angie

TINDER?!?!

you prank the aot boys into thinking you find their friends on tinder!

ch: connie, onyankopon, eren, jean, and reiner

connie

you got your phone in your lap while secretly recording connie as he lays next to you on your couch under your fluffy throw blanket that you usually have draped around for decoration.

he’s scrolling through his phone oblivious to the prank you’re about to do on him after doomscrolling on tiktok for hours.

“babe… why is your friend on tinder?”

connie doesn’t even look up at first. his tattooed fingers continues scrolling on his insta feed as if you didn’t just say you were on tinder.

“…what friend?”

“eren”

silence…

his whole demeanor shifts, like instantly. connie presses his tongue against his cheek as he looks up at you in silence.

“lemme see.”

you tilt the phone away just a little in a teasing way not knowing that was the wrong move as he snatches your wrist in a firm but not rough manner.

“nah. show me.”

you start laughing a little while trying to keep it together. “ oh my goddd connie, it’s just—”

“why you even on tinder?” he cuts in while pulling you towards him and staring you down like he’s either about to fuck you up or fuck eren up even if he wasn’t talking to you.

Hello again everyone! My name is Arriah, and for Women’s History Month I’ve been highlighting and showing appreciation to some of my favorite Black women writers across the fandoms I’m part of.

For Day 4, I wanted to shine a spotlight on multifandom writers.

Multifandom writers are honestly some of the most impressive creators in fandom spaces. They’re able to jump between completely different worlds, characters, and storytelling styles while still bringing the same creativity and passion into everything they write.

From anime to K-pop, from video games to movies and TV shows, multifandom writers keep fandom spaces exciting because you never know what kind of story they’re going to create next. They help connect different communities and bring readers from one fandom into another through their writing.

Black women who write across multiple fandoms deserve a lot of recognition for the work they put into their stories. They constantly share their creativity, ideas, and love for these characters with the community, often writing simply because they enjoy it and want to contribute something meaningful to fandom spaces.

So for Day 4 of Women’s History Month, I wanted to highlight some amazing Black multifandom writers whose work I’ve really enjoyed. If you’re looking for writers who create across different fandoms or want to support talented Black women in fandom spaces, I definitely recommend checking them out and showing them some love.

Remember if I forgot anybody they might be in the next part or I genuinely could not find them but if you know any black writers tag them in the comments.

@loomiseater, @lxvvie, @realhotgirlshiii3

@realhottieshiii-3, @luvlyycy, @mercury2venus

@feral4youu, @soleilsfilm, @alanisstonedd

@luvlyycy, @misshoneysplayhouse, @medicli

@cyber333angel, @saphicruby, @2neaky

@aizawash0e, @mtcloudsworld, @yourleogf

@softscripta, @sweetlikemonie @barbienextdoor

@stxrrkissed, @lazy-nae2, @madameaug @liyawritesss, @usoppshoneydew, @midnight-neon, @kamoism, @milkbean69, @mik0rin

You don’t even get a chance to brace yourself.

One second, you’re squirming under him, and the next, Sukuna’s got you in a full nelson arms wrenched back, chest arched, legs trembling from how far apart he’s forced them. His hands are laced behind your neck, holding your wrists up, locking your body in place. You can’t move. You can’t even think.

Your back’s flush against his broad chest, his voice low and smug in your ear, breath fanning hot across your skin.

“Just look at this fuckin’ mess,” he growls, grinding his cock deeper into you, making your whole body jerk forward with the force of it. “Dripping all over me like a needy little slut.”

And it’s true. You’re soaked—shamelessly, ridiculously wet. Every time he drives into you, your pussy squelches loud and slick, cream gathering on his cock and slicking your thighs. It’s filthy. Obscene.

And he loves it.

“That feel good?” he purrs, hips pistoning up in slow, brutal strokes. “So desperate you’re makin’ a mess all over me, huh?”

You try to speak, try to say yes, but all that escapes is a cry—half-moan, half beg. His cock’s stretching you open too deep, too good, hitting something devastating every time he pulls back and slams in again.

Your hands twitch in his grip, fingers curling, but you can’t break free. You’re completely at his mercy.

“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging his tongue up the side of your neck. “You fuckin’ love this. Can feel this pussy choking on me—tight as hell, clinging like it knows who fuckin’ owns it.”

