july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good july will be good
i'm kicking my blog renovation off with an old favourite of mine. this was the first thing i wrote for carmy way back when, lost to the abyss years ago after the account deletion. so enjoy <3
i haven't seen season 5 yet because disney+ did some upgrade where i have to pay extra to see it, and i am lowkey pissed about it, but i will hopefully get to it soon. no spoilers pls <3
warnings: 18+ MDNI!! smut. p-in-v unprotected sex. swearing. prone bone? is that what it's called? idk. reader is described as having tattoos. basically, pwp, happy sunday! afab!reader <3
The steady buzz of the needle droned in the small studio like a swarm of bees. Laid out on the table, you focused on breathing steadily through the uncomfortable sting.
The artist's gloved hand was warm on your arm as he held it still, carefully shading between the stencilled lines. You'd been coming to the same studio for months now after Carmy had recommended it; admittedly, he hadn't thought you’d be frequenting it more than him. Not that it bothered him, he found the steady increase of ink on your skin, the surprise of finding a new tattoo on your hip or thigh as he went down on you, really fucking hot.
And for you, something about the pain was a little comforting, so you just kept coming back. And, hey, the juniors needed to learn and practice somehow.
The bell above the door jingled and you glanced over, a soft smile gracing your features as Carmen stepped in, hair messy from the wind. He caught your stare, eyes bright, and winked.
“Hi,” he mouthed, sitting in one of the leather chairs in the waiting room, ankle crossed over a knee.
“Yo, Berzatto,” the artist, an older guy named Jared, looked up from the linework. “How’s the restaurant?”
Carmen’s brows shot up in that exasperated way they always did when he was stressed, sighing deeply through a weak smile. “Shitty, yeah, actually. Lots of renovation and shit.”
Jared nodded, getting back to work, leaving Carmen to watch you in peace. The way your face changed as the needle crept toward a sensitive spot near the crease of your elbow, the way you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip when it stung. And though his face didn’t show it, a rush of desire went straight to his cock when you squirmed on the table, crossing your ankles, causing your skirt to ride up a little.
It gave him a perfect view of his favourite tattoo. A little heart on your upper thigh, simple and plain, but it was the one he’d done for you. It started off as a joke, when you’d found your old tattoo gun that you’d impulsively bought in college, the same one you’d used to tattoo your friends. Never perfectly done, but fun all the same.
A few months ago, you’d handed it to Carmy and asked him to do it. Admittedly, he freaked out a little, afraid to fuck it up, but it had turned out alright. A little wonky, due to the lack of a stencil, but you loved it. And he loved it, in that little possessive way he seemed to always adopt when it came to you.
Seeing that little heart made his brain go fuzzy, sending him back to that morning; the early hours of limbo where his alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but there was no point in going back to sleep.
The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the room, buttery and warm. Arching off the bed, you bit down on your fist to keep from crying out. The walls in this stupid, cheap, apartment building were thin, and there was only so much scathing, knowing stares from the neighbours that you could take.
“Like that, baby? Doin’ so good f’me. Feel so fuckin’ good.” Carmen’s voice dripped with sleep-addled honey, thick and sweet and sultry. You’d woken up reaching for him, a soft whimper of his name passing through your lips, and he swallowed the sound with a searing kiss.
Each of his thrusts hit deep, cock brushing against the perfect spot, and you rolled your hips to meet his movements. Foreheads pressed together, every breath was shared, every whisper of praise and quiet moans mingled in the fraction of space between the two of you. The chain around Carmy’s neck bumped at your lips, and you tilted your head to capture it between your teeth.
“F-fucks sake,” he breathed, gripping your waist. His thrusts stuttered; seeing you with his chain in your mouth struck something in his chest, and it went straight to his dick.
“Harder, Carm, please.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
He pulled out, flipping you onto your stomach, slid back in, and fucked you into the mattress. Each thrust, each impact against the back of your thighs, each stifled grunt and groan in your ear; it set your head spinning.
“Fuck, baby. Just like that, fuck. Carm, come on, fucking give it to me. Fuck. Please.” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a jumbled string, muffled by the pillow. Carmy’s hand found its way into your hair, tugging at the roots, and he smirked at the long moan it pulled from your throat.
