25 | Black & Queer Femme | MDNI = Age in Bio or you get blocked | This is a side blog | You will find mostly smut here | This blog is dedicated to the fanfics and webcomics I read | ON SEMI HIATUS | EVERYTHING IS QUEUED
This is a month old and I forgot about it but oooh well. Added some more fics to it tho so enjoy
MISC 💙:
German mascato - This wine was sooo tasty! I decided to treat myself and it was worth it. The notes of lychee is what sold me. Worth $18 but you can prob find cheaper elsewhere.
This meme // honestly yahh that’s all I just felt it very deeply .
Manhwas & Webcomics & Manga Corner:
Helja and the Lich King by @thebigpalooka //webtoon/webcomic - fantasy style read. Theres love betrayal, magic and more. I read this story like every week story telling is really good.ongoing
The Invisible Man and His Soon-to Be Wife // manga - office romance between an invisible man and blind gf. Sets place at a detective agency. The world is filled with mythic creatures and humans. This such a cute read.ongoing
The Fantastical After-School Writing Club // webtoon/manhwa - this an archenemies to fictional lovers. These teachers take on a job to teach these kids how to write. They literally get sucked into the stories the kids make. Funniest shit ever also something suspicious is going on in with the kids and the town ppl. ongoing
Songs & Albums🎧:
This artist deserves more streams! The quality of their music is good.
This was a fantastic album. All the good modern rnb jazz feels
Books & Fics 📚:
That Time I Got Drunk and Saved A Demon by Kimberly Lemming // book - A funny and smutty reread. I love black women being loved on by hot male leads set in fantasy worlds. Also love a good monster romance. I’m waiting for book 3 in the anthology to come out this week.
Plaything By @nymphoheretic // fic - demon slayer hantengu x fem slayer reader. I’m a monster fudger till the day I die. A foursome done soooooooooooo well.
Choso Drabble By @preciousamethyst // fic - choso x plus size y/n. This was so funny! I’m happy you wrote it. Remember she’s and they’s - be his sleep paralysis demon. Never let him
High Fashion By @bussyqueensblog // fic - deku x plus size y/n x kiri. Ooooooo this latest chap was soooo freaking good and smutty! Love a black plus size girl in a throuple to infinity. Y/N is living my my dreams.
Miguel O’Hara Drabble By @privateparty3 // fic - Miguel o’hara x black fem chubby reader. Yoooo this was soo fucking good and smutty. Villain x good guy. And they have babies - LOVE! haven’t even seen the movie yet but this fic made extra feral for this man.
You find him half-dead on the side of the road; one look at him and you know he isn't human. You take care of him for a while, but he starts exhibiting strange behavior. He takes a strong liking to you and begins to get restless. You come to realize that no matter how obedient or quiet he is, he really is just a needy feral beast.
Werewolf hybrid x BlackFem!Reader
°ໂ2.5k+ words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), domestic, mimicking behavior, handjob->blow job, dry humping, he's kind of pathetic, light humiliation, degradation, reader is stern but indulgent, doggy, kntting, no condom(wrap it!), pet names, plot(kinda), dubcon(just to be safe), etc.ໂ°
It had rained the night before. The trail was slick with rotting leaves, branches heavy and dripping above your head. Your boots sunk with every step, mud swallowing the soles like a warning. You almost didn’t see him.
At first, you thought it was a dead animal. Still, tangled in bush, half-covered in muck and pine needles. But then the shape registered—arms, legs, a human torso curled on its side like a child, one shoulder scraped raw where the skin met gravel.
You stopped mid-step. Heart thudding. Reached for the small knife clipped to your belt.
Then he moved.
A twitch—fingers flexing, clawing weakly at the earth. He turned his face up toward you, and your breath caught.
Not quite human. His eyes glowed faintly, the color of swamp water. His lips were split, dry and bloodied. Hair long and matted. Strips of cloth clung to his hips, barely covering him. There were gashes on his back. Deep ones.
"Shit," you muttered.
He made a noise—low, rasping. His eyes stayed locked on you. Wide, unblinking, wild with pain and something else. Something needy.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you said slowly, crouching.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch either. Just watched you with an expression like you're the first warm thing he’d seen in years.
You pulled your jacket off and draped it over him. He let out a soft sound—almost like a sob—but didn’t move away.
His body was burning up under the cold fabric. Feverish.
“You’re gonna die out here,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Stupid choice.”
Still no words. But his fingers twitched again—toward you. You paused. Then reached down, curling your hand around his wrist.
He sighed like he’d been waiting for that touch forever.
⋆ ˚
He didn’t weigh much.
You expected him to be heavier, but his limbs were all wiry muscle and sharp bones under skin too thin, too warm. Carrying him was awkward, not hard—he clung to you without making a sound, breath hot against your throat, chest heaving shallowly as you hiked back toward the cabin.
The whole way, he didn’t say a word.
Didn’t ask where you were going. Didn’t beg or resist. Just held on. Like a dying thing too tired to fight anymore.
The cabin door creaked open with a groan. You nudged it with your boot and stepped inside, the cold snapping off the back of your neck. The woodstove was out. You set him down on the couch, still wrapped in your jacket, and went straight for the firewood.
He watched you.
Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just followed you with those swamp-green eyes like he needed you in his line of sight at all times or he’d stop breathing.
Once the fire was lit and crackling, you knelt beside him.
“I need to clean you up,” you said, voice low. “You’re bleeding all over my damn blanket.”
Again, no answer. Just that stare.
You peeled the soaked jacket off and winced. His chest and stomach were a mess of bruises and lacerations. Something had really done him in. The slashes weren’t clean—some looked like claws, others like bites. Not animal. Not human, either.
You got a bowl of warm water and some rags. Peroxide. Thread and needle. Sat down beside him and got to work.
He didn’t flinch when you touched him. Didn’t wince at the sting of antiseptic. Just watched you, lips parted, eyes tracking every movement of your hands like your care was a language he didn’t understand but wanted to memorize.
“You’re a quiet one,” you muttered, dabbing blood from his collarbone. “Probably how you ended up half-dead on a trail. Quiet and stupid.”
A soft breath escaped him. Not a laugh. Not quite. But close.
You looked up. His eyes were glistening. Not from pain.
“Don’t cry,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “Not like I’m doing this for you. I don’t need a corpse in my woods.”
His lips moved then. Barely.
“…you smell good.”
You stilled.
“What?”
He blinked slowly. “Warm.”
Your fingers flexed on the rag. You exhaled and turned back to the wound on his side.
“Don’t get weird,” you muttered. “You’re not staying long.”
But he just watched, quiet and pliant as you sewed his skin shut—like even your insults were holy. Like every second near you was a gift he didn’t deserve.
—
The storm had rolled in overnight. Thick fog clung to the windows like breath, and the trees outside groaned under the weight of cold rain. Inside the cabin, it was quiet—just the crackle of fire and the occasional creak of settling wood.
You stood at the stove, frying pan in hand, flipping eggs and watching the yolks settle. Bacon sizzled beside them, curling at the edges.
