𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count—5.0K, ORIGINAL!BLACK!FEM!READER! southern domestic vibes!, husband!toji, shyblack!femreader, blackwife!reader, ranchmen!toji, gritty!toji, southerncoded!femreader, southerncoded!toji, aggressive!toji, dominant!toji, gruff!toji, sweet!toji, size kink!, pet names!baby!love!, pussy eating!, face slapping!, 69!, riding!, sex after work!toji, aggressive sex!, dick sucking!, squirting!, creaming, condomless sex, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— been in a deep depression + ‘was missin’ my number one, my man, my lover, my only in another lifetime. this was inspired by a lil’ tik tok made by @scrumptious_chowder—i can’t seem to find the specific link for the video i saw, i think she might’ve deleted it? but if you see this, babe. this one’s for you. love your content + all the nasty thoughts in your head. @chrollohearttags ? love you baby. teehee. enjoy.
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE DAYS.
One where talking your husband off the verge of a crash out wasn’t enough—but fucking it out of him made it all complete. Sweeter, somehow.
The evening sun spills honey gold through lace trimmed windows, casting delicate shadows across the yellow bricked backsplash of your kitchen—your sanctuary.
The air smells like yeast and the faint citrus of lemons piled in your farmhouse sink—natural light streaming in soft, golden pools across the Tuscany checkered floors. Your fingers, dusted with flour, press into the supple dough, kneading with practiced rhythm, the marquise cut pale gold band on your left hand catching the warmth with every movement. French tips glint against the raw, pillowy mass, your wedding ring a quiet testament to the life you’ve built here—far from the noise of New Orleans, in a house he built for you with his own calloused hands.
The vintage radio hums low, crackling with updates between New Orleans and Mississippi, the announcer’s voice a distant murmur beneath the rustle of your Persian kitten—Yumi’s—fur as she nudges the radio with her tiny, impatient head. You glance up, dark lashes fluttering, and reach over to twist the volume knob down.
“Too loud, baby?”
Yumi answers by leaping gracefully onto the vintage dining table behind you, stretching her fluffy body into a perfect arch before collapsing into a loaf, her purrs filling the quiet kitchen like a melody.
“…I guess so,” you hum softly.
Your kitchen was made with more love than his proposal, more intention than the ring itself. The single bowl sink overflows with lemons, limes, and a single stray peach, their vibrant colors bleeding into the muted tones of your oasis.
The curtains flutter, carrying the scent of distant rain and turning earth—his scent, soon. The house breathes around you, every nail driven by his hands, every brick laid with the weight of his promise.
“Ain’t gonna let nothin’ touch you ‘cept me.”
You and Yumi share the same untamed spirit—both of you all flickering tails and sharp, watchful eyes.
Your face, sultry as a fox, intense as a panther mid hunt, holds the kind of beauty that makes men pray before they dare to speak to you. Slender eyes, naturally dark waterline like you were born with kohl rimming them, framed by full, wispy lashes that give you an air of mischief—almost wicked, even when your soul is nothing but sugar. Deep pink lips, their edges kissed by a natural brown halo, part just slightly as you exhale, your large, arched brows lifting in amusement at your feline counterpart.
That wild mane of yours—deep copper melting into cinnamon, black balayage curling like tendrils of smoke—is tossed messily over your head, a single stubborn curl swaying against your forehead. A constellation of dark freckles dusts the bridge of your wide nose, the warmth of your ochre complexion glowing beneath the golden kitchen light.
“You’ll look no different in pregnancy," his voice rumbles in your mind, "Glowin’. Red. Fuckin’ perfect.”
You narrow those eyes at Yumi, who chirps at you like she’s got a whole argument prepared.
“Daddy’ll be home soon," you murmur, thumb stroking the edge of your sourdough loaf before setting it aside to rise—“…You think he’ll like dinner?"
The scent of New Orleans hangs heavy in the air—shrimp and andouille sizzling in a spiced roux, red beans simmering with a bay leaf tucked between them, and buttery cornbread waiting to be pulled from the oven. His favorites. The kind of meal that’ll soothe every ache in his body, warm.
Yumi answers by rolling dramatically onto her back, paws curled, tail flicking.
“Yeah—you’re no help."
The soft hum of the radio wraps around you as you lose yourself in the rhythm of cooking again, fingers dancing over ingredients with practiced ease. The music plays just a hair louder now—enough for Yumi to shoot you a withering glare from her perch, her tail flicking in disapproval. You ignore her with a little smile, your voice a gentle murmur as you hum along to the tune, the melody curling around the warm, spice laced air.
Then—the growl.
The deep, guttural rumble of his pickup truck tearing through the gravel drive is a warning, a proclamation—he’s home. Your spine straightens before you even realize it, ears attuned to the familiar sequence of his arrival—the creak of the screen door, the slam, the heavy thud of boots being kicked off near the welcome mat.
Except today—silence.
No boots. No pause. Just the hurried, uneven thud of his footsteps, heavier than usual, more urgent. A shiver races down your spine, instinct flaring before you can even turn—
And then him.
Big. Encompassing. Swallowing you whole.
His heat presses into your back, rough hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t need to look up to know his expression—you feel it. The tension coiled in his muscles, impatient huffs against the curve of your throat.
“You scared me,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly as your fingers lift, clawing back into the wild strands of his hair—midnight black, nearly blue in the dim light. It’s longer now, unruly, a messy tangle between a wolf cut and a short mullet, the front nearly falling into his eyes. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, and he exhales sharply through his nose, his apology a low, graveled grunt against your skin.
“‘Couldn’t get to you fast enough."
You know him.
His anger, his irritation, the frustration clings to him like a second skin. It seeps into you like ink in water, dark and suffocating, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. Your body responds before your mind can catch up—arching back into him, your pulse fluttering beneath his touch.
That’s when your hands shift, turning you just enough in his grasp to catch his gaze—and the moment you do, the world narrows.
Those eyes.
Deep gray, like storm clouds rolling in over the pasture, narrowed and restless beneath the weight of his scowl. His brows—thick, dark, almost severe—are knit together, tension carved into the space between them. At thirty two years old to your twenty nine? The years have only sharpened him, etching his features with an intensity that makes your breath catch. A full blooded Japanese man raised in the heart of the South, he’s a walking contradiction—heritage and home clashing in the best ways.
And today, every inch of him shows it.