“Such a pretty fuckin’ mouth,” he grunted between thrusts, feeling the pulse and flutter of your walls around his cock. “So fuckin’ good, baby.”
His thumbs fit into the divots at the base of your spine, fingers digging into your hips as he pounded into you, giving you exactly what you wanted, what you needed.
“Fuckfuckfuck, Carmy, I’m–” You lifted your hips and pressed back into him, chasing your orgasm, each thrust slammed into you, leaving you breathless. “Fuck, there, right there.”
Carmen’s grip on your waist got tighter, tight enough to leave bruises, as he got closer to the edge. When you came, burying your face in the pillows to stifle the cry of his name, Carmen swore loudly. He fucked you through the comedown, leaving you sensitive and blissfully overstimulated.
He was so close, every flutter around his cock unbearable. “Fuck, baby, where–”
“On my tummy.”
Carmen pulled out and you rolled over, just in time for the first spurts of his cum to land on the bare plane of your stomach. He jerked himself off until he had nothing more to give, and there were strings of sticky white covering your tummy. Swiping a finger through the mess, you held his hooded gaze as you sucked it clean.
Carmy watched you, panting. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb brushing back-and-forth absentmindedly over the little heart tattoo. He reached up, running his thumb up your stomach, before tilting your chin.
“Open,” he purred, and you did. He pressed his thumb onto your tongue, and you closed your mouth around it–
“Carm?” Your voice pulled him from his fantasy, one that had left his cock pressing against the zip of his jeans. He looked up and there you were, standing in front of him, arm out to show him the fresh ink. “Like it?”
Carmen swallowed, trying not to let his gaze slide over you, knowing it’d give every thought in his head away. But when he met your stare, he noticed the little smirk that tugged at your lips and realised you already knew.
“Uh, yeah, baby, it looks awesome.”
You winked and turned on your heel, wandering over to the front desk to pay, putting a little extra swing in your hips, setting your skirt flaring. Not that Carmy was staring or anything, (he was.)
Moments later, you were grabbing his hand, pulling him out of the chair. “Let’s go home.”
you’re sitting at the small table by the window, laptop open, half a cup of coffee gone cold beside you. something for work, something that needs your full attention — and you’re giving it. brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard.
carmy’s been moving around the apartment for the past half hour. not loud. never loud. just… there.
drawer opens. closes. the fridge hums. a cabinet door taps shut a little too carefully.
he glances at you. once. twice.
you feel it, but you don’t look up.
he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to decide something.
you still don’t look up.
he exhales, quiet, and pushes off the counter.
“hey,” he says.
“hm?” you answer, distracted, eyes still on the screen.
he hovers for a second, then steps closer. “what’re you working on?”
“just something i need to finish,” you mumble. “give me like ten minutes?”
he nods. “yeah. yeah, okay.”
he doesn’t move.
you type a few more lines before it registers — his presence, right there, just slightly too close.
you glance up.
he’s standing beside your chair, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats, looking at you in that soft, unsure way he gets when he wants something but doesn’t know how to ask for it.
“what?” you ask, a smile tugging at your mouth.
he shrugs. “nothing.”
you raise an eyebrow. “carmy.”
a beat.
“…can i sit?” he asks, like it’s not his own apartment.
you laugh under your breath. “yeah, come here.”
that’s all the permission he needs.
he slides into the chair beside you, close enough that his knee presses against yours. then closer. until his shoulder is brushing your arm, warm and steady.
you try to keep working.
you really do.
but then his hand finds your thigh, absentminded, thumb tracing slow, idle patterns like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. his head tilts slightly, resting just barely against yours for a second before he pulls back, like he’s testing the boundary.
you don’t pull away.
so he does it again. this time staying there.
“you said ten minutes,” he murmurs.
“i know, i’m sorry,” you say, softer now.
“it’s been like… eight.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “you’re actually counting?”
“no,” he says immediately. then, after a second, “maybe.”
you finally close the laptop halfway, turning toward him. “you’re being clingy.”
he freezes.
“…’m not.”
you smile, reaching up to push a curl off his forehead. “you are.”
he looks at you, caught, but he doesn’t deny it this time. just shrugs, a little helpless.
