraps himself around you. He tilts your chin up, capturing those sweet lips in a slow kiss that lingers until you whimper into it with needy impatience—sucking at his bottom lip this time like you're the one starving for more.  

“Mmh,” He hums darkly, “You a fuckin’ problem.” 

But despite how easy it would be to lose another hour right here between heated kisses and promises of future babies? Reality taps at the window like an impatient creditor. 

"You got class in forty five minutes," he reminds, “And I gotta go put some niggas on payroll before they start callin’ me 'bout lunch breaks."

You let out a little whine against his lips, “You just make me so horny, Ugh. You’re annoying!”

You’re being dramatic, you know that. 

“Fine. But we’re gettin’ those beignets and people watching until you have to leave me.”  

Onyankopon does what a husband is supposed to, which is just listen. Before he can even respond properly, you squeak and scramble back into the passenger seat—adjusting your dress with a smile as if you hadn't just been devouring each other minutes ago.  

“Today’s been so sweet,” You beam,“I miss Asaan though, Papa. ‘Can’t wait to see that lil' face later.”  

Then comes the playful glint—the one that always gets you in trouble—as you tease lightly while buckling up, “‘Might even see that cute dad at pick up again—” 

Onyankopon cuts you off with a sharp glare through the rearview mirror. 

“You tryna’ get yo’ ass tore up in this backseat again?” 

You huff immediately, cheeks flushing—“No!” 

“Aight’, that’s what I thought. Let’s go get yo’ lil beignets now.”

[conniesministallion]

😩sweet and nasty

[merakidoll]

first part

your knees pressed against your breast, your breath was uneasy. you anticipated feeling his textured tounge toying with your fat clit - or even tounge fucking you. after all, the point was for him to get his cream.

eren; just like your other men knew your body well. you shivered whimpering when he blew on your hot pussy, watching closely at the slight movement from your clit. and how you clenched, making ony’s white cun slowly slide from your hole in a thick batch. “pretty stop playing with my baby” ony said, but he could hear the playfulness in his tone. connie snickered beside him, making you whine eyes rolling. “connie shut u-mm” your heart stilled, eren swiping through your fat folds and moaning. it was a breath that he took, a single second to let you marinate into his taste buds. a small amount of time for his self control to deplet and he dive into your pussy like an animal.

eren was the best pussy eater out of all the boys. they each had their own specialty- and each knew one another weaknesses, and eren was just the best. he didn’t just eat your pussy, he savored it. made you cum in his mouth just to drip it back onto your pussy and eat you again. he was quite literally addicted to you. his tounge licked up ony’s cum, his eyes closed and humming in satisfaction against you. he slowly slithered his long muscle into your cunt, making ‘ah’ sounds as he fucked you. “oh goodnes” your body shook, feet digging into the bottom of his back. you hips bucked up into his face, riding the wave of the feeling in your stomach.

you were hot, preying eyes and side comments of how you were a slut, and you were. you pushed his face more into your pussy, his nose bumping against your clit, the rest of ony’s thick cum sliding out of you and into the awaiting mouth. eren pulled back from you, a glistening face and hungry eyes. you finally felt air go through your lungs. you were done- but you weren’t. in quickness your legs were now over you head, eren’s tounge on your ass circling your small pucked hole. “fuckkkk rennieee!” your eyes crossed, teeth chattering together when he slid into your ass humming.

“oh shit” connie breathlessly laughed, from where he and onyankopon stood they could see your ass clench against eren’s tongue. ony watched intensely, your screams of help, how you couldn’t take it going to death ears. he watched you shake and cum, squirt dribbling from you like a water fall getting all into his pretty’s hair. how you pushed at eren’s head, trying to scoot from the pleasureable torture, and finally give up. cream now falling from you hole, to your ass hole that eren gladly ate up. your eyes slowly lost vision, pleasure so much that you lost consciousness and eren was too into it to notice.

onyankopon gently pulled eren from you, he rubbing his cheek seeing the fire in his green orbs from being interrupted. “look pretty you put her to sleep.” eren turned to see you smiling dazed, small snores coming from you. “you did so good for me baby boy, let connie fix that” he jerked his head to the large bulge in his pants. that made connie perk up, walking over to the bed quickly.

[hayaosmiyazaki]

THE DEATH AND LIFE OF MARSHA P. JOHNSON (2017)

History isn’t something you look back at and say it was inevitable. It happens because people make decisions that are sometimes very impulsive and of the moment, but those moments are cumulative realities. — Marsha P. Johnson

Queens started being filed out and being put into police cars, and guns had been drawn. Molotov cocktails were flying. And I’m like, “Oh my God, the revolution is here. Thank God. You’ve been treating us like shit all these years? Uh uh. Now it’s our turn.” — Sylvia Rivera

THE FIRST PRIDE WAS A RIOT HAPPY PRIDE | BLACK LIVES MATTER

[todosdream]

can I? | ony.eren (prologue)

10.6k wrds. flashbacks. angst.

warnings: bi!ony, bi!eren, miscarriage mentioned, sickness/death mentioned (minor character), grief, eren has a learning disability, and a potty mouth, repression issues, cursing, weed smoking, dealing with self-worth/comparison

a/n: the story of our boys before their lady is introduced. hope you enjoy <3

you can touch my heart and soul,

as well as my body, if you please.

the story of the sun and moon,

joined by both fate and destiny.

amari can barely hold her excitement in as she waits for her friend to arrive at their favorite cafe. the lighting is soft and welcoming and the smell of coffee grounds reminds her of all the times she’s sat in this very booth, either alone or with company. her husband chuckles and softly rubs her back as she all but dances in her seat, happy to be home, happy to see her friends.

he’s watching her with those eyes she loves so much, the ones that see her clearer than anyone else. his admiration for his lady is palpable from the other side of the room, eyes holding his heart and soul as he gazes at the embodiment of love and joy. “I love yo’ lil ass, you know that?” he asks fondly.

the woman smiles and leans into him, softly cupping his jaw as she presses a kiss to his cheek. then another and another because there’s nothing that could ever keep her from showing her love, not a person or location. “you better,” she grins, eyes lifting to meet his. “hate to bring a giant down in front of all these lovely people.”

armond’s head tilts back with laughter. he *loves* his wife, adores everything about her. especially her sense of humor and tendency to threaten. establishing dominance, he guesses.

“yeah, okay, love. look, here they come,” he says as he nods his head at the door. entering the cafe are carla, amari’s closest friend, along with her husband grisha. the doctor lightly presses on carla’s back to encourage her to sit while he places their order.

amari squeals and stands, holding her arms out to welcome the woman. it takes no time for the two to come together in the tightest hug known to man, swaying side to side dramatically as their jewelry jingles and clinks.

