#black writeblr

cw: smut(mdni), rough unprotected sex, blow job, hand job, pussy eating, missionary, cumshot, titie sucking, doggy, fake sweet act!reader, sub!reader, dom!sukuna, fingering, sukuna calls reader princess, hyperfeminine!reader.

plug!sukuna x good girl!black!fem!reader

visual (+18)

You met Sukuna through Gojo, because of course you did. Gojo always had a way of dragging you into situations you had no business being in—like that house party in the heart of the city where the music thumped so hard the floor vibrated through your heels. You were supposed to be home by midnight, tucked into your suburban bed like the good girl everyone thought you were. But your crew? They knew better. They knew you liked the edge, the danger, the kind of men who made your mama’s church friends clutch their pearls.

And then there he was.

Sukuna leaned against a leather couch in the back room, two girls on either side of him like ornaments, but his eyes tracked you the second you walked in with Gojo. He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. The power rolled off him in waves—expensive cologne, gold chains, and a gaze that peeled back every layer of your “sweet suburban princess” act.

“That’s her?” Sukuna’s voice cut through the bass, low and amused.

Gojo clapped you on the shoulder. “Don’t let the skirt fool you. She’s got a taste for trouble.”

You tilted your head, letting your ponytail sway, and gave him that soft smile that always made people underestimate you. “Hi.”

Sukuna’s lips curled. “Cute.”

That was two hours ago. Now the party had thinned out, and you were in his bedroom—his actual bedroom, because the man didn’t mess around. The door clicked shut behind you, and the air changed. Thick. Heavy.

You turned to face him, your pink babydoll dress riding up your thighs. It was short, lace-trimmed, with a plunging neckline that showed off the curve of your tits. Your heels—clear plastic strap-ons—made your legs look miles long. And your skin, rich brown and glowing under the dim gold light, was bare except for the thin strap of your thong, which you’d bought specifically for nights like this.

Sukuna didn’t say a word. He just stalked toward you, slow, deliberate, his pink hair falling over his forehead. He had a look on his face like he was about to tear into a meal. And you? You bit your lip, letting your lashes drop, playing the shy girl.

“I don’t usually do this,” you whispered, voice all honey.

He laughed. A low, rough chuckle that sent a shiver straight to your cunt.

“Yeah, Princess. I bet you don’t.”

His hand came up, grabbing a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. You gasped—half surprise, half pleasure—and he leaned down, mouth hovering over your ear.

“Gojo told me all about you. Sweet girl from the suburbs, hangs with the wrong crowd. Gets off on being bad. But you know what I love?” His tongue traced the shell of your ear. “Fake innocent girls. They always scream the loudest.”

You whimpered. Not a real sound—you wanted this, wanted him to break you open. But you let it slip anyway, because the act was part of the game.

He shoved you backward onto the bed. You bounced, skirt riding up, exposing the damp spot on your thong. Sukuna’s eyes dropped, and he grinned.

“Damn. Already wet, Princess? And I ain’t even touch you yet.”

You spread your legs just a little, letting him see. “Maybe I just… like the atmosphere.”

He unbuckled his belt, slow, the metal jingling. “Nah. You like being told what to do. You like being used.”

Your breath hitched. Because he was right, and he knew it.

He climbed onto the bed, knees on either side of your hips, and yanked down the bodice of your dress. Your tits spilled out, nipples hard, and he didn’t waste time. He leaned down and sucked one into his mouth, tongue swirling, teeth grazing until you arched your back and moaned—a real one, this time.

“Mmmph—fuck, ’kuna…”

“Mm. That’s it. Let me hear you.”

His hand slid down your stomach, under the lace of your thong, and two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning. You cried out, back bowing, as he pumped them in and out, curling against that spot that made your vision blur.

“So tight for a ‘good girl,’” he growled. “Bet your little church friends don’t know you like this. Bet they don’t know how you drip when a man tells you to beg.”

“Please—” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for.

“Please what, Princess?” He pulled his fingers out, shiny with your wetness, and brought them to your mouth. “Clean ‘em.”

You opened your lips, tasting yourself on his fingers, salty and sweet. Your eyes stayed on his the whole time.

He smirked. “Good girl. Now get on your knees.”

You scrambled up, turning around, dropping to your knees on the plush carpet. You heard the zipper of his pants, the rustle of fabric, and then the heavy slap of his cock against his stomach. When you looked back, your mouth went dry.

He was thick. Veiny. The head flushed deep red, already slick with precum. He wrapped his hand around the base and tapped it against your cheek.

“Open up, Princess. Show me how a good girl sucks cock.”