You could feel him watching behind you.
He sat at the little table by the window, knees drawn up, blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Bare-chested. Bruises fading, skin still too pale. Hair damp from the wash you'd forced him to take that morning. He hadn’t said much—he rarely did—but his eyes followed you like always.
Hungry. Not just for food.
“Smells good,” he murmured.
His voice was always like that now—low, hoarse, careful. Like every word had weight. Like he didn’t want to speak unless you earned it.
You set the plate in front of him and handed him a fork.
He didn’t move to take it.
Instead, he looked up at you like he didn’t know what to do. Like the offering was too much. Hands curled in his lap, knuckles strained.
“You are gonna eat, right?” you asked, crossing your arms.
“…if you feed me.”
You raised a brow.
“Don’t push it.”
His eyes dropped instantly. “Sorry.”
That got you. That quiet apology, small and raw and not manipulative—just true. It sat heavy in your chest.
You sighed, pulled the chair out beside him, and sat down.
“Fine. But this is the first and last time.”
You picked up the fork and speared a bite of egg, holding it up. He leaned forward without hesitation—mouth open, slow, careful. His lips brushed the fork, and he hummed softly when he chewed.
You watched him swallow. Watched his lashes flutter.
“Good?”
He nodded.
You fed him another bite. Then another. He never looked away from your face. Even when you weren't looking directly at him, his gaze never wavered—like the food was just a means to stay close.
“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked softly, feeding him a piece of bacon.
He blinked. “Like what?”
“Like I’m gonna disappear.”
He chewed slowly. Licked a bit of yolk from his lip.
“…because you could.”
Your throat tightened. You shoved the last bite toward his mouth more roughly than necessary.
“Eat.”
He did. But when you set the fork down and stood to grab another plate for yourself, his hand caught your wrist.
Not hard. Not demanding. Just… asking.
“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes wide. “For helping me.”
You stared down at him, heartbeat slow and heavy.
“Don’t make me regret it,” you said flatly.
But you didn’t pull away.
⋆ ˚
You woke up to the sound of breathing that wasn’t yours.
Shallow. Close.
Your fingers curled around the knife under your pillow out of habit before your brain caught up with the familiarity of it. The warmth near your leg. The slow, anxious inhale.
You turned your head.
He was on the floor beside the bed, curled up on a blanket like some half-starved dog. Watching you.
Not asleep.
Just watching.
Again.
“How long have you been there?” you asked, voice flat.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it in the dark.
“…Since you came to bed.”
You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. “Boy, you have your own damn couch.”
“You’re safer this way,” he said. “I can tell if something comes for you.”
There was no reasoning with that. Not the way he said it. Like he really believed there was something coming—something worse than him.
You sat up, blanket falling from your chest. His gaze dropped for a moment, but not with lust. With reverence.
You could almost feel the weight of his stare on your collarbone.
“Get back on the couch,” you muttered.
He didn’t move.
Instead, he whispered, “I like being close.”
Your jaw tensed.
But you didn’t force him. Not this time.
You laid back down, turned your body away from him, and tried to ignore the way his breathing steadied as soon as you did. How the air shifted—less like fear, more like worship.
⋆ ˚
A few days passed like that.
He was good. Quiet. Obedient. He followed your rules—washed when you told him to, ate everything you fed him, stayed inside even when the woods called to him through the windows. He stayed close. Always close.
Until one afternoon, when you came back from town.
You dropped your pack by the door. The cabin was too quiet. The fire was low.
“Hey,” you called, stepping inside. “You better not be bleeding on the rug again.”
No answer.
Then you heard the floorboard creak—just past the kitchen.
You moved slowly. Quiet. The air felt wrong.
When you turned the corner, you stopped cold.
He was standing by the sink. Wearing one of your shirts.
It hung loose on him, neck stretched, sleeves too short. He was barefoot. Damp—like he’d just showered. His hair was combed down, parted like yours. His expression blank, but his eyes—
His eyes were glowing.
You didn’t speak. Just stared.
His lips moved, mimicking the way yours had curled that morning when you tied your boots.
“I wanted to see,” he murmured. “What it felt like. Being you.”
Your pulse climbed.
“You think that’s normal?” you said, voice like ice. “Digging through my clothes? Copying me?”
His fingers clenched at his sides. He looked ashamed. Or scared. You couldn’t tell which.
“…I want to understand you,” he said. “If I can be more like you, maybe you’ll keep me.”
That last part?
It didn’t sound pathetic.
It sounded sad.
He wasn’t trying to scare you. He didn’t even seem aware of how disturbing it was.
He just wanted to stay.
Even if it meant becoming you.
It didn't get any better. He stopped asking before following you from room to room. You’d shift in your chair—he’d shift too. You’d open a drawer—his eyes would follow your hands like they were divine. You’d sigh, and he’d mimic it seconds later like he could feel what you felt, even when you didn’t say a word.
But tonight—it snapped.
You had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel clutched to your chest, steam curling around your shoulders. You were tired. The hot water had done nothing to ease the tension that built up from his staring, his watching, the constant pressure of his presence brushing too close, too often.
He was in your bedroom again.
Sitting on the edge of your bed like he belonged there.
“Get out,” you said without looking at him. “I’m not in the mood.”
But he didn’t move.
You felt him rise behind you as you dug through your drawer. The heat of him at your back, chest bare, breath unsteady.
“I am,” he whispered.
You froze.
His hand touched your shoulder—light, trembling. Like he didn’t know whether to worship you or break you open just to crawl inside.
“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you. I do everything you ask. I sit by your bed like a dog, I eat when you feed me, I let you touch me when you clean my wounds—”
“You let me?” you snapped, whipping around, eyes hard.
He flinched, but didn’t back away.
“I need you,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t get it—I don’t know who I am anymore if I’m not touching something that belongs to you.”
You shoved past him, heart racing.
He grabbed your wrist.
Not hard—but with intent. His fingers curled, grounding himself on your skin.
“Please,” he whispered. “I won’t ask again. Just—just let me have something. Let me touch you. Let me show you that I can be what you need too.”
You stared at him.
Wild, half-naked, shaking.
His jaw trembled. “You belong to me, don’t you? Just a little?”
You didn’t flinch.
You didn’t soften either.
He looked wrecked—eyes glassy, lips parted, hand still trembling around your wrist like you were his only lifeline. He didn’t know how to hide anything. His need sat open on his face like a wound.
You stepped into him.
And kissed him.
Just once.
Quick. Firm. Your hand at his jaw, mouth warm but unyielding, like you were closing a circuit instead of offering comfort.
When you pulled back, his mouth chased yours.
You stopped him with a look.
“Go to bed,” you said.
He blinked, dazed.
You stepped back and watched him swallow it. Watched him obey.
Barely.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The woods behind the cabin were overgrown and quiet. You made him chase you through tall grass and loose trails, laughing as he stumbled, panting like a beast that hadn’t tasted meat in days.
