myhobari

[myhobari]

Hey there! Could you write one where Michael B Jordan walks in on you touching yourself and decides to, y’know, help you out a lil? Thanks!

- assist

michael b jordan x black reader

Summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: another fic for yall since i’ve been lacking !!

masterlist

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You thought you were alone.

The apartment was quiet, the city humming softly outside your window, and your body was already wound tight as you slid deeper into the mattress. Eyes closed, breaths shallow, you chased that familiar rhythm, imagining hands that weren’t your own. Imagining him.

The creak of the front door jolted you, but before you could react, his voice carried down the hall.

“Baby?”

Michael.

Your heart leapt to your throat, panic sparking as the door to your bedroom edged open — and then froze. His tall frame filled the doorway, his dark eyes widening as they landed on you, sprawled and flushed, caught in the act.

For a second, silence. Heavy. Charged.

Then that slow, crooked smirk spread across his lips. “So this is what you do when I’m not around?” His voice was low, teasing, but laced with something rougher.

“I can explain!”

You scrambled to sit up, but he was already moving, shutting the door behind him. His steps were unhurried, deliberate, like a predator closing in.

“You could’ve just called me,” he murmured, shrugging off his jacket as he reached the bed. “But I guess I can’t be mad if you were thinking about me.”

The mattress dipped as he leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing down your arm until his fingers replaced yours. The heat of his touch made your breath hitch, your body arching instinctively toward him.

“Let me,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing your skin. “Let me show you how much better it feels when I take care of you.”

His mouth captured yours before you could answer, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, as his hand worked with devastating precision. Every sigh you gave him only spurred him on, his soft groans vibrating against your lips as he pressed harder, faster, guiding you toward the edge.

“Oh— fuckkkk!”

“You sound so good,” Michael rasped, breaking the kiss to watch your face, eyes dark and intent. “Don’t hold back. Give it to me.”

Your release tore through you with a cry, your body shuddering under his touch. He didn’t stop until you were trembling in his arms, clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing tethering you to the world.

“Want more…” you whispered.

“You want more? You not too sensitive ma?”

“Nuhuh… want you, baby.”

“I won’t go too hard ma,” he says as he begins to stroke himself. “I’ll make you feel good.” he reassured you.

You nodded, already fucked out even before he put his dick inside you. He leans down to peck your lips, easing himself in. You let out a drawn out whine.

“Mmmmhh… so deep pa.”

“I know, pretty.”

He leaned down for a kiss, hips rolling against yours, slow and deliberate at first, teasing, making you gasp into his mouth. His pace was unhurried, dragging the moment out, savoring every twitch of your body beneath him. Each thrust drew a sound from you that only made his own groans grow heavier.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, clinging to him as his rhythm grew more powerful, every movement grounding you into the mattress. His eyes never left your face, drinking in every whimper, every moan, every arch of your back.

“You mine,” he growled softly, hips slamming deeper, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall. “Say it.”

“I’m yourssss,” you gasped, your voice breaking.

His low groan rumbled against your chest as he kissed you again, his pace relentless now. The world narrowed to just him — the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the way he whispered your name like a prayer between every breath.

When you finally broke apart beneath him, crying out his name, he was right there with you — his own release tearing through him as he held you close, his forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping yours tight.

The room fell quiet again, filled only with the sound of your heavy breathing. Michael stayed over you, refusing to let go, kissing your lips, your cheek, your jaw with a tenderness that contrasted the fire from moments before.

“You don’t need to touch yourself when I’m around,” he whispered, brushing damp curls from your forehead. “I’ll give you everything you need.”

“Trust me, understood.”

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

i knowyou prolly have hella requests so take your time but like a jude fic after a game or something

- you feel it, too.

jude bellingham x black reader

Summary - your ex boyfriend jude begs you to come to one of his games… you probably shouldn’t have gone to the locker room after.

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: loved this one. so sorry for my inactivity, i recently got another job and been busy with school stuff!

masterlist

————————————————————————

You told yourself you weren’t going to come. You’d sworn off Jude months ago, tired of the push and pull, the late-night calls, the way he always seemed to know exactly what to say to drag you back in. But when his voice cracked on the phone two nights ago — “Just… please. Come to this one. I need to see you there” — you gave in. Against your better judgment, you slipped into the stadium tonight, hidden under a cap, tucked into the crowd.

And of course, he saw you.

The way his eyes flicked to the stands after his goal, locking on you like the rest of the world didn’t exist, made your stomach twist. Old habits — old feelings — all flooding back at once. You hated that he still had that power. You hated it even more that you still wanted him.

After the final whistle, you should have left. You should have melted into the crowd, let him wonder if you were even really there. But your feet carried you to the tunnel, where security waved you through before you could change your mind. And now, here you were, standing in the sterile white of the locker room, heart pounding, watching Jude peel off his jersey, sweat dripping down his temple.

He noticed you immediately, smirk tugging at his lips. “Knew you’d come,” he said, voice low, cocky — the same voice that used to unravel you in seconds.

“You begged,” you shot back, crossing your arms even though your pulse was already racing. “Don’t act like this was my idea.”

