𓂃۶ৎ og angsty eren black plus size readers fics writer, my bad i deleted my blog. ⋆˚꩜.ᐟ
𐔌 . ⋮ krystal .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
⋮ ⌗┆18+ smutty blog. dark content friendly. brazilian & cape verdean. twenty one years old. angst & emotional depth focused x reader fic writer. only black and plus size or thick readers. aot & jjk writer. loves u <3
could you maybe write a wlw fic for a black chubby reader? i never see any work for girls like me so it would be great if you could. i was thinking maybe some body worship, smut, forgotten date night plot with a mix of jealousy issues. work your magic🤞🏽
Serenity Prayer
WLW
Your day started out perfect—you nailed an interview, locked in summer plans with your friends, and were halfway through deep cleaning your home when everything took a turn for the worse, leaving you completely overwhelmed and exhausted. To top it off, your charger broke, leaving your phone dead. While out at the store to grab a replacement, you ran into a friend. The reunion turned into hours of catching up at a casual, impromptu diner date that finally took the edge off your stressful afternoon. But the comfort vanished the moment you walked through your front door. Your girlfriend was standing there completely dressed up, an angry look on her face—you had forgotten your actual date with her.
〰•6.6k words, Whoever (f) x Chubby!Blackfem!reader, slow build up, established relationship, jealousy issues, possessive themes, argument + reconciliation, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), body worship, praise, dirty talk, a tiny bit of degradation and condescension, oral, fingering, strap action 😛, pet names/name-calling (e.g., baby, beautiful, sweet girl, stupid¹), sweet ending, etc•〰
〰♡〰18+ 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽〰♡〰
The sun was hanging low, casting long, dusty orange beams across your bedroom floor as you moved through the space. You’d been at it for hours—scrubbing, folding, and organizing with a playlist of 90s R&B thrumming through your speakers. The day had started so well. The interview went smooth, your words coming out steady and concise, and you’d spent a good thirty minutes on the phone with your groupchat laughing about beach plans for the summer, already picking out bikinis and talking about who was bringing what.
But then, the day took a turn.
You’d gone to the kitchen to wash the last few coffee mugs, reaching for the handle with a mindless, habitual flick of your wrist. There was a weird, hollow clunk behind the dry wall—a sound that made you freeze.
A second of silence stretched where the water didn't come, and then—boom. The pressurized head of it shot off like a piston, a geyser of freezing cold water hitting the ceiling before raining down in a violent sheet, drenching your hair, your face, and the entire front of your clothes within seconds.
You’d scrambled under the sink, your hands slipping on the wet linoleum, coughing as you frantically twisted the rusted shut-off valve. Finally, the roaring water sputtered and died. Soaking, shivering, and wiping kitchen water out of your eyes, you called your girlfriend with a shaking hand. She’d been at her mom’s all afternoon, and the moment she answered, you could hear the immediate shift in her tone—the rustle of her jacket, the heavy jingle of her keys as she stood up.
"I’m coming, baby," she’d said. Just the sound of her voice—so familiar and steady—was enough to immediately quiet the incoming stress spiral. "Just... give me twenty minutes. Don't touch anything."
"No," you’d told her, as you wiped a stray drop of water from your forehead, trying desperately to sound more put-together than you actually felt. "Stay there. You haven't seen your mom in months. I already looked it up, I know where the shut-off is. Don't cut the visit short for a stupid sink."
You’d hung up before she could use any persuasive words to overrule you, but the tough, independent act started to crumble the second you walked into the laundry room ten minutes later.
The smell hit you first—bitter, synthetic, and burnt.
Your stomach dropped as you pulled open the dryer door. Reaching into the heat, you pulled out your favorite silk-blend top—the one that hugged your curves perfectly, the one that made you feel so fit, so confident whenever you put it on. Now, right through the center of the chest, there was a jagged, scorched hole, the edges of the silk melted into a hard, blackened plastic rim.
That was the breaking point. You just stood there in the small laundry room, holding the ruined fabric, the frustration bubbling up into your throat until your chest felt tight. You were sad, dripping wet, and completely overwhelmed. Every inconvenience hitting back to back has you emotional.
You took care of your things. You hadn't done a single thing to intentionally ruin it. You’d washed this exact shirt a dozen times before without a single issue, but right now, you were too irritated to even try and rationalize what went wrong. Your mind was spinning, and you knew that the more you stood there obsessing over it, the more upset you were going to get.
You walked back into your bedroom just wanting to crawl into bed and stare at the wall. Your phone was vibrating against the wood of the nightstand, a continuous, irritating buzz, but you ignored it. You knew if you picked it up and started replying to the groupchat, the house would stay half-cleaned, and your brain couldn't handle the visual clutter on top of everything else.
When you finally reached for it minutes later just to check the time, the screen flashed a single, menacing red bar: 2%.
"Fuck," you muttered, the word a tired, ragged sigh.
You grabbed your charger, shoving the white plastic into the port. Nothing. You twisted the cord, angling the base just right and pressing your thumb into it until the little lightning bolt finally appeared. But the exact second you let go, the screen went black again. You inspected the wire, your thumb brushing over the neck of the cord where the rubber casing had split away to expose the frayed silver copper underneath. It sparked a tiny, pathetic prick of heat against your skin—a final, useless twitch.
It was completely done.
You stared at the dead screen, the absolute silence of the room pressing into your ears, realizing you had to put on shoes and drive to the store.
-
The white fluorescent lights of the store are a harsh contrast to the warm, naturally sunlit refuge of your room. You’re weaving through the aisles, the linoleum floor squeaking under your sneakers. You only came for a charger, but somehow, your basket is already carrying a gallon of spring water, a carton of fresh berries, and a bag of salty-sweet plantain chips.
"Hey, girl!"
The voice is bright and loud, cutting through the dull hum of the grocery store. You turn around and your face immediately lights up, the heavy tension in your shoulders dropping for the first time in minutes.
"Destiny!"
She looks incredible. Dressed in bright, flowing boho pants and a crisp white crop top that shows off her smooth skin, her locs are neatly styled into two playful space buns. She catches your eyes, a warm, affectionate grin lighting up her face. Before you can even take a step forward, Destiny closes the gap between you and pulls you into a tight, lingering hug. She wraps her arms completely around your waist, drawing your soft frame flush against hers. She smells of fresh air and her signature sweet-blossom perfume. Having her back feels like an instant, grounding shift in the atmosphere.
When she finally pulls back, she doesn't let go completely. Her hands loosen around your waist and settle on your upper arms, her fingers squeezing gently as her eyes scan your face. "It feels like it’s been forever!" she beams, her smile widening. "How have you been?"
"I've been good," you say, trying to force some energy into your voice. But you’re wearing your girlfriend’s graphic t-shirt and the comfortable shorts you’d scrambled into after the sink incident. While you look neat, there’s a slight fray to your hair and a glassy, exhausted look in your eyes that contradicts your words.
Destiny’s grin fades into a knowing, skeptical look as she takes you in. "You say you've been good, but..." Destiny trails off, her head cocked. She reaches up, her fingers gentle as she brushes the pad of her thumb across your cheekbone, her hand lingering against your jawline a second too long. "How have you really been? You look like you're about to cry, babe."
You let out a long, ragged sigh, the kind that makes your whole chest heave against your shirt. "Well..."
Destiny laughs, a warm, easy sound that feels comforting. She drops one hand from your face but slides her arm through yours, hooking her elbow with yours as you start to move. "Oh, that's a 'start from the beginning' sigh. Come on, tell me everything."
As you walk down the snack aisle together, completely tucked into her side, the words start spilling out. You tell her about the geyser in the kitchen, the scorched silk in the laundry room, and the dying charger that was the absolute final straw—and then, to top it all off, some crazy driver cut you off, making you slam on the brakes so hard your soul almost left your body. Destiny listens intently, rubbing her arm against yours sympathetically and letting out a loud, defensive, "No way," when you get to the driver part.
"I am so sorry, babe," she says, leaning her hip against her cart as you finally reach the checkout lane. She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing yours as she watches you stack your items. "Today has been rough, but listen to me, it’s gonna get better right now."
She bags her small amount of groceries, her eyes sparkling as she turns her full attention back to you. She reaches out, playfully squeezing your forearm. "You got plans for the rest of the day?"
You pause, thinking about the quiet, empty house and the half-charged phone sitting on the counter. "Nope."
"Perfect," Destiny says, as her hand slides down from your arm to wrap around your wrist, pulling you slightly closer. "There’s this new Boba place two blocks over. They do the real-deal brown sugar pearls and they have these spicy udon bowls that'll make you forget all about your shitty day. My treat. You in?"
The warmth of her hand on your wrist and the thought of hot, spicy noodles sounds like heaven compared to going back to a semi-fixed sink.
"Yes," you breathe, a real, genuine smile finally tugging at your lips. "Please, yes."
-
The boba place is tucked away behind a row of tall succulents, the interior smelling faintly of caramelized brown sugar and toasted sesame. It’s clean, cute, and quiet. You’re sitting at a small table right by the wide front window, the low afternoon sun catching the thick condensation on your plastic cup. The spicy udon is exactly what you needed. Hot. Deeply savory. And thick enough to soothe the restless thrum of your nerves.
Destiny is mid-sentence, her fork waving as she gets into the thick of the drama. “And then he has the audacity to text me, ‘I saw you at the airport,’ like okay? And? You want a travel voucher or something?” She rolls her eyes, leaning her elbows on the table so she can tilt closer to you. “I swear, it’s like he thinks his attention is a gift I’m supposed to be begging for. Then there’s my dad... he’s bought out half the lumber yard. Thinks he’s gonna build a whole deck by himself.”
You’re listening attentively, chewing your noodles as a soft laugh bubbles up in your chest. The heaviness of the exploded sink and the ruined shirt is finally starting to recede, replaced by the easy, comforting cadence of her voice. You reach for your pocket, your fingers brushing against the fabric of your sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you.
The phone.
It’s sitting on your nightstand, a black, useless brick. That was the whole reason you’d even left the apartment to go to the store, but the moment you saw Destiny, the frustration of the day just... evaporated. You’d gotten completely caught up and forgotten about the charger.
“You really need to stop picking these nonchalant types,” you say, shaking your head as you use your straw to stir your boba pearls. “You keep going for these guys who act like they don't care, but they’re secretly obsessed and just end up being assholes. You need someone sweet. Someone who actually tells you how they feel without the riddles and extra stuff.”
Destiny scoffs, taking a long sip of her tea, her eyes locking onto yours over the rim of her cup with a playful, elusive look. She reaches across the small table, her fingers lightly tapping the back of your hand. “Sweet men? In this economy? Please. If they exist, they aren't being drawn to me. I think I have a ‘drama only’ magnet on my forehead.” She pauses, her gaze lingering on your face, a soft, teasing smile on her lips. "Unless you got a twin hiding somewhere that you haven't told me about."
You just shake your head, a flustered smile on your lips as you ignore the flutter of her overly friendly comment, taking a long sip of your sweet drink. The late-day light turns everything in the cafe an amber, hazy gold, completely washing over the table.
6:27 PM.
As you pull into your apartment complex, the atmosphere is peak summer. You slow down, watching a few kids chase a soccer ball across the grass and the smoke from a neighbor's grill drifting through the trees. Then, you see it.
Her car.
It’s parked in her usual spot, the chrome reflecting the orange glow of the sunset. A little jolt of giddiness hits you. She’s home.
You hop out, grabbing the two bags of groceries and the food you got for her. You head up the stairs, your heart thrumming. You pass Amelia on the landing, the sweet older woman from next door who’s currently watering her marigolds.
“Evening, Amelia!” you chirp.
“Good evening, mija. You look happy!” she calls back with a wink.
You unlock the door, the cool air of your apartment hitting you as you step inside. The house is quiet, but you can smell the faint scent of her perfume.
“Baby?” you call out, walking down the hall toward the bedroom, swinging the grocery bags slightly. “I’m home! I got you something.”
You push the bedroom door open, a wide grin on your face, but it falters the second you see her.
She’s sitting in the center of the bed, her back against the headboard. She isn't moving. She’s just staring at the wall, her eyes completely unblinking and her arms crossed over her chest. The air in the room feels different—more tense. She doesn't even look up when you walk in.
You set the bags down on the dresser, your brow furrowing as the giddiness dies a quick death.
“Hey,” you say softly, stepping closer to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn't move. She just sits there, her dark eyes tracking the shift in your posture, watching the easy, sugar-high grin dissolve off your face until your shoulders go rigid. She looks incredible—she’s wearing minimum makeup, just a touch of gloss on her plump lips, and a sharp, tailored outfit that hugs her frame perfectly. She’s dressed up. The scent of her expensive perfume is heavy in the room, cutting through the lingering smell of your cleaning supplies.
“Where were you?” she asks. Her voice is level, flat, and completely devoid of the warmth that usually greets you.
You swallow hard, the weight of the silence in the room pressing down on your chest. “I, um… my phone died. It was on two percent and the charger completely fried. I went to the store to get a new one, but then I ran into Destiny. She just got back into town and—”
The second Destiny’s name drops, the atmosphere in the room doesn't just shift; it solidifies. Her jaw tightens so hard the muscle cords along her neck. Her dark eyes pin you to the floor, narrowing into something cold and flinty.
“You look really good,” you venture softly, your voice small as you try to bridge the sudden distance between you. “Did... did you have plans tonight?”
“Reservations,” she says, the single word dropping like a stone. “At seven. The place you’ve been talking about for three weeks. I told my mom I had to leave early because I wanted to surprise you. I’ve been sitting on this bed for forty-five minutes dialing a dead phone.”
The guilt hits you like a physical slap to the face. Your stomach drops, a cold, heavy lump settling deep in your gut as you look at her—really take in the fact that she did exactly what you told her not to do, cutting her family time short just to dress up and treat you after your horrible morning. And you forgot.
You completely forgot.
You drop your keys on the nightstand, the metal clatter echoing in the quiet room, and crawl onto the bed. You approach her on your knees, your heart slamming against your ribs.
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” you whisper. You reach out to touch her knee, but she flinches and pulls her leg back, avoiding your hand completely. “I didn't mean to. I just got caught up talking to her and lost track of time. I’m so sorry.”
“You got caught up,” she repeats, a contemptuous edge finally bleeding into her tone. She leans forward, her shadow eclipsing yours in the dim amber light of the bedroom. Her eyes wander down your body, taking in your soft curves, the slight, familiar pudge of your stomach over your waistband, and the way you’re already trying to think of a way to talk her out of her righteous anger.
“You forgot about me because you were too busy giving her your attention,” she rasps, her voice dropping into that low, territorial register that always makes you nervous, yet strangely thrilled that she feels so strongly about you. "I’ve already told you twice I don't like how friendly she gets with you, and the first thing you do when your phone dies is go sit in a restaurant with her for two hours?”
“We just got fo—”
“Stop talking,” she snaps.
The command stings, sharp and authoritative, hitting your defense mechanisms dead-on. When you’re wrong, when you’re overwhelmed and cornered by your own guilt—your instinct is always to lash out, to poke the bear just to stop feeling so small.
You pull your hands back, your mouth twisting into a self-justifying line. “You’re overreacting. She’s my friend. I didn't do it on purpose, but you’re sitting here acting like I committed a crime just because I had a cup of tea.”
She doesn't argue.
She doesn't even blink.
She just holds your gaze with a long, utterly unimpressed look before swinging her legs out of bed, her shoes hitting the floor with a quiet, definitive thud. She stands up, ready to walk out the door and leave you entirely alone in the cold apartment.
The second her weight leaves the mattress, your bravado shatters. The childish pride melts away instantly, replaced by a sharp, panicking rashness.
“No—wait, please,” you cry out, reaching out grabbing her wrist. You pull her back with everything you have, your fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeve. “Don't go. Please don't leave. I’m sorry. I’m stupid, I’m sorry.”
She lets you to pull her back to the edge of the bed, but her posture remains entirely rigid. She is like a wall of beautiful, angry stone. Scrambling closer, you throw your arms around her neck, burying your face in the intoxicating heat of her perfume before pressing your lips to hers.
You kiss her deeply, the movement frantic and sloppy with your own mounting desperation. Your tongue slides against her lips, a silent, breathless plea begging for entry.
But she doesn't kiss back.
Her mouth stays closed, heavy and unresponsive against yours. Her eyes remain open—dark, cold, and fixed on your face, watching you struggle against her silence. It’s an agonizing kind of torture.
You pull back a fraction of an inch, a thin string of silver saliva stretching between your lips before it breaks. Your breath is hitching, the room blurring as hot tears well at the corners of your eyes.
“Please,” you mumble against her mouth, your grip on her neck tightening. “Please kiss me back, baby. Don't be mad at me. Please.”
She doesn't yield immediately. She just sits there, her breath ghosting over your damp cheeks, her gaze tracking the beat of the pulse in your throat. Watching your face crumble, she can tell you are completely heartbroken by your own mistake. She knows you're actually more upset than she is right now, recognizing that familiar, scattered forgetfulness that always takes over when you're under too much stress.
Slowly, her palm slides down your back. Her fingers are warm, rough against your skin as she slips her hand beneath the waistband of your pants, anchoring herself directly against the bare, soft curve of your ass. She squeezes hard, her fingers digging in until a sharp gasp escapes your lips.
And then, she takes the lead.
She leans forward, her mouth crashing into yours with a sudden, vicious hunger that steals the breath right from your lungs. It’s a deep, merciless make-out—all tongue and slick, bruising pressure. She tilts your chin up, her thumb catching the corner of your lip to force your mouth wider, drinking you in until you’re completely dizzy. Your hands thread through her hair, holding onto her as the apartment's chill completely vanishes, swallowed by the heat of her possessiveness.
Her tongue slides deep into your mouth, slick and heavy, tasting of the sweet gloss she’s wearing. Leaning into the kiss, you shift your weight, pressing her back until she’s lying flat on the mattress beneath you. She yields to the movement, letting you take the space. Her hands come up to stroke your back, her palms hot through the cotton of your shirt, tracing the line of your spine with a firm, grounding pressure.
You’re already so turned on. Your chest is heaving, the friction of your shorts rubbing against her thighs making a dull, desperate ache blossom in your pelvis. You break the kiss, panting, and look down into her dark eyes. They’re still hooded, tracking the way your mouth is swollen and wet from her.
You lean down, burying your face in the crook of her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her skin, catching the heavy scent of her perfume mixed with the salt of her skin. Your hands crawl up under the hem of her shirt, your palms scraping against the soft skin of her ribs as you try to bunch the fabric up and pull it over her head.
She catches your wrists, her grip solid and unyielding.
"Take off your clothes first," she murmurs, her voice a low, gravelly vibration against your ear.
You swallow hard. Moving to stand beside the mattress, your hands shake a little as you reach down, peeling your shorts and then your damp panties down your legs, kicking them off the edge of the bed. You pull your shirt over your head, unhooking your bra and tossing it aside.
Standing there completely bare, you feel a pang of self-consciousness. The amber lamplight catches every inch of you.She reaches up, her hands wrapping around your waist to pull you right back down onto her. She doesn't look away; her eyes wander over your skin with a heavy, deliberate slowness. Her warm palms glide upward, cupping your breasts, weighing them in her hands before sliding down to handle the soft, thick curve of your thighs and the slight, pudgy swell of your stomach. She digs her fingers gently into your softness, holding you, letting you feel just how deeply every inch of this body is loved by her.
"Fucked up my whole day," she mutters, her thumb rubbing a slow circle into the soft flesh of your stomach, her voice thick with irritation and a dark kind of hunger. "Seriously. I don't even know what to do with you sometimes."
Before you can manage a response, she handles your hips and shifts your weight, pinning you flat on your back against the pillows. She doesn't waste a single second. Grabbing your ankles, she hauls your legs up to drape your thighs over her shoulders, exposing you completely to the cool air of the room and the intense focus of her gaze.
She reaches down, her long fingers sliding between your folds. She rubs a single, slow finger down your slit, and the wetness is immediate—a heavy, creamy gloss that smears across her skin with a quiet, sticky sound.She lets out a low hum, her thumb circling your swollen clit. "Look at this. How do you get so fucking wet just from kisses, hm? Leaking all over yourself."
She leans down, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, her breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "I shouldn't even be between your legs right now. Not after you stood me up. But you had such a hard day, apparently."
The condescending edge in her voice makes you ache, the need between your legs tightening into a painful knot.
"I'm sorry," you whimper, your fingers bunching the sheets as she rubs the slickness over your head again. "Baby, I'm sorry."
"Mhm. I know," she mutters against your skin.
Then, she opens her mouth and licks you—one long, wet, upward stroke of her tongue right across your sensitive slit, gathering the cream on her tongue.
You gasp, your hips bucking instinctively off the mattress, your vision blurring at the sudden shock of the friction.
She holds you completely still, her hands clamping tight around your hips to lock you to the mattress, keeping your legs securely draped over her shoulders. She pulls back just enough to look up at you.
"Now talk to me," she commands, her voice dropping into that flat, authoritative register. "Tell me about your day. Start from after the sink call. Tell me why my beautiful girl had such a hard day that she forgot all about me, and let another woman handle her bad day while her phone sat dead. Talk."
Looking at her, you can tell she's still furious. The rigid tension in her jaw says it all: she plans to wring every single drop of that frustration out of both of you before the night is over.
You take a shaky, ragged breath, your thighs trembling against her shoulders as you start. "After... after the sink..."
Her tongue stays flat and wet, lapping up and down your pussy in long, deliberate strokes that gather the heavy cream coating your lips. She moves higher, her lips parting to seal around your swollen clit, drawing it into her mouth with a firm, rhythmic suction that makes your thighs shake against her shoulders.
“The... the shirt,” you choke out, your head tossing back against the pillows as you try to force the words past the static in your brain. “The silk one... it burned in the dryer. Right down the middle... I can’t wear it anymore.”
She lets out a low, vibrating hum against your sensitive mound, her tongue swirling around the head of your clit before she pulls back just enough to speak. “Mhm. I know you loved that one.”
“I have... I have the backup one,” you stammer, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets as her thumb settles over your clit, rubbing in heavy, agonizing circles. “But it’s different... it doesn’t fit right like the first one did. It made me feel... feel good. A-and I got it when I was visiting family out of state... I can’t even get another one. And the sink... I had to turn the valve off, but I think something’s still wrong with it... and the charger stopped working...”