Dust clings to him like a second skin, ground into the fabric of his filthy wifebeater, streaked across the navy and black flannel rolled up to his forearms. His tattoos—a sprawling canvas of ink swallowing his egregiously broad frame—peek out from beneath the dirt, the edges of them smudged with the day’s labor.
Head ranchmen. Raising livestock. Wrestling miles of fencing. Hauling hay, operating machinery, fighting with the land and the heat and the men under him who can’t keep up—it’s all written across the stars. His muscles are still coiled tight, his jaw working as if the frustration hasn’t fully left his bones.
And yet, god, he’s yours.
The scent of him—sweat, leather, and something wild washes over you, a pheromone laden reminder of exactly who you belong to.
You reach up, thumb smoothing gently between his furrowed brows.
“You okay?”
He exhales sharply, "M’alright. Always doin’ this, woman. Thinkin’ I’m about to cry."
A laugh bubbles in your chest, but you press closer instead, fingers trailing down to cup his jaw.
“My soul’s with yours," you remind him, tilting your chin up despite the height difference—“I know when you’re sick before you do—"
He grunts at that, but there’s no real irritation behind it. Instead, he ducks his head, nudging his nose against yours in a rare moment of tenderness, the gesture contradicting every rough edge he wears so well.
Toji’s head dips low, those storm gray eyes scanning you with the kind of focus that makes your pulse flutter.
You stand there in white fuzzy socks, swallowed whole by the oversized replica of his flannel—the deep blue of it sharp against your caramel skin, sleeves slipping past your wrists, the hem hanging dangerously high on your thighs.
And as your husband, he knows what’s beneath.
The way your waist cinches in like a damn hourglass, unnaturally narrow compared to the flare of your hips—so wide, so heavy it looks like you’ve carried a child before. The ass that fills his palms perfectly, fat, jiggling with every step. And those tits—full, heavy, sitting high like they belong on a sultry pin up poster. His name—Fushiguro—in tiny cursive beneath the curve of your left breast, a claim he never gets tired of seeing.
Your fingers drag gently through the hair at his nape, nails scratching lightly as you murmur, “Yumi missed you.”
His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, calloused and rough—“‘Momma missed me too?”
You nod, just slightly, tilting your head with those fox eyes of yours—narrowed, knowing, stripping him bare of any lie he could try to spin.
“Tell me what happened at work.”
His brow twitches, “You tellin’ me?”
You don’t argue. Just raise your brows, waiting.
A beat. Then, with a sharp exhale, it spills—
“Men actin’ like goddamn children. Argued with me ‘bout the fence line—then one of ‘em nearly flipped the ATV ‘cause he wasn’t payin’ attention. ‘Whole damn day wasted fixin’ other people’s—” His voice deepens, slipping into sharp edged Japanese, “…Nande kon'na baka-domo to issho ni hatarakanakya naranē nda? Mattaku, kuso jikan'nomudada.”
Why the hell do these idiots work for me? Total waste of fuckin’ time.
You stand on your tiptoes, pressing your thumb between his brows again, smoothing the crease there as you answer him—fluent, just like he taught you.
“Son'nani ikatteiru to, fukeru no ga hayamarimasu yo.”
You’ll age faster being so angry.
He pauses, nostrils flaring—before he lets out a sharp exhale, forehead dropping against yours.
"...Goddamn, woman. ‘Always knowin’ how to shut me up.”
You hum, pressing closer.
“So that’s why you keep me around?”
“Nah. Keep you ‘cause you’re mine.”
You hum, fingertips tracing the corded muscle below his neck, your touch featherlight.
“Did talking about it help?"
His jaw flexes, “You want me to lie?"
“I’d rather you be honest, Fushiguro.”
A rough exhale escapes him, “I’m on the news tomorrow? ‘Know I killed one of those bastards."
You know he doesn’t mean it—but the frustration is real, simmering beneath his skin like an untamed storm. So you tease just a little, trying to loosen the tension coiling in his shoulders—“Fussier than a baby, ‘swear."
That gets you a glare—"Nowhere near a damn child."
You react before he can pull away, fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair, holding him just firm enough to ground him.
“Hey," you murmur, voice softening, “I was just pokin’, love. Yeah?"
He stares down at you, that perpetual scrawl of his features more habit than anger now. After a beat, he nods.
You press on, voice a gentle lull.
“Rough days are inevitable…but there’s your favorite meal to look forward to. And cuddles from me an’ Yumi."
His expression doesn’t change.
"Or," you offer, tilting your head, “I could rub your ear ‘like you like?”
Something shifts in his gaze then—dark, heavy. He looks at you—really looks. That sweet, sultry face he’s seen crumble beneath him, twist in pleasure, pout in frustration. It all hits him at once, a wave of something possessive and hungry that makes his fingers flex against your waist.
And in response?
“Yeah."
A single word. Deceptively simple.
Because you did rub his ear, sure—but what you didn’t expect?
Was ending up bouncing stupidly on his cock in the process.
Now, here you are—hair a mess of copper, cinnamon, and black curls, wild like a halo around your flushed face, the flannel hanging open, barely clinging to your shoulders. The fabric dips, revealing the sinful swell of your tits, the heavy weight of them barely contained by the parted material. Your fuzzy socks—adorable, ridiculous in contrast to the filth of this moment—curl helplessly into the bedsheets as you struggle to steady yourself.
Your thighs ache, burning from the relentless pace he’s set, but you barely feel it. Not when he’s got his hands wrapped around your waist, his fingers so big they nearly touch when he grips you—effortlessly hauling you up, then slamming you back down, forcing you to take every inch of him.
“F—Fushiguro—!"
You choke on his name as he pulls you all the way up, the slick length of him just about to slip free before he yanks you back down, letting his dick carve straight into your g-spot with every punishing thrust.
And the worst part?
He hasn’t even undressed.
Leaned back against the vintage headboard, still in his dirt-streaked wifebeater—tugged halfway up to reveal the hard planes of his abs, ink-dark tattoos trailing down the cut of his V-line. The roughness of his pubic hair grinds against your clit with every brutal snap of your hips, the friction almost too much, threatening to push you over the edge before he even lets you.
And his face—
Dark brows pulled low, storm gray eyes locked on you with an intensity that borders on cruel. He watches you with that same scowl, like you mean nothing to him in this moment—just a warm, trembling hole for him to use, fucking you with ruthless precision.
