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k9wa · 2 months

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⟁ A BULLET A DAY, ft. BOOTHILL.

⠀ — where teasing, annoying, poking and prodding all fall under the same category; flirting.

⚠︎︎ more mechanic! reader, gn, boothill being an idiot, flirting, suggestive, he has fake teeth to me, something about tension + leaving him high and dry is soooo ….

from this request !

it’s a miracle, truly, how boothill manages to be so tempting and endearing yet so utterly irritating and infuriating at the same time.

and it’s hot, sure, but that just makes it all the more annoying, leaves you frustrated and with an odd pool in your stomach.

boothill managed his way into your supply of bullets, happily tossing back the brass casings like a simple snack. it was a genius idea at the time, really, giving him a stomach that can store ammunition. though had you expected him to chew on the damn things instead of swallowing them— you know, like he was intended to— you would’ve just given him a little side bag to save yourself the work.

you half hoped the lead stuffing the things would seep into his still intact brain, but chastised yourself for the thought soon after having it. you don’t hate him that much. your brain should check back and try the thought again in twenty minutes.

“y’know what’d be real neat, buttercup?” boothill’s legs were kicked up lazily on your workbench as he sat next to you, waiting for you to finish a small modification on his revolver. “spikes in my boots.” he lifted a foot up, rolling his ankle a bit. “you know, them retractable ones. be able t’a have some real fun with those things.”

you snorted, his efforts to dodge his synesthesia beacon as entertaining as always.

“since when do i take requests?” you asked, eyes focused down on your work— far too used to his antics to lift your head anymore.

“since when d’you deny gettin’ to tinker with me?”

he brought his feet down to the floor and leaned forward on his thighs, the denim of his pants tightening around them. “what, gonna make me say please and thank ya now?”

you truly wanted to reply, say it wasn’t a half bad idea and that you’d look into the upgrade. until he started shaking a few bullets around in his palm like they were fucking almonds.

now boothill noticed the clench of your jaw, and oh how he revelled in it. he’s fully aware how the crunching of brass and lead peeves you, ie. you telling him to knock it off an hour ago— (“it ain’t hurtin’ nobody, is it now?”—) but you’re just so darn cute when you’re ticked off. he’s gotta push your buttons just a lil bit.

“somethin’ the matter?” the way his sharp teeth gleamed through that damn grin weren’t doing anything to help.

he took a bullet between his thumb and forefinger, the shiny gunmetal digits pinching the ammunition as he held it up next to you. “d’ya care for one, sugar plum?”

fine, you thought. two can play that game.

you tore your attention away from the old steel revolver, finally turning to look at him. boothill prepared for an insult, one he’d tell you was ‘flatterin’ and all,’ but it didn’t come.

you leaned towards his hand, keeping your eyes locked with his that glowed a familiar and faint red.

then you took the bullet between your tongue and top front teeth, gently pulling it out of his hands with your mouth.

his smirk actually dropped— you’d think someone stuck an infected usb into his ear with all the ideas that flooded the forefront of his brain, making his circuits just tingle with excitement. something about the hot single mechanic in his area.

you turned back to your desk, removing the bullet from your teeth and twirling it between your fingers idly as you gave a once over to his revolver, as if nothing had happened.

boothill blinked, chuckling gruffly with a shake of his head as he slumped back in his chair, flicking another bullet into the air with his thumb and catching it in his palm with a gentle clink! the cyborg gave a low whistle as he kicked his feet back up.

“ain’t you somethin’,” he drawled, earning a chuckle from you. “y’sure know how t’keep a man on his toes, don’t ya buttercup?”

“i dunno what you mean, boothill.” you only offered a hum, willfully ignorant to boothill’s colourful imagination.

“oh i’m real sure y’don’t.” he shook his head, another chuckle rumbling his chest and sending a shiver down your neck.

“say,” he leaned towards you, his shoulder to yours, feeling a little lucky and dropping his voice to a knee-weakening purr, “if that pretty mouth a’yers likes metal, i’m more’en happy t’a—”

“all done.”

all bets go down the drain. boothill deadpanned as you clicked the barrel of his gun into place and handed it back to him, standing up to stretch your arms.

“shops closed for today,” you fold them, leaning back against your bench. “you better get a move on before i have to kick you out.”

boothill’s eyes trailed up your figure, taking his sweet time finding your face. the cowboy raised an eyebrow into a cocky arch despite him swearing his body was on the verge of its cooling protocol.

“you keep woundin’ me, sugar.”

“i dunno what you mean, boothill.”

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

#‘kawa he doesn’t chew—‘ REALITY IS WHAT I MAKE IT.#plus its funny #boothill #boothill x reader #boothill hsr #boothill x you #boothill headcanons #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail headcanons #hsr headcanons #UNEARTHLY

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rainyinautumn · 1 year

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Did someone say COMPLETE DATA ANALYSIS OF ALL THE DEATHS IN THE LIFE SERIES? No? Well. I did it. Here are some neat graphs for you guys to look at so that you don’t have to deal with the gigantic spreadsheet I did!

Let’s start off with the big bad question: what gets people killed in this game, anyway?

Note that a CAUSE OF DEATH is not the same as a KILL. Cause of death is what pops up in the chat when someone dies (ex. PearlescentMoon was slain by Smallishbeans, BdoubleO100 fell from a high place). The cause of death does not always account for player responsibility (ex. TNT traps). Generally, a player is only considered to be someone’s cause of death if the death occurs through direct PvP combat. HOWEVER, responsibility for an indirect kill such as a trap still goes toward a player’s total kill count—for example, Joel has 14 kills overall, 10 of which are direct enough for him to be considered the actual cause of death. After all, axes don’t kill people without being swung by someone.

A few other whacky things about kill counts:

Self-inflicted deaths do not count toward a player’s kill count (ex. Grian doesn’t get a kill for jumping off Monopoly Mountain at the end of 3rd Life, Scott doesn’t get a kill for blowing himself up at the end of Double Life).

When it comes to Double Life, soulmates are considered to share their three lives. No distinction is made between Soulmate A's life and Soulmate B's life, and each death only counts as one kill (ex. Joel gets one kill for killing Scott with fireworks, even though that also killed Pearl (however, Pearl’s cause of death is still Joel, as her life is considered the same as Scott’s)).

Using the /kill command does not count toward your kill count. Grian.

With that cleared up, let’s look at kill counts.

By the skin of his teeth, Grian leads the pack in total kills. The top three you see on that graph are the only players who have a KDR (kill-to-death ratio) of more than 1—for you folks who are unfamiliar with those, a KDR of more than 1 means you kill other people more often than you die. Less than 1 means you die more often than you kill other people. Here are the highest and lowest KDRs in the series:

“What’s this?” I hear you say. “Jimmy Wet-Paper-Bag-of-a-Man Solidarity DOESN’T have the lowest KDR in the series?”

No. No, he does not, and it’s actually really funny you should ask.

Because of Last Life’s mechanic of life transferring, even players that have been in all three installments of the Life Series don’t have the same death count. Eight players died more than three times in Last Life. Another eight died exactly three times. And one player only died twice.

By virtue of starting on yellow and never receiving any extra lives in Last Life, Jimmy holds the record for fewest deaths in an installment of the Life Series with just two deaths in Last Life. He is the only player to ever die less than three times in a game. This means that although he has just one kill, he has fewer total deaths than BigB (who has died a very standard nine times), the only other player with one kill, so his KDR is higher. Congrats, Jimmy, you’re not last in everything. But you are still the only player without a PvP kill.

Speaking of PvP, it’s time to look at how people do that! Here’s a graph of the top five weapons that tend to land PvP kills the most in the series:

And now here’s weapon preferences by game:

[Double Life not depicted due to lack of PvP deaths—only 4 occurred, using a diamond axe, a diamond sword, fireworks, and an iron axe respectively.]

