[whimsihoe]

black american princess

about my blog݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆— 18+ , multifandom , beginner writer , my specialty is in imagines , kinky .

about my mii݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆— college student , sweet & savory girlie , certified young ho , smoke > stack , aquarius , marvel & dc fan , antm lover .

dni݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆— racists , homophobia , misogyny , rude ppl , sinners haters (idgaf if it's your opinion) , unsolicited advice .

[mikedotorg]

sister! you have to agree with me on this

speechless is a sex song

not the beyonce one i'm talking about our boo michael

me and my homegirls were talking about this i could cum QUICK!!! listening to that song

GIRLLLL I AGREE!!! tell your homegirls they onto something

[whimsihoe]

THE QUEEN HAS SPOKEN!!

[whimsihoe]

i hate playing house because then eventually you have to go home ... and if you play your part good enough i'm not going home

🤷🏾‍♀️

[kumkaniudaku]

Stay A While (2)

Summary: Terry and Treece are feeling the sparks again.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3,659

Part: 2 of ??

Warnings: None. This one's a safe for work slow burn. Enjoy.

Previous

Grocery shopping was Patrice's private pastime. She was the queen of her universe when she walked through aisles every Saturday morning. Every flash bargain and value-sized item bent to her will for a chance at making it to her humble abode and fulfilling its one purpose in life. Employees greeted her like royalty. Customers started conversations like old friends, always giving her the scoop on any sale they'd overheard in their neighborhood Facebook groups. She was happy. She was zen. She was in her element.

"Do you need this?" 

She was a woman dragging around a large man intent on breaking any modicum of concentration she had left.

Patrice stopped and looked over her shoulder at Terry, who held a bag of cotton candy grapes up in the air for her inspection. "No, TJ. Put it down." 

"Why? You like grapes." 

"Because we're getting grapes from the farmer's market. Now, put it back."

Her rebuke was sweet but stern. Having him as a way too familiar roommate was becoming easier as the days passed. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't miss the freedom to go for a walk, watch a movie on the couch, or even enjoy an intimate moment alone in her own house without a man looming somewhere in the very near background. 

He didn't allow her to travel alone, and she never had the energy to protest. 

"You don't have to talk to me like I'm a kid," he grumbled as he put the grapes back in their place.

"Then stop acting like one. I have a list. I know what I need." 

"I know what I need." He exaggerated his mimicry for maximum effect. 

"You see how that was childish?" 

"Whatever." 

Patrice ignored him in favor of browsing packages of beef for the best deal. If she didn't respond, maybe he would get the hint. And, for a few moments, he did. Terry took a break in conversation to scan the immediate area quietly. He noted each patron and their most important details before checking the exit and entry points at the front of the store. They weren't secure enough, but he could manage if the situation required evacuation.

A lack of action soon turned his attention back to Patrice, who still hadn't decided. He gave her a slow once over and smiled at how much focus she put into such a simple choice. Her brow remained furrowed in intense thought, transforming her into the ninth-grade Patrice he met during a chance encounter in the library. Truthfully, he didn't have much of an opinion either way. He just wanted to talk to her every second of the day, even if it meant being annoying. 

"Get that one." 

His sudden interruption startled Patrice out of her zone, adding a final straw to an already exhausted camel's back. Terry grinned in triumph as she closed her eyes for a calming breath. 

"Terry," she spoke, slow and measured to keep the peace. "Take the other half of this list and get out of my face. Don't come back until you find everything. I'll meet you at the register." 

She didn't give him much time to protest before she shoved a carefully torn half of paper into his chest and sent him on his way. He gave her a sarcastic salute, which she waved off without a second look. She needed a moment alone and didn't care if he came back with Fruity O's instead of Fruit Loops if that meant he would be out of her hair for more than 10 minutes. 

Terry found himself slowly meandering around the grocery store with a tiny basket in tow, exhausted by all the options on each aisle. If Patrice hadn't been so meticulous with her lists, he would've given up on the mission and gone back to home base with his tail tucked between his legs. 

After sourcing the perfect pint of Oreo ice cream as an apology for his behavior, Terry found himself drawn to the sound of laughter on the next aisle. Sure enough, Patrice was parked by the frozen vegetables and engaged with a man dressed in the store's colors with his eyes directed far too low to be looking at Patrice's face. 

Terry quickly reached her location, stopping behind Patrice to show her guest the full extent of his scowl. 

Patrice noticed how his once loose body language had gone stiff and sighed. She didn't need to investigate the problem. Only her human pitbull could make a man cower in fear like that. 

"Derrick, this is Terry. Terry, this is Derrick. He usually helps me get stuff to my car." 

"Ah, man. It's a good thing I'm here, right? We don't need you taking too many breaks from stocking. Mornin' rush can get crazy." 

"Terry," Patrice admonished with a harsh whisper and an elbow to his stomach. 