You’re babbling now, the frustration of the day spilling out in a jagged, breathless rush because you can't focus—not with the way her hot mouth is moving, her tongue sliding deep through your folds to lap you up. Her hand is wrapped around your thigh, her grip solid, anchoring you as your body tries to escape the sheer intensity of the friction.
She pulls her face away, her chin glistening with your arousal, her dark eyes hooded as she looks up your body. “What happened next?”
You tense beneath her gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I... I went to the store. Got a new charger. Some spring water, plantain chips... and then I saw Destiny.
The displeasure darkens her features instantly, a heavy shadow of jealousy washing over her face. “Did you hug her? Say hi and run to her like the sweet girl you are?”
You pause, a heavy beat of silence hanging in the humid air. “Y-yes,” you whisper.
In reality, Destiny had been the one to pull you into a tight embrace, telling you how good you looked and asking why you seemed so stressed. But you know how your girlfriend is—possessive to the bone—and you can see the white-hot flash of anger in her eyes before you can even form an explanation.
She shifts her weight, crawling up your body. Without a single word, she slides two fingers straight inside you.
The loud, wet squelch echoes filthily in the quiet room. Your mouth goes completely dry, a fragmented gasp ripping from your throat as she hooks her fingers deep, hitting that exact, devastating spot in your core.
“You’re so bad,” she chastises, as she starts to pump her fingers inside you. “I can’t believe you... letting another woman put her hands all over you like that. I understand your day was hard, baby. But still.”
“I-It wasn’t... it wasn’t like that,” you whine, your hips bucking up instinctively to meet the hard, rhythmic slide of her hand.
“It was,” she counters, her thumb pressing down hard against your clit with every deep thrust of her fingers. “You’re just so sweet. So pretty. You think everybody’s just being nice to you.”She leans down, pressing hot, lingering kisses against your mound, then moves higher, her mouth tracing up the pudgy, soft swell of your stomach. She digs her fingers deep into your thighs, squeezing the heavy, beautiful weight of your flesh, before she finally comes all the way up to crash her lips against yours.
The kiss is deep, messy, and frantic. She forces your mouth open, her tongue sliding in to make you taste yourself—the sweet, salt-tinged flavor of your own cream heavy on her tongue. You groan into her throat, your hands threading through her hair, pulling her down as your body catches fire from the inside out.
She breaks the kiss slowly, a thin string of silver saliva stretching between your lips before it snaps. She stares down at you, her eyes dark with a unfathomable amount of adoration.
“You’re such an amazing girl,” she whispers, her thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek while her fingers keep working inside you, slow and cruel. “Your body is so beautiful... every single inch of you. Your personality is everything. You’re so fucking stupid if you can’t see how other people look at you. Even your long-time friends. They see what I have.”
She gives her fingers a sharp twist inside you, making you jolt. “You like that attention, hm? You like her touching you?”
“No,” you sob out, your head thrashing against the pillow. You reach up, pulling her face back down to kiss her jaw, her neck, anywhere you can reach. “Just yours... baby, I’m yours.”
She lets out a low, rough laugh—pleased, dark, and deeply satisfied by the broken down sound of your voice. “Damn right you are.”
She slides back down between your legs, and this time, there is absolutely no mercy.
She buries her face in your wetness, her lips locking around your clit, sucking on it with a hard, drawing pressure while her two fingers drive into you with a blurring, relentless speed. The sounds filling the bedroom are incredibly lewd—the constant, sloppy schlick-schlick of her hand, the ragged hitch of your breath, and the thick, white strings of your cream webbing and snapping between her fingers and your skin with every single stroke. It’s coating her tongue, smearing across her chin, completely drenching the sheets beneath your ass.
She’s talking through it, her voice a muffled, filthy vibration against your flesh. “Look at you... look how wet you are for me. Taking my fingers so good... such a good, sloppy little slut for your girl...”
The praise burns through you, pushing the pressure in your gut past the breaking point. Your nerves are so sensitive you can barely breathe, your vision whiting out at the edges as the friction turns into a white-hot roar.
“Baby—baby, wait, I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” she murmurs, against your clit, her fingers shoving deeper, hitting your spot with a brutal, mechanical force. “Cum for me. Make a fucking mess. Let it out, pretty girl.”
And then you break. Your body convulses violently, your pussy clamping down on her fingers in tight, crushing waves as you cum right into her mouth. You let out a high, broken scream, your back arching off the bed, your thick thighs trembling against her shoulders as the fluid gushes out of you.
But she doesn’t pull away.
She stays buried in you, her tongue lashing against your hyper-sensitive clit, her fingers continuing to pump inside you right through the orgasm. The overstimulation is agonizing, a sharp, electric heat that has you sobbing into the pillows, your hands clawing desperately at her back.
“Please,” you wail, your voice completely wrecked as your body continues to twitch around her hand. “Please, stop... baby, please, it’s too much... stop!”
She keeps going for three more hard, wet thrusts, milking every last drop of the release out of you, until you’re completely limp and shaking beneath her.
-
The chaotic, angry edge of the evening has completely melted away, leaving the room heavy with a thick, heady warmth. She has you flat on your back now, her body hovering directly over yours in the quiet, dim light. You’re both completely bare, skin-to-skin, the remaining sweat on your bodies making you stick together every time she shifts her weight.
She’s moving inside you with slow, agonizingly deep strokes of the strap, the thick silicone gliding smoothly through the heavy, white cream you’re still leaking. You lie there with your head sunk back into the pillow, just staring up at her face. In the amber glow of the lamp, she looks so beautiful—her hair a bit messy now, her pretty eyes completely focused down on the junction of your thighs.
She got you to spill your guts, wrung all the stress and the honesty right out of you, and now she’s just taking her time, keeping you completely anchored in bliss.
One of her hands is splayed flat against your inner thigh, holding you spread wide open for her, while her other hand stays lower, her thumb rubbing over your swollen clit in slow, heavy circles. She leans forward slightly, her eyes tracking the precise line where the strap disappears inside you. You watch her jaw slacken slightly, a quiet, rough hum vibrating in her throat as she watches your cream coat the slick plastic, webbing in wet strings against your skin with every lazy thrust.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, her voice a low, gravelly caress that makes your chest heave. “So soft... so beautiful for me.”You let out a soft, trembling moan, your hips tilting up instinctively to swallow the fat head of the strap down to the hilt. The depth of it makes your stomach flutter, a dizzying, sweet pressure building deep in your core.
She reaches down, her large, warm hand leaving your thigh to squeeze the soft, thick meat of your waist that spills over her fingers. Her eyes trace over your curves, lingering on the way your stomach jiggles just a little with the steady thump of her hips. There’s no rush in her movements now, no anger—just a heavy, consuming worship. She loves every single inch of your fullness, and she shows it in the reverent way her fingers hold your flesh.
Her touch shifts, slowing even further as her palms smooth over your hips. You can tell just how deeply she adores you in the way she pauses there, her thumbs catching on marks etched into your skin. Her fingertips trace and caress your stretch marks with a tender, aching slowness, following the lines as if mapping out a constellation meant only for her. There is no judgment in her touch, only a profound gratitude that this is the body she gets to hold.
“S-so perfect,” she stutters out, her breath hot against your shoulder as she slides deep again. “Every bit of you. You hear me, baby? You’re so fucking beautiful. Don't ever think otherwise.”
She shifts her weight back for a second, her hands sliding down the back of your calves. She catches your ankle, lifting it slightly, and presses a soft, lingering kiss right over the thin gold chain of the anklet she bought you last summer. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the delicate metal, heated from always being against your body, pressing firmly into the clammy skin of your ankle. The contrast between the warmth of the gold and the heat of her lips makes your breath hitch. She hooks your leg over her hip, locking you into a wider, deeper angle that makes you gasp.
“I love you,” you whimper, your voice cracking as the strap rubs right against your spot. “Baby... c’mere. Kiss me.”
She doesn’t make you beg this time. She slides up your body, her breast pressing firmly against yours, and meets you in a sweet, sloppy kiss. Her tongue slides into your mouth, slow and wet, tasting the salt of your tears and the lingering sweetness of the evening. You rub your hands up her arms, your nails scratching lightly against her shoulders, pulling her down as close as physically possible until there’s no space left between you.
Her thumb keeps a steady, merciless friction going on your clit while her hips maintain that deep, heavy grind. The sounds in the room are incredibly lewd—the constant, wet squelch of the strap surging through your pussy, your muffled cries into her mouth, and the sweat-slick slide of skin against skin.
“Mmm... baby,” she moans into your throat, her pace picking up just a fraction as she feels you start to twitch and squirm against her. “You’re getting close... aren’t you? Tell me.”
“Yes—fuck, yes,” you urge, your head thrashing against the pillow as your vision starts to white out. “Right there... don’t stop... please...”
“I’m not stopping,” she huffs, her grip on your waist tightening, burying herself to the base with three hard, sharp shoves that hit your spot dead-on. “Take it all. Let it go for me. Come on.”
Your moans turn high and broken, your legs quivering against her sides as the pressure crests. Your pussy clamps down violently, milking the strap in heavy, crushing waves as your climax rips through you. You breath her name into her neck, your hands fisting in her hair, your whole body shaking as the flood hits, drenching the sheets completely beneath you. She sighs softly against your skin, leaning into the warmth of your release. Every movement becomes drawn and deep, a gentle, firm friction against your walls that leaves you both completely breathless.
Slowly, she collapses flat against your chest, her weight a comforting warmth as both of you sink into the mattress, your hearts racing together. She weaves her fingers through yours, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone.
The quiet of the room settles around you, and the lingering guilt finally pushes you to speak. "I'm really sorry about missing your calls," you murmur softly, your voice thick with emotion. "I swear I didn't mean to. And about going out with Destiny, I—"
Before you can even finish the thought, she shifts against you, lifting her chin to press a finger gently to your lips, stopping you.
"Hey, stop," she whispers, her eyes soft and full of regret. "You don't need to apologize for that. I'm the one who's sorry. I was being jealous, and I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm sorry your day went wrong, baby."
You let out a breath you feel like you've been holding for hours, the last bit of tension draining from your body. You squeeze her hand, pulling her back down against your chest.
"Let's reschedule dinner. We'll go to the restaurant next week." she suggests, her voice dropping into a warm, comforting hum against your skin. "...And another thing about earlier; don't call yourself stupid."
〰・▪︎♡▪︎・〰〰・▪︎♡▪︎・〰〰・▪︎♡▪︎・〰〰・▪︎♡▪︎・〰〰〰
Dividers by @/dollywons
💌: A/N, when I first received this request, I was a little stuck. I usually associate jealousy with rough sex, whereas body worship feels more gentle and praisey to me. Plus, I've only mildy written body worship twice before 😭 I ended up getting a bit lost in the sauce, but I hope you enjoy it. Feedback is always appreciated!
ೃ1,667 words, excerpt from After Hours, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), fingering, dirty talk, bent over the countertop->standing doggy position, squirting, dity talk, degradation, praise, spanking, making out, petnames/name-calling (e.g., baby, slut¹, bitch¹, baby girl), etcೃ
ೃ࿔ ͙✟ 18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕 ✟ೃ࿔ ͙
The humid storm from the night before had left the air inside the diner cloying and thick, smelling of old grease, bleach, and the sharp, clean scent of rain coming off the street. Outside, the early dawn was a low, murky green, the overcast sky pressing against the plate-glass windows and drowning the intersection in a heavy, gloom. Inside, the only light came from the neon sign vibrating in the window and the amber glow of the heat lamps behind the counter, pooling across the laminate surface like spilled syrup.
You were bent over that counter, your chest flat against the cool, smooth surface, your spine arched so high it made your lower back ache. Your skirt—part of the uniform you’d been forced to wear—was bunched up around your waist, leaving your bare hips exposed to the damp chill of the room. Your panties were gone, kicked somewhere into the shadows beneath the stools.
Behind you, she stood firm, her pelvis pressing directly against your ass. She had two thick, long fingers buried deep inside your cunt, her knuckles riding hard against your opening as she worked you with a steady, punishing rhythm. You were so sensitive from what she’d done to you the night before, your internal walls already raw, swollen, and aching with a relentless, throbbing heat. Every micro-movement of her hand felt magnified, a sharp, electric shock that went straight to your thighs.
You were moaning loudly, a constant, breathless stream of noises tearing from your throat, echoing off the empty booths.
Smack. Smack.
The sudden, stinging cracks of her palm against your bare ass cheek cut through the hum of the kitchen. You jolted, your belly scraping against the counter as your thighs trembled violently.
"Keep your fuckin' voice down," she scolded, her tone a low, harsh rumble right against your ear. She didn't pause her fingers; she just dug them in deeper, her thumb rubbing hard against your clit. "You're a noisy little bitch today. Look out there. If someone walks past that glass right now, they’re gonna see you face-down on the counter with my hand between your legs. "
You shook your head frantically, your face pressing into your crossed arms as another wave of pleasure made your thighs tremble. "Y-You didn't... you didn't give me a chance," you stuttered out, your voice trembling as you tried to catch your breath. "You just—ahnn.. grabbed me."
She let out a short, mocking laugh, the sound vibrating through her chest and straight into your back. "Please. If you really cared about anyone seein' you, you wouldn't let me do this to you. You'd be telling me to stop, baby girl."
The squelching, wet sounds of her fingers churning through your natural juices were loud in the silence of the diner, a filthy, steady sliding that made your face burn with a heavy, internal heat. It was embarrassing. Completely exposing. But it felt too good being stretched out and fucked while your insides were still tender and raw from last night was an intoxicating sensation.
"You would've done what I told you to anyway," she murmured, her pace shifting, her fingers curling upward to hook against your internal walls. "Stop actin' like you got any decency. We both know you don't."
You let out a weak whimper, your jaw clenching as you turned your head back to look at her over your shoulder.
She was wearing a fitted black tee that stretched tight across her chest and the thick muscle of her biceps, her dark cargo shorts riding low on her hips. Her locs are down, hanging over her shoulders and framing her face in thick, shadowed ropes. In the dim light of the diner, her brown skin looked incredibly smooth, catching the faint glow along her jawline and the soft, full curve of her lips.
The metal on her face gleamed under the low lighting—the sharp glint of her eyebrow ring, the subtle sparkle of her surface piercing, and the micro-dermal shining against her cheekbone. She was so pretty, so effortless and sexy, it made your chest tight just looking at her. She wasn't even looking at your face; her narrow, feline eyes were fixed entirely on your lap, watching the way your pussy was swallowing her long fingers down to the palm with every stroke.
"Look at you," she said, her voice dropping into that smoky, hypnotic register. Her knuckles pushing their way past your soaking wet lips. "You're so easy... you're dripping down my wrist, all down the inside of your thighs. So nasty."
Then she finally looked up, her dark brown eyes locking onto yours. You were biting your lower lip, trying to stem the noise, and to her, you looked so cute like this—completely ruined and exposed under her gaze. Your eyes were glassy and hooded with a helpless, focused arousal, and the neat, laid edges of your hair were completely frizzy and messy now, baby hairs curling wildly from the sweat tracking down your temples. Your long braids were slipping out of their loose bun, cascading over the side of your face.
The sight of you looking so messy seemed to shift something behind her eyes, a heavy, possessive fondness softening her expression for a fraction of a second.
"C’mere," she murmured.
Before you could answer, she grabbed your left leg, lifting it easily and hooking your knee over the top of the counter, forcing your pelvis to tilt at a sharp angle that laid your swollen pussy completely bare. With her free hand, she reached up and wrapped her fingers around the back of your neck. Her grip was heavy and certain, her thumb pressing into the side of your throat as she pulled you backward, forcing your spine to curve until your back and head were resting flat against her chest.
The heat of her body swallowed you whole. Her hot, tobacco-and-vanilla breath hit the side of your neck in ragged puffs, making your skin break out in goosebumps. The position—the absolute, unyielding restriction of her weight against your back—instantly made you think of how she had you pinned to the prep table last night, holding you down until you forgot your own name.
You let out a loud moan, a sharp curse slipping past your lips as her fingers suddenly hit deeper. The blunt tips of her fingers brushed against the sensitive ring of your cervix, a deep, heavy impact that made your stomach drop. Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp, your body automatically trying to jolt away from the pressure. She knew you didn't enjoy that blunt ache, so she seamlessly adjusted her angle, pulling back an inch before driving her fingers upwards, targeting your g-spot with fast, deep pumps.
"O-Ohh—fuuck —" Your hand scrambled backward, your fingers locking onto her forearm, your nails digging into the dark ink of the vines curling across her skin.
"Yeah, right there," she whispered against your ear, her tone a condescending, sultry purr as she kept up the relentless, deep rhythm. "Look how good you take it when you're behaving. Such a good slut for me, aren't you? Keeping my spot warm before the sun's even up."
The degradation mixed with the praise made your head spin, your internal walls contracting violently around her fingers in tight, desperate pulses. You needed her mouth on yours; the distance was making you ache.
"Kiss me," you begged, your voice cracking as you tilted your head back into her shoulder, looking up at her with a needy, desperate expression. "Please... kiss me."
She slowed her fingers for one agonizing second, looking down at your pouty, wet lips. "You gonna cum again if I do?"
"Mghnnm—yes..."
She let out a low, satisfied hum, the sound tickling against your neck before she leaned down and caught your mouth. It was a sloppy make-out, her wet tongue sliding past your teeth to claim yours with a heavy, all consuming hunger. She sucked on your tongue, swallowing your ragged gasps while her lower half quickly picked up the pace again, her fingers churning your slickness into a thick, creamy white foam between your thighs.
The hard, laminate edge of the counter was putting intense pressure directly against your lower stomach as she pulled you back, and the combination of the internal thrusting and the external pressure was driving you crazy. You wanted to come so bad. Your toes curled against the floorboards, your hips involuntarily twitching against her hand.
She broke the kiss, a thick string of spit connecting your mouths before it snapped. Her hand left your throat, sliding down the front of your uniform shirt to grope your breast, her thumb rubbing hard over your stiff nipple through the thin cotton.
"Fuck, you're makin' a mess," she teased against your cheek, her fingers inside you turning into a relentless, blurring hook that hit your spot over and over. "C'mon. Take it. Tell me how it feels."
"It's s-so good—ughnn—I'm gonna—"
"Cum for me, baby girl. Make a mess," she commanded, her voice constantly coaxing. "Mhmm, let it out for me."
You lost it. Your spine arched violently off her chest as a high, broken shriek tearing from your throat as your walls clamped around her fingers like a vice. You squirted, a hot, frantic rush of fluid pulsing straight out of your heat, spraying across her wrist and dripping heavily onto the floorboards below.
She didn't stop.
She kept fucking you straight through the entire orgasm, her fingers relentlessly driving into your pulsing, sensitive walls, wringing every last drop of surrender out of your body while you thrashed helplessly against her grip, your vision whiting out completely, your head lolling back against her shoulder as you panted heavily into the quiet room.
The tempestuous movement finally slowed to a stop, her wet fingers sliding out of you with a soft, plap sound that made your thighs twitch one last time.
She stayed there for a moment, her chest heaving slightly against your back as she let you catch your breath in the dim green light of the dawn. Then, slowly, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your damp cheek, her heavy locs brushing like silk against your shoulder.
"Good girl," she praised, her voice returning to that flat, professional tone as she stepped back, letting your leg drop from the counter. She wiped her hand on a rag from her pocket, her narrow eyes tracking the way you slid down to the floor, your legs barely capable of holding your weight. "Now, get yourself together. You're cleaning that floor before we open."
your blog makes me feel so included as a black girl 🥹
ugh oh em gee🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹i’m so glad you said this, this is exactly what i want!!!! i’m gonna tag some of my fav black writers for you to check out! i also just want every beauty can have their cake n eat it too!!!💞💞💞
hii queen! will we possibly get more sub connie like we did in 3 devils 1 angel? 😁
hey love <3
i absolutely want to write more submissive!connie !!! i just dont have a plot for this right now but trust the process, im getting comfortable with more new aot characters for me with him and ony so i will naturally get ideas!! i will keep in mind he is wanted lol
Time out - if reader’s twins are two, and they haven’t seen each other in three years, and a pregnancy lasts between nine and ten months, are we sure the husband is the twins’ daddy? Not to be messy (absolutely to be messy), I have questions. Things adding up to me, which is saying a lot since I failed math damn near every year since elementary.
the way yall analyze my fics are frying meeeeeeeeee
no unfortunately, the husband is the father, i don't have any part 2 for this :(( but you made me laugh anon you're so messy ily!!!
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧ . As an nationally renowned attorney married to a wealthy businessman, you have everything you need to be happy. However, you're not. You never wanted this. When your mother wants to force you to have children, you realize your life has been stolen. Depressed, you get drunk in a bar, contemplating the disaster of your life. But everything changes when you meet Eren, a rapper who offers you what you've always wanted: to feel free. The attraction is immediate and Eren turns your daily life upside down. Until everything falls apart because of the most dangerous feeling of all: love.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . 18.8k words, black!fem!reader, plus!size!reader, westafrican!reader, capeverdean!reader, rapper!eren, happens in los angeles, angst, hurt, romance, good girl x bad boy, opposite attract, older!reader, age gap (33 & 24), pet names (baby, ma'am, ma’), forbidden romance, falling in love, christian!reader, cheating, music, trauma, family pressure, fear of abandonment, abortion, smut, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, degradation, rough sex, hair pulling, spit in mouth, fingers sucking, doggy style, spanking, spoon position, squirting, bittersweet ending.
𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ . [repost + edited] i was so embarrassed of this one lmfao, bc tf you mean eren was a jazz rapper, i was CRAZY!!! this version is way better !!! hope you will like it <3
Sade played in the jazz bar, creating a soft and sensual atmosphere. The sound of customers laughing with their friends, the shuffling of wooden stools, and the bartender's shaker with rolled-up sleeves as he poured drinks filled the room. Dim red lights shone across your face as you held your head in your hands, sobbing aloud at a far-flung table, alone.
You weren't the type to let yourself get so overwhelmed by emotions like that. You were a powerful, confident woman who, at 33, was the best attorney in Los Angeles. Everyone was intimidated by you, your quick wit, and your discipline in your work. You inspired respect wherever you went.
You were ashamed. You hated drinking because it made you lose control of your 'proper persona', which you had to maintain for appearances. You sniffled and took another sip of alcohol. The bitter liquid burned your esophagus; you had chosen the strongest liquor to forget your problems.
