‘if you hatin' you just need some pussy,

she fucked up when she gave me some pussy’

“i-is it always this…we-t?”, eren has the deluded audacity to blurt, his chin positioned atop your left shoulder. his two pistoning digits freeze knuckles deep inside of you. unabashed, he watches as your pussy bears down on him.

“jesus…shit’s so responsive it makes no fucking sense…,” another sly comment escapes his pursed lips, in disbelief that he has his best friend sprawled out on his meaty lap. your shuddering body is trying to process the foreign sensation, too. his opposite arm is wrapped beneath your knee to press a thumb to your clit.

eren gets it now. how you’ve managed to have every guy wrapped around your finger. he sees why he’s had to ward off your pesky boyfriends in the past. you’re warm, wet, slick—“yeah…just like that, ren. keep fucking me li-ke that”. the nasty noises that fall from your pout? even your fucking moans are angelic. those pretty little sounds you make are everything that you are—unapologetic and loud.

don’t get him started on that soft dominance shit. you’re like that in bed, too. it’s not just an overbearing quirk you’ve used throughout your friendship. now he’s had the firsthand opportunity to confirm it. not that this was the original plan for your weekly sleepover.

one question led to another and before you knew it you were allowing your best friend to examine your pussy.

he knows your close again because your nails are buried into his wrist. that doesn’t falter the steady pace in which his thick fingers fuck you. his green eyes marble with the reflection of your wetness. a ring of iridescent cream sits at the base of his fingers. he doesn’t care, though. he’s too concentrated on making you feel better than any of your shitty exes ever could. his wide pupils flicker upwards and they watch as you bite down on the cuff of his your oversized sweater. the very sweater you’d stolen from him the last time you came over. he’s already addicted, hungry eyes taking in everything that is you on the verge of a climax. from your clammy, shaky hands to the tilt of your empty head.

that coil in your stomach snaps—right as he nudges the underside of your swollen clit. “Oo-ooh, this is a big one, huh? only your best friend can make you feel this good, huh?,” he teases, lips pressed to the shell of your overheated ear. his touch sends you into overdrive, your curled legs thrashing against your heaving chest as you try to break free from him. “jesus…no more! no fuckin’ more, Eren,” he knows you mean it because you’ve called him by his government. his strong arm lets your knees buckle inwards—this time he doesn’t use his strength to keep you wide open. no, his drenched palm’s already raised to his lips. without hesitation your best friend laps up your arousal. a feral groan approves of your sweetness—the taste matching the scent.

“you’re gross…,” you waste no time returning to your smart-mouthed self. which earns you a playful snarl from the man behind you. yet, your fingers lift to stroke his flustered cheek as you come down. “you love it,” he grumbles, your taste on his breath. says the one with his hard-on jabbing into your lower back…

grumpy!toji + spoiled!reader + photobooth = trouble (18+) ｡𖦹°‧

a shopping mall hates to see you coming—but no more than your boyfriend toji fushiguro. you were prancing through the tiled building for what felt like the 1000th time—your clingy arm acting as a leash to the shadow behind you. that’s when your big, shiny eyes spotted a life-sized periwinkle box.

“look, toji! it’s a photobooth!,” you eagerly point at the makeshift cubicle with your freshly-filled french tip.

his deafening silence is your admission—so a straight-faced toji is dragged in that direction, too. you waste no time drawing back the velvet curtain and stepping your bedazzled pumps inside.

“see it’s only $12”, your brightened face lights up from the flashy display of consumerism. toji sits behind your bent knees with crossed arms. his fingers throbbed, the creases bruised crimson from hauling around the shopping bags parked at his feet. his bicep is sore as he raises his arm for the billionth time to hand over his credit card.

“should’ve known better than to let you drag me in here,” toji grumbles, his cynical voice rough around the edges, much like his demeanor. there was a quiet surrender in the way his hands smoothed over your curves, fingers pressing with possessiveness.

you’re the opposite of the exhausted man behind you. he’s dressed head-to-toe in monochrome charcoal. a frilly bubblegum-pink tank top clings to your poorly covered chest while the thin fabric of your mini skirt flared around the intimate warmth you and toji share. the crotch of your cheeky panties sit directly on top of his soft bulge.

toji’s scowl deepens as your hips involuntarily stir around the growing outline in his jeans. you always got like this when you were overly-concentrated on something that excites you. with each clack of a button you select the vignette filter that darkens the border of the camera’s lens. you choose the calligraphic font that scribbles out ‘i love you’ beneath your curious face.

when you back away from the black dot, a dark-haired toji makes his bleak first appearance over your shoulder. his low-lidded gaze, on the other hand, is downwards where the evidence of your excitement presses at his zipper’s seams.