Terry remained steadfast, keeping his eyes on Derrick while taking one step closer. A taunting smile tugged on the right side of his mouth. He waited on any sign of fight from his unspoken adversary. 

Derrick stood in palpable discomfort, sizing up the outcomes if he decided to test his luck. Each mental scenario led him back to some instance of physical harm on his last shift of the week. He had plans for the weekend, none involving a trip to the emergency room.

Patrice stood between a rock and a hardheaded man, praying that the Lord would end her suffering.

"That's what I was about to say," Derrick answered before shifting his attention back to Patrice. "I think I oughta get going. See you around, Ms. Ellis?" 

"Same time next week." 

He nodded in half-hearted agreement and hurried out of dodge, with Terry keeping a watchful eye until he was safely around the corner. 

Patrice groaned with one hand, rubbing tight circles at her temple. "What in the hell was that about?" 

"He wouldn't even look you in the eye. If he can't look you in the eye when he's speaking, he can't protect you, and he doesn't respect you." 

"I'm not looking for his protection. I need this water loaded into my trunk every week when you aren't here!" 

"I'll never not be here. Problem solved."

His declaration was so sure, so matter of fact, that it left Patrice no room for retort. So she resorted to schoolyard antics. 

It was her turn to mock him with an exaggerated, deep voice. "Problem solved. Push the damn cart since you got so much energy." 

He obliged without protest and a proud, self-satisfied grin that Patrice couldn't see while she led the way to the register. An unexpected system error had halted all transactions, leaving them log jammed in a long line of restless customers. 

Together, they stood sharing light banter and running through weekend tasks, resembling any other couple making a store run to strangers observing them from the outside looking in. Former acquaintances, however, had no problem drawing attention to the pair from three spots back in line. 

"I know that ain't who I think it is." Both Patrice's and Terry's eyes darted up to find the source of the loud outburst, only to whisper 'fuck’ in tandem when they spotted Katrina Spivey waving her arms to grab their attention. "Hey, Terry Richmond!" 

Terry pretended to ignore being singled out by turning his back, earning a stifled laugh from Patrice. Katrina, not one to be deterred, used the moment to push past patrons in line until she reached her destination with a host of angry faces in her wake. 

"Well, if it ain't Mr. and Miss Homecoming in the flesh. You two finally stopped kidding around and got married?" 

"No," Terry answered without much explanation, his back still turned. Patrice reluctantly made up his slack. 

"What Terry meant to say was that we're not married. We're not together at all, actually. But he's here to visit me for a while." 

"What a blessing it is to have friends you can lean on when you need a helping hand."

"Amen."

An awkward tension settled into the conversation's lull, compounded by Terry's outright refusal to engage. Patrice was in deep water without a paddle and a co-captain who had already jumped ship.

Katrina wouldn't let the conversation end and take her newfound place in line. She continued to pry.

"Both of y'all look good! How long has it been since we last saw each other, huh? Gotta be since Terry's graduation send-off." 

Patrice feigned interest with a hollow smile. "Yeah, I think that was it. A looong time ago. All grown up now."

"And thank God for it! I remember how sad you looked all night because ol' Terry was moving away. Like a little crying puppy!" 

Katrina's laughter didn't quite reach Terry or Patrice, who bristled at mentioning one of the more contentious nights in their friendship. 

"Everybody's been a little young and dumb, right? Like when you and BJ got caught underneath the bleachers during state championships." 

Checkmate. A little reminder of her indiscretions had turned Katrina's condescending smile into a mean mug that could burn through anyone not equally as stubborn. 

Terry showed his approval with a light nudge against Patrice's arm. That was his girl. Sweet as pie but a tongue coated in venom when backed against the wall. He'd been on the receiving end on one too many occasions. It felt good to be on the winning side this time. 

Three seconds of a Western standoff had culminated in a gift sent via store intercom. 

"Apologies for the stoppage, folks. Our registers are back up and running. Thanks for your patience." 

Terry moved the cart to place items on the conveyor belt while Patrice waited for the conversation to resume.

Recovering from the sharp end of a verbal lashing, Katrina cleared her throat and grabbed hold of her cart in preparation to skip lines. 

"Well, I don't wanna hold y'all too much longer. If y'all don't think you're too good to mingle with us Francis High Hornets anymore, Corey's throwing a little Juneteenth gathering at his daddy's pool hall. This is my personal invite for the both of you."

"We were already invited. Maybe we'll make an appearance." 

"That'd be grand." 

"I bet it would."

Nice nasty smiles passed between the two foes until Katrina was off to harass some other unsuspecting patron. 

Patrice tried to let go of her frustration with an angry huff before turning to catch up with Terry, who was casually moving groceries from the bagging station to the shopping basket. He waited a moment before acknowledging the obvious. 

"You over it now, or do I need to iron a shirt for tonight?" 