Despite 19 more deaths occurring in Last Life than 3rd Life, the two actually have the exact same amount of PvP kills (28). It’s interesting to note the strong preference for bows in 3rd Life, which was a much more warlike game and had several fairly formal battles where people fought from a distance. Last Life required an overall sneakier strategy, resulting in a higher use of traps. In combat, non-ranged weapons like swords and axes were generally preferred due to fights often starting in close proximity and without warning, courtesy of the Boogeyman curse. Comparatively, Double Life saw remarkably few PvP kills, likely due to each person being twice as accident-prone by virtue of being linked to another player—in fact, with a total of 12, accidents accounted for three times as many deaths as PvP in Double Life and overall for more than half (57%) of the deaths in the game.

As for individual player stats sheets, here’s an example of one of those:

If you want to see one of those for ALL 17 PLAYERS, you can go to this slideshow! More details about the stats can be found in the presentation notes of each slide. And, if you have a really specific question and want to get into the nitty gritty, feel free to send me an ask! Hope you guys enjoyed the data!

#moral of the story: stay away from high places #and Joel and Ren #and always assume Grian is up to something #life series #3rd life #last life #double life #overrainylyzed #I don't think I've ever analyzed something harder before in my life honestly #relevant rainy things

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draconic-desire · 18 days

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💥 Take My Whiskey Neat 💥

Yandere Boothill x Reader

Again and again, you find a way to escape, and every time ends with you peering down the barrel of a gun.

Warnings: Yandere behaviors, forced relationship and captivity, implied kidnapping, some suggestive content but mostly sfw. Mild spoilers for his background story; I want to write him both as a super attentive and protective guy but also crazy for you???

You’ve become all too familiar with the sensation of a gun being pointed to your forehead.

“Aw, darlin’, why the long face? Took me two whole days to find ya this round! You should be proud’a yerself. I dare say our time together has taught you well,” he concludes with a wink.

Somehow, his praise feels more like a taunt.

That’s because it is. Obviously you never had a chance at escaping from him, a Galaxy Ranger with a bounty on his head worth more than your life a hundred times over. He was born and raised to hunt, to track, to kill. You’re just the unlucky target.

He leans the gun ever so slightly closer to you, mere inches before it can graze your skin, and waits for your response. Although you know he won’t pull the trigger, the sight of the 9 millimeter colt aimed directly between your eyes still sends goose flesh skittering down your arms.

You grit your teeth and pin him with a withering glare. The last thing you’ll relinquish is your pride—you’re not intimidated by him, and it is impressive that you evaded him for so long, relatively speaking. Your other escape attempts lasted mere hours.

Unfortunately, the fact that the Ranger has always traveled alone doesn’t help your chances—especially when lately, his only occupation has been you.

“What, no clap back today? No, ‘fudge you, ya son of a nice lady’ or ‘fork you, shirtbaggin’ bootlicker’? I’ve gotten so used to yer colorful language that I’m almost disappointed!” Boothill tilts the gun and juts his hips, his bullseye gaze locked on your own.

Ignoring the subtle look of longing, of hurt, within their depths is getting harder and harder. He’s superb at hiding it behind jokes and attempted curses, but you know that look. He’s clinging to you after all that’s been taken from him, seeking love after it was destroyed in flames. If only he still held onto his human emotions and didn’t rely on that neuro chip of his; then he’d know that what he’s showing you isn’t love, but obsession.

You wish you had never extended your kindness to him that fateful day, when he’d burst into your home, sparks flying and wires exposed. One of his arms was barely attached, completely torn through with bullet holes. A shootout, he’d said, and he’d caught wind of a handy ‘machine doctor’—a mechanic, you’d corrected him—in town who could fix him right up.

It had taken a full two weeks for you to get him back up and running functionally. Two weeks of evading IPC grunts knocking on your door in search of him, two weeks of tolerating (and fine, maybe even enjoying) his crude jokes, and two weeks of stories over a glass of whiskey, about your hope to one day travel among the stars and his of finding a companion to do so with.

That’s when he’d seemed the most human. Voice tinged with sorrow, yes, but lips curved into a morose smile, eyes looking up at the stars. Reminiscing about when he was still fully human, nothing but a cowboy on a seemingly insignificant planet, surrounded by his adopted parents and siblings, and even that little girl whom he never got to see grow up.

After he’d shared his story, you’d felt the sudden urge to be close to him. Without thinking, you’d brought your hand up to his cheek, wiping an invisible tear despite the fact that he lost his tear ducts long ago.

He’d sucked in a breath and gone deadly still; thinking you misjudged the situation and overstepped a boundary, you’d quickly started to jerk your hand back, only for him to lock it firmly against his face with his metal palm.

His voice, normally loud and clear through the synthesized distortion, had been quiet, low, wavering. “I—please, don’t stop. That feels…nice.”

You were sad to see him go after those two weeks. You honestly expected to never see him again—he was a Galaxy Ranger, after all, the definition of a lone wolf—but to your surprise, his visits didn’t end there. He kept returning again and again, and not just for repairs. Sometimes he’d bring you gifts or tell you stories of his hunt, and you’d cherish those moments when the galaxy felt just a bit less lonely with him.

Then the visits started to increase in their frequency—and intensity. He’d show up while you were working with a client and brazenly threaten them to leave so he could occupy your time instead, or he’d appear on your doorstep in the middle of the night with your favorite bottle of liquor, winking at the sight of your embarrassed form, still in your nightclothes. Your world suddenly seemed to revolve around the gunslinging cyborg.

You’d had to put your foot down—as much as you did enjoy his company, you wouldn’t allow him to interfere with your career. You’d worked hard to gain your skills, and even though you were barely scraping by and living in a tiny, modest home by yourself, you were still proud of what you’d achieved on your own.

His initial reaction was an uncharacteristic and frightening bout of silence, his pupils blown wide, locked onto yours. Just as quickly, his typical smirk returned as he laughed it off. “Just watch out, lil cutie, ‘cause I know you’ll be missin’ me soon.”

Apparently, soon was imminent, immediate. You were pouring yourself a drink after a long week of work when he finally kicked down your door and announced you’d be coming with him.

“I’ve been waiting a long while now to claim you, darlin’.”

“And if I refuse?”

That was the first time you witnessed his gun trained on you.

Now, Boothill drags you along everywhere, hopping from one planet or system to the next, living together as nomads. What you believed to be a serendipitous friendship, he thought was the start of your romance and life together.

It would be thrilling in any other circumstance, treading the path of The Hunt, evading the law, tracking down the IPC members who destroyed his family…except the cyborg transferred that need to protect, to save someone, onto you. You have no choice but to be his now, and he’ll be damned if he ever lets you go.

“You just want to hear me curse because you can’t,” you growl. What a stupid argument to be having with a pistol to your head. Yet you can’t help but siphon all of your anger into this dumb little game of cat and mouse, of shark and minnow, of hunter and bird.

He forgets you’re not the only one armed.

You flash him the most vulgar gesture you can make. “Go fuck yourself, Boothill.”

The cowboy throws his head back in a laugh. “Haha! There she is. Wild as a newborn colt.” He grins, flashing those shark teeth you’d groan to loathe. You’ve lost count of the number of puncture marks and scars they’ve littered across your flesh.

That’s something he can’t seem to get enough of—the feel of your warm, organic, human skin against his cold, steel shell.

“Lan shoot me with an arrow, do you ever shut the fuck up?” you grumble, looking up as if the Aeon will give you an answer.

“Think ya already know the answer to that,” he replies, lowering his weapon to sling his opposite arm around your shoulders. The gun hangs languidly from his other hand, as if he’s not the deadliest shot in the galaxy.

His breath brushes your neck as he leans in and nips at your ear. “Now, how ‘bout we take this back home, eh cutie? Two days without you has got me pretty…” His voice drops an octave. “…pent up, if ya know what I mean.”

The tooth marks along your skin flare. Oh, you know all too well.

~*~

Trying to find the solution to your imprisonment at the bottom of a bottle seems like a really clever idea, at least until the room starts spinning.