He leans back, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you again, dragging you down onto his cock with a sharp snap of his hips.
“C’mon," he growls, voice rough with restraint—“Keep fuckin’ feelin’ me.”
You’re silent—trying to be—but your pussy isn’t.
Loud. Obscene. Creaming around him in thick, slippery pulses, gushing with every brutal snap of his hips. The sound of it—wet, filthy, shameful—fills the space between your ragged breaths. Your lips stay pressed together, but your expression betrays you—eyebrows pinched, a cute little frown twisting your face as pleasure burns through you, sharp and unforgiving.
Discomfort. Overstimulation. The kind of pleasure that hurts, that makes your toes curl and your stomach clench. Because god, the way he stretches you—thick, unrelenting, carving into you like he was made to ruin you.
The worst part? He knows.
Knows that in places where you’re soft, silent, observant—here, like this? You’re a mouthy little thing when he gets you there. Which is exactly why he cocks his hand back, fingers tangling in the back of your flannel, yanking you down harder on his cock before—
SMACK.
The sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your ass echoes through the room, your flesh jiggling from the impact, the heat of it blooming fast.
“Ain't hearin’ shit from you," he growls.
“C’mon. Gimme’ somethin’.”
The rough clap of your thighs against his hips—hard, frantic, skin slapping skin—does something to you. Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers sinking into his forearms, claws digging in as a whiny little cry punches out of you.
It’s a domino effect afterwards. A whimper slips free, trembling, desperate, and then another—another, slurring into heavier, broken whines, like you’re trying to swallow them back every time they threaten to escape. But you can’t. Not when he’s like this—when his thighs are so thick, his grip so bruising, when he makes you fuck him like he hates you.
“There it is,” he grunts, fingers tightening around your waist, hauling you down harder, heavier.
“‘Know my wife more than anyone in this fuckin’ world.”
You're an eye-rolling, pouting, mess.
His mess. Your pussy keeps gushing, clenching forcefully around the thick swell of his cock, kicking off a series of unfinished, half-shattered orgasms that leave you spiraling—dizzy, overwhelmed, ruined.
Tears brim your dark, pretty eyes, lashes sticking together as broken little whimpers spill from your lips.
“I'm—‘M cumming.”
But Toji? He doesn’t stop.
His grip tightens, digging into the softness of your hips as he finds a devastating new rhythm. Slower now, but heavier. Louder. Each deep, punishing thrust drags a wet, filthy sound from where you’re stretched around him, the slap of skin echoing through the room.
And the scent of him—god.
Woodsmoke, leather, the erotic musk of a hard day’s work still clinging to his clothes, swallowing you whole even as he lounges beneath you, lazily using your body to chase his own pleasure.
“Wanted me to feel better, ‘ain’t you?"
His palm lands against your ass again—hard—the sharp crack reverberating through your bones before he spreads you open with that same rough hand, exposing your flushed, dripping cunt as he starts fucking up into you with renewed force.
“Gonna fuck you ‘til every nut makes me less angry," he grunts, fingers biting into your flesh—“Had a hard fuckin’ day, remember?"
You lean forward, sniffling pathetically, nodding in meek submission—like you’ve lost a game you never even meant to play.
“Okay," you squeak, voice surrendering, small.
His teeth flash in a wicked grin.
“Atta fuckin’ girl."
And then he takes—pounding up into you with a brutal pace that has you muffling trembling little moans into the crook of your arm, body jolting with every deep, claiming thrust.
Toji slides his broad palm against the top of your head, fingers threading through your curls as he tilts your face up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze.
“You here with me?"
You nod, and that's all he needs before he tugs you forward by your hair, sealing your mouth with his in a deep, tongue-filled kiss. It's filthy, possessive, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before he pulls back just as swiftly.
And then—SMACK.
His palm meets your cheek with enough force to make your breath hitch, just sharp enough to snap you back into focus.
“Fill your fuckin' mouth up.”
You sink down instantly, taking him between your lips with breathless little whimpers, your lashes fluttering as you suck him in deep. You pull back just enough to kitten lick along his length, teasing the flushed tip before swirling your tongue around it. Then lower—sucking his heavy balls into your mouth, your fingers lightly jerking the base of him.
It's adorable in the most pathetic way—how easily you obey when you're usually all quiet fire and defiance. But like this? You're truly his.
Toji watches as you work him over—his cock glistening with your spit, your lips stretched around him. Then he takes himself in hand, slapping his length against your flushed cheek, dragging it over your lips with a filthy, wet sound.
“Look at you," he grunts, voice rough with satisfaction.
And he does look—drinking in the sight of your dark, caramel skin flushed raw, your pretty eyes swollen with tears, your lips parted and trembling. It makes him crave more.
“C'mere," he growls suddenly, gripping your waist before flipping you both in one swift motion—your back now pressed to his chest, his thighs bracketing your head as he maneuvers you into a 69.
The second you're settled, he buries his face between your thighs with a groan, his tongue devouring you. You gasp, trying to refocus, wrapping your lips around his cock again—but it's impossible to concentrate when he's sucking on your clit like he's starved, his tongue dragging hot and wet through your folds, slurping obscenely. Your hips jerk, back arching as pleasure zings through you, your forehead dropping against his hip as you whimper around him.
“Focus, baby.”
He mutters this against your cunt—right before his hand comes down on your ass again, the sharp SMACK making you jolt. A broken moan slips past your lips, and then you're bobbing your head faster, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him back into your mouth with desperate, sloppy devotion.
And Toji?
He just feasts—grunting, licking, taking—his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks his tongue inside you, making sure you feel every second of it.
You don’t stand a chance.
The air is thick with the sound of skin on skin, your breath ragged and wet as you lose yourself in the rhythm of him. You move without thought, drunk on the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue—both palms wrapped tight around the base of his cock, jerking him from root to tip in slow, filthy strokes. Your tits bounce with every movement, swaying heavy and lewd as you work him over in a way that’s downright pornographic, your body moving like it was made just for this.
Toji’s hips twitch, his breath catching when you suddenly take just the head of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the swollen tip while your small hands take care of the rest. His head knocks back against the headboard with a low groan, his voice rough, strained, as he mutters something under his breath—half curse, half praise—before his hand comes down again, another sharp SMACK landing on your ass.