“oh come on, toji. behave yourself for once, old man,” your center presses into his covered cockhead—the twitch beneath your slit undeniable. he’s so pussydrunk and emotionally-deprived that your happiness gets him hard.

reluctantly he manages to straighten up his stiff body and comply as you two eagerly pose for a series of photos. the first is a simple one—your frizzy head tilting towards his as your lips spread slightly further than a grinning toji’s. that might’ve been the first genuine smile he’s flashed all day. for the next photo your sharp nails poke from behind his ruffled hair to form bunny ears—it’s innocent, yet goofy…toji playfully crosses his eyes to his nose’s sharp tip. you quickly stand for the third photo and your arms wrap around toji’s neck. only for him to playfully bare his teeth next to your right tit. it’s for the fourth and final photo where you dip your head and nip his reddened cheeks with a litter of wet kisses.

through gritted teeth toji groans into your glossed lips— glittery gloss coats his chiseled jaw. his palm fists at the hard-on that was bordering blue balls at this point. “sit back down,” he’ll guide you back to your previous position by the hips. only this time when you sit down, beneath you is toji’s cock—veins prettily decorating each side. right up to his creamy cockhead that slips past your hungry folds. he doesn’t even bother to discard your slick-soaked panties—they’re simply pushed to the side as he splits you open on his shaft.

his cock bullies it’s way to the pit of your stomach—your eyes squeezed shut as you drag your head along the booth’s screen. it’s when toji thrusts into you particularly mean and hard your puffy cheek bumps into a big, white button. that’s when a loud *snap* sounds out in the cramped up box—immediately followed by a whiny “wan’…want more, toji”. so the first *real* shot is the blurry center of your head, toji’s hidden behind you—his darkened eyes down where you two messily connect.

it’s a chaos of movement, blurring the line between where you end and toji begins. all he’s worried about is the slick, lewd sounds your pussy makes as it eats him. he paints himself in your shiny cum over and over—back hunched over and palm digging into your neck’s nape.

the second photo caught the unexpected turn of toji’s lips—a rare, softened curve—as he bends to whisper heated words against the shell of your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “so dumb for cock ya didn’t even start the damn thing, princess”, his breathing picks up as your cunt squeezes around his base. you’ve made a dirty, filthy mess of yourself as well as his heavy balls that spill past his zipper.

the last few shots capture the essence of your entire dynamic— perfectly imperfect. toji stills his rutting hips and presses you down as his cum oozes down the sides of your cunt. he gets up, tucks his flaccid cock back in his pants, and wears the mysterious stain on his front with pride. it’s an honor to be your human bank and personal cumrag. the ruins of your underwear corks the remaining cum that threatens to run down your wobbly legs.

toji carefully smoothes the front of your wrinkled skirt down and helps you step down from the booth’s stair. the little slot outside contains photographic evidence of your little detour. his rough hands snatch and stuff the flimsy prints into his pockets.

it’s the only thing he gets in return for the troubles of your shopping spree and it’s…arguably the best apology for dragging him to this shitty mall for all these hours.

ೃ⁀➷ intertwined—eren offers to let you practice braiding his hair.

.ᐟ fluff, drug usage (weed), bf!eren yeager

“rennie, can you please stop fidgeting?”, the bristles of your Hello Kitty brush made yet another pass through his nutmeg strands. a frustrated tug dragging his lazy neck back onto its slot against your pajama pants.

your living room was a cozy mess—pink cushions scattered across the fuzzy carpet and the faint scent of eren’s incense mingling with the lazy drift of smoke from his blunt. the moonlight flickered through the sheer curtains, casting a dimlit iridescence over the room as you both lounged in this safe haven you called home.

the victim in question was your lovely boyfriend eren. he swore his only intention was to pass by and bring you takeout from your favorite restaurant. somehow that led to asking about the video playing in your background. the next moment he was surpassing your doorstep and sitting on a pillow before your tv.

your sore fingertips paused to collect the remote and rewind the tutorial for what felt like the hundredth time. again—the stylist’s annoyingly chirpy introduction blared throughout your entire house.

then they were scrambling back to the side of eren’s slanted head. it’s a pace that seemed almost too impossible to keep up with. you sat crisscrossed behind eren who’s shirtless back leaned against the couch. his legs sprawled out and red eyes low-lidded from tranquility—or maybe the weed. your presence serenaded eren, and this just so happened to be the perfect excuse to be in it.