“just wanna be close to you,” he admits, voice low.
that does it.
you soften completely, hand sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him in. he goes easily, like he was already halfway there, forehead bumping yours before his lips find yours.
the kiss is warm, a little desperate in that quiet way. like he’s been holding it in, like this is what he needed all along. his hand tightens on your thigh, the other coming up to cradle your jaw, grounding, anchoring.
you hum softly against his mouth, and he melts into it, tension draining out of him all at once.
when you pull back, he stays close, nose brushing yours.
“hi,” you whisper.
he smiles, small and soft and completely gone for you. “hi, baby.”
you close the laptop fully this time, setting it aside.
“ten minutes can wait,” you say.
he nods, drawn back to you by a pull he clearly can’t fight.
he catches your mouth with his again, before you can even say anything else. like the space between you is suddenly unacceptable.
your laugh gets swallowed by his mouth, soft and surprised, and his hand tightens on your thigh, pulling you closer — closer than you already are, like he’s trying to erase whatever distance was there before.
“carmy—” you murmur, smiling against his lips.
“yeah,” he breathes, not stopping.
he shifts in his chair, angling himself toward you fully now, one arm sliding around your waist. and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tugs you — gently but insistently — until you’re halfway in his lap.
you blink. “what are you—”
“stay,” he says, quiet, almost shy, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
you huff a soft laugh. “i am staying.”
“no, like—” he exhales, forehead pressing into your shoulder for a second. “like this.”
and there it is again. that honesty he only gives you.
you soften instantly, shifting properly this time, settling into his lap. his arms wrap around you like he’s been waiting to do that all day, holding you close, one hand splayed warm against your back.
he lets out a breath you feel more than hear.
“better,” he mumbles.
you run your fingers through his hair, slow, soothing. “you’re really not letting me go, huh?”
“no,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, steady vow. it isn’t just about this moment. it’s a claim on every second you’re willing to give him.
you smile against the sharp line of his jaw. “clingy.”
“…yeah,” he admits, after a second.
there’s no embarrassment in it now. just truth.
he nuzzles closer, face tucked into your neck, and for a moment he just stays there — breathing you in, grounding himself, like this is the only place he wants to be.
you tilt your head, pressing a kiss into his hair.
“what brought this on?” you ask softly.
he shrugs, but his arms tighten. “you were busy.”
“for ten minutes, babe.”
“yeah,” he says, like that explains everything.
you laugh quietly, but your grip on him tightens too, fingers tracing slow patterns along his strong back.
“you could’ve just said you missed me.”
he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i did.”
“no, you hovered,” you tease.
he narrows his eyes a little, but there’s no heat in it. “same thing.”
“not even close.”
he leans in again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, like he’s proving a point. his thumb brushes along your side, absentminded, grounding, like he needs to keep feeling you there.
when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.
“i missed you,” he says properly this time.
your expression softens, completely undone by how sincere he sounds.
“i was right here,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “i know. still.”
you don’t argue with that.
you just wrap your arms around him, settle deeper into his hold, and let him keep you there — as long as he wants.
your laptop sits forgotten while you kiss for what feels like hours. and carmen berzatto doesn’t loosen his grip once.
Happy Juneteenth to all of my beautiful Black Americans! I am so proud of us and how far we have come — this is what our ancestors died for, sacrificed, and fought for: to see future generations empowered and united, proud of our beauty and strength. May our ancestors be blessed in the afterlife and rest peacefully, watching down on us with a smile. Being Black will never be easy (cause we come from greatness, duh), but we make it inspiring and full of light! Bless all my Black writers, the pen game is elite, brothers and sisters. Bless all my Black people in music, theater, film, acting, etc. Our talent and beauty are unmatched. Never question yourself or your worth — Black is beauty. Once again, happy Juneteenth, everyone!
who lives in a shifty city apartment . who practices punches in lost abandoned buildings . who moves as fast as a bullet . who never keeps a winning streak . who seems to miraculously heal after every match . who charms reporters and fans with a polite smile and his soft accent .