“oh, I missed you!” carla gushes as she squeezes her best friend. “tell me everything and don’t leave a single detail out!”

amari tugs carla to sit at the table, and after carla and armond exchange hugs and greetings, they all gather in their usual corner. grisha joins as amari begins the top to bottom story of her and armond’s most recent travels. she talks about the welcoming people, the beautiful culture, the water that stretched beyond what the eye could see.

her husband watches her with a tender gaze as he lets her talk, chiming in to remind her of small happenings she might’ve forgotten. the group is in their own bubble as they listen to her, her shine even brighter than normal.

“and…” she begins the ending of the story by lifting a bag that was previously hidden under the table. she slides it towards carla with a big grin on her face and the woman just rolls her eyes with a grin. “you better have gotten me a small gift this time. I’ve run out of space for all the souvenirs you’ve brought back!”

amari just bites her lip and pushes the bag closer, armond hiding his grin in his wife’s curls as they watch the other couple. carla digs in the gift bag and pulls out a piece of cloth.

her eyebrows furrow. amari usually doesn’t buy her clothes because carla’s quite picky.

her eyes widen and her jaw drops when the cloth unfurls. it’s a onesie with the words ‘you can stop asking now’ in cursive.

“shut. up. you are not!” carla beams.

amari and her husband nod with excitement in their eyes. they’d already privately decided that after this trip they’d be ready to welcome a bundle of joy. turns out said bundle was baking the whole time.

“yes, ma’am! we’re pregnant!” amari laughs joyfully.

carla wants to reach across the table and shake the woman with how excited she is. she doesn’t know what to do first, cry or scream or run outside to yell “finally!” even if it scares the people on the street. she’s going to be an auntie, and she’ll be spoiling this baby with all the love she can give.

well… as much as she can.

she and her husband look at each other with something in their eyes. “this is insane,” grisha chuckles in amazement. he nods his head at his wife in encouragement.

“what, what’s happening?” amari asks. she was expecting a big reaction, and although she can see the excitement in the other woman’s eyes, she’s surprised at how frozen they are. carla just purses her lips as she places her own gift bag on the table. she covers her mouth, speechless.

the two stare at each other.

“…you’re kidding,” amari mumbles, eyes widening. carla just shakes her head, tears building in her eyes.

after years of trying, an angel sent to heaven before they could bless the earth, and so much disappointment, carla is finally pregnant.

“we- we waited before saying anything. just to make sure nothing happened. but the baby is completely healthy and we’re so blessed,” carla sniffles. it was hard to keep the secret, but they just couldn’t take another round of what happened last time. bagging up all of the things they’d purchased in preparation, breaking the news to family and friends, dealing with a loss they’d prayed to never experience.

amari briskly stands and walks straight to her best friend. she takes the woman into her arms as her own eyes start to leak. “holy shit, carla. oh my God. I’m so happy for you, love.”

grisha and armond look at each other, communicating silently. the whole table is in shock, neither couple expecting the other’s news. there are blessings overflowing.

the two best friends are crying in each other arms, hug lovingly tight as they both absolutely ruin their makeup.

”I can’t believe it, mari,” carla sniffles. “I can’t believe it. we’re gonna be mommies.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“you’ve gotta be kidding me,” amari murmurs. little ony just won’t stop crying no matter how much she rocks him. he’s fed, changed, and just had his nap. she’s hoping nothing’s wrong with her baby boy, but her nerves are so frayed from the day.

her back hurts and her head is starting to show signs of an oncoming headache, but she perseveres. “c’mon, baby. what’s wrong?” she coos. “mommy’s right here. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

she jumps a bit when a hand starts to softly rub her back. she didn’t even hear her lover return home from work in all the noise and exhaustion, but as he pulls her into him, it soothes her in a way no one else can.

“I got it, sweetheart. why don’t you take a rest, hm?” armond asks tenderly. amari frowns with worry as she leans closer to her lover, her husband gently taking their son from her arms. she feels inadequate, like a bad mom. frustrated with her own incompetence, exhausted from the day and her sweet baby boy.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” she murmurs. “I’ve done all the things, but he’s so upset and I don’t know why.”

armond places a sweet kiss to her forehead, then ony’s. “he’ll be just fine. you’ve done so good, you know that, right? you’re a great mommy, honey,” he mutters reassuringly. “lil man’s just fussy. go lay down and don’t get up until you feel rested. you let me know if you need anything and I’ll take care of it.”

amari sighs and rests her forehead on his shoulder for a moment. he’s her rock, her everything. she doesn’t know what she’d do without him. days like this, he’s like a cool breeze in the middle of june. “okay,” she answers softly. “I just- I wish I could calm him.”

“baby,” armond smiles down at his lover. reassuring, loving, soothing as always. “you gave birth to him. you take care of him. but you’re not doing this alone. I’m here for both of you. go rest up, mama.”

amari lets out a breath, shifting to rest her cheek against his bicep. her face is all cute squished against him like this, like a pouty little chipmunk. “I love you so much,” she says softly. armond hums as he presses another kiss to her forehead.

“I love you more than I can express. now go lay down, mister man done stressed my baby out.”

amari places a kiss to ony’s cheek, then her husband’s before heading up to their shared bedroom. she gets cozy on armond’s side of the bed to immerse herself in his scent, snuggling into the soft fabric. sleep immediately begins to welcome her after such a tough day, her body weak and mind tired.

before she dozes off completely, she hears ony’s cries start to subside in his father’s arms.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“alright, eren. if I have to change your diaper again, you’re sitting in the tub,” carla huffs as she sits with said boy in her lap. the boy, only seven months, just laughs and reaches for her hair.

amari snorts as she burps little onyankopon. “good luck with that. he’ll just be sittin’ and shittin’,” she chimes in. the little carla look alike is already showing signs of being more than a handful, but he’s just so cute and goofy and loveable that it almost excuses all of it.

ony’s a much more mild-tempered baby, though he does cry a lot. he’s a velcro baby through and through, always wanting to be in someone’s arms. all he has to do is pout his little lip and everyone in the room comes running with open arms. the two have adorable little personalities already and it’s hard to believe that they’re going to be watching two little humans that they birthed grow.

if carla and amari thought they were bonded before their little ones were born, they’re practically attached at the hip now. learning and experiencing motherhood together makes it just a bit easier to get through the tough moments, so they spend a lot of time together. it helps that they’re babies are only a couple months apart.

the two are sitting in amari’s living room with ms. rachel playing softly in the background. eren’s had his diaper changed for the nth time, and now he’s babbling nonsense as he reaches for his baby colleague. amari turns just slightly to where ony, currently on her shoulder, can see him.

“careful, baby,” carla mutters as eren tries to get closer. ony is staring wide eyed in wonder as carla’s mini-me reaches for him, grin on his face and babbles falling from his lips. ony lets out little sounds as he watches, a smile crawling across his chubby face. he squeals excitedly and starts to reach back.

“we made the cutest babies to ever live,” carla coos, eyes watering as she watches the two experience life through their little eyes. she’s so blessed to have her eren, so grateful that the two get to grow up together.

amari’s already imagined it all. they’re going to be close just like their moms are, always having a friend to lean on and have through life’s ups and downs. she’s excited to be able to have a front row seat for it all. “they’re literally gonna be best friends,” amari giggles.