The empty glass cracks against the wooden table again as brown liquor burns down your throat. What did he call it? Rocket fuel? Damn right, and you’d lost count of the number of shots you’d taken.

Boothill’s normal smirk is contorted into a small frown. “Darlin’, I know it’s been a long couple’a days away for you, but I think we should retire the whiskey for the time being—”

“Shyut up!” you slur, jabbing a finger at the Ranger, your neck still throbbing from all the love bites and hickeys he’d given you. “Thiz is your fault.”

He reaches for the bottle, but you snatch it away and instead start to take pulls directly from it. A deep sigh reverberates behind you as you stand and begin to spin around, hands extended. “Aren’t we celebrating you catching me again? You got what you wanted, you…you mudder…fuuuu…” You sway and just barely catch yourself before you tumble—wait, no, that’s him steadying your shoulders.

“(Y/n).” You blink out of your haze momentarily; only on rare occasions does he use your name and not things like darling or cutie. His face is controlled, mouth tilted downward. “Put the bottle down. I know the feelin’ of wanting to drown in liquor, but it ain’t right.”

“I’m only like this because you took me from my life!”

He bares his teeth, and you know you hit a nerve. “That little shack you called a home? Was that really livin’? All those nights we talked, you said how you wanted grand adventure and risk! To travel and see the stars! To be with me!”

“I didn’t ask for you to put me in a moving cage,” you spit back, trying to shake out of his iron-clad grip. “But you never asked what I wanted, did you?”

“Why’s this all so hard for you to accept?” One hand moves to grab your chin, tilting your face towards his tall form. “It could be just us, ridin’ through the galaxy for all time.” His lips brush lightly against your own, and you feel a tinge of warmth run down your spine. “Just be mine.”

In your drunken stupor, your anger morphs into something else, something more carnal. He wants to be the predator? Well, even the hunted fight back sometimes.

The bottle drops from your hand, shattering against the floor, as you hook an arm around his neck and kiss him fervently, your tongue running along the edges of his pointed canines.

Before he can kiss you back, you pull away, wiping the back of your mouth with your forearm. “That’s what could have been if you hadn’t kidnapped me. If you’d asked me first.” Skipping over the remnants of the whiskey bottle, you flip him the finger over your shoulder as you walk away. “Too bad that’s all you’ll get. Fork you, Boothill.”

As soon as you leave the room, Boothill raises a metal digit to his lips, savoring the sensation of your warm mouth against his. So that’s what your willing kiss feels like. The true passion he knows is hidden deep in your soul, buried beneath the dirt like an unmarked grave. He releases a breathy laugh.

Well fork him sideways, but he wants more.

Taking his hat off, he sets it on the table and moves to pour himself a glass of sherry. He’s nearly positive he’ll find you passed out in bed if he goes to you now, and knows he shouldn’t, can’t be in the same room with you when his self control is so near to breaking. Better to let you sleep it off and tease you about the kiss in the morning.

Boothill kicks his feet up and takes a long sip. So, it turns out your drunken self may actually be harboring some attraction for him. Yeah, he can use that.

“I’ll have you someday,” he whispers, a promise to both you and himself. “Whiskey ain’t the only thing that’ll be on your lips, darlin’.”

#yandere boothill #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere escape #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yanderecore #yandere male #yandere #yancore #honkai star rail #hsr #Boothill

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bby-deerling · 3 months

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Hi!!! Can I request Sanji and Kidd (separate) with a S/O who shows love by making things? For ex. She’d make bracelets or drawings as nothing that comes to mind honestly. If something makes her think of them she would whip it up in no time, she’s always had a knack for crafts! anyways your fics make my day, I love reading them sm! Hope you’re healthy!!

awee nonny, this is so cute! i threw in zoro too bc i looooove him or whatever, i hope that's okay!

one piece men & a s/o who makes them things

ft. zoro, sanji, kid || masterlist

zoro

he isn't very vocal when you give him a gift, but most of the time he simply is at a loss for words. zoro isn't the type to think much about gifts that people give him, but something handmade from you holds a special place in his heart, especially if creating art is related to your dream—to him, it shows dedication, a trait he really admires in you.

will wear any bracelets you give him until they inevitably fall apart from excessive wear and tear or getting accidentally sliced off in battle; at first he simply wears whatever you give him, but after a while he'll gruffly ask you to make the next one black and green.

he's terrible at expressing it, but he enjoys the drawings and paintings you make of him that range from full-fledged pieces to silly doodles. at first, you weren't sure if he was even keeping them, until you find a stack of them at the bottom of his drawer, kept neatly out of harm's way.

sanji

fawns and coos over every scrap of paper and gift you make for him; he loves to show your accomplishments off and brag to anyone who will listen and can't help but ramble on about how talented his lover is with all things crafty.

will wear any piece of jewelry, even if it makes him look absolutely silly. one time you turned a neat looking shell you found on the beach together into a necklace that was far too clunky and large to look good, but he wore it to death anyways, getting emotional every so often as he recalls the memory.

when you redraw his first wanted poster, creating something that both you and he feels is more accurate to his likeness, he falls to a heap on the ground and cries in happiness. the way you capture him, mixed with the care you put into each stroke of your colored pencils melts him into a puddle of lovestruck goo.

kid

one-upping each other with handmade gifts is a not-so-silent competition between you two. he deeply loves and appreciates all of your gifts, in his own clumsy, brutish way, but he can't help but want to return every present you give him with something better.

though he is resolved to knock your socks off and "win" the never-ending competition between you, he also takes it upon himself to help you take your own projects to the next level, even if it sometimes spoils the surprise for him. he teaches you basic metalworking and wire-wrapping to make your handmade jewelry more professional, and has no problem doing some plundering to get his hands on some rare stones for you to use.

some of his favorite times are spent tinkering in his workshop, with him working on a large-scale mechanical engineering project while you diligently make your crafts alongside him. though most of the time you have to yell over to each other to overpower the hum of machinery, spending time hanging out and chatting with you while you both create something worthwhile means the world to him.

#one piece x reader #one piece headcanons #zoro x reader #sanji x reader #eustass kid x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #black leg sanji x reader #eustass kidd x reader #one piece fanfiction

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rustedhearts · 10 months

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Raise Hell (Nascar!Steve x fem!reader)

summary: nascar driver steve harrington is a hot mess. literally. but when he keeps coming into your diner, staggeringly drunk and adorable, you can’t help but grow fond of him.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

hot wheels masterlist main masterlist

tags: nascar!steve, reader is referred to as ‘bunny,’ just fluff and flirting.

author’s note: i don’t know much about the mechanics of nascar because i’m more of a formula one fan, so some of the racing terms/descriptions might seem a bit more f1. sorry!

raise hell, praise…harrington?

talladega, alabama, summer 1995

In Talladega, a girl’s got two things to be: a country beauty queen, or stuck at her high school job. Stupid or stuck. You were stuck—specifically, stuck balancing trays of sweet teas and cokes, and burning your palms on the underside of steaming hot burgers and flapjacks. Stuck in the same stupid powder blue uniform and frilly lace apron you’d been swearing since you were seventeen. Sometimes, you started to wonder if you were no longer stuck—just plain stupid.

But two years ago, Nascar saw a new face on the tracks: one Steve Harrington. Donned ‘Pretty Boy’ for his princely good looks and boyish charm, he burned rubber like nobody’s business, and Alabama’s been in an uproar ever since. You normally didn’t welcome midwestern men with such open and loving arms in a place like this, but as the folks say: he’s one of us, honey.

And one of you he became. He even had the slight slur of a southern twang to prove it, and you came to hear it firsthand when he sat at the end of your counter one night last October, bleary-eyed and pink-cheeked.

“What can I get you, Hot Wheels?” You hadn’t meant for the name to slip, but once it was out there, you couldn’t take it back.

