A/N: Hey my loves! this was requested by ( @hatsuneezsayz ). You ask so you shall receive ꯁ.̮ꯁ. Enjoy this smutty mess ʕ-᷅ᴥ-᷄ʔ.
It was a quarter after 1am. You lifted your oversized shirt that hid your petite frame. The reflection you saw had you dissatisfied. Kageyama’s figure hover over you then flopped on the mattress.
“What type of fun are we getting into tonight?” he threw the back of his head in a pillow.
“Kags?” You spun staring at your back in the mirror, “do you think I should-”
“Nope,” he sat up, “don’t even think about asking that again. There is nothin you needa change about yourself.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like-” Again your words were swiftly cut off. Only this time you were under your boyfriend. He loved every inch of the body you were convinced needed fixing.
“I dare you to finish that sentence, I will fuck your brains out.” His voice was gentle. Fingers slid down your face.
Your movement stopped, “Kags I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He kissed your chin then your neck, “we’re all imperfectly perfect in our own way.”
You sighed stroking your fingers through his hair not noticing the hems of your shirt at your neck. Cold air brushed over your nipples hardening them. Kageyama’s tongue ran down your boobs sending tingles between your thighs.
“It doesn’t matter how other people see you or think about how you look,” his lips separated from your skin, “as long as your happy with yourself I’ll be happy with you. That’s what’s most important.”
You smiled to yourself hearing his sweet words. He rolled beneath you, pulling at your sweats. Your face warmed as his hands lowered down your back. The black haired man stripped you out the long shirt and panties you wore.
His hands traced over your lovely outline. Two fingers that slid off your tongue curled inside of you attacking your g spot. Oh, how the sight of you losing it from his touch drove him insane.
Your cum drizzled down his hand and pants in no-time. What a beautiful sight it was through his eyes. One that caused his dick to nearly burst through his clothing. You grinded your hips against his heveanly fingers.
Kageyama couldn’t take anymore of it. He whipped out his shaft gently pushing your hips down till it was all in.
“Can I move?” He asked, making sure you were as comfortable as possible. You nodded giving him approval. Guiding you, he lifted your waist up then back down leaving the rest up to you.
The size alone was enough to send you to Narnia. Kageyama held your hips in place as you gripped his knees for support. His thrust became unbearably fast. Before you knew it the two of you were panting like dogs.
“Kags, I can’t I’m gonna cum,” you squealed.
“Cum for me,” he whined, “please cum for me.” Your build up was released upon him as his was inside of you. His shaft twitched inside of you a few times before you gained enough energy to get off of him.
Pulling you close he stroked your back, “y/n. Don’t change yourself for anyone. Definitely not this fucked up society.” His voice was too soothing. You felt your eyelids growing heavier and heavier.
“I won’t.” You mumbled into his chest feeling yourself drift off.
Many viewed Brixton as a spec of dirt to be ignored on the map of London—muddied with unscrupulous characters. When letting people know you were from Brixton, their faces would often scrunch up like a used piece of paper, their aversion to the area caused a physical reaction they could not control. It was defined by outsiders as a dangerous area riddled with crime and poverty. If you ever had the misfortune of visiting, grasping onto all personal belongings and avoiding eye contact were necessary to ensure your safety.
Growing up in the south London district allowed me to see past its bad reputation and truly bear witness to the beauty that resided within. Brixton was a beautiful place illuminated by rich Caribbean culture. A true sense of community lived within the residents, while the sweet scent of hard dough bread wafted out of First Choice Bakers and filled street corners. It was a flamboyant area with one of a kind characters where self-expression and individuality were celebrated. The place where my love for fashion was conceived.
As a young boy I would spend hours getting lost in fashion books inside the rust coloured cocoon of Brixton Library. Books and papers laid scattered across the table where I resided in the back of the building sitting on a miserably uncomfortable black seat. Still, I would sit and read book after book after book, until my body paid the price. I began sketching my own designs and using them as a vessel to tell my own stories. Drawings of extravagant ruffles and oversized lapels represented my flamboyant nature.Bright yellows and greens became an expression of my Jamaican heritage. I felt free getting lost in the limitless realm of fashion; it felt natural, innate. I made a subtle pact with myself to forge my way into the industry, not knowing it would be a journey that the young boy consumed in the fashion books never had the courage to foresee.
You see, the imagination is a wonderful thing that allows you to create realms that have yet to take form in reality. Despite this as a child, I found it hard to dream of a reality outside the sand coloured blocks that made up my Brixton Hill estate. I never saw full thighs, broad shoulders, round stomachs or rich mahogany skin while trawling through those fashion books. As a person who possesses all of these underrepresented characteristics and is a signed model, five years into my career, it feels like a fairytale no-one was brave enough to write. Gracing the pages of fashion magazines, appearing in TV commercials and having my face plastered on large billboards has done more than just filled me with joy. It has given a voice and visibility to a demographic of people that are often forgotten in fashion. In many ways, looking back, my presence as a person with a large body who viewed himself as beautiful was needed at that particular moment in fashion to respond to the call for change in the industry. This call would harken a new generation of shoppers and scrollers to buy into the belief that the fashion industry had become a more accepting and tolerant space.