He was fast—stronger now—but never caught you unless you let him. And sometimes you did. Just enough for him to grab your arm, breathe hard against your throat.
Then you’d twist away.
“Down, boy,” you’d mutter.
He’d drop to one knee like he couldn’t help it.
Like his body was wired to obey you even when his hunger told him to tear your clothes off.
⋆ ˚
You went straight to the shower when you came back—sweaty, flushed, loose with adrenaline. He tried to follow you in, but one look was enough to send him sulking back down the hall.
When you opened your bedroom door, he was waiting again.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.
“I need you,” he said.
It wasn’t a whisper this time.
“I need you. Now. I’ve done everything. I’ve waited—I’ve let you tease me. You kissed me, you let me sleep in your bed, you call me names like you don’t know what it does to me—”
You raised a hand and he stopped.
Stewing in the silence.
You walked right past him. Grabbed a fresh shirt from your dresser. Looked over your shoulder once, and said:
“No.”
Then left him there. Hard, desperate, too strung out on want to move.
He didn’t talk to you for an hour.
Didn’t look at you either.
Just stayed curled up in the corner of the room like a pet thrown outside.
You waited until it was dark before you got up and went to him. Watched the way he tried not to lift his head. The way his throat bobbed when he heard your steps.
You ruffled his hair. No apology.
Then started cooking.
His favorite. The only thing he ever asked for more than once.
You didn’t have to look when you heard him get up.
Didn’t even blink when he appeared in the doorway, standing there with bare feet and glassy eyes, watching like he couldn’t decide whether to bite you or beg.
His voice was low, rough around the edges. “You’re not mad?”
You stirred the pot.
“No.”
“But you left.”
“You needed to cool off.”
“I need you,” he bit, hands fisting at his sides. “You don’t get it—I can’t—you’re all I think about, you smell so good, you taste—”
You turned your head just enough to see him, lifting a brow.
That shut him up fast.
But he didn’t leave.
He came in slow, circling behind you. No more talk. Just breath—hot, wet, frantic—against the back of your neck. You felt the shift before he touched you. The way his body lost its rhythm, gave into instinct.
Then—
His hips pressed flush to your ass.
His dick was already hard, straining through his pants.
He thrust once. Slow.
Twice. A little harder.
You didn’t stop him.
Didn’t help him either.
He grabbed your hips, fingers trembling, and started grinding in earnest. Ragged, animalistic, dragging his clothed dick up against you again and again like his brain had short-circuited.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “Feels—feels s’good—oh my god—please. Please just let me, I—I can’t—”
You rolled your eyes.
“You really can’t control yourself for five minutes, can you?” you muttered, letting him use you, body staying still as he rutted into your backside with frantic, shallow thrusts.
He whined. Actually whined.
You smirked.
“You really are just an animal, huh?”
A low, ragged groan vibrated from his chest. He rutted harder—slow, desperate. His head came down and layed on your shoulder, breath heavy and hot against your neck.
“You’d fuck me right here if I let you.”
"Mhmm," he managed to hum, still grinding into you.
He started to pant.
“You wouldn’t even last a minute, would you?”
You turned your head, barely glancing at him. “You’re so filthy. I thought you were a good boy, baby.”
He growled at you words, grip tightened at your waist.
Hips stuttering, breath catching, face probably twisted into something obscene behind you.
“Fuuuuck—fuck—oh my god—thank you, thank you, I needed—”
You felt him start to shake.
And then he came.
Hard.
Hot through his pants, his whole body curling around yours, pressing tighter as he spilled in his clothes with a broken, needy sob.
You didn’t turn around.
You just stirred the food, like he hadn’t just humped you like a dog and made a mess of himself on your ass.
“Dirty boy,” you said, calm, low. “Go clean yourself up.”
You heard him whimper.
“Then come eat.”
⋆ ˚
He came back ten minutes later.
Showered. Damp hair. Clean clothes.
But his face was still flushed, eyes holding so many mixed emotions, hands slightly shaking like the shame hadn’t washed off. He sat down at the table across from you, eyes flicking up, then down, then up again—starving, but not just for food.
You placed the bowl in front of him, slow and steady.
He didn’t say a word like he hadn’t just stained himself moaning your name under his breath.
But you watched him.
You watched the way his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the spoon.
The way he kept stealing glances at you, hungry and anxious, like he thought you might still be mad—or worse, like you might do nothing at all.
“You always eat so fast,” you said, voice smooth as cream.
He froze.
Chewed slow.
Swallowed.
“…sorry.”
“I didn’t say stop,” you added. “It’s cute. Like you’re afraid I’ll take it away.”
He blinked. A small sound caught in his throat.
You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm.
“And earlier? That was cute too.”
His entire face shifted.
You tilted your head. “Making a mess in your pants like that. Just from a little pressure.”
He put his utensil down, hands balling into fists in his lap.
“Stop,” he whispered.
“Oh? Is that too much for your dirty little brain?” you murmured. “You hump me like an animal and now you want to pretend you’re shy?”
“I said stop,” he snapped, low and trembling.
You smiled, slow and sharp.
Silence stretched between you. His jaw clenched. His breath was shallow, like he didn’t know if he wanted to scream or fall to his knees.
Then—
You asked it.
Calm. Quiet.
Like it was nothing.
“What are you?”
His eyes shot to yours. “What…?”
You didn’t blink, just stared for a second longer than usual. “You heard me.”
He stared at you, frozen. Something in him recoiled—but something else thrummed. Deep. Dark. Animal.
“I don’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking.
You leaned in just a little, watching his pupils swell.
“You’re not human.”
“No.”
“But you’re not just some beast either.”
He shook his head slowly, lips parted, like the words had nowhere to go.
“I’m yours,” he said finally. “That’s all I know.
The words hung in the space between you.
“I’m yours.”
You let them sit. Heavy. Undeniable.
He was trembling, barely breathing—waiting to see if you’d reject it. Laugh. Walk away.
You didn’t.
You sat back in your chair, eyes never leaving his face. And softer now, more curious than cruel, you asked: “…Is that all you want to be?”
He blinked, chest rising and falling faster now. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.
Then: “I don’t know what else I can be.”
You watched him carefully. He wasn’t lying.
“Do you remember anything? Before I found you?”
His jaw tensed. Shoulders too.
“I remember pain,” he said. “I remember running. Hunger. And hands—people—trying to cut something out of me. Like I wasn’t supposed to have it.”
“What?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know. Something inside. Something that made me wrong.”
That quiet hung between you again. Thicker this time.
You took a slow breath, eyes drifting over his features—how human they seemed, and how they weren’t. The eyes were too still. The mouth too soft when he looked at you like that, worshipful and wrecked all at once.
You stood.
He flinched slightly like he thought you might leave again. But you didn’t.
You moved around the table and stood beside his chair, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder.
“I don’t want you to be nothing,” you said. “Even if you think you’re mine.”
He tilted his head back to look at you. His eyes were glassy again—but not just from need.
“…Then what do you want me to be?”