“they have to be. that’s the only thing I’m forcing on this child,” carla snickers.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“eren, do not climb on that!” grisha scolds, lifting the young boy into his arms. the duo is waiting for armond and ony outside of the zoo and eren’s excitement for the day is high. so high that he needs an outlet now, and grisha can barely keep up. the little gremlin is always giving him a run for his money, and most times he can’t help his laughter.

he’s glad he brought the backpack leash, as embarrassing as it is.

eren starts to wriggle around in his father’s grip, tantrum imminent, but grisha can see armond walking up with ony in the distance. he sets his son down, maneuvering the backpack onto his body because he knows the little trickster will try to take off as soon as he sees his friend.

“you lockin’ lightning up?” armond calls out with a teasing grin, using the nickname he gave eren. they’re still a good few feet away and eren starts to pull against the backpack leash as he reaches for them. “set that lil man free!”

“can’t do that,” grisha chuckles as he watches his overexcited son. “not unless you want to chase after him all day. maybe say hi to the lion when he climbs the fence?” armond just snickers in response and pats the other man’s shoulder.

“rennie!” ony grins, barely being able to pronounce his r’s with his speech impediment. the two fathers watch as eren lets out some type of war cry before charging to hug ony tightly. with all of his energy, the brunette tries to lift the smaller boy in his arms. it’s a struggle because of his lack of strength.

“eren, be careful,” grisha chastises. him and carla are a bit overprotective as parents, especially after losing their first. it doesn’t help that eren’s got the energy of five kids. “did you even ask if you could do that?”

eren just pouts and hugs ony closer. as far as his little brain can comprehend, ony is his. if he wants to lift him, ony’ll let him. “my friend!” eren responds, tugging the other boy closer. ony smiles and throws an arm over eren’s shoulder. “best friend,” ony grins.

it’s adorable how close they are, precious even, but they need a bit of correction.

“I got it, grish,” armond chuckles, placing a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. it takes a village to raise a kid, and he never minds stepping in. “hey, boys, lemme talk to y’all real quick, yeah?”

the boys watch as armond crouches in front of them. “first, you have to be careful, okay? you don’t wanna get hurt or hurt someone else. I know you two are friends, the best of em all, but you still have to respect each other,” armond smiles warmly. “also, asking for consent is asking for permission. it’s very important because everyone can say ‘no.’ maybe they’re not feeling good and don’t wanna be touched. you guys understand that?”

he gets two cute little nods in return, eren pouting a bit because he feels like he’s in trouble. he just got excited, that’s all. little ony holds him tighter, hoping to hug his sadness away.

“hey, it’s okay, lightning. just be careful from now on,” armond ruffles the young boy’s hair. “just think of it this way: when you’re with someone you care about, they should get the most respect you can give ‘em. that means everything you do and say matters, even the smallest thing. it’s how you show you care and think about their feelings. you get me?”

the boys nod dramatically, always all ears when it comes to armond’s words of wisdom.

“good. gotta raise you boys right,” he grins. “now let’s go see some stinky animals.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“ony-ony!” eren gasps when he sees a car pull up into his family’s driveway. he’s been looking forward to having a playdate with his friend all week and he’s finally here! the little tike can’t help but giggle and bounce in excitement as he watches mrs. amari open the back door to her car.

carla smiles as she watches her son bounce around in excitement, the flopping of his hair a reminder that it’s definitely time for a haircut. she softly cards her hand through his strands and laughs to herself when he ducks her touch.

“mooom, stooop!” he whines. eren calls himself fixing his hair, his small hand ruffling the brown tresses, but it only looks worse. “ony-ony’s here! I get to show him my new toy, right? he’s spending the night, right?! how long is it gonna take them to walk to the door?” he rambles dramatically.

“relax, honey,” carla laughs. “they’ve got to get all of his stuff. and of course you can, you’ll have allll night to play together.”

she waits patiently as amari grabs ony’s bags, but she notices how her friend seems to be almost sullen. carla’s brows furrow momentarily, but she writes it off as the woman just being tired. she'd asked for ony to sleep over to “catch her breath,” so maybe she just needs some time.

the door opens when the two finally approach and both moms watch as eren almost jumps on little ony. he stops himself, always keeping armond’s words in mind, but ony grins brightly and opens his arms wide. eren grins and hugs his friend tight. “you’re finally here!” he cheers. squeezing his friend tight. ony laughs and hugs eren back just as tight. “hi, rennie, I missed you! hi, mrs. c!”

“awww, hi, ony,” carla smiles fondly as she watches the two. she can’t fight her motherly excitement, whipping her phone out and snapping picture after picture. “say cheese, you two!”

the two smile brightly, showing off their matching missing teeth. carla feels her heart squeeze at how adorable the two little best friends are, a reflection of her and her own best friend. ”so cute,” she coos as she looks at the photos. she’s definitely getting those blown up and framed.

carla hears a chuckle from below and looks down to see amari taking little ony’s shoes off. her curls are a bit flatter today, not as springy or vibrant, and it matches her weakened emotional state.

something’s definitely off with her friend, but she can tell amari’s putting on a brave face.

“hi, rennie. you lost a tooth too, huh?” amari smiles softly. usually, she’d be ruffling the kid’s frenzy of brown hair, maybe holding him upside down to make him laugh. her soft greeting doesn’t register as anything different to him in his exuberance. eren nods frantically, holding ony’s hand in his. “mhm! same tooth on the other side, see?” he smiles big and bright, and sure enough, both boys are missing their canines but on opposite sides.

she takes ony’s shoes and lines them up against the wall before patting her son’s head. “you two are so connected, hm? just precious. go on, I know y’all wanna play and talk about all the things,” she laughs. ony smiles up at his mom, rushing forward to give her a really tight squeeze. tighter than normal.

eren beams at his friend. “come on, I wanna show you my new stuff!” before ony can respond, he’s being dragged away by his unruly-haired best friend.

“be careful!” carla calls after the two. it’s mainly towards the overexcited eren because she knows how her son can rope the other little boy into doing just about anything. a sigh from her side catches her attention, and she looks over to amari. the woman is watching the two boys with a certain look in her eyes that carla’s never seen before.

“hey,” she nudges the other woman softly. “what’s going on with you? your sunshine’s dimmer today.”

amari’s not going to cry. she’s tired of crying. but, of course, there’s no end to the tears. she’ll have to deliver the news once again, deal with the way just thinking about it makes her throat clog with poorly restrained sorrow.

“I have… somethin’ to tell you,” she murmurs. carla’s eyebrows furrow in response as her gut fills with a tell-tale intuitive dread. something’s really wrong. she quickly wraps her arm around amari’s shoulders and pulls her close. with that, the two travel to the kitchen together and begin to talk in hushed voices.

the boys are in their own world.

eren is ranting and raving about all of his new toys, informing his friend of his updated rankings. his dinosaur that’s held the top spot has officially been bumped down after months. it’s being replaced by what he considers to be top notch gifts. ony’s watching, as always, and ‘wow!’-ing at all of the cool features of eren’s new number one toy.