You gasp, head falling back, throat exposed as your orgasm coils up fast, mean, and hot in your belly.

“S-sukuna—”

“I got you,” he growls, slamming into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin against skin is rapid and soaked, echoing in the room. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me, baby. That’s it. Be a good girl and take it.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent moan when he shifts just slightly changing the angle, hitting your spot so perfectly you swear you black out for a second.

Your whole body tightens. You can feel it coming—white-hot, no escape.

He knows it too.

“Don’t hold back,” he snarls, breath ragged now, hips stuttering. “Cum on this dick, baby. Right fuckin’ now.”

You shatter in his arms, back arching, cunt clenching down so tight around him that he groans, low and feral. And he doesn’t stop he keeps going, fucking you through it while you fall apart, while tears sting your lashes and your body trembles from the force of it.

“Good girl,” he hisses, voice thick with pride and hunger. “Fuck, you feel that? That’s mine. Every fuckin’ drop.”

And he fucks you harder—because one orgasm just isn’t enough

search : celebrity shoes outfit purse. aesthetic place make-up look. car fav accessories fav fictional man & post the first photo .

ty for the tag kari!!!!

this is so cute omgg

“aw, sweets. you didn’t have to do all this . . .” satoru smiles at you, voice soft and hoarse. taking off the sleeping mask hiding his almond blue’s, already tearing up with subtle wrinkles.

he had just walked into the kitchen; in nothing but his plaid pajama pants, cinnamoroll slippers, and his loose ‘I’M not the step father I’M the father that STEPPED UP’ t-shirt. half asleep, snowy curls a hot mess, yet he’s still perfect as ever.

noticing all the balloons, the bow presents sat on the table. the hot confetti ihop pancakes on a plate, coated with store bought whip-cream and strawberries. a stripe 𝟑𝟔 candle lit on top of it, aqua and all as a droplet of wax runs down the side.

and you—pretty ole you—smiling back all sheepish like his heart wasn’t about to burst out of his swelling chest. turned halfway around, tampering with a chair before revealing a golden birthday crown, sapphire rhinestones twinkling.

“but i wanted to,” you reassure him, holding up the crown like your hands were a royal pillow—your voice sweet, singing out your words. “happy birthday, my blue eyed princess.”

satoru immediately gushes, turning off his infinity.

you blink once and both of his scarred arms are wrapping tight around your torso, hugging you closely. like if he was one millimeter off, you would disappear. that this precious moment would be gone and faded to none. everything he cares about.

especially you, his one and only doting spouse.

gently breathing into your neck, his nose inhaling your addictive scent. slender fingers grasping the sides of your waist, his forearms crossing on each other. heart pounding hard against the white cotton, your own doing the same.

“thank you,” he softly whispers into your skin, longing and real. “thank you so much, sweetheart.”

your palm and fingers continue to caress deliberately across his broad back, pressing flat to touch all of him. cooing a soft, heartfelt noise. “oh, anything for you, toru.”

he lifts his head to stare into your heart-shaped eyes, his bright with pure adoration. tracing over all of your beauty.

“anything at all . . .” you quietly breath, satoru’s mouth ghosting the sugary balm on your lips, slowly licking a stripe off before he seals them together, kissing you deep and intentionally. lips moving like magic, hands clutching each other closer, harder. desperate, eyes low and lidded.

like you two were the only people on the planet. like you’ve stopped time altogether. like this feverish kiss was endless.

satoru didn’t want it to end, and neither did you.

but ya’ll were running out of air—lungs screaming for help.

your raw lips then depart from each other, and all you can taste is artificial sugar, devotion, and the thin saliva strings connecting you both together. smiling like idiots as the sunrise peeks through the kitchen blinds, making you two look like traffic cones. holding each other, panting.

“. . . wanna put on your crown, birthday boy?”

satoru laughs under his breath, icy eyes still low.

“yeah . . . but you do it for me.”

you couldn’t agree more, taking your occupied hand to reach over his head of fluff, lowering the crown to sit perfectly. the navy jewels bedazzling on him like it was natural.

just like the king of everything good.

satoru’s charming smile grew, leaning down to kiss your forehead, palms caressing slow on your waist.