You didn’t answer right away.
You just stared at him, slow and searching, like maybe there was something hiding behind his ribs that you hadn’t noticed before.
“Something real,” you said at last. “Something more than just needy and obedient.”
You leaned down.
Brushed a hand over his hair.
“I think whatever they tried to take from you… it’s still in there.”
He exhaled, sharp and shaky, like the words hurt somewhere deep.
Like they freed something too.
“Are you going to help me find it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You straightened. That same calm edge in your voice returned—but softer, tempered by something else. “I already started.”
⋆ ˚
The rest of dinner passed in a strange hush.
He kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize the air between you. Like he didn’t quite trust that the moment was real—him, fed and wanted, not punished for needing more.
He finished the last bite slowly, his breathing still a little uneven. And when you stood to clear the plates, he followed with those same shadow-smooth movements, always one step behind, silent.
When you turned to face him in the doorway of the kitchen, he froze.
You studied him—warm and glowing under the low light, but his eyes looked wrong. Glossy. Dilated. His skin flushed, like the warmth was under his flesh and leaking out.
You reached up and cupped his cheek with your palm.
He leaned into it instantly.
"Come to bed with me," you said, voice low, calm.
His breath caught. His knees nearly did too.
You pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was hot—too hot.
He didn’t speak. Just nodded.
⋆ ˚
Later, you woke in the dark.
Your chest ached slightly—something heavy pressing you down.
You shifted.
Something moved.
There was a sound. A low, needy moan.
You blinked awake to find him curled between your thighs, head resting on your lower belly, arms caging your hips.
Sweat dampened his hair. His shirt clung to his back, soaked. His whole body trembled—small, helpless, uncontrollable tremors like something was trying to crawl out of his skin.
"H-Hey," you murmured, pushing your hand into his hair. "You okay?"
He groaned.
Not in pain.
It was… needy.
He rocked into you subtly, hips twitching against the mattress, breath coming in ragged bursts.
"You're burning up," you whispered, concern creeping in. "You might have a fever—"
"No," he choked out.
Your fingers stilled in his hair.
He shook his head against your body, breath hot where it hit the inside of your thigh.
“It’s not— I’m not sick. It’s heat. I know what it is now.”
You tensed slightly, confused. “Heat?”
He whimpered, the sound pitiful, but his body was grinding.
"I thought it was just obsession—just you—but it's in my blood. My skin. I need," he panted, teeth gritted.
“You should’ve told me,” you said, hand sliding to his shoulder. “Before it got this bad.”
“I didn’t know,” he snapped, but it was breathless, wet. “Didn’t know it would feel like this. Like—like I’m going to split open just to crawl into you.”
The silence between you stretched again, hot and trembling.
Then you whispered: “Get up.”
He froze.
You guided him up your body with firm hands until his face hovered above yours, wild and flushed and desperate.
“Let’s cool you down,” you said. “Before you burn a hole through me.”
You didn’t tell him what you were about to do.
You just slipped your hand between your bodies, your palm warm and steady against the thick, pulsing heat straining in his pants.
He choked out a sound—half whimper, half sob—and buried his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath catch, his body go stiff.
“Shhh,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
You rubbed him through the fabric first, slow circles that had his hips twitching, his teeth sinking into your skin like he was trying not to fall apart. The bulge was hot—unnaturally so—and soaked at the tip where his arousal leaked freely.
“I can’t—” he rasped, but you cut him off with a shush again, stroking him now, firm and sure.
“Yes, you can. Just relax.”
He whimpered again and rocked his hips up, greedy. Needy.
“Please,” he panted. “Please touch it—please, I’ll be good, I’ll—”
You slipped your hand under the waistband.
He cried out.
Not loud, but broken. Like it hurt to be given this.
You wrapped your fingers around him and started to pump, slow and tight. He was thick, flushed hot, every vein pulsing against your grip.
“I'm not gonna let you fuck me,” you murmured against his ear, lips brushing the shell. “But I’ll help you. Just this once.”
He was trembling. Writhing. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, too far gone to speak now.
You shifted down and dragged his pants down with one hand. His dick sprung free, slick and twitching.
“Stay still,” you said, and he whimpered again, so obedient, even now.
You leaned in and took him into your mouth.
He nearly screamed.
His hands scrabbled for something to hold, finally settling in your hair, but he didn’t pull—he just trembled, lips mouthing your name over and over like a prayer.
You bobbed your head slowly, letting your hand do most of the work, saliva and precum making the slide wet and easy. He was panting, gasping, and when he got too close, too wild, you pressed your palm against his lower belly and held him down.
He jerked—twitched—then came with a broken moan, hips bucking helplessly, spilling down your throat with so much heat it almost burned.
You stayed there a second longer, swallowing him down, soft and calm, until he stopped shaking.
Then you pulled away.
“Dirty boy,” you murmured, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand as you looked up at him.
He blinked at you, dazed, wrecked, tears drying in the corners of his eyes.
You leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“Go clean yourself up,”
Two days pass.
You try to keep things normal—whatever that means, with a creature like him under your roof, one who pants when you touch his arm and whines when you leave the room. But his restraint is slipping. Badly.
He follows you everywhere now.
Not just quietly like before. Not just waiting in the doorway or sitting nearby.
No—he’s pressed to you, constantly.
When you fold laundry, he’s behind you, rubbing himself against your ass with soft, desperate ruts. When you sit on the couch, he climbs into your lap and noses at your neck, whimpering like you’re the only air he can breathe.
The worst is when you cook. Something about seeing you over the stove drives him mad—he paws at you, breathing heavy, rutting his hips against your thigh until you shove him off with a sharp, “Down.”
And still he stares at you with wet eyes like a scolded dog in heat, leaking into his boxers, throbbing with the weight of it.
You try to hold the line.
But his need is growing.
Worse, it’s mutating into something more feral.
At the store, it becomes undeniable.
He walks behind you, head low, hoodie pulled up, his steps wrong—off-balance and twitchy like his body can’t decide what to do with itself.
He breathes through his mouth, short and fast, and stares at everyone like they’re a threat.
Or a witness.
You catch him staring at your legs. Then your hips. Then the slope of your throat when you tilt your head to grab a jar from the shelf.
His eyes go black.
"You're sweating," you mutter under your breath, touching his arm. "You okay?"
He leans into your touch like he’s starving. “Can we go home? Please.”
You check out fast.
⋆ ˚
The second the door closes behind you, he snaps.
You don’t even get your shoes off.
He lunges—no hesitation—grabs your waist and slams you into the nearest wall with a desperate growl muffled into your shoulder.
“Hey—!” you gasp, startled.
But he’s already rutting against you—grinding with the force of a man drowning.
“Need you,” he pants. “Please—I can’t—I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve been so good—”
You shove at his shoulders, but he’s bigger than you, heavier, and right now he’s stronger too. Not hurting you—just wild.
“Calm down,” you hiss.
