⠀⠀ ⠀ MASTERLIST. RULES. ME.
@𝐁𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗜𝗘

Product Placement
sheepfilms

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Cosimo Galluzzi

titsay
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oozey mess
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Keni
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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

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art blog(derogatory)
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@blackbarb1e
⠀⠀ ⠀ MASTERLIST. RULES. ME.
@𝐁𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗜𝗘

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older bf!rafe hc’s
warnings ⁀➷ semi-public sex, age gap (rafe is in his 40’s, reader is early twenties), cheating, unprotected piv, baby trapping, boob play, oral. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 𝟏𝟖+
author’s note ⁀➷ fuckkk i wanna lick his bald ass head.
older bf!rafe who would never even think about saying no to you. It doesn’t matter how many of his cards you’ve maxed out, he would never make you unhappy. You never notice it, but his dick twitches at the sight of your happiness. He knows for a fact that no man will ever take care of you like he does, and that’s what makes him sleep better at night.
older bf!rafe who spoils you more than his own wife. Who never fails to pay all of your bills on time and gives you even more money on the side. Who takes you shopping to buy all of the clothes and jewelry that you could ever want.
older bf!rafe who wants to taste you at every chance he gets. If y’all are stuck in traffic, he’ll quickly pull your panties aside to get a good taste of you. He always has a need to dive his head in between your legs and take his sweet time with your pussy.
older bf!rafe who brings you to his yacht to finally get some alone time with you. Whose wife and colleagues stress him out so much that he needs you in order to get some release. Who finally feels a sense of peace whenever you are around him.
older bf!rafe being on an important work call as you’re down on your knees. He puts his fist over his mouth trying not to moan as you shove his dick even deeper in your throat.
His legs shivering and twitching as he’s seconds away from cumming down your throat. Who jerks violently as he reaches his orgasm and tries to push you off of him. Who throws his head back in agony as you have no intention of stopping until you make him cum again.
older bf!rafe who brings you into his house whenever his wife is away at work. Who fucks you hard as he stares at their wedding photos with a wicked grin on his face. Who makes sure that he fucks you on her side of the bed, letting you know that you should be his wife and not her.
older bf!rafe who’s heart swells at the nudes you send him while he’s at work. Who excuses himself from the conference room to jerk off to your pretty pictures. His grip gets tighter around his dick at the reminiscence of your tits in his mouth. Imagining how your tits would squeeze around his length as he fucks them. He cums hard at the thought of your tits in his face.
older bf!rafe who makes sure to breed you each and every single time. Whose thick arms pin you down to stay absolutely still as he cums inside of you. Who makes sure that you will certainly get pregnant so that he will forever be in your life. You will finally be Mrs. Cameron after all.
my daily affirmation as an author
752 ???? EXCUSE ME ??? omg thank you guys soso much 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

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Tumblr Girlfriend
michael b.jordan x black!reader
Summary: You pull your Michael, who’s been your celebrity crush for years. Only one problem—you’ve been writing fanfiction for years for the man, and now you have to find a way to keep your worlds separate. However, what happens when Michael finds out about your smutty little blog? Warning(s): SMUT (18+, MDNI), smut writing, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex (m/f), deepthroating, spitting, cum swapping, daddy kink, backshots (if I missed something, don’t beat me up lol) I hope you guys enjoy. Let me know what you think!
pairing: tyriq whiters x milf!black!fem!reader summary: Tyriq been wanting you ever since he was nineteen, you his best friend’s stepmama, but now he grown, and he wants a taste. cw: 18+ mdni, 35 years old!reader, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (fem receiving) ect..
You remember the first time you really saw him.
It was a summer barbecue at your house—back when you were still Mrs. Whitfield, back when you wore your wedding band like a shield. Michael had brought his friends over from the neighborhood, a whole pack of teenage boys with too much energy and not enough supervision. They spilled across your back patio, loud and clumsy, tracking grass clippings onto the concrete.
But Tyriq, he was different.
