Heyyy queen, so for my request I would like a Rio fanfic where his wife has been on edge and snapping at him and the kids and he figures out its because she's sexually frustrated. Please and thank yewww💖
The way you don’t speak when you walk past him in the hallway.
The way you’ve been pulling away from his hand when he reaches for you in bed at night.
It’s not loud. You’re not screaming. But he sees it.
You been on edge for days. Snapping at the kids over little things. Letting laundry pile up when usually you stay on top of it. And when Rio talks to you, you either ignore him or shoot off a dry ass “I’m fine.” Like that lie don’t hang heavy in the air every time you say it.
See, Rio don’t move off emotion. He watches. Waits. Stays ten steps ahead. He been studying you—how your hands shake when you wipe the counters, how your eyes look watery in the morning, how your smile ain’t reached your eyes in a week. He seen you go from his wife to this exhausted, snappy version of yourself, and tonight?
Tonight, he done letting it ride.
It’s just past midnight when he walks in the kitchen and sees you wiping the counters again. For the third time today. Ain’t a crumb in sight.
You got your bonnet half on, a big t-shirt hangin’ off one shoulder, face lookin’ tired but still too fine. You ain’t notice him yet, or maybe you did and just ain’t care. He watches you for a moment, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, arms folded across his chest.
You don’t look up. “What?”
“You gon’ tell me what the fuck goin’ on with you, or you just gon’ keep takin’ it out on everybody?”
Your hand freezes over the counter. You drop the rag slow, turn to face him with your arms crossed.
“I’m not takin’ it out on everybody.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Nah? That why you snapped on the baby for spillin’ juice earlier?”
You grit your teeth. “She spilled it on my laptop.”
You roll your eyes and move to walk past him, but he shifts, blocks you with his body.
He steps closer instead. Calm. Controlled. That pressure.
“You been actin’ like you wanna fight, but I know what this really is,” he says, voice low like velvet but sharp underneath. “You tired. You overworked. And you pissed off ‘cause I ain’t been touchin’ you like I should.”
You blink hard, but your face cracks.
He smirks. Just a little.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Your jaw tightens. “I cook, I clean, I raise our kids, I handle everything. And still—still—I feel like I don’t even exist in this house sometimes, Rio. I feel like I’m just floatin’ through the day, and you don’t even notice.”
He steps into your space, close enough you can feel the heat comin’ off him.
“You think I ain’t noticed?”
You try to look away. He tilts your chin with two fingers, makes you look at him.
“You think I ain’t been watchin’ you walk ‘round this house like you one sharp breath away from cryin’? Think I ain’t heard you in the bathroom the other night?”
Your stomach drops. You swallow hard. “I didn’t wanna bother you.”
His brow lifts. “Bother me?”
“I just… I felt like if I said anything, you’d think I was nagging or bein’ dramatic.”
Rio scoffs, eyes narrowing a little. “You my wife, ma. You don’t nag. You let me know what you need so I can fix it. That’s how this shit work.”
You start to speak again, but his voice cuts through the room soft and firm: “Take your ass upstairs.”
“You heard me,” he says, backing up just enough to give you space to move. “Go upstairs. You wanna feel like my wife again? Lemme remind you.”
The tone in his voice makes your whole body clench.
You walk past him slowly, every step feelin’ like your heartbeat in your chest. He waits. Lights off the kitchen. Follows you up the stairs, not saying a word, but you feel the tension crawl up your spine the whole way. The door to the bedroom closes behind you both with a soft click.
You stand at the foot of the bed, not sure what to do with your hands.
Rio walks toward you, slow, like a panther stalking prey. His chain glints in the dim light, black hoodie loose on his frame, tattoos peeking out from his sleeves as he shrugs it off and drops it on the chair.
You ain’t said a word, and he likes that.
“Take that shirt off,” he says, voice like gravel and silk.
You obey. Slow. You let the shirt fall, and the cool air kisses your skin. You feel exposed, not just naked but seen. Seen in a way that makes your eyes sting again.
His eyes trail over you. Steady. Heated.
“You been feelin’ invisible?” he says as he steps closer. “Look at me.”
“I see you. Every inch. Every curve. Every mood. I been seein’ you fall apart for days and I ain’t stepped in yet. That’s my fault.”
He brushes a knuckle across your cheek. “But I’ma fix it now.”
And before you can speak, he’s on you.
Kissin’ you deep. Like he been holdin’ back. Like he mad at himself for not doin’ this sooner. His hands grip your waist, pullin’ you against him, and your legs go weak before he even gets you on the bed.
He lays you down with a gentleness that contrasts the fire in his eyes.
Then he slows everything down.
Kiss after kiss. Palm after palm. His fingers drag down your sides, smooth and rough all at once. You whisper his name, soft, needy, and he shushes you against your mouth.
“Nah, baby. Let me do this. Just feel it.”
You arch into him when his hand slides between your thighs, and he groans low.
“This how I know you been needin’ me,” he murmurs. “You so fuckin’ wet for me right now.”
Your breath hitches, your thighs tremble.
“Shoulda been handled this days ago,” he whispers. “That’s on me.”
You try to grab at him, try to pull him down, but he just shakes his head, lips brushing your ear.
“You gon’ wait, mama. Let me take care of you proper.”
The way he talks to you—low, calm, dominant—you can’t even argue. Your body too gone. Your head too light. He don’t just make love to you. He reclaims you. Kisses every sore, overstretched part of your soul. Touches you like his fingers were made to undo the stress wound tight in your belly. He presses deep, slow strokes into you that got you biting your lip and whimperin’.
“Look at me,” he says again, holding your chin mid-stroke.
You do. And your whole chest just cracks open.
Tears fall before you can stop ‘em.
But Rio don’t flinch. He leans down, kisses them right off your cheeks, still movin’ inside you like he own you—and he do.
“This what you needed, huh?” he murmurs.
“This how I fix my wife.”
And when you come, it’s not just your body—it’s your mind, your chest, your whole weight letting go. And he stays with you the whole way. Eyes on yours. Breath steady. Palms holdin’ you through the release.
After, he don’t pull away.
He stays wrapped around you. One hand pressed to your stomach, slow circles. His lips at your shoulder.
“You ain’t never gotta go that long without sayin’ what you need again,” he whispers.
You nod, eyes closed, body heavy.
“I see you,” he says again. “Always.”
And this time? You believe him.
I own no rights to any of this!
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