“I don’t know what to do, carla,” amari mutters. she watches her son play with her best friend’s boy. the two are laughing blissfully, unaware of the trials and tribulations of life, and amari so wishes that they could stay that way. “we… we’re supposed to have a whole life together, maybe even have another kid. we worked so hard for this family, you know? I’m glad they caught it early, but it’s still so scary. I just have a bad feelin’.”

carla sighs and rubs her friend’s back. she’s never seen the woman so crestfallen. amari and her husband really have worked through so much just to have the happy family they’ve built, and his diagnosis is a huge shock to everyone. they were just planning their first family vacation since they had their little one, an amazing first adventure for him, but everything is scrapped now that they have to think about treatment.

“I know,” carla says softly, her heart hurting with the situation at hand. “I know, mari. I’m so sorry. I wish there was more I could say. you know I’m going to support you both every step of the way.”

amari let’s out a sigh, feeling another tiresome bout of emotions start to rise. she’s cried so much, she didn’t even realize she had any tears left. she keeps thinking about losing her lover, her baby boy losing his father, and it just breaks her heart. she’s grateful for her best friend being there through all of it.

on the other side of the room, ony and eren are now playing their favorite game of cars. ony has a mini car in his favorite color green and eren’s all a buzz about his new fire red one.

the young brunette is once again showing ony the car from all angles, looking excitedly at all the cool designs painted on the sides. he doesn’t notice how little ony’s eyes flicker to his mom’s frame, how his shoulders start to drop, and he doesn’t immediately notice when ony’s usually devout attention redirects to his toy car that he’s slowly rolling back and forth.

ony’s distracted demeanor eventually makes eren scrunch his nose up. it’s a new toy with cool colors and he was excited to show his friend and maybe even let the other boy play with it. but then he follows his gaze and… he understands.

“your mommy’s crying,” eren mumbles. it’s not something either of the boys are used to seeing. amari shines like the sun, bringing light wherever she goes, but her sadness has created a dull overcast now covering the entirety of the home.

ony’s not sure what’s happened in the past week, but even his young self can pick up on the fact that something’s wrong. the house feels quieter. no singing from his parents around breakfast time, no music playing when it’s time to clean… just sullen smiles and lots of really tight hugs. he won’t tell, but he’s heard crying too.

little ony looks back down to his toy car. if he were a puppy, his ears would be down and tail motionless. “somethin’s wrong,” he murmurs.

eren looks at his friend, emerald eyes taking in the furrowed look on his face. he doesn’t like it. not at all. “hey,” he pokes at the young boy’s greased up knees. “I don’ like when you’re sad,” he says. “feel better.”

ony’s lower lip pouts. “don’t know how to feel better if I dunno what’s wrong,” he mumbles, sadly rolling his car back and forth.

ugh, eren really doesn’t like this. he doesn’t like seeing his friend sad, and he doesn’t like how his friend’s sadness makes him sad. eren frowns, eyebrows furrowed and lip pouting. “you’re my friend. I want you to feel better, so I wanna help. can I?”

ony smiles a bit at his friend’s determination. he can always count on his rennie.

“yeah, rennie. you can,” he murmurs.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“I got it, momma,” ony mumbles, taking the bags from her hands. she’d gone grocery shopping earlier that day, wanting– no, needing fresh air. life is trying to choke her fire out, it seems, but she perseveres.

or compartmentalizes.

“thank you, baby. didn’t think you’d be home. why don’t you spend some time with rennie? it’s saturday,” amari says tiredly. ony shakes his head and swats her hand away when she goes to reach for more bags.

“I got it , momma,” he smiles. it’s a tense smile, the one he gives when he doesn’t want to add onto her long list of burdens. he’s training himself to never be on that list, no matter what. she already has too much to carry. “wanted to keep an eye on dad. he’s… having a tough day.”

amari’s eyes close briefly at that. tough days are starting to increase in number and she’s barely catching her breath. she’s trying to hold it together. for armond, for ony, for herself. “nausea?” she asks softly.

“and neuropathy,” ony says quietly. armond tries to hide it, but he’s struggling. the nerves in his hands and feet ache from the chemo and he’s getting more nauseous and lightheaded the further he gets into his treatment. it hurts to watch.

the sigh amari lets out is heavy with exhaustion.

“go rest, ma,” ony says carefully. he hates when her shoulders fall like that, weighed down by the world. if he could carry it all just to see his mom smile, he would. “I know you exhausted. just take the day.”

“I can’t let you do that, ony,” amari smiles weakly. “let me handle it, okay? momma’s got it.” she starts to head inside as she mentally encourages herself.

ony bites his tongue, but only for a moment. he simply can’t watch his mom try to carry everything anymore. he can’t. he has to step up. “momma,” he calls after her, voice firm. “let me. I know, okay? you wanna protect me. but I wanna protect you just as much.”

amari turns to look at her son, seeing the look in his eyes. she knows. she understands. and as much as she doesn’t want to burden her son with anything a child shouldn’t be burdened with, she really needs this day.

“you’re so much like your father,” she says, voice tinted with pride but also pain. stubborn, caring, protective, always wanting to take care of things. she sees so much of her lover in their son, and she’s grateful, even if it hurts sometimes.

she reaches to caress her son’s cheek. he’s so tall for his age, just like his dad, and it won’t be long before he surpasses his mother. ony leans into her touch.

“we’re gonna get through this, okay?” she murmurs tenderly. “it’s hard, and there’s not much I can say to make it better. but I love you, onyankopon, and we’re gonna get through this.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

it’s a sunny day in the city of trost, a beautiful saturday morning. the spring air is fresh and rejuvenating for those out and about and many are thinking and planning a way to enjoy such a lovely day.

it’s a cruel twist of fate, the town buzzing and happy on the day ony lays his father to rest.

he wishes the sky would cry like he is, how his mom does every night and morning. he wishes the weather would reflect the storm he’s feeling inside. he wishes the clouds were overflowing like he is.

eren and his mother spent the night beforehand spending time with their respective friends. carla held amari as she cried rivers of sorrow and eren let ony rest his head on his shoulder as the younger boy struggled with the weight of both his and his mom’s hurt. it was a hard night. much like the years, months, weeks spent watching his father wither away. much like the day his father joined the ancestors.

“you gotta get up, ony,” eren mumbles. it hurts to watch his friend like this, but he has no intentions of looking away. he’ll be there for him in his need, searching for any way possible to soothe him.