Jude stepped closer, still half-dressed, chest heaving from the match. The heat rolling off him was overwhelming. “And yet… you’re here.” His eyes raked over you, shameless, as if he had every right. “Guess some part of you still can’t stay away.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words got stuck when his hand brushed your waist, pulling you flush against him before you could step back. The smell of grass and sweat clung to him, the raw energy of the game still buzzing in his veins. His lips hovered a breath from yours, daring you.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered, but your fingers were already laid on his chest.

His smirk widened, dark and knowing. “Our best ideas always were bad ones.”

And then he kissed you.

It was rough, desperate — nothing like the tender affection you’d once known with him. This was all teeth and heat, years of history and frustration crashing into one moment. You gasped against his mouth as he backed you up against the cold lockers, his hands sliding over your hips like he couldn’t get enough.

“God, I missed this,” Jude groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Missed you.”

“Don’t,” you warned, even as your nails dug into his bare back, dragging him closer. “Don’t say that.”

But he kissed you again before you could pull away, swallowing your protests, your resolve melting with every brush of his mouth. His hand slipped under your shirt, calloused palm against your skin, and you shivered at the contact. The sounds of laughter and chatter echoed faintly from the other side of the locker room, but in this corner, tucked in the shadows, it was only you and him — messy, tangled, wrong, but intoxicating.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he challenged, voice husky against your neck, lips grazing your skin. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You should have said it. You should have shoved him away, walked out, ended this cycle once and for all. But instead, a shaky whisper slipped out: “I can’t.”

That was all he needed.

Jude’s mouth claimed yours again, hungrier this time, his hands gripping you tight like he was afraid you’d vanish. You let yourself sink into it — into him — just this once more. The world outside the locker room faded, and all that remained was the fire you’d never quite been able to put out.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours, desperate and unrelenting. It felt like every argument, every late-night phone call, every moment you swore you were done with him had been simmering here, waiting to explode. Jude pressed into you harder, caging you against the tiled wall as though he could force the distance of the last few months to disappear.

“Still mine,” he whispered against your lips, his voice rough, his hands already slipping under the hem of your shirt. “Tell me you don’t still feel it, and I’ll walk away right now.”

You should have said it. You should have shoved him back. But when his thumb brushed the bare skin just under your ribcage, the protest died in your throat. “Jude…”

That was all he needed. His smirk was dark, triumphant, but his eyes betrayed something else — need, almost fear. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping away again.

His mouth trailed down your jaw, hot and desperate, teeth scraping lightly against your throat. You gasped, your hand flying up to grip his curls, tugging him closer when you should have been pushing him away. His low groan vibrated against your skin, sending shivers all the way down your spine.

“Always knew you couldn’t stay mad at me for long,” he murmured, lips dragging over the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“You’re so—” You broke off with a shudder as his hands tightened at your hips, pulling you flush against him. “—arrogant.”

His laugh was low, almost dangerous. “And you love it.”

One hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face back so he could kiss you again, slower this time, savoring. The other explored shamelessly — over your waist, your thighs, your curves — like he was reminding himself of everything he used to touch.

He then sunk down onto his knees, keeping eye contact as he descended. He then pulled your shorts down, underwear going down with them.

“Look at you, soaking for me… I thought you didn’t want this?” he teased, running a finger through your folds.

“Shut uppp Jude…” you whined.

He giggled, lifting one of your legs up, adjusting you. Leaning in, he licked along the length of your pussy. You shivered.

“Fuck—!” you moaned.

He groaned into you, sending vibrations to your clit. You squirm a bit, and bring your head down to his curls, pushing him into you all while moving your hips.

Every nerve in your body lit up under his mouth, the tension building higher, sharper, until you were shaking, your cries spilling out helplessly. He didn’t stop. He pushed you right to the edge, his grip unrelenting, his rhythm merciless.

When release finally hit, it crashed through you in waves, your whole body trembling, your back pressed hard against the wall. You gasped his name like it was the only word you knew, and he drank it in, groaning against you like it was his reward.

Only when you slumped against the tiles, spent and shaking, did he finally rise to his feet, his lips glistening, his smirk infuriatingly satisfied. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tilting your chin up with the other.

“We’re not done here. Turn around.” he commanded, catching you off guard since you’d barely caught your breath. Seeing you a bit taken back, he grabs one of your arms and turns you around himself. Now you’re really caught off guard.

“You think that I don’t care for you, that I don’t love you. You’ll never find someone who loves you like me— who fucks you like me.”

Somewhere within his speech, Jude had shimmied his pants off, leaving him fully naked. He bent you over, sliding his dick up and down your pussy, circling around your clit— teasingly.

“Jude please…” you whimpered.

“Nuhuh… tell me what I need to hear first.”

“I- I love you Jude.. please.”

He expected a bit more resistance from you, but loved to hear how eager you were for him. “God, I’ve missed this view,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear, his chest heaving against yours. “You bent over for me, right where you belong.”

Your heart hammered — part of you hated the way his words sank in, the way your body responded despite yourself. But when his grip tightened at your waist, easing himself into you, your knees nearly buckled.