He was nineteen that year, lean and long-limbed, with a smile that seemed to know things a nineteen-year-old shouldn't. You caught him watching you from across the grill, watching you flip burgers and laugh at Michael's bad jokes, watching you like you were something worth studying. You dismissed it. Teenage hormones. Boys are like that. But he never stopped watching.
Now you're thirty-five. Divorced. Living in a small two-bedroom condo that still smells like fresh paint and possibilities. And Tyriq Whiters is twenty-seven, full-grown, built like he spends his mornings in a gym and his evenings in places you're too old to know about.
He showed up at your door an hour ago with a bottle of wine you didn't ask for and a story about how Michael asked him to check on you. Make sure she's eating. Make sure she's not lonely.
Lonely. That word sits heavy in your chest as you two settle onto your secondhand couch, the wine bottle half-empty on the coffee table.
"So," he says, stretching his arm across the back of the sofa, close enough that you can smell cedar and something warm underneath. "How's single life treating you?"
You laugh, but it comes out hollow. "It's... quiet."
"Quiet's good." His eyes trail down your throat, linger on the hollow where your pulse beats. "But you were never the quiet type, Ms. Whitfield."
The name stings. "It's just y/n now. No Ms. Whitfield"
"Right." He nods slowly. "My bad."
The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that hums with everything unsaid. You remember the way he used to find excuses to be around—fixing a loose cabinet hinge, offering to mow your lawn, showing up with takeout when Michael was out of town. You remember the way your heart would race every time he walked through the door, the way you'd scold yourself for noticing the width of his shoulders, the way his voice dropped when he said your name.
Too young, you told yourself. Married. Off-limits. But you're not married anymore.
Tyriq shifts closer, his knee brushing yours. The contact sends a jolt through your skin, electric and undeniable.
"I've been waiting a long time," he says, voice lower now, rougher. "You know that."
"Tyriq..."
"Let me finish." He holds up a hand, and there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something raw. "I know you were married. I know I was just a kid back then. But I'm not a kid anymore. And you're not married anymore."
Your throat tightens. "This is crazy."
"Is it?" He tilts his head, studying you the same way he did all those years ago. "You've been on my mind since I was nineteen years old, girl. You think I just stopped wanting you because you said no a few times?"
Girl. He called you girl. The word lands somewhere deep, something between flattery and challenge.
"Tyriq, I'm thirty-five. I have a stepson your age."
"Michael's not my age, he's two years younger. And what does that have to do with anything?" He leans in, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his irises. "You're scared. I get it. But I'm not here to rush you. I just want you to know—I'm still here. I've always been here."
Your breath catches. The wine hums in your blood, warm and loosening. You think about all those nights in your old house, lying next to a man who stopped touching you years before the divorce papers were signed. You think about the way Tyriq looked at you then, like you were something precious, something worth chasing.
"I don't know what I want," you whisper.
He smiles—slow, knowing. "Then let me show you."
He doesn't touch you after that. Not right away.
Instead, he talks. He tells you about the years you missed, about the jobs he worked, the places he traveled. He tells you about his mother's health, his sister's graduation, the time he almost moved to Atlanta but couldn't bring himself to leave. He makes you laugh with stories about Michael's dumbest mistakes, makes you sigh when he describes the stars from his rooftop.
Hours pass. The wine bottle empties. The city lights flicker beyond your window.
And through it all, he watches you. Not with impatience, not with hunger, but with a steady, unwavering attention that makes you feel like the most fascinating woman in the world.
"You used to hum when you cooked," he says at some point, his voice soft. "Every time you made that pasta dish. You don't remember, do you?"
You shake your head, surprised.
"I do." He leans back, his arm still stretched behind you. "I remember everything about you, girl. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. The way you said my name, like it was something you were trying not to taste."
Your stomach flips. "That's creepy."
"It's love." He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that you can't find a response.
The clock on your wall reads 2:47 AM.
"I should go," he says, but he doesn't move.
"You don't have to."
The words slip out before you can catch them. You freeze, heart hammering. But Tyriq's expression softens, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Yeah?"