“I can’t,” ony forces out. his throat is rough, his eyes are swollen, and his heart is heavy. he can’t do this day and he doesn’t want to. he can’t listen to his mom cry anymore as the pain of her sobs could bring him to his knees. he feels weak. physically, mentally, emotionally.

this whole process has changed ony’s life. his entire experience of this world is now tainted with grief. he’s had to deal with his own but also his mother’s who can barely find the strength to stand. he wants to carry them both, but he doesn’t even know how to keep from drowning in his own hurt.

eren’s eyes close as his heart aches for his friend. he’s tasted a loss that eren can’t relate to. they’re both so young and eren doesn’t feel like he can offer what ony really needs right now. he wants to do more, needs to be the friend that’s needed right now, but he doesn’t know how. he doesn’t know what to say or do.

“I’m… I’m gonna go get my mom. she can help,” eren chokes out. he can’t sit here and watch the younger boy suffer without knowing how to support him. he feels useless just standing by the bed, watching as ony sinks into the painful comfort of his depression. he turns to leave the room, only to feel a tight grip on his wrist.

ony’s feeling too many things all at once, and he can’t bring himself to fall apart in front of anyone other than eren. the brunette never presses him, never looks at him with pity in his eyes. he doesn’t want to bother his mom, doesn’t want her to use what’s left of her strength to lift him up. just eren’s presence is enough to keep him from succumbing to the impossible weight holding him down. he needs him to be by his side today, no one but him.

“I need you, ren,” ony murmurs. it’s raw and vulnerable and although eren can’t see the boy’s face, he knows he’s crying again. ony sniffles before speaking again, his words hitting eren right in his chest. “I can’t– I just… I need you. just you.”

eren maneuvers ony’s hand into his own, giving it a meaningful squeeze. those words fill him with a strength he didn’t know he had. ony’s asking. asking for him, for his comfort, for his presence. like hell he’s leaving now, not when ony needs him like he does.

“I’m here. I’ll always be here,” eren replies with renewed conviction. “scoot over.”

ony looks up, half of his face covered by his arm. his eyes are tired and red, so puffy from the oceans of tears that have escaped his honey-colored eyes. “huh?” he rasps.

“scoot over,” eren mumbles again. less confident, but still intent. “I just wanna… can I… hold you?”

ony doesn’t say anything, but his heart beats faster. he wordlessly scoots over to make room for his friend. his best friend. eren crawls in beside him, hesitant at first, but soon his arm loops around ony and pulls him close.

they stay there for a while, ony crying and holding onto eren tightly. they stay there until they have no choice but to get ready for the day ahead. but just like he promised, eren stays by ony’s side all day.

and every day after.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

”you thinkin’ too hard,” ony murmurs quietly, breaking the silence between the two. the best friends are sitting in ony’s living room, absentmindedly watching an old re-run of ‘living single.’. he nudges eren with his knee. his touch is familiar and welcome by the brunette, even if not expressed.

ony’s holding his baby sister close to his heart, responsible for watching her while amari makes a quick run. his thoughts are on his silent and broody friend, but his eyes are on maya. he’s making sure that if she so much as coughs, he can react in a couple of seconds flat. she’s using her inhuman baby strength to grip his shirt tight and she’s having the time of her life as she chews on her teething ring. ony couldn’t be more content.

except for the obvious dark cloud over his friend’s head.

eren scoffs quietly and rolls his eyes. he’s always thinking too hard, it’s nothing new. there’s always something tinkering up there, it’s why he’s always moving somehow. a shaking leg, a fiddling hand, a pen twirled between usually charcoal-stained fingers. it’s a habit he’s always had and something he can’t seem to control. or care to control.

the tan boy lazily rubs a hand over his short brown hair, ruffling it in a way his mother wouldn’t approve of. had she seen him, she’d be fussing and reaching for the growing boy’s mop of strands with a pair of scissors.

“yeah, well,” he starts, leaning back on the park bench. “I’m flunking english. I gotta cram a semester’s worth of shit for a retest or my mom’s gonna kill me.” he’s stressed, but it’s not an unfamiliar predicament. he’s been in this position many times before, and he hopes he can get by with the skin of his teeth to just graduate and be done with it.

ony sighs, eyes closing just for a moment to calm his nerves. he should’ve known.

soon, his eyes are back on maya. “told yo’ as–... told you to ask armin to help you study for that exam. you know you don’t do tests, e,” he sighs. the older boy’s pride is always keeping him from asking for help and it always takes the same expected turn.

ony’s just trying to help, but he hit a sore spot. eren’s face scrunches much too quickly, overly reactive as per usual. what he heard was: ”you’re stupid, ask your genius adopted brother.” not even close to what was said, but eren absolutely hates feeling stupid, and the mention of armin is an instant trigger in that regard.

“why does everyone think I’m incapable? that genius little fuck—“

“—watch your mouth, maya’s right here—“

“—that little twink—“

“—that ain’t much better?—”

“—armin isn’t the solution to all life’s problems. I can figure it out,” eren finally spits out.

ony’s not surprised, but it does make him realize the insensitive nature of his delivery.

armin’s definitely a genius, there’s no doubt about it. he’s skipped a grade, is in those college prep classes, and he speaks three languages. he’s student body president, president of the debate club, and already has three college acceptances.

eren’s been lucky to even pass to the grade he’s in now.

he’s not stupid, he just learns differently. apparently a way that no one cares to teach. his mom used to struggle teaching him his letters and numbers because they’d just get jumbled in his head. he’s had tutors since he was young, but all of them have been the most condescending, impatient, and compassionless people he’s ever had to deal with.

grisha’s salary has them both in one of the most prestigious schools in the city, so naturally, the comparisons are many.

it grates eren’s nerves.

he’d never hate the blonde. no, they’ve bonded way too much at this point. but he resents him to a degree. report card day, end of the year awards ceremony, test scores… it’s all drowned by a feeling of just not being good enough. armin always brings home a stunning report, always has a list of awards and recognitions. and eren…

well, eren’s passing. it’s an accomplishment that’s celebrated because his parents really are proud of him, cheering him on all the same. but standing next to armin in that moment just makes him feel small.

so no, eren’s not asking the cabbage patch kid for help.

ony’s silent for a moment. he knows what eren’s going through, he’s heard him talk about it time and time again. he was there when eren was first excited for a little brother, the thought of the boy’s parents adopting after being unable to have another kid something to look forward to.

he was there when eren first started talking about armin. how the blonde was really shy but warmed up when eren decided to be a good big brother and show him all his video games. the two bonded like they’d always been together, and ony had to shake off the ridiculous trickles of jealousy.

he was there when the admiration turned to acknowledgement. eren went from singing armin’s praises to saying how he felt dumb talking to him.

and he was there when the acknowledgement turned to comparison.

“can I?” he asks quietly, turning to hold eren’s emerald gaze. it’s unfamiliar for the current circumstance. ony keeps his eyes on his sister always, serious about his responsibility of watching over her when their parents are gone since she’s so young and close to his heart.

but now, he’s looking at eren with something in his eyes that he doesn’t see from many.

understanding.

his eyes are on eren. the boy who’s usually in his little brother’s shadow, the boy usually at the back of the line. he sees him, he understands him, and he doesn’t pity him. eren’s eyebrow raises and his stomach does something funny.

