𝐈. this is a 20+ blog. minors, do not interact. anyone 18 and up may heart, comment underneath, or reblog my posts, however, i prefer if people 20 & up followed me. having 18+ or nothing at all in your bio will get you blocked. 𝐈𝐈. i am a black girl therefore all of the readers i write for will be black. if you are not, feel free to still read, but don’t set any expectations for representation that isn’t meant for you. 𝐈𝐈b. i only ever write for hyperfeminine readers, which means she’ll usually always be wearing skirts, dresses, hair bows, have acrylic nails, lots of jewelry, etcetc. if this bothers you, you may not like it here. 𝐈𝐈𝐈. this is also a dark content focused blog. you may see themes of fauxcest, dubcon, noncon ノ rape, and ddlg in my writing and posts. i don’t care if you have a problem with it. if your first instinct is to enter my inbox or comments to lecture me about ethics or how you feel morally superior, understand now that your discomfort is not my responsibility. block me and curate your own experience here on tumblr dot com. 𝐈𝐕. in regards to sending me links ( twt or tt ), 75% of the time they will go unanswered, especially if sent with no context. i am very picky with twt links ノ don’t always find them hot enough to elaborate on them specifically. 𝐕. i am a slow writer, beware of such before following. rushing me to do anything will only result in the opposite happening. 𝐕b. i don’t do well with demands. “you need to …” “i want you to …” i don’t have to do anything. you have no authority over my blog. 𝐕𝐈. i don’t take requests but i will answer or expand on a particular yummy thirst. 𝐕𝐈𝐈. please do not plagiarize anything from my blog! that includes my themes, layouts, writing, or concepts from my talking tag ꒰ taking ‘inspo’ is not an excuse for either as well ꒱. don’t think i won’t notice, i likely will and it will result in you being blocked. 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. if you are blocked by me, please don’t be weird and try to find a runaround through side blogs, anon messages, or contacting my mutuals about it. it’s creepy and invasive. just respect the boundary and move on. 𝐈𝐗. don’t ask me to trigger tag because i will not. why? i just don’t want to. once again, curate your own experience here on tumblr dot com. 𝐗. i truly could give less of a fuck if you dislike the concept of aging up ノ black washing characters. these are lines on a screen, i will make an apple an orange if i want to. 𝐗𝐈. sometimes my interests change. don't follow me if you expect a chain of uniformed content. 𝐗𝐈𝐈. because of several past negative experiences here on this site, i am extremely defensive of me, my writing, and my blog. this is a conscious choice and not one i intend to undo. if tone tags help you communicate more clearly, i encourage you to use them.

𐂯 𐂯 𐂯

𝓦𝓗𝓐𝓣 𝓘 𝓦𝓘𝓛𝓛 𝓦𝓡𝓘𝓣𝓔 exclusively black female readers , daddy kink , impact play , choking , things with spit , watersports , fauxcest , dubcon , some noncon ꒰ only non penetrative . bonus points for reader performing said noncon on character ꒱ , cheating , anal , polyamory , hybrids , pet play , predator x prey play , ddlg , dacryphilia , age gaps , size kink . . . & mostly everything that does not file underneath those things ↓ .

𝓦𝓗𝓐𝓣 𝓘 𝓦𝓘𝓛𝓛 𝓝𝓞𝓣 𝓦𝓡𝓘𝓣𝓔 male reader , nonbinary reader , ‘ tomboy ‘ reader , dom reader , fat or chubby reader , incest , underaged reader or character in sexual contexts , anything with scat , vomit , or blood , major degradation , teacher x student , necro , fisting , race play , angst with no happy ending , strict fluff with no smut .

Bunnies were gentle . . . quiet and polite. Toss a couple toys their way and give them free reign of his condo, he knows that they’re easy to keep occupied after babysitting Eren’s for a couple nights.

But they startle at everything . . and they’re clingy.

Foxes were too mischievous. Ferrets were prone to injuries.

Cats, though.