You swallow. Nod.
He takes your hand, his fingers threading through yours. They're warm, calloused, steady. He turns your palm over, traces the lines there, and the touch is so gentle it almost hurts.
"I'm gonna take my time with you," he murmurs, his thumb pressing into the center of your palm. "Because I've waited eight years. And when I finally have you—" He looks up, and there's a fire in his eyes that makes your thighs clench. "—I'm gonna make sure you feel every second of that wait."
He kisses you first. Not on the lips—on your wrist. He brings your hand to his mouth, presses his mouth to the delicate skin where your pulse flutters, and holds it there. You feel his breath, warm and even. Feel the soft press of his lips, the slight graze of his teeth.
"I got you," he whispers against your deep brown of your soft skin.
Then he pulls you closer, your bodies pressing together on the small couch. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, along the curve of your neck. He cups your jaw, tilts your face up, and when his mouth finally meets yours, finally, it's not hungry. It's patient. It's testing.
He kisses you like he's learning you. Like he's memorizing the shape of your lips, the taste of your tongue, the little sounds you make when he bites your bottom lip and pulls.
You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.
"Mmm."
His hand slides down your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the neckline of your blouse. He doesn't rush—he's still kissing you, still exploring your mouth, while his fingers find the buttons of your shirt and work them open one by one. Each button sends a new shock of cool air against your heated skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.
"Look at you," he breathes. "So damn beautiful."
Your face heats, and you look away, but he catches your chin and turns you back.
"Nah. Look at me when I tell you that."
You meet his eyes. He's not joking. He's serious.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he says, each word deliberate. "And I've been wanting to feel you since before I knew what wanting meant."
Your chest aches. You don't know what to say, so you kiss him instead—harder this time, deeper. Your fingers tangle in his buzzed hair, and he groans against your mouth, a low, vibrating sound that travels down your spine and settles between your legs.
Things move slowly after that.
He takes his time undressing you—one piece at a time, with long pauses where he just looks at you, touches you, whispers things that make your toes curl. He traces the curve of your waist, the softness of your belly, the swell of your hips. He kisses your shoulders, your sternum, the space between your breasts.
And when he lays you back on the couch, your braids spilling on the couch like an halo, his body covering yours, you feel the weight of his want pressing against your thigh. It's hard, thick, undeniable.
But he doesn't rush.
He pulls your shirt all the way off, then your bra. He looks at your bare chest like he's looking at something holy, and you've never felt more seen in your life.
"You're perfect," he says, his voice hushed.
He lowers his mouth to your dark nipple, and you arch into him, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat. His tongue circles the peak, slow and wet, and his hand finds your other breast, squeezing, kneading, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
"Ah—"
"Shh," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you."
He moves lower, kissing down your stomach, your ribs, the dip of your navel. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your jeans, looks up at you for permission, and you nod, unable to speak.
He takes them off, slow. His hands smooth along your thighs, your knees, your calves. He pulls your socks off too, kisses the arch of your foot, and you laugh—a surprised, breathless sound.
"What?" he asks, grinning up at you.
"Nothing. You're just—" You shake your head. "You're a lot."
"Good lot or bad lot?"
You reach down, touch his cheek. "Good lot."
He turns his head, kisses your palm.
Then he settles between your legs, his breath hot against the damp fabric of your panties. Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat.
"You ready for me?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.
You nod.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband—and stops.
"I want to hear you say it."
Your breath catches. "Yes. I'm ready."
He smiles, slow and wicked. "Good."
He pulls your panties down, and you watch his face as he sees you for the first time. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens.
Fuck, he mouths. No sound, just the shape of the word.
Then he leans down, and his tongue touches you.
Slurp. Slick. Suck.
The sounds fill the room, wet and obscene. His mouth moves against you like he's starving, like he's been waiting eight years to taste you and now he's not holding back. His tongue slides through your folds, circles your clit, dips inside you.