“can you what?” the brunette asks. ony tilts his head.

“can I tutor you? for your retest?”

eren blinks. ony watches him.

ony’s not at the top of the class, but he’s not far from it. the only reason he’s able to go to such an expensive school is because he’s on an academic scholarship. with his dad passing, he wanted to become the “man of the house,” but his mom quickly encouraged he let go of the notion. he wanted to make up for their loss, help carry her as she takes care of him. she told him his responsibility was to be a kid and focus on school.

so that’s what he focused on. he focused so well that he’s in this fancy ass school with all of these palm colored people, eating lunches that could quite frankly use a lot more salt to sound so complicated. he’s always been stubborn, so it didn’t take him long to start stepping up in the house too.

now his mom has a new job and fell in love again, like she promised her late husband she would. she’s married to mario now, a guy that’s actually pretty decent and a great father figure. the house is more alive now and he has a new responsibility of watching over his lovely little sister, who he’d do anything for.

they’re not rich, but they’re not struggling. now he sees that he can kind of just… do whatever, if he keeps going. nothing calls to him as a purpose quite yet, aside from wanting to be a good man like his father was. to make him proud and take care of those close to him.

he knows how to study, different techniques for remembering things, different ways of understanding the same thing. he could tutor anyone, really. but for eren… it’s a sensitive topic. the brunette gets embarrassed by the way he struggles with certain problems, gets frustrated at his own inability to learn the same as everyone else.

ony knows that.

“…you’d do that?” eren asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

“I’d do whatever for you,” ony mumbles. his eyes hold nothing but sincerity, the years together solidifying their bond like no other. eren’s been there for him through all of life’s toughest moments, the happiest too. he’s been his shoulder to cry on, one of the first people ony delivers good news to, and the younger boy will never forget that. he’ll always show how much he cares for his friend.

he turns to face forward again, letting maya’s little hand wrap around his finger.. “you know I’d do whatever for you,” he adds for good measure.

eren does know that. he’s known that for a long time.

he’s known it since ony’s been there for every rant, listening to all the words eren usually keeps to himself. he’s known it since the first time ony told him that he understood, the sincerity in his eyes then never changing over the years they’ve known each other. he’s known that through every hardship that the two have faced, every celebration and milestone, always together and leaning on each other.

he’s never felt more heard and seen than the moments he’s sat at the other young man’s side. he’s never remembered a time when that wasn’t his reality, doesn’t remember a life without their friendship.

“…yeah, okay. you can,” eren answers quietly.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

there’s confetti everywhere, stray graduation caps scattered across the football field as cheers ring from all over. people are searching for their families and friends in the crowd, tears and bright smiles on their faces.

ony feels his lungs fill with fresh air, feeling so light after years of hard work. it’s hard to believe, but he’s grateful for it. he hopes his mom is proud, though he’s sure she’s probably cried enough to fill a lake today. he hopes the sun’s increased brightness is due to his father’s pride. he hopes that he can keep going, that this isn’t all he can accomplish.

he tries to focus on the win, not the fear of the unknown trying to crawl into his skin.

two hands clasp onto ony shoulders, giving them a warm squeeze. “can you believe we actually did it?” eren grins. he’s more than glad to be free from the hell of high school, and he’s so damn excited that he got accepted into his dream art school. “come on, we gotta find our moms before they cry their eyes out or something.”

eren tries to pull ony away, but ony doesn’t budge. eren finds himself being tugged into his strong grip. ony’s hand presses against the older boy’s back as he holds him close, other hand cupping the back of his neck.

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, eren,” he murmurs into the boy’s shoulder, who blinks in surprise. “of us. there’s no guarantees in life, but we did it. through everything, we did that shit.”

eren can’t help but melt a little at that. he’s right. in all the excitement and eren’s desire to just go home after this early ass graduation, he hadn’t taken the time to just… be proud and grateful.

eren wraps his arms around ony’s torso and squeezes him tight just like he always has. he’d try to lift his friend, but the boy’s solid muscle and probably wouldn’t even budge.

“I’m proud of you, too,” eren mumbles. “armond would be so proud of who you’re becoming. I know you’re gonna figure out what you wanna be, ony-ony. trust that.”

ony laughs at the old nickname, patting eren on the back before pulling away. the two look at each other, emerald and honey eyes meeting intimately.

eren clears his throat and looks away. “we should go, yeah? I’m hungry as fuck. stomach’s about to be touching my back.”

ony smiles fondly. “yeah. just… before we go,” he murmurs. “you goin’ to school miles away, chasing your dreams. ren, you’re gonna do big things. that art of yours is meaningful and it makes people feel and see you the way I do. I’ll always support you. just don’t forget about me, aight?”

eren rolls his eyes. ony’s been stuck to him like glue since birth almost. there’s no future in his eyes without ony. “I’d never. shit’s not even possible,” he shakes his head. “now come on. I want some of your ma’s mac n’ cheese.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

eren and his brother stand on the outskirts of their parent’s backyard. the space is abuzz with guests for their fourth of july celebration, streamers and fireworks that they know they’ll have to clean later strewn about. eren’s itching to sneak away to smoke a quick joint, maybe get his brother to take a hit or two for the vibes, but he’s on the lookout for a familiar face that he hasn’t seen in person for a while.

his best friend, his partner in crime, the man that stayed in town while eren went to a distant college in a distant city. the brunette’s been pursuing an art degree, using his privilege from his dad’s occupation to pursue the one thing that quiets his brain, but ony stayed in town to be close to his family and try to figure out what he wants out of life.

they haven’t lost contact, of course. they’re best friends. the two have stayed connected through facetimes and text messages, but eren still really misses him.

maybe more than he should.

this’ll be their first time seeing each other since last summer because eren stayed an extra few weeks away for an internship. he worked through all of his breaks to finish up his projects, always getting lost in the art of expression. he’s gained great opportunities working with and learning from the best, even as a rising junior. he’s passionate, chasing his dream of creating and expressing himself in a way that people can actually understand and connect with.

for what feels like the first time, eren is excelling in school.

but he missed his family, and that includes ony.

there’s an outbreak of obnoxious laughter from mario as he and grisha play some kind of game, the tall man always too loud when the drinks get flowing. eren actually likes him, but damn is he noisy. it makes him reach to check for the plastic tube and lighter in his pocket, wanting to make sure he has everything he needs before he slips away.

he stops in his tracks when he sees his best friend enter the backyard through the gate.

he looks straight out of a movie, really. eren’s phone screen didn’t do him justice. his hair is freshly cut, line-up impeccable and waves able to drown whoever looks too closely. his dark skin is glistening as the sun sets, cut off sleeves revealing muscular arms with new tattoos all healed up. eren feels a funny feeling tingle in his stomach when he sees just how ripped ony’s gotten, how his smile shines much like his mothers, how he’s grown.

but then his stomach drops.