He found himself lingering on their section within the ten paged pamphlet for far longer than he’d done the others. Independent, comfortable entertaining themselves for hours at a time, selectively affectionate. They didn’t need constant reassurance to know that they’re loved. A small chin scratch here, kiss between the ears there, and they’re okay for a while.

The pamphlet had described kitten hybrids as the perfect companions for owners with demanding schedules, only in the providence of them given a strict routine, patience, and sweet affection.

It was a no brainer.

Onyankopon had walked straight into that clinic, expecting to only browse . . . instead, after only three hours ( nearly two hours spent completing paper work ), he exited the doors with your small hand wrapped around two of his fingers.

You’d been pretty sought after — exceptionally bright, observant, quick to learn commands. A caretaker had mentioned to Onyankopon that it’d only took you a day to learn which cabinets held the treats and which volunteers were easiest to charm into sneaking you a few extras after you’d been transferred from another clinic about six months ago. Families adored you, couples asked to meet you daily, you even had a few pending applications from some, hoping to take you home.

And yet, not a single one got finalized. Because each time one came close, you’d burrow yourself behind your caretakers’ bodies, refuse to leave the playroom, sob the moment someone reached for your hand.

No one could understand why. When asked, you never talked about it. It got to a point where many of theme were convinced you’d stay within the clinic until you died.

Then Onyankopon came . . .

He didn’t immediately crouch within your space, didn’t shove toys in your face, or give exaggerated coos over how pretty you were the way everyone else had. He’d simply greeted you with a small, “Hey. How you doin’?” before taking a seat at the table within the far corner of the gaudily decorated room, content on letting you decide if you wanted to approach him yourself.

The room had been quiet for a while, then only about three to four minutes had passed before you were crawling your way in between his legs to lie your face against the firm pad of his thigh. Your eyes had been big, vertical pupils dilated into bottomless, oval shaped pools, and soft, white striped tail lazily curling around his calf as though you decided to already claim him as only yours.

And life with you settled in quite nicely.

The first few weeks were obviously an adjustment — learning each other’s sleep schedules, body language, it all took some time but as promised, you were a quick learner. By week three, you’d already learned what the jingle of his keys meant, how the soft click of the living room television shutting off at ten pm meant it was bed time, and which pair of shoes by the front door meant he’d only be gone to run a quick errand versus an entire workday.

You learned that he’s very quiet in the mornings on his off days — doesn’t say a word until after nine am.

That he prefers listening to R&B while he cooks and Rap when he has to work remotely on his three monitored computer in his office.

And that he loathes the smell of mint but loves petitgrain.

And he learned you, too.

By the second month, you were already waiting by the door, ten minutes before he came home, greeting him with big, sleepy eyes and a small chirrup that never failed to make him smirk.

His apartment didn’t feel so empty anymore.

The fur from your tail, ears, and some patches on your skin now littered his blankets. Your socks disappear into the most impossible places, coloring books and markers are all over his coffee table, and human sized cat towers occupy empty corners of his home. His refrigerator had been once filled with only meal prep containers, bottles of water, and protein shakes, now there are fruit cups, three different brands of milk, and little fish and bone shaped treats tucked into the highest shelf where your sticky, little fingers can’t reach.

He’d been so used to the silence, the emptiness.

Now they’re both broken by you — your little hums while you attempt to help him make dinner, the pitter patter of your feet as you race down the hall when he cuts all the lights off to make it to his bedroom first because you’re terrified of the dark . . without even realizing it, Onyankopon found himself beginning to structure his days around you. You made it easy too.

And it was nice.

Sweet.

Only . . .

Your clinic papers failed to mention in your personality assessment that you were a brat. An adorable, manipulative brat.

More specifically, when it came to treats. A person would think Onyankopon had never fed you a day in your life. It didn’t matter if you had finished breakfast ten minutes ago, or lunch, or dinner. The second you heard the crinkle of that bag, all common sense and shame left your plump, little body.

The first time you discovered that widening your eyes and letting your perky ears droop into your head full of curls made him hesitate, it was over.