“let’s go blow out the candle,” he murmurs, hearing you giggle under his many smooches melting into your hairline.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

satoru’s eyebrows furrowed, looking towards the front door, mumbling. “didn’t know we had guests this early.”

you half smirk. “i think you should get that.”

your husband gives you a suspicious look, even if he had his six eyes available to see who was behind it. but you only shrug, and it’s enough for him to leave it off . . . for now.

when he carefully opens the door, satoru is met with happy cheers and neon party blowers blown in his face, all of his 2018 freshman students standing with winter clothes, gift bags, and tugging harsh on his nostalgic heart strings.

nobara with a confident smirk, yuji with cheesy grin, and megumi with an actual smile, all of them shouting together.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GOJO SENSEI!”

satoru sniffles, smiling with his nose tinting red already, jumping forward to hug all of his students, them screaming as he crushes their bodies with his impressive muscles.

“how i’ve missed you all,” he sighs, hearing annoyed groans and a nervous laugh from underneath him, “my silly gooses.”

you only cross your sweater arms, the happiest look on your face as you admire all four of them together. your mini plan working out just as you imagined it would.

happy husband, happy life.

© starinsight all rights reserved.

𝗳𝘁. 𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘂, 𝘀𝘂𝗴𝘂𝗿𝘂, 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗼, 𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗶, 𝘁𝗼𝗷𝗶, 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮

𝐒 𝐀 𝐓 𝐎 𝐑 𝐔 ୨୧

satoru chokes on his ghirardelli hot cocoa, melting marshmallows caught inside his throat—some of the sweetened milk spilled on his ugly christmas sweater from hearing the sudden fbi knocks banging on the door to his mansion. “cough—what in the worl—”

knock! knock! knock!

satoru pursed his lips, coughing the last of his suffering into his elbow, sloppily placing his mug on the table.

the luxurious door opens with annoyance, allowing him to see a group of puffy coats of all ages harmonizing with their mouths shaped like ‘O’s.

“jingleeee bell, jingleeeee bell, jingleeeee bell rock~”

satoru slowly nodded, smirking while his forearm leans against the doorframe, listening as they continue to sing. “hey, you guys aren’t half bad. wait—do you guys accept new members? i know a great neighborhood we can stop by.” he’s already grabbing his coat, cheery as ever.

plotting a wonderful plan.

𝐒 𝐔 𝐆 𝐔 𝐑 𝐔 ୨୧

his face deadpans as soon as the knock hits the door.

“daddy, who is that?” nanako asks from the fireplace, sat criss-cross apple sauce beside mimiko, dressed in disney princess pajama’s. currently coloring in a lisa frank book.

suguru pinched his forehead—glittery with silver and blue from the previous snowflake crafts they did, hearing the instrumental of ‘last christmas’ blast through the walls of his estate. “it’s no one, nana.”

“SUGURU, I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

“i think it’s someone,” mimiko hums, coloring her turtle a shade of fuchsia pink.

suguru lets out an exasperated sigh, violet eyes staring at the ceiling for the lord to give him all of his strength before getting up from the couch.

his hand turns the knob, sighing deeper at the sight of his ex situationship from high-school. “satoru . . .”

satoru was on his knees, holding a jumbo candy cane meant to be a microphone—his face contorted into nothing but pathetic yearning; the rest of the christmas carolers flash recording on facebook live behind him.

“once bitten and twice sHyYyY~ i keep my distance but you still cATch my eyeee~”

suguru opens his mouth to lecture him, but satoru keeps singing off key, voice loud and desperate.

“TELL ME, BABY! DO YOU RECOGNIZE ME?!” he cringingly howls, his free hand reaching to grab suguru’s, “well, it’s been a year, it DOESN’T surprise me . . .”

“you need to get off my porch!” suguru quietly hisses, embarrassed. he yanked his hand away—briefly touched by satoru’s fingers. “no contact means no contact.”

“c’mon, suguru, don’t do this to me, baby!” satoru begs with a sob, his hand running through his fluff of hair, fingers tugging in distress. “don’t you remember last monday? when you let me eat it in front of your cult? THAT MEANT SOMETHING AND YOU KNOW IT!”

the christmas carolers gasp dramatically, one of the elder ones passing out on the stone path.

suguru’s cheeks are flushing like the ripest tomato at the farmers market, mono-lid eyes wide with pure shock.