Every thrust of his hips had you gasping against the lockers, your forehead pressed to the cool metal as he set the pace — rough, relentless, but grounding you with a hand at your lower back. Each movement reverberated through you, a mix of pleasure and frustration spilling from your lips in shaky moans.

“Fuck— you’re so tight,” Jude growled, his voice ragged, desperate. “No one else has been in here, huh?”

“No—! No one else Jude I swearrrr!”

His low groan followed, vibrating against your skin as his pace grew harder, sharper, chasing the edge for both of you.

When your release tore through you, your hands clawed at the lockers for balance, your body shuddering under the intensity. Jude didn’t slow — not until he’d buried himself against you, his own release hitting with a strangled sound that sent heat rushing up your spine.

For a moment, the room was silent except for your ragged breathing, the metal lockers cool under your forehead.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You froze. “Do what?”

He pressed his forehead to the back of your neck, his voice hoarse. “Pretend I don’t still love you.”

Your chest tightened, your eyes stinging. “Jude—”

“No.” His grip on your hips tightened, desperate, his words spilling out before he could stop them. “You think this is just about sex? About me proving I can still have you? No. I begged you to come tonight because I needed you there. I needed to see you, even if you hate me.”

Your breath caught, torn between anger and ache. “You hurt me. Over and over. And now you’re telling me—”

“That I love you,” he cut in, his voice raw. He turned you around then, forcing you to face him. His curls were damp with sweat, his lips swollen, his eyes wild but shining. “I love you, and I don’t know how to stop. I’ve tried, I swear, but every time I close my eyes, it’s you. It’s only you.”

The words slammed into you harder than his body ever had. You wanted to push him away, wanted to tell him it was too late. But the way he looked at you — desperate, vulnerable, broken in a way Jude Bellingham never let himself be — pinned you to the spot.

His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your trembling lip. “I know I’ve been toxic. I know I don’t deserve you. But please—” his voice cracked, his forehead pressing to yours — “please don’t tell me you don’t feel it too. Not after this.”

And the truth was, you did. You felt it in your shaking body, in the way his kiss still lingered on your skin, in the ache that had never left no matter how hard you tried to forget him.

But loving Jude had always been fire. And fire burned.

You swallowed hard, your whisper barely audible. “You still love me?”

His lips hovered over yours, trembling with the weight of it. “Always. Even when I shouldn’t. Even when it’s killing me.”

“Okay… fine. But put some pants on first.”

He looked down, completely forgetting his lack of clothing situation.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like seeing me like this.”

“Still as cocky as ever, Bellingham.”

———

what happened to standing on business…?

muah 💋

[myhobari]

idk if you write for him but would you be down to do a damson idris fic like heavy smut

- almost

damson idris x black reader

Summary - You and your best friend Damson have had the hots for each other for a while… who knew all it took was someone else trying to get your attention to make him break?

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: i hope u loveeee!

masterlist

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You’d known Damson forever—longer than most of your other friendships, actually. Right from that first semester in college, he was there, sitting a couple of rows behind you in that boring English class neither of you wanted to take. He was pretty quiet back then, already exuding that chill vibe like nothing could really get to him. But with you, he let his guard down.

Late-night study sessions turned into long talks that sometimes turned into drives with the music blasting so loud the car vibrated. He was your best friend, your twin. Everyone assumed it was just a matter of time before you two ended up together, but you both danced around it like it was a minefield, careful not to mess things up.

Neither of you wanted to risk the friendship. And so, years flew by while you both dated different people, quietly watching each other move in and out of these half-hearted relationships. It felt safer to keep quiet than to potentially ruin everything.

Yet sometimes, when the night dragged on and his gaze lingered a bit too long on yours, you couldn't help but wonder. Sometimes, when he’d hold you a second longer than usual or tuck your hair behind your ear, you felt like maybe he was wondering too.

⸻

That night, the two of you went to a party that one of your girlfriends said was going to be “the best party of the year”. It wasn’t unusual — you went everywhere together. Damson always insisted on being the one to drive, claiming he “didn’t trust” anyone else behind the wheel with you in the passenger seat.

You’d teased him about it in the car. “You act like I’m fragile.”

He glanced at you as the city lights flickered across his face, smirking just slightly. “Not fragile. Just mine to protect.”

The words hung heavy in the air. You laughed it off, changing the subject, but your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the pre-party nerves.

The house was already packed by the time you arrived. Music blasted, bodies swayed, and the smell of alcohol clung to the air. Damson kept close at first, his hand resting on your lower back as you moved through the crowd, but eventually, someone pulled him away to talk, and you found yourself alone near the kitchen.

That’s when a guy slid in beside you. He wasn’t anyone you knew well — just someone from your econ class, smile too slick, words too practiced. He leaned close, his voice too low, trying too hard. You smiled politely, not wanting to be rude, but inside you rolled your eyes.

And then you felt it — that prickling sensation of eyes burning into you. You turned your head just in time to see Damson across the room, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides.

He didn’t waste a second. Within moments he was there, his presence a wall between you and the other guy.

“She’s not interested,” Damson said, his voice like steel.