Your hair slicked back into an afro puff, your mascara dripped down your face and ruined your light, professional makeup. The red blush you had applied this morning had dissipated the second you burst into tears because of your mother.
“We've given you enough time for your career, now you have to have children. You're over thirty! After everything we've done for you, you want to end the family line? You're our only child!”
Your tears intensified as you recalled the scene, and an ungainly trickle of snot slid down your nose. Your curly locks escaped from your bun as your hands clutched your head in despair.
“My life is a disaster, what have I done with my life so far? I’m such a failure,” you muttered, your voice hoarse.
“Can you stop crying? You're not alone here.”
A deep masculine voice made you look up. Tall and muscular, a man was leaning toward you. As if he'd just stepped out of the gym, he wore a compression shirt that hugged the hard planes of his body, and the lines of his abs through the fabric made you wish you didn't already have a husband. His arms and biceps were decorated with black ink, tattoos all the way down to his neck. Your gazes met and your mouth grew dry at the sight of his piercing green eyes. Like a sharp dagger, it was as if his eyes were cutting you in half to find the source of your inner turmoil. His shoulder-length brown hair framed his angular face, and his thick eyebrows were furrowed.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You know you’re not the only one having a bad day?”
His harsh voice grazed your skin like a knife. There was something condescending and grumpy in it that almost made you feel guilty for disturbing him, but because of the alcohol making you emotional, you were unable to stop crying.
Against all odds, the man dragged the chair to sit across from you. In his hands, he held an open notebook and a pen on which were written texts that distantly resembled song lyrics. A deep crease between his brows, he tried to concentrate, but your occasional whimpers and sniffles made his jaw tense.
“Your boyfriend left you? Do you know the planet is full of men? You’re a gorgeous woman, stop crying over some worthless asshole, it’s pathetic.”
“A gorgeous woman?”
You were sure you looked like a nightmare with your runny mascara and snot, but the stranger seemed sincere, his eyes serious and voice firm.
“I’m married,” you cleared your throat. “And that’s exactly the problem.”
He cocked his head to one side.
“Kill that man if he bothers you.”
You let out an incredulous chuckle at his blunt statement. “I wish I could. But it’s not his fault, it’s mine.”
You glanced at his large, tattooed hands that had rings that were silver as well as his chain around his neck. He drew his full, plump lips into a thin line, his face stern as he stared at his notebook while playing with his pen between his middle and index fingers. After a few seconds of silence, he let out a heavy breath.
“Man, where has my inspiration gone? If this keeps up, I'll never release my album on time.”
“Are you a musician?”
For the first time he'd spoken to you, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile.
“You don't know me?”
“You seem young, I only listen to gospel, I don't know anything about recent music.”
Surprise flashed across his face. “Only gospel?”
“Yeah?” You tilted your head, not understanding what the problem was.
He shook his head, not believing his ears. “Are you an extreme Christian or something?”
“Christian yes, extreme no. My parents just raised me that way.”
“I'm a rapper. You're the first person I meet who tells me they only listen to gospel. Does that mean you only listen to music about God? Not love music, sad music, or ego-trip music to feel confident?”
“I feel pretty confident with gospel. Especially when it's gospel influenced by soul. But I listen to the music of my culture too, like Kizomba and Cabo Zouk.”
The man narrowed his eyes, doubtful. “So you don't have a sex playlist?”
“A what?!”
His smile widened into a full, playful grin. “A sex playlist, miss prude.”
Because of his nonsense, you had almost forgotten why your eyes were itching and why you were there. You sighed, massaging your temples with your fingers.
“My husband isn't into that.”
“I don’t give a damn about your husband who lets you get drunk at 10 p.m. alone.” His face hardened. “I was talking about you.”
“Sex is kind of boring, music would distract me.”
“Are you asexual?”
“No, it’s just… I don’t know… Long and boring…”
“Ma’am, your man sounds lame as hell.”
“Don’t say that…”
A couple walked past you, their children trotting behind them, and it reminded you of the conversation with your mother. You burst into tears again, and the stranger rolled his eyes.
“There.” He handed you a tissue he had taken out of his pocket.
You blew your nose loudly with it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because of you fucking crying, I can't concentrate and this is the only kind of bar where I won't be recognized, so we're both stuck.”
“Are you famous?”
“My last album was in the top ten spots on the Billboard charts for 15 consecutive weeks.”
Since your face showed no reaction, he deduced you knew nothing about the Billboard charts.
“Yeah, I’m famous. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“You should be grateful, God bless you with success. Not everyone has this chance.”
He looked displeased, his features sharpening.
“I haven’t worked since I was 14 for my success to be attributed to a bearded man in the sky.”
You frowned. This man didn’t mince his words.
“You’re right. Sorry to force my beliefs on you.”
His expression relaxed. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
You stared at your wet handkerchief, feeling the sadness from earlier wash over you like a surging wave drowning you. Unable to survive this deluge alone, you needed to share your pain. Besides, alcohol inhibited you, preventing you from withdrawing into your 'professional mode'.
“If you don't mind, can I talk to you about my life? I don't have any friends.”
“I'm not the most empathetic person in the world. If my friends have problems with their boyfriends, I tell them to beat them.”
You chuckled and sniffled. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“But go ahead, maybe your sob story will give me inspiration for a song.”
You took a deep breath. You didn’t know his name but you were going to tell him your deepest wounds.
“My mom wants me to have kids, but I don't want any.”
“What's the problem? You just don't have to get pregnant.”
You sighed.
“You're used to being able to do what you want, when you want, aren't you?”
“Nah, what makes you say that?” He cocked his head to one side with a smirk.
“You're kinda…”
You weren't sure if it was his neck tattoos, his long dark eyelashes covering his mesmerizing eyes, or his low-octave voice that could send shivers down your spine if he were near your ear, but he exuded an intimidating aura. Something dominant and powerful.
“I'm kinda what?”
“Nevermind.” You looked away, flustered.
“I don't think your husband will appreciate the look on your face, ma'am.”
“I have to have children; no one asks my permission. That's why I'm in this state.”
A shadow passes across the man's face.
“We all have free will. You're a Christian, you're supposed to know that, right?”
“I think God forgot to give me some,” you muttered. “I have no control over anything, I'm so stuck.”
“Okay, stop complaining and tell me the full story.”
“My parents are from Cape Verde, it's an archipelago in West Africa—”
“Ma’am, I didn’t ask for your biography.”
You chuckled, your face lighting up. He was so sassy. “It’s important to my story. Since they’re immigrants, they expect me to have a better life than if they had stayed in Cape Verde. So when I told them I wanted to be a cook, they laughed in my face.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t pursue your dreams because of your parents?”
You drew your lips into a thin line and he shook his head in disbelief.
“You don’t know what it’s like to live with African parents, do you?” You gave him a small smile.
“One of my best friends, Ony, is also Cape Verdean. But he always followed his dreams and became a beatmaker, even though his mother always told him it wasn't a real job.”
“He's just lucky.”
“Or maybe you lack strength and ambition.”
Your gaze challenged for a moment, but you lost the battle as his green irises shone brightly, burning your retina.
“So I became an attorney for them.”
“What else did you do for them?”
“Marry off the son of one of their friends…”
The man paused, wincing. “Are you serious?”
“It's not a big deal, arranged marriages are still a thing in some cultures,” you cleared your throat, feeling uncomfortable.
“I don't want to judge a culture different from mine, but does that mean your current life, being a attorney and married, isn't even what you want? Don't you think it's crazy to live a life that doesn't reflect your own choices?”
You looked away, your shoulders slumping. His face softened.
“Sorry, you're already in a bad mood, I shouldn't say that.”
“It's just… I don't know… My parents left so much behind so I could have a better life, I feel ungrateful for not making them happy.”
“You're not ungrateful, you have the right to do what you want. You know that all the 'I did this for you' that parents do to us is a type of emotional abuse?”
“I get that, but… My parents really worked hard for me. My mother has infertility issues, and I'm her only daughter; I kind of represent their dreams…”
“It's your life, not theirs.”
“You can't understand.”
His eyebrows knitted.
“Don't ‘white people’ me.”
You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms over your chest. “But it's true, you can't understand.”
“So… Are you going to live the life you want when your parents die?”
“The day they die, I'll be stuck with kids to raise.”
“You know you're going to traumatize your children? A mother who doesn't want to be a parent can't raise her children well.”
Your gaze saddened. “You're right, but…”
“I'm always right,” he cut in, “you're going to be a horrible mother.”
“Okay…”
“Why are you crying anyway? You wanted to be a doormat and do what your parents wanted, so at least do it with a fake smile. You can't be mad at your parents when you're a grown ass woman who could have said no.”
“Are you victim-blaming me?” You let out a sad giggle.
His lips quirked up. “Be happy to be a pretty victim at least.”
A silence fell between you as the man lowered his head to look at his notebook. After a few seconds, he looked back up at you, a vulnerable glint in them.
“Today is the anniversary of the day my dad abandoned me. I wasn't kidding when I said you weren't the only one having a bad day.”
Your lips parted, empathy filling your heart.
“I'm so sorry.”
“Nah, don't give me that pity shit. You don't know me enough to be really sorry,” he huffed, “I just wanted to make the silence less awkward for you.”
“You're really… a strong person. Doing what you want, calling out people's bullshit, asserting yourself, and you're resilient too.”
His lips curved into a playful grin. “Stop flirting with me, baby.”
You stuttered, flustered. “I didn't want to!”
“Yeah, you're married and loyal, I know. You're really good at playing the good girl, but what's behind all that?” He leaned across the table, also crossing his muscular arms on the table. His gaze pierced you, making you feel small. “You can be real with me. I'm just a stranger, you don't even know my name.”
Your heart raced. “Why do you care?”
“Don't know.” His eyes lingered on your gold cross necklace. “I'm attracted to you.”
You didn't know what to say and lowered your head to stare at his notebook.
“I don't have much to say about myself,” you mumbled, “I'm a bit boring.”
“I noticed.”
His blunt self made you laugh. “Sorry, I'm not a rapper who can travel the world and do whatever he wants.”
“Ouch.” He placed his hand over his heart, a mock pain. “You think my life is all about my rap? I'm also a great big brother.”
“You have a sibling?”
“My little sister, Mikasa. She's my biggest fan.”
“I wish I had siblings; growing up alone was so lonely.”
“I swear you don't want her in your life. She's a pain in the ass.”
“It's good that your father's abandonment didn't separate you and made you closer.”
His face darkened. “I had no choice but to look after her; my mother started doing drugs after my father left.”
A gentle look passed across your face. “That's really sad. I hope you can see a psychologist to talk about it. These kinds of things are mentally heavy to bear.”
He shook his face, his features easing at your cute worry. “Nah, I don't need that. Music is enough for me.”
“Want me to listen to it?”
His cheeks turned pinkish. “It's not gospel, you know that, right?”
“I'm aware, but I don't mind. I'm curious.”
He took his phone out of his pocket with wired earphones. His hands were shaking a little as he scrolled through his folders, glancing at you nervously as he searched for his music. Seeing him anxious for you made you shy too. He passed you an earbud, which you slipped into your ear, and you leaned across the table to look at his phone screen, his warm breath caressing your face.
“My genre is more horrorcore, but I do anything with a dark atmosphere,” he warned you. “A fan sent me an incredible instrumental, and I had to rap over it. Some of my fans are also mad that I don't have a specific genre and that I'm hard to categorize and would like a full album of that style. But honestly, I will still do the shit I want.”
As soon as the video began, the heavy bass of the music sent shivers down your spine. Filmed in the middle of the night, he was in a forest, the hood of his black hoodie pulled over his head. The beat was dark, with an almost solemn atmosphere accompanied by a creepy voice in the background that echoed like in a church. Each of his lyrics ended with a clever rhyme that made you press your earbuds to better hear what he was saying because you didn't want to miss a word of his excellent flow.
“That’s… Kinda sexy.” Your drunk mind was saying nonsense.
“What the hell? I’m rapping on a horrorcore beat.”
“I don’t know if it’s your voice, the confidence in your way of being, the roughness of your lyrics but… It’s sexy.”
His tongue began to rub the inside of his cheek and his eyes narrowed. “You really want me to fuck you tonight?”
Your cheeks burned. “No.”
“Because I can, you know.” He smirked.
“Let’s focus on your music…”
“Talk about your fav singers.”
“I thought I was lame because I didn’t have a sex playlist and listened to gospel?”
A low chuckle escaped his mouth. “Don’t do me like that.”
“I don't really follow artists because I avoid worshipping people who shit like us and reserve that treatment for God, so I just have favorite songs.”
“I actually like your mind.” He nodded. “I feel weird when my listeners see me as their favorite human without knowing me personally, but they pay my bills, so I avoid being ungrateful.” He gestured to his phone. “Show me some songs.”
“That’s not aggressive rap like yours, you know.”
He rolled his eyes. “Please, I’m a musician before I’m a rapper. I know how to appreciate good music even if it’s from a religion that’s not mine.”
You searched YouTube for “You Waited” by Travis Greene, and your heart beat a little faster, watching him watch the music video, a little nervous about whether he’d like it.
Surrounded by people but with the lights pointed at him, the black singer began to sing, guitar in hand. The beginning of the song was soft and slow before the drums joined the music. In the second half of the song, everything accelerated, and the singers in the background joined the lead vocalist in a beautiful accumulation of vocals. The audience, some of them feeling emotional, began to cry and raised their arms to move to the beat.
“That’s really beautiful,” he said at the end of the video. “I love all the instruments used. I still don’t believe Jesus is waiting for me somewhere, but he’s very talented.”
“That’s okay, Jesus loves everyone even though you don’t like him.”
“What a great guy,” he teased.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Nah. I’m more into existentialism.”
“What is that?”
His eyes became serious. “It’s the fact of thinking that life has no meaning, and that it’s up to us to give it one. There’s also the absurdism of Albert Camus, which is to accept the absurdity of life and live it anyway, but his philosophy is quite weak to practice. Existentialism is also not believing in the idea that we have a soul, and that therefore human nature doesn’t exist, and that we all have free will. I never believed in God when I see homeless people dying in the streets of Skid Row, or families broken by drugs. I believe that we just live on a huge ball for no reason and that we have two choices: commit suicide because life is unfair, or make our life the best possible experience with the freedom of choice we have. When I wake up in the morning, discouraged by my album sales, although it rarely happens to me because I’m really the shit in the rap game, I tell myself that it’s up to me to make my life better and I shouldn't complain. So yeah, not a Christian, but free will and freedom are very important to me."
“That's really... Interesting,” you offered an impressed smile. “I've never really thought like that. I just… I think everything happens for a reason. In the Bible, there's this concept of predestination, that Jesus has already saved whoever he wanted to save. In fact, there are two Jesuses that exist, two types of Christians. There's the Jesus who punishes, and the one who loves everyone. You'll see the difference in the way some treat homosexuals, for example. Some Christians will see homosexuality as a test to overcome given by God, like in Islam, or a vice of the devil, while others will accept the person's homosexuality, because if that person is like that, it's because God chose them and they deserve to be loved in the way Jesus created them. I think we're born with a set of predestined tests to make us grow, and sometimes a little temptation from the devil to prevent us from being on the right path, but I don't think we really have to ‘change’ to be loved by God.”
“So you’re the good kind of Christians, not like the MAGA kind?”
Your eyes widened. “Please.”
“Just asking.” He grinned, raising his arms to show his innocence.
“If Jesus came back, he would be against them. Jesus was always there and protected the marginalized.”
“You’re really the first Christian who tells me Jesus would be a trans supporter…”
“I told you, Jesus loves everyone.”
Too immersed in your conversation, you hadn’t approached the bartender who had approached your table.
“Excuse me for disturbing you, but we’re closing.”
You looked at your luxury watch and noticed it was past midnight.
“I’m sorry, we’re going out.”
The man you shared the evening with followed you out of the bar, his eyes roaming over the curves of your ass molded into your denim pencil skirt, a glimmer of appreciation in them. Once outside, he took a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. He leaned his back against the wall of a building next to the bar, lit his cigarette, and his gaze fell on you, his mouth forming a small 'o' as he blew out the smoke.
“Do you know the song Slow Down by Bobby Valentino?”
“No?” You tilted your head.
“The singer sings about a beautiful girl he saw on Melrose Avenue and really wants to sex up.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Um, yeah?”
He raised his free hand to point at the 'Melrose' sign not far from them, then pointed at you.
“You really don’t get it?”
You looked away. “Mhm…”
“I saw you walking down on Melrose, you looked like an angel straight out of Heaven, girl. I was blown away by your sexiness, now all I have to do is catch up to you,” he sang, approaching you.
Your cheeks were so hot you could cook eggs on them. “This is so embarrassing, stop!”
The man just made a sly smile.
“Slow down, I just want to know you…”
You turned around, clutching your shoulder bag, ready to escape this horrible situation, but he grabbed your hand behind you.
“But don’t turn around, ‘cause that pretty round looks good to me.” He twirled his hand above your head, his devious grin meeting your shifty eyes. “Now turn around and bless me with your beauty.”
The world stopped as he lowered his head and captured your lips. You didn’t fight, didn’t scream, didn’t react, didn’t do anything! You stayed frozen, kissing a second man after having known only your husband your whole life. And the worst part of this is that you’re this close to fainting for him. Your heart skipped a beat, and you closed your eyes. He didn’t need to cradle your face; his lips already possessed your entire being. And you did something incomprehensible. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the argument with your mother that made you want to break the rules and stop being a good girl. But you kissed him back, gently pressing your mouth against him.
“The church girl wants my dick?” he whispered against you.
“Please don’t say anything and just kiss me.”
“It reminds me of another song my friend Connie loves. Los Infieles by Aventura. It’s about infidelity. At the beginning of the song, they say they commit a sin and are going to hell. I know the words by heart. His hispanic ass can’t stop listening to bachata every day since we were little.”
“You’re really a music nerd.”
“And you, a very sinful girl. Do you think God would still love you after this?”
He deepened his kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth as you parted your lips.
“In the song, they say ‘how can something so wrong can feel so good,’ don’t you think it applies to us?” He grabbed your throat to press your body against his, his cigarette still lit in his other hand. “You smell so good, what’s your perfume?”
“Her by Burberry,” you breathed. You struggled to think straight every time his tongue flicked against yours, your cunt pulsating, wanting more. “How many girls crying in a bar have you picked up?”
“You’re the first and the prettiest.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t need to.” He nibbled your lower lip. His way of kissing was teasing, playful, sassy, just like him. You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the firm muscles of his chest under your palms. Nothing to do with your older beer-bellied husband.
“I…”
“You look like you’re needing some good dick,” he moved away from you, and his dark gaze with dilated pupils made your body in a liquified mess. You stared at the ground, swallowing hard.
“I don’t want to cheat on my husband but I…” Your voice cracked, tears welled up in your eyes. “I’m just so tired of everything.”
“Where is your husband?”
“In a business trip for a week.”
“Ma’am, I can change your whole view of sex in a week. In just a night, actually.”
“You seem so young, I can’t do that…”
“I’m 24.”
You gulped. “I’m almost 10 years older than you.”
“Sexy.”
You looked up in exasperation. “Please.”
“What? I can’t find you sexy at your age?”
“You need to go home before I make a really big, sinful, and serious mistake.”
“I want you to make that really big, sinful and serious mistake.” He took a drag of his cigarette before exhaling. “Just let me walk you home at least. You’re a lady, I’m not leaving you alone in the street.”
The rest of the walk was silent as you could hear the sound of his exhalations as he smoked. You only spoke to point him in the direction as he walked ahead of you, his hand intertwined in yours. When you reached your apartment, he let out a whistle.
“You live in Pacific Palisades, girl? Am I talking to a simple attorney or Olivia Pope?”
“Why?” You made an awkward expression, taking your keys out of your bag.
“That's like the richest neighborhood in Los Angeles after Bel-Air.”
“You're famous, so you also have money, where do you live?”
“Near Skid Row.”
A deep crease formed between your eyes. Skid Row was known for its serious poverty, with a large community of homeless people living on the streets, accompanied by the overwhelming majority of drug addicts wandering the streets.
“...Why? It's the worst neighborhood in Los Angeles.”
“Your privilege is showing, ma'am.”
“Privilege where? I'm a fucking diaspora kid.”
“Ohhh, the church girl can cuss,” he teased behind you as you entered the building.
In the elevator, he played with the curly locks sticking out of your afro puff.
“You let me in the building, am I to understand that you really want my dick?”
“You still haven't explained to me why you live in the poorest part of town.”
“My mom lives there. I tried to get her into rehab, but she's always trying to kill herself. I finally realized I'd never see my sober mom again, and decided to look out for her when I pass by her street. She's often outside; if you lived there, you'd know her.”
Your features eased. “That's really sad, I don't know what to say.”
“Let's talk about how your professional look like coming straight from a porn video with your curves.”
“Do you watch porn?” You made a disgusted expression.
“Don't need to, if I want to fuck I just need to go to a club. You know that just my name makes panties wet?”
“You really have a filthy mouth.”
“And you want to know what more can this mouth do?” He placed his hands on your ass, gripping the ample flesh. “Does your husband spank you?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer it.” He lowered his head to press soft kisses along your neck. “You told me sex was boring with him, I'm trying to figure out how boring.”
“We're never in a position for spanking…” Your body temperature rose at the lips on your throat. You stared at the ceiling and bit your lip, wondering why you liked committing such a serious sin, as if that stranger was the devil in disguise.
“Don't tell me you're only doing missionary. I hope this is a joke.”
“Why would I want my man to hit me? He loves me.”
“Luckily I'm not your man so I can treat you as roughly as I want.” He caught a piece of skin between his teeth and sucked it.
You gently pushed him away to go open the door to your apartment when the elevator stopped. Hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, he followed you. He was so much taller than you, so when he stood behind you as you opened the door, your palms became sweaty, intimidated.
Your apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows with a perfect view of Los Angeles at night. Skyscrapers, tall buildings, and streetlights illuminated the still-dark rooms of your home. When you turned on the light in the entrance hall, the man admired the minimalist decor, which reflected your wealthy lifestyle. There was nothing personal about it except for the obviously well-tended plants and the many black, white, and wooden objects.
“So…” You scratched the back of your head.
“Just show me your room.”
“You don’t want to eat something?”
“For what?” He raised an eyebrow. “My meal is right in front of me.”