“alright, you have to go.”

satoru whines when suguru pushes his burberry-coat shoulders back towards the bottom of the porch stairs, now stumbling to run after his purple eyed princess strutting away—mouth agape when the door slams in his face.

“damn!” he sadly groans with the snap of his fingers, glancing back towards the crowd, still live-streaming with entertained looks. “HEY STOP THAT!”

𝐂 𝐇 𝐎 𝐒 𝐎 ୨୧

when choso opens the door, he’s wearing a red apron covered in baking flour, frosting, and christmas tree sprinkles—along with his younger brother yuji standing beside him with a fresh cookie in his mouth. “uhm, hello?—”

“you’d better watch out! you’d better not cry! better not pout, i’m telling you why~”

choso raises his eyebrows in amusement, yuji instead cheesing at the christmas group singing their hearts out.

“santaaaaa clause is comin’ to town,” they vocalize, holding their gloved hands together, “santaaaa clause is comin’ to town. santa clause is comin’ to townnnnn~”

after they finished the entire jackson 5 song, the christmas carolers are out of breath, wiping their cold, sweaty foreheads.

“ayyy, ya’ll cooked!” yuji cheers with his voice muffled with thick gingerbread crumbs, clapping his hands together while he looks to choso for his reaction. which is a soft smile and the approving nod of his low, space-buns head, “yeah, you guys did good. thanks for, uh, performing.”

the christmas carolers bow with tired smiles, waving the brothers goodbye as they move on to the next house.

“did you know they were stopping by?” choso asks with an awkward look, walking back into the messy kitchen.

yuji closed the door with a silly expression, happily chomping on the rest of his cookie. “mhm. i hired them last week.”

choso’s face went straight, subtly shaking his head.

“. . . why am i not surprised.”

“what?! you needed more social interaction!”

𝐍 𝐀 𝐍 𝐀 𝐌 𝐈 ୨୧

sparkly snow was falling slowly to kiss the top of nanami’s plaid slippers, his housecoat body stood on his festive doormat, not expecting to see a small orchestra group playing nat king cole’s ‘the christmas song.’

his hollow cheeks felt the breeze of winter caressing him cold, fingers holding his shawl collar together as he admired the performance before him.

no one was singing, just letting the music speak to the chivalrous blond instead. a woman with a mini harp, twins that had bass and a guitar, and a man with a stage piano. all of it warming nanami’s overworked heart.

once they finished, nanami had something of a smile on his face, handing each person a tip of $20.

“no, no, sir! thank you, but we were already paid.”

nanami hummed in confusion. “paid? by whom?”

“yuji itadori, sir.”

nanami scoffed, his smile still there. “i see.”

silently grateful for his talented student to have done something so thoughtful as sending a mini christmas orchestra to his humble home.

𝐓 𝐎 𝐉 𝐈 ୨୧

the heavy knocks pounding at the storm door had a half asleep toji jolting to stand with his snot bubble popping. glock 19 in one hand, his empty hennessy bottle in the other one. “. . . shit, they hic found me again.”

he cautiously approached the chipped door with wide steps, yielding before holding his gun up—ready to swiss cheese everyone on sight. “whose there?!”

the only answer he got was muffled, overlapped yelling. not from any cop, but from civilized people. surprisingly.

toji lowers his loaded blick with a content grunt. he hid it behind his muscular thighs visible from the pajama shorts, now opening the front door with narrowed eyes.

“WE WISH YOU A MERRY—”

the door shuts immediately, so hard it shakes the whole house; a sarcastic grin spread across his slit mouth.

“ain’t nobody wanna hear that shit.”

just to fall asleep stomach first on the couch again. meaty leg hanging off the furniture, dad snoring so loud it rumbles his black-hoodie chest. “snore . . . snore . . . snore.”

𝐒 𝐔 𝐊 𝐔 𝐍 𝐀 ୨୧

the christmas carolers gulp as they timidly approach the heian estate. coquette boots shaking, teeth chattering, and their hearts begging in erratic beats for the group to turn around from the hellish scenery.

human skulls staked on the pathway, topped with elf hats. the lingering scent of metallic meat unnatural to the average nose, smelt with fear. and the aftermath of arson burning a few miles into the woods behind the estate. an outdoor fireplace maybe, but no doubt it was evilly linked to the raw blood smell and elf decorated skulls.