"Oh—god—"
He hums against you, the vibration pushing you higher. Two fingers press into your entrance, sliding in with a wet pop, curling upward, finding that spot that makes your whole body jerk.
"Mmmph—"
He works you slowly, deliberately. His tongue laps at your clit while his fingers pump in and out, faster, harder, deeper. You're gripping his head, your hips rocking against his face, and he's groaning like he's the one getting pleasure.
"Tyriq—I'm gonna—"
He doubles down. His fingers curl, his tongue flicks, and you shatter, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you. He doesn't stop—he licks you through it, lapping up every drop, until you're trembling and oversensitive and pushing his head away.
He comes up, his chin glistening, his eyes wild.
"Taste so good," he says, licking his lips. "Been dreaming about that."
You're still panting, still coming down. But he's hard against your thigh, his jeans straining, and you reach for his belt.
"Nuh-uh." He catches your wrist. "I'm not done with you yet."
Before you can protest, he flips you onto your stomach. Your cheek presses into the couch cushion, and you feel his body settle behind you, his mouth hot against your shoulder blade.
"I told you," he murmurs, his voice rough. "I'm gonna make you feel every second."
He pulls your hips up, arranges you on your knees, and you feel his cock slide along your wet folds, teasing.
"Please," you whisper.
Smack.
He brings his hand down on your ass, a sharp sting that makes you yelp. "I want to hear you beg."
You turn your head, look back at him. His shirt is off now, his chest glistening with sweat. His cock stands thick and heavy between his legs, the head wet and angry.
"Please," you say again, louder. "Please fuck me."
He lines himself up, presses the head against your entrance, and pushes in, slow. So slow you feel every inch, every ridge, every pulse. He stretches you, fills you, and you cry out as he seats himself deep inside you.
"Fuck."
He holds still for a moment, his hands gripping your hips. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel the heat of his body, the weight of him.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Taking all of me."
Then he starts to move.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sounds of his hips meeting your ass are wet and sharp. Each thrust drives deeper, harder, and you're moaning, drooling against the couch cushion. He reaches around, finds your clit, rubs tight circles while he fucks you.
"Uh—uh—uh—"
He picks up speed, his breath becoming ragged. His balls slap against you, wet and rhythmic.
"Tyriq—fuck—I'm close—"
"Not yet," he grits out. "I need to—"
He pulls out suddenly, flipping you onto your back. He lifts your legs over his shoulders, angles your hips, and slams back into you, deeper than before.
"Oh, shit—"
He fucks you like that, looking down at you, watching your tits bounce, watching your face twist in pleasure. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing hard.
"Cum for me," he orders. "Now."
Your body obeys before your mind catches up. You shatter again, clenching around him, and he groans, his eyes squeezing shut.
"Fuck—I'm gonna—"
Squirt. He pulls out just in time, his cock jerking, ropes of hot cum painting your stomach, your chest. He keeps stroking himself, groaning, until the last drop falls.
Then he collapses beside you, chest heaving. The room is quiet except for your breathing.
After a long moment, he turns to you, his voice soft.
"You okay?"
You laugh, weak, still trembling. "Yeah."
He reaches over, traces the cum on your stomach with his finger. "I've been wanting to do that since I was nineteen," he says. "But it was worth the wait."
You look at him—his sweaty skin, his satisfied smile, the way he looks at you like you're everything. And you think, maybe it was worth it too.
all rights go to @𝐁𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗜𝗘 . i do not agree with my content to be stolen nor to be translated without my permission.
divs creds : kodaswrld.
You gon argue with me or get your pussy ate?- Cameron Cade 18+
summary- Cameron’s long practices are affecting you more and more and you finally confront him. It doesn’t really go your way though.
cw- oral(f receiving), arguing(kind of one sided), uhhh idk if there’s any more
authors note- yall this audio has been stuck in my head for a minuteee and i had to write something😭 this is also rushed and i was half asleep writing but enjoy!
hello ?? 😩😩😩
It’s protect and love black women until it’s time for a Chr*s Br*wn concert. Yall make me sick.
ouuu they both can get ittt 😩😩

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pairing: benito martinez x wife!black!fem!reader summary: He said just the tip. cw: 18+ mdni, p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk (lwk) & wtv i wrote
a/n: i use lots of ‘—’ no it’s not ai
Benito had promised just the tip.