"I'm over it," Patrice answered plainly. She calmly handed over payment for the day's groceries and smiled ever so sweetly to bid the cashier farewell. To an outsider, she'd returned to her zen state without much effort. Terry was no outsider and kept a cautious eye on her as they loaded bags into the trunk and got settled in the front seat of her SUV. 

"You sure you're good," he asked as he backed out of their parking space. 

"I'm sure, TJ," she answered with almost too much enthusiasm. Terry started a mental countdown for the other shoe to drop. "I'll iron the shirt. You need to shave." 

--------

The final verdict? A plain white T-shirt. 

An hour of searching, choosing, rejecting, and choosing again led them to a plain, crisp white tee. Patrice said it went better with her yellow wrap dress, which she chose because her girlfriends were all in dresses, and she wanted to match the occasion. It all sounded like made-up bullshit to Terry. Still, he accepted being treated like a Ken Doll because it meant that his Barbie would agree to a two-hour hard stop at the festivities. 

He'd already started his stopwatch when they pulled up on a busy street in front of an even busier hole in the wall.

The smell of fresh grease greeted them upon crossing the threshold from outside into Mister C's Bar and Lounge. Fried fish, French fries, and wings in any flavor you could ask for sat in the service window, waiting for their delivery to any one of the patrons packed from wall to cinderblock wall. Terry inhaled deeply and let his scowl drop for one second to fantasize about a bite of Corey Sr.'s signature catfish and fries basket. 

Next came the familiar mix of sweat and weed near the dancefloor as bodies intertwined to some GloRilla song neither of them recognized. Thick traffic in the center of the room paused Patrice on her path to the pool tables, locking her between Terry and a crowd that wouldn't budge. 

"Excuse me!" she shouted over a swell of crowd reaction to a new song. "I need to get by!" 

No response. Not even a look back as she used a hand to create space between her and a group of men debating nonsense. Before she could try again, Terry used one hand to push her forward and his voice to clear the way. 

"Yo, step out of the way. We need to get through." Direct and to the point. He left no room for misinterpretation, and his baritone's boom left no confusion about who was calling the shots. Patrice watched with her lips slightly parted in awe. 

The first reaction to his demand was the embers of confrontation. Each member of the group sized Terry up, noticing his heavy scowl and size in comparison to their own. Then, they realized that this wasn't a winning game. 

The flashiest of the group nodded, though disdain at the mere suggestion that he was in the way kept his mouth in a tight frown. "Yeah, you good, OG. My fault." 

Another light push propelled Patrice forward as Terry maintained with each man until they had passed. 

Once they were out of the mix and nearing their destination, he advised, "Stay close." Patrice nodded her compliance, shocking Terry into a slight smile in appreciation for her obedience. 

Sparks of electricity shot between them but had no time to turn into a total current before Corey called out to them. 

"Treece! Terry! We over here!" 

Surrounded by familiar faces from Francis Edward's Class of 2010, Corey welcomed them with open arms and his ever-present 100-watt smile. At a slight 5'6", 150 on his best day, he'd always been larger than his frame would suggest. Loud and flamboyant had always been the name of his game, earning him anything he set his sights on.

It didn't take long for the trio and Corey's wife, June, to fall into familiar habits and friendly jabs at one another as they took their seats in a makeshift VIP section by the pool tables. The Three-Headed Monster was their moniker in high school, and they moved like a military force. Terry was the enforcer, while Corey and Patrice served as judge and prosecutor. If you had an issue with one, you had an issue with all three. 

"Your security is lax. Who trained them?" Terry pointed out during a dead spot in conversation. 

Corey followed his eyeline to the two young men standing at the door and back. "My boy at the sheriff's office. What you see?" 

"They look soft. It wouldn't take much to overpower them and get in for some drama. You only have one exit. Somebody breeches this place, and you're on the hook for a tragedy. Plus, the one on the left is scared. He'll be the first to leave if things get hot. Watch him."

"Impressive," June remarked, smiling at Patrice, who subtly playfully waved her off.

"Hm." Corey took a long pull from his cigar, taking in the information before responding." You here for a minute, T? I got some connections over at Liberty if you looking to get back in the swing of things." 

"Contract?" 

"Whatever you need, man. You know I'm good for it."

Terry looked over at Patrice for some indication that she believed in Corey, and she returned with a subtle nod and encouraging smile. June looked between them and then at her husband before clearing her throat. 

"It looks like Kel and his boy are back on the pool table. You know he still owes you a game from when he cheated last week." 

"Hell yeah," Corey agreed as he turned in his seat to get a look at his enemy. "Aye, T, you trynna make $100 real quick?" 

"It's either that or you gotta come dance with me," Patrice challenged. "This rum and pineapple got me feeling a little loose." 

She wasn't lying. A taste of alcohol in her system was starting to make her want to explore parts of the Patrice she thought she left at North Carolina A&T. Every heart-rattling thump of Megan Thee Stallion's latest and greatest had her thinking about reminding everyone in the room that she could move with the best of them. 