“Edge of the bed. Now.”
You crawl there on shaky knees, face pressing into the blankets, ass up—presented, waiting—and before you can even brace yourself, he’s sinking into you, stretching you open in a way that punches a muffled whine from your throat. His fingers tangle in the nape of your hair, tugging just enough to make your back arch as he yanks you back onto him, filling you to the hilt with a single brutal thrust. Your face stays buried in the blankets, lips pouting, muffling little whimpers and breathless complaints—but they’re weak, half-hearted, lost in the haze of pleasure as he starts moving, fucking into you with rough, measured strokes.
“Fussin’ just like Yumi," he growls, voice thick as you tuck your face deeper into the sheets, hiding the way your cheeks burn.
“Tch—feet closer to your chest.”
He rasps this, voice gravel-scraped and impatient. You whimper but obey, knees pressing tight to your body, hips lifted higher—exposed, helpless. Then, in Japanese, sharp and commanding—
“Jibun no handan de ugoite kudasai.”
Move on your own.
And you do.
At first, it's slow—tentative—your hips rocking back and forth in small, uncertain motions, your body arching as you try to find the right angle. The sight of you like this—spread open, trembling, taking him—is obscene. Erotic in the rawest sense.
His fingers snap once, sharply. Another order, another growled phrase—“Head up.”
You just obey, lifting your face from the sheets, breath ragged as you look back over your shoulder at him.
“If you don’t move, I’ll show you how I wanna’ be fucked.”
You pout—lips trembling, eyes wet—but then you start moving again.
Little bounces at first, your ass clapping lightly against his hips—gentle, testing. Then deeper. Faster. More. Until you’re fully fucking yourself on him, your body taking over, driven by instinct, by the need to please. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as you pant, as you whimper—
“…M’sorry, baby."
It slips out without thought, weak and breathless.
Toji only grunts, “Yeah?”
You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. But you say it again, lips quivering.
“M’sorry—"
You’re squirting.
A hot, sudden gush, spilling around him without warning, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. The words turn into something else—deep, shuddering sobs, your voice breaking as you keep repeating it, "M’sorry, m’sorryyy...”
Your husband? He could care less.
Toji fucks you through it. His grip on your hair tightens, his hips snapping up to meet yours as you sob, as you tremble, as you fall apart.
Because this? This is how he takes his anger out.
The world narrows to nothing but the brutal snap of his hips, the sound of skin meeting skin in sharp, wet slaps. Toji yanks your legs out from under you, planting your feet flat on the floor—forcing your spine into a deep arch, your ass tilted up just right for him to sink into you even deeper, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.
You can’t help the noises that tear out of you—loud, broken, punched out moans that rise higher with every merciless drive of his cock. His fist tightens in your hair so everlasting, wrenching your head back as he growls above you, the sound rough and satisfied—because nothing pleases him more than hearing you unravel, your voice frayed beyond coherency.
Your fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white—until he tsks, a single sharp sound of disapproval that has you scrambling to correct yourself before he can fuss. Arms straight back, wrists together, like you know what he wants without him even saying it. His free hand wraps around both your wrists in one brutal grip, pinning them against the small of your back as he drives you into the mattress, fucking you so deep you squeal, high and desperate, your body jerking beneath him.
“Fuckkkk…!”
It’s a shriek, really—raw and guttural, your cunt gushing around him as he pistons in and out, his grunts syncing with your cries in a filthy, primal rhythm. He’s not gentle. Not close. Every snap of his hips is punishing, claiming, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you until you’re keening, your thighs shaking, your mind gone beneath the sheer intensity of it.
And then—
His rhythm stutters.
A deep, guttural growl rips from his throat, his fingers tightening hard in your hair as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing ropes. Your sounds drown his—whimpers, choked cries, the way your body clenches around him as if trying to milk every last drop.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of heavy breathing—his, yours—both ragged and uneven.
Then he slowly pulls out, leaving you limp beneath him, your lower body trembling, your nerves still alight with aftershocks. Toji catches his breath for a beat—just one—before he leans down over you, his voice rough but soft now, murmured against your ear in Japanese.
“Daijōbudesuka?”
You alright?
His hand cups your throat from behind, tilting your face toward his. And then—kisses. Tiny, chaste pecks against your swollen lips, one after another, as if checking that you’re still with him.
You let out a breathless little giggle, your lashes fluttering.
“Mmm...legs feel numb."
He hums.
“They should.”
The moment his hands twist you around, your breath catches—but it melts into another light giggle as he scoops you up effortlessly, depositing you onto the bed like something precious. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the burning imprint of his body still lingering on yours.
And then he looks at you.
His fingers slide through your hair again, slower this time, almost reverent, before his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s startlingly gentle. You nudge your nose against his, affectionate, lingering, before you pull back just enough to murmur—
“…‘Gonna have a better day at work tomorrow?"
Sweet. Hopeful.
Toji rumbles, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead—“Already havin’ a better day now."
Your eyes dilate at that, lashes fluttering as you whisper—"Really?"
“Murder’s still in question for ‘them employees, though.”
Your face falls immediately, lips pressing into a pout as you sigh, long suffering. Before you can protest, his palm lands on your thigh—a light, teasing smack—and then he’s pushing off the bed, leaving you sprawled there. You scramble to grab his discarded flannel, draping it over yourself like a makeshift shield before flipping your hair back with an exaggerated huff.
“You’re hardheaded!”
“Got a hard head, baby.”
You suck your teeth.
But then? he reappears in the doorway, Yumi cradled in his big arms.
The whiplash of it nearly gives you an actual headache. One second, he’s got you bent over the bed, fucking you like you owe him money, and the next? He’s holding that Persian kitten like it’s spun glass, cooing at her in a voice three octaves higher than you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth.
You roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your own brain.
“You don’t talk to me like that.”
Toji ignores you, of course. Because why would he ever acknowledge the way your metaphorical tail is swishing back and forth in irritation? He’s too busy booping Yumi’s tiny pink nose, murmuring, “Momma’s the fussy one, isn’t she? Yeah?"
“Boy, please. I don’t win the hot head award. You’re an overachiever for that score."
He just smirks—smirks!—as he sets Yumi down on the bed, watching with that stupid, smug expression as she prances toward the headboard like the little princess she is, tail held high as she lets out a dignified Mrrow.