Blood rushed to your cheeks. Your heels tapped against the expensive parquet flooring as you walked toward your bedroom. The man glanced at the living room and the kitchen—still minimalist, clean, and rich as fuck.
“Um, I…” You stared at the floor, fidgeting your hands.
He was pulling off his compression shirt without a care in the world, and your jaw dropped. He was built. Ripped. So muscular, as if he had an OnlyFans account and was flexing his abs for his followers. You bit the inside of your cheek. He was the kind of man you had a crush on as a teenager, but you knew your parents would never accept his tattoos.
“Is that you and your husband?” His deep voice made you look up at his face and stop watering at his V-line. He was looking at your wedding photo on the nightstand.
“Yes.”
“Can I say something disrespectful?”
“As if you didn’t have a foul mouth all night.”
“You could do better than him, he looks like he's 10 years older than you, like why he's balding and you're in your thirties?”
“Men are like that in their forties…”
“I will not be like that when I am 40, trust me. Booking a flight to Turkey as soon as I see a bald spot. Gotta keep looking fine for pretty ladies like you.”
You giggled at that and sat on your bed. You really didn't know how to begin this awful idea. You avoided his gaze as you played with your wedding ring on your ring finger. A sinful gesture.
The devil sat next to you, and took your hand.
“You know how to read hand lines?” He stroked the thin creases in your palms.
“No, what about you?”
“Me neither. Just tryin’ to make things less awkward.”
His sentence caused a small quiet laugh to come out of your mouth.
“I really like your laugh, it’s sexy,” he stared at you, his eyes serious.
He made your insides bubble up. “Thank you. I like your voice too.”
“Yeah?” He lowered his head to kiss the back of your hand. “What else do you like about me?”
“Um, you really have pretty eyes.”
His mouth pressed against your wrist in a soft gesture, his hydrated lips smooth against your skin. You struggled to focus because of his gentle way of treating you.
“And I really like your tattoos. You look more intimidating and confident, it’s attractive.”
He smiled against your forearms, and looked up to stare in yours as he caught a piece of flesh between his teeth, sucking. Your eyes wide, you shivered.
“What are you doing?”
“I said you were my meal.” He let his tongue run over your flesh before peppers kisses on your arm and moves up to your shoulder, leaving a wet trail behind him. “You seem to really like me. You would really like a thing between my legs in a few minutes.”
“You're always talking about your penis…”
“That's the best thing about me, ma'am.”
“Actually, I don't think I really like sex, so…”
“I don't know if you're just asexual or if your husband is the shittiest man out here,” he sighed. He placed his hand on your thick thigh, and placed a few kisses along your throat making you erupt goosepumps on your skin. “There are many things you can like during sex.”
“I like it when it’s quick like that, it ends quickly.”
He drew his lips into a thin line. “Yeah, no. That won’t do.”
He undid a few buttons of your shirt, revealing your lacy red set underneath.
“Not very church girl of, huh?”
“My husband offered me this.”
“That bastard has good taste. Too bad I'm the one enjoying it right now.”
He lowered the cup of your arm, and pinched and rolled your brown nipple between his fingers. You bit your lower lip, getting hot.
“I had sex with an autistic woman one day,” he kissed your jaw while toying with your nipple. “She had trouble voicing her needs and desires so we used a color system. Red for stop, orange for slow down, yellow for continue doing it and green for harder, faster or more of it. We can do that for you. I don't mind if you realize mid-sex you're not really enjoying it. I had a good night with you, it was fun.”
Your heart swelled at his caring attention. “So you’re actually a respectful guy?”
“Not you admitting you're seeing me as an asshole-”
“Green,” you cut in.
His lips curved into a grin and he captured your lips for a kiss again as his whole hand fitted your big breast which he squeezed. You didn't get the self-conscious thought about the sagginess of your chest that you had when your husband touched you because that man treated you as if you were the most beautiful woman he had seen in his entire life.
His tongue toyed with yours, sliding against it, and it was the first time a kiss made your cunt throb because your husband didn't do it with real passion. Nah, the man in front of you kissed you with languor, a nasty craving to suck on your tongue while he kneaded your tits.
“Strip,” he commanded against your mouth.
With trembling hands, you undid the belt of your skirt and lifted your ass off the bed, sliding it down your legs until it fell to the floor. Completely in your underwear in front of a stranger whose name you didn't even know, a flustered embarrassment washed over you, and you lowered your head, your thighs tightly closed.
“Don't get shy on me now,” he muttered, his voice dominant and harsh, making you shiver again. “I know you're a freaky-ass person. You like to keep things on the low, right? That's why you invited me over without your husband knowing, and let me flirt with you all night. You're an evil woman.”
Your cheeks heated up, still your head down. He wasn't wrong.
“You know the rapper BeatKing?”
“No?”
“In his song “Smile”, he starts his song directly by saying “let me see that pussy”. Do you really want me to get real corny and rap his verse?”
“N-No!”
“So open these fucking legs.”
He stood up to kneel in front of you. He gripped your knees and forced them apart, accessing your already drenched heat between your legs.
“I hope your lame ass husband eats your pussy at least.”
“He does but I don’t find it very pleasurable so we skip it.”
He let out a sigh. “What good has your husband done in his life?”
“A lot of things, he's a businessman and-”
He tossed your thong to the side, parted your lips and plunged his lower face deep into wet folds. The feeling of his warm mouth on your tight heat made your heart miss a beat, a wave of pleasure taking over you. Usually, your husband did unnecessary foreplay where he spent long minutes kissing your inner thighs, focusing more on the outside of your pussy than the inside, making you bored. So having a man who was going straight to the pussy was a change.
And he wasn't shy at all. Like a real munch, when your taste met his tongue, he hummed against you, the vibrations of his voice making you weak in the knees. His tongue wiggled through the folds, working its way up and up to your clit, so that he can wrap his lips around it and suck it with greed. You clenched your thighs around his head at the sensation, pants coming from your mouth and he wrapped your legs around him, putting them on his shoulders.
He removed his silver rings and shoved two fingers up to your cunt but you tensed.
“I don’t like fingering.”
He paused. “Girl, what do you like about sex?”
“When he does it it’s-”
He rolled his eyes in exasperation, and made a back and forth movement with his digits, dragging them out and in of you. Slicking them with your juices, the motion made a wet noise that made your cheeks burn. When he bottomed out, he curled them to hit that spongey spot in you that you didn't know you had and made your legs shaking.
In an unconscious gesture, you ground your hips around his face. He gripped your love handles to bring you closer to him and help you rock your lower body better. He alternated between eating you out and fingering you, sometimes removing his fingers just to lapping between folds, the dance of his tongue on you exquisite, plunging them back into you, the thrusts of his digits so pleasurable and good. It had nothing to do with your husband.
Brain so fucked out, you chased your high while bucking your hips, not familiar with the coil in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter.
“Is that…”
“Is that what?” He moved away from your clit, his lips glistening with your arousal.
“I never came with him.”
“You married him for your parents, of course you're not attracted to him. But that doesn't apply to me, does it?”
He placed kisses in the crease of your thighs and sucked the skin while the languid pace of fingers gliding against your velvet walls made soft moan coming out of your mouth. He did everything in reverse: coming straight to the pussy, riling you up quickly and while you were just waiting to cum on his face, he teased you, doing foreplay before the big orgasm.
As he kissed you, he came back from time to time near your clit, spreading the lips that hid your sweet spot to blow a soft breath on your throbbing bud. Your head buzzed with arousal as you arched your back, biting your lips at his playful way of pleasing you.
“Green, suck on it, please,” you asked, your voice desperate, hips canting up.
“Your orders are absolute.”
His lips wrapped again around your clit, sucking it with craving, a jolt of pleasure setting you ablaze. The tremor building in your core intensified to the max, your eyes rolling back in pure bliss as your toes curled. As your orgasm rippled through you, the man between your thighs fixed his gaze on the sight of you unraveling.
“Get on all fours.”
You hadn’t even had time to digest the fabulous high you had just experienced with him, the first time you came with a man, before he was already using an almost threatening voice.
“I never did that position…”
“I know that, Miss Church Girl. Now, on all fours.”
You got into position just as he asked, your body tensing as you heard the sound of his jeans falling to the floor behind you. You were scared because he didn’t seem gentle at all, nothing like the loving sex you were used to with your husband. You knew he was going to beat your shit with a straight face, like he's used to doing with other women.
Kneeling on the bed, his tattooed hand ran over the skin of your back, pressing down to make you arch, your face pressed against the sheets as your ass was high up in the air. Your heart pounded in your ribcage as you felt the long drag of his dick sank in your tight heat, his girthy inches disappearing inside you.
“So tight,” he hissed, his cock throbbing, “gonna ruin you.”
It sounded terrifying, but your pussy clenched around him, turned on. He gripped your wide, thick hips, pressing your ass against his pelvic bone, as he drove his dick deeper. Your breath caught when he bottomed out, never having been so full in your life.
“W-Wait,” you panicked, needing time to adjust to his size.
“Baby, I’m an asshole, I won’t wait for shit,” he let out a wicked laugh, making you shudder, realizing you were stuck with a psychopath.
“No, wait, I-”
“We have a color system, ma’am. You can say ‘no’ as much as you want, I won’t stop.”
Not really wanting to stop, you were just scared, you kept your lips close.
“That’s what I thought,” he moved his pelvic floor backward, a little relief washing over you as he was no longer deep inside you, but he slammed his hips back against your ass instantly, delivering a particularly harsh thrust.
Your hands clenched into fists as you panted against your pillow, tears already welling up in your eyes at the brutality of his movements. This wasn’t what you were used to, not at all. Your husband treated you like you were a fragile thing, a victim of a Madonna-Whore complex where he was unable to see his wife in a sexy way, because he categorized women into two categories: sensual women among whores and marriageable girls that he could not sexualize. While this man behind you saw you as you really were, a girl who had sexual needs.
You arched better your spine off the bed, wanting to please him and show off your curves, ignoring the voice in your brain that reminded you that you were committing a sin. He smirked seeing how you positioned your back, making your fat ass more round for him. With his head lowered, he had an erotic view of his tattoos on his defined abdomen and the curvature of your ass against him, with the white lines of your stretch marks making you ever more beautiful to him. He raised his hand in the air and delivered a hard spank on one of your asscheeks, making you flinch. He groaned seeing them bounce, the ample flesh moving like water.
“You know, you have the best body I’ve ever seen in my life,” he rasped, rocking his hips with force and aggression, making you cry against your pillow. You couldn't even be flustered by his compliment, your gut twisting in arousal at each of his strokes. His hard length slid easily inside you; you were so wet, your dripping cunt swallowing him with greed. “But I also wonder who you are inside.”
He grabbed your hair, removing the shoe lace that formed your afro puff, freeing it, and grabbed a handful to lift your head from the bed. One hand on the bed, he bent over a little, his rapsy voice close to your ear.
“You see that photo?” He directed your head towards your wedding photo on the bedside table. Your lips parted, trembling. “You’re a cheating whore. You do everything to show everyone that you’re a good girl, but I see through you.” Your pussy pulsed around his cock as he pounded into you, your mouth open as you moaned, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Focus. Look at your husband when I’m fucking you.”
Your vision blurred by tears, you could see the chubby face of your loving husband beaming with happiness while his arms were wrapped around you in your wedding dress. “I’m so sorry,” you sobbed.
“Nah, you’re not,” he chuckled darkly. “You love this dick. See how your pussy is squeezin’ me?”
He let go of your hair to grab your wrists and place them behind your back. The noises coming out of your mouth were almost pornographic with how loud you were. This is what heaven felt like for you. You started babbling nonsense in Kriolu, your native language, your breathing ragged as each brutal thrust made you see stars.
“Verdu,” you whimpered. Green.
“Don’t understand what you’re saying, baby. You want more?”
He picked up the pace, always having more to give you, his stamina frightening. Each roll of his hips fed into you became more aggressive, fucking you as if he hated your gut.
“Oh my god!” you shouted, feeling so much pleasure that the sensation of having to pee made you panic, and forgetting your own faith.
“Not God, just Eren Yeager, baby,” he kept a grip on your wrists with one hand and used his other to stimulate your clit.
“Eren?”
His dick twitched inside you at the sound of you pronouncing his name in your Cape Verdean accent.
“Yeah, it's me, keep saying my name.”
You did what he wanted, moaning his name as he drilled into your shit, your walls fluttering around his girth. His fingers continued to trace circles on your sweet spot. Eren's body was glistening with sweat from the effort and intensity of his movements. He loved seeing your ass bouncing on his dick, but he wanted to be facing you when he came. Your face was too beautiful to just be fucked in doggy-style.
He released your wrists and turned you onto your back, smirking at your dizzy expression. He brought your knees onto his shoulders and pushed his hips back into you, the angle deeper, still at the deadly pace he had when you were on all fours. In a moaning mess, you continued to mumble Kriolu nonsense, and Eren tried to understand what you were saying.
“Your language is pretty, just like you.” He leaned over to kiss you, the wet obscene sounds of your union filling the room.
Your kisses were sloppy and messy, sucking his tongue and letting out soft pants. Your nails dug into his back as you scratched him a little harder when his cock hit that spongey spot inside you.
“Más forti, pur favor.” You held him tightly against you, and he understood what you wanted without speaking your language. Harder, please (literally stronger, but said in a “more intense” way).
One hand on the bedframe, rising a little higher, he dragged his dick deeper, harder, pumping you full as the wet slap of your skin hitting his flesh was so loud.
“Who is fucking you?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Eren,” you breathed, your legs trembling harder.
“I said, who is fucking you?” His voice was threatening and harsh, as he pushed in and out in a frantic pace.
“Eren!”
Fucking you into oblivion, your release was closer and closer but you did everything to prevent it.
“I-It’s weird…”
“What is it, baby?”
“It's like I'm going to pee.”
A low chuckle escaped his mouth. “You husband never brought you to this state? That's a shame. It's okay, you can cum for me.”
"Mhm…"
“Open your mouth.”
You frowned but did what he asked. He spat between your lips, the trickle of saliva sweet in your mouth. Surprise flashed across your face but you swallowed and looked away, flustered.
“Now, cum,” he commanded.
You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensations of your bodies moving together. His cock deeply buried in you, your juices milking him, his warm breath caressing your face… Tremors seized your limbs as you let go, your body racked with spasms of pleasure as you cried out his name, your nails racking his skin.
“Shiiit,” he hissed, his eyes glazed over with lust as your cunt pulsated around him. He joined you in your orgasm as he pulled out of you to cum on your belly.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke as you realized you'd made a puddle on the bed, his sticky warmth snaking over your skin, his rapid breathing above you. Then, you broke down. Tears streamed even more heavily down your cheeks as you sobbed, the infidelity you'd just committed mortifying you. He took a tissue from the bedside table to wipe the liquid from your flesh.
“It's a little late to cry, ma'am.”
“I've always done things right, so… Why do I have to ruin all my efforts now?” you sniffled.
“Maybe you're tired of being a good girl, you want your freedom.”
He threw the tissue in the trash can next to your bed.
“I had a bad day too,” he began, sitting down next to you. He didn't know how to console crying girls, so he wanted to share a little vulnerability with you so you wouldn't feel alone. “My sister always gets depressed when we're in the period after our father abandoned us. I spent all morning cleaning her apartment because she couldn't do it.”
“You take good care of her. She can count on you; it must be reassuring for her.”
“I try to.” He gave an awkward smile. “I don't think you're wrong for cheating on your husband,” he changed the subject, ultimately not liking to talk about his sister; it made him too vulnerable, and he didn't know you well enough. “He's lame. He doesn't even see that his wife is unhappy. He deserves what you just did.”
“Don't say that, he's a good guy…”
“A good guy?” His eyebrows knitted. “Because not being attentive to his wife, and not knowing that she's unhappy, is being a good guy?”
“He was never abusive, I was lucky.”
“That's like… The bar minimum?”
You shook your head. “I'm still grateful to have a good husband in a loveless marriage.”
He tsked. “Yeah, ‘a good husband,’ I have my own opinion on that…”
A not-so-uncomfortable silence fell between you. You looked down at your thighs twitching from your overwhelming orgasm, something you'd never felt before.
“How come you're younger than me and able to do this?” you murmured, still at a loss for words.
“Experience, baby. Experience.” His lips curled into a sly grin. “Not something your lame ass husband can have.”
“So you admit you’re kind of a whore?”
“Ohhh, so you really can cuss?” His eyes lit up with amusement. “What can I say? I’m hot and famous. I’m just doing what’s expected of me.”
You got out of bed, and Eren’s eyes roamed over your figure, lingering on your heavy breasts, and he regretted being too focused on fucking you than looking at all those curves.
“You can go take a shower, if you want,” you offered, pulling back the sheets from the bed to change them because of your squirting.
“I’m not going to use the clothes of the asshole who’s your husband,” he huffed.
“I have some of my dad’s clothes somewhere, don’t worry.”
You pulled a pair of sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt out of your closet and handed them to Eren. He eyed them suspiciously before taking them.
“Down the hall on the left.”
He nodded, leaving the bedroom, and your eyes lingered on his round ass, his muscular back covered in tattoos. It was the first time that just looking at a man made your pussy hot. You continued changing the sheets on your bed and put on a nightie. The sound of the water running in the shower filled the apartment as you went to your kitchen to heat up some food for him.
There was still food in your fridge. You poured two plates and heated them in the microwave. A few minutes later, while you were filling a bowl of rice with water to remove the dust, Eren came back into the kitchen, shirtless and his sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
“I don't know what the fabric of the thing in your shower is, but my skin is so soft,” he said, coming up next to you.
You turned your head over your shoulder, offering him a soft smile. “It’s an African net washcloth; it exfoliates the skin and removes dead skin. It’s called sapo.”
“That’s why your skin is so glowing. You have to give me one.” He hugged you from behind, pressing his warm body against yours. “You should stop crying and smile more like that.” He kissed your cheek.
The scene was oddly domestic and intimate, even though you’d only known that man for a few hours.
“It smells good, what is it?” He glanced at the plates on the counter.
“Feijoada. It’s a stew of beans, beef, and pork. It’s a recipe known to Brazilians, but all Portuguese-speaking African countries eat it, including Cape Verde.”
He hummed. “I like beans.” He pressed soft kisses on your neck. “It reminds me of a dish from my childhood, kuru fasulye.”
“What country is it from?” You finished washing the rice and placed the pan on the stovetop.
“It’s Turkish. My mom is Turkish.”
“And your dad?”
“Fuck his German ass.”
You giggled. “Sorry.”
You continued talking as the rice cooked, Eren taking his time peppering your neck with kisses. Even though he was basically a stranger, you felt like he was a friend you’d known for years. You felt safe with him. You enjoyed cooking for him; cooking for people was your love language; it was why you wanted to be a cook when you were little. Secretly, you wished you were his little wife. Things would have been so different.
Finally, sitting around the table—on Eren's lap, because he refused to let you leave—you ate in silence.
“It's really good,” he complimented you after a while.
“Thank you, if you come see me often, I can make you taste all the dishes of my culture.”
His arm tightened around you. “Do you really want to have a long-term affair with me?”
“Why not?”
“I feel like there's been a lot of character development since the bar, Miss Church Girl,” he teased.
“It's just…”
You didn't know how to describe what you felt. You felt guilty about cheating on your husband, but on the other hand, having sex with Eren had made you feel alive for the first time in your life. Now you were addicted to the feeling of freedom he gave you. Eren was the Devil, you were sure of it.
“I feel like I need to pray to gather my thoughts.”
A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Yeah, let’s pray while another man’s cum touched the womb that will welcome your husband’s children.”
“Eren…”
“You religious people are truly the most hypocritical people I know,” he sighed. “But it’s okay, in my family there are Muslims who are more concerned about not eating pork while committing plenty of other sins. I guess, these are the ‘trials’ or ‘tests’ of God you often talk about.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I come from a Turkish Muslim family, ma’am. Just because I don’t believe in it doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about it.” He finished his plate of feijoada and buried his head in your neck. “A lot of people in my family don't like me because I do music, and it's forbidden in their religion. Many judge my mother because she does drugs. They are very judgmental of us, even though at the end of our lives, according to their beliefs, it's God who will judge us, not them.”
“I feel like you're really mature.”
“Mhm, someone wants to be fucked again…”
He tickled you as he kissed your flesh, making you giggle. You didn't have that closeness with your husband. He was loving, gentle, but that was it. There wasn't the passion and tension that existed between Eren and you. You looked at the clock, dreading the moment he was going to leave and you would be alone.
“Don't you want to sleep here? It's late.”
“Are you already in love with me?”
“Don’t say that… I just… I don’t know…” You lowered your head. “I don’t want to be alone…”
“It’s okay, I’m your man tonight, don’t worry. You can use me.” He kissed your cheek again.
That night, Eren and you slept in the same bed. Cuddled in his arms, you cried a little while he was already well asleep. You didn’t know if it was joy or sadness, happy to have found a safe place in your daily life where you always had to pretend to be okay, or sad because you had committed a serious sin. All you knew was that no matter what kind of cliff you fell from, you closed your eyes and let the wind carry you away, not thinking about the violent landing.
────────
𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑
“Ren, you’re not focused, you’re pissing me off,” Ony huffed, adjusting his loosely tied navy durag on his head, contrasting with his deep brown skin.
“I’m talking to the baddest girl ever,” Eren said, his eyes glued to his phone. They were alone in the music studio, Armin left to buy food for everyone, and Connie was late, like always.
“I worked my ass off yesterday to finish the beats on time, so you better focus on me, asshole.”
Eren rolled his eyes.
'You're distracting me,' he sent to you. You replied instantly.
'You too. You're lucky I don't have many clients today; I'm mostly doing administrative work.'
'Are you a attorney or a secretary?'
'Do you think client files magically prepare themselves?'
'Sorry, ma'am, I don't know anything about your job. But I wish I were a criminal so you could defend me.'
Ony grabbed the phone from Eren's hands.
'Focus, dummy.'
“Give me back my fucking phone, I'm not playing with you.” Eren tried to get his phone back, but Ony put it back in his pocket. “I'm talking to a girl you only see in your dreams.”
“Your album is due out in a few months, and you still need to record five songs. You're not focused.”
“Five songs for a few months, it's easy, Ony.”