Luckily, Steve just laughed. Slumped on his palm, draped over the counter full of old crumbs and sticky syrup, he pointed toward a laminated menu beside him.

“You guys sell fries?”

You gave him a basket of hot, golden french fries fresh out of the fryer, salted to perfection by yours truly. When Steve saw them sitting in front of him, practically overflowing in their red plastic, newspaper-lined confines, his eyes got huge. He devoured the basket in five minutes flat. You turned your back to clean the coffee pot, and when you went to check on him, offer a glass of water to rouse him from drunken stupor, he was gone.

Sitting in his empty, grease-splattered basket were two hundred dollar bills. It’s still the largest tip you’ve ever gotten on such a small bill to date (or…on any bill).

When Steve Harrington stopped by the diner, you went home with a thicker wallet, a swollen heart, and a burning blush on your face.

You always heard his arrival before you saw his face. The smooth, low grumble of his Ferrari engine. His headlights blared through the blinds on the diner windows, whipping with effortless expertise into the front spot near the door. The headlights cut off, and moments later the door chimed as his lean figure stumbled through.

Designer sneakers scuffing the floor, black leather racing jacket with endorsement patches ironed on neat gleaming beneath the white fluorescents of the diner. He smelled like gasoline and boozy cologne—or maybe that was just the booze. Steve's favorite bar was just up the road: a swanky wood-paneled joint with a mechanical bull, and girls just out of college in skimpy denim shorts and leather cowboy boots. He always left with pink-tinged cheeks and a sway in his step, and though you disapproved of getting behind the wheel under the influence, you didn't mind that he raced all the way here just to get to you.

Tonight, like every night, he strode straight toward the counter and took his seat on a squeaky metal stool at the end.

He patted the counter, shot a finger gun at you, and smiled a half-cocked grin. "Hey, pretty girl."

Cheeks blazing, you rolled your eyes as you collected the coffee pot—freshly brewed just for him—and his basket of sizzling, golden fries. You placed the fries in front of him and flipped over a porcelain mug, pouring a steady stream until it pooled around the rim. No room for cream or sugar: how Steve liked it best. He was already five fries in by the time you placed the coffee pot back.

"Hey, Hot Wheels. Catch anythin' good tonight?"

Elbows pressed against the counter, you leaned over the stack of sticky menus and extra ketchup bottles to flash him your sweetest smile. You always laid it on real thick for guys like him. None of 'em tipped like Steve did, and none of 'em were nearly as handsome. None of 'em made you laugh like Steve did. Jesus, how stupid was that?

"Nothin' worth bringin' home, Bun," Steve sighed, head falling to his palm as his fingers made quick work of delivering fries straight to his mouth.

"Better luck next time." You shrugged, though you knew what this game was.

"No," Steve mused, eyes narrowed with a twinkle of mockery, lips coated in shiny grease and flecks of salt. "No, I don't think so. Know who I'd love to take out, though?"

You pulled away from the counter, that familiar flutter in your chest. You reached for the damp rag previously soaked in lemon sanitizing spray, wiping at the crumbs behind the counter. Steve always came in right when you were closing up. The first time he stumbled in, you threatened to kick him out, but something about those stupid puppy dog eyes and that sly, halfway smile made you stop. You always agreed to close on weekends, just to stay back and clean up after the strays and Steve Harrington. The diner was quiet, only the buzz of old lights and the distant whoosh of cars on the road keeping you company until he appeared.

"Who?" you asked, eyes flicking his way as he munched on his fries. The newspaper in his basket crinkled with his eager snatching.

Steve lifted his head, movements slow and bleary, and in your periphery, you could see it follow your every motion. His jacket made his shoulders look broad and big. You could smell the cigarette remnants still on his hands when you moved in front of him again.

"Come on, Bun," he huffed, that poor, sweet attempt at an Alabama drawl clinging to every word. The way he said your given nickname made your heart squeeze.

"Come on, what?" You flashed him a smile, pursed lips and scrunched nose, and he shook his head amusedly at it. He thought you were so beautiful, even in this ridiculous 1950s getup, hair frazzled and face gleaming with heat.

"When are you gonna let me take you out, sweetheart?" he pouted, hand bumping his empty, grease-stained basket when he dropped it to the counter.

Though your insides were stirring and the back of your neck felt like someone was giving it a pinch, you spun on your heel and reached for the coffee pot again, feigning an air of cool ease. You never wanted a man to have the upper hand on you, no matter how pretty that man might be. Your daddy taught you better than that.

Pressing close to the counter, you held the pot midway in the air, hovering, and caught Steve's eye. His were all whiskey brown and muddy green, more hazel than anything. It was only at this moment that you heard the Willie Nelson song humming on the jukebox in the corner. His lips parted when your eyes narrowed, catlike and dreamily charming.

You inched closer, leaning in like you were fixing to whisper a secret. "When you come in sober, Mr. Harrington."

You topped off his untouched coffee, placed the pot back, and sashayed toward the tables to wipe them down (for the second time tonight). Behind you at the counter, Steve gnawed on his lip, head tipping to admire the backs of your thighs where they caught the plump flesh of your ass beneath your shorts. He scoffed to himself, snatching the mug thrumming with heat, slurping at the potent black liquid.

If sober was what you wanted, sober you would get.

♡ ♡

Nascar was always on channel two, and when your manager Rod was working, he insisted on playing it on the tiny television behind the counter. He paced between the office in the sticky kitchen and the space behind the counter, munching on peanuts and sipping a jumbo Pepsi from the morning.

"Rod, maybe you should have somethin' else to eat." You whooshed a platter of burgers and fries over his head as you rushed toward your table.

"Nah, I'm waitin' for that-that Harrin'ton kid to come on," he excused, motioning toward the tv with a salted peanut palm.

You bit back a grin, sliding the plates onto the table for your eager customers. Wiping your hands on your apron, you headed back to the counter and leaned on the other side.

"What, excited to watch his engine crap out again?” you teased, giggling at Rod’s offended expression before flouncing off toward the kitchen for your break.

“That kid might not be from here, but he’s one of us now, Bunny!” Rod called after you, accent thick and slurred loose.

You waved a hand, eyes rolling. “Why d’ you think I give him such a hard time, Rod?”

You heard his hoarse chuckle as you hopped up on the empty steel tabletop in the kitchen, snatching a soggy fry from a half-empty basket. The cooks all murmured about a table that sent back a burger (there’s always one), and asked you about your shift today. The occasional ‘how are the kids,’ and ‘your garden holding up well in this heat?’ ensued, but most of them knew that when you had a moment to yourself back here, you preferred it in silence.

Billy, a line cook a few years older than yourself, whizzed by with a greasy silver spatula and a plate of perfect, crispy grilled cheese. He slipped it onto your lap as he passed, eye dropping in a wink, before he returned to the grill. You grinned in thanks, picking up the warm, shiny sandwich.

You were halfway through the first triangular slice when a holler jolted you on the table. You dropped the slice, rushing to place the plate on the table and skitter into the dining room again. Head whipping around, you searched for some sort of disaster—a hurt child, a choking customer—and found Rod screaming at the television, red-faced and glistening with sweat.

Huffing, you collapsed against the counter. “Rod, what the hell?”

Rod didn’t tear his eyes away from the television as he smacked his hands together. “Aw, come on! His car’s crappin’ out, he’s gon’ have t’ leave the race.”

You shifted toward the television, preparing to scoff at the urgency of Rod’s statement when sparks skidded over the track on the screen. Even in their pixelated form, the sparks were bright and sharp as a firework on independence day. You watched the cherry red car bounce, jostling the driver inside—clear cause for a biting backache. The car veered left, then right, then toward the off track where Steve stopped it.

Rod cursed, slapping his knee and shaking his head.

“Got-damnit,” he shrilled, easing up from the stool. “When’re they gonna put ‘im in a car that actually drives?”

Rolling your eyes and attempting to ignore the ball of worry the size of Texas aching in your chest, you slid away from the counter and headed back toward the kitchen where your food waited.