That's what he'd whispered against your mouth when he walked through the door, still smelling like the studio—cologne and that particular heat that clung to him after hours of tracking vocals. His hands had found your waist before he even kicked his shoes off, pulling you into his chest while your name fell from his lips like a prayer he'd been holding in all day.
"Mami, los niños—"
"Asleep," you'd told him, your own hands sliding up his arms, feeling the tension knotted in his shoulders. "Been down for an hour."
The groan that rumbled out of him was pure relief. Pure want. He'd pressed his forehead to yours and let out a long breath, his thumbs tracing circles against the fabric of your robe, that thin silk thing you'd thrown on after bath time, after story time, after the long ritual of tucking your babies in and kissing their foreheads and turning on their nightlight.
"Te necesito," he'd murmured. "Te necesito tanto, mami."
And then his mouth found yours, slow at first, like he was tasting you for the first time all over again. But you knew better. You knew that slow burn. You knew the way his hands tightened on your hips, the way his tongue swept past your lips, the way his breathing changed, shallow and hungry.
So when he pulled back and said it—just the tip, just a little, he'd be quick—you'd laughed, soft and knowing, and let him lead you to the bedroom.
Now you're on your back, your honey brown hair fanned across the pillow in waves, twenty inches buss down that cost a pretty penny and makes him go feral every time. His fingers are tangled in it, gripping the nape, tilting your head back so he can lick down your throat.
"Benito—"
"Shh, mami." His voice is rough, wrecked already. He's still half-dressed, jeans undone, shirt hanging open, that tattooed chest on full display. "Déjame cuidarte."
His hand slides down your body, palm hot against your stomach, then lower, past the waistband of your panties. You're already wet—you'd been thinking about him all evening, about the way he'd looked this morning, half-asleep and reaching for you before the kids came stumbling in. And when his fingers find your clit, you gasp, your hips bucking into his touch.
"Ay, Dios mío," he breathes. "Estás tan mojada. Todo para mí?"
"All for you," you manage, and he groans like the words hit him somewhere deep.
He pushes your panties aside, not even bothering to take them off, and you feel the tip of his cock pressing against you. Thick. Hot. That familiar weight that always makes your breath catch.
"Solo la puntita," he promises again, and you almost believe him.
Almost.
Because the second he pushes in, just the head, just a little, his eyes roll back and his hips stutter forward and suddenly it's not just the tip anymore. It's him sinking into you, inch by inch, that thick stretch that has you crying out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Benito— you said—"
"Lo sé, lo sé, mami." He's already breathless, already lost. "Pero te sientes tan bien. No pude— ay, coño—"
His hips press forward and he bottoms out, and you both moan together, a harmony of sound that fills the room. "Mmm, shit, Beni—
He starts moving. Slow at first, deep strokes that drag against your walls and make your eyes flutter shut. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot on your lips, and every thrust is punctuated by a grunt, a whisper, a "puta madre" or an "ay, Dios" that tumbles out of him like he can't help it.
You can feel every inch of him. The way his cock pulses inside you. The way his thighs press against yours. The way his hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, pinning your hand to the mattress.
"Mírame," he commands, and you open your eyes. His are dark, blown wide, locked on yours. "Quiero verte cuando te vengas."
"Then fuck me like you mean it."
The grin that spreads across his face is wicked. "Oh, ¿sí? Así quiere ella?"
He pulls out, and before you can complain, he's flipping you over. Your knees hit the mattress, your chest pressed into the sheets, your ass in the air. You hear him groan behind you—a low, guttural sound that makes your pussy clench around nothing.
"Mira ese culo," he mutters, more to himself than to you. His hands land on your hips, squeezing, kneading. "Dios mío, mami. Este culo me va a matar."