Her little grind in her seat made Terry show teeth in a small grin before he stood to his full height and looked down at her. His eyes were hooded and dreamy from some combination of exhaustion and a contact high, reintroducing that spark from before.

"Don't go too far. I'll be back with your money in a little bit." 

Patrice's tongue felt too heavy to respond coherently past a punch-drunk nod. June watched her watch him make his way down the platform and into the crowd until both men were out of earshot. 

She whistled and shook her head. "That's a good-looking man, ain't he?" 

"Who? Corey? He alright. He's like a slightly more attractive Taye Diggs." 

"First off, ouch," June laughed. "Second, I was talking about Terry. He was cute in high school, but I'll be damned if that second puberty didn't take him to a whole 'nother level." 

"Don't tell him that. His head is big enough."

"You know you wrong for that." If the music weren't so loud, everyone in the building would've heard the pair guffawing over Patrice's petty insult. 

Once they contained themselves, June took a sip from her margarita and shifted in her seat to get closer to Patrice.

"He likes you still." Five plain words shook Patrice internally as she struggled to maintain a poker face. June continued. "I see the way he looks for your approval and damn near trips on himself to fulfill your every whim. You're all he talks about when he and Corey get on the phone." 

"They talk?" 

"From time to time. I think he needs a man's opinion sometimes, you know?" 

Patrice wrestled with the influx of information as June continued. 

"That man is mean as a snake. Always has been and always will be. But, you bring something out of him. Even if you can't always see it." 

"If that were the case, things would've been different for us back then." 

June shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe you're right where you're supposed to be. I know I can't make you do what you don't wanna do, but if what I say means anything, focus on today. Thirty-two-year-old Terry is so much more prepared to love you than eighteen-year-old Terry was." 

Punctuating her advice, June tapped Patrice's leg twice before taking a step away to refill their tray of food. 

Focus on today.

The words replayed in her mind repeatedly; even after their two hours were up, Terry had returned $100 richer, and they were back on the road to their quiet slice of the world. 

They rode together in content quiet, letting the Quiet Storm host talk while Terry tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. 

Randomly, he would glance in her direction, assuming she had lost the sleep battle to her old friend Bacardi. When he reached over to adjust the air vent on her side of the car, he was surprised when she mumbled a low "thank you." 

"My bad. I thought you were sleeping." 

"No. My head is swimming, though. Don't let me drink that much anymore." she laughed. 

He chuckled along with her but didn't agree to keep her from letting her hair down occasionally. In his eyes, seeing her relaxed and carefree was a gift to the world. 

The opening notes of Tevin Campbell's "I'm Ready" swirled around them, sounding like a secret message to Patrice as she focused on streetlights to keep the contents of her dinner inside her stomach. 

"Hey," she whispered before she could catch herself. Terry acknowledged her with a glance. "Do you think you're still scared?" 

"Of what?" 

"Of whatever kept you away for so long?"

He thought for a moment, wanting to make sure he was clear with his word. "No. I was never afraid of you. I was afraid of bringing you along for a ride I might not survive. That's not a threat anymore. So, no, I'm not scared anymore."

You know I'm ready

To love you

Forever 

Patrice reached across the center console until she reached Terry's hand to interlock her fingers with his. He gave her an appreciative squeeze without taking his eyes off the road. 

"I-I don't think I'm scared anymore either."

Her heart raced wildly behind her ribs, and Patrice was that if Terry pressed his wrist close enough to hers, he could feel her pulse accelerate. He didn't mind either way. Sweaty palms and trembling fingers would never be enough for him to let her go. Not again. 

As if she'd break if he moved too fast, Terry brought her hand to his lips slowly. One kiss. Another. Two more. And a final one for good measure. 

When he'd had his fill of her skin, he pressed the spot up against his cheek. He needed to feel and absorb her until they were one body. 

But, for tonight at least, this was enough.

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @oniccah @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse

[whimsihoe]

older black women love them some jewelry lol

[whimsihoe]

my issue is i want everything fried 😭

[whimsihoe]

i'm glad i have a pretty face or else i'd be a big ugly ass P

[whimsihoe]

no shade i hate traveling! like it's fun to experience new cultures and stuff but i'd rather be home

if i'm not invited i'm not going 9/10

[whimsihoe]

i'm too jealous for polygamy ... like i'd feel worthless as fuck

[notapradagurl]

Do you think you can do marshawn lunch?

Writer’s Block.

Black Fem!Reader!Writer x Marshawn Lynch.

A/N: I definitely can! writer’s block is a mf, so I thought of Marshawn, listened to Kelly Rowland’s Motivation, and lots of Pretty Ricky. That gave me something. Can't complain. 🤷‍♀️

Summary: Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. Your son, Trevon, was happy, and Marshawn kept everything casual, cool, and cordial. No lingering heat between you two. You just needed one thing: his help on your new book.