“When are you gonna get t’ work, Rod?”

“Eh.”

♡ ♡

That night, you soaked the linoleum in lemon cleaner and scrubbed at the vinyl booths, lights dimmed to keep customer count low until you actually closed. Rod left a few hours ago, and only a handful of cooks lingered in the back, shooting the shit and sharing smokes. You liked having the dining room to yourself while you closed up, humming along the radio and watching the road through the windows. You fantasized about a life with enough money to never wipe a table again.

Given the day he had on the track, the last person you expected to see that night was Steve Harrington. So when the door chimed open and shoes squeaked across the freshly-cleaned tile, you whirled around with a customer-approved smile in preparation for a sweet but curt “we’re about to close.” However, the customer service facade dimmed at the sight of that familiar pretty face and those colorful ironed-on insignias.

“Hey, Bun.” He sounded breathless and beat.

"Hey," you squeaked, dumbfounded by the sight of him.

The outline of his helmet still sat on his face: aggravated red lines indented around his eyes, across his cheeks and nose. His hands, Ferrari-red and raw, trembled as they swept through his tousled hair. "Mind if I sit, Bun? Long day."

Which is how he ended up slumped in a clean booth, head of slick locks thumped against the glass. It felt odd to see him in an actual seat instead of his usual at the bar, but he needed the rest. You could only imagine the sort of strain a car going 200 miles an hour while jerking around had on someone.

You slipped into the kitchen, and with a meek and quiet plead, had the cooks make one last batch of fries fresh for Steve before they left. Just enough for the driver to get his strength back up and feel at home again. The fried pile of grease glistened and sizzled in their plastic confinement on the way out of the kitchen, a cold glass of Pepsi fizzing in your other hand.

You brought them to the man still drooped in the furthest booth, head tipping to find his eyes. "Steve?"

"Hmm?" Blearily, the racer sat upright and blinked at you.

Flashing him a fond smile, you pushed the basket of fries closer to him. "Food."

"Oh."

He munched on the crispy golden potatoes for a while in silence. The back door clinked with the absence of cooks. You thought about getting up to flip the sign over to 'sorry we're closed!' but you couldn't find it in yourself to leave the table. Eventually, you slid into the booth across from him and watched him eat. He sucked down the Pepsi through a striped straw like a toddler gulping apple juice.

"Why did you come here tonight? I mean...you're in no shape, Hot Wheels," you remarked, watching him rub his fingers free of salt.

Steve's eyes flickered toward you below his brows, chin tipped toward his food. He straightened up when he saw you watching, giving his shoulders a shrug. He smelled like scorched rubber, gasoline, and a bit of bourbon-whisky.

"Had a shit day," he muttered, eyes returning to his fries with urgency. "Knew seein’ you would cheer me up."

A flutter disrupted the rhythm thumping in your chest. You felt it in your throat, too, settling like indigestion. You swallowed harshly to clear it away, easing the wonderment in your face with a little grin. Steve went back to finishing the thin strips of fry remnants sitting at the bottom of his basket.

Stripped free of liquored charm and that 'pretty boy' suave, Steve Harrington actually seemed...sweet.

"Hey, Hot Wheels?"

Steve looked up, lips glassy with grease. "Yeah?"

"You can take me on that date now."

♡ ♡

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msbarrows · 3 months

Text

Argh... so I've been reading in Scum Villain's Self-Saving System (SVSSS) fandom recently. And it's given me a new pet peeve about formatting and TTS. A bunch of the authors in that fandom are using black lens brackets to indicate the 'system' voice, 【like this】, because the original novels do, and, yeah... unfortunately that's not always compatible with TTS (definitely not with google's TTS engine, and testing with various other online TTS engines gives mixed results).

Guess how I know they're called black lens brackets.

…

Go on, guess.

…

YUP! They get read aloud! Every. Single. Time. They. Appear. Open black lens bracket like this close black lens bracket.

Please resist using the novel's formatting and just use regular square brackets instead! Which do not get read aloud unless there's a space in a bad position, [ like this ]. If you want to be fancy, maybe use <tt>...</tt> formatting or a monospaced font such as courier to make it stand out more as something mechanical.

[Like this]

Which reminds me, another bad formatting choice I've bumped into multiple times (and I can't remember if I've mentioned this one before) is where authors use something <like this> to indicate things like speaking mind-to-mind, or that someone is speaking a foreign language (despite the actual text still being in English). Cool. Neat. Also not TTS compatible, unless you like repeatedly hearing less than and greater than mixed into the text. But guess what - there are already perfectly serviceable ‹single› and «double» angled quotation marks that could be used instead - and since they're recognized as actual quotation marks, they don't get read aloud! Shocking, I know.

Those angled quotation marks could also be another decent option for indication of things like the system voice, obviously.

«Like this»

Thanks to everyone who is already using more TTS-compatible formatting, and to anyone who decides to make some changes to theirs after reading this :)

#Fanfiction #Writing #Formatting #TTS #This has been a rant #Not a terribly serious one #It's just annoying when I go to read something and am just getting into it #And suddenly I'm hearing random punctuation marks #Over and over again #If I was interested enough and have time I might download it on the desktop and run it through editing in calibre to make it TTS compatible #But often I just sigh and skip that fic until I've time for reading visually #Or sometimes just skip it entirely

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vagabond-umlaut · 3 months

Text

beckoning you, slowly, subtly

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Absence makes the heart yearn stronger.

Or: Gojo grapples with himself in the wake of you preparing to leave Tokyo Jujutsu High– in the wake of you preparing to leave him.

▸ Gojo x Fem!Reader; Former Teacher x Former Student; Reader has graduated from high school and is moving overseas for college; Gojo is 24-ish while Reader is 18; He's such a sad pathetic boi here; You think Reader is better? She's worse; Angst and Fluff; Use of humor as a coping mechanism [until it fails]; Very soft character study

▸ I wrote this as a prequel set minimum 10 years before the fic 'ensnared' -> You need not read that to read this, though. This is a standalone fic, through and through! 😊

Gojo feels nothing towards you.

No, he doesn't. He really, truly bears no feelings, whatsoever their nature might be, for you.

But... if it indeed is so... then why the hell are his knuckles so hesitant to strike the wood of your door, eh?

Gojo stays in this position for a beat or two more, before dropping his fist back to his side. Exhaling a mute yet deep sigh as his gaze travels over the tiny flowers and trees painted on the door. Next moves to the shoe rack beside, filled with neat rows of sneakers and flats. And finally reaches the cheery yellow paper taped to the door, your name written on it in smooth letters–

Before he can even realise it, the sorcerer finds his fingers over it, so wary yet wanting as they traverse the lines and the loops of the letters, eliciting a very soft murmur of the same from within, the latter darting past a dry throat and a heavy tongue...

"Sensei!"

The door suddenly springs open. Of course, with no one but you behind it.

Were here anyone else except him, Gojo is certain, they would have jumped feet in the air in response. Good thing, he isn't just some 'anyone else'. The sorcerer quickly withdraws his outstretched hand to stuff it into his pocket. And grins, the way he always does when caught in contemplation.

Big. Bright. Happy. So much so that it will either puzzle, or better yet, piss the other person off, eventually making them leave him to his devices...

"Heyyy," he drawls, decidedly making a show of his infamous breezy image— jarringly contrasting the manner his Six Eyes study your once decorated–now empty room, "Packing and everything's done, wow. Thought I might visit you one last time before you leave for..." Australia, but he chooses not to say it. Breezy image, remember?

Borrowing a beat to think– to make you think he's thinking, that is– the man resumes with a noisy chuckle, "Before you leave for wherever you're headed. When's your flight, by the way? Tonight or tomorrow morning?"

Whatever reply he might have been expecting from you, two shiny eyes and one o-shaped mouth certainly weren't on the list... You're pretty swift to erase them, however. Wiping your sweater paws over your face, you mimic his posture and grin back.

