-also write for any fandom i feel like at the time
| 𝐶𝛰𝑀𝐸 𝐼𝑁𝑇𝛰 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐾𝐼𝑇𝐶𝐻𝐸𝑁 -
(๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) what sweet treats have already been made ?
| 𝐺𝐸𝑇 𝑇𝛰 𝐾𝑁𝛰𝑊 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐶𝐻𝐸𝐹!-
*ੈ✩‧ get to know me! the one who bakes the goods
| 𝐴 𝑁𝐴𝑀𝐸 𝐹𝛰𝑅 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝛰𝑅𝐷𝐸𝑅?-
۶ৎ if you’d like to continue to become a regular at my bakery, join my taglist to place your order!
| 𝐻𝛰𝑈𝑆𝐸 𝑅𝑈𝐿𝐸𝑆-
⊹ ࣪ ₊ ໒꒱ every establishment has rules, check out to see what they are and always remember, hate is not tolerated!! MINORS THIS IS NOT THE BAKERY FOR YOU!!!
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allllllright, my loveliess!! i am currently working on multiple things, but for girl!dad Smoke I need to know what kind of job y’all think Smoke would have ? (I like a lot of these options and I couldn’t choose. MODERN AU BTWW alsooo want to say Reader and Smoke are married and they have a daughter together. This will also dictate how Reader and Smoke met.)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
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allllllright, my loveliess!! i am currently working on multiple things, but for girl!dad Smoke I need to know what kind of job y’all think Smoke would have ? (I like a lot of these options and I couldn’t choose. MODERN AU BTWW alsooo want to say Reader and Smoke are married and they have a daughter together. This will also dictate how Reader and Smoke met.)
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.
elias “stack” moore will definitely fuck you with his nice tailored suit on. you’re down for a quicky? he’s telling you, “well what you waiting for darling? bend that ass over”. with that silky smooth southern twang in his voice and a smirk that flashes his gold slugs.
elias “stack” moore is someone who prides himself on looks and fashion, in his eyes he’s the best looking nigga that came out of the delta—and he’ll continue to keep that facade. but if his ole lady wants to pop a seat on his thigh and ruin his slacks with her sweat cream he can’t say no.
elias “stack” moore is a freaky ass nigga, we all know that. so it’s not a surprise when he’s at his usual spot where he gets his suits, touching different fabric to pick out so you can rub that pretty pussy all over it. “boss man, let me get this one. the missus would like this right here. hurry up ‘n get me fitted too.”
elias “stack” moore sometimes gets frustrated with how many layers are on his body. especially when he’s in a rush to get between your thighs. “fuck this shirt too damn complicated—you just stay right there sweetheart, daddy’s coming.” he’ll tell you while fiddling with the small buttons on his collared shirt.
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hi everyone. i hate to post this message, but i am in dire need of help. my fur baby saturn was found to have fluid in her lungs, and all signs are pointing to a diagnosis called congested heart failure. i’ve been crying for days, scared to lose my soul baby. she needs an echocardiogram done to fully dictate her condition so we can start medication. anything would be helpful, even sharing this post on all platforms would make me eternally grateful. thank you.
My name is Anazyah, and on July 2nd, 2026, my fur baby Saturn went into s… Anazyah Robinson needs your support for Help Saturn Get Life-Savi
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.
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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.
╰───⌲ DAMN THAT WAS SO GOOD, oldman!logan x black!fem!reader.
“fuck! feels so good,” you moaned as you rode logan’s face, his tongue alternating from flicking your clit and fucking your essence. “feels good hun?” he grumbled against you. sending vibrations up your pussy. which made you shiver. “yes, feels so so good.” you whined bucking your hips. the feeling of his beard hairs against you made you shiver again. “love you so much—hah—so much,” you moaned as your mouth fell ajar. you were on the brink of orgasming. a knot began to form in your stomach and before you knew it you were letting out a long moan as you juices gushed out for your essence and pooled into logan’s mouth.
logan swallowed all of your juices and began lapping up your essence before pulling you off of him and placing you on your stomach. he then spread your legs and took a few minutes to admire the sight of your leaking and puffy pussy before pulling out his cock and slowly teasing it inside of you. you whined at the feeling of him stretching you out. once he made it fully inside of you, you let out a broken moan.
anytime logan inserted himself in you it felt like he was stretching your pussy to it’s furthest capacity. it’s what you loved about having sex with him the most. “fuck, you feel so good.” he groaned, as he let you take sometime to adjust to him. after a few seconds he began to deliberately but roughly thrust into you. his strokes made with incredible precision. “this pussy is so fucking tight, ‘s squeezing me so much.” he grumbled speeding his pace up.
he then began to angle himself so he could find that spot. and once he did he rammed his cock against it. you screamed in ecstasy at the feeling of his mushroom tip touching that gummy spot inside of you over and over again. “logieee! ‘s too much,” you whined as you tried to scoot away from him. but logan immediately placed his hands on your hips and pulled you towards him.
“mmm—fuck!” you moaned as your hands fisted the sheets. your walls started to clench around logan’s member, and a pool of heat began to form in your stomach. “logie, ‘m gonna cum!” you announced, thrusting yourself back on his cock to meet his strokes. “cum.” logan commanded, and within the blink of an you were screaming out in ecstasy as your juices gushed of your essence and lathered onto logan’s cock.
the feeling of your walls contracting around logan’s cock triggered his own orgasm. he thrusted inside of your sopping wet cunt two more times before stilling and planting his semen deep inside of your womb. a guttural groan spilled out his mouth as he came undone.
this isn’t my best writing.. i personally don’t like it but!!! i promised i’d put this out. chile.. oldman!logan and that salt and pepper beard gone do it for me everytime😫. i don’t know it’s just something about him and that motherfucking beard. but anyways, this was real real real nasty.
and i promise im trying to write moore motel.. like i am, im just being very tedious with it! it’s coming though. i swear. spurs and boots pt.2 is coming soon as well… that’s almost written.