“ugh! okay…so i section it into three parts…”, you sheepishly whispered, more to yourself than to eren. he was all for being glued at the hip, but not if that meant you being this hard on yourself. “this is so humiliating. what girl doesn’t know how to do a simple braid—and at my big, old age on top of that”.

eren took a slow drag from the burning stick, a sympathetic smile plastered on his plump lips while he exhaled. “hey, you’ve got this,” he soothed you amidst the thick fog, words punctuated by lazy curls of smoke.

you huffed softly, more in self-beguilement than frustration. “thank you for both your cooperation and the kind words,” it was a light tease as you gently parted his hair with your comb, trying to mimic the swift motion on screen without entangling your own worries.

“eh, call it free therapy,” eren nodded stiffly, “plus you get to learn a new skill. it’s a win-win.” his high might’ve slurred every intricate thought that dared to hit his cloudy brain. including the fact that he’d been glued to your floor for nearly two hours. your own patience had thinned like a thread, fraying at the edges with every failed attempt at achieving the same smooth finish as the girl in the video. yet, comfort lingered as you both sported matching face masks. the thin sheet long dehydrated against both of your tired features. when he wasn’t scrolling through his phone, he kept ahold of your nearby knee.

up until that final section, each braid was knitted with the same undying dedication. the split worry of tugging too hard and keeping the pattern intact consuming you whole. your wrist’s rhythm settled into something ritualistic and steady, tying the ends together with a tighter grip. finally you tied off the last one.

an unknown breath you were holding escaped while eren clawed up the side of the couch. poor boy—his jelly limbs nearly collapsed before he stood tall again. a nervousness washed over you as he made his way to the mounted mirror. you make out the backside of his reflection, a look of flattery could be seen as he rotated his neck to check out your artwork. you’re no renowned hairstylist—each braid varied in tightness and thickness. some ends levitated off the nape of his neck while others conjoined the neighboring braid. but, all eren saw was your unmistakable handwork. he saw the countless hours you sacrificed to bunch each strand of hair into its own group.

eren’s pupils gleamed with sincerity, he adored your efforts. “babe, i love them,” he turned to you while swooning over his new hairdo, a rosy hue overtaking his cheeks. “they are absolutely perfect.”

your shoulders slouched as you took in the sight of his wonky, puffy hairline. you’d given this style every fiber your being could muster up, yet it wasn’t nearly as neat as the scene behind him. your heart fluttered at eren’s words, at the simple honesty and appreciation in his gaze. “but ren, they’re nothing like the video. they’re uneven and that one is literally falling apart in the back,” you pointed out, a hint of insecurity lingering in your tone.

“and that’s my favorite part,” he reassured, taking the cushion next to you and slipping a palm into yours. his legs stretched out as he leaned closer to nuzzle his nose into your neck. “this is you. that makes them better than any tutorial.”

for the first time all night a smile crept onto your face. a genuine display of how soft his words had you. you gave eren’s hand one last squeeze before bringing your digits back to his head. one swipe along the top allowed you to feel all the authentic imperfections that were misplaced hairs and lopsided linework. these mismatched braids were every bit of you— delicate, rough, flawed…yet complete.

as eren settled into his spot, your head dipped down to his shoulder. his familiar scent, the mixture of lingering aromatics, and your closeness made everything feel just right. it didn’t need to be a masterpiece; it simply needed to be yours. intertwined in ways beyond braids, these were the kind of memories you cherished forever.

pairing; onyankopon x BLACK!INFLUENCER!READER

synopsis; you try and fail to record for your channel but a surprise visitor distracts you.

cw! 18+, black!fem!reader, plug!onyankopon, dirty talk, oral (m!receiving), p in v sex, consensual filming, established relationship, unprotected sex, creampie, fiancé!onyankopon, rimming

“welcome back, pixies”, you pause slightly, voice syrupy-sweet, “…to another get ready with me!”, curved acrylics wave at the camera’s lens.

sunday evenings were reserved for you and onyankopon’s date nights. no matter how hectic your schedules get- time was made.

“today i’m jus’ doing a quick light beat. a lil’ something for my man and i’s bowling date”, draped behind you is a lavender-padded backdrop. the plush material lines a corner of your shared bedroom.

opposite of that sits a pink Sony ZV-1, with the motion-tracking tripod to match. the very one you swooned over to onyankopon after watching numerous reviews. that very same Christmas the heavy box sat underneath the tree with a sparkly bow attached.

nerves still manage to swell in the pit of your belly, despite this being your tenth video for your channel. there were only going to be 20,000 eyes on you, after all. while getting dolled-up was second nature, showcasing it to the digital world required transparency.