The guy muttered something and slipped away, but the damage was done. Heat rose in your chest as you turned on him.

“What the hell was that, Damson?” you snapped.

His eyes cut to yours, sharp, blazing. “What the hell was that? You just let him all over you?”

“He wasn’t all over me,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “We were just talking.”

“Talking?” His laugh was bitter, harsh. “That wasn’t talking. He was lookin’ at you like—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

“Like what? Go ahead. Say it.”

“Like he had any right to you.”

The words made your breath catch, your anger faltering. “Why do you care?”

“Because it should be me!” he exploded, voice cracking, raw. “It’s always been me.”

The silence after was deafening. Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it.

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Damson was already moving, crowding into your space, his forehead pressing to yours like he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice ragged, “and I will. But if you don’t—”

“I don’t,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed against yours, years of restraint burning away in one kiss. His hands grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him, desperate, hungry, like he’d been starving and you were the only thing that could save him.

The kiss spilled from the kitchen to the hallway, to a dark, empty bedroom where he pressed you to the door and kissed you until you forgot your own name. Clothes were tugged, dropped, lost in a frenzy. Every touch was frantic and reverent at the same time, his hands mapping every inch of you like he’d been dreaming of it for years.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

When he finally pushed inside you, it wasn’t just sex — it was everything. Years of silence. Years of longing. Every unsent text, every unsaid word.

“You drive me crazy,” he groaned, moving harder, deeper. “Scared of losin’ you. Scared to say it wrong. But I can’t—fuck.” His voice cracked, his thrusts growing rougher. “You’re mine. Always been mine.”

“Yesss— I’m all yours!”

You clung to him, nails down his back, body arching, crying out his name like it was the only language you knew.

You began to squirm away, feeling as if he was wayyy too deep inside of you.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He flipped you around, entering you from behind. Prone bone, directly on top of you. Holding you down, making sure you couldn’t run from him.

“S’ too much— Damson fuckkk!”

“You’re gonna take it. Been waiting way too long for you to run from this.”

You broke first, the tension snapping inside you with a cry that shook your whole body. Your muscles clenched tight around him, and you felt him unravel with you — the sharp shudder that rippled through him, the way his grip on your hips bruised as he drove in one last time before letting go completely.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of you both coming undone — gasps, cries, whispers that blurred into each other. It was messy, overwhelming, years of silence and longing combusting into one breathtaking release.

“I love you,” he whispered, hoarse, almost broken. “God, I love you. Should’ve said it years ago.”

You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your eyes, tears burning in your own. “Say it again.”

And he did. Over and over, kissing you between each vow. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You’d waited years to hear it. And in that moment, you knew — you’d never let go.

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

POV: you and Michael wake up on the same timing, on Sunday Morning and you tell him about your wet dream you had and he filled every fantasy throughout each day of the week

- seven days a week

michael b jordan x black reader

——

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: DAMN this took me long. i hope you love it :)

masterlist

——

Sunday Morning — Confession

The sheets are still warm when you roll onto your back, Michael rubbing lazy circles into your hipbone. He’s groggy, head pressed flat on one side, but the second you say “I had a dream,” his eyes snap fully open.

“A dream?” His grin spreads slow, teasing, as if he already knows. “Don’t tell me I was in it.”

You bury your face in the pillow, but he won’t let you hide. His hand finds your chin, tilting you back toward him.

“Baby… don’t tease me. What was I doing?”

You whisper it, halting, your cheeks hot. He listens intently, brows raised, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. And then he says the words that set everything in motion:

“Seven days. Seven fantasies. By next Sunday, you’ll forget the dream—’cause I’ll make it real.”

⸻

Monday — Gentle Reset

You drag yourself home from a long day, shoulders tight, voice scratchy. Michael’s waiting, lights dimmed, soft music playing in the background. He doesn’t pounce—he cradles. His lips linger at your hairline, his hands rub the tension from your arms.

“This was the first one, right?” he asks softly. “Me taking my time with you? Making it easy?”

You nod, heart stuttering. “Go to the bathroom, I got the tub ready for you.”

When you get there, it’s beautiful. Rose petals lying atop the warm, crisp, water. A tiny speaker playing some soft r&b, and your man behind you, already taking off your clothes.

“Imma take care of you tonight,” he helps you into the water, “just relax.”

He massages your shoulders, your hands, your feet, and even that spot at your neck that gave you a sting this morning, everywhere. Wait.. where did his other hand g—

“Ohhhh.. fuck!”

One of his hands, during his distracting massage, had slipped down to your pussy. Your first fantasy. Michael had slipped in behind you too, for better access. The water rippled softly with his movements, but you barely noticed—your focus narrowed only to him and his steady touch.

“Relax for me, baby,” he soothed, his other arm securing you closer against his chest. “Let me take care of you.”

The mix of the hot bath and his deliberate teasing had you clinging to him, your body trembling as he worked you higher, his voice right in your ear. “That’s it… so beautiful for me. Always so perfect.”

Your release came quietly but powerfully, your body shuddering as you melted back into him. Michael held you tighter, kissing the side of your head as his fingers slowed, comforting instead of urging. He whispered, “There you go, ma… I got you,” over and over until you settled, safe in his arms, cocooned in warmth and devotion.