“I can’t,” he moans. “Smell you—touched you all day—I need—”
He grabs your face, kissing you hard—sloppy, wet, messy—and you taste the frustration on his tongue, the days of aching and whining and trembling.
You break the kiss, panting. His dick is grinding against your stomach through his sweats, thick and leaking.
“Animal,” you mutter.
He nods.
“Yours,” he whines, breath shaking. “Please let me—please—”
Your grip tightens in his hair.
And for a second, you consider it.
You shove him back, hard. Not enough to hurt—but enough to tell him: no.
And that does it.
His eyes widen, something unhinges in his chest—and he breaks.
With a snarl, he lunges forward, lifts you like you weigh nothing, and starts toward the bedroom with a single, choked, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I can't—"
"Put me—down!" you snap, but your body’s already reacting—heat flooding your thighs, breath caught behind your teeth. Because you've never seen him like this. Not completely.
Not gone.
He kicks the door open.
Throws you on the bed.
You're scrambling up on your elbows to shout at him again when he grabs your legs and drags you back down to the edge of the mattress. His strength is brutal. He flips you over like you're nothing and shoves your hips up until you're on your knees, spine arched, face pressed into the blanket.
“Don’t think you can act like that,” he pants, “push me away—smell like that—and expect me not to—”
He tears your bottoms down. Snaps the waistband in his rush. You try to turn your head, say something—anything—but he’s already there.
Behind you.
Hot, flushed, leaking.
You feel the weight of it on your ass, thick and heavy, dragging over your skin.
“F-fuck—‘s too much—” he groans.
You flinch as his dick—not just long, but wide, too wide—grinds against your entrance. Wet with slick and precum. Hot like a fever.
You reach back blindly, touch his hip. “You’re gonna stretch me too much—”
“I know,” he whimpers, voice ragged with guilt and craving. “I’ll go slow—I’ll—fuck, I can’t—I’m sorry—sorry—”
He doesn’t go slow.
He grabs your hips and thrusts in hard, stuffing the tip past your entrance, and your breath leaves you.
"Shit—!" you cry, fingers clawing at the blanket as your body stretches wide to accommodate him. It hurts—but good, deep, sharp, searing with pressure.
He keeps moving.
Not all the way in—just these shallow, frantic thrusts, rutting at your entrance like an animal trying not to break its toy.
His voice is cracked and frantic.
“I missed it—I missed your heat—I missed your smell—don’t tell me no again—please—”
His teeth found your neck, biting, sucking, leaving bruises blooming like dark flowers under your skin.
You’re dripping.
His size swallowed you whole, filled every inch until you thought you’d cry from the stretch.
He slams forward again—deeper this time—and you swear the breath gets knocked right out of your lungs.
"You're—so big—" you gasp.
"Yeah?" he pants, delirious. "Too much? H-hurts, doesn't it? You're too small—fuck, you’re perfect—"
He’s shaking.
Your legs tremble from how deep he’s hitting. Your pussy flutters around him, trying to mold to the impossible stretch.
"H-hey, slow down" you rasp.
He didn’t listen. His hips snapped into you fast and brutal, driving inside you with a hunger that knocked the breath out of your lungs. The room smelled like sweat and something bittersweet and him—feral, real, and alive.
His hands slammed down on either side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. The force pinned you to the bed.
You swallowed hard, chest heaving, legs spreading wide for him.
He slammed into you faster—deeper. The stretch burned, the fullness screamed, but you clenched tight around him, dragging out his groans like prayers.
He pulled you back by your hair and kissed you then—hard, wild—tongue sliding over your lips, teeth grazing your jaw.
Then—
You feel it.
The swell.
Thick and round, nudging the edge of your cunt, threatening to lock you together.
He groans into your back. “Let me—let me knot you—need it—need to stay.”
You jerk away. "You knot me, and you’re gonna rip me."
He moans like your voice is pleasure, grinding harder, chasing it anyway.
His hands roamed your body, claws scraping skin as he fucked you with a desperate, filthy worship that made you feel like a goddess—and like prey all at once.
He spoke, voice broken, “please—please let me cum inside you.”
You nodded, tears stinging your eyes, chest tight. “Cum for me.”
His dick throbs. He’s leaking inside you, dripping down your thighs. His forehead presses into your shoulder blade. He huffs, shudders
Then snaps his hips forward once, hard—and goes still.
You feel it.
Heat floods inside you. You gasp as his load pours in—thick, heavy, and never-ending—while his body trembles above yours.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans, humping in place, locked against you with a needy whimper.
You glance back, breathless, flushed, and say coolly: “Tch, unbelievable.”
He flinches like it hit.
You reach back and give his hair a tug. “Go clean yourself up.”
˖᯽ ݁˖1,350 words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), past relationship, unfinished business, no condom(wrap the willy), first round on his grave, missionary->doggy, oral(f), y’all do it in the shower too, pet names(e.g., baby, honey, and sweetheart), bitter- sweet ending(?), old story, etc˖᯽ ݁˖
Inspired by the song "June 10th" -My Ruin
❤︎18+ 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽 ❤︎
You didn’t even go to the funeral. You stood at the edge of the trees, watching the crowd dressed in black like ants milling around the pit in the dirt. You never wore black for him—he always said it washed you out. He liked you in red.
You visit the grave when no one else does. Bring him cheap whiskey, run your fingers through the moss that grows like his name still breathes underneath it. You whisper things you should’ve said while he was alive. Sometimes you cry. Most nights you don’t. Not anymore.
But tonight…tonight, something answers back.
-
It starts with the wind going still. The heat clings like wet cotton, and the bugs go quiet. You kneel down like always—press a kiss to the tombstone, shame burning your throat like it’s been corked for years.
“I should’ve come sooner,” you whisper. “I was scared.”
“You always were.”
You freeze.
That voice. Low, southern-dipped. Rough like gravel, honeyed like rot. It doesn’t belong in your ear but it’s there—warm breath, hot hand sliding across your hip like he never left. Like he never bled out under the bridge with your name still half-formed in his mouth.
You whirl, heart rabbiting in your chest—and there he is.
Not just a ghost. Not glowing or transparent or half-formed. He’s standing there in boots and dirt-streaked jeans, hair longer than you remember, mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a wound. Dark skin gleaming under moonlight like polished obsidian. He's still so beautiful.
You whisper his name like a sin, like it’ll get you damned.
“You’re dead.”
“And you’re still lying to yourself,” he murmurs, stepping close. “Didn’t want me when I was breathing, but here you are. On your knees, beggin’ dirt for forgiveness. You miss me, baby?”
He pins you to the stone with one hand. The moss scrapes your back. The marble’s cold, but his hands are warm. Too warm. Like fire laced with resentment.
“I grieved you,” you gasp.
“No, you ran.”
His mouth crashes down—ruthless, angry, like he’s punishing you for every kiss you didn’t give him when it counted. His teeth scrape your bottom lip until you taste copper. His hands—those same callused hands you used to dream about—tear your shirt down the middle like he’s been waiting years to ruin it.
