𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲

[krys4h]

𐔌 . ⋮ krystal .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ latina & west african. 21 yo.

𓂃۶ৎ 18+ blog. angst & emotional hurt. plug!eren's gf !

➽─────────❥ ⤷ ゛𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ˎˊ˗

black chubby reader #1 defender ::: long fics enthusiast ::: hyperfeminine autistic reader ceo ::: will use dream pop, shoegaze and alternative rnb lyrics as fic titles ::: love exploring different types of trauma & mental illness ::: will torture you with a sad ending ::: but can write fluff ! ::: accept specific requests ::: love u ♡

[otakufilms]

Donate to Help Me Keep My Apartment, organized by Aliyah Kemp

Hey, guys. I’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really gett… Aliyah Kemp needs your support for Help Me

hey, babies. i’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really getting serious for me, and i’m scared what’s going to happen in the next couple of weeks. as y’all know i was recently fired from my job about two weeks ago due to discrimination, and have been scrambling to find another job with no luck. i still have to pay my other half of rent before the end of this month, my light bill, + there’s still upcoming rent for August. i just moved into my apartment in April and never expected this to happen, and i’m so scared to already lose a place i fought tooth and nail to get in the first place. i just need a little extra help until i find another job (which i’m working my ass off to get as soon as possible.) anything is appreciated. PLEASE REPOST ! BOOST !

[ruesdeluxe]

[swytdoll]

cake! gross older man nanami who just can't help but find himself drawn to a pretty little waitress at his fav cafe🪽nsfw.

it started off simple, really. him keeping the receipts you gave him, etched with that vanilla scent you always seemed to carry in the air around you. his lips lingering on the coffee cup long after it was cold, just because he knew you’d placed your fingers on the lid. the way he specifically always paid in cash just to brush your hand when you handed him his change back. a discarded coffee cup, a stray hair from your coat, a forgotten grocery list.

and then, slowly the little things had turned into a need for something more, his desire growing with every little piece of you that was thrown his way. it started innocently enough, with him noticing the way you twirled your hair when you were deep in thought or the way your eyes watered when you laughed too hard. but soon, those small observations weren't enough. he began to follow you, learning your routines and habits. he knew which coffee shop you frequented, the exact time you left for work, and even the route you took to get there.

he would find excuses to bump into you, pretending it was just a coincidence. the thrill of seeing you, of being near you, became an obsession. he would spend hours looking at your social media profiles, scrutinizing every post, every comment, searching for clues about your life, your likes, your dislikes.

his behavior escalated further. he began to send anonymous gifts, leaving them on your doorstep or in your mailbox. at first, they were small and harmless—a bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates. but as his obsession grew, so did the intensity of his gestures. he would find ways to be closer to you, renting an apartment in your building, sitting at the table next to you at your favorite restaurant, always just out of sight but never far away. his need for you consumed him.

and he was greedy.

the smell of vanilla, the taste of coffee, the warmth of your hand- it wasn't enough. he wanted more. he wanted everything. you’d been so flustered when the handsome man had asked you on a date, oblivious to the fact that he'd been stalking you for weeks, memorizing your habits, your routine, all in an attempt to get you to notice him. oblivious to the way he’d jerked his stiff cock sore every night to thoughts of you, imagining that the hand around him was your pussy, imagining that the warmth seeping into him was you.

“watch me fuck you, c’mon beautiful, keep your head up.” slender fingers tipped your chin up, forcing your gaze away from the thick length that disappeared inside of you, slick squelching echoing throughout the room. your eyes were wide, pupils blown, cheeks flushed and jaw slack, whimpers falling from your lips, and god, you are fucking gorgeous.

you were absolutely perfect, and he couldn't help the groan that left his lips at the way your hole was stretching, trying to accommodate his cock. the way your eyes were wide with lust and shock and your pretty lips parted, soft moans leaving them, it’s all so perfect.

he wondered how many men had seen you like this. how many men had fucked this pussy and came inside of you, claimed your body and made you theirs. his lips curled into a sneer.

they didn’t deserve you. they didn't know how to treat a perfect girl like you, how to take care of you, how to fuck you right. you were so wet for him, and they didn’t deserve the chance to see you like this, so pretty and submissive, all fucked out and desperate.

you were his. his alone, his possession, and he was going to take such good care of you. he was going to show you how good it felt to be owned, how good it felt to be loved, and he was going to ruin every other man for you.

you were his and he was going to make you his.

and so, with that thought, he started moving, hips slamming into yours as his cock buried itself in your slick cunt. a sharp, high-pitched whine left your throat at the rough treatment, your eyes closing once again.

that wouldn’t do.

his hand gripped your hair, forcing your head up so you could watch him.

the way his cock disappeared into your stretched, wet cunt, the way his fingers dug into your waist and hips and thighs, the way his face was screwed up with concentration, jaw tight and eyes half-lidded.

it was so much, and it was so hot.

your cunt clenched, the pressure of his cock hitting all the right spots, and the way he was holding you down, the way he was fucking you so roughly, so hard and deep, the way he was watching you like you were the only thing in the world-

you couldn’t help it. you could feel yourself dripping onto the bedsheets below, and you couldn't tear your eyes away from the scene before you, and god, it was so much.

your eyes rolled back, the feeling of his cock hitting your cervix and his balls slapping against your clit sending you over the edge.

his cock twitched, the feeling of your pussy tightening and clenching around him sending shocks up his spine. the feeling was incredible, the way your walls were rippling around his dick.

he groaned, his rhythm faltering slightly, and he let himself fuck into you, letting the feeling of your cunt wrapped around his cock and your hands gripping his arms and the soft pants of your breath drive him crazy.

the pace was brutal, his thrusts quick and sharp, and you were crying out, tears rolling down your cheeks as he pounded into you. the pleasure was too much, the way he was making your toes curl, the way he was driving you to orgasm again and again and again-

“please, i- please, i can't- it's too much- i-"

your voice broke, your pleas fading into incoherent babbling, and he could only watch as the tears ran down your face. his gaze was unreadable, and his voice was quiet.

"c'mon baby, you can take it. don't cry. i'm gonna make you come one more time, okay?"

he wasn't asking for your permission. he didn't want to hear your protests. he just wanted you to cum, and then, he would fill you up with his seed, marking you as his.

his movements slowed slightly, his hips rocking into yours as he fucked you, and the way his hands were gripping your hips, the way his eyes were locked onto yours, the way his lips were curled up into a smirk, the way his tongue was tracing the outline of his teeth, the way his cock was buried inside of you, the way his balls were slapping against your clit with every thrust as he mounded you.

it was too much.

you couldn't take it.

but you could never deny him anything.

you wanted him, and he was going to have you.

so you let him have his way, the tears running down your cheeks as he fucked you through your orgasms, his hips snapping into yours and his cock twitching inside of you. his movements were frantic, his eyes never leaving yours, and the way he was biting his lip and breathing heavily was making your pussy clench.

you were babbling, begging him to slow down, pleading with him to stop, that you couldn't take it, that it was too much, but your words were ignored.

this man had no end.

the first time kento killed for you, it was an accident.

the second time was on purpose.

the third, fourth, and fifth time were not accidents, but were all premeditated and planned out.

each kill was a little more brutal, each one a little more gruesome.

no one would miss them.

you hadn't even known they were dead, and kento would never tell you. he would never let you know the depths he would go to in order to protect you, the lengths he would go to in order to ensure your happiness. but all good things must come to an end, he knows that.

but he can’t help but feel the disappointment creeping in as you hold knife toward him, cowering in the corner like a scared deer.

“you look beautiful when you’re scared.”

[h3avenlyglory]

Untilted Headcanon(Mature content)

Art from pintrest, creds to original artist!

Heian Era!Sukuna who calls you his whore, his little whore, his good whore, his pretty whore—his whore but no one and I mean no one is allowed to call you a whore.

“C’mere my little whore.”

“Be a good whore and let me hear what I make you feel.”

“You are my pretty whore, nobody else. If a man ever touches you, I will tear him apart limb by limb.”

You were his whore, only his. It was his way of being loving, well at least that's what you assumed. It was his pet name for you, nobody else could call you that and get away with it.

“The king of curses and his…whore, hm, welcome to my humble abode.” He was welcomed in by a fellow king.

“Hm,” he grunted, “you will not refer to her as a whore, she is my whore, you will call her {#} or a concubine, understood?”

The man summited with a rushed nod—thank god. He would've been an idiot not to and you had seen enough bloodshed for the week.

You worked in the kitchen with some of the staff of the castle to stay occupied while Sukuna discussed with the king.

Shifting and frantically moving through the crowed kitchen, panting and tired then—BAM!

You bumped hard into of the maids' knocking you both to the ground. You groaned at the sudden impact and began to push yourself off the ground.

“Watch yourself next time, monster's whore,” The maids words were spat with venom.

It wasn't the first or last time you’d be shamed for being his concubine. Sukuna had a thing for giving himself a bad reputation with people, she must've been one of them. It wasn't anything you couldn't get over; you’d heard worse before.

“Little whore,” his binding voice stopped your rush steps.

“Yes, Your Grace?” You didn't turn to him. Did you want to piss him off? He drove towards you large body behind you within seconds.

A suffocating big hand tightened around your forearm yanking you around to face him.

“What is your problem?” He leaned his face down to yours, speaking through his teeth and warm breath hitting your cheek.

“I'm fine Your Grace.” Lies. Coming straight through your lips, his little whore lying.

“Do not lie to me. I am going to ask again. What. Is. Your. Problem?” His annoyance was practically vibrating off of him—grip tightening, breathing heavier, and eyes tense.

“There was a maid…she called me monsters whore.” You reluctantly admitted.

His grip lessened and he slowly stood straight, eyes trailing over the room.

“Which one?” He was up to no good. You knew it and he knew it.

You pointed to the woman. His eyes darted to her, his pupils dilated then eased as if he was locking the image of her face in, then he sent you up to the chambers.

You watched the woman be dragged out of the castle begging and screaming to be saved from whatever punishment Sukuna made for him. He was ruthless and a part of you, a sick and twisted part of you loved it.

˚⋆

Moonlight falls over the land, a cool breeze flowing through the window. The humidity grew between your heated sweat-soak bodies, the soft breeze floating through the pornographic scene.

Two hands on your thighs and two gripping your hips, one thick shaft in your sleek cunt and the other engulfed by your tight asshole. Your legs were spread out on each side of him, straddling him as you kept a frenzied pace, cruising your hips back and forth on his heavy length.

You held back your desperate cries and dragged your nails down his biceps, fighting and struggling to keep yourself together.

Under you, Sukuna helped you keep a smooth and steady pace, heavy hands guiding each roll of your hips.

And with pants and heavy breaths, he mumbled, “My whore, mine, only mine, my pretty fucking whore, mine, mine, mine, my little whore.” Each word made him stiffen and slam his heavy hips into you, shoving his vein-covered cock past its limits in your tight silky walls.

Your smooth lubrication painted his cock, juices riding down onto the bed that was squealing in protest. He hauled through you, claiming your sore pussy and body.

He dragged a slow hand down your sweating chest between your breasts and stared up at you wrecked and submitted because of him.

“My pretty little whore.”

[shawtuzi]

MORNING DEW (DONK) FT. EREN YEAGER

summary: it’s the morning after the grammys, and after a night of restless lovemaking, you decide to continue your antics before the sun even fully rises.

cw include: black fem!reader, musician!eren, musician!reader, some messy kisses, morning sex, unprotected sex, riding, missionary, dirty talk, praise n’ some real sweet talking, rennie gets a little emotional, creampie, brief aftercare// wc: 4.5k

a/n: i’m a few days late w/ this but i very much enjoyed writing itttt—i missed my rennie baby so so much hehe!! the shibari sugu fic will be dropping after this, idk when, but it’s coming fs bc i didn’t write 26k words so far for nothin!!