Cheeky, obviously, but much too strained than the ones you've given him so far... Your amused voice intrudes on his quiet scrutiny of you. "Why, Sensei? Missing me from this moment itself, eh?"

"Nah," he shoots back with a dismissive wave of his hand. Noting then ignoring the stinging twinge in the middle of his chest— no matter the fractional fall in your features; no matter anything, everything. "I'm literally waiting for when you'll walk out the school's torii gates— even more for when your plane will take off the tarmac and leave Japan! I was stuck teaching you for the better part of the past four years. What makes you think I'll miss you, heh. I'll be incredibly relieved, if anything."

"Ah," you say, following a moment's pause, "I see."

Quite an unenthusiastic reaction, if he's being honest; Gojo doesn't mind it, though. Not in the slightest.

Not even when he watches you regard him, oddly intense and pensive for a while, before you return to clearing your desk. So neat and tidy and dead with no books nor pens nor stray sketches strewn over its surface. The same way the rest of the room now seems: dreadfully dreary and dull, now that you– you with your bubbly self, shining in this damned dark school, jujutsu world– is moving away–

Oh.

Oh no.

You're moving away.

Which is... okay. Yeah, it's okay. But, but, but– "When will you come back?" The question escapes the confines of his mind into the stillness of your room, soon joined by another– one he bites his tongue and draws blood for, the second it leaves his mouth.

The tiny quaver in the words betraying the steady front he has put on very well– Until now. Until you— Too bad [or maybe, good] you've always read him rather well– so much so that you whirl round the instant the sentence flies into the foot in between, your crumpled features meeting his crumbling mask.

"You will come back, right?"

"I–" you start, eyes brimming with the same tears you wiped away so insistently then; he never hears you finish your answer, however.

Two tiny hands fling themselves round his neck, and before he can realise it, the sorcerer finds himself bent at the waist, nose nudging your temple while your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, the collar of his jacket growing progressively wet with every passing second.

The man stops himself from returning your embrace— You were his student. He was your mentor. Your door is open. His Six Eyes sense Shoko and Utahime coming this way. He isn't meant for such empty shows of sentiment. He isn't sure if your gesture is as unfeeling as he hopes it is—

Screwing his eyes shut, he sighs. Yet offers no resistance when he feels your fingers unclasp from his shoulders then move to his hands, lifting them to keep them lightly on the small of your back.

Oh, well, whatever.

Gojo is still certain he feels nothing towards you.

Except, maybe, this steely resolve of his, engraving itself a cliff-like niche in his mind: To protect. To cherish this sweet feeling of you both in each other's grasp.

▸ Divider by @hitobaby. Header from Pinterest. I don't own the characters used here.

▸ masterlist

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #kit posts 📝

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lw6-woso · 6 months

Text

coping mechanism (Leah Williamson x reader)

OCD, it was something. when you first joined the Arsenal squad in 2018 the girls took notice quickly that you were some one of a clean an organising freak. the first time they really noticed was when they walked into your apartment for a team bonding night. everything was highly organised, you books you food and everything was perfectly clean like it was really impressive.

so when you and Leah moved in together, Leah got first hand of the struggles of our OCD and not just been organised and neat. the anxiety, the mood swings all the bad things Leah has witnessed.

it was a normal day and you both had just gotten back from training, you both showered and Leah went to do some work in the office whilst you were doing some organisation in the kitchen since it was getting on your last nerve. you were currently taking out everything from the cupboards and cleaning the cupboards, the things in the cupboards and then organising everything.

Leah had walked in half way through you being in your moment, and signed knowing that you were getting bad, that's what the girls like to call it it was stages, you would clean simple for example hoover and polish, you would clean excessively like lamps and do a real spring clean and then you would slowly get worse with organising closets, clothes and then going through the house and organising every part of the house over and over again. during these stages your wellbeing would get worse with your mood changes, sleep it would all get worse. worse was a key word in this situation.

Leah always struggled with this sort of things, never knowing the triggers as you didn't even know, it just happened.

"hey baby what you doing" she asked leaning on the door frame.

"this kitchen has been bothering me for a while" i said finishing off another cupboard.

"okay so what do you want for tea tonight" she said not knowing if the kitchen will be in cooking conditions tonight.

"takeout" you said almost instantly.

"okay what food you thinking" She said.

"i don't know I'm not that hungry you can choose love" you said to her and she nodded leaving you to it. Leah walked back into the office and ordered food and and asked Kim for some advise.

you were really getting along with the Kitchen finishing all the cupboards and sweeping and mopping before leaving the kitchen. you were walking towards the office still feeling awful you couldn't even describe the deep feeling you had within you. walking into the office you sat next to Leah fidgeting about.

"come on" Leah said getting up and grabbing your hand.

"what" you asked.

"we are going for a drive" she said as you walked out of the house. you didn't question what she was doing. you just let Leah drive off.

"what about food" you asked.

"we will pick it up" She said, and you did just that you picked up the food and continued to drive and drive hoping it'll clear your head. Leah parked up in front of the sunset, you sat there in silence not knowing what to say.

"what caused it" she said and you knew exactly what she was going on about and you knew the answer.

"my therapist suggested to change my prescription" you said.

"oh love, why didn't say anything" she said.

"i don't know i just thought id be fine" you said.

"so how do you feel about it all" she asked.

"in my gut i think its good idea like i haven't had to many slips and I'm progressing with everything but in my mind i think that if it change everything its just going to get worse and ill end up like i did after covid and i cant do that again" you said.

during and after covid was awful for you the germs and the news go to you and to summaries it all you refused to play football and when you did start to come back to training you went through a breakdown and you didn't come to training or play for almost a month.

"you won't because you have a strong support system and i think personally i think that you should try to change your dose so then if it doesn't work then you really know where you are and if you are improving and if it does work then your getting there its a long process as you know" she said.

"yeah" you said.

"one step at a time" she said and you looked at her and kissed her.

"i love you" you said to her.

"i love you more" she said back.

"not possible" you said to her kissing her again.

"right lets get home I'm shattered" Leah said and you agreed it had been a long day.

you both went home and straight to bed. over the next couple of weeks you agreed to change your dose and it had been the best decision you had made during the journey, you felt more free. you obviously had your moments with cleaning, that will never change as you were always a clean person before your diagnosis, but Leah was right with having a strong supportive system all the girls were rocks, and Leah especially having her to come home to made life so much easier.

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st4rbwrry · 1 year

Text

SMITTEN ☆ eren yeager.

★ 𖥻 synopsis. being cuffed to the bed was the last thing eren expected on your date night home.

‍ ‍ ☆. warnings — 3.5k nsfw, pwp, lowercase intended, fem!reader, she/her pronouns, black coded, girly girl reader, mechanic!eren, bondage, established relationship, riding, switch!reader, switch!eren, eren’s sensitive, chubby!reader, readers needy, male oral, finger sucking, eren is fussy, unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, kissing, mutual praise, voice kink, vulgar language, edging, pet names ex. mamas. baby. princess. daddy. minors aren’t welcomed! reblogs & comments are appreciated! <3

“baby. . . you're in so much fuckin’ trouble when i get outta these.”

eren knows how much you love him. how much you appreciate him, care for him, wanna be with him for the rest of your life. the matching ‘till death’ tattoos imprinted on the inner corner of your ring fingers proving so. he makes sure you're always taken care of financially, mentally, and even physically. works from sunrise to sunset, praises you with kisses all over your precious face for making him a meal every day. buys you whatever your heart desires. runs you bubble baths when you aren't feeling well. gives you full body massages which usually leads to him burying his face between your plush thighs. eren loves you. eren needs you. without you he isn't sane. you complete him. so because he treats you like a queen, it's only right that he receives king treatment.

while eren made his way home to you, the only person he wanted to see after a tiring, stressful day with customers who complained about their cars to him and loud-mouthed, gossipy employees at his auto shop . . . he was surprised to see that you set up a romantic atmosphere. eren is greeted with a soft, neat kiss to his pouty lips. his biceps tensing as he wraps both arms around your body in a tight bear-hug, giggling as he lifts you off the ground.

you've got scented candles lit around the loft with ceiling high windows, a bottle of stella rose black and a classic meal of creamy mafaldine tuscan chicken pasta prepared. strawberry cheesecake in the fridge for desert. eren’s eyes soften, picking you up and carrying you to the dining table to eat your meal, not before showering you with more kisses and a hundred thank you's.

you enjoy your meal under the moonlight, sipping wine and having deep conversations which you envied because there's always something the two of you can talk about without getting fussy. debates, political topics, wellness, issues with each other. remaining mature since you have the best communication. you wanted to let him know that he's been so understanding, so attentive to your needs and you felt like you needed to do more to show him you want him to feel secure. that this is a forever love and you don't take him for-granted, not for a second.