Warnings: use of the n-word, dirty talk, slight praise, light teasing, Dom!Marshawn, light spanking, choking, co-parenting, mention of writer’s block, fucking for inspiration, various positions, multiple orgasms, slight Daddy kink, manhandling?

Taglist: @whimsihoe @satoruya @planetblaque @henneseyhoe

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1

@pocketsizedpanther @kinginwithbreezy-blog @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@iterum-incipi @writingsbytee @avoidthings @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @megamindsecretlair

@uniqueoutlierblog @mama-2001 @kaylalb @theereinawrites @uzumaki-rebellion @blyffe @kumkaniudaku @luckydaye777 @that-one-anxious-mango @rolemodelshit @miyuhpapayuh @kindofaintrovert

————-

Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. You've normally gone over the cons. He was a present father, and loved seeing you and his son, Trevon. So far, everything has been cordial, and cool between the two of you.

Marshawn spends time with Trevon on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends. You have had your own time to focus on yourself, working on your upcoming book, which currently only has a title and the first half completed.

You've penned dark paranormal stories featuring vampires and werewolves, dark romance, sci-fi, horror, somber romance, and steamy romance, incorporated the Grumpy x Sunshine trope, incorporating all tropes as you continued writing book after book.

Marshawn has been supportive of your successful writing career, and read a few of your books. He was impressed by your vast vocabulary, and wordplay.

Every character was black, you've wanted your readers to feel represented in each one. So far, you've been taking your time, little by little for this book.

Every book you wrote was a big hit, despite the heavy criticism of your smut scenes, but hey. Your fans adorned you, and your writing. That’s what matters most.

Thankfully, your publicist said you have enough time before the deadline of your book, and you were halfway there. You just need to write the smut scenes.

Now, you were writing a sports romance. Which wasn’t your forte. Since your time with Marshawn, you've been following sports prior to writing your book. You’ve been doing great up to this point.

There was tension in your body that ached for Marshawn. An ache swirling in your stomach, that you tried to ignore.

But now, Trevon was six years old. He noticed everything between you and Marshawn. Your son knew better than to ask why you haven't gotten back together with his dad. He didn't complain, didn't fuss.

You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him right now, when your career as a best selling author with excellent books, thriving as you hoped for. It’s unfortunate that you were experiencing writer’s block at the moment.

Many would suggest strolling around the neighborhood, driving, watching movies, or TV shows, or simply just write the first thing that pops up in your mom.

However, finding inspiration was not as effortless as commonly believed.

It's been five weeks, you've haven't written anything yet.

New boyfriends didn't stand a chance against Trevon, who tried to play Step-Daddy. It didn't work at all. Trevon said that he didn't like any of them every chance they left.

That was Marshawn’s son, through and through. Just as he raised to be like his dad, unhinged. Unchanged. Always had something smart to say.

After that, you've stopped dating for a while, and decided to focus on your book.

You sat comfortably against the couch, with Trevon on the right side, tablet in his hands, watching YouTube. His brown eyes flickered up at you. "Mama?" He asked happily.

“Yes, boo?” You eyes swept over the notebook in your hand, your leg resting over the other, a pen between your lips. Having fewer ideas.

“Am I staying with Daddy, or Grandma tonight?” Trevon asked softly, his finger swept over the screen. A backpack around his arms, Spider-Man.

“Grandma is coming to pick you up, and Daddy has work to do today.” You say, your pen scribbling across the paper.

“I know, but you've been having trouble with your book. Maybe Daddy can help you?” Trevon suggested, his eyes met yours.

You only blinked once, but you've given your son a nod of reassurance. “Maybe I will ask Daddy for help, thanks, baby.”

Trevon flashed a cheerful grin up at you, nodding in response. “Yeah! Daddy always helps me! He can help you, too!”

Your smile curled across your face, as your lips pressed a kiss on his forehead. He giggled softly, as his eyes flickered toward the screen before him.

A knock on the door alerted you, standing up, walking toward the door and you swung it open. Revealing your mom and Marshawn standing behind it.

His locs in two strand twists, hung around his face, thick, and clean. A fresh line-up. His bread freshly trimmed, his cologne hitting you in the face. He always smells so good around you, must’ve been done it on purpose.

Trevon gasped softly; he dropped his tablet on the pillow. He hopped off the couch, scurrying toward your mom, and his dad. “Daddy! Grandma!”

Marshawn lifted his son, twirling him in his embrace, holding him close. "What's up, lil man?”

“Hey Daddy!” Trevon exclaimed, his arms linked around his neck.

“You good? You’ve been good to your mama?” Marshawn asks, ruffling his curls.

“Yeah, but she made me eat broccoli though,” Trevon grumbled, his lip poked out.