ᥫ᭡ you know the sun rise for you, give me that mornin’ dew . . . ᥫ᭡

never in a million years did you think you’d be here. here—in a hotel suite, tangled up in five hundred thread count sheets with your former ex, now current boyfriend again, eren.

he was soundly asleep, defined chest rising and falling slowly as his eyes moved rapidly behind the lids. he must’ve been dreaming.

you’d been watching him sleep for lord knows how long. you were once watching him in the dark, mostly listening to his even breaths, but sky slowly got brighter, giving you a better view of him. your chin rested on your knee as you took in his exhausted form, and then your mind eventually drifted to the night before . . .

sunday night—the night of the grammys.

an important night for you and eren given that you both dropped albums, followed by a couple extra projects a year prior. coincidentally, they were set for release within days of each other—his dropping only five days after yours.

it didn’t bother you in the slightest. whether it was intentional or not, you paid little to no mind to it since you didn’t want anything to do with your ex and his music. all you wanted to focus on was you.

this was your self-titled. the album that would define you to everyone in the industry and the world. no man was going to steal that shine.

but thankfully, those were not eren’s intentions. it was an error made by his team.

and he was able to explain this all to you and more when you surprisingly made an appearance to his release party. he invited you, hesitantly, to be friendly— not expecting to see you there all dolled up. the vintage dolce & gabbana you were wearing hugged your curves perfectly that night.

now you plan it to wear it to all your future anniversary dates.

a low hum momentarily broke you out of your thoughts, your gaze focusing on eren, who was quietly stirring in his sleep. his thick brows scrunched together, a pout forming on his raw, kiss bitten lips. seconds later, his features rested, low snores filling the quiet space once again.

he was so cute.

you missed him, you really did—but you were glad he was different now after being apart for almost three years.

the eren you knew before was sweet and doting when he wanted to be, yes. but he wasn’t very good at prioritizing things . . . or revealing his emotions . . . or apologizing without some kind of expensive gift to sway your feelings. he was slowly losing himself. things that were intertwined perfectly between the two of you began to unwind and wilt away.

for these reasons, you ended things. and it wasn’t pretty.

eren was heartbroken. i’m talking falling to his knees with his tear stained face buried in your skirt. you’ll never forget the way his hands splayed over your lower back, pulling you closer n’ closer so you wouldn’t leave. or the way his voice cracked when he tried to explain why he just wasn’t being a good boyfriend. he asked—pleaded to know what he could do to fix it, what he could give you to fix it.

but it was too late for poor rennie. you were already too far gone and confident in your decision.

he eventually let you leave without any kind of fight, and after sitting outside his house for a good forty five minutes, you left.

eren wasn’t afraid to spill his broken heart and frustration into his music, andit did numbers of course. but it also had fans talking. things were escalated even further when they noticed eren was completely wiped from your social media. people were devastated to hear that their favorite couple were broken up to say the least.

you didn’t say much about the breakup at all besides for one interview where you simply said, ‘sometimes people just outgrow each other.’

it was already hard enough dealing with it on your own—the last thing you wanted to do was do a deep dive of your failed relationship with some stranger who was getting paid to milk the story out of you.

but you did drop little hints every now and again in your music about your healing heart and the relationship you mourned.

after a few months things went back to normal in your world, but eren still lingered in the form of flowers. birthdays, holidays, whenever you won an award—you were always gifted with an expensive bouquet, along with a handwritten note.

he was actually able to secure himself a dinner with you with flowers. a luxury bouquet of peonies and roses with a card congratulating you for your self titled going number one, along with a dinner invitation to celebrate you and your craft.

he wasn’t a sore loser about coming up second. he was excited for you. proud of you. he knew how much your music meant to you, and after listening three different times to all thirteen tracks, eren could feel everything you put into it.

“are you watching me sleep?”

the sound of eren’s raspy, morning voice broke you out of your thoughts for the umpteenth time that morning. a smile spread across your lips, “maybe.”

“ . . . weirdo. c’mere.”

the sheets ruffled beneath you as you crawled over to him. his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his chest. you made a small noise, the ache in your thighs that you were feeling earlier returning.

“my phones been goin’ off all morning. i’d say our first public appearance reunited went great,” you mumbled into his chest. his skin was scorching beneath your lips, and the faint smell of his cologne still lingering after hours of sexcapades.

eren squeezed at your side, his fingers aligning with the bruising marks he left only a few hours prior. “i didn’t think you’d care about that shit. we looked happy . . in love . . i couldn’t imagine it going any other way.”

“i don’t care about that shit . . . but it is nice to know that people are happy to see us together again.” you were looking up at him now with bright eyes and smudged liner. his hair caught your attention, all prettily splayed across the fluffy pillow. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss those soft, dark brown locs.

you had a bit of an obsession with them. always running your fingers through them while he played on his game system or wrote music. tugging on them whenever he annoyed you or was acting like an ass—not only was the reaction cute from his nose scrunching up, but he got the message to not fuck with you.

a sliver of sunlight finally came through the window, catching your attention and his.

“god, why are you up so early? didn’t i put you back to sleep around three?” your man groaned, scratching tiredly at his head. his brows raised only slightly when you pressed a kiss to his pec once. twice.

he was still bare, obviously, and as were you. after having sex for the first time in years after the award show, you both couldn’t keep your hands off one another afterwards so going commando was the only suitable option.

yep, thats right. even when reunited for almost a year, the two of you didn’t have sex until last night. for you and the age you were at, sex was feeling very sacred and intimate—and given your past with rennie, you were very much on the hesitant side when it came to having him indulge in your body like that once more.

you thought it might irk him, make him pull away from lack of intimacy in that area. but like it was stated before, rennie was different a man. he was twenty six, going on twenty seven in just a month. his frontal lobe had fully developed it seemed, because baby boy was definitely more mature and communicative with his thoughts this time around.

that irritating ass attitude he sported, even when he first cracked open his eyes from sleep, was the only thing that didn’t seem to fade away.

but just because sex wasn’t on the table didn’t mean other . . . . things weren’t done.

you couldn’t deny that eren had gotten more attractive and defined as time went by. his hair was a bit longer, he got a few new tattoos, and he was just . . . bigger. no longer a lanky man with semi-thin arms, and small ridges for abs.

he didn’t party as much like he used to, the lack of alcohol and more time in the gym doing him some good physically and mentally. his time was now being spent either writing music, producing beats, or meditating if he had the time.

it was work work work with this man until you came back in the picture.

whenever he wasn’t working, he was with you—somewhere off the grid, and basking in your presence. it took him two months to work up the courage and finally kiss you, and as the weeks went on after that he became more touchy. playing with your syrupy cunt was as sexy as it got for him during those months, but he didn’t mind one bit.

it was all worth the wait once he was finally able to pin you down and fuck you oh so sweetly into the king size bed you were in now.

you went three? four rounds? you honestly lost track after he had you squirting from backshots around three a.m.

now here you were, head resting prettily on his chest, with his strong, warm arms wrapped around you. all while his heart thrummed a steady beat against your ear.

but there was just one problem. you were feeling rather needy again, despite the ache in your lower half.

“gimme a kiss.”

eren didn’t say anything. he just looked down at you with this blank stare on his face. then, he raised his chin up, signaling for you to come closer.

he didn’t expect you to swing your leg over his waist, and get comfy on his stomach, but he wasn’t complaining. your pussy felt . . . soft, warm against his already heated skin. he could feel the slick collecting, pride swelling in his chest that this was a sight only he’d have the honor of seeing.

“kiss me then,” he murmured, trailing a tatted hand up your side. goosebumps rose along your skin, and a familiar heat pooled in your lower belly when you finally pressed your lips against his.

it was soft, sweet. when you pulled away he was squeezing at your side, a silent plea for you to stay close. you kissed him again, and this time it was longer, a small whimper bubbling in the back of your throat.

eren’s free hand cupped your cheek for a brief moment, deepening the kiss. he suckled on your bottom lip then slipped his tongue into the soft cavern of your mouth, his chest falling in a long exhale.

suddenly, your bottom half was lifted by a pair of strong hands, and you were sat right on his dick. the length of him was nestled between your folds, and if you paid close enough attention, you could feel the veins that wrapped around him thrum against your slicked center.

“good pussy . .” he mumbled against your lips, fingers dancing down the length of your spine until they settled on your behind, squeezing the petal soft skin hungrily. “missed me too much, didn’t she?”

his only answer to that teasing question was a hard bite in his bottom lip making him hiss.

“you’re so annoying,” you breathed out, breaking the heated kiss. both of eren’s hands came down on your ass for a second time, hard, the smacking noise echoing throughout the quiet suite.

“then do somethin’ about it . . . unless you’re too sore,” he snickered, trailing his fingers over your jaw and to your lips, tracing the cupids bow with pure adoration mixed with lust.

your nose and eyebrows scrunched like a disturbed kitten, and then you were softly biting at his fingers, keeping them in place as you ran your tongue over them. erens dick twitched at the action.

he let out a small grunt when you wrapped your hands around his wrists, pinning them next to his head. “never too sore to get what i want. you should know that by now, ren.” your tone was soft as you spoke, the grip you had on eren’s wrists loosening.

you were sore, but this level of pain was nothing compared to the endless hours you would spend practicing choreography for your performances. this shit was light work.

“gosh, i mean it’s been so long, baby,” he sighed, emerald eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “guess you’re just gonna have to remind me.”

you couldn’t help but giggle, balancing on the balls of your feet as you gripped his heavy length. your teeth clamped onto your bottom lip, brows scrunching together when you swiped the shiny tip between your folds.

and there went eren making that fucking face.

that stupidly attractive face where he nibbled on his lip, and his eyes were hooded. the green orbs were fixated on the area between your bodies, watching in awe as you circled his tip over your clit.

“hah—cmon. sit on it.”

you didn’t need to be told twice, dumbly sheathing the entirety of his cock inside you in one go. it didn’t hurt as much as the night before, but that inevitable burn from the stretch of him had you wincing.

erens eyes had fluttered shut by now, a blissed out furrow nestling between his thick brows. he was still tired, and your warmth was making him overly sleepy, yet turned on. one part of him wanted to just keep you you there, and hold you against his chest while he lulled you back to sleep.

but the other part of him, the part that usually always won, wanted you to ride him until he passed out.

“why are your eyes closed? open them.” you poked at his cheek gently with a manicured nail.

when eren finally opened his eyes and looked up at you, your head was cocked to the side with a puzzled look on your face. “are you, like . . trying not to cum too quick or somethin’? your face has been twisted up like that way too long for my liking.”

“honestly? m’trying to figure out if i wanna have you keep my dick warm or ride it. either way i’m a happy, blessed man.”

“ohhh blessed, huh?”

“yes, very much so.” his strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you down until your chest was snug against his own. the angle brought you much closer to his handsome face, decorated in beauty marks and still slightly puffy from sleep. his hand squeezed at your hip before making its way down to your ass. “start moving.”

you made a small noise in agreement, lifting your hips until he remained about halfway in before lowering them once again. eren let out a low hum, “mhm. jus’ like that, baby.”

he pressed a kiss of encouragement to your cheek, his own hips gently matching your pace. while one of his hands remained glued to your ass, the other gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at nothing else but him.

you were never good at eye contact growing up. of course it eventually got better as your fame grew, but eren’s eye contact was a bit different. of all the haters and critics that stared you down, nothing made you feel smaller and more vulnerable than the intense, longing stare from those green eyes of his.

and he knew this.

“you’re really pretty, you know that?” he breathed out, squishing your cheeks together. he was setting the pace now, his hips moving at a quicker speed that increased the noises that came from your greedy pussy. you were so wet already that it was almost puzzling to him how you were already dripping down his balls after only a few minutes of this.

but he had to remember, and remind himself daily; that he wasn’t the only one who was missing his other half terribly. although you didn’t show it publicly or privately to anyone in your inner circle, you had missed eren way more than you should’ve after the breakup. certain smells, sceneries, music . . . it all reminded you of him whether you liked it or not.

and you were only human—just a simple girl with needs, so yes, whenever you found the time to masturbate, it was more than likely to the thought of eren, his voice, his physique. the intimate times you shared together under silk sheets.

you were honestly shocked, and very proud, that you were able to resist him and that stupidly good dick of his for almost a year.

but you didn’t have to resist anymore thankfully. your mind and pride finally took a load off your shoulders, and gave you the peace of mind to finally indulge him with a soaked cunt and embarrassingly quick orgasms to go with it.

suddenly, he felt a swell of something warm n’ fuzzy in his heart, his mouth opening and spewing out ‘i missed you’ before he could even process it. he wanted retract the statement and even apologize for being so sappy. but then he thought . . . why?

why apologize for missing you? his woman.

rennie abruptly tucked your head in his neck, his nose nuzzling against the soft skin of your shoulder. he didn’t mean to fuck into you so fast, but that lovey feeling he had inside always brought it out of him.