“as always I’m startin’ with my Mac Studio Radiance Primer. y’all when i tell you this thing acts like a barrier on my skin”, you swear by the white bottle in the palm of your hand.

*squirt*- the milky substance spurts out on your left cheekbone. fingertips then massaging it into the copper freckles that splatter across your skin.

a leopard-print robe clings onto your body’s grooves. this newfound hobby of yours is a therapeutic one. something that helps the time passes when your fiancé is outside.

it’s comical just how soon the golden doorknob spins in your peripheral. the camera merely picks up step two as a shadow overcasts the leftside of the frame.

you don’t bat an eye in the man’s direction. onyankopon was keen on greetings no matter how short the distance. having already made several guest appearances on the channel thus far.

“‘m filmin’, ony,” you whine, lips betraying you as they spread into a soft grin. a deep chuckle rolls off of his pink tongue. thick digits already wrapping around your chin to bring your spacey eyes upwards. a tinge of weed lingers on him. the subtle scent wafting in with his rich, musky cologne.

the look you share makes your brush crumble to your lap. onyankopon’s pupils are filled with adornment each time they find you. after a long day of serving the block he gets to come home to you, who’s barely lifted a french tip. he leads a life of chaos to afford your luxurious one. to assure his baby can simply sit before a camera and look pretty. It’s the soft life you deserve; the least he can provide for someone so selfless.

“i know, ma. jus’ wanted to see if you was straight. to apologize for dipping out before you was up s’all,” he jests with sincerity, despite the amusement of his southern twang. it’s almost enough for you to believe him, yet his hold lingers on your tilted chin.

onyankopon will never get over how much your lash tech loves you. how each wispy strand highlights the shape of your doe eyes.

a nod is returned, not a hair misplaced in your slickback bun as you purse your lips together. the telling gesture causes him to swoop down and plant a kiss with his full ones.

he leaves—with nothing but the sheen from your lip balm with him. straight to the connected en suite onyankopon goes. the sound of water trickles softly a couple seconds later.

communication isn’t needy with you two. he makes his presence known, acknowledges your feelings, and then his sweatpant-clad thighs are out of the frame. soon, you’re peering back at that red dot. it picks up every single thing, except for the makeup look it’s intended to catch.

a soft sigh escapes your disheveled head as you duck underneath the vanity to find a lost brush. distractions gloss over as you apply foundation into the pores of your prepped skin. you speak fluently as your wrist works in the layers of your velvety base. viewers are assured that you’re using your go-to products; Fenty, Mac, and various other brands scattered messily.

somewhere between placing down your dark-cocoa liner and reaching for clear gloss—the bathroom door swings open. not just a creak, but the wood is forcefully pushed against. this causes your neck to snap towards the side of the camera. low and behold heavy steps knock against the acacia floor panels.

onyankopon’s rich skin glistens with wet droplets. his broad stature is bare with the exception of it’s intricate ink. a bushy happy trail leads to the fuzzy towel around his waist. he’s intentional as he makes his way to the spongy mattress. knowing movements pretend as if a gaze isn’t fixated on his flexing back muscles. curse how you melt beneath yourself- ogling at his back as he pays you no mind. at least that’s what your fiancé wants you to believe. teasingly he sorts through a pile of shirts in search for tonight’s contender. simultaneously, your passionate narration dies into a deafening silence.

“thought filmin’ was so damn important, ‘member, baby?”, he speaks deliberate and sarcastic. you can almost hear the smirk stretched across his face.

abruptly a needless reminder bounces off the bedroom wall. yet onyankopon’s shaded back is still turned towards you.

you snarl, “well it’s kinda hard with all the noise in my background”, covered arms now rest against your rising chest. a pregnant pause floods the space right before he’s completely turned and facing you. a lump settles in your throat as the giant paces the room to your side. annoyance has taken over his features, brows now furrowed to crease his nose bridge.

“aye, quit all that whining,” he retorts, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, betraying his playful intent. as if the towel-ridden man wasn’t trying to get you all riled up in your seat. that previous hold on your chin is returned. this time onyankopon’s opposite palm goes to drop his towel. “make me,” your counterattack is the final one that leaves your two-tone lips, eyes flickering between his challenging stare and the impending peril as the towel loosens its grip around his waist.

there’s no time to recount how you’ve gotten here. with the weight of onyankopon’s size drooping his engorged tip in your face. now an eucalyptus soap fills your nostrils, left hand already wrapped around his thick base. up and down—you drag along the ridges of his veins up and down. your torso is already twisted to face him. peach bottom pressing into your soles as you turn towards him-thighs flattening beneath you. the velvet bench to your vanity was now being used as a prop.