“...who the fuck is that?” eren grumbles. his voice has way too much bite and his eye is threatening to start twitching from overstimulation and irritation.

armin looks up from his phone, pushing at his face out of habit of wearing glasses. contacts. right. “who’s wh– oh. oh. you… didn’t know?”

there, in all his glory, is ony walking hand-in-hand with someone.

a guy.

a guy eren’s never seen or heard of before.

he’s short, close to armin’s height, and most likely mixed with his light skin and curly hair. he’s thin, clad in some jean shorts and a tank top. eren can’t make out much of his features from the distance, but it doesn’t matter. he’s not unattractive by any means, but anyone pales in comparison to ony.

“didn’t know?” eren asks, eyes flickering to the blonde. “you did?”

armin’s mouth opens and closes as he struggles to answer. his eyes flick over to jeremy, introduced to him at the beginning of summer. the young man follows behind ony as he greets people, smiling at some with familiarity and others with a soft shyness as he’s introduced. loose curls blow in the wind, dimples are revealed when he smiles a certain way, and eren wants to vomit.

there’s no way this is happening. first off, if ony was dating anyone, eren would and should be the first to know as his best friend. the two have been friends since diapers and have shared every secret, every life event, every frustration since the dawn of damn time. second off, a guy? ony’s never said anything about being gay. and again, if he were to come out to anyone first, it should be eren.

there’s a mysterious third thing ringing in the back of his head that he doesn’t acknowledge.

does ony not… lean on him anymore? do they not share that protective bubble anymore? what happened to talking about everything? being each other’s go to person? seems like eren’s the one being left behind. he’s never feared losing ony because he never thought he’d have to. he thought they’d always be side by side.

no, eren doesn’t like this. he doesn’t like how he can feel his whole world tilting. eren’s in shambles. spiraling. at a fourth of july party in his parent’s backyard.

“is this drink spiked or something?” he mumbles, even glancing down to his glass almost dramatically as he tries to come to terms with what he’s seeing and hearing and feeling. he just feels off and out of place, almost like he’s wearing two left shoes. he can’t make sense of it.

armin quickly tries to do damage control, knowing that eren’s mind is coming up with a whirlwind of thoughts that are more than likely moving way too damn fast. “um, maybe he jus–”

“what’s his name?” eren mumbles. his eyes are still on the stranger, but his usually vibrant irises are darkening with each thought. he’s picking him apart from afar.

“it’s jeremy, but–”

eren scoffs. “fuck ass name. what do you know about him?” it’s not like the boy has any control over his given name, and eren hasn’t even met him to form a true opinion about him. his hurt is clouding his judgement, not thinking clearly with such a sudden change in his life.

“well…” armin starts hesitantly. “ony introduced us when I got back. he didn’t say much, just introduced him as his boyfriend and left it at that.” it was weird at the time, side eyes all around on that day. no judgement for him being with another guy, but everyone had kind of grown to think that other guy would be eren.

“boyfriend?” eren asks, head snapping to look back at his brother. a few others close by look over at his volume as armin tries to shush him discreetly. “there’s no way in hell. how the fuck did he not tell me?”

“eren alexander,” he hears from his side. he frowns and turns to fuss, but the look in his mom’s eyes stops him. carla can send the fear of God through the boy with a simple look, and he’s feeling pretty fearful right now, despite his frustration.

she’d been walking over to give the two young men some popsicles from the secret stash she keeps hidden (eren will blow through the whole bag in a week if she didn’t) and overheard the conversation. even if she knows the depth of eren’s feelings better than he understands himself, she won’t let eren cause a scene in front of everyone, especially grisha’s colleagues. lord knows she’s been just barely dealing with their spouses.

“go cool down and take some breaths,” she states, holding the sweet treat out to him. she’s still got that look in her eyes, the one she passed down to eren, but hers is a lot more bone-chilling.

“but he didn’t tell me,” he presses, his eyebrows furrowed. he’s hurt, and it’s plain to see all in his eyes. they always tell the story of what he’s feeling, and right now? he’s struggling. blindsided by the one person he trusts with all of him.

carla softens at that. she knows why he’s hurting, even if he doesn’t realize the root of his own pain. if she’d had her way, she would’ve sat the boy down to have a conversation about ony a long time ago, but grisha warned against it. ”he’s stubborn, you know that. there are some things he needs to figure out on his own,” he said. and he’s right to a point.

she just hates to watch her son struggle through something he’s feeling so deeply.

“I know, ren,” she murmurs softly. “just… go sit, okay? don’t jump to conclusions. you can talk things out with a clear head.”

eren sighs and closes his eyes momentarily. it’s not that big of a deal, is it?

it is. but whatever. he’ll shove his feelings down since they’re too much for everyone else.

he grabs the popsicle and walks away, leaving his mom and brother to exchange glances. he can almost feel the metaphorical cloud gathering above his head as he makes his way to his secret spot in his mom’s garden. instead of sitting on the bench, he sits on the ground behind it, his hand instinctively reaching for the lighter and tube in his pocket.

his eyebrows are furrowed as he pulls the pre-rolled joint out. his mind is racing, racing, racing as he places it between his lips and lights it. he just can’t help but wonder what he did wrong.

the two have talked often but ony never mentioned any of this. he feels like the rug has been ripped from underneath him and his chest feels hollow. why the hell didn’t he say anything? and why the hell are eren’s hands shaking?

he’s supposed to be calming down. he’s supposed to be taking breaths like his mom said. the popsicle in his hand is melting as he takes hit after hit, mind whirling and coming up with scenario after scenario. he inhales quickly when he burns his finger, not even realizing that he’d been sitting so long that he smoked up his joint.

“shit,” he murmurs, quickly putting it out on the stone bench behind him. he forces himself to take a breath, trying to get his mind to center and stop running like crazy. he’s so distracted that he can’t hear the approaching footsteps.

ony’s quiet as he walks up. he dreads the coming conversation and the guilt that’s already bubbled up in his chest.

honestly, he didn’t think eren would be here since he’s always postponing coming home. eren’s been… busy. busy losing himself in his work, chasing his passions, and essentially leaving ony behind. he’s got his own life and future bright ahead of him and ony truly believes that one day, he won’t be standing by his side anymore.

he feels forgotten.

because unlike eren, ony just can’t seem to find his passion, his purpose. he’s going to a local university, spending time with his family, working part time as a security guard. he feels distant from everyone else, all his friends going after what they want in life. he pales in comparison.

that’s when jeremy entered the situation.

they bonded quickly, bumping into each other at a restaurant. ony had almost knocked the poor boy down and was more than apologetic for it. a couple of drinks in, jeremy used his temporary confidence to tell the taller gentleman to make it up to him with dinner. and he did.

ever the one to please, jeremy repaid him that night with his tongue, his touch, and his attention.

ony had tasted the experience of being with a woman before and enjoyed it thoroughly, but because of a pull to a certain brunette, he was always cognizant of the fact that he could be bi. that night confirmed it for him.

things continued to grow between the two. ony figured that with eren continuing to focus elsewhere, maybe this is where he’s meant to be. eren will do great things, just as ony always expected, and ony’s journey will take him down a separate path. he’d save himself the trouble of expecting anything different, shove that tug in his gut away, and continue to figure life out for himself.