“missed you . . missed you so much, ( ❤︎⁠ ). missed this pussy. a-all of it. don’t ever leave me again,” he growled out, possessiveness clawing at his chest almost painfully.

your face scrunched up, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes much to your dismay. this wasn’t apart of the plan. why were you crying?

you let out a shaky breath, burrowing your face further into the warmth of his neck. “i missed you too, eren,” you spoke, soft and sweet.

i love you sat heavy on your tongue like a spoonful of honey, itching to make it way past your kiss swollen lips and into his ear. those three words have yet to be uttered by you since getting back together. why? you weren’t even sure yourself. eren found himself having the same dilemma as well.

“h-hey, come back to me. i want a kiss,” he moaned into your shoulder, his canines trailing over the sweaty skin. when you didn’t move or respond, hit bit down. it wasn’t hard, but it was enough to grab your attention.

no words were exchanged—only a bruising kiss that soon turned into eren sucking your tongue into his mouth.

it was becoming a little much for you.

his hands wandering all across your body, squeezing n’ smacking any inch of skin he could grasp. the sinful moans he let out as he suckled on your bottom lip. his cock ramming into that same spot that had your vision going blurry.

“you’re gonna cum aren’t you? mmcht—bet you can’t even hold it in for a few more minutes, right?” your jaw was in his grasp again, a teasing smirk spreading across his lips.

“mm-mm.”

with the amount of brain power you were using to scold your body into holding off a little longer, it was extremely hard to come up with a coherent sentence.

“hah, you’re lying.”

“am not.”

and then you were abruptly flipped onto your back, eren’s dick slipping out of you with a wet popping sound. he gave you no time to process the change in positions, or even give you a heads up that he was gonna ram inside with a mean ‘are to’ hissed into your ear.

it felt like all the air had been punched from your lungs, a loud cry ripping past your lips. eren hummed in content, slinging your thighs over his own along with a quick kiss to your jaw. his thumb rubbed semi-fast circles into your clit, and when he looked down something mesmerizing caught his attention.

it was you, well, your pussy, struggling to take his dick and gracing it with a pearl colored sheen of cream. his cock fit almost perfectly, and it made him excited to think about the countless night he would soon spend molding your gooey walls to take him with ease again.

“ah, ah—ren, i can’tttt,” you sobbed out, pushing a hand against his abdomen. your nails dragged down the tan skin, making him hiss.

your hand was yanked away, now pinned by your head along with the other. eren slowed his thrusts, settling for deep grinds and delicious circles that had tears pooling at your lash line. your man was inches from your face, his hair forming a brunette curtain that shielded you from the rising sun.

the action felt so intimate, like you and him were the only two people in existence.

“i thought you were tired, h-hm?”

it was nice to hear your voice. don’t get him wrong, eren loved the noises you made, but hearing you hoarsely get your words out while he made love to you was even better.

love.

he loved you. he’s always loved you, and forever will. even if the universe decided to selfishly drag you away from his desperate clutches, he’d still carry a torch for you in heart until his last breath.

he started to say something then stopped. but once he saw the look on your face the words came spilling out, choked and more meaningful than ever.

“i love you.”

and then he said it again. and again. and again—

“iloveyou. iloveyou. iloveyou.” his voice cracked, the grip he had on your wrist tightening. he closed the gap of space between you, his forehead pressing snugly against yours. “always been you. always gonna be you. i-i’m gonna be better now, yeah? never gonna leave me again because i’ll be good for you. i promise, ( ❤︎ ). i-i promise.”

three salty droplets hit the apples your cheeks, but you paid them no mind. they didn’t matter. especially when this is the second time since knowing him that eren’s cried in front of you—the breakup being the first unfortunately.

neither of you knew why this second go around was so much more emotional. maybe it was from drowsiness, or the beautiful scenery. maybe it was because it was finally settling in that this the real, and there were no more doubts from your end.

you weren’t sure, and neither was eren. all rennie knew was that if you didn’t say it back, he was bound to combust into pieces. that tough face that he sported almost twenty four hours a day was replaced with something you’ve never seen before.

“you love me right? right?” the last part of his sentence was punctuated by a thrust, rewarding him with a loud moan that he greedily swallowed up in the form of a kiss.

your head bobbed eagerly, lips parting in a sob. “i do, ren! i do love you, i-i promise.”

his thumb pushed up your wrist and trailed over your pinky, pushing down lightly. it wasn’t exactly a proper pinky promise, but it’d have to do. he brushed his nose over your cheek, “say it again. just one more time for me, and i’ll let you cum.”

the skin of his pelvis was rubbing against your clit sloppily, bringing you closer and closer to the release you prided yourself for holding back. you needed it desperately now.

“i love you eren. t-this feels safe. you feel safe. m’not gonna leave again i prom—”

your orgasm hit you like a semi, interrupting your oh so sweet words. but that was okay with eren. it was all worth seeing the look on your face as he brought you to climax. he could feel your thighs trembling against him, your wrists thrashing against his palms. he hadn’t realized how tight his grip was was until he actually loosened up.

he laced your fingers with his, shallowly drawing his hips back before slamming forward again to ride out your orgasm. his own was quickly approaching, and with a choked moan, he was finishing inside you in long, hot spurts.

“love you . . love you . .” he whispered into your cheek, drowsiness suddenly overtaking him.

he rolled over with quickness, knowing that if he stayed in that position any longer, he surely would’ve collapsed and gotten an earful about how he ‘crushed’ you.

you moved right along with him thanks to his death grip, his cock still nestled in the confines of your warmth. he was exhausted, you could tell by the glazed over look and slow blinks.

“h-here, lemme up. i’ll be the big spoon and hold you this time.” your voice was quiet, strained. a hot cup of tea was definitely needed later for the both of you.

eren made no protests as you slowly lifted your lower half, a dribble of cum leaking from your stretched entrance and down the inside of your thigh. a shower was also needed without a doubt, but you knew it would be hopeless to get eren out of bed for at least a good half hour.

once you were settled on your back, eren was latching onto your side like an oversized koala. his head was resting in the crook of your neck, and one of his long legs was draped over both of yours. you almost wanted to laugh when he blindly searched for your breast, tatted hand squeezing it gently three times before going limp.

“i’ll get up soon, i swear. ‘know you gotta get up and pee.”

“i also need to get in touch with mika. she wants me to do this interview—”

eren made a grunting noise in annoyance, plus lips pushing into a sleepy pout. “babyyy, i thought we’d get the day to relaxxxx.”

“we are, silly. if you would’ve let me finish, i was gonna say she wants me to do some interview in the next couple days.” your fingers ran through his soft locs, scratching lightly at his scalp to ease him. “don’t worry, i’m still all yours today you big baby.”

suddenly, eren was lifting his head, that needy expression he had only minutes ago now replaced with his signature glare. he didn’t say anything at first, emerald eyes looking you up and down until they eventually softened.

his head was back in its rightful place, his hand squeezing at your breasts once more for comfort. “not a baby,” he muttered into your skin, the vibrations tickling you.

“maybe not a baby . . but you’re definitely mine.” the line was cheesy as hell, and you knew it. but eren definitely seemed to enjoy it given the gruff laugh he let out.

[otakufilms]

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

rugged. toji.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count—5.0K, ORIGINAL!BLACK!FEM!READER! southern domestic vibes!, husband!toji, shyblack!femreader, blackwife!reader, ranchmen!toji, gritty!toji, southerncoded!femreader, southerncoded!toji, aggressive!toji, dominant!toji, gruff!toji, sweet!toji, size kink!, pet names!baby!love!, pussy eating!, face slapping!, 69!, riding!, sex after work!toji, aggressive sex!, dick sucking!, squirting!, creaming, condomless sex, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— been in a deep depression + ‘was missin’ my number one, my man, my lover, my only in another lifetime. this was inspired by a lil’ tik tok made by @scrumptious_chowder—i can’t seem to find the specific link for the video i saw, i think she might’ve deleted it? but if you see this, babe. this one’s for you. love your content + all the nasty thoughts in your head. @chrollohearttags ? love you baby. teehee. enjoy.

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE DAYS.

One where talking your husband off the verge of a crash out wasn’t enough—but fucking it out of him made it all complete. Sweeter, somehow.

The evening sun spills honey gold through lace trimmed windows, casting delicate shadows across the yellow bricked backsplash of your kitchen—your sanctuary.

The air smells like yeast and the faint citrus of lemons piled in your farmhouse sink—natural light streaming in soft, golden pools across the Tuscany checkered floors. Your fingers, dusted with flour, press into the supple dough, kneading with practiced rhythm, the marquise cut pale gold band on your left hand catching the warmth with every movement. French tips glint against the raw, pillowy mass, your wedding ring a quiet testament to the life you’ve built here—far from the noise of New Orleans, in a house he built for you with his own calloused hands.  

The vintage radio hums low, crackling with updates between New Orleans and Mississippi, the announcer’s voice a distant murmur beneath the rustle of your Persian kitten—Yumi’s—fur as she nudges the radio with her tiny, impatient head. You glance up, dark lashes fluttering, and reach over to twist the volume knob down. 

“Too loud, baby?”

Yumi answers by leaping gracefully onto the vintage dining table behind you, stretching her fluffy body into a perfect arch before collapsing into a loaf, her purrs filling the quiet kitchen like a melody.  

“…I guess so,” you hum softly.

Your kitchen was made with more love than his proposal, more intention than the ring itself. The single bowl sink overflows with lemons, limes, and a single stray peach, their vibrant colors bleeding into the muted tones of your oasis.  

The curtains flutter, carrying the scent of distant rain and turning earth—his scent, soon. The house breathes around you, every nail driven by his hands, every brick laid with the weight of his promise. 

“Ain’t gonna let nothin’ touch you ‘cept me.” 

You and Yumi share the same untamed spirit—both of you all flickering tails and sharp, watchful eyes.  

Your face, sultry as a fox, intense as a panther mid hunt, holds the kind of beauty that makes men pray before they dare to speak to you. Slender eyes, naturally dark waterline like you were born with kohl rimming them, framed by full, wispy lashes that give you an air of mischief—almost wicked, even when your soul is nothing but sugar. Deep pink lips, their edges kissed by a natural brown halo, part just slightly as you exhale, your large, arched brows lifting in amusement at your feline counterpart.  

That wild mane of yours—deep copper melting into cinnamon, black balayage curling like tendrils of smoke—is tossed messily over your head, a single stubborn curl swaying against your forehead. A constellation of dark freckles dusts the bridge of your wide nose, the warmth of your ochre complexion glowing beneath the golden kitchen light. 

“You’ll look no different in pregnancy," his voice rumbles in your mind, "Glowin’. Red. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You narrow those eyes at Yumi, who chirps at you like she’s got a whole argument prepared.  

“Daddy’ll be home soon," you murmur, thumb stroking the edge of your sourdough loaf before setting it aside to rise—“…You think he’ll like dinner?" 

The scent of New Orleans hangs heavy in the air—shrimp and andouille sizzling in a spiced roux, red beans simmering with a bay leaf tucked between them, and buttery cornbread waiting to be pulled from the oven. His favorites. The kind of meal that’ll soothe every ache in his body, warm. 

Yumi answers by rolling dramatically onto her back, paws curled, tail flicking.  

“Yeah—you’re no help."

The soft hum of the radio wraps around you as you lose yourself in the rhythm of cooking again, fingers dancing over ingredients with practiced ease. The music plays just a hair louder now—enough for Yumi to shoot you a withering glare from her perch, her tail flicking in disapproval. You ignore her with a little smile, your voice a gentle murmur as you hum along to the tune, the melody curling around the warm, spice laced air.  

Then—the growl. 

The deep, guttural rumble of his pickup truck tearing through the gravel drive is a warning, a proclamation—he’s home. Your spine straightens before you even realize it, ears attuned to the familiar sequence of his arrival—the creak of the screen door, the slam, the heavy thud of boots being kicked off near the welcome mat.  

Except today—silence. 