“Hey, it’s good for you. Veggies help you become big, and strong like your dad,” Marshawn beamed, his hand over his own clothed chest.

“See? You better let him know Marshawn!” You & your mom exclaimed in praise, unison.

You rose from the cushion, confusion flickered across your face. “But Marshawn, what are you doing here?”

“I called him, and Marshawn wanted to see you and Trevon. He missed y'all,” Your mom mentions kindly, held her arms out to her grandchild. Hugging him tightly.

“Yeah! Thanks, Grandma!” Trevon exclaimed, jumping for joy.

“Yeah, thanks, mom.” Your hand ran down your face, sighing in disbelief, and not surprised either way.

“Now, why don’t you two catch up?” Your mom waved you, and Marshawn off like you were a couple again. Your eyes rolled while she couldn’t caught it.

“Ay, I saw that eye roll, missy!” Your mother shot back, arms crossed.

“Wait, Grandma. I have to tell Daddy something!” Trevon’s tiny hand yanked on her sleeve, stopping her.

Trevon walked over his dad, yanking his sleeve. Marshawn grinning, and bent at his son’s level. Whispering something very low, private.

After their short conversation, they bid farewell to each other. Marshawn gave his son a kiss on his forehead. Your mom, and your son strode out of the house, as the door closed shut.

Your fingers twisting the lock, catching the soft flick. Leaving you alone with your ex, as you spun around to face him.

“Hey, Marshawn.” You greeted awkwardly, smiling nervously.

“What’s up? You ain’t happy to see me?” Marshawn asked, his arms hung out.

You shrugged it off, acting as if Trevon, and Marshawn didn’t speak about your writer’s block.

“I am. Nothing much, still writing here, and there,” You chuckled softly, masking your nervousness.

Marshawn hummed lightly, nodding. “Yeah, Trevon told me you had trouble with your book? Come here. Why are you all the way over there?”

You chuckled sheepishly, purposely avoiding his gaze yet you looked back at him. Strolling toward him, yet gave him space.

“Why are you gettin’ all shy around me? You good?” He asks, his head tilting.

“I’m cool. It’s not that, Marshawn. It’s just that I’ve been having been writer’s block.” Your lip poked out a bit, your lip fell into a line.

“Just sit down, and write. It ain’t that hard, Y/n.” Marshawn says casually, rose a brow.

“Marshawn, clearly you don’t understand the process of being a writer. We read, and write, do everything under the sun. No inspiration, still.” You explained, crossing your arms.

“I can write a book if I wanted to, and then bang. I’m done. Everyone will definitely my book.” Marshawn bragged, shrugging it off as if it was easy.

“Not everyone can be a former NFL player champion, with awards and recognition, okay? Also I’ve seen your acting in Euphoria.” You say coyly, rolling your eyes.

Marshawn gasped dramatically, as if he was shocked. “Damn, it’s like that, baby?”

You waved him off. “You’re pretty decent Marshawn, and people keep asking me if you’re coming to NFL. But you say hell no,” you snicker mid-breath.

Marshawn rolled his eyes at the question, and his gaze turned back to you. “Anyway. Can I see what you’re written, so far?”

You couldn’t be this shy around Marshawn when it involved your writing. You were confident regardless but asking for help wasn’t difficult.

“Sure, follow me in my writing room,” You motioned him to follow you through the halls.

You, and Marshawn strode through the long, narrow halls of the house. You could still smell the cologne from behind, intoxicating and tempting in the worst way. A man that fine? Trouble.

You made a right turn into the room, stepped through, as Marshawn followed behind you. Breathing in. Your shoulders fell, jaw unclenching. Relaxing.

“I’ve been typing on my laptop mostly, it’s good so far, and I’m halfway done with the book too.” You explained, you hand gestures toward the laptop fully charging on the desk.

You took your laptop off the charger, unplugged it. You logged in, and clicked on the word document. Stepping aside, you gestured for Marshawn to take a peek.

Marshawn read every chapter carefully, as he returned to page 32 of your book, Had To Be You. He nodded with confidence. It was simply about a NFL player, with a taking chance to fall in love with his sports agent, who represented him, and they began to realize they’re made for each other. Cliche, yes. But hey, you’re writing still.

“It’s about a nfl player, and are you sure this ain’t about us?” Marshawn asked again, smirking playfully.

You chuckled sheepishly. “I may have used you as a reference but their personalities are totally different! You aren’t Avan, you know?” You hand angled to the laptop.

“So what’s the problem? What you’re writing is great, girl!” Marshawn grinned softly, his hands on your shoulders. He lifted them, brought them in his front pouch of his hoodie.

“It’s actually a sports romance too, and now, the characters are getting to the smut scene soon.” You say, your finger beneath your chin.

“Sports romance? That’s right my alley. Is it about us?” Marshawn asked, his head lean forward slightly in curiosity.