“Mama,” Ony’d sigh with a head shake, clearly torn between reopening the plastic treat jar he holds within one, big, tatted hand and walking it back to the pantry. “You already had enough. No.”

You’d blink then tilt your head as if you didn’t understand his words.

Then you’d mewl, all soft and broken like he just shattered your heart into a thousand, tiny pieces.

“Nah, nice try.”

Cue the pout.

“. . . No.”

You need to learn that no means no. That’s your word of the week. You don’t seem to like it, clearly. Because after placing that jar of treats within the pantry on the top shelf where they belong and walking towards the bedroom, Ony had only made it halfway down before he heard it . . a crisp rrrip and jingle of the tiny, heart shaped bell hanging from the ring of your collar wrapped around your neck.

Quickly, he turned back to where he’d came and made it towards the arch of the hallway threshold to see you seated on a couch cushion, ears pinned flat against your head, tail puffy and twitching irritably as you slowly and deliberately dragged your claws through the expensive, corduroy fabric of his sectional.

“. . I know you fuckin’ lyin’.”

The two of you stare at one another in complete silence. One pair of eyes wide in disbelief, the other set in pure, stubborn defiance. Neither of you move nor blink.

Then, without breaking your eyes away, you lift your hand, natural paw pads grooved along the length of your fingers and palm, slap it against a lone, throw pillow, and drag them down the material.

Rrrrrrrip.

Both longer and slower this time.

A vein at Onyankopon’s temple twitches. His own palm tingles in want. He tells himself to not . . . that he won’t. You’re just upset. You’re just being dramatic.

“You know what . .” He sighs and rubs a hand down his face, then with the baritone of his deep voice steady, continues with, “Ima give you this one. Ima pretend you ain’t just fuck up my couch.”

After a quick snap of his fingers, he points down the hall, “You can take y’lil attitude in your time out room, cool off, then maybe me and you can have a real conversation.”

You remain perched where you are. Your tail even gives a firm, loud, agitated thump as you continue staring at him.

“꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

You look down at the cotton stuffing of the pillow now spilling from the cover of it, thick and soft. Your fingers flex . . claws peeking out of them.

“I swear to God.”

Pursing your glossy lips, you peek up at him beneath your lashes.

“Do it and watch what I do.”

You lift your hand.

And it had only taken Onyankopon only a split second to cross the room to reach where you were. Then about a minute to manhandle your jerking, squirmy body across the arm of the couch, a couple more seconds to snatch your tiny, little, black cotton panties down your legs beneath your nightgown and only one second to find a random, lone squeaky toy buried within the cushions of the couch to shove between your lips as a makeshift gag.

It’s humiliating.

Listening to each whistling, high pitched squeak! puff out of the mouse shaped toy come each shove of his cock inside the pulpy walls of your pussy makes your cheeks burn warm. Your toes slide against the hardwood flooring with each slow, hard thrust Onyankopon gives, scrambling for stabilization as your tummy smooshes against the arm of the couch with every single one.

“Lemme go fuck up yo’ shit, hm? How ‘bout that lil shirt of mine you always draggin’ around. How you gon’ feel when I rip that huh?”

Rivulets of drool already begin to trickle down your wobbling chin as the smacks of his broad hips meeting the plump skin of your ass cheeks echo from the front door through the back of his condo. You don’t want to think about that. You can’t even think about that.

The thick, wiry hairs of his bush tickle against your perineum as his sagging balls flop against the pulsing, pink bead of your clit. You want to squeal. You want to hiccup and pout because it’s too much, it’s too big. And yet, Onyankopon only gets a firm grip of your hair between your ears to snatch your head back, needy to just listen to

Squeak . Squeak . Squeak . Squeak .

as your labored breathing shudders out through your dripping nose.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, hm? . . Wanna go back to that fuckin’ clinic?”

Gurgling, you rapidly shake your head. You want to stay with him. No. You want to be with him until forever becomes too short.

“Yeah? . . I thought so. Stay fuckin’ still.”