One second you’re lounging there, all sass and post coital glow—the next, he’s on you, knocking you flat onto your back in the sheets with a oomph that dissolves into breathless giggles as you shove at his chest.
“Go away!"
He doesn’t.
“You know how much I love you?"
You tilt your head, pretending to think.
“Not sure."
The air between you shifts—just for a heartbeat—from playful to something deeper, something heavier. His rough fingers catch yours, and he brings your hand up, pressing a slow, almost reverent kiss to the gold band on your finger. Against the metal, he murmurs something low and raw—something that sounds suspiciously like—“Mines forever."
You sigh, but it's a warm sound, your fingers curling around his, intertwining like they were made to fit there. Playfully, you squeeze.
“Hungry?"
He exhales through his nose, “Been thinkin' about those red beans all day."
You bat your lashes, feigning innocence.
“I wasn't part of the meal plan?"
His thumb drags over your pulse point as he leans in, breath hot against your ear, “You were the meal plan."
Then, just like that, he's hauling you up—one arm under your thighs, the other bracing your back as he tosses you halfway over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but your legs lock around his waist instinctively, arms looping his neck as he starts moving.
“C'mon. I'm starvin'."
You press your lips to his jaw, nipping just to feel him tense—“You're starvin’, and you love me?"
He grunts—but for him? It’s not a denial. It’s yes, a thousand times over.
And just like that, the scene fades—into the quiet hum of domesticity, into love and passion and marriage with all its rough edges and sweet, stolen moments.
Hey, guys. I’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really gett… Aliyah Kemp needs your support for Help Me
hey, babies. i’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really getting serious for me, and i’m scared what’s going to happen in the next couple of weeks. as y’all know i was recently fired from my job about two weeks ago due to discrimination, and have been scrambling to find another job with no luck. i still have to pay my other half of rent before the end of this month, my light bill, + there’s still upcoming rent for August. i just moved into my apartment in April and never expected this to happen, and i’m so scared to already lose a place i fought tooth and nail to get in the first place. i just need a little extra help until i find another job (which i’m working my ass off to get as soon as possible.) anything is appreciated. PLEASE REPOST ! BOOST !
hi everyone. i hate to post this message, but i am in dire need of help. my fur baby saturn was found to have fluid in her lungs, and all signs are pointing to a diagnosis called congested heart failure. i’ve been crying for days, scared to lose my soul baby. she needs an echocardiogram done to fully dictate her condition so we can start medication. anything would be helpful, even sharing this post on all platforms would make me eternally grateful. thank you.
My name is Anazyah, and on July 2nd, 2026, my fur baby Saturn went into s… Anazyah Robinson needs your support for Help Saturn Get Life-Savi
Not the random guy standing in my doorway looking like he paid bills in MY shit.
The bell above the door settled back into silence and the stranger’s eyes stayed on Rio. Rio’s eyes stayed on him. My eyes darted between them and i was wondering if someone was going to be shot.
I really hoped not.
Blood stains are impossible to get out.
The stranger finally spoke. “You’ve gotten careless.”
Rio kept that same sexy smolder thing he does on his face as the guy’s gaze shifted toward me. That made me more nervous than i already was. His expression wasn’t curiosity, recognition, etc. It was assessment.
Like he was checking a box on a list.
Then he looked back at Rio. “I thought you stopped the drug business, hm?”
I looked at them to see if i could make a run for it because, let’s be honest, who wants to be in this situation? i couldn’t care less about what they had going on.
I slowly started to walk backwards, maybe i could get to the alarm button behind the counter. it’s like those ones in the convenience stores that call the police if you press it.
—————————————————————————
Rio’s jaw tightened and he sighs heavily, rubbing his jaw. “Leave.”
The stranger smirked.
“That’s not really your call anymore.. you wanted out remember?”
My eyes darted between them. Maybe if i run fast enough i’ll make it out back.
The stranger glanced toward the bouquet sitting on my counter. Something flickered across his face. Satisfaction maybe? i’m not good at reading people but it made me hate those flowers even more.
“Message was delivered,” he said.
Then he turned around and walked out.. just like that?! so much for the emergency button.
The door shut behind him which left awkward silence, awkward for me at least.
I stared at Rio, waiting for him to at least say something, anything.
Rio stared at the door before he sighed and spoke semi-tiredly. “Close the shop.”
I blinked and scoffed. “No, are you kidding me?
His eyes closed briefly in annoyance. “I wasn’t asking.”
“And i wasn’t listening! i’m not going to be bossed around in MY store! In MY home! okay?! i’m tired of you and you’re weird gang friends bustin’ in MY shit trying to boss me around!” i yelled, so fed up with everything happening.
His head tilted.
I hated when he did that, so unfair.
People shouldn’t be allowed to look attractive and be a criminal at the same time.
“What is happening!?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I pointed aggressively at the bouquet. “People keep sending me cryptic flower arrangements?!”
I pointed at the door. “Random men keep showing up!” Then I pointed at him. “And you keep acting like I anything to do with all of the bullshit! LEAVE ME ALONE!!”
Rio rubbed a hand across his jaw and for the first time since I’d met him, he looked tired. which fuck him btdubbs, how does he think i feel?
“The flowers weren’t meant for you.”
I furrow my eye brows and groan. “again with this mysterious bullshit- what does that mean?!”
“They were meant for me.”
i pause and roll my eyes before running my hands over my face, my nails catching slightly on my curls.
“Then why send them here?”
His gaze landed on mine.
“Because you’re connected to me now.”
I stared a little before furrowing my eyebrows again and shouting.
“I don’t even know your last name! i met you in the last week and all of a sudden i’m ’connected’ to you?!” i throw my hands around as i shout, “i don’t know you! i can’t stress this enough!”
“You don’t have to.”
I hated how little that explained. I hated how concerned he looked. I hated that a tiny part of me was beginning to get curious.
The bell jingled again and both of us looked up instantly. My pulse spiked and i felt myself get cold but it was only an elderly woman. why is she here this late- ohh it’s lady from yesterday.. no.. the day before? i dunno but i remember her and that’s enough to make me relax.
She looked between us and then slowly backed out of the store.
“come back tomorrow!” i tried to shout after her but she had already driven away by then.
The bell jingled a second time as she left.
Rio sighed.
I covered my face and throw up my hands before putting them on my hips. “Great.”
“What?” he looks back at me.