teasingly, your lips part an inch apart. just wide enough to press open-mouthed kisses onto the slit of onyankopon’s tip. pre-cum oozes out only to be lapped up by your hungry tongue. “w-what’s all this teasing? you was just big n’ bad a minute ago,” his fist wraps around himself, the other pressed your head closer. a soft shriek escapes before onyankopon clogs the back of your throat. his chiseled hips thrust, giving you no time to prepare yourself. he sets a pace that’s mean and ruthless—it has your saliva foaming around his deep veins like a fountain.

in a teary-eyed blink, your mouth is stuffed full. he’s so relentless as he drags your wetness along his shaft. wet, slick noises erupting as you hollow your cheeks and cup his balls. a familiar spaciness fogs your head as you bob against his shallow thrusts. “right there-fuck, this throat so damn tight...”

he holds you against him, half of his dick disappearing as your muscles convulse around his girth. and you stay there for what feels like forever- a gagging fit forcing onyankopon to lazily pull you off. “ony…need you”, tone now softened by lust, you look up with big, shiny eyes. spit dribbles down your chin as you use a palm to massage the moisture into onyankopon‘s length. his own chest is rising and falling- animating your italicized name that resides over his heart.

beneath your breathless plea is the sight of your robe unraveling on its own. how could ony resist the way your cleavage spills out of the silk. the way your naked thighs stick together from your honey. with a curious grin, he dips down and latches his forearm around your midsection. gently your fiancé picks you up until your heels can wrap around his torso. his hold is strong and protective—bringing you a couple feet away to lay flat on the edge of the mattress.

now, the forgotten camera hones in on onyankopon’s perfect ass while he rids you of the sheer coverup. you’re helpless beneath him as he towers over you, knees to your chest. “nah, don’t do all that cryin’. act like you run shit for ya lil’ fans,” your soft groans earn you an eye roll, his darkened pupils now taking in every inch of glowy skin. all you can do is look up at the spinning ceiling, his tip taps against your fat folds.

“need to feel all of you, bae…please need my husband,” that little nickname of yours. husband—one that reminded the man of what was to come in a couple months. all the blood, sweat, teary nights and fucking money to make your big day special. countless of long meetings and bridal arrangements. cake tastings and floral pickings. all to officially marry the man of your fairytales. the very same one who swore he didn’t believe in marriages. he’d seen the concept as a scam up until he met you. now as whipped as can be; he strictly referred to you as his wife, his heart, his everything.

onyankopon‘s dick sinks into you like the final piece to a tedious puzzle. his head presses into your velvet walls as you mewl against your pursed lips. “like that? you feel that? feel what you do to me?,” one palm’s wingspan spreads behind your knees to keep them pinned. it gives him sight of the way your walls flutter around his thick dick. “jesus, ma. s’only half of it…need you to loosen up for me. i know she greedy as can be,” the stretch burns, your restrained legs weakly defend with a slight twitch. “fuc-k, ony you so deep can’t- can’t take anymo…,” both of your fists grip either sides of the sheet, head thudding back into a pile of freshly washed polos.

it’s like the masochist feeds off of your cries. onyankopon‘s other palm guides him through your wetness. a permanent furrow stays with him as he tries to make sense of the tightness. he’ll never get over how unforgiving your body is—like a wave of amnesia washes over the cunt he’s been buried in countless of times. “there you go, knew you could do it. take it, take it,” he repeats, a hand finding your waist now that your mound presses to his coarse pubes. onyankopon stills for all of several seconds. he snorts as your distorted expression tries to turn to the wrinkled duvet. the way the camera frames the sight of you coming undone off of stillness—silence, is amusing.

“what you pushing me away fo? we’re jus’ getting started, ma”, your nails shove beneath his navel, “we can always turn this shit into onlyfans whenever…,” that’s when it dawns upon you. you’re so fucked out that your fuzzy head shoots up and meets the tiny, red dot. onyankopon takes the epiphany as he’s not doing enough. he suddenly snaps his hips all the way back—leaving you with the trace of fullness. then, he thrusts back in with one, fluid motion. “mmh-ph!”, the wind is gutted from your deflated chest. you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve came, but the puddle beneath your ass grows damper.

“shit…shit’s so…ugh,” the figure above you is soon reduced to incoherent whimpers. onyankopon lazily thumbs your second hole as he tries to keep up with his slowed pace. the way you clench and weep around him is going to be the death of him—he’s certain of it. when your eyes flutter open you’re met with his bobbing adam’s apple. his neck is blindly held back and his strokes are by the grace of God. “goddamn, ma. ‘m nutting, fuck i‘m nutting,” he huffs in twos, feet grounded into the tan rug beneath and knees locked. his base kisses your pussy one last time before you feel that dewy sensation. like a ragdoll your knees drop to the side. onyankopon gets ahold of your waist when he pulls out. a mixture of release seeps to your folds and down the side of the bed.