“Yeah, it would be easy if you weren't a little perfectionist shit who was always changing your mind. Recording a single song takes us weeks because of your moody ass. Aren't you tired of the majority of your fans listening to your unreleased tracks?”
“Playboi Carti is the same, and his album sales are still good.” Eren leaned back on the chair where he was sitting, next to Ony, who was working on the computer, using Reaper software. Everyone else was using FL Studio, but Ony had started beatmaking on a budget, and Reaper was an honest company that offered its lifetime services for $60.
All of Eren's fans were shocked at the types of beats Ony was capable of making on software that was less popular than the big names we knew in the music industry. Ony was one of Eren's best friends, but also a musical genius; it was a blessing to be able to work with him.
“Playboi Carti is a lame rapper. Without his beatmakers, he's nothing. You have me, but you're talented without beats. Your freestyles always go viral, don't compare yourself to him. He beat Iggy when she was pregnant.”
“Yeah, I know. I hope he dies.”
Eren and Ony talked for a long time, suggesting artists the young rapper could work with for his soon-to-be-released album. Eren was a very successful rapper who had never been involved in any beef with another artist, so he could feature whomever he wanted; the response would always be positive.
Connie walked into the studio humming along to the music he was listening to in his headphones, his gray beanie on his head, contrasting with his tanned, tattooed skin. Everyone had tattoos, except Armin, who was more reserved. They even shared a tattoo they'd gotten in Atlanta after a show, a testament to their deep connection.
“Man, we need you here at 2 p.m., not 4 p.m. You have no respect,” Ony reprimanded him.
“I was with Sasha,” Connie said, his voice nonchalant.
Eren quirked an eyebrow. “Sasha? The one who cheated on you with Niccolo?”
“Yeah, that one. What about it? I do what I want with my dick. Eren is fucking a married woman!”
“She's a victim,” Eren corrected. “It's a loveless marriage.”
“Right, right, everything is okay as long as you're the one doing it,” Connie grumbled and slumped into one of the chairs. “You constantly criticize me. I find it kind of racist.”
“Man, the fuck are you talking about?” Ony shook his head, focusing on the large computer.
A hard beat filled the room. Connie bobbed his head to the music with an appreciative expression.
“That's really good.”
“Nah,” Eren frowned. “I don't like the hook, changing the gain, or improving the build-up.”
“Always somethin’ to complain, I swear to God.” Ony tensed but made the changes his friend requested.
Eren's phone vibrated in the pocket of Ony's baggy jeans. His friend looked at the notification.
“Your girl is saying she's done today and you can come fuck her early.”
“She'd never say that, you idiot,” he took his phone from Ony and read your message. He wrote a quick reply.
‘Come to the studio.’
‘Isn't that a little risky?’
‘Your husband is at work right now. Come home at the same time as if you'd finished your day as usual.’
‘Okay. Is my work outfit okay?’
‘This is a music studio, not a gangster hangout, baby.’
He sent you the address of the studio, which was near the Top Dawg Entertainment building, Eren's independent label.
'I'll be there in 30 minutes, Carson's not far from L.A.,' you replied.
'No problems, baby.'
“No problems, baby,” Connie repeated in a honeyed voice, his head over Eren's shoulder to check what he was texting. Eren tsked and nudged him.
Armin came back with a plastic bag in each hand, adjusting his glasses as he closed the door.
“I hope you didn't make a mistake and get tostones instead of empanadas like last time. I'll kick your ass,” Connie rubbed his hands together.
“You look like Sasha.” Armin smiled. “Nope, I got the empanadas you wanted.” He gave Ony and Eren a handshake before sitting down and taking the contents out of the bags onto the desk.
“Karibbean Cuisine is the only Dominican food truck in Los Angeles. I'm so mad they're all in New York.”
“There are less Carribean Latinx on the West Coast, that's why,” Ony dropped the computer mouse and began to eat.
“I exist, so everyone should open restaurants for me.”
“Go to New York if you feel too lonely here,” Eren mumbled, his mouth full of food.
“Ew,” Armin winced.
Eren gave him the finger.
They ate while bickering, laughing most of the time. Armin was Eren's manager and Connie was one of his sound engineers, but mostly they were Eren's best friends. His second family.
After a while, there was a soft knock on the door, making everyone freeze. Connie smiled and licked his lips, excited to see Eren's girl, while the rapper gave him a mock-punch, getting up to open the door.
Outside, dressed in your leather trench coat that hid your professional dress, with high heels, your short curly wig that you only reserved for work because Eren messed up your afro yesterday and you couldn't be bothered to redo a neat afro puff, you held your designer bag against you. Nervous, your jaw tensed as you stared at Eren, who was standing in front of you.
With a blue and white NFL jersey, black baggy jeans, and his sneakers the same color, his silver chain glowed in the sun that lit up Carson today. His brown hair was messy, as he often ran his hand through it when he focused on Ony's beats. His emerald eyes lingered on the belt of your trench coat, which created an hourglass illusion on your voluptuous body.
“Yo,” he greeted you, his voice low. “You look good.”
He had spent the entire week your husband was on his business trip fucking you; he still had flashbacks from yesterday, and seeing you still had the same effect on him. He wanted to ravish you.
“You too.”
He took your hand and led you into the studio. The lighting was dim, and the walls were completely black. There was a hallway and two large rooms. One for mixing, and one for recording the rap verses. Eren led you into the mixing room, where all his friends were curious to see that it was the new girl he was obsessed with.
You gave them an awkward smile and took off your trench coat to place it on the back of one of the chairs. Connie's eyes roamed your body and glanced at Eren, giving him a discreet thumbs-up. Eren gestured with his hand in front of his throat that said, "I'm gonna kill you." Ony and Armin were more respectful and avoided staring too much at your ample curves, impossible not to notice in your dress.
“The man in front of the computer is my beatmaker, Ony. He's the Cape Verdean I told you about who isn't a victim to his family compared to you,” Eren smirked, amused by the way your lips drew in a thin line at his mean remark.
“Which island in the archipelago are you from?” you asked softly at Ony.
“Sal. You have the accent of the people from Saõ Vicente.”
Your eyes lit up, happy that he recognized where you were from just by your accent. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I'm from Mindelo. I've never visited Sal.”
Ony offered a polite smile. “The island gets a little annoying with all the tourists, but you're safe once you get away from Santa Maria. I always loved the beaches and—”
“Turkey is cool too,” Eren cut in, jealous that Ony was taking up all your attention.
“I didn't say otherwise,” Ony chuckled.
“You've never been to Turkey, you're American,” Connie teased.
“Do you know what 'diaspora' means, dickhead?” Eren bickered with Connie, their laughter filling the studio.
You sat on one of the chairs and watched the guys work. Ony had two ways of doing things: either he presented beats to Eren, and the rapper chose which of his lyrics best suited the production, or Eren presented his verses to Ony and asked him to create a beat based on the rapper's requests.
Eren was skilled in horrorcore, cloud rap and trap, so Ony had to be versatile in his productions to suit his tastes. The rapper wanted to make aggressive rap for his album, so Ony focused on heavy bass beats.
Having spent every night together last week, you and Eren were closer; he already knew your body by heart, but now, with his friends and in the studio, you saw a more comfortable, natural, and playful Eren. You sometimes exchanged glances, but his eyes quickly darkened, moving down to the neckline of your dress.
“Have you prepared any music videos?”
Eren turned to you, pleased that you were interested in his career. He tapped his lap, and understanding his gesture, you came to sit on him, and he moved closer to the desk.
“Yeah, we have 5 of the 15 tracks on the album.”
“Can I see?”
Eren basically pushed Ony out of the office area. He laughed and moved away so the rapper could show you his MP4 files.
“How long are your songs?” You leaned your back against his firm chest.
“Minimum 3 minutes, but I don't like long songs over 5 minutes.” Eren clicked on the “documents” folder and searched for where the clip shots for his videos were stored on Ony's hard drive.
An MP4 file appeared, showing Eren sitting on a couch surrounded by partying people while he rapped, ignoring the commotion around him. The camera followed him as he walked through the house filled with humans, but still nonchalantly. The lyrics spoke of the dangers of the music industry, like drugs, the industry metaphorically representing the party while Eren, the artist, navigated this world avoiding its vices.
“That's very clever,” you complimented him.
“Mhm, nah. It's kind of corny.”
“You're being hard on yourself. I like the metaphor.”
“You just want my dick like everyone else.”
You tensed. “Don't say things like that, there are your friends here,” you murmured.
He moved his head next to your ear, his voice husky. “Why? You're flustered when we're not alone?”
“It's just not polite.”
“Always so proper as if you weren't crying over my dick, yestereday, telling me to go harder in Creole—”
You pressed his foot with yours and he smiled.
“My bad. I have a foul mouth.” He turned toward his friends. “Can you go smoke outside? I want to be alone with her.”
“It's a studio, not a love hotel,” Ony warned Eren.
Eren's smile expanded. “I will be the first to transform it like that then.”
Ony looked up in exasperation and grabbed Connie's shoulder, who protested but let himself be dragged towards the exit with Armin. Once alone, Eren pressed out kisses on your neck, tightening his arms around you. Your heart racing at the thought of doing anything sexual here, you changed the subject.
“Why are there never women in your music videos?”
“What do you mean?” A deep crease formed between his eyes. “I have plenty of feats with women, I don't discriminate.”
“No, I mean like… A lot of rappers have naked girls in their music videos…”
“Ah.” He buried his head on your neck, nuzzling it. “That's just not my style. I find it cringe.”
“You never rap about women?”
“Of course I do.” His breath caressed your skin. “But I'm just talking about sex. I've never been in a relationship.”
Your eyes widened. “Never? But…”
“But what?”
“I mean, you're obviously a very attractive guy…”
“Yeah, I know.” He nibbled at your flesh. “Handsome, yeah, but pretty fucked up in the head.”
“What do you mean?”
“You think it's easy to trust someone after being abandoned by the one who was supposed to love you forever?”
“Oh.” Your voice softened with empathy. “I didn't think of that, sorry. You seem so confident.”
“Stop that, you're talking as if I said some emo bullshit. I'm just being honest.”
You closed your lips, unsure how to handle such a vulnerable conversation. Eren sensed your conflict and caressed your thighs over your dress to soothe your worry.
“I saw a psychologist a few months ago.”
It was something he'd only told his best friends. You made him feel safe. It was a gift, a gift of himself that he gave you.
“And what did you tell him? Were you able to talk to him about your trust issues?”
“I ghosted him.”
“Eren…”
His tongue ran back and forth across your neck. “What?”
“You're sabotaging yourself.”
“I'm a grown-ass man, I don't have the BPD he wanted to diagnose me with. He should have never said that to me.”
“He was just doing his job.”
“Is this really the woman who's a pathological people pleaser talking to me?”
“I'm not a people pleaser.”
“Right,” he laughed quietly, “and I'm not a traumatized kid. We are just a duo of hot humans, right?”
He sucked on a sensitive spot, making you shiver.
“Is your husband back from his trip?”
“Yes, and I'm a little scared about tonight.”
“Scared of what?”
“I don't want to sleep with him. After what we did… I don't know… I feel weird in my body.”
“Ahhh, you're finally feeling the effect of having good dick? You don't want to touch an inexperienced man after this, do you?” He slid his hands under your dress to reach up to your panties, and rubbed his fingers on your clothed cunt.
“Not here, Rennie.”
The nickname escaped you before you could stop it, and you flinched, waiting for his reaction, but Eren's lips quirked up against your skin, and he continued fake-fingering you through your panties, causing a wet zone to form. His fingers slipped under the fabric to stroke your wet folds.
“Are you going to think of me when your husband fucks you?”
“Don't say things like that…”
“But it's true, am I right? No one knows how to take care of you better than me,” his fingers traced circles on your clit. “Does he make you cry and say ‘o nha mae’ all night like me?” Oh my gosh (literally “oh my mom” but it’s cape verdean slang).
You squirmed on his lap, soft pants escaping your lips. “Rennie, stop, your friends…”
“They know perfectly well what's going on, baby.”
“Even though, I feel uncomfortable.”
“I forgot you were a princess. You have to do it right in a clean bed.” His hand left your warmth and slipped into your mouth as your tongue swirled around his knuckles, tasting yourself. “I will not call you a good girl, you're a cheating whore.”
“I don't want to be your good girl.”
“Ah, it's only for your husband, I know that,” he huffed.
“That's not what I meant—”
His friends came back into the studio, the sound of the door opening making you fix your dress.
“I hope you're not naked!” Connie approached with his hands over his eyes.
“Idiot,” Eren muttered.
You looked at your watch, biting your lower lip because you wanted to stay with Eren, but you had to go home.
“I need to—”
“I know,” Eren kissed your temple. “Have a good evening and think about me a lot.”
You got up from him and leaned down to give him a big hug. You'd only known each other for a week, and you felt like you were already so attached to him. You already missed him when you left the studio to go home.
────────
Eren was a blunt, determined, and confident man, while your confidence was only displayed in the professional sphere. In everyday life, you were a shy, reserved woman who let people walk all over her and was afraid to say 'no'. Your parents had always taught you to obey, to be submissive, and polite.
The difference between you two was obvious when you texted each other. Eren used slang and abbreviations, while you were polite and sophisticated in your replies. You only had a small Facebook account, but Eren had encouraged you to create an Instagram account to follow his stories and posts.
On Twitter, some fans had noticed your mysterious account in his followings, and many simply assumed it was his spam account, without suspecting that it was a woman behind it.
Several weeks had passed since your husband's business trip. The sex between you and Eren was always passionate, aggressive, and oddly vulnerable. There was something intimate about being able to be yourself in front of someone, to drop the social mask, and let yourself be free. With Eren, you discovered sides of yourself you didn't even know existed.
“You like that?” your husband whispered as he thrust into you, your legs around his waist, his beer belly rubbing against your pudgy belly. It was nothing like the feeling of Eren's strong arms encircling you, his defined abs, a hard plane against your softness. You weren't fatphobic, you were plus-size yourself, but Eren was painfully your type as a man, compared to your husband, who was older than you and was losing his attractiveness as the years receded his hairline.
“Mhm,” you struggled to really get in the mood, the friction of his cock inside you too different from Eren's hard pounding, or his hands gently touching your breasts, too soft compared to Eren's hands wrapping around your throat while he was grunting, asking you 'who is fucking you?'.
You weren't very wet, so the action hurt a little, so you stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to end quickly. When your husband was finally asleep, you texted Eren.
'I hate sex.'
'Nah, you hate him. You love sex with me.'
'I feel like something is wrong with me. He's very gentle and loving, but it's not enough.'
'Gentle sex only works when you're in love, not in an arranged marriage.'
'Do you think if you were gentle it would work?'
'Of course, I do.'
'I'm not in love with you.'
'For now. It's only a matter of time before I break up your little union.'
'You're very arrogant.'
'I have to be to get where I am in the music industry.'
'I have something to ask you, but I'm afraid you'll say no.'
'Tell me, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.'
'I sing in a gospel choir, and we're performing at a church next week. I know you don't believe in God, and I know you don't want to get too close to me, but I'd like you to come see me. My husband doesn't care and never comes to see me. I'd be happy if you were here.'
'Your husband is truly the worst guy I know. Of course I'll come. Can I bring my friends? Ony is a Christian.'
'Yes!'
'Why didn't you tell me you sing? We have a lot in common.'
'It didn't cross my mind, I don't know. When I'm with you, my mind forgets the outside world a little.'
'Hahah, that's my charm.'
────────
Nuestra Señora Reina Church of Los Angeles, located in Downtown Los Angeles, was your favorite church because it was the only church in Los Angeles that had helped immigrants, and in 1980 it was a sanctuary for migrants facing deportation. It had values you shared, and you were proud that it partnered with the organization where you sang your gospel choir.
Dressed in a white dress that didn't specifically hug your curves, only slightly revealing your wide hips and ample chest, which were impossible not to notice, you stood in front of the many religious people listening to you. Your hair was pulled back in an afro puff that exposed your face, framed by your large gold hoop earrings.
All your friends were also well-dressed and wore beautiful earrings, but Eren's eyes were fixed on you. Sitting in the aisles of the church pews, enveloped by the solemn atmosphere of the building, he could admire the gold-framed Christian paintings behind you, or gaze at the statue of the crucified Jesus on the wall to his left, but all his attention was focused on you. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the wooden pews and tiled floors of the small, packed church.
He was frustrated, a deep crease formed between his eyes.
“Man, you can’t be angry in a church,” Connie leaned over to whisper in Eren’s ear.
“I just don’t care about the rest of her choir, I just want to hear her,” he mumbled.
The melody of the chanting echoed between the walls, the soft female voices, and he could feel the faith and emotions in them without necessarily sharing the same beliefs. Setting a soulful rhythm, your voice rose into the air with the others, the notes rolling out like a prayer.
“It’s beautiful,” Ony declared.
“It’ll be even better if my girl was a soloist,” Eren grumbled, and Connie pressed his foot against his to silence him.
As if God heard his complaints, you stepped forward, the choir stopping singing to let you lead the rest of the song. Eren shuddered at your first notes, your voice rising, with perfect breath control, your vocal cords giving a harmonious sound, like honey to the ears of the audience.
“Hey, it would make a good interlude for your album. Like Yebba’s Heartbreak for Drake,” Ony nudged Eren.
The idea crept into his mind and he nodded, a warmth rising in the pit of his stomach at the thought of collaborating with you.
The music finally ended, the church filled with applause and praise as you smiled at the spectators. Eren wanted to capture this moment, finally a moment where you were doing something you truly enjoyed, and your husband wasn't even there to see how beautiful you looked when you were happy.
With his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, he approached you as you spoke to some Christians.
“Yo.”
“Hey,” you greeted him, your smile widening for him. “I'm really glad you could come.”
“I would never have missed this.” You sweared as his eyes softened with affection for a moment. “What are you doing after this?”
“I'm coming home, my husband is coming home from work, I have to cook for him.”
He frowned. “You work too, why should you be the one cooking for him?”
“That’s how I was raised…”
“And?” An angry expression flashed across his face. “You’re not his servant as far as I know. It’s 2025, not 1960.”
“Cooking is my love language. I’ve always wanted to be a cook, so it makes me happy to cook for the people I love.”
“But you don’t love your husband,” he insisted, “you’re always texting me when you have to sleep with him at night.”
“Can you avoid talking about this in church?” You looked around to see that no one was listening.
A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, sarcasm in his voice. “Because inviting the guy you’re cheating on your husband with to church, isn’t that already a sin?”
You swallowed hard. “You have a point…”
“Your husband is going to cook for himself tonight, I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you behind him as you left the church with him, your eyes wide.
“Eren, I can’t-”
“Just tell him your friends wanted to celebrate the choir at church with a restaurant, and send him pictures of what you ate.”
“Are you used to sleeping with married women or something?” Your eyes narrowed with how quickly he had found an excuse.
“Maybe, we don’t know…” A mysterious smile formed on his mouth.
────────
Still in Downton L.A., in the Fashion District, was Connie's favorite restaurant: Dama, a Latin-inspired restaurant. When you walked inside, you were immediately amazed by how the brown color took over the cozy space with numerous plants illuminated by the soft light from the gold ceiling lamps. A square bar in the middle of the room, with dozens of chairs placed around it where you could see the bartenders working, attracted attention. Eren and you sat at a table a little far from the bar, near the windows where the leaves of the outdoor trees brushed against it.
"Connie is sponsored by this restaurant, he talks about it all the time," he teased.
"It's very pretty."
A waiter brought you the menu, and you let your eyes run over the paper. Eren was already a regular, so he already knew he was going to have the fried quesilladas. He stared at you, who had a focused expression.
“You always wear the same blush,” he remarked.
You looked up, your cheeks burning. “Um, yeah. It’s a NARS blush.”
“You say that like I’m going to use it.”
Your eyes lit up with amusement. “You’re right, sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, I’m not your strict parents.”
You chose fried calamari with red onions and tomatoes, and your dish and Eren’s arrived quickly. Eren ordered cocktails for you to try. It was nice to share a friendly moment with him like this, face to face with each other. Eren told you about the progress of his album, while you told him what you could about your job while respecting professional confidentiality. While you were eating, one of the waiters asked Eren for his autograph, which he happily signed, and you realized even more how popular he was.
“What would you do if you could have your own life?” he asked, bringing his glass back to his lips to take a sip of his cocktail. You swallowed the bite you were chewing to answer him.
“I think I would have opened my restaurant in Cape Verde or Brazil.”
“Brazil?” He quirked one of his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I really like Brazilian food. We have a lot in common in our culture with Brazilians, like carnivals. I would have loved to open a restaurant that serves food from all the Portuguese-speaking African countries besides Brazil. We share a similar history with colonization.”
“What is your best childhood memory in Cape Verde?”
Your lips curved into a fond smile. “The nights at the beach where we had barbecues. Seafood is very present in Cape Verde because we're surrounded by water, so I can still taste the shrimp we grilled.” You cocked your head to one side. “And you?”
He looked away, scratching the back of his head. “I think my best memories are when my dad was still here and my mom was still sober, but I don't like them because I feel like they're a big lie.” His voice was low, almost as if he didn't want you to hear the vulnerable tone.
“Tell me a little about your dad.”
His jaw tensed. “That asshole was a doctor. With my mom's job as an English teacher, we had a comfortable life, but everything was ruined around the time I was 13 when he decided to cheat on her for a younger woman.”
“Doesn't the fact that I cheat on my husband trigger you?”
“It wasn't really the infidelity that traumatized me. I think it was more that he completely cut us off from one day to the next. As if we were worthless. That's why I don't like to remember my childhood with him because I know he didn't care about us deep down.”
“I don't know how to answer that,” you choose your next words carefully. “I think telling you he loved you anyway when I don't know him is a bit tone-deaf, but reinforcing your idea that everything was fake doesn't sit right with me. Maybe the moments he shared with you were real, but when he falls in love, his world revolves around his partner and he forgets the rest.”
“Or he’s just a deadbeat dad…”
“Yeah, but… You know, my attorney friends who work for families have already seen fathers who want to have rights back over children they abandoned.”
He shook his head. “They don’t deserve anything. They weren’t there to raise the child, why come back when the mother has already done all the work?”
“You’re right…”
You continue talking, gulping down your desserts. When you get up after finishing eating, you take your wallet out of your bag, and Eren glared at you.
“You’re embarrassing me.” He took his black card out of his pocket and paid your meal bill.