No boots. No pause. Just the hurried, uneven thud of his footsteps, heavier than usual, more urgent. A shiver races down your spine, instinct flaring before you can even turn—  

And then him.

Big. Encompassing. Swallowing you whole.  

His heat presses into your back, rough hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t need to look up to know his expression—you feel it. The tension coiled in his muscles, impatient huffs against the curve of your throat.  

“You scared me,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly as your fingers lift, clawing back into the wild strands of his hair—midnight black, nearly blue in the dim light. It’s longer now, unruly, a messy tangle between a wolf cut and a short mullet, the front nearly falling into his eyes. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, and he exhales sharply through his nose, his apology a low, graveled grunt against your skin.  

“‘Couldn’t get to you fast enough." 

You know him.  

His anger, his irritation, the frustration clings to him like a second skin. It seeps into you like ink in water, dark and suffocating, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. Your body responds before your mind can catch up—arching back into him, your pulse fluttering beneath his touch. 

That’s when your hands shift, turning you just enough in his grasp to catch his gaze—and the moment you do, the world narrows.  

Those eyes. 

Deep gray, like storm clouds rolling in over the pasture, narrowed and restless beneath the weight of his scowl. His brows—thick, dark, almost severe—are knit together, tension carved into the space between them. At thirty two years old to your twenty nine? The years have only sharpened him, etching his features with an intensity that makes your breath catch. A full blooded Japanese man raised in the heart of the South, he’s a walking contradiction—heritage and home clashing in the best ways.  

And today, every inch of him shows it.  

Dust clings to him like a second skin, ground into the fabric of his filthy wifebeater, streaked across the navy and black flannel rolled up to his forearms. His tattoos—a sprawling canvas of ink swallowing his egregiously broad frame—peek out from beneath the dirt, the edges of them smudged with the day’s labor.  

Head ranchmen. Raising livestock. Wrestling miles of fencing. Hauling hay, operating machinery, fighting with the land and the heat and the men under him who can’t keep up—it’s all written across the stars. His muscles are still coiled tight, his jaw working as if the frustration hasn’t fully left his bones.  

And yet, god, he’s yours.  

The scent of him—sweat, leather, and something wild washes over you, a pheromone laden reminder of exactly who you belong to.  

You reach up, thumb smoothing gently between his furrowed brows.  

“You okay?”

He exhales sharply, "M’alright. Always doin’ this, woman. Thinkin’ I’m about to cry."

A laugh bubbles in your chest, but you press closer instead, fingers trailing down to cup his jaw.  

“My soul’s with yours," you remind him, tilting your chin up despite the height difference—“I know when you’re sick before you do—" 

He grunts at that, but there’s no real irritation behind it. Instead, he ducks his head, nudging his nose against yours in a rare moment of tenderness, the gesture contradicting every rough edge he wears so well.  

Toji’s head dips low, those storm gray eyes scanning you with the kind of focus that makes your pulse flutter.  

You stand there in white fuzzy socks, swallowed whole by the oversized replica of his flannel—the deep blue of it sharp against your caramel skin, sleeves slipping past your wrists, the hem hanging dangerously high on your thighs.  

And as your husband, he knows what’s beneath. 

The way your waist cinches in like a damn hourglass, unnaturally narrow compared to the flare of your hips—so wide, so heavy it looks like you’ve carried a child before. The ass that fills his palms perfectly, fat, jiggling with every step. And those tits—full, heavy, sitting high like they belong on a sultry pin up poster. His name—Fushiguro—in tiny cursive beneath the curve of your left breast, a claim he never gets tired of seeing.  

Your fingers drag gently through the hair at his nape, nails scratching lightly as you murmur, “Yumi missed you.” 

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, calloused and rough—“‘Momma missed me too?”

You nod, just slightly, tilting your head with those fox eyes of yours—narrowed, knowing, stripping him bare of any lie he could try to spin.  

“Tell me what happened at work.”

His brow twitches, “You tellin’ me?”

You don’t argue. Just raise your brows, waiting.  

A beat. Then, with a sharp exhale, it spills—

“Men actin’ like goddamn children. Argued with me ‘bout the fence line—then one of ‘em nearly flipped the ATV ‘cause he wasn’t payin’ attention. ‘Whole damn day wasted fixin’ other people’s—” His voice deepens, slipping into sharp edged Japanese, “…Nande kon'na baka-domo to issho ni hatarakanakya naranē nda? Mattaku, kuso jikan'nomudada.” 

Why the hell do these idiots work for me? Total waste of fuckin’ time.

You stand on your tiptoes, pressing your thumb between his brows again, smoothing the crease there as you answer him—fluent, just like he taught you. 

“Son'nani ikatteiru to, fukeru no ga hayamarimasu yo.” 

You’ll age faster being so angry.

He pauses, nostrils flaring—before he lets out a sharp exhale, forehead dropping against yours.  

"...Goddamn, woman. ‘Always knowin’ how to shut me up.” 

You hum, pressing closer.  

“So that’s why you keep me around?” 

“Nah. Keep you ‘cause you’re mine.” 

You hum, fingertips tracing the corded muscle below his neck, your touch featherlight. 

“Did talking about it help?" 

His jaw flexes, “You want me to lie?" 

“I’d rather you be honest, Fushiguro.” 

A rough exhale escapes him, “I’m on the news tomorrow? ‘Know I killed one of those bastards." 

You know he doesn’t mean it—but the frustration is real, simmering beneath his skin like an untamed storm. So you tease just a little, trying to loosen the tension coiling in his shoulders—“Fussier than a baby, ‘swear." 

That gets you a glare—"Nowhere near a damn child."  

You react before he can pull away, fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair, holding him just firm enough to ground him.

“Hey," you murmur, voice softening, “I was just pokin’, love. Yeah?" 

He stares down at you, that perpetual scrawl of his features more habit than anger now. After a beat, he nods.  

You press on, voice a gentle lull. 

“Rough days are inevitable…but there’s your favorite meal to look forward to. And cuddles from me an’ Yumi." 

His expression doesn’t change.  

"Or," you offer, tilting your head, “I could rub your ear  ‘like you like?” 

Something shifts in his gaze then—dark, heavy. He looks at you—really looks. That sweet, sultry face he’s seen crumble beneath him, twist in pleasure, pout in frustration. It all hits him at once, a wave of something possessive and hungry that makes his fingers flex against your waist.  

And in response?  

“Yeah." 

A single word. Deceptively simple.  

Because you did rub his ear, sure—but what you didn’t expect?  

Was ending up bouncing stupidly on his cock in the process.  

Now, here you are—hair a mess of copper, cinnamon, and black curls, wild like a halo around your flushed face, the flannel hanging open, barely clinging to your shoulders. The fabric dips, revealing the sinful swell of your tits, the heavy weight of them barely contained by the parted material. Your fuzzy socks—adorable, ridiculous in contrast to the filth of this moment—curl helplessly into the bedsheets as you struggle to steady yourself.  

Your thighs ache, burning from the relentless pace he’s set, but you barely feel it. Not when he’s got his hands wrapped around your waist, his fingers so big they nearly touch when he grips you—effortlessly hauling you up, then slamming you back down, forcing you to take every inch of him.  

“F—Fushiguro—!" 

You choke on his name as he pulls you all the way up, the slick length of him just about to slip free before he yanks you back down, letting his dick carve straight into your g-spot with every punishing thrust.  

And the worst part?  

He hasn’t even undressed.

Leaned back against the vintage headboard, still in his dirt-streaked wifebeater—tugged halfway up to reveal the hard planes of his abs, ink-dark tattoos trailing down the cut of his V-line. The roughness of his pubic hair grinds against your clit with every brutal snap of your hips, the friction almost too much, threatening to push you over the edge before he even lets you.  

And his face— 

Dark brows pulled low, storm gray eyes locked on you with an intensity that borders on cruel. He watches you with that same scowl, like you mean nothing to him in this moment—just a warm, trembling hole for him to use, fucking you with ruthless precision.  

He leans back, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you again, dragging you down onto his cock with a sharp snap of his hips.  

“C’mon," he growls, voice rough with restraint—“Keep fuckin’ feelin’ me.”

You’re silent—trying to be—but your pussy isn’t.  

Loud. Obscene. Creaming around him in thick, slippery pulses, gushing with every brutal snap of his hips. The sound of it—wet, filthy, shameful—fills the space between your ragged breaths. Your lips stay pressed together, but your expression betrays you—eyebrows pinched, a cute little frown twisting your face as pleasure burns through you, sharp and unforgiving.  

Discomfort. Overstimulation. The kind of pleasure that hurts, that makes your toes curl and your stomach clench. Because god, the way he stretches you—thick, unrelenting, carving into you like he was made to ruin you.  

The worst part? He knows.  

Knows that in places where you’re soft, silent, observant—here, like this? You’re a mouthy little thing when he gets you there. Which is exactly why he cocks his hand back, fingers tangling in the back of your flannel, yanking you down harder on his cock before—  

SMACK. 

The sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your ass echoes through the room, your flesh jiggling from the impact, the heat of it blooming fast.  

“Ain't hearin’ shit from you," he growls. 

“C’mon. Gimme’ somethin’.”  

The rough clap of your thighs against his hips—hard, frantic, skin slapping skin—does something to you. Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers sinking into his forearms, claws digging in as a whiny little cry punches out of you.  

It’s a domino effect afterwards. A whimper slips free, trembling, desperate, and then another—another, slurring into heavier, broken whines, like you’re trying to swallow them back every time they threaten to escape. But you can’t. Not when he’s like this—when his thighs are so thick, his grip so bruising, when he makes you fuck him like he hates you.  

“There it is,” he grunts, fingers tightening around your waist, hauling you down harder, heavier. 

“‘Know my wife more than anyone in this fuckin’ world.”

You're an eye-rolling, pouting, mess. 

His mess. Your pussy keeps gushing, clenching forcefully around the thick swell of his cock, kicking off a series of unfinished, half-shattered orgasms that leave you spiraling—dizzy, overwhelmed, ruined.  

Tears brim your dark, pretty eyes, lashes sticking together as broken little whimpers spill from your lips.  

“I'm—‘M cumming.” 

But Toji? He doesn’t stop. 

His grip tightens, digging into the softness of your hips as he finds a devastating new rhythm. Slower now, but heavier. Louder. Each deep, punishing thrust drags a wet, filthy sound from where you’re stretched around him, the slap of skin echoing through the room.  

And the scent of him—god. 

Woodsmoke, leather, the erotic musk of a hard day’s work still clinging to his clothes, swallowing you whole even as he lounges beneath you, lazily using your body to chase his own pleasure.  

“Wanted me to feel better, ‘ain’t you?" 

His palm lands against your ass again—hard—the sharp crack reverberating through your bones before he spreads you open with that same rough hand, exposing your flushed, dripping cunt as he starts fucking up into you with renewed force.  

“Gonna fuck you ‘til every nut makes me less angry," he grunts, fingers biting into your flesh—“Had a hard fuckin’ day, remember?" 

You lean forward, sniffling pathetically, nodding in meek submission—like you’ve lost a game you never even meant to play.  

“Okay," you squeak, voice surrendering, small.  

His teeth flash in a wicked grin.  

“Atta fuckin’ girl." 

And then he takes—pounding up into you with a brutal pace that has you muffling trembling little moans into the crook of your arm, body jolting with every deep, claiming thrust. 

Toji slides his broad palm against the top of your head, fingers threading through your curls as he tilts your face up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. 

“You here with me?" 

You nod, and that's all he needs before he tugs you forward by your hair, sealing your mouth with his in a deep, tongue-filled kiss. It's filthy, possessive, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he pulls back just as swiftly.  

And then—SMACK. 

His palm meets your cheek with enough force to make your breath hitch, just sharp enough to snap you back into focus. 

“Fill your fuckin' mouth up.”

You sink down instantly, taking him between your lips with breathless little whimpers, your lashes fluttering as you suck him in deep. You pull back just enough to kitten lick along his length, teasing the flushed tip before swirling your tongue around it. Then lower—sucking his heavy balls into your mouth, your fingers lightly jerking the base of him.  

It's adorable in the most pathetic way—how easily you obey when you're usually all quiet fire and defiance. But like this? You're truly his.