Even though a shift in representation created an exterior that appeared more welcoming, internally navigating the industry as a big bodied black man has not been the easiest feat. My 4B crown has often been met with hairstylists poking and prodding at it like a suspicious package, nervous to touch it, and brushing waves backwards against the grain. For makeup artists, my rich hazel skin would cause panic.Face beaters rifled through bags trying to find a colour to match my tone, often to no avail, sometimes bringing out face paint sets or telling me that my skin was “great” and did not need anything as their brushes caressed the faces of white models. For the wardrobe stylist, my body triggered a loss of interest which caused them to direct their attention to the smaller models. My sparse clothing options would hang lonely and isolated against the rail of bountiful “straight size” garments. Often, I’d be asked to cram my body into clothing that was not my size, and those experiences are echoed by my model peers.
In spite of this, being able to tell my story, and the story of an overlooked group of people through my work reminds me of the Brixton characters that inspired my love for fashion. Brixton was full of unique personalities with senses of style to match. People from Brixton played by their own rules and used clothes and style as a roadmap to tell the stories of their culture, thoughts, and beliefs. My mother was one of the greatest storytellers.
As parents flooded through the ocean blue gates of my Church of England school, “Your mum is so cool” would often resound through whispers quietly cascading through the air. Oak trees stretched towards the sky and casted shadows over the playground as I walked like a little king drowning in my indigo blue school jumper toward my mother. It was typical for me to walk myself home, so to see her was a shift in scene and a glorious one at that; golden light fit for a queen filled the playground.Her long locs cascaded past her shoulders—a show of her strength. Her wrists were adorned in layers of glistening gold bangles etched with swirls of paisley, and her fingers were engulfed in precious stone rings—an expression of her honest spirit.
There she stood—a rebellious African Queen residing in the body of a young Black woman born to Jamaican parents in post-Windrush London. There I was —taking it all in. The emotional quality of the stories that her clothing told came together so seamlessly. She was the storyteller, with a deep emerald cape swept across her body and stacks of gold bracelets resting on the bend of the wrist. I was the student, with a crumpled school book bag, and soot-coloured trousers with loose tattered hems which were an inexpensive fix for my recent growth spurt. How I wished I had the same pen to tell my own stories and express myself the way I wanted.
My mother was not the only storyteller I knew. On my Brixton Hill estate we had “Pops,” the resident elder, fountain of wisdom, and occasional disciplinarian. He had high cheekbones, rich onyx skin, and a wool trilby often sat upon his head concealing his short, tight curls. He would tip his hat ever so slightly when greeting you, inadvertently letting you know he was a man of tradition. He donned an authoritative blazer in a bleak, closely woven fabric that made it clear he was a figure to be respected. His hard bottom shoes were always in pristine condition and freshly polished.
The Brixton Dancehall Queen Pinky from the early aughts also had a pungent sense of style. She would weave together elaborate tales detailing the culture behind Dancehall music using only the colour pink. Her pink wigs, over-embellished jewellery, and pink mini skirts were all nods to the dancehall culture and the empowering sense of self-representation it promotes. After school my best friend and I would walk through the colourful Brixton streets with our ties loosened and blazers off feeling free from the shackles of our dull school uniform. We thundered down to Brixton Market to buy the latest Dutty Fridaze or Passa Passa DVDs, hoping to get a glimpse of what pink concoction Pinky had chosen to adorn her body in. It was an event that never failed to disappoint. Whether it was her rose coloured finger waves, her bright pink bantu knots, her orchid colour cowboy boots, or her hot pink shorts, she exemplified what it meant to be fearless and unapologetically yourself.
No place on earth has illuminated my soul, fed my mind, and left an everlasting impression on me in the way that Brixton has. My fellow Brixtonians taught me lessons about being proud of who you are by constantly celebrating our distinctions. Its vibrant streets and colourful characters created a unique space unlike any other. The people that have resided there over the years bestowed upon me life lessons and exposed me to experiences that have made me the person I am today. To the South London gem, thank you!
Background: Second generation. Born to her parents Sanaa Awegwo and Mohammed Mirza in Houston Texas. Both her parents are immigrants and unfortunately died tragically in a car accident when she was just 14 years old. She was put into the foster care system and even though most of the time it was hell Khadijah learned to cope by finding her passion was to care for other children. By being an older child in a foster home she was usually left responsible of the little ones and developed close relationships with all of the children she would spend time with. Her other coping mechanism was engrossing into other cultures. After learning all she could about her parents birth places she moved to her passion, Japanese culture. She got through many depressive episodes by planning and fantasizing about moving away to the most beautiful country in the world, to her. So, after graduating college with a degree in early childhood development, but no job to show for it she decided that now was the best time to go travel and experience new culture. Her first stop would be Japan and whatever happens after that she would figure out along the way.
Reference Pictures (Face Claim):
I do not own these photos! Credits to @/cueen on DeviantArt
“I watched the syringe as the blood came up into the drugs that seemed like dirty water. It just filled up with blood, and as the blood and the drugs started its way down into the needle, I thought, This is our childhood. Our childhood had been covered with blood, as the drugs had been.”