“hold up, peach. gonna get you cleaned so we can head out,” his raspy voice is drained and raw. for a moment you let him believe you two are stepping foot out of the house. he turns to head to the bathroom, but a grip around his wrist stops him. “again,” your canting blinks betray your eagerness, each one slower than the last. deep laughter erupts from onyankopon‘s inked sternum; only to resume his movement. his footsteps gyrate the entire, humid bedroom. instead of continuing to the bathroom, ony stops at the rolling device. with the click of a button the lens fades and retracts inwards. “i can’t give away all my best shots wit’ my woman”.

.ᐟ+18, pregnancy, lactation kink, nsfw-ish??, husband! onyankopon

clingy men with oral fixations >>>

thinking thoughts about onyankopon who can’t keep his hands or lips off of you.

for the most part it starts innocent—a harmless obsession with his addicting wife and her comforting pecks. but then his love develops as does your marriage and pregnancy.

say he comes in from a lonely day out. maybe he was chilling with his homeboys, maybe he’s coming in from running a bunch of errands. regardless, it was too many hours without you on his tongue. too many hours of not being able to check in with you. he’s not the most expressive when it comes to voicing his feelings, so he would rarely outright declare, “i miss you”. as if the plastic bag filled with your favorite snacks on his arm doesn’t speak volumes.

instead, he creeps into your dark bedroom to find you snuggled up in your padded duvet. at this hour of the night it’s often illuminated by a ceramic side-lamp. you’re either tuned in to your favorite series or your neck is in a New York Times bestseller. he comes in without a word and strips himself of his outside attire. his chiseled body soon bare with the exception of its never-ending ink and boxer briefs. you both don’t officially acknowledge each other until a dip weighs down the empty side of the bed.

onyankopon is a gentle giant— upper body leaning over until he catches your puckered lips. a sweet kiss or two is placed against the plump skin before he settles in. that means dominating the remote control and shifting the channel to something more…his speed. like ‘BMF’ or ESPN highlights. somehow, each low chuckle he belts out brings him closer and closer to your side. before you know it, he’s bridging that drift in the center of your mattress with his wide body.

it’s nothing you’re not used to—captivated by a fantasy the story in your lap tells, yet tilting your neck to give your husband access. a heavy palm rests on your breastbone while onyankopon nips at your neck. his plump lips swirl and suckle softly; only applying enough pressure to elicit soft moans from you. it’s not enough to break neither of you two’s concentration; his darkened pupils still side-eyeing the mounted flatscreen. this type of need can go on for hours and hours if you allow it to.

eventually, his tastebuds grow insatiable. he notices the way your nurturing palm nestles your raised belly every flip of a page. he knows this whole first-time pregnancy thing has been everything but easy on you. he acknowledges how your hormones run wild one half of the time, and your growing body aches the other. you find your little time-passers and hobbies on your own, though. and when onyankopon finally gets back home from providing, you’re always willing to let him consume you.

he mumbles against your skin, “hope my son ain’t give you no issues today”. his head then picks up to find your glassy gaze. your features read tired, yet a small grin weakly tugs at your plump lips. you never fully confirm or deny, unless you felt overtly ill. onyankopon will then pick up the hand that lays on the raised skin, and bring it to his face. he places ghastly pecks into the back of it—along your knuckles and over that big, shiny rock on your ring finger.

he’s so proud to call you his wife, and he’s even prouder that you’re bearing his child. in return, you’ve got this new, radiant glow to you and a confidence to match. this lengthy journey only strengthening your patience and domesticity. it was the next step in building the big, happy family you both desired and deserved.

onyankopon makes it to your wrist—and then he stops. a pregnant pause meaning mischief is brewing in that mind of his. he gently drops your palm and his digits trail to the collar of your shirt. bypassing the small stammer of his name, he tugs until your breasts spill out.

“these givin’ you any pain? they done got a little bigger on me,” your chest is swollen, breasts sitting a little bit lower than the last time. his calloused palms take ahold of both of them to massage you beneath his fingertips. the heaviness from your upper half is relieved as he kneads into the doughy surface. his bottom lip sucked in by his pearly whites as he works out those knots. until—a sudden dampness pauses onyankopon‘s touch. he swears this was meant to be a simple gesture. a way to check on his lady and then head to the shower. onyankopon hesitantly retracts to watch as the eggshell liquid rolls down your mound. he can’t just let it go to waste, so the tip of his tongue laps the drop upwards. right back to your sore nipple that is immediately enveloped by his lips. vibrations buzz around the sensitive skin as he sucks and drinks—your body miraculously seeping out milk the more he encourages the supply.