“babes, i think we should—” “how’d you all get inside?”

they all stop and stare wide eyed at a man sexy monster packing four extended arms, a flesh plate on the side of his face, and a devious look of murder. no, hunger.

hunger that licked across his lips, red irises pricking at each human, trying to determine the best meal.

possibly all of them.

“the g-gate was open—w-we—uhm—s-sing!—” sukuna leans down quick to glare the christmas caroler in the eyes, making her fall into the snow with a fearful shriek.

he sits his torso back up, silk robe parting to reveal his second mouth grinning, the one on his face chuckling low with the tilt of his head. “sing, huh?” he steps forward to tower his wicked shadow over the woman—moonlight shining on his back—the rest of the carolers frozen in place. “get up and sing then.”

she scrambles to her feet, everyone else stood in formation as sukuna crossed a pair of arms, waiting.

“hurry up,” he roughly states, “i’m starving.”

“santa baby, just slip a sable under the treee for meee~ been an awful good girl~ santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonighttttt~”

every verse they sung was perfect, not a single stutter daring to sputter at performing for a literal demon. a demon who looked quite unenthused, waving one of his tattooed hands for them to stop mid-lyric.

“alright, enough. what is this? a mating call? ha, who would’ve thought christmas would gift women to my estate in an attempt to seduce me,” he darkly smirks, watching as their pastel coats start trembling.

some from excitement, some from terror.

mixed arousal most likely. #realasf

“it’s just p-protocol for our community,” one of them smiles nervously, sukuna getting up in her flustered face as she yelps from how close he was.

“what a splendid protocol,” he drawls, all fangs shown from how his smirk grows wider. “wives, all of you.”

she innocently blinks, along with the rest. “excuse us?”

“all of you,” sukuna husks, his nails grabbing her face with assertiveness, “are my wives from this moon forward.”

© starinsight 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽.

it was a relaxing weekend. no assignments due, no study sessions to help that one class close to flunking. no need to interact with merit scholarship student satoru gojo.

your friends with benefits—only hooking up in empty libraries after he lowly praises you for scoring a 95 on your test.

all thanks to him.

but you’re awfully bored, and in need for some social interaction. so, it’s no surprise when your fingers dabble to satoru’s contact—his icon being a blue emoji with goofy glasses—to shoot him a simple “hey wyd” text.

not expecting for a facetime call to start ringing instead.

you curiously swipe ‘answer’, now met with a ceiling.

“wow,” you drawl, teasing, “i was just about to text you.”

“yeah?” he breathes, voice holding back a grunt. “mm, didn’t know you t-thought about me outside of school.”

“ha, apparently i’m not the only one.” you place the camera in front of your face—mascara on your lashes, lipgloss spread across your lips—making an alluring stare towards it.

“i just got done doing my makeup. wanna rate it?”

satoru let’s out a laugh, one that’s tight, with an undertone of something squelching in the background.

“hah—ah—it’s pretty. t-ten—fuck—out of ten.”

you raise an eyebrow, stomach dropping with a flutter, turning up your volume with an intrigued finger.

“are you okay? you sound like a wreck.”

“mmph, i s-sort of am,” he whimpers, a curl of pale fluff entering the camera, his glasses tilting off his nose. face burning with blush, icy eyes lidded and teary.

your pussy aches at the sight, and the sound, having an idea of what’s happening below with your nerdy tutor.

“satoru,” you purr, just like a temptress, your voice a faux tone of strictness. “flip the camera around.”

you see him grab his phone with a sticky hand, the quality trembling, now flipped to the back.

“holy fuck . . .”

the gtracing gaming chair he sat in had a gooey puddle of cum leaking down between his grand thighs of muscle, spread and flexing as his dick throbs inside a sex toy slurping across his veins. lube coating the girth base, soaking all the way to the cock ring looped around it. stringing clear with each motion of the toy sucking him dry, hooked under his desk.