“I’m not used to this. I do 50/50 with my husband.”
He huffed. “You’re going to hurt your body giving him babies, and you want to do 50/50? Men and women aren’t the same. You do so much more than him just to do 50/50.”
You didn’t like what he was saying because just imagining what it would be like to be his wife made your mouth water. He intertwined your hand with his, and the cold air outside made goosebumps rise on your arms as you stepped out. He opened the passenger door of his black luxury car for you, and you sat inside. A scent of vanilla enveloped the vehicle, which was soon overpowered by his expensive cologne when he plopped his ass on the driver’s seat.
“There's still a little time before you go home, it's early. Do you want to go for a car ride? I'll show you some songs you might like.” He started the car.
“Yeah, I would like to.” You grinned, happy to spend more time with him. There was so much you wanted to tell him, learn about him. He became like your best friend in just a few weeks.
Eren connected his Bluetooth to his car and “Too Deep” by dvsn filled the car, the notes soft and sensual.
“What kind of music is it? I like that.”
“It's R&B. There's Christian R&B that exists too, I'll make you a playlist.”
You leaned back against your seat, closing your eyes to listen to the music. PARTYNEXTDOOR, SZA, Jhené Aiko… All the R&B singers were echoing in the car. Eren lowered the cars as a small downpour fell on you, the sound of the misty rain accompanying the atmosphere.
“Have you never been in love?” you asked.
He kept his eyes on the road. “I already told you I don't do relationships.”
“But you must have fallen in love with someone without being able to control it…”
His lips twitched upward. “This isn't a romantic comedy.”
You chuckled. “I know, but it's sad to think you don't know what it's like to be in love.”
“You're literally in a loveless marriage and you're 33. Your situation is much sadder than mine.”
“Mhm, it's true.” You nodded. “I don't know what it's like to be in love and probably never will.”
“Let me show you then. Let's use each other. A real relationship between us is impossible in any case.”
Your eyes fluttered open and you turned your head to admire his handsome profile. “What do you mean by using each other?”
“If we're both incapable of living a love story, let's create one together. But without ever really going beyond the limits of what we truly are: an affair.”
You tilted your head. “And what would we do if we were in love?”
He glanced at you, a smirk on his face. “Exactly what I did tonight. We go to restaurants, we go on dates. We just don't meet up to only fuck.”
“But it's risky…” You flinched.
“Do you want to live your own life, yes or no? It starts like that, you have to take risks. You'll never discover freedom otherwise.”
The rest of the car ride passed in silence, Eren just playing his playlist for you while you noted down a few songs in your phone notes. Arriving near your building, Eren parked. You leaned towards him to give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Think about me a lot.”
“I always think about you,” you replied as you left the vehicle. Eren's eyes followed you until you disappeared into your apartment building.
────────
Eren had never experienced what it was like to be in love, so he was unable to realize that he was sinking into the abyss of love with you. Everything changed one Friday when he called you while you were working from home, weeks after your dinner at the restaurant.
“Rennie, I’m busy, you-”
Your voice stopped when you heard sniffles on the other end of the phone. Your heart tightened.
“Why are you crying?”
“That’s so embarrassing, forget that,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse before hanging up.
You stared at your phone for a few seconds, confused, before calling him back. He only picked up on the third attempt.
“What?”
His voice was harsh; you weren’t used to dealing with an Eren like this. You chose your words carefully.
“It’s okay, you can talk to me.”
“I need more than just to talk to you.”
You glanced at the clock high on the living room wall.
“My husband will be home in two hours, so if you have time to come…”
“Your husband this, your husband that,” he grumbled. “I’m tired of this shit.”
He hung up like that, but you knew he was coming. Thirty minutes later, he knocked on your door. When you opened it, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of his reddish-green, puffy eyes. They were still wet, as if he’d been crying throughout the car drive.
“Eren…” You wrapped your arms around him, trying to comfort him with your warmth. His body was stiff, his body suddenly harder than usual.
“I didn’t come for this.”
“Drop the tough boy act,” you chided him. “Hug me too.”
He let out a heavy breath and hugged you too, pressing you against his chest. People were leaving the apartments near yours, and a shiver of fear that someone would find out about your infidelity gripped you. You guided him inside your home, still cuddling him.
“My mom has become a prostitute,” he declared, his voice low, almost inaudible, as if he didn’t want you to hear what he was saying.
“What do you mean?” You frowned.
“There’s a man on the streets of Skid Row. He’s homeless, but he knows everyone in town. I asked him to watch my mom when I’m not there. He just told me she’s started selling her body to get more drugs.”
“Oh,” you breathed, the weight of his confidence heavy in your heart. “I’m really sorry, Eren. You did so much for her, and-”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity. I’m genuinely sad for you.” You tightened your arms around him. “Stop dismissing the emotions I feel for you.”
His heart raced, your cheek pressed just against the skin of his torso, as if your words had a special effect on him.
“I don’t know why I called you, I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me, Eren.”
“It’s just…” he began, his head lowering to place his mouth on the top of your head. “I felt like you would understand me better than my friends. Men aren’t the best at comforting other men.”
“You did the right thing.” You nuzzled his chest. “We’re friends, we should be able to be vulnerable like this with each other.”
A sarcastic chuckle escaped his mouth. “Right, we are ‘friends’...”
He sat on the sofa, carrying you with him so you could find your place on his lap. Your hands dived into his hair, stroking the soft dark locks, slicking them back to better gaze at his morose face. You tilted your head, your gaze locking.
“Why are you so…” You bit your lower lip, searching for the right word. “Grumpy when you cry?”
His lips twitched upward. “I’m not grumpy.”
“You basically called me a bitch on the phone.”
“That’s a reach.”
“Barely.” You wiped away the tears that continued to fall with your thumbs. “I don’t like seeing you like that. It hurts me when you cry.”
“You’re becoming too attached to me.” You didn’t need to know the feeling was mutual.
“Please.” You looked up in annoyance, and Eren smirked at your sass. “We have a deep bond together.”
“Do we?” He leaned over, his breath caressing your face.
“Don’t flirt with me when you’re crying.”
“I’m a versatile man.” He captured your lips in a deep kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Your tongues tangled together for a few moments in languid pace before the salty taste of his tears mingled with your passion.
“I’m just tired of everything,” he murmured. “I don’t even know why I care so much about my mom. I’ve done everything for her these past few years, even though her whole life has been drugs. Mikasa and I haven’t existed in her world since my father left.”
“Why don't you pay someone to take care of her?”
“Take care of her how? She tries to kill herself whenever she doesn't have her drugs. Do you think I'm happy leaving her alone on the street?” His face hardened. “They're writing articles about me, saying I'm abandoning my mother and letting her prostitute herself. They know nothing about my life.”
“You need to sue them, they have no right to defame you like that,” you informed, your voice firm, in your attorney mode.
“You're cute when you're like that.”
He rubbed his nose against yours.
“What are you doing?”
“An Eskimo kiss, didn't you know that?”
“Yes, I know.” You smiled. “I just thought you were too depressed for that.”
“Never too depressed for an Eskimo kiss.” He kissed you again. “I have to go to the studio to see Ony.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in worry. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“Of course not. I feel like shit, but I have no choice. My album is coming out soon.” He pulled his face back to look at you better. “Thanks for listening.”
Your eyes softened with empathy. “No problems, Eren.”
Your heart squeezed painfully as you let him leave your apartment, hands in the pockets of his jeans. You hoped the short time you spent together had soothed the ache in his mind.
In a way, you had succeeded, and Eren was grateful to have you in his life.
────────
Sitting in the waiting room, illuminated by the artificial lights above him, enveloped by the "antiseptic" atmosphere of the abortion center with its blue and white walls, Eren's foot twitched on the floor every few seconds. He bit his lower lip in a nervous gesture, his hands interlaced on his lap, his legs manspreading.
It was two months after he learned his mother was a prostitute. He did what he could to protect her, but it wasn't easy to control someone who dedicated their life to drugs.
One morning, you called him after feeling excruciating pain in your lower abdomen. Your husband was at work, and he accompanied you to the emergency room. Verdict: you were pregnant.
You weren't shocked by the news because for several weeks now, your husband had refused to let you take the contraceptive pill, considering it was the right time to have a child. You hadn't been able to verbalize the fact that you didn't want children for fear of reprisals.
Eren had volunteered to accompany you during the abortion procedure, secretly from your husband. He didn't want you to be forced into motherhood when you didn't want to.
You left the operating room with your head bowed, your left hand holding your right wrist, accompanied by the doctor. Eren immediately stood up to hug you. He knew this was difficult for you because of your religious beliefs, and wanted to show you that he was there for you.
He pressed a soft kiss on your forehead and intertwined his fingers with yours, guiding you toward the exit.
Outside, a group of pro-life people shouted insults at everyone leaving the building, holding fetus signs. You flinched and stared at the ground until you reached his car.
“Don't listen to them, they don't know anything about your life.” He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
You leaned back in the seat, your expression somber as you looked at the road.
“Eren, I think we should stop seeing each other.”
He paused, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at you, his eyes searching for the humor in your gaze.
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“I've been committing nothing but sins since I've been with you. I don't recognize myself anymore.”
His heart ached at that. “Look, I understand what you mean. What we're doing goes against your beliefs. But that doesn't mean we should stop. It makes you feel good when I spend time with you, doesn't it? You wouldn't have agreed to the abortion if I wasn't there, right? I'm good for you. Tell me I'm good for you.”
His voice trembled towards the end, as if he was desperately clinging to something that might validate your unhealthy bond. His eyes implored you to confirm what he was saying. You looked away, your gaze lost through the window.
“I think I need some distance, Eren.”
The feeling of being abandoned once again by someone important pierced his heart, like a knife penetrating his organ. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, swallowing hard.
“Okay.”
────────
It had been a month since you and Eren had been in touch. Eren had a hard time getting used to the long days without speaking to you; he missed your sophisticated and polite messages. But he understood. Your life was complicated. He would wait for you to want to talk to him again when it was okay with you.
While he was chatting with his friends about the final preparations before his album release, which was next week, you called him. His heart leaped at the notification, and he rushed out of the studio to take the call. The moon lit up his face, framed by shoulder-length brown hair.
“Hey Rennie,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse from crying.
“What's wrong?” His voice softened.
“My husband is cheating on me. Funny, right? I'm doing the same, but I don't know why it hurts so much. I did everything for him, and this is how he thanks me?”
Eren sent a quick message to his boys, apologizing for leaving, and got into his car.
“Where is he?”
“At the house of the woman he's cheating on me with. He's been saying for weeks that he's going to the bar with friends, but I found some false eyelashes in his pocket. Probably a woman younger than me.”
“That's a good excuse to see me. I'll be right there.”
────────
Eren embraced you the second you opened the door. Kissing your forehead, his hands made soothing circles on your back as his heavy gaze looked over you.
“You need some dick to take your mind off things,” he murmured, his breath brushing your face as he caught sight of you crying, mascara running down your cheeks.
“Make me forget about this day, please.” You pressed yourself against him, your big doe eyes begging him to take you.
His eyes darkened, and he reached under your ass to lift you and carry you to your room.
He peppered your face with kisses during the short walk to where you were sleeping before gently setting you down on the bed. “What You Need” by The Weeknd played in the room, the playlist you'd put on to take your mind off things still playing. It was Eren's recommendation, and he was pleased that you listened to the songs he sent you.
“Don't you think the lyrics suit us well?” He removed your nightie and his own clothes, his hands caressing your flesh all over your body. The 'he's what you want, I'm what you need' filled the room with sensual notes.
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the frenzy of the sensation of his hands on your skin carry you away. You joined the singer in moaning when his fingers found your core to trace circles on your throbbing bud, his lips trailing feverish kisses down your inner thighs. When his fingers sank into you, curling inside to touch that spongey spot inside you, you arched your spine off the bed, your hands tugging at his hair.
After a month, you missed his dick. In a spoon position, Eren pressed his muscular chest against your back, his hands gripping your pudgy belly as he pushed his girthy inches through your wet folds. He buried his face in your neck, breathing softly as his hips brushed your ass with each of his deep thrusts.
“I missed this, ma’,” he whispered against you, his voice soft and husky.
“I missed you too.”
His hands moved up to knead your breasts while his mouth possessed every bit of skin exposed to it, inflicting torture on your neck. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he plunged in and out of you, his pace slow and gentle, like a secret intimate dance just for the two of you.
In the intimacy of the moment, Eren realized he couldn't let you go back to your husband. He squeezed your breasts forcefully, with greed. Only he could make you happy. Your husband didn't deserve you, and you didn't deserve to end your miserable life with a man who wasn't your soulmate like Eren was.
“You can't go back to him,” he mumbled. “Your place is with me. I'll be the most loyal man you've ever seen, and I'll support you in your dreams. No one will force you to have children; you'll be free and happy. You will be my christian older girl. I will take care of you.”
You flinched. “Eren, I already told you—”
“Told what?” he huffed. “That you're a doormat? I know, thanks. What I mean is, you don't need to stay like this with him. You could be fulfilled with me; I'll do whatever you want. I'll even pay you what it takes to open your restaurant in Cape Verde, just like you wanted.”
It's a good thing you weren't face to face because he couldn't see your eyes welling up.
“Eren, these are just dreams. I'll never achieve them. I'm stuck.”
“You're stuck because you choose to be. You're 33, aren't you tired of having your life dictated to you? Aren't you tired of not having a choice? Are you too scared to disobey your parents? Ask yourself how your inner child must feel about living a future she didn't even decide on.”
“You're mean, Eren.”
“I'm just telling the truth, baby.” He kissed the few tears that rolled down your cheeks. He rolled his hips just right, angled perfectly to brush your g-spot as his elbow was under your knee. Your sniffles mingled with your whimpers as pleasure shook you in intense waves. “Divorce your husband,” he murmured near your ear, his voice rapsy.
Your body shook. “Eren, I can't.”
“Why?” His lips wrapped around your earlobe, sucking it. You struggled to focus on the conversation.
“Divorcing my husband means denying me the life my parents want for me. I can’t do that to them, not after everything they’ve sacrificed for me.”
“So you’re going to accept painful pregnancies to please your parents when you don’t want children? Do you see yourself spending your days changing diapers and breastfeeding your babies? Being a housewife who does all the difficult chores around the house while your ungrateful husband comes home from work only to eat and sleep? Is that your future?”
Your heart gripped with dread as you visualized your everyday future. Losing yourself in motherhood was everything you feared.
“With me, you wouldn’t need to do that,” he continued, “I’ll only be happy if you are. You can be anything you want to be with me.”
“Eren,” you sniffled, “I told you I can’t.”
His jaw tensed. He lifted your leg higher and began to slam his hips against your ass with more harshness and aggression, making your cunt pulsate around him.
“Do you enjoy letting people walk all over you? Are you a masochist? Does it give you pleasure to suffer?”
“N-No…”
“So what? Why are you so attached to other people’s opinions?”
“I want my parents to be proud of me, they did so much for me.”
He looked up in annoyance.
“And I, I want you to be happy,” he rasped against your ear. “Even if it means disappointing your parents.”
You loved Eren so much. He was only interested in your happiness and didn’t care what others expected of you. If nobody had your back, you know Eren would. But your relationship was impossible, and he had to understand that. Even if the words hurt you, sounding false on your tongue, you had to say them.
“We're not a couple, we were only supposed to use each other. There's nothing deep between us.”
His heart squeezed painfully. A quiet, sad laugh escaped his lips.
“And to think I thought we were getting closer, you just see me as a booty call?”
“Eren, that’s not what I said—”
He pulled you out, getting up from the bed to get dressed. You sobbed as you watched him put on his jeans.
“Eren, please—”
He gave you a cold glare before leaving your room. “It’s your husband or me.”
────────
𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄
The room's dim red lights illuminated Eren's face, which was partially hidden by the hood of his black hoodie. Sitting on the brown sofa, manspreading, he listened to his interviewer ask him questions about his album.
“A lot of people are saying that you're one of the most influential rappers on the West Coast, but that your lack of a specific genre is your worst flaw.”
His lips quirked up. “They're kind of right.”
“You don't mind the critics from what I see.”
“You know, a woman that I really loved told me that God granted my wishes, and I should be grateful. So that's the mindset I'm building my career with. Haters can talk, but as Jay Rock said, ‘you ain't gotta like it 'cause the hood gone love it.’”
“Is this the same woman you talk about in your track ‘Poetic Justice’?”
Eren's jaw tightened a bit, but he nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much all my recent music is about her now.”
“What inspired you to write that track? It's very sad.”
“It's about us, so of course it's sad. We didn't have a happy ending.”
“I sense a lot of anger in you, am I wrong?” The interviewer offered a kind smile.
“A bit,” he let out a sigh. “I still resent her.”
“Do you want to talk about her?”
“I don't really know what more I can say about her. She was a woman I loved very much, but love isn't enough sometimes.”
“A lot of your fans were surprised that you talked about a girl. You're kind of seen as a nonchalant artist who's never had a girlfriend before.”
“I'm still surprised that I was attached to her. It wasn't planned.”
“I hate when rappers are mysterious like this, tell us more!”
His lips curved into a smile. “I have a reputation as a nonchalant guy to keep up.”
The interview ended thirty minutes later. With a quick car drive, he arrived at Connie's house. He gave handshakes to all his best friends before sitting down on the couch and lighting his blunt.
Marvins room by Drake played in the living room.
“Fuck that nigga that you love so bad
I know you still think about the times we had
I say fuck that nigga that you think you found
And since you picked up
I know he’s not around.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about you. It's been 3 years since he was in contact with you. He felt like you were a drug and he was going through withdrawal, his hands itching to check your Facebook account and see how you were doing and how capable you were of putting on a fake smile for those around you.
His eyes fluttered open, and he opened the Facebook app, having created an account solely to stalk you. Your twin daughters were now two years old. Everyone complimented your daughters, saying you were cute, just like their mother. Only he knew you must have cried every night.
Drake's son ended so that "Too Fast" by Sonder filled the room.
“Tell me what I got to prove
(While I was working)
I don't mean nothing to you
(I hope you're hurting)
You ain't got nothing to say
(While I was working)
You're too good at walking away
(I hope you're hurting).”
He didn't want you to suffer. He hoped you would always think of him the way he thought of you.
It was him or your husband.
And every day, he mourned the day you chose your husband.
──────── ✃- - - - - - - - - - - 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 ── .✦
𝒮𝑌𝒩𝒪𝒫𝒮𝐼𝒮 ⨾ no matter how vast his patience, you always manage to find the end of it. but suguru has the sweetest way of breaking a brat.
𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝒜𝐼𝒩𝒮 ⨾ ( 3.5k+ ) words of . . . nsfw, getō suguru x bratty!reader ( hyperfeminine & black coded ), curse-free au, set in modern japan ( may 2018 ), established relationship, size difference, soft dom / brat tamer sugu ( the duality of man lol ), mentions of cunnilingus & fingering, light slapping / clit slapping, folded missionary, tummy bulge, mating press, overstimulation, eventual creampie, use of pet names ( e.g. papa, baby, sweetness, princess, etc. ), explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo!
𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓁ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇.ᐟ ⸻ at long last, i’m posting my first suguru fic ever >.< my love, my muse, my gorgeous male wife!!! i think about this man relentlessly, and the best way to channel it is by pouring my heart into this nasty little piece of work for him (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈) this is only the beginning of many more getō fics to come! now please enjoy, and thank you so much for reading! ❤︎
𝐼𝒩𝒮𝑃𝒪 𝑇𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒦.ᐟ ⨾ sell me candy, rihanna ⨾ right and a wrong way, keith sweat ⨾ whatever you want, tony! toni! toné! ⨾ the town, the weeknd
getō suguru’s universe begins and ends with his princess — his sole, decadent fixation. for him, breathing is simply a rhythm meant to keep him alive long enough to spoil you. he moves through the world guided by one sweet, all-consuming obsession: you.
his absolute conviction is that his entire existence was designed to anticipate and deliver your every need — like how he instinctively knows when your spirit yearns to be held, protected . . . or pleased.
there’s this warm gravity in the way he gathers you in his arms; all thick and firm and devastatingly strong. every peak of muscle is concealed beneath the loose, baggy knit of his oversized sweater as his forearms fold completely around your middle.
suguru catches onto all of it, tracking every unvoiced desire that passes through your mind — the way you want your pillowy lips kissed, your waist caressed, your ass grabbed and kneaded in his big, wide palms. it’s all confessed in how you adorably shift, wordlessly nuzzling further into the crevice of his solid chest. he smells of rich sandalwood, smoky traditional incense, and the dewdrops of light spring rain.
it’s an all-day, everyday luxury, being loved by a man who predicts your every want. whenever you ramble about needing a new piece for your wardrobe, he listens with a quiet, indulgent smile before grabbing his keys to start the car for the mall. the very second the quiet rumble of your stomach catches his attention, he’s already drifting into the kitchen, gathering ingredients to whip up a rich, creamy bowl of your favorite white pasta.
he’s the truest provider, down to the very marrow of his bones. even when — especially when — ovulation turns into a throbbing, unbearable ache, and you find yourself craving him more than you can possibly bear, he never fails to take perfect care of you.
suguru stretches you out, sliding in with the circumference of two thick fingers that move in a slow, sweetly maddening deliberation. the sensation builds until he dives and buries his pretty face between your plush thighs, suckling tenderly while you gasp out shakily strung syllables that are meant to shape his name.
but filling you up with sweetness only makes you reckless, turning your soft satisfaction into attitude, entitlement, appetite — until you completely forget where his indulgence ends and his authority begins.
that’s why, even with such a patient, nurturing heart, suguru can be so, so mean when he chooses to be. or perhaps, it’s just that you’re . . . too fucking brattish.
it’s an addictive cycle, the way you endlessly push your luck — becoming greedy with what he gives, cumming without permission, and breathlessly demanding more. he knows exactly when that lack of inhibition needs to be nipped in the bud, and he’s never afraid to resort to a little discipline. suguru loves to spoil you, but he thrives just as much on absolute control.
the second you get too pushy, you show him that he’s spoiled his princess far too much. it’s a rather advantageous mistake, because the sudden, smoky flash of deep indigo in his narrow eyes tells you he’s more than ready to remind you exactly who you belong to. his sweet affection shifts instantly into something darker, so thick and inescapable. he never raises his voice, no — he simply needs to apply the right amount of unyielding pressure:
and it comes in the form of a mean tug at the pretty spirals of your curls. his thick fingers entwine with the pattern, mercilessly tilting your head back to claim your mouth in a deep, bruising kiss, swapping spit until your defiance melts completely on your tongue.