“No! It’s not about us Marshawn! It’s simply from personal experiences, and other stories.” You dismissed, waving him off.

Marshawn rolled his eyes, shook his head. “Nah, I’m only the sports nigga you’ve been wit’ in your life. It’s us. It’s means the book is gonna be a fucking hit!”

“Okay, okay. You’re right,” You chorused, smiling faintly.

“What do you really need my help with?” He asks, his voice deepening dangerously low. Tempting.

“You see. I need some dick for inspiration, for my book. I need to finish. That’s why I have writer’s block!” You whined, your hands gripped his shoulders tight.

“Y/n, you’re an amazing writer regardless and I think you’re using this opportunity to get some dick?” He countered, his arms folded behind his back.

You gasped dramatically, with a hand over your clothed chest as if you were shocked. “How dare you, sir? I—can you just help me with this?”

Marshawn rolling his eyes, snickering a bit. “All you had to do was ask..”

“Boy, just get on the bed, and here is a condom..."

—————

Garments were thrown about, skidding on the ground, until you reached his chest with your hands.

Gently, you guided him to the bed headboard, supported his back as your fingers moved over his stomach, teasing him in a playful manner with a grin.

"Ride me, baby," Marshawn murmured, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. Maybe this was you needed. Your ex’s dick for inspiration. New excuse. Real nice.

You knelt forward, a playful grin playing on your lips as you positioned yourself over him. "You always stay wet for me. I love that..." Marshawn groans, watching your essence enlarging around his base. Sloshing. Gushing. He kissed you deeply, placing his hands on your waist and then running them up to your thighs, drawing you down swiftly until he was deep inside you. His thumb pressed on your clit, it started tracing unhurried, purposeful circles, each movement taking your breath away. "Fuckk..”

"F—fuck, Marshawn," you moaned, voice rough and urgent. You rode him brutally, grinding on him, your pussy clenching like a chokehold. Your white essence coated him, warm, adhesive, sliding down his dick, your hips wiggled. Hands anchoring at your hips as he fucked you upward, breath coming in ragged, raspy bursts.

His groans grew deeper, with something tender. "All you needed was this?" he rasped, the words raw. He slid two fingers between your clit and pinched lightly; the contact was small, yet breathtaking. A sharp scream ripped from you, tears overflowing as your pace stuttered, every nerve buzzing.

"F—fuck! Yes! All I need!" you gasped, choked on a broken moan. His hand delivered a sharp smack across your ass, bouncing. "Now you do..." Marshawn moaned low, drilling into you upwards. A jolt of pleasure shot through your body, squealing. Grinding still, clenching tight and moaning like it was the last time. It never was. You firmly held onto the headboard. "Is this dick all mine?" You say, shutting your eyelids, the vibrations spread throughout their bodies, and he could feel her cum slowly glide down to his base, plunging on his balls.

"Always been yours.." he panted lowly, still drilling. He was gonna give you inspiration all right, every last thrust. It had been a minute since you’ve touched by him, his head fell back on the pillow. You made him see stars. butterflies. Every bounce made thick, sticky strands of cum between them every he went in and out.

Your pussy gushed around him, as he went harder, harder as if trying to mold the shape of his dick inside you. Your nails clawing at his tattooed skin. "Look at you, cummin’ so pretty around this dick.." he grunted deeply, his Oakland accent spilling out. His hand smacked her asscheek, which led to a squeal, slithered across your bare body, cupping your bouncing breasts while simultaneously tugging at your nipples. 

Marshawn pulled out slowly, before he flipped you on all fours. Gradually, pushing himself back inside, you dragged out a wild moan rippling from your throat. “Marshawn..fuck!” Hands on your waist, drilling into you like he was out of jail. Wild. Feral. He fucked you hard, fast to switched the pace. Your head turned, which almost gave you whiplash.

“Damn, girl? Ain’t nobody been in this pussy?” He teased, pushing forward. All you could do was grip the sheets, and scream for your life, in pleasure. Your pussy clenched around his dick. Afraid to let go. You were wetter than before. Marshawn? Yes. You whined in response, face buried in a pillow.

Your airy moans break between sentences, almost stumbling over the bed until Marshawn yanked you by your ankle, feeling his tip strike your spot once he manhandled you. Drooling at the way he fucked over the mattress. “Yeah? Never had that before? Your ex nigga ain’t hitting it right, baby?” Marshawn bragged, drilling in you again. His hips swiveling at a fast pace, you screamed sharply. “Noooo! Fuck! Baby—fuck!” You grit your teeth, eyelids snapping shut.

“You’re wetter than last time. I fit in just right.” Marshawn thrusting with relentless affection, your hips pushed back instinctively. You gasped between his crazy thrusts, your wetness flowing freely, as he emptied himself inside you. "Fuck!" you both moaned, his lips crashed into yours sent waves of heat through your body, making your head spin.