You parted your lips, stuck out your tongue, and let him guide the head past your teeth. The taste hit you—salt, musk, pure male heat—and you moaned as you took him deeper. Your hands gripped his thighs, and you worked your mouth up and down, hollowing your cheeks, letting spit drip down your chin.

“Fuck—yeah, just like that,” he grunted, his hand in your hair, guiding your rhythm. “Look at you. Pretty little suburban princess, gagging on my dick. What would your mama say?”

You couldn’t answer. You were too busy taking him all the way, throat relaxing, tears pricking your eyes. But you didn’t stop. You let him fuck your face, his hips thrusting shallow, his balls slapping against your chin.

“Mm—sh-shit—” The half-finished sounds fell from his lips. “Gonna—you want it, Princess? You want me to—?”

You pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. “No. Not yet. I want you inside me.”

He hauled you up by the arm, bent you over the edge of the bed, and ripped your thong off. The fabric tore—you didn’t care. He pushed your upper body down, arching your back, your ass in the air. His hand came down on one cheek, a sharp slap that made you yelp.

“That’s for being greedy.”

Then he spread you open, and you felt the head of his cock press against your entrance. He didn’t tease. He shoved in, all at once, a thick, brutal stretch that pulled a scream from your throat.

“Ah—fuck! ‘Kunaa—!”

“Yeah. Take it. Take all of it.”

He started to pound into you, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound wet and obscene. Skin on skin. The bed frame creaked. Your tits swung with every thrust, your nails digging into the duvet.

You couldn’t think. You could only feel—his cock hitting that spot deep inside, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his voice growling in your ear.

“This what you wanted, Princess? This what you came for? To get your tight little pussy wrecked by a plug?”

“Yes—yes—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

He leaned over, his chest against your back, and reached around to grab your tits, pinching your nipples. “Beg for it. Say my name.”

“Sukuna—Sukuna, please—I need—I’m gonna cum—”

“Not yet.” He pulled out abruptly, leaving you empty, trembling. You whined at the loss.

“Turn over.”

You flipped onto your back, legs open, pussy glistening. He crawled over you, positioned himself, and entered you again in one smooth motion. This time you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

Missionary. Eye contact. His face above yours, those dark eyes burning.

“Look at me when I fuck you, Princess.”

You nodded, unable to speak. He started a slower rhythm, grinding his hips against yours, the friction sending sparks through your whole body. He dipped his head and took your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, and you bucked against him.

“Oh—oh, god—right there—I’m gonna—mm—fuck, Sukuna—”

“Cum for me,” he said, his voice a command. “I can feel you throbbing. Let go.”

And you did. Your orgasm ripped through you, your back arching, your walls clenching around him, a scream tearing from your throat. He kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, fucking you through the aftershocks.

“That’s it. Good fucking girl.”

But he wasn’t done. He pulled out again, flipped you over onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up. His cock slid back in, wet with your cum, and he set a punishing pace.

“Gonna fill this ass up, Princess. Gonna—mm—fuck, so tight—can’t—sh-shit—”

He was close. You could hear it in his ragged breathing, in the way his grip tightened on your hips. He leaned forward, his chest on your back, and his hand snaked around to rub your clit.

“One more,” he growled. “One more for me.”

You were oversensitive, but his fingers on your clit pushed you over the edge again. You came with a broken cry, your whole body shaking.

Sukuna pulled out at the last second, his hand wrapping around his cock, a few rapid strokes. Then the first hot rope of cum splashed across your ass. Then another, and another, painting your brown skin white. He groaned, low and long, as he emptied himself onto you.

For a moment, the only sound was your harsh breathing. Then he flopped down beside you, arm over his eyes.

After a second, he said, “You ain’t sweet at all, Princess.”

You smiled, still catching your breath, your ass sticky with his cum.

“Nobody has to know.”

He snorted. “Oh, Gojo knows. He knew exactly what he was dropping off.”

You turned your head to look at him, your mascara smudged, your lipstick wrecked. “And you? You gonna tell?”

He reached over, grabbed your chin, and kissed you hard—a possessive, tongue-twisting kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded.

“Nah. I think I’m gonna keep you.”

You shivered, and not from the cold. Because you knew, right then, that you’d let him.

pairing: benito martinez x wife!black!fem!reader summary: He said just the tip. cw: 18+ mdni, p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk (lwk) & wtv i wrote

a/n: i use lots of ‘—’ no it’s not ai

Benito had promised just the tip.

That's what he'd whispered against your mouth when he walked through the door, still smelling like the studio—cologne and that particular heat that clung to him after hours of tracking vocals. His hands had found your waist before he even kicked his shoes off, pulling you into his chest while your name fell from his lips like a prayer he'd been holding in all day.