“i-i—unghh—i miss you, baby,” satoru moans, his slim fingers gripping into his phone, tilting it down for you to see his sweaty hips grinding up for his length to meet the vibrating suctions. “i keep—uhn—p-pretending it’s your p-pussy.”

your bare thighs press together, biting the bottom of your lip, clit throbbing inside your panties slimey with slick. speaking detailed scenarios into the phone, smiling soft.

“pretending i’m fucking you? riding till you can’t take my grip anymore? till i milk you braindead?”

satoru audibly shivers, the heated phone faltering to his clenching abs before lifting up again, his digimon shirt wrinkling towards his waist. “y-yes. m-milking me until i—gaah—p-pass out. shit, i n-need you s’ bad, s-sweetheart.”

your index and middle slip inside your panties, sliding to your tight hole to gather your arousal, now smearing it on your clit to rub and circle with low, honeyed breathing.

“come over, toru. i’m—mhh—home alone.”

the toy shuts off immediately, satoru slipping his cock out, tugging up his sweats while grabbing for his car keys. jangling loud into your phone speaker as he bolts out the door; panting with a desperate look on his dorky face, seen from an angle.

“hah—i’m on my way!”

CW: Body image issues, unhealthy relationships w food, nsfw content, reader is implied to be a woc

a/n: this wasn’t proofread so I apologize for any messy writing.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐭: 1.6k𐙚 SNEAK PEAK FOR THE HOTTIES....

pt 2: coming soon......

You loved date nights — the act of sitting pretty, soft — only having to worry about what designer bag would match your outfit best, never growing old.

Highlight.

Delete. 

But it’d been almost a month since you’d been able to swirl your tongue around your mouth, the smooth, vibrant tinge of pomegranate, cherry, and bright blackberry working as a sedative, coaxing your muscles into a state of deep relaxation as stress oozed from the pores of your frame. 

Almost a month since you’d sat at your vanity, lashes fluttering as you fought between a matte or glossed lip, knowing either choice would end up smudged after his mouth found yours.

Highlight.Delete. 

Instead, you’d been staying up into the earliest hours of the morning, drowning yourself in work until the edges of night and day blurred,  fingers — tipped with a vibrant, well-overgrown set — scrambling across the pink keyboard cover laid over your Mac as you typed and erased, typed and erased. 

Words, phrases, ideas you couldn’t seem to grasp scrambling through your head at rapid pace, changing, disappearing, running from the page on which you’d hoped they’d be printed months ago.

Highlight.Delete. Delete.

Your muscles ached, unfamiliar with the extra weight you’d gained, with the ache coiling tight, low in your belly from the absence of his hands.

 The workout schedule you’d spent months formulating was far out of reach, the last thing on your mind as you curled your body against the plush of your sofa, wide-framed glasses framing your face as you sipped sweetened mint tea.

Your eyes burned, brimming with tears as you skimmed your fingers across the flat, cold surface of your mousepad.

Delete. 

Two weeks of work gone, just like that.

Hours of curating, plucking, polishing.

Gone.

Your head dipped, a sob clawing  from the depths of your body, ripping free as the laptop slipped from your sweatpant-clad lap toward the carpeted floor. Your frame shook.

You were tired. 

 Tired of molding your body to fit the needs of your mind, tired of the stress, the ache, tired of having to think for yourself. 

You wanted your man.  Your body mourning the heat of his, the slow press of him into you, the hush of his breath against your temple. 

You could almost feel the ghost of his lips at your forehead, the way his palms would roam without hurry, kneading away the knots, coaxing your muscles into surrender until your chest rose and fell in time with his.

Onyankapon, unbeknownst to you, had felt it — the heaviness in you — carrying your weight with him. 

It lived in the pauses between your sentences, in the faint drag of your voice when you answered the phone. His calls became frequent, his questions sinking deeper, lingering longer, searching. 

He’d noticed the way your voice went soft, almost small. The way your eyes seemed to droop, your attempts at covering the dark circles beneath your big, brown eyes,  growing less successful, less important each time he called.  Sick of hiding both the ache of lacking sleep,  and the  kind of sleeplessness that came from lying awake, hand slipping between your thighs, imagining him there instead.

 He knew. 