⋮ tag list ⌯⌲ ⋮ @nozhdyved @gardeniaonthewall @glassmermaids @artstennisracket @imurmommynowbitch @scariffs @pedaltothepetal
so you can shoot a black child in the back as he's running away and get away with it with zero consequences, but god forbid a black child defend himself, because that'll land him thirty-five fucking years in jail—which is basically a life sentence. half of his life will be over when his sentence is up. all the fake talk of progress in this country has just been a way to silence black people for speaking out against the countless horrific injustices we're forced to experience, from microagressions to outright murder. you literally cannot go a day without hearing about another black person falling victim to systemic racism and then having to listen to people justify why they deserved it. and we're supposed to hold no animosity whatsoever as we grin and bear it.
bobby franklin x reader [mdni] — your boyfriend splashes out on a new camcorder and insists on testing it out on you.
“State your name for the record.”
“You know my name, Bobby.”
“The camera doesn’t.”
Said camera has barely left Bobby’s hands since he’d brought it home two days ago, much to your chagrin. It had taken the entirety of those two days—when you weren’t at work, anyway—for him to convince you to be his muse on your day off. You weren’t even sure what you were signing up for.
Now you sit cross-legged on the bed with one of Bobby’s shirts hanging from your frame, sweating in the summer heat. The fan in the corner rattles noisily, doing little to combat the warmth, and the heat of your annoyance at a camcorder being shoved in your face isn’t exactly helping.
You roll your eyes at him, unimpressed. “The camera isn’t a person. I'm not introducing myself.”
“Well—“ He kisses his teeth, ready to argue his case.
“If you’re just using this as an excuse to roleplay, I want no part of it,” you interject, arms folding stubbornly over your chest.
Bobby zooms the camera in on your deadpan face. “Subject displays signs of hostility—“
“Turn that thing off.”
The warning in your voice only seems to amuse him. The viewfinder hides his expression, but you imagine him grinning, which only exasperates you further.
“Hostility increases—“
“Bobby.”
“Fine. Fine,” he relents—not by turning the camera off, obviously, because that would have required him to possess even a shred of self-restraint, and he’s thoroughly enjoying pestering you right now. Instead, he zooms back out and lowers the camera enough for you to see his face. “This image quality is insane.”
Despite yourself, you feel a little endeared by his enthusiasm. “Well, it better be. That thing is worth, like, a month’s rent.”
The number still makes you feel vaguely ill. The conversation where you’d discovered exactly how much his new equipment cost had almost given you a heart attack. Bobby, however, appears completely unbothered. In fact, judging by the distant look in his eyes, he probably hasn’t heard a single word you’ve just said.
He’s more focused on staring at the tiny flip-out screen again, adjusting the focus ring, watching you reluctantly unfold your arms again.
“Though to be fair,” he says, “you make it easy.”
Your frown deepens. “That’s a terrible line.”
“Line?” He replies absently.
“That.” You gesture vaguely towards him. “Whatever that was. You make it easy.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t a line.”
“It absolutely was.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You called me pretty.”
“I did not,” he denies.
You sit upright. “So now we’re lying?”
Bobby laughs. “I said the image quality was good.”
“Because of me. Therefore you implied I was pretty.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Liar!”
The grin spreading across his face makes your stomach flip unhelpfully. You considered yourself immune to his charms by now, but his boyish grin and the way he’s admiring you through his camcorder makes you want to swoon. Which is exactly why you immediately scowl at him.
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”
“I can’t help it,” Bobby says.
You huff an amused breath despite yourself. The sound seems to encourage him, and he adjusts something on the side of the camcorder and squints through the viewfinder.
“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully to himself.
Naturally, such a sound is immediately enough to warrant suspicion. “What?”
“I need the subject to move around. Test how it picks up motion.”
“So now I’m just ‘the subject?’” You raise a challenging brow at him, and he immediately backtracks.
“I need my hot supermodel girlfriend to move around,” he corrects.
You roll your eyes, but it does make something stir in your chest despite its sheer ridiculousness. Bobby lowers the camera again and you catch the mischievous look on his face.
“Maybe you should model.”
“No,” you deny instantly.
“You’re not even going to think about it?” He says, a whine catching in his voice.
“I don’t need to. I don’t want a video of me stripping, or whatever the hell you want, sitting around our apartment. I babysit my niece here twice a week.”
“Okay, and? It’s not like she knows how to work one of these. She barely knows how to brush her own teeth.”