“you taste like heaven”, he groans out an incoherent phrase, a soft sigh falling from your lips as you lay your head back onto the headboard. your hand abandons the downturned book in your lap, and you drag your nails over onyankopon‘s waves. it’s an intense combination of pain and pleasure as he sloshes your nipple around his wet mouth. he’s careful not to neglect your other nipple—ping ponging back and forth between the two. the man’s got a large appetite and just when you think it’s enough, his palm slides further down past your hump. “what ‘bout right here? i need to taste all of you…,” he stops at your covered center, unlatching from your nipple.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. THREE’S A CROWD!—poly!bfs! geto suguru & gojo satoru

.ᐟ +18, established poly, cunnilingus, comfort smut

you absolutely hated your job. you hated the way that place made you feel, you hated the way your body ached on the way to clock out. from your know-it-all colleagues to a rigid schedule that didn’t even allow you to catch a breath. you could go on and on about what you despised at work. the only problem was that their asses would owe you overtime by the end.

stumbling into your shared apartment, you’d slammed the front door particularly harsh one evening. the frame rattled behind you as you sashayed past the living room-right where your two boyfriends slouched off the couch.

it seemed each evening you got in later and later. the echos of your steps only becoming harsher against the floorpanels. what was once their overjoyous girl who used to leap into their arms and greet them with kisses became—this.

despite being in the next room, your movements are noisy and turbulent. one might’ve mistaken them for a fire evacuee collecting her belongings. what could’ve possibly taken your position from bad to worse?

two voices transcended into one as they called out to you. “what does she got going on?”, day questioned night, gojo then scratching at the side of his ruffled locs.

geto was the more assertive of the two. his fingertips long frozen over the pads of his black controller. rhetorical questions weren’t taken lightly around these parts, the dark-haired male already standing from a flattened cushion.

geto excused himself as he traced the hot trail you blazed throughout their home a couple seconds earlier. no more than five minutes later he returned with his baby in his arms.

he had to practically herd you back out to the couch. by time as your tired body curled up on top of his...you were sobbing into his chest.

“rough day, huh? let it out, sweetheart. we’re right here for ya. whenever you’re ready to talk about it…”, gojo idly sat by your side, now rubbing your back along with your other boyfriend as you wheezed up gibberish. clearly, a tsunami of emotions hit you at your most vulnerable. all it took was one soft ‘are you okay’ to release the floodgates.

nodding vigorously into a now damp crew neck, “thin ice. i’ve been working my butt off for three years now! then- that bitch had the audacity to just pop a head in and tell me- i’m on thin fucking ice”, like a record player your manager’s words were recited through a muffled cry.

“they should be lucky we don’t burn that place to the ground”

“fuck all of those assholes in that lame establishment. ive been telling you to just stay your ass in the house”

a string of passionate encouragement followed your words in shock. at this point your mind was blurry- you couldn’t quite distinguish who said what and which hand belonged to which. geto’s heavy chest whispered sweet nothings beneath the shell of your ear. thump, thump, thump—each heartbeat serenadingly calm against your tensed body. he had long wrapped you up in a wool throw, palm running along the flat of your back.

several silent moments passed, but it was clear that you were still deep in overthought. one sob too many led gojo to parting his soft pout, again.

“gonna cry ya’self into a freakin’ puddle, baby. c’monn, look at me,” two slender digits snaked around your chin, the calloused padding then wiped away runoff tears. “let us help you, m’kay? just wanna help our pretty girl out…stressing over a job she doesn’t even need”, geto chimed in beneath you, already peeling the covers off of your frame. it was as if the two were fused by the brain- the darker-haired man lifting your hips as gojo dragged your bottoms to your feet. the fabric is discarded into a pile on the carpet.

fat tears stilled at the brim of your waterline, allowing the two to adjust you until you were just in a pair of panties. geto helped ball up your shirt past your navel while his best friend thumbed at the wet spot between your thighs.