Toji watches as you work him over—his cock glistening with your spit, your lips stretched around him. Then he takes himself in hand, slapping his length against your flushed cheek, dragging it over your lips with a filthy, wet sound.  

“Look at you," he grunts, voice rough with satisfaction.  

And he does look—drinking in the sight of your dark, caramel skin flushed raw, your pretty eyes swollen with tears, your lips parted and trembling. It makes him crave more.  

“C'mere," he growls suddenly, gripping your waist before flipping you both in one swift motion—your back now pressed to his chest, his thighs bracketing your head as he maneuvers you into a 69. 

The second you're settled, he buries his face between your thighs with a groan, his tongue devouring you. You gasp, trying to refocus, wrapping your lips around his cock again—but it's impossible to concentrate when he's sucking on your clit like he's starved, his tongue dragging hot and wet through your folds, slurping obscenely. Your hips jerk, back arching as pleasure zings through you, your forehead dropping against his hip as you whimper around him.  

“Focus, baby.”

He mutters this against your cunt—right before his hand comes down on your ass again, the sharp SMACK making you jolt.  A broken moan slips past your lips, and then you're bobbing your head faster, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him back into your mouth with desperate, sloppy devotion.  

And Toji?  

He just feasts—grunting, licking, taking—his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks his tongue inside you, making sure you feel every second of it.  

You don’t stand a chance.

The air is thick with the sound of skin on skin, your breath ragged and wet as you lose yourself in the rhythm of him. You move without thought, drunk on the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue—both palms wrapped tight around the base of his cock, jerking him from root to tip in slow, filthy strokes. Your tits bounce with every movement, swaying heavy and lewd as you work him over in a way that’s downright pornographic, your body moving like it was made just for this.  

Toji’s hips twitch, his breath catching when you suddenly take just the head of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the swollen tip while your small hands take care of the rest. His head knocks back against the headboard with a low groan, his voice rough, strained, as he mutters something under his breath—half curse, half praise—before his hand comes down again, another sharp SMACK landing on your ass.  

“Edge of the bed. Now.”

You crawl there on shaky knees, face pressing into the blankets, ass up—presented, waiting—and before you can even brace yourself, he’s sinking into you, stretching you open in a way that punches a muffled whine from your throat. His fingers tangle in the nape of your hair, tugging just enough to make your back arch as he yanks you back onto him, filling you to the hilt with a single brutal thrust. Your face stays buried in the blankets, lips pouting, muffling little whimpers and breathless complaints—but they’re weak, half-hearted, lost in the haze of pleasure as he starts moving, fucking into you with rough, measured strokes.  

“Fussin’ just like Yumi," he growls, voice thick as you tuck your face deeper into the sheets, hiding the way your cheeks burn. 

“Tch—feet closer to your chest.”

He rasps this, voice gravel-scraped and impatient. You whimper but obey, knees pressing tight to your body, hips lifted higher—exposed, helpless. Then, in Japanese, sharp and commanding—

“Jibun no handan de ugoite kudasai.”

Move on your own. 

And you do.  

At first, it's slow—tentative—your hips rocking back and forth in small, uncertain motions, your body arching as you try to find the right angle. The sight of you like this—spread open, trembling, taking him—is obscene. Erotic in the rawest sense.  

His fingers snap once, sharply. Another order, another growled phrase—“Head up.” 

You just obey, lifting your face from the sheets, breath ragged as you look back over your shoulder at him.  

“If you don’t move, I’ll show you how I wanna’ be fucked.” 

You pout—lips trembling, eyes wet—but then you start moving again.  

Little bounces at first, your ass clapping lightly against his hips—gentle, testing. Then deeper. Faster. More. Until you’re fully fucking yourself on him, your body taking over, driven by instinct, by the need to please. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as you pant, as you whimper—  

“…M’sorry, baby." 

It slips out without thought, weak and breathless.  

Toji only grunts, “Yeah?” 

You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. But you say it again, lips quivering. 

“M’sorry—"

You’re squirting. 

A hot, sudden gush, spilling around him without warning, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. The words turn into something else—deep, shuddering sobs, your voice breaking as you keep repeating it, "M’sorry, m’sorryyy...” 

Your husband? He could care less. 

Toji fucks you through it. His grip on your hair tightens, his hips snapping up to meet yours as you sob, as you tremble, as you fall apart. 

Because this? This is how he takes his anger out.

The world narrows to nothing but the brutal snap of his hips, the sound of skin meeting skin in sharp, wet slaps. Toji yanks your legs out from under you, planting your feet flat on the floor—forcing your spine into a deep arch, your ass tilted up just right for him to sink into you even deeper, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.  

You can’t help the noises that tear out of you—loud, broken, punched out moans that rise higher with every merciless drive of his cock. His fist tightens in your hair so everlasting, wrenching your head back as he growls above you, the sound rough and satisfied—because nothing pleases him more than hearing you unravel, your voice frayed beyond coherency.  

Your fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white—until he tsks, a single sharp sound of disapproval that has you scrambling to correct yourself before he can fuss. Arms straight back, wrists together, like you know what he wants without him even saying it.  His free hand wraps around both your wrists in one brutal grip, pinning them against the small of your back as he drives you into the mattress, fucking you so deep you squeal, high and desperate, your body jerking beneath him.  

“Fuckkkk…!” 

It’s a shriek, really—raw and guttural, your cunt gushing around him as he pistons in and out, his grunts syncing with your cries in a filthy, primal rhythm. He’s not gentle. Not close. Every snap of his hips is punishing, claiming, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you until you’re keening, your thighs shaking, your mind gone beneath the sheer intensity of it.  

And then—  

His rhythm stutters.  

A deep, guttural growl rips from his throat, his fingers tightening hard in your hair as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing ropes. Your sounds drown his—whimpers, choked cries, the way your body clenches around him as if trying to milk every last drop.  

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of heavy breathing—his, yours—both ragged and uneven.  

Then he slowly pulls out, leaving you limp beneath him, your lower body trembling, your nerves still alight with aftershocks.  Toji catches his breath for a beat—just one—before he leans down over you, his voice rough but soft now, murmured against your ear in Japanese.  

“Daijōbudesuka?”

You alright? 

His hand cups your throat from behind, tilting your face toward his. And then—kisses. Tiny, chaste pecks against your swollen lips, one after another, as if checking that you’re still with him.  

You let out a breathless little giggle, your lashes fluttering.  

“Mmm...legs feel numb." 

He hums. 

“They should.” 

The moment his hands twist you around, your breath catches—but it melts into another light giggle as he scoops you up effortlessly, depositing you onto the bed like something precious. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the burning imprint of his body still lingering on yours.  

And then he looks at you. 

His fingers slide through your hair again, slower this time, almost reverent, before his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s startlingly gentle. You nudge your nose against his, affectionate, lingering, before you pull back just enough to murmur—  

“…‘Gonna have a better day at work tomorrow?" 

Sweet. Hopeful.  

Toji rumbles, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead—“Already havin’ a better day now." 

Your eyes dilate at that, lashes fluttering as you whisper—"Really?" 

“Murder’s still in question for ‘them employees, though.” 

Your face falls immediately, lips pressing into a pout as you sigh, long suffering. Before you can protest, his palm lands on your thigh—a light, teasing smack—and then he’s pushing off the bed, leaving you sprawled there. You scramble to grab his discarded flannel, draping it over yourself like a makeshift shield before flipping your hair back with an exaggerated huff.  

“You’re hardheaded!” 

“Got a hard head, baby.” 

You suck your teeth. 

But then? he reappears in the doorway, Yumi cradled in his big arms. 

The whiplash of it nearly gives you an actual headache. One second, he’s got you bent over the bed, fucking you like you owe him money, and the next? He’s holding that Persian kitten like it’s spun glass, cooing at her in a voice three octaves higher than you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth.  

You roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your own brain.  

“You don’t talk to me like that.”  

Toji ignores you, of course. Because why would he ever acknowledge the way your metaphorical tail is swishing back and forth in irritation? He’s too busy booping Yumi’s tiny pink nose, murmuring, “Momma’s the fussy one, isn’t she? Yeah?" 

“Boy, please. I don’t win the hot head award. You’re an overachiever for that score." 

He just smirks—smirks!—as he sets Yumi down on the bed, watching with that stupid, smug expression as she prances toward the headboard like the little princess she is, tail held high as she lets out a dignified Mrrow. 

One second you’re lounging there, all sass and post coital glow—the next, he’s on you, knocking you flat onto your back in the sheets with a oomph that dissolves into breathless giggles as you shove at his chest.  

“Go away!"

He doesn’t.  

“You know how much I love you?"

You tilt your head, pretending to think. 

“Not sure."

The air between you shifts—just for a heartbeat—from playful to something deeper, something heavier. His rough fingers catch yours, and he brings your hand up, pressing a slow, almost reverent kiss to the gold band on your finger. Against the metal, he murmurs something low and raw—something that sounds suspiciously like—“Mines forever." 

You sigh, but it's a warm sound, your fingers curling around his, intertwining like they were made to fit there. Playfully, you squeeze.  

“Hungry?"

He exhales through his nose, “Been thinkin' about those red beans all day."

You bat your lashes, feigning innocence. 

“I wasn't part of the meal plan?" 

His thumb drags over your pulse point as he leans in, breath hot against your ear, “You were the meal plan."  

Then, just like that, he's hauling you up—one arm under your thighs, the other bracing your back as he tosses you halfway over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but your legs lock around his waist instinctively, arms looping his neck as he starts moving.  

“C'mon. I'm starvin'."

You press your lips to his jaw, nipping just to feel him tense—“You're starvin’, and you love me?" 

He grunts—but for him? It’s not a denial. It’s yes, a thousand times over. 

And just like that, the scene fades—into the quiet hum of domesticity, into love and passion and marriage with all its rough edges and sweet, stolen moments.  

[krys4h]

eren showing his gym progress......

[krys4h]

making a masterlist is such a pain omggggg i'm so glad it's overrrrrrrrr

[krys4h]

𐔌 . ⋮ masterlist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ aot, jjk & sakadays.

☆ black plus size or thick reader ! ☆

ATTACK ON TITAN.

𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 | the loml,

𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚 | 21k words | Your life changed overnight, and now you find yourself taking care of a child you didn't want. Despite your insomnia and anxiety, you're unable to see a therapist or doctor to talk about what happened; you prefer to relax with weed in the evenings, when your baby is asleep. It's better than nothing. Healing isn't linear and isn't the same for everyone. That's what you tell yourself every Saturday when you get into Eren's car to buy what you need. Eren isn't stupid; he knows you're the kind of client who's running away from something. He avoids getting attached to broken people; they always bring trouble. But through a few glances and a few silences, over the months, perhaps the barrier between you has been lifted to give rise to a unique relationship, which heals you more than any therapy could.

𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 | 18k words | 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.

𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 9k words | The love of his life betrayed him. Now Eren is alone. Alone with the burden of paying for his father's debt with assassination contracts. Alone with the burden of getting revenge on his rivals who killed Armin. Everything is so painful now he is alone, and he hates you so much for that. You ruined everything, every dream he had with you, every ‘I love you’ he said to you. Now he has to hurt you to feel better. Your tears and the pain in your eyes don’t faze him, he knows what you are. A manipulative traitor. He is too hurt to remember the genuine love you both had, too angry to even wonder if that's really what happened. Because did you really betray him? In any case, you have Jean if he never forgives you. Even though he would never be Eren.

drabble | 1.3k words | how bad!boy!eren tries to teach some self-love to his soft chubby gf.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | fav goofball,      

𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 2k words | 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. 

JUJUTSU KAISEN.

𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 | fav psycho,

𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 | 18k words | Almost 10 years have passed since you sent Sukuna to prison after he broke your heart. In the meantime, you've become a famous model who wants to create her own fashion brand, and Sukuna became a Formula 1 World Champion after getting out of prison. However, your story isn't over yet. To support your brother by marriage Satoru during his new Formula 1 season, you choose to accompany him during the long months he'll be racing. But fate chooses to mock you because his new teammate is none other than Sukuna, his rival for years. Forced to cohabit with your evil ex-boyfriend, you expect to spend months having fun traveling, but instead, you're targeted by Sukuna—your stalker. He wants revenge for the years he spent in prison, and he is unhinged. But he forgot you were as unhinged as him.

𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐥𝐲 | 13k words | Sukuna was a psychopath. You were psychotic. Since childhood, you have been inseparable. As you grew up and followed your dreams, your duo is the favorite topic of Twitter. The coquette famous actress who feels things too much and the unhinged mma fighter obsessed with violence. Only you were indifferent to his lack of empathy and guilt. You even found his empty dark gaze kind of sexy. Only he was unfazed by your hysterical sobs as you explained yet another megalomaniacal idea during a psychotic episode. He would keep you on his lap and nod his head to your plan to save the starving children of the world. However, he wasn’t your type. You wanted the perfect man who would be a family man. But when Sukuna's little brothers die suddenly, although he hides his grievance, he needs the woman he has always been in love with more than ever.

SAKAMOTO DAYS.

𝐠𝐚𝐤𝐮 | fav gamer,

𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡, 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐩𝐞 | 5k words | As an introvert and fan of romance games, you've always lived in your own world, too socially awkward to make friends. However, if there's one person who really likes your nerdy personality, it's Gaku, your brother Uzuki's best friend. His eyes are always on you when you enter a room, and the few times you talk, he listens with attention and without judgment. He has a soft spot for you, and during a car ride your friendship turns into budding love.

— more characters soon!!! (choso, suguru, gojo, onyankopon, armin, uzuki, nagumo, toji)

[beaniesayshi]

second opinion

Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.

cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn

wc: 10.4k, one shot

notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah

It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.

Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.

Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.

By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

sukuna. buddy. my man. my brother in christ.

[kaliraees]

𝒮atoru begging for a little cockwarming, claiming it’s the only thing that'll help him drift off to sleep…

1.2k words, quick read 𝑓𝑡. byf!toru ( +18 )

Satoru tossed and turned for the fifteenth time in ten minutes. The mattress groaned under him, and honestly, so did you.

"If you don't anchor your ass down in the next two seconds, I’m sleeping on the couch," you muttered into your pillow, your voice thick with sleep and irritated as hell. Your acrylics clicked against your phone screen as you checked the time. 3:42 AM. Fantastic.

Satoru flopped onto his back, sighing like he’d just run a marathon instead of just lying in a climate-controlled room. He rolled over, propping his chin on your shoulder, his hair poking you right in the cheek.

"I can't sleep, babe. It’s a medical emergency at this point," he whined, his voice doing that annoying, high-pitched drag he used whenever he wanted something. "My brain is literally frying. You gotta help me out."

"Go count sheep or something, Satoru. Or better yet, go do some push-ups in the living room till you pass out." You shoved his face away, but he just slid right back, wrapping a heavy arm around your waist and pulling you against him.

"Sheep are boring. Plus, I have a way better solution," he said, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face even in the dark. He gave your hip a suggestive nudge, flipping effortlessly onto his back and dragging you right along with him until you were sprawled over his chest. "Come on. Just a quick cockwarm. Just climb up and park it so I can drift off. You don't even have to do any work. Just lay on me and look pretty."

You let out a long, exhausted groan, staring down at his stupidly handsome face. "Are you for real right now? It is almost four in the morning and you’re tryna use me like a heated blanket?"

"I mean, you are warm," he teased, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, guiding you up his torso. "And you love me. And I’ll literally buy you those shoes you were barking at on Instagram earlier. The ugly ones with the spikes."

"They are not ugly, they're archive fashion, you uncultured brain," you snapped, though your defense lacked any real venom because, honestly, the shoes were expensive. You sighed, rolling your eyes. "Fine. Whatever. But if you start doing too much and wake me up completely, I’m biting you."

"Deal. You’re the best, seriously, a literal angel," Satoru cheered, already shifting beneath you and tugging his sweatpants down with zero shame.

He didn't waste any time. His hands stayed firmly on your hips, helping you lift yourself just enough to line things up before his fingers hooked into the fabric of your panties, pushing the lace firmly to the side so he could slide smoothly inside you. The sudden fullness made you catch your breath for a second, your hands coming down to rest on his broad chest for balance. You slumped forward, letting your forehead rest right against his shoulder.

"Uuugh, fuck," Satoru muttered, his arms immediately wrapping around your back, locking you against him. He let out a long, shaky breath, all that restless energy he’d been carrying for the last hour suddenly evaporating the second you completely enclosed him. He didn't move, didn't try to lift his hips, he just stayed perfectly still, letting out a deep, contented sigh that vibrated right through your chest. "See? Perfect. I'm already curing my insomnia."

"Mmm.. wrap it up," you mumbled, adjusting your legs so you were comfortably straddling his thighs, completely deadweight on top of him. Your nails lightly scratched at the skin of his chest, mostly just out of habit to keep him settled. "If you start twitching or doing that weird leg-shake thing you do when you dream, I’m getting off."

"I don't twitch," he mumbled, his voice already dropping an octave, thick with growing drowsiness. He tightened his hold around your waist, burying his face in your hair, his breathing already starting to slow down. One of his hands moved in a lazy, comforting circle on your lower back. "You're soft."

"I know that," you replied, closing your eyes and finally feeling the pull of sleep yourself now that he was anchored and quiet. "Don't forget the shoes."

"Mmm. Spiky shoes. Got it," he slurred.

Within five minutes, his breathing completely evened out, turning into heavy, rhythmic thuds beneath you. He was completely dead to the world, holding you secure against him while he snored softly into your neck. You gave a small, half-annoyed huff, melting completely into his chest, and finally fell asleep with his cock buried inside you.

᭡ kali’s notes ⸻ I’ve been thinking about writing about cockwarming for a while now… I’m just experimenting tbh guys, but yeah hope y’all enjoyed it ?? mwahh !

© kɑlirɑees 2026. ɑll works belong to me. do not trɑnslɑte, edit, repost, copy, or feed into generɑtive ɑi.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

THE MASTERLIST!

Chapters:

PREVIEW.

ONE: One Night In Blackwater.

TWO: The West's Most Wanted.

THREE: From One Killer To Another.

FOUR: She's Such A Tyrant!

FIVE: No Tell Motel.

SIX: For A Sinner's Ears Only.

SEVEN: Hit 'Em Up!

EIGHT: Good Damage.

NINE: Kiss Me Gently in the Morning.

TEN: Somethin' Wicked This Way Comes.

ELEVEN: A Helping Hand.

TWELVE: Toxic.

THIRTEEN: Easing the Pain.

FOURTEEN: Sweet Medicine.

FIFTEEN: Starting Fresh.

SIXTEEN: A New Change.

SEVENTEEN: Misdirection.

EIGHTEEN PT I: In The Summer Breeze.

EIGHTEEN PT II: Pour Some Sugar on Me.

NINETEEN: Ain't Too Proud to Beg.

TWENTY: Them Changes.

TWENTY-ONE: Movin' On.

TWENTY-TWO: Untameable.

TWENTY-THREE: The III Most Wanted.

TWENTY-FOUR: Ride It, Sugar.

EPILOGUE.

Read on AO3 HERE!

[chrollohearttags]

bookstore date with blerd!ony..📚👓

plus size, nerdy, black fem!reader, public activities/exhibitionism, reader wears a plug, oral + car sex, fingering, anal, other themes

word count: 3.4K

✰ ✰ ✰✰ ✰ ✰✰ ✰ ✰✰ ✰ ✰✰ ✰ ✰✰ ✰ ✰✰

it was a place you frequented often..finding it to be your safe haven and place of solace. Aisles and aisles of literature with every genre imaginable..from novels chocked full of fantasy, mystery and romance that you could immerse yourself into as a means to escape reality to the comics and manga that had you working extra hours just so you could scoop up the next volume or two. Visiting every couple of weeks or so, but you’d never imagine that your best friend..with a few extra benefits and fellow nerd would be traipsing behind you, scouring the shelves to add to his own collection.

“Thank you for coming with me, Ony. I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to.”

“You playing right? Of course imma come with you..besides, I could never get my homeboys to go with me so it works out perfectly.”

you’d frolic about in your white flowing sundress with the pink carnations enmeshed in the pattern as this tall man with the stocky build, wire framed glasses and a tapered fade followed suit. He’d decided on grey sweats, black and white Dunks with a plain white tee and a silver necklace thrown around his neck for his ensemble..one thing was for certain: the two of you looked like polar opposites and he definitely didn’t fit the bill for being the absolute geek he was; that much apparent by the glares from the store clerks who recognized you. Little did they know this man would rattle their ear off about his fifty model airplane builds, all his knowledge about piloting, his love of space and buy out their entire stock of Star Wars and DC merchandise if he laid eyes on it. He got so excited when it came to his special interests and you thought it was adorable.

“Aye, look. They got the new volumes. We should both get a copy.” “Ony, look. This is the book I was telling you about, I think you’ll really like it, it’s up your alley.”

the two of you were like little kids running about through a store full of sugary delicacies. Excited and thrilled to be sharing your love of literature with one another. You’d grab various pieces that piqued your interest before retreating to the in house coffee shop for a seat and an iced refresher. Having stolen glances of your figure as he trailed behind you all day, Ony became increasingly flustered when seeing your pretty face, surrounded by those tufted curls and donned with that gorgeous smile..covering it up with the spine of the book.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Because I like beautiful things, ‘can't help myself....”

complimenting your outfit, telling you how cute you looked in those round glasses. Teasing you relentlessly until you felt as if you were going to implode. Honestly, if anyone had said that a man as handsome as Onyakopon would be sitting across from you, fanning out over comics and being equally as infatuated with you, you’d call them a liar. But alas, here you were…it only made matters worse when he’d ask to see your piece of literature and after a few seconds of resistance, he’d grasp it and find himself greeted with quite the spicy excerpt. It was a black erotic fantasy novel by an author you’d followed for years. Many nights you sat in your room, immersed in her descriptive, detailed stories. This one in particular was about a young witch from a long bloodline of renowned practitioners who falls for the rival warlock and in this scene in particular, the two are engaging in a rather salacious exchange..in the public eye! Something that was admittedly so, a fantasy of your own. When Ony began to scan the pages, you could see his very visible reaction.

“Oh shit..so this is what we’re doing now? I see you, (y/n).” Causing you to immediately fluster in response! With haste, you’d snatch it back and attempt to cover your face in shame.

“Ignore that, I was just checking something!” but the damage was done..the seed had become deeply imbued in your boy toy’s brain and for the rest of the afternoon, it was all that would be occupying his mind…

“Yeah alright, I believe you. ‘You ready to go look some more?”

honestly, you’d do anything to ease the very blatant awkward tension. So you’d nod and the two of you would proceed to scan various aisles, scouring each section; omitting the children’s one until you’d successfully perused the entire store. By the end of it, you each had been left with a stack full of literature that had managed to fill up your hand baskets. Greeted by an overly bubbly cashier; resembling yourself with just a lighter skin tone, (y/n) went first and exchanged pleasantries with the young woman. As she’d scan your items, you’d find yourself engaging in a full blown conversation about your diverse selection. You’d talk about the various manga and how much you’d accumulated over the years. Then she’d catch a glimpse of the aforementioned novel that had spurred controversy.

Meanwhile, Ony couldn’t help but steal glances of you…his eyes just barely wavering so as to not draw too much attention but he couldn’t help himself. Admiring the curvature of your body…the way you looked in that dress was conjuring up thoughts he’d never thought possible. It was so innocuous but yet, revealed just enough to get his mind..and other organs racing. Not to mention your very visible reaction to that little excerpt he’d catch a peek of. But the best surprise was yet to come. Because once he finished paying for his things and the two of you gave a farewell to the cashier and store itself, you’d be greeted with quite a nasty storm waiting on the outside. Heavy rain droplets, thunder and lighting all filled the atmosphere and needless to say, neither of you were prepared. You’d heard rumblings earlier but it seemed that you two had been in there so long, it snuck up unexpectedly.

“You wait here and I’ll go pull the car around.”

It was his first instinct in that moment to protect you and as sweet as you found the gesture, it was also pointless. There was no need in him making the extra steps and you’d both end up soaked regardless.

“You don’t have to do that, I’ll be fine. Let’s just make sure our two hundred bucks doesn’t go down the drain.” Referring to the copious amounts of literature you’d just obtained and it truly would be disheartening to watch it all become water logged.