— Claude Brown, Manchild in the Promised Land (1965)
Public Teasing (Deku&Bakugo) x Thicc! Black Reader
(Ok so this was a request someone made but I had to re-write it.)
You could feel the forest green eyes practically burning a hole into you. The swing in your hips made your ample ass jiggle with every step and you knew your nasty boyfriend was loving every second of it.
“Y/n,” Deku’s quiet, deep voice spoke up behind you. You felt the material of your tiny sundress get pulled down over your bottom. “Maybe you shouldn’t have worn such a short dress.”
He muttered, but you could still hear the blush in his voice.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t love it, daddy Deku.”
You threw him a wink over your shoulder and saw the pink blush on his handsome freckled cheeks.
The pair of you were exploring a carnival together. Although, Deku was currently weighed down with an armful of prizes you had forced him to win you along with some treats from stands, leaving him a few paces behind. Not that he was complaining...too much that was. The way your dress kept riding up over your soft, brown butt was just as troubling as it was sexy.
You quirked a brow. “Wanna touch it?”
The man’s face burned red.
“Babe, we’re in public!”
You laughed, and lead Deku to yet another game.
“Baaabe! Will you play this one for me?” You asked, bouncing your way over.
With an amused sigh, he replied: “Sure.”
As usual, he won your prizes all in one go.
“Here you go, baby doll.”
“Yaaayy, thank you!” You hugged your giant teddy bear. Then a sly smile came over your face and without thinking, you turned and made your ass clap against your boyfriend.
Your big butt made a distinct clapping noise that was hard to miss.
Your boyfriend’s mouth dropped. You could see the flush disappear beneath the man’s v-neck. His huge, scarred up hands gripped the several prizes he carried for you.
“What’s wrong, Deku?” You teased. “I thought you liked it when I made it clap.”
Before you knew it, Deku had grabbed your hand and started dragging you out of the carnival and to the parking lot.
“Deku, what are you-Ah!”
Your body got flung along the backseat of the car. The bulky body of your boyfriend climbed on top of you.
“Shit, Deku!” You exclaimed as the man flipped you on your chest. The car was hot, and your head started to swim, but it didn’t seem to matter to Deku who pulled your dress up over your ass.
“Don’t act surprised, babe.” He muttered between kisses against your soft butt. “You wanna tease me, fine.”
You gasped, feeling his wet tongue slide between your cheeks. Deku slurped and sucked your puckered hole, his big hands squeezing your ass.
“You got my attention now, baby doll.”
“Katsuuu,” you whined rubbing your tits against your man’s back.
He ignored you in favor of checking the tomato in his hand. As per usual, the two of you were spending another weekend at the farmer’s market aka; Katsuki’s favorite place.
Your brown cheeks puffed in frustration.
“You never pay attention to me.”
“Not when you act like a whiny little brat for no reason.” The blonde retorted, you could hear a smile in his voice. “Now, what do you want for dinner tonight? Depending on your answer that’ll determine what I buy.”
Slyly wiggling your way up under his arm you shot back: “You.”
This time you didn’t miss the smile. He looked down at you with raised, blonde brows.
“C’mon, y/n. The faster you make a decision the faster we can get home.”
There was a silent suggestion in his voice.
Worming yourself between Katsuki and the fruit stand he was at, you pressed against him. The man paused and his crimson eyes took in your fat ass.
“Why don’t we go home now. I’m your favorite meal anyway, aren’t I?” You looked up and back at him.
The old lady beside the two of you let out an offended little scoff before walking away.
“Y/n,” your boyfriend said in a warning tone, “stop playin’.”
You wiggled your juicy butt against Katsuki, feeling his manhood stir against it.
Katsuki cursed under his breath. Tossing the tomato back in its place he grabbed your arm and tugged you away from the crowd of shoppers.
Your pussy throbbed as your boyfriend half pulled, half carried you to the car.
Instead of pushing you into the car, the angry blonde bent you over the trunk.
“Katsuki,” you gasped with wide eyes, “what are you doing?”
“Oh, now you wanna have some shame?” He laughed, condescendingly.
His huge, strong hands groped your fleshy ass cheeks, relishing the softness of them.
The deep moan he let out made your cunt clench.
Katsuki smacked your ass—loudly.
“Fuck that, y/n.” He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Shoulda thought about that when you decided to show out in public.”
series I'm starting where poc refuse to let people butcher/shorten their names.
"Kumail," Rachel says in that demure voice she's come to use around boys, (It wasn't her fault that she did this, her mother had always insisted that men liked it when women spoke in a small voice around them). "Can I call you 'Kumi'?" She asks, smiling.
"No, thank you" replied Kumail, without looking up at her. "I prefer 'Kumail', it's a good name the way it is" and continued to play the game on his phone.
I do not know why I feel the need to explain myself here but these are not directed at people (it's not directed at anyone in particular) who are called by or call others by affectionate nicknames or whatever have you. This is literally just going to be variations of different imagined scenarios of people of colour.
Also tell me that you see what I did there with his name and "good"?