🌼MERAKI🍯

𝚃⃨𝚒⃨𝚝⃨𝚕⃨𝚎⃨: 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏' 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝙿⃨𝚊⃨𝚒⃨𝚛⃨𝚒⃨𝚗⃨𝚐⃨: 𝐄𝐥𝐢𝐣𝐚𝐡 "𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞" 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐱 𝐎𝐂 𝚂⃨𝚞⃨𝚖⃨𝚖⃨𝚊⃨𝚛⃨𝚢⃨: Smoke only ever came into ‘Luela’s Dressings’ to collect for the month. So he had been reluctant to ask if she could mend his shirt. Sweetea hadn’t batted an eye at the request—or the shakiness in his hands as he struggled to unbutton it—but she had taken over the task for him.

“Whoever tailored this made these bartacks too tight.” Had been her tactful explanation. “You’d do better with a keyhole stitch.”

She’d carefully loosened them on every jacket and shirt he brought to her ever since, making them easier for him to handle. That was all it really took to loosen him up; to relax the button to his britches the same way—work them down past his hips. Smoke swore things had just gone too far. That a tryst like that wouldn’t happen again. He wasn’t going to come back.

He’s a married man.

But just like he had every other week, he came back to collect—looking for something sweet.

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 🔞 Explicit Sexual Content & Language, Oral Fixation, Fellatio, Smoke gets his soul sucked out like 7/11 slurpee, Mild Humiliation Kink, Submissive Smoke, Switch Smoke tbh, Nipple Play For more extensive tags, see Ao3 listing below

❥𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ❥

It wasn’t often a Smoke-Stack twin made a habit of sneaking around in their own town; Clarksdale was their stomping grounds, after all. But this evening, Smoke was a ways off from home, where he should be.

The sign in the little shop window said ‘closed’, but when he pulled the handle to the door, it swung right open for him. The spindles of thread, folded cloth, and tailoring materials lining the shelves drew his attention. He idly browsed a few for nothing other than a need to waste a bit of time. The young man ringing up his purchase at the counter was dragging—taking his sweet ass time—talking up the owner. After a minute or two of his cheesing and dallying, Smoke put an end to the conversation. 

He strolled over, letting the coolness of his shadow drop over the chatting couple. He caught the other man’s shoulder seconds later. Parry, the youngblood running his mouth, turned around, ready to hurl an insult. 

“Now, who the hell comin’ up behind me when I’m tryna–” 

The rest of the words died on his lips when he saw who stood before him. 

“O-oh…H-hey, Sm-Smoke, I, uh…” He nearly choked on his own spit, habitual childhood stutter clicking back into place when he identified the flash of forged carbon steel that had tapped his shoulder in place of a hand or finger.

Parry was summarily ignored and nudged aside. 

Smoke’s gaze swept up to meet the stare of the woman standing behind the counter. Her brown eyes sparkled almost mischievously, but the lift of one delicate brow feigned reproach for his bull-headed interruption. 

“Evenin’.” He nodded cordially. “Need a minute of your time, Miss Tea.”

She tilted her head, dark hair reflecting a smooth, softened shine under the light. It smoothed back into two pressed rolls behind her ears that tucked and secured the rest in place with a ribbon. Her skin was luminous in comparison; warm, toasted golds and ambers that reminded him of the sweetened drink she was named after.

She drummed a nail on the wood of the counter. “What for?”

Smoke glimpsed the unopened jar of canned peaches in front of her, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His expression dithered a moment as he considered the options before him. 

But in the end…he settled on the choice he wanted—not the one he needed.

“I’m looking for somethin’ sweet.” He declared. 

i'm not making anyone do anything.

fics will still be posted on this page for the time being. it's just the people who actively engage with my work (comment, reblog, ask, etc) are being rewarded, if you will, with full, unedited fics as well as exclusive shit. that's only fair when fandom is literally dying out day by day because readers are not supporting writers, hence them leaving, deactivating, etc.

do what you want, babe. i'm not gonna keep explaining what's already been clearly laid out.

in aotearoa, june isn’t our pride, it’s theirs. marsha p johnson and sylvia rivera are their historical figures, not ours. the phrase that “you owe your rights to Black trans women” is true there, but here we owe our rights to (mostly) Māori historical figures. i have the freedoms i do because of the legacy of an entirely different set of people operating in an entirely different context at entirely different times.

But because of american cultural imperialism, most queer people in Aotearoa don’t even know our own queer history. Carmen Rupe, Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, the Dorian Society, Gillian Laundon, Georgina Beyer, and the Wolfenden Association are some of our queer history. We should know their names! we should know what they did for us! but because of the power of the american imperial machine, we don’t.

our national pride month should be july, the month that the Homosexual Law Reform Act passed in 1986. our two largest cities hold their pride festivals in february and march, respectively. american queer history has very little (or nothing, depending on who you ask) to do with our queer history. anecdotally, from my own queries, queer youth in aotearoa know more about american queer history than our own.