For safety reasons, you’d reach down and remove your sandals, curling them around two of your fingers. You’d hook arms and clutch the hooks to your chests, ensuring they were covered as best as possible. Together, the two of you would brace the tough terrain, sprinting towards the vehicle. It was almost kind of fun and romantic, despite the chilling rain pouring over your skin. Even so, you guys would reach your destination and promptly enter the safety of the four door sedan. Figuring it’d be a little more spacious than his two seater sports car but he didn’t mind driving so that you could get a rest; as you had to travel a lot for work.

“Oh my gosh, that rain is freezing! I really wish I had brought my jacket in or something…now my dress is all soaked—“

Amidst your rambling, Ony’s eyes had once again resurfaced back to your frame. This time, fixating on said dress…looking at how tightly it clung to your body. Specifically your breasts and how those nipples poked through the material. They were all such lewd and inappropriate thoughts but he certainly could not deny the fact that you stirred up those feelings for him.

“I’m sorry, I’m just ranting…here, let me look in the back and see if there are some spare clothes. I’m sure I have something.”

“Nah, you good, baby. I’m sure it’ll stop soon—“ but before he could halt you, you were already crawling to the back as you’d spotted a pair of jeans, a tank top and some sweats and a t-shirt he could slip into. Not to mention, it didn’t seem there were any signs of the rain slowing down and there was no need for you guys to sit in wet clothing. He’d turn on the car and shift it over the heat to provide warmth.

“Doesn’t look like it’s going to let up, we might as well get comfortable.”

And comfortable would be an understatement! Because he’d take it as an opportunity to make his move. If for nothing else, to get you all flustered and bothered, in hopes of some action for later on. As you’d make your way to the spacious rear, he’d follow suit, causing the car to rock a little.

“Yeah…by comfortable, you mean get naked, right?”

“That is not what I meant, you pervert. I was just saying..”

And before long, you’d find him tickling you and eventually, it’d end in a makeshift makeout session…tousling around in the back and naturally, him teasing you throughout the whole ordeal. Suckling on your tongue and mimicking your tone as his hands ventured all over your frame…helping to remove those damp fabrics. But just as he began to work you out of it, you’d squirm and giggle, pressing your palms against his chest. Not that you didn’t want this moment to transpire and you weren’t feeling him….however, there was a bit of a secret that you had been harboring all day..

“And what were you saying? Hmm? What you tryna’ say?—“

Finally rendering you nude; tugging those panties off with his teeth, Ony would part your thighs to move in between them and of course, catch a glimpse of that sweet center he’d been craving all day long. But it was what you had just a few inches lower that would take him by surprise.

“Oh shit…

Just between those plump asscheeks, resided a metal plug, decorated with a blue jewel in the center. You’d been waiting all day to get him home and reveal the secret but this worked just fine as well! The inspiration behind it? The very book you were just discussing. Because in one of the chapters, the rival warlock forces the witch to wear various toys underneath her clothes to a village party…with an anal plug being one of them so that he could ‘train’ her. Eventually, after teasing her with a controlled vibrator from across the room and all but forcing her to drop to her knees in the middle of the floor, he rewarded her good behavior and ‘participation’ by fucking her senseless in one of the rooms at the manor at which it was being hosted. He’d perform anal sex on the witch for the first time that had her frightened to begin with and by the end, left her mind blank and the sheets splattered with her cum. She’d go from pleading for him to not to thanking him for every thrust and hitting spots she didn’t even know were possible.

“Don’t be shy now…spread those legs f’r me, baby. We not gon’ act like we ain’t see that.”

Cackling as he ran his hands up the backs of your thighs, Ony heavily sucked his teeth with a mouthy groan…ingesting the sight and becoming instantly aroused. That much shown by the tent in his boxers.

“It was supposed to be a surprise for later….but you caught me.” With your knees curled up to your chest and legs parted, you’d shamelessly toy with your clit right in front of him. Squeezing those plump breasts and pinching your stiffened nipples, (y/n) would tease those folds, stirring up the slick and emitting those soft, adorable moans he loved so much.

“Well I ain’t mad about it…I just didn’t know you’d be into some freaky shit like this. Matter of fact…lean up f’r me. I got you..”

Taking his hand, you’d get adjusted in the seat until those legs were parted to each side and he was beside you. Tugging down the remainder of his bottoms, Ony would unveil that thick, veiny cock that had been throbbing since he’d first laid eyes on you today.

“..got my shit all hard, baby. I’ve been wanting your pretty ass all day. You have no idea…”

He could barely be sated as is. But when you’d reach over to grasp his shaft, stroking it with that cheeky grin on your face, he nearly lost his mind.

“Yeah? Then tell me…tell me how bad you want me..” taking the reins for once; displaying just how vehemently horny you were for your man to be. (Y/N) lowered your head and began teasing that tip…wrapping those lips around it and eventually bobbing up and down on that shaft. Coating the thick, dark member in saliva as he tossed his head back against the seat. Those guttural, deep moans sounding so sexy…

“Oh fuck…I want you so bad, baby…want you to eat my fucking dick up..wanna fuck that pretty asshole..make you come—” barely able to guide you along. But you needed no help whatsoever. Placing those hands on his thighs, you’d begin to engulf him whole; taking a solid five inches into your mouth at once. The sounds of you choking on his cock only serve to arouse you even more. Meanwhile, he’d spot those fingers working in and out of that wet cunt and decide to take it over…

“Let me finger this lil’ wet pussy…know that shit so tight..”

Shoving those much thicker digits in, he’d aid you whilst devouring him whole. Which in turn, only made you even more salacious. The way your lips suctioned around his dick and that tip hit the back of your throat, Ony knew he was in for both a treat and some serious trouble. You wouldn’t let up until his legs were trembling and he exploded inside of your mouth.

However, he had a different set of plans and suddenly, you’d find your hair tangled in the grip of his fingertips. Tugging you up gently, he’d shove his tongue into you mouth for a savory kiss…tasting both of your remnants. Followed shortly after by his fingers being glided down your throat until you slightly gagged for him. Which left you both with smiles on your face.

“You so sexy…and freaky. I love you.”

“I love you too…now fuck me..please.”

Panting like a starved feign, practically drooling to feel him inside of you. Ony naturally obliged and helped you adjust until you were planted on all fours and ready for him.

“That’s it, arch that back f’r me, baby.” Encouraging as his strong hands glided up the curvature of your spine and eventually back down to those plump cheeks; brandishing each of them with a smack. Slowly, he’d spread them apart and eventually revealing that metal plug fully. You were pulsating, that tight entrance suctioning around the far end and once he began to slowly tug it out, you’d find yourself whimpering and moaning. He’d glance down a little further to see that your cunt was glistening as a result of that stimulation all day.

“Yeah…you ready f’r me. Spread that ass…hold it open.” Becoming a little more firm in his commands as he prepared to glide in. Gripping the base of his shaft, Ony stroked himself a few times before providing you a little more lubrication with a glob of saliva and his thumb momentarily, working those compact muscles.

(Y/N) let out a soft whimper, cursing under your breath from the pleasure…alas, that was only the beginning. Because once he was done, he’d make the transition into becoming one with your body. Truth be told, you both were a little nervous…it wasn’t the first time you two had done these sorts of activities but it certainly had been quite a while. However, lust, hormones, pure love and the sheer heat of the moment had caused you to make a decision to spice things up. And Ony was more than willing to participate in the antics! After a few seconds, he’d grasp your waist and pull you towards him. Eventually, that tip would prod into that warm hole and before you knew it, you were three inches full of his fat dick.

“Oh…fuck! You’re so tight…feels too fucking good.”

Unable to concoct a full sentence, Ony would suck his teeth and huff as he made home inside of you…that wet flesh clutching around him for dear life. Meanwhile, you’d grasp the door handle for leverage and allow him more room to maneuver. He’d start with a few gentle strokes, pushing in ever so slightly as to not hurt you. But he didn’t want to tease you too much as he could tell that you were overly aroused at this point; drooling from all of your orifices. Once he made it to his third one, you’d feel his hand come down once more with a forceful slap against your ass and soon, he was hitting his stride.

“Yeah…that’s it…take that dick, beautiful. Take that fucking dick…”

His deep drawl ringing out in your ear as those strokes grew a little more fast paced.

“Fuck! Yes, give it to me, Ony. You’re making me feel so good!”

Whimpering and crying in that sexy little tone he loved so much. The feeling of those heavy balls slapping against that clit in tandem only increasing the pleasure. Eventually, you’d begin to meet his thrusts, letting that round backside ricochet off of him.

“Mmhm…yeah I know, baby. I’m digging that lil’ ass out, ain’t I? Got you creaming all over my shit..”

“Yesss, daddy. Fuck…oh my God, you’re gonna make me come.”

which was all of the motivation he needed to keep drilling into that entrance. He barely lasted anytime in your pussy but this was by far even harder and Ony wasn’t certain if he could take anymore. But he’d keep pushing through…especially when you’d continue egging him on with those sweet whimpers and adorable moans; telling him how amazing he felt and how good he was fucking you. Those loud, wet sounds and the collision of flesh filling the car. All either of you could do was thank the heavens that it was still raining cats and dogs outside, which served as a makeshift partition to your lascivious activities.

As your eyes began to trail to the back of your head, he’d reach around and grasp your throat; lobbing spit into your mouth once again..

“Kiss me..”

Desperately begging in succession as he sloppily slathered you in pecks. The two of you clinging onto one another as if you couldn’t breathe without the other. Eventually, you’d feel that knot sweeping up in your belly and without warning, you’d explode all over him; releasing a rain of squirt onto the seat. “Oh shit!”

“That’s what I’m talm’ bout, make a fucking mess..” but eventually, he’d find himself right behind you, mirroring the same sentiments.

“…I’m bout to come, baby. Swear to God, imma bust a nut in this lil’ ass. Can I nut in it? You gon’ let me?..”

Begging like a man unhinged and desperate to breed you. And naturally, you’d have no other answer than to grant his wish.

“Yeah! Please—come in me, come in this ass!”

Reaching back to pull him in closer. Unable to maintain his composure, Ony made those last few thrusts count with rapid speed before pausing and emptying every drop of his seed into your body.

“Fuuuuck! Fuck…I love you!” Finding himself curled over onto your frame.

“I love you too, Ony. I love you so fucking much.”

Smiling as your faces met once more. As you both came down from those highs, he’d examine the aftermath around you both and begin to laugh.

“You know what? I’m never going out with you again. You ain’t nothing but trouble…”

“Yeah, I doubt that. You know I’m worth every bit of it.”

And of course, he was inclined to agree. Placing a kiss atop your forehead as confirmation.

“Damn straight…I ain’t never coming up off of you.”

This was certainly a trip to your favorite destination neither of you would ever forget!

taglist: @jadeisthirsting @nymph-dolliee @adoremme @krys4h @h3avenlyglory @spaceforher @int3rnetgodd3ss @coochieconvent @barneyspurplebussy @fictionalytmenhavemyheart @blond3ang3l @le7ryce @sincerely-kaiii

[love4blackwrites]

Writing Tips (for x Black!reader writers)

I’ve been seeing more Black readers wanting to write x reader stories that actually center poc readers—and that’s such a good way to create representation and explore dynamics that usually get ignored. While this post can apply to everyone, I wrote it with Black women in mind. They’re constantly targeted with hate on this app, left without real representation, and often made to feel too afraid to share their work. And just to be clear—before the ignorant ones show up—yes, x reader fics are meant to avoid assuming identity and stay “inclusive.” But if that were really happening, people wouldn’t have to dig through endless stories full of stuff like "you blushed bright red," "...pale skin," "he ran his fingers through your straight, silky hair," or "he was mesmerized by your blue eyes." That’s not inclusivity. This post is here to encourage and uplift writers who deserve to see themselves in the stories they love.

So here are some tips to help you get started:

➹ Starting Out

1. Pick your character/fandom first.

Who do you want the reader to interact with? Who is driving your motivation? Choosing a specific character gives you immediate direction.

2. Decide on the vibe.

Fluff, angst, romance, horror, or erotica? Knowing the tone makes it easier to start writing scenes.

3. Start small.

Instead of planning a giant fic, write a short drabble (like 300–700 words). You can always expand later!