“Now Doris thinks we’re having a domestic dispute.”
“Who is Doris?”
“The woman who just left.”
“You know her?”
“Rio.” I dropped my hands. “I sell flowers. Half this town tells me their life story while buying tulips… yes i know who she is”
He nods his head and nods “lock up, now.” was all he said before walking out of the shop.
i sigh and then look at the bouquet, Then the door.
“…i need to get out of this town.. and fast”
a/n: okay so i totally lied, this is wayyy passed when i said i was gonna post this BUT i still posted so. and i honestly have no excuse for not posting this except for the fact that im a lazy bum and ive been otp with my bf all summer😭 anyways pleaseplease leave comments and lmk where i should go with this story. also i’ll probably make a masterlist bc my reblogs get mixed up with this stuff so yeah. also this chapter was short in my opinion. love you guys byebye🫶🏽🫶🏽
I wanted to thank all yall for the encoring comments and the likes i know it been a while but I was doing exams and now I have graduation so I hope yall still interested injoy 😛💗💗
•No minors plz.|, s*x, dirty talk, begging kink, subtle finger in ~p, gentle/caring oc, teasing, nicknames (Mama, ma & baby), explicit, |all characters & Author are Black|
Chapter 2
“Shut up,” she muttered, hiding her face against his shoulder while he grinned.
Rio’s laugh was low and warm against her skin, vibrating through his chest where she rested against him. The sound alone made something inside her soften dangerously fast.
God, she missed this.
Missed him.
The way his arms naturally circled around her like they belonged there. The weight of his hands on her thighs. The familiar scent of leather, mint, and whatever cologne he wore that always lingered on her clothes long after he left.
For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe again.
After a second, Imani pulled back just enough to look at him, her fingers absentmindedly smoothing over the material of his black shirt.
“So tell me what you been up to since you so busy,” she asked, trying to sound annoyed instead of hopelessly relieved he was here.
Rio adjusted her in his lap immediately, large hands sliding underneath her thighs as he lifted her higher instinctively so she wasn’t sitting directly against him.
The movement made warmth crawl up Imani’s neck.
“Why you acting like it’s been years, mama?” Rio teased quietly, looking up at her through heavy eyes. “It’s been a month—”
His hands wandered absentmindedly as he held her in his lap, making him pause.
“You got panties on,” he muttered, sounding almost surprised.
Imani stared at him.
Then rolled her eyes.
“Of course I do.”
She immediately pushed his hand away before he could get any more distracted.
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
A grin tugged at Rio’s mouth.
“Wasn’t changin’ the subject.”
“Yes, you were.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
Rio laughed under his breath, settling back against the bedpost while she continued glaring at him.
“A month is long,” she argued softly. “Is that normal for you? Not seeing me for that long?”
She leaned back slightly when he leaned in to kiss her, his lips barely brushing hers before she turned her face away.
“Mhm,” he murmured stubbornly, chasing her mouth again. “Lemme kiss you, girl.”
“No.”
She pressed her palm against the center of his chest, trying not to notice how hard and warm he felt beneath her hand.
“No, answer me first.”
Rio sighed dramatically, his hands squeezing her thighs once.
“No, Imani Mickelson,” he finally answered, using her full name. “It ain’t normal for me.”
Her eyes flicked back to his face for a second before she looked away again.
That answer should not have made her heart race like this.
But it did.
Being this close to him again after weeks of distance felt overwhelming in the worst and best way possible.
Everywhere he touched her skin felt hot. Every glance from him made butterflies erupt violently in her stomach.
And Rio wasn’t even really trying.
He was just looking at her.
Like he missed her too.
“No, you not kissing me yet,” she whispered, trying to hold onto the last scraps of her irritation. “Tell me what’s new.
A soft laugh escaped her when Rio suddenly buried his face into the curve of her neck, breathing her in before biting lightly at the sensitive skin there the man knew exactly what he was doing.
“Rio,” she squealed quietly, shoulders jumping.
His beard scraped against her skin just enough to make goosebumps rise down her arms.
“You smell so good,” he muttered against her neck.
Imani’s stomach flipped.
“You got more tattoos?” she asked quickly, mostly because she needed something else to focus on before she melted completely into him.
Rio leaned back slightly.
“Yeah.”
Her eyes traveled over the fresh ink crawling higher up his arms and disappearing beneath his sleeves. Even his hands had more tattoos than before.
He looked rougher now.
Sharper.
More dangerous somehow.
And embarrassingly enough, she loved it.
Rio watched her staring before licking slowly across his bottom lip.
“I got one of you,” he said casually.
Imani gasped.
“Rio!”
Immediately she grabbed at his shirt, pulling the collar down desperately trying to see while he laughed under his breath.
His chest came into view piece by piece dark ink stretched across warm brown skin, muscles shifting underneath every time he moved.
Her breath caught slightly.
Not just because he was attractive, though he absolutely was, but because Rio carried himself with this lazy confidence that made everything he did feel intimate somehow.
But there was no tattoo for her.
Imani sucked her teeth loudly.
“You lie too much.”
She pinched his side, making him catch her wrist instantly with a grin.
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes you are.”
“Nah,” he murmured. “Look.”
His hand slid over hers slowly, guiding it lower down his stomach.
The second her fingers brushed warm skin beneath his shirt, Imani’s breath hitched quietly.
Rio’s eyes lifted to hers immediately at the reaction.
Slowly, carefully, he guided her hand lower until her fingertips stopped just beneath his belly button.
And there it was.
Her name.
Permanent.
Thick Dark ink pressed into his skin.
Imani froze completely.
For a second she forgot how to breathe.
Her fingertips traced over the tattoo carefully, almost like she needed to make sure it was real. Heat flooded her chest so fast it almost hurt.
“Rio…” she whispered.
Her voice sounded smaller now.
Softer.
Because nobody had ever loved her loudly before.
Not like this.
Not in ways that terrified her and comforted her at the same time.
When she looked back up at him, Rio was already watching her closely, all the teasing gone from his face now.
Like her reaction mattered more than he expected it to.
And somehow that made her chest ache even worse.
“You obsessed with me, hm?” Imani asked softly, inching closer until her face hovered just above his.
Her hair brushed against his forehead slightly as she stared down at him, eyes still a little glossy from crying earlier but warmer now. Softer.
Rio’s face immediately broke into a grin.