“baby, never think that you don't do enough for me. i make the decision to cater to you and i have no issue in doing so. you deserve this lifestyle. being in my presence is all i could ever ask of you. i pray everyday that i don't fuck up what we have. you're my girl.”

and immediately, you're taking the air from his lungs when you pull him close with your arms lazily thrown over his shoulders while you kiss him deeply. madly in love. it's a scary thing sometimes. and it's crazy how such a sweet moment turned into a salacious act like this. after finishing a film in the living room cuddled up with your pets, a cat for you and a dog for him, you tell eren you have one more surprise. standing to your feet with a cheeky smile, holding both hands out for him to grab. eren is curious, raising his brows before standing to his full height, towering over your figure and it never fails to make your skin heat up.

“don't pull no scary shit,” eren runs a tatted hand through his long hair before holding yours.

“shush, i promise it's not that.”

eren can't see you biting your sanrio themed acrylics with excitement, too busy staring at your bare ass underneath that slutty slip you have on. he recognizes it, in fact. an old piece by victoria's secret you've been searching on depop for like a madwoman. it's a mesh coquette cherry colored slip dress with a ruffled trim tulle skirt and damn did you wear it so good, the slip hugging your curves just right. his mouth waters, instinctively smacking your ass as you step into your shared bedroom.

before you could speak, as you turn to him he's already pulling you in by your waist, using his foot to kick the door closed so the kids wouldn't interrupt. they liked to jump on the bed mid-fuck a lot. you try not to melt in his hold, his lips gliding with yours, molding your ass in his hand, moaning from your taste.

“er—”

“who said you could look this fuckin’ good, unh?” swatting your ass again, the force knocks you closer into his chest, face burning when you feel his dick thickening in his jeans against your tummy. print evident.

“it's all for you, ‘ren,” chewing your lips with a smile, you give him a quick peck before releasing his hands from your ass. “but first, i need you to take your clothes off.”

“ooo,” he sings. “you feed me some good ass food, get all touchy and cuddly, and now you tryna fuck me?” eren tongues his inner cheek with a smirk. “nasty.”

“shut up and strip.”

“yes ma'am,” eren hums, still giving you those flirty green eyes as he stretches his arms behind himself to tug at his stained white tshirt, usually getting his clothes dirty when working. he still manages to smell so good though. a mix of musk with his daily cologne and body wash. you'll never forget the time when he came home one day, car grease on his hands nearly turning them black. hair messy and a dangerous look in his eye when he caught you in the kitchen with an apron baking a pie. bending you over the sink, hiking your pink sundress up on your waist and holding you still as he fucked you hard. rough hands groping every inch of your aching body. keeping you balanced by your forearms he held back while he ground his cock deep into you, expletives spewing, sweat coating his forehead, and nutting copious amounts of cum. point is, you love when he's fresh off of work. makes the thrill all the more inviting.

jeans come next. and that's when he takes his time, eyeing you as he torturously drags the zipper down before dragging the black fabric down his muscular thighs, dick bulging in his tommy hilfiger briefs. commentary ensues. “gonna kiss it for me?”

you shake your finger at him, a tiny tsk following. “don't ruin the surprise, keep going. wanna see you.”

“i feel like i'm being filmed, there better not be a camera,” he rolls his eyes, finally discarding every clothing piece on his body, your legs clenching tighter together where you stood as he moans when his dick hits his tummy. the tip is drenching precum it's almost inhumane. you needed to lick that up real soon.

“you wanna be?” you question, serious.

eren deadpans. “be for real.”

“you can wear a mask!” you protest, actually enjoying the idea. “mhm, you'd look so good with a balaclava on.”

“no.”

sucking your teeth, you continue with your plan, walking towards the closet to find a little box with his gift inside. holding the black and red compartment, you face him with a cheshire cat grin. “get on the bed and lay on your back.”

eren’s too horny to argue right now, still anxious about what you're planning, but does what you say nonetheless. naked, heavy, tall figure dipping the bed with black satin sheets and pillows as he sits up against the headboard, tucking some strands of hair behind his ear, wrinkling his pierced nose. “i don't like you.”

“you will in a minute. close your eyes. no peaking or i'm going to bed and your gonna have to fuck your hand instead.”

flaring his nostrils, he closes his eyes. you try your best to be silent with your present, removing the lid to take out the baby pink fuzzy handcuffs you ordered a few days ago. thinking this would be the perfect time to put them to use. he's quiet, leaning his head back when he feels you climb on top of him, stifling a breath when the mesh from your slip grazes the head of his dick. beyond sensitive. taking one of his wrists, you unclasp one cuff and chain him to it, eren’s eyes shooting open before you restrain him to the headboard completely.

“no fuckin’ way,” eren licks his lips as he shakes his head, a menacing glare in his eyes as you sit on his abdomen and keen in achievement. “baby. . . you're in so much fuckin’ trouble when i get outta these.”

“why? scared i'll slut you the fuck out, baby?” a sadistic smile casts your face, eren nearly trembling from your words. what exactly did you have in mind? he had no idea. but he's kind of . . . amused? aroused mostly. it's rare when you tap into your dominant side. loving to be his pretty little submissive.

“if you wanted to bounce on my dick so bad you could've been straightforward.”

“mhm, this is more fun. i get you all to myself. i can do whatever i want. promise it's all for you. just wanna make you feel good, daddy,” you suck on your lip and press your weight down on him, trailing your hands up his chest to his tatted neck, eyes drifting low and moaning from how good the view was. he's truly an ethereal man.

“g’na fuck me empty, princess?” his voice drops an octave, knowing what that does to you. the way his voice summons you to do things will never make sense.

“till your shooting blanks,” you grin.

“well, if that's the case,” eren ponders, inching his face closer to yours, accepting his fate and playing your fantasy. "then put that pussy where it belongs, princess.”

it's not in his position to make orders, so ignoring him, you scoot backwards so his angry dick is in your face and your ass is arched into the air for presentation. “wanna suck it first,” you mumble, delicately wrapping both of your soft hands around the vein protruding, throbbing weapon. just the right thickness to make it impossible to fully engulf it in your throat.

eren spreads his legs, and the act is so sexy yet desperate. hissing as you watched you intently through his long lashes, your lips hovering over the leaking tip before taking it gently into the warmth of your mouth. suckling it like your favorite flavored lollipop.

“goddamn, baby,” he stretches out his arms as a force of habit, ready to hold either side of your face so he can work his pretty cock in nice and easy. but he's irked the minute the chains clink on his wrist, remembering he's bound. he sighs out, fixing to say something until you remove one hand off his cock and massage his balls while taking him further down your mouth. working both hands simultaneously. saliva building, bubbles forming the quicker you bob your head and stroke his dick.

“yea, stroke it while you suck it. mm,” eren's eyes are scrolling back, thighs twitching as he lightly moves his hips as you gag and suck. releasing him with a wet pop, maintaining eye contact as you slick your puffy lips along the sides of his cock, darting your tongue out and moaning deeply. your ass moves in the air as if you're getting fucked from the back, rolling and rocking back. pussy sluice in your thin thong, needing him now more than ever. one more thing though, and it's his damn favorite.