“I waited under six feet of soil for this,” he rasps. “You ain’t leaving til I’m done with you.”
You arch under him, nails clawing the grass. His tongue is in your mouth, and his hand is between your thighs, and the whole graveyard smells like wet leaves and vengeance.
He fucks you like he wants you to remember.
Bent over the headstone, cheek pressed to his name, his hips grinding deep—slow at first, cruel in how much he draws it out. You’re crying, but you don’t know why. Grief and need and shame all twisted together.
“You coulda had this when I was alive,” he breathes against your ear, voice ragged. “Now you get what’s left. You get what you made.”
You claw at the stone. You beg. You scream. But your body answers him like it always wanted to. Like it needs him.
He makes you come sobbing, legs shaking, name broken on your lips.
After, he holds you.
His touch softens, like the fire’s burned out of him. He kisses your temple, breath hitching.
“I didn’t want to haunt you,” he murmurs. “But you never let me go.”
You close your eyes. Let the moss cradle your bare back.
“I didn’t know how.”
–
Hours Later...
The house is dead quiet.
You barely remember how you got from the kitchen to the bed. You remember his hands on your thighs. You remember him lifting your dress like it offended him. You remember the whisper of fabric tearing, your own breath catching in your throat.
Now you're on your back in the dark. Sheets tangled at your ankles. Sweat cooling on your skin.
He’s above you—bare-chested, hair damp, eyes gleaming in the dark like they never stopped burning.
“You shaking for me, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your neck. “Or are you just scared?”
You don’t answer.
Because it’s both.
His hand drags slowly down your side, possessive. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s carving it into his afterlife.
“You feel guilty, don’t you?”
Your throat tightens.
“You should.”
He kisses down your chest—teeth grazing your nipple until you whimper, back arching.
“You used to beg me to go slow. Now look at you.” His voice is quiet now. Velvet with an edge. “You got me dead, still takin’ my time with you. Is that what you wanted? Hm?”
“Don’t—” you choke out, but your hips grind up against his thigh like they’re not listening.
He laughs. It’s not warm. It sounds like gravel and ghosts.
“Say it. Tell me you still want me.”
You bite your lip, trying not to cry. “You weren’t supposed to come back.”
“I came back for you.”
He pushes in slow. Thick and hard. You stretch around him, mouth open in a silent scream. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, like he’s watching your soul split.
“Oh, baby,” he groans. “Still so tight for me. So fuckin’ sweet. You always were.”
Your legs wrap around his waist, body betraying every word you swore you’d never say. You pull him deeper, nails digging into his shoulders, and he moans low—like pain tastes good in his mouth now.
He doesn’t rush. He drags it out. Each thrust slow, heavy, like he’s hammering something into the earth with every roll of his hips. You don’t know what hurts more—his dick or the ache of having him back.
“I wanted to haunt you,” he whispers into your ear. “But not like this. Not like I still loved you.”
Your heart lurches.
Then he stops.
Pulls out.
You cry out, grabbing for him.
But he’s already lifting you, carrying you like you weigh nothing. His hands leave heat wherever they touch—forearms, thighs, the curve of your spine.
“Where—where are we going?” you breathe.
“The place I used to imagine you most,” he murmurs. “When I was rottin’.”
-
The water is hot. Scalding. Steam fogs the mirror before the faucet even finishes turning.
He presses you against the tile wall, water cascading over both of you. His body is slick and heavy against yours, fingers gripping your jaw to make you look at him.
“You see me now?” he rasps. “Still think I’m not real?”
You nod slowly, wide-eyed, trembling.
“Then don’t look away.”
He sinks to his knees. Mouth on your inner thigh. Tongue slow and cruel. His grip bruises your hips as he spreads you open under the water, lips dragging over your skin like he’s praying to it.
You try to hold still, but your knees buckle. Your hands grab his hair. You cry out when he licks you deep, slow and filthy, like he’s starving and you’re the last soft thing left on earth.
“You always tasted like sin,” he mutters between strokes of his tongue. “I used to get hard thinkin’ about this. Thought I’d take it to my grave.”
You cum on his mouth with a broken sob, legs trembling so bad he has to catch you.
Then he stands.
Slams you back against the wall.
And takes you again.
This time rough. Groaning into your mouth. Biting your shoulder. His hands pin you by the wrists, his hips jackhammering into you like he’s punishing you for letting him die. Like he’s making sure you never forget.
You gasp and moan and cling to him. You can’t stop. You don’t want to.
“Say you love me,” he breathes against your lips, his thrusts getting wild, desperate. “Say it. Say it, honey.”
“I love you,” you choke out. “I love you, I’m sorry—”
He groans like it kills him.
You both cum together, shuddering, sobbing, water still falling like a curtain around you.
Then silence.
Then—
He pulls back. Looks at you. And smiles. But it’s sad now. Almost… peaceful.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ notes: more stay at home dad simon. simon struggling with dadhood is special to me. he’s trying his best.
stay at home dad simon who easily adjusts into routine with the new baby. he promised he would handle everything while you recover and he has delivered, even after you went back to work four months later.
simon spends his time reading or watching telly with junior snoozing on his chest, his little hands tucked away safely in army print mittens. riley snoozes at his feet, her ears twitching with every sound the baby makes.
but he also greatly underestimated having a baby and a four year old under the same roof.
he loves maya, really. you’d think he made her himself instead of coming into her life right before she turned two. but christ above, it's like flailing was a person. she’s at the age where she discovers she has limbs that can swing around.
“maya! maya, no!” simon grabs her out of the air when she jumps off the couch, intending to land in junior's bassinet.
“but i want to play, daddy,” she whines and wiggles in his arms.
“playing doesn’t mean kill your brother, maya. and he’s sleeping, so try to keep it down.”
“okay.”
he puts her down, and she starts running around squealing. riley barks and skitters after her. junior starts to fuss from the noise and cries before simon can soothe him, rubbing his hands on his distressed face. simon takes in the scene, eye twitching.
“stop!” he barks. maya skids to a stop, staring at him in shock. “maya, go to your room.”
“why?”
“because i gave you an instruction and you didn’t listen. go.” his stern, military tone leaves no room for argument. maya’s lip wobbles, and she runs upstairs, riley on her heel, slamming her door behind her. simon soothes junior with his pacifier and rocks him back to sleep.
you return home in a few hours, removing your shoes to relieve your sore feet. “i’m home.”
“hello, love,” simon calls from the kitchen.
“where’s my little man?” you gasp excitedly when you see junior in the bassinet, picking him up and inhaling that clean baby smell. “daddy washed you up so nicely, didn’t he?” you look around. “where’s maya?”
simon emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands. “in her room. we had a bit of a spat, and she didn’t want to come down for dinner.”
“spat? what happened?”
he pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “she wants to play with junior but she’s so rough. she’s going to knock him upside the head one of these days, i swear. and i told her to keep quiet, but she ran around screaming, so i sent her upstairs.”
you gently bounce the baby and move your head to prevent him from tugging at one of your braids. “she’s four, simon. and you know she loves junior, so i don’t blame her for wanting to play.”