⸻

Tuesday — Claim in His Lap

The night is warm, the food is perfect, but you know the real moment’s coming when Michael pushes his chair back. He pats his thigh.

“C’mere. I remember this part of your dream.”

Heat floods you as you climb onto his lap, his hand instantly grounding on your waist. His nose brushes yours, his other hand resting high on your thigh like he owns it.

“You said I held you like this?”

You manage a shaky laugh, but it dies when he kisses you slow, deliberate. “Yeah,” you whisper.

“Sit on me baby.”

——

You slowly sunk down his length, letting out a moan in unison. His hands slid up your back, one locking behind your neck to keep you close as he kissed you—messy, hungry, like he couldn’t get enough. His other hand anchored you down harder, making you feel every ounce of how badly he wanted you.

“Look at me,” he demanded softly, tilting your chin so your eyes locked on his. His pupils were blown wide, his forehead damp, every muscle in his body tense as he moved with you. “So damn fine.“

The chair rocked under the intensity, his grip fierce now, holding you to him as he let go of all restraint. The sound of your name falling from his lips over and over mixed with the thrum of your heartbeat, and you clung to him, every motion pushing you closer to the edge.

When the release finally came, it was overwhelming—both of you shuddering, clinging desperately to each other. Michael buried his face against your neck, breath hot and ragged, his whispered “I love you” muffled but unmistakable.

“Tuesday, check.”

⸻

Wednesday — The Mirror

The shower fog hasn’t cleared when Michael lifts the towel to your skin, drying you piece by piece. His movements slow, intimate, almost ceremonial. Then he turns you toward the mirror.

“Look.”

You try to resist, eyes darting away, but his hand cups your jaw gently. “Nah, baby. Look at yourself. You’re everything.”

His lips graze your ear, his reflection behind yours—broad, steady, grounding. “You’re beautiful. Pretty girl. Don’t ever forget it.”

Your breath stutters, not from touch, but from the weight of his voice in your chest.

“Keep looking at the mirror, if you stop looking, I stop fucking you.”

And he slid in. The mirror stayed fogged around the edges, but the center cleared just enough for you to see both of you reflected—your body trembling in his hold, his broad chest pressed to your back, his face buried at your neck. Michael’s hand spread wide over your stomach, anchoring you, keeping you right where he wanted.

Every movement was slow, deliberate, controlled. His hips rolled against you, deep and steady, and you gasped at the intensity. You tried to break the eye contact with your reflection, tried to let your lashes drop, but his palm slid up to cradle your jaw again, tilting your chin until your eyes met his through the glass.

Even after the tremors subsided, he didn’t let you drop your gaze. He kissed the side of your face, his lips gentle now, whispering, “Never doubt it. You’re everything, baby.”

⸻

Thursday — The Restaurant Risk

You’re at dinner with him, and you swear he’ll behave this time. But under the table, his fingers skim your thigh, just enough pressure to make your pulse kick.

You jerk, hissing, “Michael!”

He leans in, eyes gleaming. “What? I’m just checkin’ on my girl. You good?” The smug tilt of his lips tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. Your warning glare only makes him grin wider.

“This the risky one, right? The one you dreamed about? C’mon, let’s go to the bathroom.”

——

The counter was cool under your thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat building between your bodies. Michael stood between your legs, holding you steady with one arm wrapped firmly around your waist, the other braced against the mirror behind you. His forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling with yours as he moved—slow at first, then sharper, deeper, the counter rattling beneath you.

You clutched at his shoulders, your head falling back against the mirror until he nudged your chin forward, forcing you to meet his gaze. That smirk tugged at his lips, the same one he wore when he knew he was driving you insane.

It all hit you in a rush, your nails sinking into his back as your body trembled against him. Michael cursed under his breath, chasing you through it, his lips never leaving yours until the wave finally pulled both of you under.

“You think anyone heard us?” you asked, worriedly.

“Oh, definitely.”

⸻

Friday — Worship

It’s still dark when you stir, Michael already awake, his lips tracing every line of your body. He murmurs against your skin, low and reverent.

“I dreamed about this part too, baby. Been waitin’ for it all week.”

Every kiss is slower than the last, every whisper softer. “Let me show you how much I need you. Just stay right here.”

When he lowers himself, you feel his warmth against you, his breath fanning where you’re already sensitive. He looks up once, eyes heavy but clear, as if to ask for permission without words. You nod, chest rising unevenly, and his mouth closes the distance.

It’s not frantic—not the way movies make it look. It’s slow at first, reverent, Michael’s tongue exploring you with a patience that borders on unbearable. His hands slide under your thighs, anchoring you to the bed as though he won’t let you drift away from this moment.

Your breath stutters, fingers clasped around his curls as he works you open with his mouth, murmuring against you, “so pretty, baby… tastes so good.” The sound vibrates through you, drawing a shiver.

Heat builds, uncoiling, and Michael doesn’t let up. He adjusts, finding every place that makes you arch and clutch at him harder. His devotion is palpable—it isn’t just about release for him, it’s about unraveling you, making sure you feel adored with every stroke of his tongue, every press of his lips.