“wait, baby. don't . . .” a gasp flees from his agape mouth as you nudge his balls with your tongue before sucking one of them into your mouth, keeping your rhythm stroking mostly the tip, spreading your fingers languidly, sticky with his precum and your spit. you know that's his sensitive area, the breaths leaving him frantic. you can feel the blood rushing in his cock, rotating your hand and sucking the heavy sack as the whimpers that vibrate in your throat travel to him.

“f-fuck, { name }. g’na cum. keep goin’.” the chains clank along the headboard as he struggles, spreading his legs even wider, his tummy sinking in as he buried his head into the pillow behind him. the ball in his neck protruding and you watch him, so in love, so intrigued . . . you stop. and he whines, which is the last thing you expected to hear from him. it's so needy that it makes your clit throb even harder.

“fuck!” he curses angrily, groaning with pain and pleasure stirring inside. his dick jumping for attention. “don't fuckin’ tease me baby, or i swear to god i'll fuck you sore.”

“yea, whatever,” you giggle, purposely pissing him off further. “you mad, daddy?” you pout, tone teasing. reclaiming your position previously as you hover above him, his jaw clenching, black painted nails balling into fists.

“you know i'm fuckin’ mad. stop playing, { name }.”

he's got a lot to say but he shuts up the instant you tug your lace thong to the side and reach behind yourself to sink slowly onto the tip. both hands lay flat on his stomach as you ease down, eren mumbling ‘slow, slow’ as you sink halfway down before riding back up. your nails dig into his skin briefly, the relief you receive maddening. it's such an easy fix when he's available. eyelids squeezed shut as you accommodate his size, the fire in your chest blazing.

“oh my god,” you suck on your lips, face screwed once you pick your pace, rising and dropping your ass effortlessly, like a mystical creature. your hips move like waves, grinding slow to feel him reach that spot within you, moaning and tossing your head to the side.

“so fuckin’ wet, baby. listen to you. listen,” eren’s eyebrows are knitted, jaw unlocked, completely entranced by the way you move, the two of you panting heavily, listening to your slick coat his dick lewdly. ass clapping onto his thighs you lean back to grab onto with one hand to balance yourself. cupping a handful of your tits and whimpering as you fuck him quicker.

“unh, if you could see what i see, baby,” eren chokes, rocking his waist with yours to heighten your pleasure. it felt so good to take control. “you look s’ good when you fuck me.”

“love how you feel inside me,” your juices drip down his balls and onto the sheets, squealing as you lean forward to angle your faces together, his hands reaching far enough to graze your hair and cheekbone. focusing on the look in your eyes as you steady yourself on the tips of your toes before slamming your ass down harder, the two of you gasping in sync. “fill me so fuckin’ good, baby.”

eren thinks it's so ironic how your lettered necklace dangles over his face, making a noise he's never made before, focusing on the silver swaying. now he gets how you feel when his chain swings over your face when he fucks a dent into the mattress shaping your silhouette. he's succumbing to you willingly, breath hitching from the euphoric roll and dip of your thick hips, wishing so badly he had access to grip and grind you down on his dick harder.

this position weakens you both, your knees buckling and his waist twitching. your voice quakes and you cum without warning him, flopping onto his chest as your hips stirred lazily. eren’s close yet again, can feel it but can't get to where he needs to be without you. he needed you to move.

“c’mon, princess. fuck me, lemme cum,” he sounds incredibly submissive, that whiny tone partaking his usual asshole demeanor. it was such a turn on seeing his face switching from grumpy to ‘please baby fuck me’. eyes low and seductive. begging sounded good on him.

you sit up, cupping either side of his face before kissing him. eren rushing the kiss meaning he's extra greedy for it. gliding his lips over your chin, groaning in your mouth and sliding his fat tongue over yours, a sloppy french kiss. your mind goes blank when you feel his tongue on your neck next, wishing it was between your legs right now. that thing is a demon. the way he fucks you with it makes your soul leave your body every time. he's a gift from the gods, truly.

“not yet.”

“not playing fair, baby,” eren clicks his teeth, bushy brows entwined to showcase his frustration. he's so cute when he's upset. “all i wanna do is touch you. why's that such an issue? if you're gonna fuck me, do it right.

you huff, knowing he's saying anything just so you'll unlock the cuffs. “talking too much, ‘ren.”

a dark glint is in his eyes, those jade irises no longer it's stunning bright shade. his voice becomes gravely as he says, “am i? that's cause i wanna lick your fuckin’ clit. n i can't do that properly without touching you. she's soakin’ all on me.”

“mmm, wanna put your mouth on my pussy?” your voice softens tauntingly, trailing your hand down your stomach to slowly roll your fingers over your engorged clit. eren’s mouth waters.

“yes,” he clenched his jaw. you're so goddamn infuriating.

“she needs more. i wanna stay full while you eat it.”

“i’ll put my fingers in it. you like those, baby, right?” his eyes go all big like a puppy. “taste you while i fuck you open. jus’ like you like it?”

as tempting as that sounded, again, he’s in no position to make demands. ignoring the way your tummy flutters from the delicious thought, you're back to fucking him nice and slow. overstimulating yourself and edging him. it's so painful he just wants to cum. he wouldn't necessarily consider this a gift. you've just gotten in your head and took advantage of the situation. but that's okay, ‘cause he's gonna fuck you sore like he said. your necklace hits his forehead, chest in his face as you clap back on his pulsating dick. sucking his fingers and squeaking unexpectedly, eyes widening as eren plants his feet into the bed and pistons his cock up into you, knocking the wind from your lungs.

“eren, wait. . .”

“shut the fuck up,” eren growls into your neck, fucking you as best he could with his restraint. your screams fill the air, unable to hold him still. there was no point. he was pissed off now and wanted nothing more than to fill you deep with his cum as punishment.

and for some reason you underestimate eren's strength, because in a matter of seconds he's yanking his right arm forward and breaking the cuff with just a blink of your eye. you can't even comprehend what the hell he just did because he's grabbing your neck and pining you beneath him to fuck you deeper. nothings processing in your brain but the sound of his thighs clapping with yours, the grunts from eren and your second orgasm shooting through you. arching your back into him, his hand constricting some air in your esophagus which only intensifies your pleasure.

“i hear you, mamas,” eren releases his grip on your neck just a little, pressing his nose to yours with a clenched jaw, his one arm hanging above you since it's still chained up. eren shifts his body slightly down yours to put your legs over his broad shoulders, slipping his dick back in and folding you in a mating press.

“this is what you get for fuckin’ with me,” the way he's fucking you has your toes cramping and your voice disappearing. you can't scream anymore, sounds of pleasure dying down to cries and whimpers, tiny figure compared to his jolting beneath him. eren’s whines are muffled by the pillow he buried his face into as he shoots his cum into you, filling you up warmly. his orgasm so overpowering he can't help but still fuck through it. wheezes and ragged breathing is all you could hear since you had zero energy to open your eyes.

throwing your arms around him to claw at his backside. eren’s still moving inside of you, your legs shaking the further he pins them down with his one hand after sitting up on his knees, looking down at you, long hair sticking to his fucked out face. he takes two of his slender fingers to tug down your bralette to retrieve the key you stored in there. freeing himself and tossing the cuffs somewhere in the room.

“cheap ass cuffs,” eren says, spanking the outside of your thigh. “gotta give it to you, i enjoyed that.”

you perch up on your elbows, happiness shadowing you. “really?!”

“just don't try that shit again. now lay on your stomach and lemme eat your pussy.”

#eren x you #eren x black fem!reader #eren aot #eren smut #eren x black yn #eren x y/n #eren yeager smut #eren yeager x black reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #aot smut #snk smut #snk eren #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger smut #౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ ⋆ 𝑀𝒪��𝐻𝒜’𝒮 𝑀𝐼𝒩𝒟. ✧｡˚

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