He lines himself up and pushes back in, and the angle is different now, deeper, harder, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. Your mouth falls open, a sharp cry tearing out of you.
"¡Ay, coño!" he growls, picking up the pace. "Así— así— mierda, qué rico—"
The sound of him fucking you fills the room. Wet and rhythmic, skin slapping against skin. You're dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets, and every time he thrusts you feel it in your throat.
"Beni— right there— fuck—"
"¿Ahí? ¿Ahí te gusta?" He pounds into that spot, relentless. His hand reaches around, fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with his strokes. "Dime. Dime cómo te sientes."
"So good— ahh— so fucking good, Benito—"
"Mmm, sí. Grita mi nombre. Quiero oírlo."
And you do. You scream it when he hits that spot again, your fingers gripping the sheets, your whole body trembling. "Benito! Benito!"
"Así, mami. Así."
He slows down, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, torturously slow. You whimper, pushing back against him, trying to get more, but his hands hold you still.
"Tranquila," he purrs. "Disfrútalo."
He fucks you like that for what feels like forever, deep and slow and deliberate, every stroke hitting places you forgot existed. Your legs start shaking. Your breath comes in gasps. You can hear yourself making sounds you don't recognize—high and desperate.
"Te siento," he whispers, leaning over your back, his mouth against your ear. "Te siento apretándome. Estás cerca, ¿verdad?"
"Yes— yes, Beni, I'm—"
"Ven conmigo. Vamos juntos."
He speeds up again, his thrusts losing rhythm, getting sloppier, needier. His breathing is ragged, his grip bruising, and every word out of his mouth is a curse or a prayer.
"Mierda— te quiero— esta pussy es mía—"
"Yours— fuck— all yours—"
"Dilo otra vez."
"All yours, Benito— ahh— I'm gonna—"
He hits that spot one more time—slap, slap, slap—and you shatter. Your orgasm rips through you like a wave, pulling you under, and you hear yourself screaming his name, a long, breathless "BENITO!" that echoes off the walls.
He follows right behind you, a guttural "¡Ay, coño, mami!" as he buries himself deep and spills into you, hot and thick, his whole body shuddering against yours.
You collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin and ragged breaths. He's still inside you, softening, and neither of you moves for a long moment.
Then he kisses your shoulder. Your neck. The curve of your spine.
"Te amo," he murmurs against your skin. "Perdón por la mentira."
You laugh, weak and breathless. "You're not sorry."
"No," he admits, grinning against your back. "No lo siento."
all rights go to @𝐁𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗜𝗘 . i do not agree with my content to be stolen nor to be translated without my permission.
divs creds : kodaswrld
Anyone else also want to throw a table at their partner? I’m getting ragebaited because of my height by my bf ( i am 5’1 and he is 6’9 😬 )
anyways, benito ficss coming this weekend!!!
I’m coming back to my active era with more ideas!!
WHAT DO YOU WANNA SEE
🫶🏾
More benito
celebs (request + read rules b4)
sinners
wwe (the bloodline)
other (request + read rules b4)
joe burrow / nfl
happy birthday to meee +1 27/04 😛
Megan way stronger than me i would’ve swung that nigga klay with a baseball bat

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feeling like some babydaddy who hasn’t paid child support when i leave suddenly
pairing: joe burrow x it girl black!fem!reader. summary: When the biggest it girl—reader, finally gives a chance to our dear joey. cw: 18+, mdni, p in v , crampie , unprotected, dom!reader , oral (both receiving) ect…
a/n: geez i haven’t fed y’all in a while 😭
You've been dodging Joe Burrow for weeks now, ever since that first glance across the crowded club in Cincinnati. He's the Bengals' golden boy, all sharp jawline and easy confidence, but you weren't about to make it easy for him. You knew your worth. Guys like Joe chased; you decided when to let them catch up. Tonight, though, at this upscale rooftop party overlooking the Ohio River, he's not taking no for an answer.