“hey, e,” ony greets lowly. instead of sitting next to the artist on the ground, he sits on the bench behind him. he wouldn’t want to risk getting caught in the storm brewing in the brunette. it’s a bad choice. if anyone knows eren’s habit of taking even the slightest thing personally, it’s ony. because of course he takes notice of the empty spot next to him. it’s like salt in the wound.

“boyfriend, huh?” eren mumbles. his original excitement to see his favorite person has been replaced with hurt feelings, so fuck a greeting. “you never mentioned him.”

ony sighs in response. he hadn’t meant to blindside him, not at all. it’s a strange topic to approach considering his own complex feelings about the situation. he wonders what exactly has eren so upset. is it just that they hadn’t discussed it or is it maybe something more? he won’t make assumptions, no matter how deep the desire.

he tries to smooth it over with humor. if he can get the brunette to laugh, that’s all he needs.

“figured you wouldn’t care too much about my shit, mr. picasso,” he murmurs, reaching over to flick a tuft of brown hair. the look eren throws over his shoulder makes him feel dumb as shit, but he’s surprised when eren simply turns around to face forward again and mumbles a “whatever.”

ony doesn’t like that. at all.

in all their years, he’s never been brushed off by the brunette. if he’s angry, he’ll fuss. if he’s sad, he’ll cry. eren’s no stranger to shoving his feelings down, but not with ony. never with ony.

the dark skinned man fears he may have taken a fatal step. something in his gut sinks, screaming that he made a wrong turn that’ll cost him. he watches eren for a moment, almost frozen.

”when you’re with someone you care about, they should get the most respect you can give ‘em. that means everything you do and say matters, even the smallest thing.”

he feels like there’s something unspoken. eren’s not just upset about not being told. sure, they tell each other everything, but the hurt seems deeper. had he known his avoidance would come back to bite him in the ass, he would’ve forced himself to have the courage to communicate. “don’t be like that, e. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. really, he is.

eren can’t exactly put this betrayal into words. he can’t explain why he feels sick to his stomach about this whole ordeal. so his best friend is dating someone and didn’t tell him. what’s the big issue? he doesn’t have the bandwidth to figure this out right now. he just wants to be left alone.

“nah, it’s whatever. we can’t be up each other’s asses 24/7, I guess. happy for you,” eren shrugs. eren is indeed not happy, but he’ll say what he needs to in order to get ony out of his face. he needs to process. his fingers itch for some charcoal and a canvas.

he can’t explain to ony why his heart feels so heavy, and for the first time, he doesn’t want to.

“eren,” ony presses. he can tell the artist is shoving his feelings down, shutting ony out like never before. it’s unfamiliar and sickening in a way ony just can’t deal with. “just talk to me. I’ll listen, you know that. tell me I fucked up. tell me you’re mad. tell me what’s wrong.”

deep down, eren wants to talk. he wants to yell and scream and figure out why the hell his heart is wrenching in his chest. he wants to push ony away but also pull him closer. he wants war, but also solitude, but also a hug that squeezes his pain away. he wants to ask ony so many questions.

but the distant look in eren’s eye proves that the door to his heart and mind is shutting. whatever battle he’s fighting, he’s fighting on his own. there’s a wall building between the two that’s never been there, and it feels heavier than anyone can bear. ony can’t lift it on his own, and eren refuses to open up.

“it doesn’t matter, ony. you’re happy. you don’t need me anymore,” eren mumbles. it makes ony tense.

“what? no. I do need you. I always have and always will,” he presses. “I ain’t tell you. I’m sorry. you’ve just– you’re focused, e. you out living yo’ life, and I’m proud of that. I just… I have to figure things out for myself. that’s it.”

eren’s eyebrows furrow as he turns to look at his friend. “I’ve told you about every art piece, every showing. just because I’m focused, doesn’t mean I don’t wanna live life with you in it. I’ve invited you to come, or did you forget about that? what, did fuck-ass jeremy not wanna come?”

“don’t do that,” ony shakes his head. he wanted to go, he did. but between work and babysitting maya and school and the ever-living comparisons ony puts himself through, he couldn’t. it was never jeremy. “don’t disrespect my boy like that.”

“your boy?” eren laughs humorlessly, shoving up off of the ground. “yeah, this is bullshit. I’m going inside.”

“what’s yo’ problem, man?” ony fusses, standing himself. “I get it, I should’ve told you. but you’re acting like I—“

“just forget about it!” eren yells. he can’t deal with this. he can’t even understand for himself, let alone explain it to someone else. especially the person he feels betrayed by. “go to your boy. I don’t give a shit anymore. he can have you.”

he doesn’t think, the words just slip, much like the way he can feel eren slipping away. the fear, the feelings of not being enough, it’s all coming tumbling out in the worst way and to the one person he never wants to hurt.

“have me? like I was ever yours in the first place?”

eren freezes.

wow. wow, is all eren can think. he feels twisted up, discarded, left out to dry. there’s a hole building in his chest that makes him want to cry and scream. he was hurting before, but now it’s just too much. those words were too much.

“fuck you, onyankopon,” eren spits. he feels an arm wrapping around him, the scent of his mom’s perfume wafting through his nose as she tries to calm him. he doesn’t know when she got there, but he doesn’t care.

“so much for being forgotten, huh?” the brunette forces the words out with all of him, feeling tears prickle at his eyes. “fuck this. I wish you the best, ony. I’ll just excuse myself since it ain’t with me.”

carla tries to stop him, pleading with him to just take a breath and relax, think about what he’s saying. it’s all muffled in his ear as he storms away.

ony wants to chase after him. scream and say he was wrong, fuck jeremy if it means no eren, no sunshine from the passion that pours out of the boy like no one he’s ever seen. but he remembers that this was always going to happen. maybe not like this, but somehow.

eren’s meant to do more than ony could ever dream of. he was always going to leave. the dark skinned man never thought it’d be his own fault, but he figures the ending would’ve never changed.

so he lets him leave.

there was a shift that day between the two friends. what was once an uninhibited and safe connection slowly became an unbridgeable gap. words unspoken, emotions no longer shared, touch a distant memory.

you can have my heart and soul,

but only if you never leave.

the story of the sun and moon,

separated before the stars came to be.

a/n: me vs wanting to turn every idea into a chapter fic. I love writing with detail out the ass, wanted this to be like 20k. how we feelin’ chat? yay or nay? feedback welcome!

wanted to release everything at one time but it's just too much goin on. I’m swamped but the full shebang is still coming.

my updates are slow, no lie. but! taglist is open <3

taglist: @empressdede

[conniesministallion]

The details…….my chest hurt❤️‍🩹