“you're getting a little too bratty for your own good, sweetheart,” he hums against your swollen lips, tugging a little harder on the bunched root at the soft texture of your hair with one large hand, while the other moves up to meltingly squeeze your puffed, pouting cheeks.
to that, you whine, peering up at him from the helpless angle he’s got your head tilted in. your vision swims with nothing but him, imposing and broad like that of a dark-winged angel. you’re quick to try and refute him, tapered pearly-pink nails sinking desperately into the thick, dense meat of his biceps.
“mmph, shuguru! —am not!”
“you are.”
the heavy warmth of his palm meets your cheek in a firm, deliberate pat — a sudden reminder of who you belong to. it isn't meant to hurt, it never is, but it’s just enough to shock the breath right out of your lungs. a delicious pulse instantly rushes straight to your pooling cunt, leaving you with shifting thighs and an aching throb.
“just . . . listen to me.” he watches with a low, satisfied hum as your big, glimmering pupils instantly dilate from the impact, before his large thumb sweeps slowly over your skin to stroke the very cheek he just pawed.
“open up.” suguru claims you without warning, his mouth dropping back down to steep your lips in a deep, wet, melting lock. the slather of his pink muscle slides heavily between them, effortlessly parting you to pry out every ounce of your sweetness. he tongues you open and swallows your mindless sounds, absorbing every sugary, breathless whimper like this one kiss is his most prized indulgence.
when you finally break away in search of oxygen and he leans in to lick after you, a thin, glistening thread of spit lingers between your lips, stretching and snapping as he shifts his broad frame over yours.
suguru follows up with a deft, slow yank, peeling down your gossamer-thin, cotton-candy pink leggings; exposing the lush, supple curve of your round butt to the heavy warmth of his large palm. it connects with a resounding smack, one that brings about his serene, pearly grin, followed by a couple of firm, melting slaps directly over the wettening spot of your mesh, frill-adorned panties whenever you start to writhe too much for his liking.
“keep still for sugu. m’kay, princess?” he murmurs sweetly against your neck, keeping your clothed, needy clit entirely trapped beneath the relentless patter of the thick span of his splayed fingers. he lingers there for a torturous second, letting the friction build a warm, melting pool that completely soaks into your panties. every sweet tap of contact sends a sharp yet delicious ache straight to your core, holding you entirely captive until the exact moment he abandons all that remains of his faux restraint — he doesn’t like it when you call it that. though, you know he’ll end up devouring you regardless.
with an eager, breathless haste, he strips away the last of your barriers — the threaded seam of your creamy-pink camisole, your lacy little panties, his dense fall sweater — until not a thing remains. his irises, dark and orchid-purple, melt into a sweet softness as they drink in every rich, delectable bare curve of your warm brown skin. he scoops you into the comforting span of his steady hands, savoring how incredibly soft and perfectly molded you feel against him.
suguru dips low, lower, until the inky silk of his long black hair spills free from its loose half-bun; cascading over his broad shoulders as he bends his head to bury himself in the crook of your neck. the fine, glossy midnight strands drape down like a cool wave against your feverish skin, tickling mercilessly against the sensitive line of your exposed jugular.
he then languidly takes hold of himself, fingers gliding with every stroke to the base, groaning lowly at his own lazy touch. you let out a soft, appreciative mewl as you watch him. the heavy, teasing tap of the crown of his bobbing cock is dropped right over your pearly bud. warmth and slick spreads he rests the weighty underside upon your clit, even as it pulses for him.
“mm, you're so beautiful, baby . . . let papa look at you,” he gives you the calm flash of his slow, familiarly cattish smile, “i wanna take care of every little thing you need.”
with a final, bone-deep push, suguru delivers a sweeping thrust that melts right through you, driving all the way to your sticky hilt. he tilts his strong hips at just the right angle, plunging deeper into your squelching walls. a saccharine, breathless sound escapes you once he’s successfully filled every last inch of you with dick. stretched so nicely by the intrusion, you rake your precisely filed french tips down the cream-smooth expanse of his broad back.
he settles inside your warmth and rests perfectly still, cock throbbing softly while your trembling thighs bracket the tapered slope of his waist. his sharp violet eyes roll back at the delicious, fluttering squeeze you make around the girth of him.
“mm, s-suguruuu,” a syrupy plea drips from you, knowing he drinks up the sweet sound of your begging. “p—please move, papa . . . you promised you’d make me cum—”
“god, i spoil you too much.” a heavy, almost helpless sigh breaks out of him just before he surrenders completely to your successful pleading. he intended to discipline you, he truly did — but when you're underneath him like this, pussy wrapping around his cock so deliciously tight, staring up at him with expectant glossy eyes and milky-pink gloss-pouted lips, your breasts swaying as your chest heaves from the lingering burn of having to swallow every thick inch of him . . . getō can no longer help himself.
and so, he establishes a relentless rhythm that steals the breath straight from your lungs. every firm drive of his hips echoes densely throughout the atmosphere, like that of a warm heartbeat thump, thump, thumping hard enough to dissolve you entirely against the soft fibres of the cottony futon.
“oh, s-suguru, you're sooo — fucking big,” you coo against the strained cords of his neck, peering down through tear-blurred lashes to watch the thick, heavy shape of him moving so visibly against the pudge of your lower belly. “mmfuck, you feel so good, it's so much . . . l—look, papa, you’re making a mess of meee . . .”
an intoxicating shade of midnight floods his violet eyes, smogged into a blown-out haze of amethyst. tracking your tear-blurred gaze, getō doesn't only look — he reaches down with a heavy, calloused hand, pressing its warmth onto your skin until the width of it covers your stomach, his broad palm flattening right against the thick swell of his own intrusion moving beneath his fingers.
“fuck. fuck, baby . . .” suguru rasps, a gravelly vibration that rolls from the depths of his chest straight against the delicate clavicle of your collarbone. his fingers splay wide, mapping out the delicious way your skin stretches to accommodate him.
“look how deep I am inside you . . .” his thumb traces the distinct swell under your skin. “I can feel it — god, I can feel it. you’re taking every inch of me so well, sweetness . . .”
irregardless to his sugary words of praise, suguru is malicious in the way that he doesn’t allow you even a mere second to gather your breath before his hips tilt sharply, plunging into you with a new, utterly ruthless tempo. such a shoving grind has the swell of his twitching balls pressed completely flush at your helplessly tight pussy until he’s bottomed out against the dripping hole of your slit.
the sheer friction of him sliding all the way in makes your mind fracture into pure, sizzling white noise. his large hands move from your stomach to grip around the soft span your full thighs, bruisingly tight, pinning them right back against your chest to open you up even wider, forcing you into a position where you have no choice but to take him to the absolute hilt as he pounds you sore.
“you want me to fill you up? hmm, sweetness?” he murmurs, his voice a velvety, breathless growl that bleeds straight into your lips as his hair-dusted pelvis knocks against your sensitive bud. his fingers creep down to rub at it, quick and pressured just the way you like, and he revels in the sweet pitch of your feeble scream. “then stay just like this for me. don’t you dare run from it."
the heavy grind of his hips dissolves into a dizzying, frantic pace, the wet friction of your bodies meeting echoing ever so lewdly through the otherwise quiet room as the white quilt of his floor-mattress bunches up beneath you. getō’s chest heaves, his firm peaked nipples brushing the pebbling nerves of your own sensitive ones, breasts full and smushed against the solid wall of him; no matter how your body instinctively flinches from the intensity of the feeling.
he finds sanctuary in the soft slope of your neck, burying his face into the crook of it; inhaling the sweet, sweat-slick scent of your kiss-peppered skin. he can feel the impending pleasure wash over you — your writhing body gradually tensing to a tight, trembling coil beneath the sheet of his own weight.
“sugu—ah, s-suguru, i’m gonna . . !” you cry out, and the fractured wail shoots straight to his aching cock as he fucks you through the approaching high of it. you claw blindly at his broad shoulders, leaving shallow crescents in the smooth skin while your vision spots into a teetering suguru-shaped blur.
the rhythm grows unrefined as his thrusts turn heavier, sloppier, sliding with a slick, heavy nudge of his fat mauve tip to your tender cervix that completely overstimulates your senses. every wet, desperate push into your gushing cunt sparks a current of blinding electricity straight to the nerve-endings of your poor little cockdrunk brain.
your legs tremble uncontrollably where he’s got them pushed up as you drown in the splitting fullness of him. one more pound is enough. a broken, pitched wail is pulled straight from your lungs as your release finally hits — a sweet, crashing wave of a climax that ripples through every nerve of your strung body.
“mm—oh! ohhh, god, suguru,” a futile sob escapes you, your breath coming in shallow, desperate hitches; all as your sadist of a boyfriend eases his full, calculated weight down upon you. he keeps the flat of his palms pressed firmly against the backs of your thighs, ensuring your tautly folded legs remain secure at your buzzing-hot ears as you gaze up at the ethereal sight of him.
“gonna cum, princess,” he grits out a low, strained warning. you brace yourself for the splash of a thick load, eager for the warmth of his seed to claim you completely from the inside out; instead, amidst the blended haze of your orgasm and anticipation alike — suguru pulls out, drawing back enough to jerk his hard cock in an open palm, swirling hastily over the tip until thick ribbons of his cum spurt onto your soft breasts, trembling abdomen and spread thighs — everywhere except for the one place you wanted him.
“suguruuu . . .” you whine, tears threatening to spill over your damp lashline. “w—why’d you pull out?” your sniffle almost has him regret it. “wanted you to fill me up s-so bad . . ugh, you’re always so mean to me . . .” you continue to whimper, cry, ball up your fists to thwack against his chest, all of the above — all the while asking how he could be so, so, mean.
getō strokes himself casually, his eyes dark as he watches you tremble on the futon. “mean, huh?” he echoes in amusement. the audacious man kneeling before you can only bring himself to laugh. peering down through his long black hair, his voice drops to a velvety rasp.
“I was nice enough to let you cum.” he murmurs, stroking down his throbbing shaft before lining the head of his cock with your terribly empty hole. he groans at the sight of you, spread and dripping for him, all as he readies himself to push right back inside your welcoming embrace.
“maybe you’ll earn mine, sweet girl. only if you’re good this time.”
a breathless hiss escapes him the exact second he reunites with the sweet constriction of your walls; the snug intensity of your cunt hugging every pulsing inch of him without even the grace of a mere refractory period.
there’s absolutely no downtime to save either of you from your ebbing orgasms — not when suguru drags you right into another staggering round that leaves both of your bodies trembling uncontrollably. it's pure, mutual overstimulation from the very first sink he made back into you, and he was more than aware that every movement after would be unbearable.
his sculpted, porcelain body shudders violently against yours, his breath coming in ragged grunts into the soft, damp, curling edges of your woven hair. broken sounds draw from your lips, and his residual cum spattered onto your chest smears beneath your dainty hands as you knead your own boobs restlessly, head thrown back while you shake beneath him. suguru trembles with every thrust, rendered just as undone, because he knows damn well that neither one of you are bound to last any more than the next few seconds that follow.
“c—can’t . . nooo, sugu — i can’t t-take it,”
catching wind of you mewling his name so sweetly is what brings him to the absolute brink. getō, in all his entirety, goes completely rigid, the muscles in his broad back locking up like stone as he delivers one, two, three more deep, devastating thrusts that bottom out entirely against the seam of your sopping pussy, stretching you so beautifully that the airiest moan is pulled straight from the depths your lungs.
trapping you beneath the magnificent alabaster of his firm chest, his strong arms, his encompassing love, he pins your writhing hips hard against his own, binding you to him; all while the very universe narrows down to the sweet, awaited moment he finally groans your name aloud and spills over inside of you.
“hold it for me,” he gasps against your sweat-warmed skin, his voice a ruined, trembling whisper as his pulse drums erratically within the hollow canal his gauged ears. he catches hold of your face once more, wearily squeezing your cheeks between the large pads of his fingers as to press your lips into the perfect, sugar-pouted shape for him to kiss.
a low groan is pulled from him as his mouth slants over yours, grinding his hips deep and fucking you full of his warm, syrupy cum with every slick, desperate suck and lick made against your tongue.
"look at me, baby . . gave you what y’wanted — hnngh, t-take it all, right now . . .”
he said you’d have to be good — yet you know deep down in your heart that your desperate, messy whining didn't earn a single thing. you were completely, entirely bad for him. crying and twisting beneath his weight, begging to milk him until he gave into you. but the truth's as simple as the act of sex itself:
at the end of the day, no matter how spoiled you are or how hard he tries to punish you, your boyfriend simply can’t bring himself to deny his princess, his sweet baby — his spoiled, little brat.
𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝒜𝐼𝒩𝒮 ⨾ ( 4k+ ) words of . . . nsfw, eren jäeger x fem reader ( black coded ), eren is german/turkish, he speaks a looot of german, established relationship, pussywhipped!eren, linguerotics, rennie’s tatted, size kink, missionary, mating press, spanking, light choking, biting, creampie, use of pet names ( e.g. angel, princess, schatzi, papa, daddy, etc. ) explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo!
𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓁ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇.ᐟ🪽 ⸻ based off this ask! i wrote this in one sitting so pls bear with me lol >.< i've just been feelin oh so sappy in loveee for eren lately, and the thought of him groaning broken german into ur ear . . wow i think i just creamed ooof lord . i highly recommend using a translate feature as you read! overall, i'm super excited to officially dive back into AoT with this piece yayyy! it's a lil something sweet for ‘ren’s belated birthday until the real treat finishes baking! thank you so much for reading, and please enjoy! ❤︎
𝐼𝒩𝒮𝑃𝒪 𝑇𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒦.ᐟ ( ♫ ) angel, the weeknd ⨾ too deep, dvsn ⨾ do it well, dvsn ⨾ spontanverkher, and one ⨾ touched by an angel, lloyd
when it comes to love, eren is vocal. he finds it to be the most beautiful language, unspoken yet understood through warmth, heart, touch. that’s what make it come easy to him.
despite his many tongues, he isn't a man who lingers over words. not deliberately, at least. there isn't any careful scripting to the way he speaks, no rehearsed cadence meant to charm or ensnare. and yet, somehow, he always knows what to say.
he knows. that exact murmur that'll settle warm against your ear, low and smooth when he instructs you to stay close, hold onto him, spread your legs wider, arch your back further . . . he knows, the subtle shift in tone that sends a ripple down your spine, the kind that makes your body listen. his voice moves through him without thought.
when considering his mother tongue, though, you almost feel as though he avoids it with you. eren doesn’t go out of his way to shape his tongue around german, not when he knows the meaning would be lost somewhere between his lips and your understanding. he never makes any deliberate attempt to impress you with a language you can't follow. he speaks to you in ways you will understand, in ways that settle easily into you, invoke your pretty smile.
it’s his pet names that linger instead— sounding all soft and familiar, worn warm from use. the ones he returns to without thinking, like second nature. schatzi. simply sweet. ever so precious. the word curls from his mouth with an ease that feels almost absentminded, yet never careless. and liebling, his favorite, his darling. it’s usually spoken quieter, closer, like it belongs to you and him alone.
those are the few words you come to know. not by translation, but how they’re given. by the way his voice lowers around them, the way they brush against your skin like something tangible.
mixed by blood, eren's heritage lives in the small details about him more than anything else; his cadence, his features, his mannerisms. he doesn't necessarily talk about it. his tongues, german and turkish, live elsewhere. like in fleeting moments on the phone with his family, voice softened with a familiarity different from the kind he shows you.
it's admirable, how effortlessly he slips into the rhythm of home when catching up with his mother and father. you hear it only then, in fragments and tones, something distant. you try to glimpse into that part of him, but he leaves it unshared.
it isn't that your boyfriend withholds any aspects of his life, or his culture, from you. rather, he lets untranslatable words fall as they come, shaped more by his feeling than intentionality. there's a certain intimacy in that. he thinks that you don't have to understand every syllable to feel the weight of it.
because with him, it's about how it lingers in the space between you long after the words have fallen away.
you know eren doesn’t make much use of deutsch in his everyday life, no. it remains tucked away as the one thing he doesn't reach for, but something that exists all the same. and maybe, that's what makes it all the more enticing, when it surfaces in the moments his control finally begins to slip.
it’s in those instances, when his breath grows uneven and composure frays at the edges, that something from deep within him begins to rise unbidden. words he doesn't consciously choose, tones he typically wouldn't shape, leaving him in a low, broken lilt. there's nothing intentional about it, just the rawness of instinct when the sensation is so overwhelming that he can't help himself any longer.
and in that unraveling, there's something disarmingly sensual. not just the act itself, or the hot slide of his hands when he touches you, but a side of him that can't be hidden away, revealed only when he's too far gone to hold it back.
"scheisse!"
it slips out of him without warning. his mind’s so muddled by the way your dewy walls squeeze his cock that he doesn’t even think to translate. he’s drawn fully into the hilt of your gushing pussy, his presence heavy both in-and-outside of you. he's got you splayed out on your back, displayed ever so beautifully, soft textured hair fanning out on the pillows, like that of a halo. how fitting, for his precious angel.
eren has you tucked under the breadth of him and slovenly folded into missionary, your body immovably pressed beneath the heat and heaviness of his imposing frame. his attention narrows on you, you, you, until nothing else seems to exist outside of it.
your trembling leg is held in his left palm, secured at the pit of your knee as he guides it up against your shoulder as a means to fucks deeper into you. his other hand rests hot upon your waist, grip tightening whenever you react, kneading at warm brown flesh whenever you clamp down on him. he's unrelenting with how he draws out, plows in, does it again, again, again. dense clapping resounds in hollow echoes throughout the dim-lit bedroom of his paradis-city penthouse.
"e—ren! eren, erennn,” his name falls fractured from your lips, each syllable hitching as it leaves you. he hears it, and something in him shifts. a slow, unmistakable reaction that pulls at the corner of his mouth before it fully settles into a smile. it spreads wide, brazen and sharp in a way that looks as feral as he feels; all teeth, cutting sharp and boyish across his face, features drawn tight with ardor.
pleasure has already taken hold of him; face flushed, sweat gathering and rolling in narrow paths down his skin. his dark manbun sits slightly undone at the base of his head, loose strands slipping free to cling to his temples and the nape of his neck, his tattooed body damp with the same heat that coats him. his brows, thick and dark, knit tightly together, while his bright-teal eyes stay intense and wild, fixed on you with a look that doesn’t waver. you’re his maker and weakness alike, the only thing holding his focus together as he unravels for you.
"komm schon, engel," eren dips low, his large frame folding over yours, shoulders rounding as he closes the space between you, brushing the plush of your lips with his own. "hngh, wha—?" you whine against his mouth, needing of clarity. his breath is warm and close when he murmurs, earnest for a taste of your lips, "küss mich."
you don’t fully comprehend him, but eren closes the gap regardless, until there’s nowhere left for your voice to go but into him. his large hand lifts up, cups your jaw nice and steady, tilts you upwards just enough to meet him as he presses his lips to yours. firm at first, then deeper, more claiming than it is gentle. when he pulls back, it’s only by a breath’s width, enough for the curve of his smile to linger against your mouth.
his hips take to a slow roll, grinding into yours so sweetly. the rounded end of his hard cock nudges the inner pudge of your softest spots, with the lean ridge of his pelvis brushing over the sensitive peak of your clit. the both of you hold no inhibitions, breaths pouring into each other's mouths in uneven waves, panting and moaning with not a sound refrained.
him and you, you and him, him in you. all sense becomes lost in a heated slew of sloppy strokes and the wettest kisses. he's making such a mess of you; stealing your breath, bruising your flesh, fucking stirring your insides.
for eren, countless sensations begin to merge. your velveteen walls are clamping down, tight, on his pulsing dick, dripping and sobbing all over the length of it. then there's the way you cling to him, just ferocious. the powder-white arch of your fresh nails do well at drawing fiery marks down the broad plane of his tatted back. his olive skin is warm and damp under your palms, glowing sheen with a film of sweat.
your breath brushes against the reddening shell of his pierced ear, sounds uneven and soft in a way that makes him grow impossibly harder. eren responds in kind, groans amplified, his hold at your waist tightening just enough to keep you anchored to the you-shaped dip in his king sized mattress. you're so pretty, so perfect; behaving so well that all he wants to do is just give you more.
so he does.
"shh, lass mich einfach . . stillhalten." eren’s hands span down your shaking thighs, dancing around around your calf until they close around both of your ankles. his fingers wrap fully, thumbs rubbing circles while the rest of his grip adjusts you without effort. he translates what he knows you didn't catch, "don't move."
eren shapes the physical space between you, and he continues to bend you at angles until the right silhouette is captured. he brings your knees toward your shoulders, folding the form until thighs press firmly against the core of your tummy. shifting his weight low, he transitions into a deep squat, strong thighs flexed as he assumes the position of sitting on his haunches, all without pulling out of you.
with the new vantage, he drives forward and plunges into the tightness of you with sudden, intense momentum that draws the sharpest, most involuntary cry from your lungs— a sound that brings a knowing smile to his face. eren frees self-satisfied laughter, for he always manages to pry out the very reaction he sought to provoke. he finds your body familiar. so easy to mold, too easy to play with.
"ffuuuck! p-please, papaaa, please—"
his response comes rippling out as an unintended growl, sourced from the depths of his chest, and the bass of it makes you clench helplessly around him. with every surge, every thrust forward, he loses another piece of his restraint. an especially taut squeeze of your soaked pussy is all it takes for his snark to dissolve into total surrender.
"fuck . . du bist so eng," his words grow reckless to match just how you undo him. he rambles on about just how tight you are, freeing terribly desperate praise and german incoherencies. he's too far gone to realize he'd even switched languages. frankly, eren doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, and you sure as hell don’t either. it’s hard to follow when he’s digging you out like that; hips slamming down, the fat of his balls clapping against the seam of your ass with every thrust.
more foreign words tumble from his lips— dark, guttural, yet somehow melodic, leaving you in a haze of both lust and confusion. despite it, your body understands the intent perfectly. the way you arch into him, cunt swallowing every known inch of his dick whole, slick walls clamping around him like a desperate vice, tells him everything he needs to know.
eren finally seems to be returning to himself, eyes clearing as he grows aware; and with that, comes the teasing. another predatory smirk pulls at his mouth as he realizes just how cockdrunk he’s made you, sensitive even down to the veins that drag within you. and so, he draws out the friction, slows his pace to an agonizing crawl, buries himself into you with impossible depth.
each heavy thrust knocks at your cervix and prods at the very limit of you, blunt and demanding, as if he’s trying to leave his mark on your very soul. he's so all-consuming that the heady scent of his skin and the licking heat of his salt-slicked body fills your lungs. you’re crying, you think, unsure as to when it started. all you know is you’re breathing him in, tasting the raw, primal edge of him with every gasp and tear you choke on.