“and he’s three months old, y/n. maybe i was too hard on her.”
“i don’t think so, but i’ll go talk to her and see how she’s feeling. what’s for supper?”
“lasagna.”
“my hero. "let's go see your big sister, honey," you whisper to junior. he gurgles softly, gripping your shirt as you walk up the stairs to the last room down the hall with the glittery pink star with maya’s name on it.
you knock on the door.
“go away, daddy!” she shouts from the other side.
oh she’s really upset.
“it’s me, chunky. can i come in?”
“oh…okay, mummy.”
you open it and see her laying on her bed colouring, kicking her feet behind her. riley is lying on the floor next to the bed, wagging her tail when she sees you.
“hi, lovey.”
“hi, mummy,” she mumbles, uncharacteristically quiet.
you sit on her bed and bounce junior on your lap. “daddy told me you two had an argument.”
she continues coloring and pouting. “he shouted at me…”
“why did he shout at you?”
you see her hesitate. “because i didn’t listen to him…but it’s not my fault, mummy! i just wanted to play with junior.”
“yes, i know, sweetie,” you say gently. “but junior is a baby, so he can’t play the same way you can. he can’t even walk yet. understand?”
“mmm, yes.”
“and when daddy needs you to be quiet, you have to be quiet, okay?”
“okay.”
“you can still play with him but gently. daddy made lasagna for us. "do you want to go downstairs?"
she closes her colouring book and scoots off the bed. “okay.”
simon melts when maya comes to him with a quiet apology, her nose twitching with sniffles and her lip quivering. he squats down to her level and engulfs her hand in his own. “thank you, love. and i’m sorry for shouting at you. i was a little miffed, but that’s no excuse. forgive me?”
“mhm.”
“give us a hug then.”
she wraps her little arms around his neck and shoulders. simon gives her a hug and gently pats her back. “thank you.”
maya sniffs and wipes her eye with the back of her hand. “can i still play with the baby?”
“of course you can, lovey, but no roughhousing.”
“okay, i promise!”
after dinner, junior has his tummy time while maya plays with her toys nearby, occasionally showing him something she thinks he’d find interesting. simon sits back and watches them, patting himself on the back for thinking of parallel play. “‘m a good dad.”
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ notes: still deciding on what job yn has. i’m in between accountant or works in I.T
Being Sukuna’s Pregnant Wife and being worshipped as a diety because you were able to conceive the four armed hulking cursed child, you must have the blessing of fertility
Having a shrine erected in your name because barren women believed you’d bless them with fertility despite your legacy starting with the child of the curse that torments them all
Telling your hand maids “Don’t bring me my clothes, bring me one of the kings robes.” The hand maids flinching and wanting to protest out of fear of taking the King of Curses robes
The poor naive young hand maid that had grown a crush on the king excitedly rushing if it meant she could enter the private bed chambers,
Scoffing with a malicious smile to your loyal maids when they shook their heads with Sympathy, they learned long before at such a request it would be foolish to go alone, at least 2 or 3 of them would need to go in your name, preferably the ones your husband recognized to be by your side the longest. But you didn’t like this new girl, she was too enthusiastic to work at the palace only to have a complete change in character when she learned she was assigned to work for you
“It’ll serve that poor girl right” you looked away from the door when your loyal hand maids brought out a wooden box with one of Sukuna’s folded Kimono’s they helped you dress your swollen belly accentuated by the belt the kimono tailored to fit your husband left you with extra space and length, it was far more comfortable then the Kimono’s and robes you were, the lingering smell of your husband with comforting as your rubbed your belly hands barely peeking from the massive sleeves
“Let’s go see my husband.” Was all you said as you started your walk, the maids followed close as you made it to the bed chambers, the door was open, you looked in, Sukuna sneering down at the girl laying in a pool of blood, Uraume was making quick work of the mess
Sukuna’s snapped to you and his arm’s opening in an unusual display of affection, you walked around the mess to reach him, he pulled you into his left side, one hand on your waist the other making you face him, bring his right hand up he rested his hand on your stomach “Some of your maids need a lesson on how to speak to their king,” he looked away from your face to your stomach as he started to move his hands in circles “So swollen with my child, it’s no wonder you send your maids to steal my robes.”
You smack his shoulder with a playful smile and he chuckled “Don’t say it like that you make me feel bigger than i am.”
“Now,” he looked up at your face again, “why are you here.”
You tilted your head to the side, “I started contractions this morning, I’ve been in pain all day and I’m barely standing, my new maid wouldn’t stop speaking so highly of my husband accomplishing having a child when I was at my worst pain level getting ready to push out YOUR child that I HAD to carry. Anyhow I came to get you because he is ready to come.”
Sukuna stared down at you confused “How do you know it’s a boy?”
“I’m his mother,” he watched as you placed your hand over his stilling his rubbing of your stomach, “I knew he was a boy from the day your seed took.”
Sukuna smirked “Is that so? Then let’s see this boy.”
🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤
After an hour of fighting the doctor tending to your birth you gave birth to your lively son, born screaming without needing stimulation to cry form the doctor. Your husband couldn’t help but laugh when he saw his child in his full glory, he was a boy indeed.
The help immediately gave you your son and you cooed at him when he took to your breast, your husband taking blankets from the maids and covered your son also covering you in the process as you struggled a bit to pass what came next. Your son a spitting image of his father, your breathy laugh caught Sukuna’s attention as he came back to your bed side stroking your hair and rubbing your stomach the way the help had been doing.
“What amuses you?” He watched his son slowly close his eyes as you coddled him closer.
“I’m the one who had to carry him for so long, and the ingrate took nothing from me.” You smiled and shook your head before looking up at Sukuna.
Soon the doctor left after clearing you of any possible issues and checking your son. “His name?” You looked at Sukuna and he sighed “Yuji”
The look of adoration in your eyes was something Sukuna would’ve wanted to capture forever if he could express the sentiment. However for now he’d settle for memorizing every detail of today. His wife birthing his first heir, the name she had chosen he permitted.
“no, ion like this one. trash it.” he mumbled softly, even when he was talking in a soft tone he still had a way of coming off intimidating..
“why!? i like it baby, it covers the tummy pudge,” you weren’t insecure about it or anything, you’d just rather have the cover up hiding it. you did the same thing with your crop tops, always pulling your pants over your stomach. it was like a instinct at this point.
“that’s the problem mama, why you coverin’ her? she beautiful.” by now, he was already up from the bed and slowly inching towards you.
part of you already knew what was coming but nothing could prepare you for it.. without a second thought your boyfriend ripped it straight off of you, with no remorse.
your tummy was one of his favorite things about you, there was no way in hell he was going to let you hide it from him. plus, you never covered it before so why are you doing it now?