“Yeah,” he admitted without hesitation, hands tightening against her thighs. “Now gimme my kiss.”
Imani tried to fight her smile and failed.
“Needy.”
“Mhm.”
She dipped down, but didn't give it to him easy. Her mouth hovered a breath from his, close enough to feel the heat coming off his lips, and she watched his eyes flutter half-closed in anticipation. then She finally leaned down, pressing a teasing kiss against his top lip first, slow and exaggerated enough to make a quiet sound between them before she pulled back an inch, letting him ache for it
"Baby," he breathed, the word barely there.
That's what she wanted.
She crushed her mouth to his.
Her fingers sank into his beard, gripping the coarse hair and tugging his jaw down, opening him wide. Her tongue pushed past his teeth, licking into him deep and filthy, dragging across the roof of his mouth, curling around his tongue.
He tasted like want.
Like something desperate. A hot, wet groan rumbled up from his chest and she swallowed it, felt it vibrate through her own mouth.
His hands shot up her thighs, palms rough and greedy, squeezing the soft flesh before they found her waist.
His fingers hooked into the string of her thong, pulling it taut against her hipbone. He tugged a slow, torturous pull that dragged the fabric across her wet swollen clit then let it snap back, sharp and stinging against her skin.
She whimpered into his mouth, and he grinned against her tongue.
She bit his bottom lip, pulled it between her teeth, held it. His breath stuttered.
She licked the sting away, then dove back in, her mouth sliding against his, slick and open, spit-sloppy and desperate.
The sound of it wet lips, heavy breathing, the tiny choked moans he couldn't hold back filled the space between them.
Her hips rolled against his thigh, grinding slow, and she felt the damp heat of her own pussy through the thin fabric of her thong. She didn't care. She wanted him to feel it how much she wanted this.
When she finally tore her mouth away, a thick string of spit connected their lips. It broke, falling onto his chin.
She stayed there, forehead pressed to his, breathing him in, her thumb stroking through his wet beard.
The world narrowed to the space between them.
Rio caught her lips before she hit the mattress, kissing her deep as he turned, her body twisting in his arms until her spine met the sheets and he was there standing between her open legs, looking down at her like she was something he'd been starving for.
The ceiling light haloed his head, casting his face in shadow, but she could see the hunger in the set of his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell like he'd been running.
Imani grinned up at him, slow and wicked, and pressed the arch of her foot against the heavy ridge straining against his jeans.
He groaned a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the air between them and his hips snapped forward, grinding her down into the mattress.
The pressure made her gasp, the denim rough against the soaked fabric of her thong, and she bucked up against him instinctively, her fingers wrapping around his wrists.
"I want it," she breathed, her voice already wrecked.
She tugged him down, but he pulled back just enough to drag his mouth along her jaw, teeth grazing the bone, tongue following in a wet trail that made her shiver.
He kissed down the column of her throat, sucking bruises into the skin above her collarbone, and she could feel his smile against her pulse point when she whimpered.
"People downstairs, Imani," he muttered against her skin, his voice strangled, like every word cost him something.
She slid her hand from his wrist, down his stomach, past the waistband of his jeans, until her palm pressed flat against the stiff length of him through the denim. He was hard — painfully hard — and she squeezed, watching his eyes roll shut.
"I'll be quiet, baby."
He barked out a laugh against her throat, the sound hot and disbelieving. "You? Quiet?"
She squeezed harder, and his laugh turned into a choked grunt.
pulling back to look at her, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black.
Imani nodded her head, reaching up to trace the line of his bottom lip with her thumb. "Please."
Something flickered in his expression surprise, maybe, or the weight of what she was offering but it was swallowed by want before it could take root.
She arched up, pressing her chest against his, and when she spoke again her voice was honey and gravel.
"Please."
She grabbed his hand, guiding it down between her thighs, pressing his palm flat against the soaked fabric of her thong.
The heat of her hit him through the lace, wet and obscene, and his breath stuttered in his chest.
He pulled away, just enough to look.
Her thighs were glistening, her arousal already beading on the skin and trailing down toward the sheets. The black lace of her thong had gone translucent, plastered to her like a second skin, outlining every fold, every curve. Her pussy looked swollen, puffy, the lips parted and slick, and the hard nub of her clit pressed against the fabric like a pearl trapped in silk.
"Shit," he breathed.
His finger pressed down, dragging through her slit through the lace, and the fabric bunched and pulled against her clit, making her gasp. He watched his own hand move, transfixed, as her wetness soaked through, coating his fingers until they shone in the dim light.
"You gon' be quiet?" he asked, and his voice had dropped an octave, rough and dark.
Imani nodded, her lip caught between her teeth, her hips rolling into his hand.
"Mhm. I promise."
He pressed harder, circling her clit through the soaked lace, and she bucked against him, a broken sound caught in her throat as he slid his thumb against her slippery clit his pointer finger massaging her opening.
He watched her face the way her eyes fluttered, the way her mouth fell open, the way her breath came in short, punched-out gasps — and then he pulled his hand away.
She almost whined at the loss.
But he brought his fingers to his mouth, and the smell of her hit him first sweet and salty and faintly metallic, the perfume of her want.
He breathed it in, his eyes never leaving hers, and then he opened his mouth and licked her off his skin.
The taste flooded his tongue. Tart. Addictive. Her.
He groaned, his jaw working as he sucked his middle finger clean, then his index, the sound wet and deliberate.
Imani's thighs pressed together at the sight, a fresh pulse of heat flooding her core.
"God, you taste good," he muttered, more to himself than to her, and then he reached for the waistband of her thong.
He didn't bother sliding it off. He hooked his fingers in the fabric at her hip and pulled, letting it snap back against her skin, watching the way her whole body jolted. Then he did it again, harder, and she gasped, her nails digging into the sheets.
"Rio."
"Shh." He pressed a finger to his lips, then lowered that same hand to her throat not squeezing, just resting there, feeling her pulse hammer against his palm. "You said you'd be quiet, right?"
She nodded, her throat working under his hand.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering inches from her core. The heat of his breath ghosted over her through the wet lace, and she felt herself clench around nothing, desperate and empty.
"Let's see how long that shit last."
He pressed his mouth to her through the thong.
The lace was rough against his tongue, but he didn't care he could taste her through it, feel the heat of her, hear the way she gasped and tried to muffle it with her own hand.