Restarting the pace to slow again, long and deep thrusts that made your body squirm away until his hand smacked your ass in disapproval, shaking his head. Legs squeezing around his waist. “Don't you want this dick, baby? Why you running?” Marshawn teases, peppered kisses along your spine. The room echo with the wet, squelching and both your breathing as his dick, massaging your walls thoroughly, pulsating, throbbing.

"Oh shit! I’m almost there!" you scream hopelessly, your mouth open wide, but no sound comes out, while you bounce after every stroke. You can definitely feel the ideas flowing through your mind, with the way he fucking you. Your hand reached for your clit until Marshawn smacked it out of the way. "This is my pussy..don't touch it.." he groaned, now, you were the one whimpering, crying, but your hips moved on their own. You craved for more, he wanted to relish in just like you did with him.

Once that he pulled out again, flipping you on your back. His hands gripped your ankles tight, pinning them over your head. His locs pooled in front of his face, his half-lidded eyes locked with yours, his hand around your neck. He gradually entered you, and you cried out as if in agony, almost too much to handle. "Marshawn! Yes!" But you loved it, maybe you should ask him for this often. Finally, he fit all of him inside from behind. He plowed into you. "You gettin' any new ideas, baby?" Marshawn groans, his head craned back from the pleasure. Just to feel you like this? Marshawn was falling in love all over again.

He plowed into you, hips snapped, "Yes! Marshawn! Yes!" you cried out wildly, your walls clung to his dick, milking him dry, on the sheets, hands fisting the blanket. "You hear me? You gettin’ any ideas?" Marshawn. He quickened the pace, still much harder. "Yes! I swear! I fucking swear!" you whined softly. Your mind went blank, yet every idea came right back. You couldn't even think straight. The bed creaking, and cracked in the process.

Tears spilled down your face, blurring your vision, knees buckling weakly. His hands threw your legs over his shoulders, pinning you down. His chest against your breasts. “I'd better hear every single idea you write.” Marshawn groans. He thrusts harder after that. You nodded frantically, crying, whimpering. His hand still around your neck. Your face close to his. “You better not doubt yourself..fuckk” Marshawn rasped, gritting his teeth. Your knees shook, “I won't! I won't, I swear!” You cried out to him, scratching his back. His fingernails dug into your melenated skin, he drilled unforgivingly, his passion raw.

The bed was broken underneath; there was a dent in the wall from the headboard banging. You were a wet, gibberish mess underneath Marshawn. He loved every single bit of you. Your eyes rolled back, unable to hold on to your arch. Toes curling into a ball. Bodies are almost going numb. “If you need any more ideas..call me. Only me..” Marshawn grunted in your ear. He adjusted his angle, finding the right spot that made you gasp sharply. "Only you! Marshawn!” Unable to respond, but only with broken moans.

You felt his pace slow down, thrusts turn sloppy, and frantic. “Daddy…I’m cumming…” you cried out, your hips rolling in deep with his. A mess underneath, and he noticed it too. The way your pussy sucked his dick back with a thrust, disappear like magic. “I know, baby.” he cooed, biting his lip. Shooting his load in the condom, as you came undone, cumming wildly around his big dick. A bigger mess. Marshawn pulled out slowly, and saw the cum spilling out. Chests falling, and rising. You were left bare, and breathless.

Bodies tangled together, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, gazing at you. "You good?" he asked softly, his concern clear.

"Y-yeah, I'm good..."

Aftercare was provided with practiced ease by Marshawn, you took a hot bubble bath. He asked you if he could take a shower, and you agreed to it. You told me that you appreciated his help on the book, and he says, “No problem!”

Once you finished your bath and Marshawn completed his shower, you quickly put on your pajamas and socks, applied lotion on yourself. He stood in full of the full length mirror, with a towel over his head, wiping himself. He sported his usual oversized grey hoodie, and sweatpants.

His eyes flickered toward you through the mirror, you sat at your writing desk. Typing on your keyboard with precision, smirking to yourself. All of your locs tied back in a bun while some locs hang in front of your face. You were finally done with your book.

“Hey, Marshawn. Can I ask something?” You chimed in, while typing on the keys on your laptop.

“What's up?”

Your grin spreads across your face, watching his reflection as you tuck a loose loc behind your ear, plotting your next meeting with him. “I'm thinking of starting a series for this book. Would you like to help me out with that, baby?”

“Hell yeah,”

————-

[aretasreads]

Michael B. Jordan at JAY-Z's Yankee Stadium Show

[whimsihoe]

we know monaleo is the ultimate pink black reader i wonder who's that for nerdy black reader

[nicodemite]

[whimsihoe]

as of late my crush on mr. jordan has skyrocketed ...

[the-real-eye-to-see]

One of the most stupid jokes

[whimsihoe]

.... wait what happened with the ebonymuse girl???

i missed a couple of chapters

[lovnapple]

the only women I ship michael with 🍎🩷