“choso, what the hell! that was from fashion nova, expensive as fuck!” you knew he loved your stomach but you never thought he would go this far.
choso just ignored your scolding because he knew he would give you the money to replace it. he made a mental note to trash any cover ups he found laying around the house too.
while getting down on his knees, now he was face to face with your stomach. he knew you were probably confused as hell right about now and most likely getting ready to scold him again.
“why are you on the floor? baby, you confusing the fuck outta-“
you went silent once you felt his soft lips on your tummy, he was leaving kisses all over it. choso liked to show his love to every part of you.. and if that meant getting down on his knees and kissing all over your stomach, then so be it.
“mhmm so fuckin’ pretty, gonna look even better when i put a baby in here.”
bonus.
“oh i’m going to fucking kill you!” you shouted while watching choso trash all the bikini cover ups you had. you’d be lying if you said his obsession with your stomach didn’t make your heart flutter.. but it didn’t make you any less upset when he kept destroying your stuff!
“how do you even keep finding them? i swear to god i hide them every time.” at this point you were going to just give up, it’s not like you hated your stomach or anything.
the cover ups were just so cute you had to get them but choso’s behavior was a constant reminder that you should stop, before he wastes anymore money.
“this wouldn’t be a problem if you would just stop buying those ugly shits, ima destroy them every time.”
Got tagged by @fah-keet to take the What color is your aura quiz and then create a mood board from it!
Rose
lace, blown kisses, milk tea, paper fans, pillows, ballet slippers, fairy wings. your essence is rose: you are the young at heart, the gentle. you cherish existing without pretense; the future seems unsteady, so instead you reminiscence about the past and live in the present. it is hard for you to grow because you feel you have already bloomed. you are the youthful. you are the dove. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of pink, magenta, pearl, and lavender, who share your idealism. you are also drawn to the practical ivory and beige, who will help you grow and show you that you can accomplish by yourself. however, you may struggle to get along with the focused personalities of sage and cream who don't watch out for you.
No pressure tags: @pupkashi @4sat0ruu @biscuitsngravie @pastelle-rabbit @chuuyasboots
garnet : you are a quiet flame that dwells beneath your soft surface. self-confidence armors you; many would call you stubborn, though protective of what has come to dwell in your heart. always just a whisper away is your temper, promising to make the world bend if it would make your loved ones smile. you are the guardian. you are the volcano.
no pressure tags: @hash-slinging-slasher-trash, @suashii, @hwaitham, @shotorus, @stagnant-stale, @duckykisaki, @eussstasss, @gojoest, @massivementalitynut, @mrs-kurooo, @burnishedcrown, @wisemins, @t-tomuras, @katsukikitten, @katsulock & all who'd like to play!
Peach: shores, headbands, warm hugs, mugs, fruit baskets, blankets, sleeping cats. your essence is peach: you are a gentle, thorough heart who seeks to spread joy. you wish to create a home for others; you are the soil of the garden, hoping others will plant themselves and never leave. your thoroughness is always humble and you scarcely act alone. you are the tender. you are the homemaker. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of honey, marigold, cream, and apricot, who share your want to help others. you are also drawn to the efficient souls tawny and ashen, who will help you grow and stand on your own. however, you may struggle to get along with the shrewd personalities of lavender and honeysuckle who can be too quickly judgmental
Green: climbing ivy, snake eyes, frogs, rainboots, koi ponds, abandoned places, clovers. your essence is green: you are bright-eyed and cerebral, unearthing questions. you are devoted to your pride; you struggle to feel worthwhile if you do not have any answer for everything. it is hard for you to not fixate intensely and be certain you are not mundane. you are the orator. you are the totem. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of forest, sage, chartreuse, and jade, who share your desire to learn. you are also drawn to the creative souls blue and orange, who will help you grow and know it is okay to stay guessing. however, you may struggle to get along with the bleeding heart personalities of pink and yellow who are too wrapped up in pleasing others.
Forest: fern leaves, greenhouses, cloaks, bookstores, pine trees, chokers, snake scales. your essence is forest: you are insightful and intense, possessed by your thoughts. you seek the impossible; you are pulled between pragmatism and romanticism, never sure which is right. often you rest in the spaces between black and white, lost in theory. you are the observer. you are the hypothesizer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of green, sage, moss, and teal, who share your deep contemplation. you are also drawn to the imaginative souls navy and amber, who will help you grow and help you let go of the rational. however, you may struggle to get along with the theatrical personalities of magenta and gold who are too loud in their pride.
No pressure tags: @gothgirltits @s00nyoungie @peachdues @ghost-1-y @whatthefucksatan @kentohours 🖤🖤
bundled flowers, ribbon, merlot, overcoats, gemstones, lipstick prints, red velvet. your essence is amaranth: you are engaging and passionate, but never out of place. you do what needs to be done; your confidence is unflinching, least of all when something has slipped beneath your standards. it is hard to live up to the image you imagine others have of you. you are the demonstrater. you are the debutante. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of wine, pearl, noir, and magenta, who share your inner intensity. you are also drawn to the ambitious amethyst and indigo, who will help you grow and inspire your actions. however, you may struggle to get along with the mercurial personalities of teal and bronze who wish to be free spirits.
Navy: brush strokes, suit jackets, midnight, comforters, star gazing, arctic waters, starlings. your essence is navy: you are the keeper of your own narrative. you thrive on uniqueness and the unordinary; everything you feel, you feel deeply, and can be dissatisfied with everyday experiences. you do not shy from the intensity of competition. you are the protagonist. you are the indulgent. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of blue, sky, teal, and indigo, who share your depth and enigma. you are also drawn to the creative souls forest and amber, who will help you grow and learn to feel all of your emotions, not just the productive ones. however, you may struggle to get along with the direct personalities of noir and crimson who are too concerned with forcing their perspective.
Pink: cupcakes, sunglasses, pink sands, starbursts, pinky promises, flower crowns, ice cream. your essence is pink: you are vibrant and ambitious, an untrimmed flower. your energy is consuming; it wraps others up into your enthusiasm and influence. your gift is seeing things for how they truly are and shifting yourself to be the star of any situation. you are the pioneer. you are their envy. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of magenta, rose, wine, and orchid, who share your fluid social skills. you are also drawn to the even-tempered souls grey and brown, who will help you grow and learn how to ground yourself. however, you may struggle to get along with the questioning personalities of green and yellow who are too linear in their thinking.
Tagging: @sunshine7queen @satoruhour @ryukenzz @fuyuswifey @rav3nmuse @rayemelanin @yeagerzprettyblnt + anyone else who would like to join
forest: fern leaves, greenhouses, cloaks, bookstores, pine trees, chokers, snake scales. your essence is forest: you are insightful and intense, possessed by your thoughts. you seek the impossible; you are pulled between pragmatism and romanticism, never sure which is right. often you rest in the spaces between black and white, lost in theory. you are the observer. you are the hypothesizer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of green, sage, moss, and teal, who share your deep contemplation. you are also drawn to the imaginative souls navy and amber, who will help you grow and help you let go of the rational. however, you may struggle to get along with the theatrical personalities of magenta and gold who are too loud in their pride.