You sip your drink, leaning against the railing, the city lights twinkling below like scattered diamonds. Your tight black dress hugs every curve, the kind that turns heads without trying. Joe's been watching you all night, his blue eyes locked on like a heat-seeking missile. Finally, he saunters over, that cocky half-smile playing on his lips. “Hey, you gonna keep pretending I don't exist?”!he says, voice low and teasing, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, masculine, with a hint of something spicy.
You arch an eyebrow, turning to face him fully, your full lips curving into a smirk. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm, Joe.” Your words hit him like a playful slap, and you see the spark in his eyes, the way his broad shoulders tense just a bit. He's tall, built like the athlete he is, but right now, you're the one holding the reins. “You've been playing hard to get,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his hand brushing your arm lightly. “But I like a challenge.”
You let the moment stretch, your gaze dropping to his mouth before flicking back up. “Good, because I'm not easy.” But there's heat in your voice now, the kind that says you've decided to let him in—just a little. The conversation flows from there, easy banter about the game last week, the party's vibe, but underneath it all, the tension simmers. His laughs come quicker, his touches linger—a hand on your lower back when he guides you to a quieter corner, fingers grazing your thigh as you sit.
By the time the party's winding down, you're both buzzed on champagne and unspoken promises. “Come back to my place?” he asks, voice rougher now, eyes dark with want. You tilt your head, considering, then nod. “Only if you promise to behave.” He chuckles, but you both know that's a lie.
His apartment is sleek, modern—floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the river, minimalist furniture that screams athlete's bachelor pad. The door barely clicks shut before you're on him, pushing him back against the wall with a firm hand on his chest. “Whoa,” he breathes, surprised but grinning, his hands coming up to your hips. But you shake your head, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. “My rules tonight, quarterback. You talk too much on the field—let me call the plays.”
His eyes widen, but there's no protest, just a hungry nod. You lean in, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that's all fire and demand. Your tongue slides into his mouth, tasting the whiskey on him, and he groans softly, “Mmm,” his body arching toward you. You break away first, nipping at his jaw, your hands roaming down his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his abs under the fabric. “Strip,”!you command, stepping back, your voice like velvet over steel.
Joe doesn't hesitate, peeling off his button-down, then his jeans, until he's standing there in black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how hard he is already. His cock strains against the material, thick and promising, and you feel a rush of heat between your thighs. “Good boy,” you purr, circling him slowly, your fingers trailing over his shoulders, down his back. He shivers under your touch, turning to watch you, but you push him toward the couch. “Sit.”
He drops onto the cushions, legs spread, and you kneel between them, your hands on his thighs. “Been thinking about this?” you ask, hooking your fingers into his waistband and tugging down. His cock springs free, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening. “Fuck, yeah,” he admits, voice husky. You wrap your hand around the base, stroking slowly, watching his head fall back with a low “Ahh”. Your thumb circles the head, smearing the pre-cum, and he bucks slightly, but you pin him with a look. “Stay still.”
Leaning in, you take him into your mouth, lips stretching around his girth. He tastes salty, musky, and you hum around him, the vibration making him gasp, “Shit, baby...” You bob your head, taking him deeper with each pass, your tongue swirling along the underside. Slurping sounds fill the room as you suck harder, hollowing your cheeks, one hand pumping what you can't fit. Joe's hands fist the cushions, his breaths coming in ragged bursts, “Oh god, yes, just like that.” You pull off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock, and grin up at him. “You like my mouth on you?”
“Love it,” he pants, eyes locked on you, pupils blown wide. But you're not done teasing. You lick a stripe from base to tip, then take him deep again, gagging slightly as he hits the back of your throat. “Mmmph,” you moan around him, the sound vibrating through him, and he swears, hips twitching. You let him fuck your mouth a little, guiding his rhythm with your hand, until he's close. “Gonna... fuck...—” but you stop, pulling away just as he teeters on the edge. “Not yet.”
He groans in frustration, but you stand, shimmying out of your dress, revealing lace panties and nothing else. Your brown skin glows under the dim lights, curves on full display, and Joe's gaze devours you. “Your turn,” you say, pushing him flat on the couch and straddling his chest. You grind against him lightly, your wetness soaking through the lace onto his skin. “Eat me like you mean it.”