Only when your body sags against the sheets does he finally rise, kneeling between your legs, his face glistening, his smile almost boyish despite the heat in his eyes. He brushes a kiss against your hip, then your lips, letting you taste the devotion he poured into you.

“Favorite day.”

⸻

Saturday — Playful Burn

The morning smells like syrup and butter, Michael shirtless at the stove, humming off-key. You lean on the counter, watching him flip pancakes with infuriating ease.

“See somethin’ you like?” he teases, smirk widening when you roll your eyes.

The kiss starts playful, just like his banter, but quickly turns heavier. He lifts you up onto the counter without breaking contact, pancakes momentarily forgotten as his mouth trails down your jaw. You gasp, fingers threading through his curls, and his laughter rumbles against your skin.

“Thought you wanted breakfast,” you breathe, trying to sound indignant, but your voice cracks under his touch.

“Oh, I do,” Michael replies, lips brushing your throat. “Just not the kind on the stove.”

The heat between you both swells. His hands map over your thighs, spreading them as he settles himself between. The cool counter contrasts with the warmth of his body pressing close. Each kiss is deeper, slower, and hungrier, until the kitchen feels too small to hold it all.

You grip at his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer, your legs circling around his waist. He groans into your mouth, the sound reverberating straight through you. The world narrows to just the scent of syrup, the faint sizzle of forgotten butter in the pan, and the way Michael moves against you—intent, steady, devoted even in his teasing.

And then… he pulls away.

“Remember, day six. Denial?”

You groan.

⸻

Sunday — Cleaning Day Sexcapade

The washing machine hummed in the background, a steady rhythm filling the laundry room. You were bent over the basket, sorting whites from colors, when Michael leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms folded, watching.

He pushed off the wall, stepping in close, the warmth of him sinking into your back before you could even reach for another shirt. “I was lettin’ you have your moment, baby. But I’m feelin’ neglected.” His hands slid around your waist, pulling you against him, his breath grazing your neck.

“Michael…” you warned, though the laugh in your voice gave you away. “We’re literally doing laundry.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Clean start to the week. Might as well get a lil’ dirty first.”

You tried to shove him off with mock annoyance, but he lifted you onto the edge of the dryer like you weighed nothing. The machine buzzed beneath you, a low hum that made you bite your lip as he wedged himself between your thighs.

The kiss was impatient, stealing your breath, his hands roaming like he’d been waiting for this moment all morning. The heat between you ignited quickly, faster than you expected. Clothes and chores forgotten, all you could focus on was the way he pressed against you, the steady grind syncing with the spin of the washer.

“You drive me crazy,” you whispered against his mouth, tugging at his curls.

“And you love it,” he smirked, lips trailing down your jaw.

When he finally slid into you, the rhythm of the washer and dryer seemed to match his movements, steady at first, then harder, deeper. The hum of the machines filled the silence between gasps, every thrust rattling through the metal beneath you.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, your back pressed to the dryer’s vibrating surface. “Michael—” you breathed, words breaking into moans as he leaned in close, forehead touching yours.

“Say my name again,” he demanded softly, voice rough, each snap of his hips pushing you further toward the edge.

By the time it was over, your legs were trembling around his waist, laundry completely abandoned. Michael kissed you slow, long after the heat had passed, grounding you again.

“You know…” he said between breaths, glancing at the forgotten clothes in the basket. “Maybe you should have another dream…”

You laughed weakly, smacking his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

[myhobari]

https://www.tumblr.com/myhobari/792240467022692352/reading-some-requests-rn-yall-are-nastyyyy

I wanna know what they sent😭😭😭😭

you’ll see it !!! 😭

there are a ton of nasty ones, the next fic is one of em.

p.s. sorry the fic is taking so long this next request is having me THINK fr fr

[myhobari]

- popped

a miles caton drabble

summary - you HATE hot oil… ur bf miles always comes 2 ur rescue though!

fluff (no warnings)

a/n: i was making eggs this morning and i have the hugest fear of the oil when it pops. thought about this during that!

masterlist

————————————————————————

The pan was already hot, oil shimmering across the surface, and you were standing a good ten feet back like the stove was about to explode.

“Milesss,” you called nervously, spatula clutched in your hand but held out like it was a weapon. “It’s popping!”

He turned from where he was cutting fruit, raising a brow. “It’s eggs, baby. Not fireworks.”

You shook your head, edging even further away as a drop of oil snapped against the pan. “You don’t understand—I hate this. The oil’s like, out to get me.”

He laughed, deep and warm, shaking his head as he set the knife down. He came over, sliding behind you so his chest pressed against your back, big hands covering yours where they held the spatula.

“Alright, soldier,” he teased, lowering his voice dramatically, “we’re going into battle together. I got you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you leaned back into him, tension melting just a little.

“Miles, I’m serious!”

“I know you serious, that’s why I’m here,” he murmured into your hair. He reached over, steadying the spatula with one hand and shielding your arm with the other. “See? You don’t gotta run from it. I’ll take the pops for you.”