“satoru, it’s embarrassing,” you attempted to paw at his wrist which only earned you an icy-cold stare from below. “you know better than that, sweetheart. you’re way too sexy to be getting shy on us now,” the vibrations from the chest pressed against your back forces you to gulp up a groan. his wide palms slip down the backside of your thighs; right until he’s behind your knees. strong hold then pulling them up and apart to give gojo unabashed access.

your cheeks swell with warmth as the white-haired man peeled a corner of your center free. the thin fabric stuck to you like glue, a couple seconds of prying finally allowing him to drag it past your hips. “pretty ass pussy needs me just as bad as i need her”, a pointer and a middle finger spread your sticky lips apart. strings of syrupy arousal barricaded your slit.

gojo’s head eagerly ducks as his tongue flattened to swipe through the mess—right until he’s latching onto your swollen clit with suction. that’s when your limbs grow antsy, geto acted as an unfazed restraint. gojo was so unbelievably greedy when it came to eating pussy—your pussy. his thick tongue goes from swirling into a figure 8 to pistoning in and out of your clenching hole. he’s firmed the muscle up to penetrate past your weeping walls. then he’s softening the blow by pressing kisses all along your sensitive cunt.

geto, on the other hand, is so content with having your pretty face all to himself. his head cranes yours into his long neck. his wide lips repeatedly pressed peck after peck into your hot face. “satoru’s got our pretty girl squirming. let it out for us, pretty girl. fucking his tongue like that…chase that fucking nut, baby,”

he doesn’t have to tell you twice, a helpless croak came from your throat as you messily bucked your core to the textured friction. atlast that stubborn knot in the pit of your belly released down the sides of gojo’s dripping face. he laps and laps only asking for more as geto pressed down on your torso.

the air grew stuffy and muggy—all three of you now breathing hard as an attempt to calm down. your boys knew when their sensitive girl was exhausted,“you did such a good job for us. now let suguru go run us a nice hot bath-”

“wait why do i-”

“wit’ my lavender epsom?”

“with your lavender epsom, baby,” gojo added on, still pressing loving kisses into your supple inner thighs.

“i love you both so freaking much”.

₊⊹ riding bf!connie on a jet ski in the middle of the ocean

warm sunrays hit the curve of your back as you drop your hips- rotating them to revel in his lap.

“there you go, mama…take it all. s’your dick”

connie’s digits press into the fat of your hips, dragging you down on his thick length.

squelch- a particularly hard thrust has your thighs pressed against his burly ones. connie’s merciless; holding you down until your release glistens down the sides of where you two meet.

“to-too deep, con- fuck. swear i can feel you in my guts”, the untied string of your bikini bottom sagged off the shelf of your ass. the soles of your feet ache on either sides of the footwells, taking as much of his mean strokes as your environment allowed.

a soft snicker falls from connie’s straight lips. he’s basking in how disheveled he’s got you. a hard smack found your backside, connie’s pelvis juts upwards to remind you where you are. this was a token of appreciation as he’d flown you out to the sunny tropics.

the deeper he digs into you, the lazier your body becomes. more or less cockwarming connie to catch a breath. a soft tsk of discontent rolling off of your man’s tongue as he’d been mockingly buried in your tightness.

several seconds later you’re forced off of his dick with a wet -plop-. a mixture of your juices spilled out of you as connie turned you to face the jet ski’s handles.

“hold on to ‘em,” you do just as the raspy voice urged. connie wastes no time pressing his tip past the glistening threshold of your puffy folds. now he has the upper hand- a gorgeous view of the ink that ran down your spine.

the two of you meet with each lewd thrust, connie’s head falling back at the sight of your fat ass rippling like the soft waves that surround you.

“i know….know it feels good, ma. messin’ up these people seat”, the steering console pressed deeper into your chest, as you’re no longer the one in control. his eyes fixated on the ring of opaque cream at the base of his dick. your essence runs down to his heavy balls, the wet sounds travel out to the middle of nowhere.

connie stood to chant breathless whispers in your ear. backshots becoming sloppier and slower as he neared his release.

“Ah-! ‘m…gonna make me cum again!”, the force of your orgasm pushes connie out, his broad arm reaching around to rub circles into your clit. “who needs a beach…when i got my personal soaker right here,” he breathlessly snickered, watching as this motion prolongs your wet, gut-wrenching climax. shortly afterwards white ropes splatter over your asscrack, followed by the sounds of connie’s deep rumbles.

⋆♱✮♱⋆—6slux’s masterlist ᯓ★

— ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

❋ =nsfw

attack on titan —

riding on a jetski ft. connie springer ❋

intertwined ft. eren yeager

clingy w/ a oral fixation ft. onyankopon ❋

cut the cameras ft. onyankopon ❋

tapout ft. eren yeager ❋

first-time dad ft. onyankopon ❋

jujutsu kaisen —

three’s a crowd ft. suguru geto & satoru gojo ❋

ball appreciation ft. ryomen sukuna ❋

photobooth ft. toji fushiguro ❋

outer banks —

other —

visualz blog