He doesn't need telling twice. His hands grip your ass, pulling your panties aside as you lower yourself onto his face. His tongue dives in immediately, flat and broad, lapping at your folds. “Ohhh,”!you whimper, rocking against him, your clit bumping his nose. He sucks it into his mouth, flicking with the tip of his tongue, and you tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him there. “Yes, right there—fuck, Joe.” Wet, smacking sounds echo as he devours you, tongue thrusting inside your pussy, then circling your entrance before sucking your clit again. You grind harder, chasing the build, your thighs trembling. “Mmm, good... don't stop.”
He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and you feel the coil tightening. “Gonna cum on your face,” you gasp, and he doubles down, one finger sliding into you, curling just right. “Ahh! Yes!” Your orgasm crashes over you, pussy clenching around his finger as you ride his mouth, juices flooding his tongue. He laps it all up, moaning like he's starving, until you're shaking, oversensitive.
You slide down his body, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his lips. “Now fuck me,” you said, positioning yourself over his cock. No condom—raw, risky, exactly how you want it. You sink down slowly, inch by inch, his thickness stretching you deliciously. “Fuuuck,” he groans, hands on your hips, but you set the pace, rolling your hips in a slow grind. Your walls flutter around him, already so wet from his mouth.
You ride him like that for a bit, hands on his chest for leverage, tits bouncing with each bounce. “You feel so good inside me,”!you murmur, leaning down to bite his lip. “So big, filling my pussy up.” He thrusts up to meet you, but you pin his shoulders. “My control, remember? Gonna make you cum so hard, but not until I say.” His eyes roll back, “Please, baby, you're killing me.”
You switch it up, turning around to reverse cowgirl, giving him a view of your ass as you sink back down. The angle hits deeper, his cock dragging against your g-spot, and you moan loud, “Oh shit, yes!” The loud sound of skin on skin as you bounce faster, reaching back to fondle his balls. He's babbling now—“Your pussy's so tight, gripping me... fuck, I'm close.” But you slow, edging him, then speed up again until you're both panting.
'On your knees,' you order, pulling off with a wet schlick. He scrambles to obey, and you position yourself on all fours on the couch, arching your back. “Take me from behind—but slow.” He lines up, sliding in with a groan, “God, you're perfect.” He thrusts deep, hands on your hips, but you reach back, controlling the depth. “Harder,” you demand, and he snaps his hips, pounding into you. The room fills with the lewd sounds—plap-plap-plap, your ass jiggling against him, the stretch marks against your dark skin, making it even more hot. “Yes, fuck my pussy like that—deeper!”
You push back, meeting every thrust, one hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit. “Cum inside me,” you gasp, the words pushing him over. “Shit, yeah?” He slams in one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he cums, hot spurts filling you up. “Ahhh, fuck!” The sensation tips you over too, your pussy milking him dry with rhythmic squeezes. “Mmm, yes, fill me...”
But you're not done. You pull away, his cum dripping down your thigh, and flip him onto his back again. “One more,” you say, straddling him reverse this time? No—face to face. You guide him back in, your mixed juices making it slick. You're on top, pinning his arms as you rock. “Look at me while I fuck you.” His eyes meet yours, hazy with lust, and you grind slow, deep circles, chasing another peak, as few braids strands grazed his cheek.
“You're so dominant... love it,” he murmurs, and you smirk, clenching around him. “Good, because I'm gonna own this cock.” Faster now, your clit grinding against his pelvis, building that friction. Whimpers escape you—“Nngh, almost...”—and he bucks up, hitting just right. Your second orgasm hits like a wave, “Ohhh god!” pussy spasming, and he follows quick, another creampie flooding you, warm and sticky. “Take it all,” he grunts, holding you close.
You collapse onto him, both breathing heavy, his arms wrapping around you finally. “Worth the chase,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. You smile against his chest, satisfied, already plotting round three.
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