You glanced back at him, heart squeezing at how completely unfazed he was, like fried eggs were his battlefield. “Not you being my savior?”

He smirked, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before tilting the pan expertly. “’Of course I am. What kinda man lets his girl get ambushed by eggs?”

That broke you—you burst out laughing, clutching his forearm while he flipped the egg with a flourish, not a single drop of oil daring to jump near you.

“See?” he said smugly, nudging you. “Eggs cooked, no casualties.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled through your grin, but when he kissed you again, soft and sure, you thought maybe ridiculous was exactly what you loved about him.

——

i’ll get 2 the requests! i just thought abt this randomly :)

muah 💋

[myhobari]

reading some requests rn.. yall are NASTYYYY! 😭

[myhobari]

i appreciate all of your writings but uh has no one requested miles lately? bc i need to read about my man lol

hope u saw who dis? recently!!

[myhobari]

(a bit of a longer request sorryyy)

pov: skepta is in the studio working on some music and you’re at home just missing him, so you send him a few like teasing pictures and he facetimes you while you’re in bed just touching yourself imagining it’s him and hes immediately packing his things up to go home to you

- wait for me

skepta x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: releasing freaky ass fics during demon time is so real of me 😭! i hope you enjoy anon, and i love when y’all’s requests are long, gives me something to work with. so don’t feel bad at all, lovie. i call skeppy by his real name a lot in here, for authenticity feels.

masterlist

————————————————————————

The apartment felt too quiet without your joseph in it. You’d grown used to his presence filling every room—his laughter rolling in from the kitchen, the low bass of his beats vibrating through the walls, even the way he left his sneakers half-tucked by the door like a mark of territory. Tonight though, he was buried in the studio, promising he’d be “a few more hours.”

You sprawled across the bed with your phone glowing against the dim. Your thumb hovered over the camera, an ache pulsing between boredom and longing. A wicked little thought crossed your mind. If he wanted to be in the studio, you’d remind him exactly what he was missing at home.

The first picture was tame—just your face, lips parted, the soft light catching the curve of your cheek. Then you tugged the blanket down, let the strap of your top fall loose against your shoulder, snapped another. The heat in your stomach sharpened when you saw the delivery read. No reply. Not yet. You smirked and sent another—this one teasing, a glimpse of skin that told him your patience was thin.

Not even a minute later, your screen lit up. FaceTime from JoJo.

When you answered, his face filled the screen—dark eyes narrowed, lips pressed together like he was holding back every word. “Yeah?” his voice came low, dangerous. “You think this is funny?”

You stretched out on the bed, feigning innocence even as your fingers toyed at the hem of your shorts. “Just thought you might need… inspiration.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The camera jolted as he moved around the studio. You could hear the clutter of zipping a bag, voices in the background asking if he was heading out. He didn’t even answer them—his eyes stayed pinned on you, darker now. “You really picked the wrong night to play with me, baby.”

Your laugh trembled into a sigh as your hand slipped lower, letting him see just enough to know what you were doing. You let out a little moan. His jaw flexed. “Don’t,” he warned, breath shuddering like he was holding on by threads. “Don’t you finish without me.”

The sight of him pacing, grabbing his keys, muttering curses under his breath, only wound you tighter. “But I miss you,” you whispered, arching your back into the sheets. “Been laying here just thinking about your hands on me. Your mouth…”

He cursed again, the sound rough in his throat. “Stop. Nah, I’m coming home right now.” The screen jostled with movement as he cut through the studio, barely sparing anyone a look. “Keep that same energy when I get there. Don’t you dare close them eyes till I’m inside.”

The call ended, leaving you staring at your reflection in the black mirror of your phone, heart hammering, body restless. You knew him. Knew the way his music was his oxygen—but you also knew the way he looked at you like you were his gravity, his anchor.

By the time you heard the front door slam and heavy footsteps heading straight for the bedroom, you were already trembling with anticipation. You pulled the covers up just a little, lips curved in a nervous smile.

He filled the doorway, breath uneven from how fast he’d driven, eyes flicking over your body with raw hunger. He dropped his bag to the floor without a word. “You think I’m gonna let you play with me like that?” he asked, low and thick with promise.

Before you could answer, he was on you—hands claiming, mouth hot, the kind of kiss that leaves no question about who you belong to. You gasped, the sound swallowed by him, your teasing game collapsing into pure, desperate surrender.

When he broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath came ragged. “Don’t you ever make me feel like I could lose you to a screen. I need all of you right here.”

The words melted in your chest, even as his hands slid lower, tugging at your shorts. He didn’t bother being slow about it—he wanted you bare, wanted you shivering beneath his stare. The heat in his eyes when he took you in made you whimper, your legs instinctively pressing together.

“Open.” The command was simple, but the way his voice dropped made your body obey before your brain could catch up. His mouth found your neck, dragging along the sensitive skin, teeth grazing just enough to leave your pulse jumping. He muttered against you, “All that teasing, and now look at you—can’t even keep still.”