“It’s— it’s the principle,” you insist, cheeks burning. You wouldn’t consider yourself a shy woman, far from it, but the idea of there being a physical record of you attempting to seduce your boyfriend is offputting. “I’m not a slut.”
He groans and throws his head back. “No, you’re not,” he agrees as patiently as he can. He’s using the same voice he uses to console your aforementioned niece, which isn’t exactly helping his case. “You’re very loyal, in fact. Dedicated, too. It’d be really nice if you could show me that dedication—“
“Gross.” You stick your tongue out. “Don’t make it weirder than it has to be.”
“Fine. Fine.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “I’m not making it weird.”
A silence falls over the both of you, and you worry at your bottom lip in consideration. It just goes to show how much you adore him, because you should be sticking with your gut answer and telling him to fuck off. Alas…
“You promise you won’t show anyone?”
Bobby perks up instantly. “Promise. Scout’s honour.” The boyish salute that follows makes your shoulders ease up a little, and you briefly question why you’d even consider stripping for such a childish individual.
“Fine. But just a little. To… test your motion, or whatever.”
“What?” He blinks stupidly, before realising that’s the excuse he’d used just a moment ago. A sheepish grin tugs at his mouth. “Oh, right. Exactly. Just a little is fine.”
You swallow, shifting slightly on the bed. The frame creaks, and you can’t help but think the moment feels incredibly unsexy. You’re sweating in the sweltering heat, and it’s probably picking up the whirring sound of the fan, and—
Now you’re just psyching yourself out. It’s fine. It’s just Bobby.
“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think I’d get this far.”
“Bobby.”
“Just do what feels right.” He waves a vague hand. “Take your shirt off, or something.”
Such a request should make you sputter with indignance, but it’s no surprise coming from the man who seemingly spent upwards of eight hundred dollars on a camcorder just to record his girlfriend in their shitty apartment. You force some more confidence into your posture, shoulders squaring as you look down at your shirt. Slowly, your fingers drift down to the hem, curling around it.
You glance up at him for reassurance, met with an eager nod. Stifling a sigh, you drag it up slowly, revealing inch by inch of warm skin. “Like this?”
“Just like that,” Bobby breathes, voice lower now.
Encouraged by that, you pull it up further, dragging it up past your bra. Bobby wets his lips at the sight—your breasts spilling over the cups, soft and enticing. Up up up it goes until you’re pulling it over your head, letting it fall to the floor in front of you.
You want to shift uncomfortably, clamp your thighs together, cover yourself with your arms. It’s not like he’s never seen it before. It’s just unnerving with the camcorder directed at you. But you force yourself to stare directly at it, spreading your thighs slightly to give him a proper view of your panties.
“Fuck, yeah,” he murmurs. “Touch yourself.”
“What?” You say, alarmed.
“Not—“ He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Not there. Sorry. Just… your tits, or something.”
Your shoulders sag with relief. That’s a little too much for now, but you’re content enough to give him at least some form of show. Your fingers skate back up your stomach, goosebumps prickling beneath them. Then you cup your breasts over your bra, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes.
“You’re so pretty, babe,” he says, and the approval goes straight between your legs. “Doing so well.”
You reward him by hooking your fingers under one of your bra straps, inching it down. His breath catches audibly—selfishly, you hope the camera caught that reaction—and he shifts a little on his feet. The thought of him getting visibly aroused by your display emboldens you further.
The other strap follows, and you palm at yourself over the cups a little more. “I would have worn a better set if I knew we were doing this.”
“I like this bra,” he says, only half hearing you, zeroed in on the sight of you squeezing at yourself.
You release them and he almost groans in disappointment. Before the sound can escape, you reach behind you, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes widen cartoonishly, and you bite your lip to mask a smile, trying to remain as sultry as possible.
“Shit, can I touch you?” Bobby takes a step forward. Your eyes flick down to his jeans. They’re tight, but you think you can make out the forming bulge beneath the denim.
“Can’t touch ‘the subject,’” you quip.
Hands skim along your chest again, and he seems enraptured as you grope yourself. You’re surprised he hasn’t caved already, but his restraint is admirable as he nods sagely in agreement. Still, you hear him groan under his breath when you focus on a nipple. It stiffens under the touch, already sensitive enough to make you bite the inside of your cheek.