He sucked her clit through the fabric, pulling it into his mouth, letting his teeth graze just enough to make her jump, and then he licked slow and flat, pressing the lace into her, dragging it against her most sensitive skin.
Her hand flew to his head,pushing her head further down grinding into his mouth her mouth open with a silent moan.
"O-Oh please Don't stop," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Fuck, baby, don't stop."
He pulled back just long enough to hook his thumbs in the waistband of her thong and drag it down her thighs, past her knees, off one ankle.
She lay bare before him slick and swollen and open, her thighs trembling, her chest flushed, her nipples hard peaks against the thin fabric of her tank top.
"Look at you mama," he said, his voice reverent. "Pussy so fucking pretty."
He lowered himself between her thighs, draped her legs over his shoulders, and buried his face in her like a man dying of thirst.
The first touch of his tongue flat, broad, dragging from her entrance to her clit made her entire body bow off the mattress.
She bit down on her own hand, trying to smother the cry that tore from her throat, but it came out anyway, muffled and desperate. He groaned against her, the vibration traveling through her flesh, and the sound made her clench, her juice flooding his tongue.
He lapped at her like he was worshiping, like she was holy, his tongue circling her bundle of nerves in lazy figure-eights before flicking sharp and fast, making her hips jerk.
“Uh baby…,” she whimpered as her eyes fluttered rolling back into her head as her stomach fluttered
He sucked her clit into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing, and she felt it everywhere in her toes, her fingertips, the base of her spine, that gathering heat coiling tight and hot in her belly.
"That's it," he breathed against her, his voice a low rumble against her most sensitive flesh. "Come on my tongue, baby. Lemme taste you."
She was already there teetering on the edge, every nerve ending screaming and when he pushed two fingers inside her, crooking them just right, she shattered her thighs shook.
Her orgasm ripped through her in waves, her thighs clamping around his head, her hand fisted in his hair, holding him there as she rode it out.
He didn't stop he kept licking, kept sucking, drinking every drop of her release until she was trembling and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
“Ok baby.” she whined as her eyes rolled back into her head as he kept sucking before pulling away.
He surfaced, his chin slick and shining, his mouth wet with her.
With a grin and her cum running down his chin he picked up Imani shifting them both up to the head board as she panted for a breath.
Her back hit the bed with a soft thud, the impact shuddering through her spine and rattling the breath from her lungs. The ceiling fan churned above her, blades catching the pale slice of streetlight bleeding through the blinds — turning slow, lazy circles she couldn't focus on. Her legs were still trembling, still open, still wet.
“You forgive me, mama.”
His voice scraped against the shell of her ear, low and rough, the words vibrating into the sweat-slicked curve of her throat where his lips still pressed. She threw an arm over her eyes, blocking out the spin of the room, and tried to remember how to close her thighs.
Her clit pulsed. Once. Twice. A small, breathy whimper leaked from the back of her throat before she could catch it because he was circling her again. His fingertips dragged through the mess he'd made, drawing slow, torturous shapes around the swollen hood of her clit, never quite landing where she needed it most. The sound of it that wet, slick macaroni sounds.
She loved the feeling of him everywhere. But there — between her legs, inside her pussy— he knew her body better than she did. Knew which angle made her grind down into the mattress. Knew the exact pressure to turn her legs to water. Knew that she'd say yes even when her throat had forgotten how to shape the word.
“Hm. Answer me, ma.”
She could feel him smirk against her collarbone. Feel it in the way his teeth grazed her skin, in the way his fingers slowed to a deliberate crawl He would stop. She knew that with the same certainty she knew her own heartbeat. If she didn't answer, he'd pull his hand away.
But she couldn't catch her breath. Couldn't do anything but lie there, arm still pressed over her eyes, chest heaving, her inner thighs trembling against his wrist every time his fingers drifted close.
He counted. She felt it in the rhythm of his touch — one, two, three slow circles, then a pause that made her stomach clench. Another two, featherlight, dragging through the slick seam of her, then stopping just short of her opening.
Her hips bucked. Chased him.
"Uh-uh." His voice was a low rumble against her jaw. "Words, Imani."
She couldn't. her throat was a fist, her lungs were on fire, and every nerve in her body had pooled between her legs where his fingers were right there, driving her insane making her feel so good.
He started to pull away.
Her hand shot up and grabbed the back of his neck fingers digging into the short hairs at his nape, holding him in place, anchoring his mouth to her skin before he could retreat
"I'm cumming," she gasped.
The words barely cleared her lips before her body proved her right. Her lower stomach tightened, a hot coil pulling, and then breaking flooding her with heat that rushed through her thighs, her belly, her chest. She arched off the bed, a sound tearing from her throat that wasn't quite a moan and wasn't quite a sob as she came all over his hand. Her hips rolled through it, grinding into his palm, desperate and unashamed, and she felt herself dripping a gush of wetness that ran down between her ass, soaking the sheets beneath her.
He didn't stop. His middle finger and ring slid into her slammed into her clenching opening and she heard herself cry out, a raw, broken sound swallowed by the thrum of the ceiling fan. Her vision spotted. Her ears rang. The world narrowed to the stretch of his finger inside her, the curl of it against that spot that made her toes curl, the wet sound of him pumping slowly through her release as he hummed at the look on her face.
“Shit.”
She heard him breathe the word like a prayer against her throat.
“Uh god.”
Her cum was still running down his hand, and he was still inside her, and she could feel him staring — feel his eyes on her face, on the arm still thrown over her eyes, on the way her mouth hung open as she fought to remember how to inhale.
"I do, baby. I can't—please."
She grabbed his wrist. His fingers were still buried in her, and the sensation the fullness, the stretch sent another tremor through her thighs. She couldn't. She truly didn't know if she had anything left. Her muscles were jelly, her mind was static, and the sheets beneath her were soaked through.
But he was still hard against her hip. Still pressed against her tthigh. Still looking at her like she was something he wanted to devour all over again.
the detailssss!!! ugh i love a fic that makes meeee feel it all too! the want AND the need!! so precious and vulnerable and sooo sensual!! and i can’t with Rio mentioning people being down stairs sir we do not care!!! 🤣🩷 you ate this upppp!! this was a perfect part 2!!!
gracieabrams
origamiaround
pixelskylines
ellievsbear
kianamaiart
areudirty