"Mami, los niños—"

"Asleep," you'd told him, your own hands sliding up his arms, feeling the tension knotted in his shoulders. "Been down for an hour."

The groan that rumbled out of him was pure relief. Pure want. He'd pressed his forehead to yours and let out a long breath, his thumbs tracing circles against the fabric of your robe, that thin silk thing you'd thrown on after bath time, after story time, after the long ritual of tucking your babies in and kissing their foreheads and turning on their nightlight.

"Te necesito," he'd murmured. "Te necesito tanto, mami."

And then his mouth found yours, slow at first, like he was tasting you for the first time all over again. But you knew better. You knew that slow burn. You knew the way his hands tightened on your hips, the way his tongue swept past your lips, the way his breathing changed, shallow and hungry.

So when he pulled back and said it—just the tip, just a little, he'd be quick—you'd laughed, soft and knowing, and let him lead you to the bedroom.

Now you're on your back, your honey brown hair fanned across the pillow in waves, twenty inches buss down that cost a pretty penny and makes him go feral every time. His fingers are tangled in it, gripping the nape, tilting your head back so he can lick down your throat.

"Benito—"

"Shh, mami." His voice is rough, wrecked already. He's still half-dressed, jeans undone, shirt hanging open, that tattooed chest on full display. "Déjame cuidarte."

His hand slides down your body, palm hot against your stomach, then lower, past the waistband of your panties. You're already wet—you'd been thinking about him all evening, about the way he'd looked this morning, half-asleep and reaching for you before the kids came stumbling in. And when his fingers find your clit, you gasp, your hips bucking into his touch.

"Ay, Dios mío," he breathes. "Estás tan mojada. Todo para mí?"

"All for you," you manage, and he groans like the words hit him somewhere deep.

He pushes your panties aside, not even bothering to take them off, and you feel the tip of his cock pressing against you. Thick. Hot. That familiar weight that always makes your breath catch.

"Solo la puntita," he promises again, and you almost believe him.

Almost.

Because the second he pushes in, just the head, just a little, his eyes roll back and his hips stutter forward and suddenly it's not just the tip anymore. It's him sinking into you, inch by inch, that thick stretch that has you crying out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Benito— you said—"

"Lo sé, lo sé, mami." He's already breathless, already lost. "Pero te sientes tan bien. No pude— ay, coño—"

His hips press forward and he bottoms out, and you both moan together, a harmony of sound that fills the room. "Mmm, shit, Beni—

He starts moving. Slow at first, deep strokes that drag against your walls and make your eyes flutter shut. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot on your lips, and every thrust is punctuated by a grunt, a whisper, a "puta madre" or an "ay, Dios" that tumbles out of him like he can't help it.

You can feel every inch of him. The way his cock pulses inside you. The way his thighs press against yours. The way his hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, pinning your hand to the mattress.

"Mírame," he commands, and you open your eyes. His are dark, blown wide, locked on yours. "Quiero verte cuando te vengas."

"Then fuck me like you mean it."

The grin that spreads across his face is wicked. "Oh, ¿sí? Así quiere ella?"

He pulls out, and before you can complain, he's flipping you over. Your knees hit the mattress, your chest pressed into the sheets, your ass in the air. You hear him groan behind you—a low, guttural sound that makes your pussy clench around nothing.

"Mira ese culo," he mutters, more to himself than to you. His hands land on your hips, squeezing, kneading. "Dios mío, mami. Este culo me va a matar."

He lines himself up and pushes back in, and the angle is different now, deeper, harder, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. Your mouth falls open, a sharp cry tearing out of you.

"¡Ay, coño!" he growls, picking up the pace. "Así— así— mierda, qué rico—"

The sound of him fucking you fills the room. Wet and rhythmic, skin slapping against skin. You're dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets, and every time he thrusts you feel it in your throat.

"Beni— right there— fuck—"

"¿Ahí? ¿Ahí te gusta?" He pounds into that spot, relentless. His hand reaches around, fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with his strokes. "Dime. Dime cómo te sientes."

"So good— ahh— so fucking good, Benito—"

"Mmm, sí. Grita mi nombre. Quiero oírlo."

And you do. You scream it when he hits that spot again, your fingers gripping the sheets, your whole body trembling. "Benito! Benito!"

"Así, mami. Así."

He slows down, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, torturously slow. You whimper, pushing back against him, trying to get more, but his hands hold you still.

"Tranquila," he purrs. "Disfrútalo."