“Is this enough movement?” You ask, rolling your nipple between your fingers while your other hand palms at the flesh of your other breast. You’re hardly moving, so the answer is definitely no, but he indulges you with another one of those enthusiastic nods. You're certain you could sit entirely still with your bra off and he'd tell you it was enough for his little 'motion test.'
“Yeah. Looks, um—“ His gaze moves to the viewfinder, which he realises he hasn’t actually looked through since you took your shirt off. He can only hope the camera was pointed at you properly. “Looks great.”
“The movement, or me?”
“The movement,” he says, laughing at the indignance that crosses your face. “You look more than great. You look perfect.” Heat crawls up your cheeks, but he’s not done. “Which is exactly why I really can’t keep my hands to myself right now, and I don’t think you should waste your day off sitting in bed alone when we could be having sex.”
You bark out a laugh as he switches it off, setting it on the dresser and advancing towards you. “Well, that’s an improvement from your last line.”
He stands between your parted legs, ducking his head to give you a quick kiss. “For the record, it wasn’t a line,” he insists as you reach for his belt.
“Liar,” you mutter against his mouth.
The smile he gives you when he pulls back is so hopelessly smitten that your own laughter softens with something warmer. He ruins it by breaking the silence with:
“Maybe we should invest in a tripod. Then we could really record something sexy—“
just think about it— it was morning and you’re on the bed, sheets pulled to your chest as a way to cover your naked body after a night with him. and even though you didn’t wake up to his warmth and touch, the sight of it all made up for it
there he was, standing in the middle of your shared bedroom and pulling his sweatpants back on. you shifted your body to get a good angle at the view, tracing his scarred back with your gaze. faint, red claw marks were visible all thanks to you
and when he turned around, the hickeys and bites were now in view— some on his collarbone, others on his abs, any piece of skin your lips could get
maybe it was the afterglow or the sleep, but jason looked so… soft. he always was whenever he was with you. the fact that he loved and trusted you so much to let his guard down around you and just be himself made you feel cherished
it made a small smile form on your lips absentmindedly, your gaze softening as you just stared at him. but your eyes must have lingered too long because he glanced over and caught you staring. a faint smirk tugging on his lips
your smile softened when you saw him silently walk toward your side of the bed, noticing how his lips curved into a smile of his own before leaning down to cup your jaw and give you a soft, slow kiss— a kiss that made your smile widen on his lips, a kiss that felt less like desire and more like devotion, a kiss that made your chest ache in the best way
a kiss that made you fall in love with him all over again
—————————————————————————
masterlist!
(a/n: smth about morning intimacy just scratches my brain perfectly)
mdni .ᐟ established relationship, domestic fluff, drinking / drunk sex, p in v, riding, breast play...
date night with dick is your favourite way to end the week.
he'll open a bottle of expensive wine, make something fancy and italian, he'll even put on that cologne you love on him so much. the one that makes you want to stuff your face in the crook of his neck and wrap your arms around him while you laugh and sip wine.
when dick remembers he'll put on a record out of your collection, something old and sweet and sickeningly lovey-dovey. no matter how much you whine about it being corny he always manages to tug you out of your seat and sway you around the room with his big hands clasped around you. his lips will press into your forehead, then your cheeks and the tip of your nose, all the way down till he can peck at your lips while he grips tighter at your waist.
the night will end with both of you stumbling over each other in a mess of giggles and soft scrambling hands, tugging at each others clothes as you tumble towards the shared bed. he'll sit you over his long cock and watch you ride him while he moans shamelessly. his eyes focused on the back and forth of your hips and how tight your cunts squeezing around him, dick gropes at your tits roughly watching how they bounced with each time you dragged your sopping cunt over his thick length.
"fuuuck— baby you're s'pretty f'me—"
his words drag out with his head dizzy with pleasure and the lingering haze of alcohol.
"all f'me—", he slurs greedily squeezing your waist and bucking up into you while you let out soft moans between gasps of laughter. one of your hands holding his face, thumb pressed to his lips, while the other stroked down the smooth muscle of his chest as he pumps into you harder chasing his high.
dick takes it all in, every gasp, every sudden heave of your tits, the way your eyes flutter back before you cum over his cock. he lives for it.
dededos
blakekathryn
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