"aww, poor baby,” he croons, tone darkened with condescend, “macht dich das an, schatzi?" he murmurs, the grunted slew of german humming against your skin. he’s asking if it turns you on— the suddenly rough shift into his mother tongue, and though the meaning of his words escape your mind, you can only nod helplessly, teeth sinking into the swell of your spit-streaked lip as a flush burns across your chest.
"feels good, yeah? i'm fucking you so deep, aren't i? mm, c'mon, angel . . . talk to me, talk to daddy." he eases more of his weight onto your pressed frame, feeding you deep, languid strokes so slow you can hear the wetness sloshing.
"yeahhh, it's good, er-en . . hnn, feelssogood, d-daddyyy," his name tears out of you in a pulled shudder, the syllables breaking over one another. it’s the type of sound that invites his wolfish grin, curled with a special kind of satisfaction. his smile is purely predatory when he gets to hitching your leg up higher, rocking into you faster. the lewdness of unfiltered noise begins to swell throughout the room.
before long, you're both trembling over the pace he’s taken; his fingers twitching along your pushed-up thighs, while you're left grappling for purchase along his bulging, corded biceps, your fingers digging into the sinuous centipede inked across his firm rounded muscle. frantically, you cling to one another as the world outside seems to fade away.
eren leans in, ink-dark strands escaping his hairtie, feathering your neck, and cascading over his shoulder to curtain your faces. overzealous, he captures your lips with his own once more, silencing your soft sounds with a deep kiss that tastes as saccharine as love itself, wettened by the salted twinge of adrenaline. his moans tumble out of him helplessly once you get to licking at his tongue. he juts it out for you to suckle on.
the tension brews to a fever pitch. you’re close, and so is he.
"komm und hol mich," he wants—no, needs you to cum for him, pleads in breathless sounds so gritty that you can feel them pass through your bones. those bright-teal eyes, glassed over with brimming tears of pleasure, desperately lock onto yours. his touch is just as urgent.
eren brings the calloused pad of his thumb to your clit, each deliberate rub a targeted press that sends fresh jolts of heat spiraling through your tummy, makes your hips buck up into the onslaught. his breath comes out in ragged puffs as his fleshy, kiss-bruised lips meet your ear, grazing the shell, words unfamiliar yet sweet all the same. “komm auf meinen schwanz, bitte.” the vulnerable rawness of his voice is a love language all in its own. something in you knows to follow his command, even if the meaning is a mystery.
that building pressure low in your gut begins to coil, tightening into a concentrated knot that demands release. it’s a heavy, mercurial ache that pulses in sync with his movements, making your vision swim as you reach the precipice. your every nerve-ending screams for the sweet, sweet release that only his next deliberate strike can provide.
as for eren, his focus is simply fractured; hands moving with a restlessness that betrays how close he is to the edge. he lifts his free hand to knead and possess the soft weight of your right breast, his grip firm and demanding, before his fingers lift to heedlessly lace around your neck, as a means to keep you pinned in the middle of the storm of his movements.
that same grasp trails away from pressing your artery, slinks down, and squeezes a big, greedy handful of ass into one palm alone. he delivers one smack— two, three. the fourth leaves red in its wake, blooming faint along warm-brown flesh. he merely smiles when you mewl at him.
the combination he grants you is far too much, too fucking frantic; the stinging heat of his palm against your skin and the possessive weight of his hand at your throat leaves you feeling hazy and unmoored, your thoughts dissolving into a thoughtless, honeyed fog.
a few more of those slowed, plunging thrusts, paired with how nicely he toys with your puffy clit, is what finally shatters the dam and sends rolling waves of your orgasm to crash right through you. it washes over, heavy and thick, the feeling purely electric as it zips through the base of your spine all the way down to your tightly curled toes. your quivering legs lock around his lean waist as he fucks you through the height of it, dark-chestnut hair swinging over hunched shoulders.
"don't you let go yet— m'not done." eren rasps against your agape lips, voice a broken wreck. he taps your soft cheek in two firm pats when your eyes begin to flutter shut, peers at you through hooded eyes, forcing bitten words out through grit teeth, "look at me, schatzi," his fingers tangle into the soft, dense curls of your hair to tilt your head his way. "you came so fuckin' hard, tell me you felt that—shit! mm, p-please, baby . . tell me you’re mine."
you manage to open your mouth, try for an answer, but every brutal impact of his hips knocks the air from your chest, splintering your voice into meaningless little sounds. the rhythm of his pounding, loud and heavy, turns shaky and imprecise as he utterly loses the battle for control. you can see the strain in the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his breath hitching as he teeters on the edge.
eren frames your face with a sudden tenderness, his large hands encompassing either side of your head as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth itself. he pulls you in until your foreheads touch, eyes locking in a feral, heavy-lidded stare that teases at his release. you babble out his name with every sloppy knock of his hips.
your inner walls clamp down in a steady, involuntary pulse around him, and the friction becomes too much for him to bear. then comes a guttural sound, ripping straight from his chest, followed by a smaller, vulnerable whimper that echoes out, almost like a plea:
"scheisse, ich komme— fffuuuck!"
he jolts forward with an almost animalistic force, burying himself to the very hilt as the first warm, heavy spurts of his release spill free from his cockhead and into your awaiting womb. you feel him throbbing deep within your silken walls, the pulsing erratic as he stuffs your cunt with thick loads of his cum; emptying himself, filling you.
a hushed stillness sets over eren's thirtieth-floor apartment. all movement drifts to a weighty pause; until, eren eventually collapses his full weight onto you with a long, shuddering sigh. the solid, unyielding mass of him drives a soft huff out from your throat, pinning you into the charcoal sheets in a way that feels strangely grounding.
his inked forearms bind around you like vines, pulling your bodies flush-tight until there’s no room left between you. in turn, you drape your arms over the broad expanse of his back, your thumbs tracing soothing circles over the angry, reddened lines of the skin you tore.
"ugh— rennie, you're heavy."
"mmn." is his heedless response. you both lie there in a tangled, breathless heap of afterglow, your lungs working for shallow air as the adrenaline begins to recede. after threading through the dark, damp silk of his long hair, weaving and undoing braids in the same sitting, your arms finally loosen their hold around his nape. eren nuzzles his face into the soft swell of your breasts, the tip of his nose grazing the sensitive bone of your sternum as he seeks out your warmth.
a small, balmy laugh escapes you, the sound light and surreal against the dense, syrup-thick atmosphere. the air is heavy, saturated with the salt-sharp scent of skin, the musk of his cologne, the lingering sugar of your arab perfume, and the sweet, pungent tang of your collective release— a sensory memento of every orgasm you just shared.
"damn . .” the silence breaks around his voice, low and winded, “didn't think y’had a kink for that."
"hmm," you blink slow, the wisps of your curled lashes fluttering. "for what?"
"uh-uh, don't play dumb now," eren noses your jugular, tickling your neck with a nudge so fleeting you can’t help but break, a shy giggle bubbling up and out into the open. "could've just told me you wanted me to switch languages, princess."
“i didn't even know it was something i’d enjoy that much," you bite down on a drowsy laugh, manicured fingers lifting to idly twirl a stray, dark lock of his hair. you’re secretly glad his hair-tie snapped under the pressure.
"i like the way your brain just . . . shorts out when you hear it. makes you so . . ." a kiss, breaking the pattern of speech, is pressed to your upturned lips, so pink and soft.
“—much more," another, then a suckle to your jaw, "—responsive." there's a gravel-like texture to the sound of his teasing. "i don't think i've ever heard you get that loud before, baby.” eren hums aloud onto your skin, a low rumble of pure satisfaction that thrums low in his throat and vibrates against your chest.
he shifts his weight just enough to pepper wet, uncoordinated kisses along the sensitive expanse of your throat, his every movement sluggish with pleasure.
“verdammt gut,” he murmurs against your skin, testing the effect he has over you, simply wishing to witness how tightly you’d pulse around him in response. sure enough, he smiles to himself when you do, walls clamping down where he remains stuffed inside you. a whispered moan falls from you, eyes screwed impossibly tight.
his lips latch to your pulse as he mouths praises you don’t need to translate to understand. the meaning sounds as sweet as his kisses taste. “du bist so gut, liebling.” even though his brain's misted over with lust, and his dick is still warmly nestled deep inside you, he can’t help but nip playful marks into your flesh. you find yourself cooing at his affections, your fingers tangling in the deep-brown spill of his hair as you shallowly rock your hips onto his softening cock.
he mumbles more foreign little nothings into the damp, sweat-slicked crook of your neck, the tone so tender it feels like a physical caress.
“ich liebe dich so sehr, angel . . .” he breathes, the confession soft and embracing against your skin. it’s meaning is devotional, so unmistakable; he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.
the ardency of the past hour's lovemaking seems to evaporate, leaving only the two of you sinking in the cooling sheets. from the crevice of your chest to his broadened one, your hearts beat heavy against one another in a synced tempo.
with one last, lingering kiss to your collarbone, eren lets his heavy eyelids fall shut. the silence that follows isn't empty. instead, it’s full and warm, smelling of salt, sandalwood, and the raw fragrancy of his adoration.
the darkness of the room feels like a protective veil. in the stillness, with his warmth still grounding you and his scent filling your lungs, you finally let your own eyes close, drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep cradled in the arms of the man who loves you more than he has the words to say.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧. Onyankopon was a bit foolish to introduce his cute autistic sister—you—to Connie. You were a literal princess who deserved all his care. The most beautiful girl ever in his eyes, and he had no shame breaking Ony's rules to make you his girlfriend. Ony thought he had managed to protect you from his criminal friend, but for years Connie had been secretly coming at night to make love to you. Like tonight.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . 2.5k words, black!fem!reader, plus!size!reader, hyperfeminine nonverbal autistic reader, sign langage, hispanic!connie, plug!connie, fluffy smutty fic, established relationship, forbidden love, stoner!connie, tattooed!connie, pierced!connie, affectionate!connie, check ins, sensory seeking needs, hyposensitivity, ‘mami, baby, princesa’ pet names, feet kissing/toes sucking, fingering, cunnilingus, choking, vaginal penetration, missionary with legs on shoulders, kisses.
𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ . first mini connie fic, i wanted something cute!!!! i have a longer one in my wips, hehe… hope you will like this <3
The sounds of the game Detroit Become Human lulled Connie into a high. Even Eren's grunts when he made a choice that would negatively impact the story were like a sweet melody accompanying him as he floated, staring at the ceiling with glazed over eyes. Everything was perfect; he was so relaxed he wasn't thinking about the addicted clients he'd have to serve tomorrow, or how hard Ony would beat him if he knew how he was going to make his sister cum tonight.
He glanced down the stairs, alerted by your footsteps, as if you were divinely connected. His eyes followed you down with your tablet, wearing a pale pink leggings and vest set from I AM GIA. No one in your family knew, but Connie had bought it, and he felt hot just thinking you were wearing it on purpose because he was there. You looked like a pilates princess, and your vanilla scent filled the room as you approached your brother's group of friends, making Connie intoxicated, as always.
Everyone greeted you except Connie, who must play it cool as if his dick wasn't making regular in-and-out motions inside you at least four times a week. As if his heart wasn't beating, his body wasn't breathing for your beautiful, sparkling brown eyes.
You glanced at Connie, smiling shyly as if he were a stranger and not your boyfriend of several years. It was a shame your overprotective brother was in the room; you would have loved to get down on your knees to kiss the tattoos on his stomach and take his pierced dick in your mouth, turned on by his dark streetwear outfit, contrasting with your pink one. He looked like a bad boy, but the only bad guy here was Eren; Connie was a loverboy. He returned your small smile by discreetly patting the spot next to him. You sat down next to him, pleased because you thought he was looking at the drawings you were making on your tablet, but the truth was that Connie was staring at your thick thighs, which had tripled in size in your seated position. He remembered what it felt like to have them trembling around his head and adjusted his sweatpants so his erection wouldn't be noticeable. He took out his phone. You had to know.
“I want to be inside you.”
Concentrated in your digital art and oblivious to the tension, your stylus stopped drawing, your eyes rereading the message in confusion.
‘In a food, stabbing, or sexual way?’ You sent.
Connie giggled softly when he received the notification. You and your autistic brain that takes everything literally. Dirty talk was a pain in the ass with you.
“All three. Your beauty stabs me, I want to eat you up to have you inside me, and I want to fuck you.”
“That’s something Chikage from Hakuouki would have said.”
“Who is this nobody from another otome?”
“Speak of my husband with respect.”
“Your real future husband is right here, princesa,” he whispered in your ear. You shivered at the sensual intonation of his voice, as close as you were, your body overheating at the thought of tonight. You checked that no one was looking in your direction so you could sign “I hope so, but you know it’s not possible.”
Connie didn’t lose his sweet expression, still a playful glint in his eyes. He placed his hand on your thigh to grasp the soft flesh. “Ony will have to kill me with his own hands to prevent our future together. Even my spirit will haunt him. He can’t do anything to me.”
You quickly brushed his hand away, heat rising to your neck and burning your cheeks.
Your relationship consisted of three things: acting like goofy fools together, him playing the hero of forbidden romances, and him making love to you passionately and tenderly.
Being with Connie was like living a real rom-com, even though he was a drug dealer.
You were writing a new message. “I’m going to leave you, you make my head boil.”
He laughed softly. “Since when does my girl understand metaphors like that?”
You playfully punched him and signed “I’m not a walking autistic cliché.”
“Yes, you are. Look at what you sent me a few minutes ago.”
You ignored him and went back up to your room and once at the top of the stairs you gave him the finger and he just gave you his stupid smile with his red eyes because of the weed.
──────── 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭,
Connie walked into your room, immediately ripping off his hoodie and t-shirt and throwing them on the floor, revealing his fully tattooed chest and abdomen. Filled with designs you'd done, like the rose that started its stem on his hip and whose petals touched his ribs, the soft style of the tattoo contrasted with the harsh lines of the ink. But Connie loved it. It was like having you and him inside him, on him, for him.
'Heaven or Las Vegas' by Cocteau Twins played softly in your room as you sat at your vanity. The dream pop song made Connie, who was stoned out, drift even further into the psychedelic atmosphere. You detangled your hair with hair milk, separating it into four twists—two in the front on each side, two in the back—so it would be easier to manage tomorrow when you went to get your hair braided by your favorite braider, who didn't charge an entire month's salary for long knotless braids. Connie admired the goddess who was his girlfriend for a long time, licking his lips as he noticed you were wearing that Savage X Fenty pale rose nightgown, which was sheer, with a ribbon bow at the center of your chest.
“Mami, I missed you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around your neck and burying his face in your scalp, inhaling the scent of rosemary mint from your Mielle hair oil, castor oil, and shea butter from your Skala leave-in conditioner. He bought that one for you after seeing a TikTok about a Brazilian influencer with the same curl pattern as you recommending it.
With your hands manicured in a French manicure, you used sign language to communicate “We saw each other earlier,” with a roll of your eyes.
“I know, but I’m obsessed with my princess.” He kissed the back of your neck, his cuban accent adding charisma to his voice.
His desire, love, and passion for you, dripping from his voice, made you feel all giddy and fuzzy in your stomach. You smiled shyly at him in the mirror of your heart-shaped vanity.
“Don’t smile like that,” he said softly, almost desperately, his red eyes and dilated pupils even more affected by your little smile. “You’re so gorgeous in this.” He played with the thin straps of your nightgown. “But I’m sure you’re even prettier without them, aren’t you, baby?”
Shyly, you ignored his compliment and finished styling your hair before protecting it with your satin bonnet, the same color as your wardrobe, before getting up to hug Connie. Thinking he wanted to make love now, you led him toward the bed, but Connie spun you around.
Chuckling, you understood he wanted to dance and followed him, as the dream pop song stopped to make way for “Punch Drunk” by Sade. A wordless jazz track, purely instrumental, that made you feel like you were in an old jazz bar with your secret forbidden lover.
His hand on the small of your back, Connie made you dance, roaming around your room, laughing when you bumped into furniture because the space was small, kissing you when the saxophone was more intense than ever. He took advantage of the kisses to move his hands up and caress the voluptuous curves of your chubby body. Your fat ass, which he gripped even though you tried to push him away, the pudginess of your belly that he loved to feel under his fingers, and your ample breasts that rose and fell rapidly before him because of your barely concealed desire.
“Use your voice, what do you want?” he teased, knowing damn well you had nonverbal autism.
You glared at him and tried to push him away, but he threw you onto the bed.
“Aww, I’m such a bad boyfriend, I have to make amends for my crimes.”
He removed the rest of his clothes, keeping his black boxer briefs on for now. He stayed on his knees on the bed as you lay there, resting on your elbows.
You nodded at what he said and lifted your legs to place your French-manicured foot on the center of his collarbones. Connie smirked, knowing what you wanted.
He took your foot in his hands and kissed it all over, from heel to toe, appreciating the softness of your skin as you had just come from the shower where you had exfoliated. He wrapped his tongue around your toes, then sucked on them, his gray eyes fixed on you, a fire igniting from your core and spreading through your body.
You wanted this, you needed this. You gave him your other foot where he did the same, little shivers running through you at the movements of his tongue on your skin. Your breathing quickened as his lips moved up your leg, venturing under your nightgown. You couldn't see Connie because of your chubby belly, so you lay fully on your back, staring up at the ceiling. Not being able to speak or see him should have made your sex life difficult, but it was quite the opposite. Connie regularly checked for your consent and comfort; your nonverbal communication wasn't an issue. You tugged at his hair to let him know you liked what his tongue was doing, and you patted his shoulders to tell him to pause because the wave of overstimulation was near. As for the details—how fast or slow to use his tongue, which spot to lick—Connie paid close attention to your breathing and the way your thighs clenched around his head to gauge whether he was doing a good job.
“I’m gonna keep this on you,” he breathed, liking the lacy pink panties you were wearing. He pushed it to the side, his warm breath on your cunt, in need for attention.
The music switched to “Iceblink Punk” by Cocteau Twins, and the combination of the psychedelic sound and Connie’s tongue plunging into you was surreal. You felt like you were floating high in the sky.
Connie was truly gentle, slow, and calm when he was eating you out. Eating pussy was an art, and he was the Mozart and Shakespeare of the field. He took his time pleasuring you, smiling because even when you couldn’t speak; you didn’t fake your panting. The warm metal ball of his piercing kept rolling around your throbbing bud, just to feel your legs tremble, but his tongue explored every corner, collecting your arousal in his mouth. He was even disappointed you'd just showered, because it lacked flavor. He was a perverted loverboy like that, yeah.
Lapping through wet folds, he groaned every time he felt the pulse of your pussy in his mouth. His hands gripped your thick hips, making them grind against his face, to guide you, to show you it was okay to do that, because your autism sometimes made you a motionless robot during sex.
“You’re okay, baby?” he asked softly, reassured when you stroked his scalp to say yes.
After a comfortable rhythm of hip movements settled in, he removed his hands and sank his fingers inside you, all the while sucking your clit. A searing, burning sensation in your lower abdomen, almost setting your whole being ablaze, as you pulled at his short hair that had grown since his buzzcut to indicate to him that the combination was perfect.
When you reached your peak, there were no dramatic expressions or noises, just Connie nearly choking as you pushed your pelvic floor into his head and painfully squeezed your thighs around him.
“Still in a hyposensitivity mode?” he whispered, as he managed to pull away from your grip.
You nodded, catching your breath. Connie was always attentive to your autistic sensory needs, especially when you were in a sensory-seeking mode, or a mode where your sensitivity was low and you needed a lot of stimulation, like now.
He removed his underwear, nudging your entrance with his pierced tip as he laid down on you, putting all his weight on you. You were crushed by him, but it was perfect. To further satisfy your sensory needs, he wrapped his hand around your neck, squeezing comfortably. It was the perfect combination of pressure for you.
“No tits touching?”
You shook your head. Sometimes, you needed a lot of stimulation while simultaneously hating stimulation somewhere.
He leaned down to kiss your neck. “Okay, mami. Gonna take of you, now. Do you feel my piercing?”
He slid his pierced dick through the folds, still not entering for the moment. Your hands caressed his back, digging your nails into it to communicate that yes, you feel it, and you like it. He groaned, placing more passionate open-mouthed kisses on your skin. He pushed his hips, your warmth welcoming him like a king. He smiled against your skin hearing your usual gasp when his full size was inside you.
“Can’t handle these inches, huh?” he teased, sucking your earlobe. “You’re gonna take this dick anyway. Too bad for you, princesa.”
He leaned back to see your eyes widening every time he penetrated you. He moved his hips backward to let you breathe and pushed back in.
“Why is she wetter than usual?”
He looked at your slick cock, which covered his face with awe.
You pointed at his red eyes. His smile widened.
“Are you turned on by my stoner self? You’re so cute.” He kissed you, his tongue entwined with yours. You breathed softly into the kiss, overwhelmed by him, his dick, his affection.
He slipped his hands under your bent knees and placed them on his shoulders. The position you were in made it impossible for him to hide your belly rolls under your sheer nightgown. He looked terrifying with his low groan and his eyes dilated by weed and your beauty, staring at your curves as if he wanted to devour you whole. He wrapped his hand around your neck again, to your great pleasure. He increased the speed of his thrusts, panting above you, obsessed with the sight of your eyes rolling back when he touched a sensitive spot inside you.
A fever rose in your belly; you were embarrassed to come so quickly again, but every movement of Connie's was precise and deep, so he chuckled when he felt your legs clench his head once more.
He kissed your forehead.
“My baby is needy tonight.”
You nodded, cuddling him, pleading with your eyes to go even faster and harder.
He gladly spent the whole night taking care of you like he always does. Because that’s the thing about Connie: when his princess wants something, he’s going to give it to her. Even if his best friend, your brother, would kill him if he knew.
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