He fucks you like that for what feels like forever, deep and slow and deliberate, every stroke hitting places you forgot existed. Your legs start shaking. Your breath comes in gasps. You can hear yourself making sounds you don't recognize—high and desperate.

"Te siento," he whispers, leaning over your back, his mouth against your ear. "Te siento apretándome. Estás cerca, ¿verdad?"

"Yes— yes, Beni, I'm—"

"Ven conmigo. Vamos juntos."

He speeds up again, his thrusts losing rhythm, getting sloppier, needier. His breathing is ragged, his grip bruising, and every word out of his mouth is a curse or a prayer.

"Mierda— te quiero— esta pussy es mía—"

"Yours— fuck— all yours—"

"Dilo otra vez."

"All yours, Benito— ahh— I'm gonna—"

He hits that spot one more time—slap, slap, slap—and you shatter. Your orgasm rips through you like a wave, pulling you under, and you hear yourself screaming his name, a long, breathless "BENITO!" that echoes off the walls.

He follows right behind you, a guttural "¡Ay, coño, mami!" as he buries himself deep and spills into you, hot and thick, his whole body shuddering against yours.

You collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin and ragged breaths. He's still inside you, softening, and neither of you moves for a long moment.

Then he kisses your shoulder. Your neck. The curve of your spine.

"Te amo," he murmurs against your skin. "Perdón por la mentira."

You laugh, weak and breathless. "You're not sorry."

"No," he admits, grinning against your back. "No lo siento."

all rights go to @𝐁𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗜𝗘 . i do not agree with my content to be stolen nor to be translated without my permission.

My honest reaction to the tongue out eyes crossed face in fanfics ‘cause that one hundred percent would never happen irl unintentionally

This might get some of y’all’s britches inna twist, however, it needs to be said. AGAIN.

Can we not write anime characters with AAVE?

If the reader and the character are black?

Then yes, that’s acceptable.

But, otherwise?

Why are we writin’ Toji usin’ various AAVE dialect from completely separate regions or let alone one?

Shouldn’t be any.

It’s mostly out of character too.

Find it odd people saw Toji’s circumstances and equated his personality to black stereotypes as well.

Like…

⋮ ⌗ 🍏ᵎᵎ Guess who’s thinkin’ of bein captarina of extra fluffy Marlon, Jackie, Jermaine and Michael fics? Hell maybe even Tito. Mostly my personal big three though (Michael, Jermaine and Marlon).

They’d be inspired by my favorite songs, images I saw on Pinterest and have hints of implied bow chica wow wow moments. Ya know? Wouldn’t be overly explicit.

For me? I quite enjoy the build up akin to that of foreplay. The teasing, the subtle eye contact, the tension!

If ur into such sensual bidness, I may be the gal ur lookin’ for.

Can’t make any promises these fics would be finished with haste or onna schedule. My ADHD executive dysfunction go crazy.

Fun fact of the day: I say you’re like yur, a habit I realized when listening back to my voice notes to ensure I expressed myself fully and correctly.

I’m gonna curate my about me post soon. Requests may become accessible as well. Heavy on the may part. Just thought an announcement was needed for those who’re in the Marlon and Jermaine fluff/fic drought like mwah.

BUTTERFLIES    !    …    AN    EXCERPT    —

if  she  noticed  mr.  jordan’s  eyes  on  her,  jordyn  didn’t  make  it  obvious.  but  his  eyes  did  track  her  from  the  door,  across  the  nearly  empty  back  of  the  room,  where  she  stopped  and  stood  patiently  next  to  the  monitor.  uly  stood  talking  quietly  to  frankie,  seemingly  not  realizing  jordyn  had  entered.  that  didn’t  seem  possible  in  that  moment.  for  michael,  his  only  attention  was  on  her.  she  might  as  well  have  been  the  paint  on  the  walls,  the  sunlight  streaming  from  the  high  windows,  the  columns  holding  up  the  ceiling.  she  was  everything,  immediately. jordyn  didn’t  make  eye  contact  with  him,  at  least  not  the  him  that  sat  thirty  yards  from  her.  no,  instead  she  was  taking  in  the  shots  on  the  monitor,  analyzing  him.  he  was  extremely  handsome,  she  could  give  him  that.  she  found  herself  gazing  at  his  eyes,  tracing  the  lines  of  his  eyebrows  down  to  his  lashes  and  then  the  deep  brown  irises  that  looked  back  at  her.  she  bit  her  lip,  tucking  a  loose  strand  behind  her  ear,  deeply  entranced  and  not  even  realizing  he  was  the  same  way.  funny  how  things  happen  that  way.

“Black Girls’ Story Lab” is a community i created on tumblr for us black writers to have a space to talk all things fanfiction and writing!