The voices of the queer people in America are loud and known because of Black and Brown people like Marsha P. Johanson and Slyvia Rivera. So the phrase "you owe your rights to Black trans people" isn't any less true just because it's not applying to you over in New Zealand. Any Moari or Maori-American people that are here or come here WILL owe their rights to these queer, BLACK, people and their civil rights movements.

Take your anger up with the people actually oppressing you instead of taking shots at the important, celebrated, queer figure heads over here. You can uplift your people without putting down the efforts of other marginalized groups just because you're mad your people aren't being centered.

Sukuna’s developed an irritating habit. Whenever he’s fed up with you, or whenever he doesn’t want to entertain one of your questions, he’ll simply stay quiet and gesture towards his stomach. It’s kind of like saying ‘talk to the hand’. But in his case, it’s ‘talk to the stomach mouth’. 

Then his stomach mouth will shoot you this wide, smug grin, like it’s more than happy to converse with you. And you’ll just toss up your hands and groan, annoyed that your husband won’t even bother to speak with you face to face. 

But recently you've taken Sukuna up on his offer, turning the tables to give him the silent treatment while still chatting away with his stomach. Because Sukuna underestimated just how much that mouth of his likes to rile someone up. Even if it’s the rest of his body. 

Now, Sukuna’s lounging on the bed, limbs draped carelessly along the mattress. He’s trying to feign indifference. Trying to pretend he’s unphased by the fact that you haven’t spoken to him in four whole days. 

But you know better. You see the slight clench in his jaw, the scowl that deepens on his face each time he steals a look your way. He watches as you sit by the window, gazing at the scenery outside. 

When the silence stretches on longer than he can bear, Sukuna sets his pride aside to clear his throat and ask, “Are you still doing this?” 

You don’t even spare him a glance, continuing to look out the window. “Middle Mouth,” you say, “will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I have no idea what he’s talking about?”

Sukuna scoffs in disbelief, but that mouth of his flashes its teeth and singsongs, “Sukunaaaa. She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I heard you,” Sukuna huffs, speaking to you instead of his stomach.

He hates this whole situation. Hates that you're not speaking with him. Hates that you’ve given his stomach mouth a nickname. And he hates that the mouth is entertaining it at all. 

 His jaw clenches once more, and he sighs before saying, “You’re ignoring me.” 

He’s not wrong. For almost a week, you’ve been avoiding your husband, refusing to interact or even look at any part of him other than his stomach maw. But despite all of his sulking and sour moods, you act as if nothing is amiss.

“Middle Mouth, will you please inform the rest of Sukuna that I am not ignoring him. You and I just had a lovely conversation, didn’t we?”

“Sukunaaaa,” the mouth singsongs again. “She isn’t ignoring you…well, me.” That grin returns, and you can’t help but let out a quiet laugh. Why didn’t you start speaking with your husband’s stomach mouth sooner? He really is entertaining.

“Stop that. Don’t humor her,” Sukuna scolds.

“Middle Mouth, you can converse with me as you please.”

“I intend to,” his maw replies. 

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, but he’s not sure whether to direct his glare at you or his abdomen. “How long do you intend to keep up these antics?”

You brush an imaginary piece of lint from your clothes and say, "Middle Mouth, please inform the rest of Sukuna that I’m still waiting on a proper apology from him." 

“I’m warning you, do not–”

“Sukunaaaa. She is waiting for a proper apology from you.”

Sukuna stares murderously down at his lower half. He’s finally met his match. The only ‘enemy’ that he can’t silence by force. Himself. 

And secretly, you think that he slightly enjoys that you’re speaking with his stomach mouth. It shows him that despite this silent treatment, you still desire some form of communication with him. 

So he’ll put up with the teasing, the inside jokes, and the fact that his wife is being stolen by his own body.

You decide to press your luck a little bit further, and say something you know will send your husband over the edge. “Middle Mouth–”

“Not again,” Sukuna groans, tossing his head back.

“Do you remember what I told you? What we talked about last night?”

“What?!?" Sukuna demands, sitting up abruptly and sending the covers around him flying.

“Oh, I remember,” his maw says, immediately grinning and playing into it. 

“Well, I was thinking about it and–”

“Why are you speaking with my wife at night?”

“Our wife. And what we discuss during late hours does not concern you.” 

“Anyways, as I was telling you, Middle Mouth, before I was rudely interrupted–”

“No. This ends now."

In seconds, Sukuna’s beside you, all 7 feet of him towering over you intimidatingly. He rubs a hand across his jaw, like he has to physically force the words out of his mouth. “I.. apologize for not answering when you asked me which of my cocks I urinate from.”

“…”

“The answer is both of them.”

Immediately, your mood lifts. You turn away from the window, smiling and facing your husband like nothing was ever wrong. “Apology accepted.” And then to his stomach mouth, “We’ll continue our conversation later.”