✍️🏽 Writing POC Reader

Normalize the reader’s identity. Don’t overexplain—just weave details naturally, like references to skin tones, hair textures, cultural foods, or experiences. Avoid stereotypes. Instead of making the story about being a Black, let it be about the relationship/plot while still honoring identity (unless that's what the story is about).

Use inclusivity in description. Instead of “her cheeks flushed red,” you might say “their cheeks warmed” or describe a glow/undertone. If you do reference appearance, tie it to beauty and pride.

Tag your work properly!! If you do reference specific hair textures (like coils) or distinct skin tones, just make sure to tag it or mention it in the header so people looking for something else can scroll past.

​Examples for Inspiration:

"At times like this, you envied bald people. Your coils were trapping the humid air against your scalp, the thick heat thriving enough to drive you crazy."

"You smoothed oil down your thighs, watching the dim bedroom light catch the way your brown skin gleamed against the sheets."

"You didn't turn around, but you could feel his gaze tracing the curve of your lips, completely mesmerized by the texure of your hair, your [blank] figure, and the deep, warm glow of your skin in the sunlight."

📚 Writing Techniques

Use second person pov (“you”). That’s the core of x reader writing.

Think like a scene director. Imagine what “you” are doing, how the character reacts, and the emotions.

​To really make your scenes pop, you have to play with the actual rhythm of your sentences. The way a sentence is structured dictates the reader's mental and physical state.

Experiment with narration styles!

Play with sentence length. Use long, drawn-out sentences with sensory details when you want a scene to feel heavy, suffocating, or deeply sensual. Then, smash the reader with short, blunt sentences when the tension breaks or something terrifying happens.

Dialogue is gold. It brings out chemistry quickly, but you don’t need a constant back-and-forth to make a story good. Sometimes, the quiet standoff, the heavy silence, or a single, lingering look says more than a whole page of talking.

Show, don’t tell. Instead of writing "you were embarrassed or scared," break down the physical reaction. Write about the sharp catch of breath in your throat, the small, crooked smile you try to hide, or the way your nails dig into your palm to keep from trembling. "You dropped your gaze, but couldn’t hide the small, crooked smile that threatened to break through." Don't take this too literally—sometimes it's best to just name the feeling instead of going on and on.

☆ Tips for Staying Motivated

Write for yourself first, audience second! If you don't love the story, nobody else can do it justice.

Don’t compare your progress. Everyone starts somewhere, and your style will find its own natural rhythm over time.

Test the waters. Post short drabbles on Tumblr, AO3, or Wattpad. Seeing how people respond to small snippets can help you grow without the pressure of a massive project.

Save your inspiration. Keep screenshots, build specific music playlists to anchor the mood of a scene, or save aesthetic boards. It all helps spark ideas when you hit a wall.

Write for dead or tiny fandoms!! If the inspiration is there, DO IT! You'll usually find a small, incredibly dedicated group of readers who are starving for what you're creating.

Basic decency!

Always give people credit where it's due. Writers love knowing their work inspired someone else—it's the highest compliment you can pay. If a specific scene or dynamic sparked an idea for your own fic, drop a note to say that! And if you use someone’s artwork, graphics, or custom dividers to style your post, GIVE THEM CREDIT! Keep the community supportive and respectful.

Beautiful Dividers by @uzmacchiato

Repost from my other account. All works ©. Do not modify, plagiarize, or repost my work.

[love4blackwrites]

Plagiarism vs. Inspiration for Dummies

​With story theft running rampant, people constantly misidentify what "inspiration" actually means. I'm going to explain the definitive line between building on an idea and stealing someone’s work.

​1. The Difference

Inspiration: ​You read a story, and a specific concept, dynamic, or emotional description resonates with you, sparking an entirely new, original idea. You take that spark and write it using your own voice, your own structural layout, unique dialogue, and your own world-building.

​Plagiarism: ​You took the author’s blueprint. Changing a few adjectives, swapping character names, or using a thesaurus to copy the same sentence structure is theft. It does not matter if you physically typed the words yourself; if you stole the exact paragraph flow, lines of dialogue, scene-by-scene progression, and specific narrative, it is plagiarism

​2. Textual Examples: Seeing the Difference

​Example A: The Physical Discomfort / Closet Setup

​The Original Work by @2neaky:

​The Plagiarized Version by @getmoneygirl:

Why this is theft: The author did zero original structural thinking. Even though they converted the perspective to second person ("you") and changed the underlying cause from a food allergy to ovulation, they stole the exact flow of the scene. They followed the identical sequence of physical moments: standing at the mirror, pulling up a top, analyzing a slight swell over the waistband of sweatpants, prodding the skin, experiencing an unexpected sharp ache low in the stomach, and combining a teeth-sucking sound with the exact dialogue "Are you fucking serious?" They even wrapped the sequence up with the exact same comfort element—the realization that they are wearing their boyfriend's oversized clothing. This is lifting a writer's unique pacing and creative choices, then just rephrasing the sentences to hide it.

​The Inspired Version (genuine creative transition):

The mirror was a harsh critic, but the tight, heavy pressure building in her lower abdomen was worse. She adjusted the waistband of her track pants, sighing at how unforgiving the fabric felt against her bloated skin today. It was a dull, heavy ache that made even standing up straight feel like an effort. Sucking in a breath, she leaned against the cool porcelain of the sink and closed her eyes, waiting for the sudden cramp to subside. "Not today," she muttered into the empty space. She did a series of deep breaths before giving up on the reflection entirely, she grabbed the nearest oversized shirt from the laundry basket—his, of course, smelling faintly of cinnamon—and drowned herself in the fabric, desperately seeking the extra room and comfort.

​Alternative Inspired Version (even more distinct):

The apartment was dark when he arrived, save for the faint glow of the television. You were curled on the sofa, staring blankly at a sitcom, completely drained. Hormonal shifts always hit you hard, turning minor inconveniences into insurmountable walls. He didn't ask questions. He ran a hot bath, dumping in the lavender salts you kept in the cabinet, and left a mug of chamomile tea on the counter. When you finally climbed into the tub, he sat on the bathmat beside you, quietly recounting a stupid story from his workday just to give you something to focus on.

Why this is inspiration: It takes a similar core concept—a character dealing with sudden bloating/discomfort in front of a mirror and finding comfort in a partner's clothing—but the execution is entirely unique. The physical reactions are different, the dialogue is completely distinct, and the atmospheric flow belongs entirely to a new writer rather than copying another author's story.

​Example B: The Studio / Creative Frustration Setup

​The Original Work by @aizawash0e:

​The Plagiarized Version (Structural Theft & Setting Copier):

The track had been looping in your headphones for hours. It was the usual routine, you trapped in the vocal booth, the headset pressed to your ears, standing right before the microphone. The music stand held your printed lyrics, though you didn't actually need them. You knew every word by heart, but the vibe wasn't hitting right. Maybe staring at the physical pages would help you see what the issue was. You couldn't figure out if it was your delivery, the track, or the words, but something waswrong. On the other side of the double-paned glass was the high-end control room, with its expensive leather chairs, state-of-the-art gear, and walls covered in your plaques and favorite singers' albums. Sitting across the glass were your manager, Maya, your assistant and best friend, Chloe, and right in the center, sitting directly at the mixing board was Jordan, your producer and boyfriend.

Why this is theft: Once again, this is a complete narration lift. The plagiarist changed a few vocabulary words and swapped the character names, but they stole the exact pacing, the specific internal conflict, and the layout of the room. They copied the exact progression: blocking out hours in the booth, staring at a lyric sheet the character already knows by heart to diagnose a vague creative block, describing the expensive control room through the glass, listing the plaques on the wall, and naming the exact same three-person lineup in the exact same seating order (Manager->Assistant/Friend ->Producer/Boyfriend at the center of the board).

​The Inspired Version:

The vocal booth always felt a little claustrophobic after midnight, the heavy foam walls swallowing up every breath. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the pop filter, letting the instrumental track bleed through her open-back headphones for the twentieth time. The song was technically perfect, but the emotional delivery was dead on arrival. Across the studio floor, the glass partition reflected the green and red glow of the soundboard. Her producer—who also happened to be the guy she went home to every night—was slumped in his chair, rubbing his eyes while their small puppy dozed off on his lap. She didn't need to look at a lyric sheet to know they were losing the magic; she just needed him to cut the playback so they could figure it out.

Why this is inspiration: It takes the exact same premise—a singer experiencing a creative block inside a recording booth while her producer/boyfriend watches from the control room—but it builds an entirely fresh scene. The atmosphere is different, the character's physical reaction to the frustration is unique, the room layout isn't copied bead-for-bead, and it relies on completely original imagery instead of piggybacking off another writer's structural draft.

​Example C: The Direct Copy-Paste

The Original Work by @liliacsdelight:

The Plagerized Fic by @lovedcow:

Why this is theft: ​The wording is identical, copy-and-pasting has been done, and the entire story follows the original's structure, dialogue, and pacing.

The Inspired Version: You didn't know what to do after last night. The timeline in your head kept looping back to the exact moment the screen shifted on FaceTime. He had been screensharing something stupid, a corny video about JJK fans, when his thumb swiped too far left and cracked open his camera roll, and you saw it. The apology after had been clumsy, automated. "Oh, um... sorry. Just forget you saw that." ​You had forced your face to stay flat, keeping the conversation running on autopilot until the random facts about whales became too awkward breathe through. "Who are you even sending nudes to?" you’d asked, trying for a detached, casual tone. ​He’d shifted on his end of the screen, the sudden flare of embarrassment turning the tips of his ears dark. "Nobody," he muttered. ​You let out a dry, sarcastic hum. "Riiiight." ​Then he’d leaned into the camera, a sudden, nervous joke cutting through the static. "Why? You want some?" ​The air had left your lungs instantly. Your throat felt coated in sand, a sudden, choking heat climbing up your neck. You mumbled some half-baked excuse about needing to throw laundry in or check the door, snapping the call shut before he could see the panic in your eyes. ​And now, twenty-four hours later, your brain was stuck in a loop.

​3. Why Giving Credit Matters

​People love to argue, "No one owns a trope! Ideas aren't unique!"

​True, no one owns the producer trope or the comfort trope. But if you read a specific author's work, and their specific execution of a trope gave you the idea to write your own version, give them credit. A simple "Inspired by @[Author Name]'s incredible story" costs you nothing. It shows humility, respects the community, and acknowledges that another creator's brain sparked your own creativity.

​Feigning ignorance and pretending you came up with a hyper-specific concept entirely in a vacuum after just interacting with their post is transparent and disrespectful.

​4. The Parasitic Nature of Theft and AI

​When you copy an author's story, run someone's work through an AI generator, or use AI to write your fanfiction, you are announcing that you are lazy and talentless.

​Writing is a muscle. The more you struggle through the awkward drafts, look for the right words, and build your own worlds, the more your mind expands and your skills improve. If you slack off and steal, you will never grow. You will remain a scummy, fake-writer.

​If you want to get better:

Read actual literature: Stop consuming exclusively internet erotica. Read published books, analyze their prose, and study how professional authors pace a scene.

Do your research: Learn about the subjects you write about.

Seek feedback: Reach out to authors you admire and ask for constructive criticism (I still do this even though my writing has improved drastically).

​5. How to Handle Story Theft

​To the authors and readers who care about this community; telling thieves to stop won't magically fix their morals. We have to look out for one another—especially keeping an eye on popular accounts or new creators who quietly lift concepts, plot structures, and entire stories from other writers.

​If you find your work has been plagiarized:

Gather Proof: Take screenshots immediately. Document the timestamps, the exact paragraphs, lines, and the formatting matches.

Decide Your Approach: You can handle it privately if you think it's a new writer who genuinely doesn't understand anything. Or, if they are malicious and you just want to, you can put them on blast publicly. Expose them and spread awareness outside of your immediate circle.

​Do not let people tell you that you're overreacting/reaching. Your words and your creative work belong to you. Protect your work, credit your inspirations, and stop letting people treat your labor as a free resource.

☆—————————☆—————————☆

All examples written by me!!

All works ©. Do not modify, plagiarize, or repost my work.

[krys4h]

one day im gonna write my super niche headcanon (connie being brazilian, doing the nevou tradition from favelas (bleaching hair) while being a goofy fashion student who loves art on his scalp)

brazilian connie ily