 Knew that you’d submerge yourself in your work, always aiming for your best but never giving yourself time to rest, chasing excellence past the point where it turned on you. You pushed yourself past your limits, yet never acknowledged those limits, blurring the line between achievement and failure.

His hesitance to leave you for two weeks had only confirmed this thought, but he’d been called over to fix one of the many inconvenient issues that came from owning a business in multiple states. The problems seemed to multiply — password leaks, data confusion, financial mix-ups — greedy for his attention, and without care for anyone, time flew by. 

Your body folded into itself,  the soft melody of the city below you attempting to lull your mind as it tipped, tipped into the one side you’d fought so desperately not to return to. 

Fingers shaking, you pushed your palms below your glasses, hand swiping against your soft cheeks as you snatched the large, bright colored frames from your face and threw them beside you.

Betrayal. 

Growing up, everyone thought that glasses meant knowledge, knowledge you’d been blessed to babysit until now. 

So fuck your bum ass glasses. 

Your bonnet sat beside you, royal blue staring up at you from its position atop the plush couch cushions, long gone from the numerous times you’d run your fingers through the silky strands of your short, curly press. 

Your palms rested atop your eyes, pressing firmly in an attempt to dam the steady flow of tears streaming from behind closed lids. The steady buzz beneath your thigh broke through the silence, shaking your bones. You pushed your hands down beside you, dragging your body upright, lashes fluttering to clear the blur clinging to your lenses as you swiped your fingers across the screen.

Onyankapon watched as the call connected, eyes squinting at the familiar view of the high, open ceiling he’d grown accustomed to. His jaw flexed, fingers pushing against the two buttons on the other side of the phone at the slight sound of a wet sniffle.

“Hi..” the meek sound of your voice pulsed through the line, pulsing from one end to the other as you grabbed your glasses.

“Why I’ can’t see you mama, what you got goin’ on?” The slow rasp of his voice caused your spine to straighten, eyes watering even more for some unknown reason. 

“Pretty…lemme see you” He knew. 

The minute the camera hit you, you broke, sobbing into the camera, snot and all as you babbled about how stressed you were, about how everything was so much, too much, about how much you missed him. 

“Slow down baby, breathe mama, breathe, talk to me, im right here baby.” His body rose from its relaxed position against the Rolls Royce seats you hadn't even known he was seated in, flashing street lights highlighting the sharp line up he never hesitated to keep fresh.

“Breathe love, I don't need you hurting yourself baby.” Your eyes slipped shut, lips wobbling as you inhaled shakily, mind lulling at the smooth southern tinge of his voice.

“Good job baby, allat’ crying got my baby stressed, ain't it? Breathe with me love.” His chest rose and fell to match yours, a smooth inhale,  shaky exhale, a shaky inhale, a smooth exhale. Your frame sank, shoulders still tense as you peeled your eyes open. 

“I- I miss you Ony, a- and nothing's going right, I c- cant, I'm so tired.” Your voice cracked, words interrupted by soft hiccups.

“I know baby, I know, I miss you too love.”

The soft clasp of the car door sliding open and shutting seemed to go unnoticed by your fuzzed ears, Onyankapons fresh forces crunching against gravel as he ran a smooth palm across his head. 

Onyankapon wasn't good at this shit, this over the phone shit, he’d missed his gurl, missed his woman, so fucking much, and it hurt him to watch his girl break day by day. With no hesitation, he’d taken the first flight out back to New York, assuming he’d make it a surprise, but he just couldn’t help but to feel like you needed him tonight, more than before, more than ever. 

Your body jumped, eyes bolting toward the door at the sharp crackle of keys pushing open the lock, you beamed up bolting towards the door as you sobbed, you knew. 

It couldn't be anyone else, and even if it was, you'd take your chances. 

As soon as the black door pushed open, your body jumped into your mans, legs wrapping around the slant of his waist,  crisp white T crinkling beneath your weight as you buried your head into his neck. 

Ony wasted no time, hands lacing beneath your bottom to adjust your position, right arm running along your back in that soothing matter he knew  you liked. 

“Shh, baby, i’m here mama”

“I got you”

“I got you mama”

Your body shook, arms tightening around his neck as he walked you both swiftly toward your shared bedroom, the bedroom that matched your mind. Messy, and unorganized. 

His eyes dragged across the sight—the undone sheets, clothes scattered, a space heavy with chaos. 

His lips pressed into a line, jaw flexing. Not out of judgment, but pain. He knew what it meant. 

His baby’s mind had been hurting so bad, even her sanctuary had crumbled with her.

Onyankapon glanced around, turning his back to walk toward the guest room at the end of the hall. Your cries lessened to brief sniffles, body aching, exhausted from all that weight you’d pushed out, you wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with your man, eyes burning as sleep set your brain ablaze. 

The last thing you remembered was the swift movement of your body being laid onto the plush of your mattress, soft hint of peony and fresh linen lulling your mind, along with the repetitive draw of Ony’s  hand against your back. Your hands clung, refusing to release him, and he bent down with you, pressing his forehead against yours, one palm still dragging along your back. 

“Lay back, baby. Let me hold all that weight tonight,” he whispered, the southern rasp rolling deep, full of promise. “Ain’t nothin’ else you gotta do but breathe with me now.”

That was all you needed to finally rest, to let go of all that responsibility you'd been grasping onto while he was gone. To feed into what your body’d been craving for the past few weeks.

Your body sagged, breath coming shallow, but your arms still wound around his neck, desperate. He stayed, crawling in beside you, pulling you flush against his chest.

To Be Continued....

--𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒆౨ৎ

gojo swears he came over to help you study.

but somehow your notes are on the floor, his glasses are crooked on his face, and he’s pushing you onto your back like he forgot how to spell his own name.

he slides into you slow—too slow—like he’s savoring every tiny reaction you give him. the way your lips part, the way your thighs tense, the way your breath catches in your chest.

“you always feel unreal,” he whispers, leaning over you, voice shaky. “i swear, i could write a whole research paper on this.”

you give him a look that says please don’t do this, but the second he starts moving—deep, steady, slow enough to make your legs shake—your thoughts start slipping.

unfortunately, so do his.

“did you know,” he says, already breathless, “octopuses have three hearts?”

you blink at him. “satoru— why?”

he thrusts deeper, making your voice break a little.

“no, because—think about it,” he continues, completely unaffected by your suffering. “three. that’s… excessive. even for them.”

you drag your nails down his arm and he moans like you just discovered a new pressure point.

“their blood is blue too,” he gasps, speeding up a little. “copper-based—oh my god, wait—”

your head falls back. “satoru… please. not now.”

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—soft but unfocused, like he’s trying to multitask sex and a ted talk.

“i can’t help it,” he says, thrusting harder, your body jolting with every roll of his hips. “my brain just works like this.”

you exhale through your nose—annoyed, turned on, and deeply tired of his trivia at the same time. a very specific kind of “lord, give me strength” goes through you.

and that’s when he says it.

“okay—wait—oh, oh, baby— i remembered something,” he pants, voice shaking as he buries himself deeper. “in 1915— soldiers used semen as invisible ink—”

you freeze mid-moan.

he keeps going.

“like for real. you could send a secret message with—”

your hand slaps his chest so fast his breath catches.

“satoru. why would you say that while you’re literally—”

he breaks into this breathless laugh, grabs your thighs, and pulls your hips up like he’s settling in to ruin you on purpose.

“you said don’t talk,” he says, smirking, “but you didn’t say don’t share… historically significant information.”

“that’s not—oh my god—”

whatever complaint you had melts when he snaps his hips forward so deep you gasp loud enough to embarrass yourself. he groans at the sound, pushing your legs higher, folding you open for every hard, perfect thrust.

your head hits the pillow, hand gripping the sheets like it owes you money.

“i’ll stop,” he whispers, voice breaking near your ear, “i’ll shut up— just keep holding onto me like that—”

your body tightens without warning, clenching around him, and his reaction is instant—hips stuttering, breath catching, glasses slipping down his nose.

“don’t do that—” he moans, “unless you want me to—”

you do it again.

he falls apart with a sound you have never heard from him before—half moan, half gasp, all desperation—as he spills into you, thrusting through it, shaking from how hard he comes.

he collapses beside you, pulling you onto his chest, both of you catching your breath.

after a long moment, he whispers, voice hoarse:

“…the soldiers thing was real, by the way.”

you side-eye him so hard he laughs into your shoulder.

“satoru. please.”