Your hands wrapped around his head as his mouth traveled lower, setting fire down your body. When he finally settled between your thighs, you nearly lost all sense. The way his tongue moved against you was unrelenting, like he was starving, like every second away from you had built up into this frenzy. You cried out, hips arching up, but his grip on you was firm, anchoring you as he took his time unraveling you.

“Jo, baby— feels s’ good…” you whimpered.

“Mmmmhhh,” he groaned into you, “I know love.”

Your breath hitched, legs trembling, the knot in your stomach coiling tighter and tighter. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Been waiting all night for this.”

When release finally tore through you, it was sharp and overwhelming, leaving you clutching at the sheets and his hair, shaking with the intensity of it. He didn’t let up until you were gasping, begging for a moment to catch your breath. Only then did he rise, lips glistening, eyes locked on you with pure satisfaction.

He leaned down, pressing a searing kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on him. His hands framed your face gently now, contrast to the hunger from moments before. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your mouth, softer now but no less serious. “Always.” He then abruptly flipped you over, making you lose your breath.

“I’m not done just yet.”

———

He had you braced against the edge of the mattress, your palms sinking into the sheets for balance as he pressed in behind you. His grip was firm at your waist, pulling you back into him with every deep roll of his hips. The sound of his breath—low, rough, ragged—filled your ears, mixing with the creak of the bed and the soft gasps leaving your throat.

“You feel that?” he muttered against your shoulder, voice thick with pride, almost a growl.

“Yessss… feel everything jojo—!”

His pace picked up, each thrust harder than the last, as if he needed to remind you exactly how much control he had in this moment.

Your body moved in rhythm with his, the tension building like a fire spreading too quickly to contain. His hand slid up your spine, flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all you could do was give in to the relentless drive of his movements.

Every snap of his hips sent sparks racing through you, his voice in your ear—half curses, half praise—only winding you tighter. He loved the way you trembled under him, the way your body answered back to every push, and he made sure you knew it.

When the heat finally broke, it was like being swallowed whole, a rush so powerful you cried out his name, muffled against the sheets. He didn’t let up until he followed you into release, grip on your waist almost bruising, the both of you collapsing forward in a tangle of sweat, breath, and shaking limbs.

He dropped a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his voice softer now, a contrast to the intensity moments before: “Still mine, yeah?”

All you could do was throw a sleepy smile at him.

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

More Leon pretty please

- ily?

leon thomas x black reader

summary - all the times your boyfriend, leon, has tried to tell you that he loves you. and the time he actually does.

fluff (no warnings!)

a/n: let me know what u think love, it’s a long one. i got this idea from a fic i read a while ago, if the person who wrote it sees this, you inspired me! reader sings.

masterlist

————————————————————————

Leon first noticed the words sitting on his tongue in the most ordinary place—the hallway outside a studio bathroom at one in the morning, where the air smelled like coffee and cables and whatever cologne he’d put on at dusk and forgotten. You were curled on the busted leather couch with his hoodie swallowing you, your feet tucked under you, hair wrapped in a satin scarf you’d tied without looking. He’d been looping harmonies for hours; you’d stayed anyway, head bobbing to a mix only he could hear.

When he came out, you were asleep—phone facedown, one hand still holding the pen he’d given you to “grade” his lyrics with. He stood there for a full minute, laughing under his breath at the way your lips parted just a little when you dreamed, at how you could make even fluorescent light look warm. The words rose then, uninvited, perfect: I love you. He stepped closer. He could have whispered it into your hair; no one would have known but the wall and the dim blue screen saver blinking in the corner. He leaned in and tucked the pen from your fingers instead, kissed the curve of your temple, and said, soft and chickening out, “C’mon, beautiful. Let’s get you home.”

The second time lived in applause. You’d just finished a small showcase, your voice still buzzing in the room like electricity after a storm. He’d watched from the wings, hands in his pockets because clapping felt too small, too ordinary for what you’d just done. Backstage, you found each other in the tangle of bodies and cases and cables. You were breathless; he was undone. He grabbed you like a lifeline, pulled you into his chest, and whispered, “You just changed the air in there.” You laughed into his shoulder, and for a heartbeat he nearly said it into your hair, maybe into the soft place behind your ear. Instead, his mouth found your cheek and he breathed, “I’m so proud of you,” and watched your eyes go glossy like he’d handed you a trophy anyway.

There were grocery-store moments where the words crowded his throat for no good reason at all. You reached for mangoes with an intense concentration like you were auditioning fruit, rolling them in your palm, explaining the science of ripeness to him like he was a judge. He pretended to argue and then put every mango you approved into the cart, and when you moved on to cilantro he caught himself smiling at the back of your neck and had to look away. In the checkout line, you pulled a shower cap from your tote with zero shame and slipped it over your hair because rain had started outside and you weren’t about to let the humidity play you. He wanted to kiss you right there by the gum and tabloids and say the thing that kept knuckling his ribs. He kissed your hand instead.

Sometimes the almosts arrived when you were at your most unglamorous—sweatpants, shea butter on your wrists, favorite series paused on a frame because you’d fallen asleep mid-episode. He’d look down and realize his arm had become your pillow, that his T-shirt had become your favorite dress. Lightning would strobe the windows, thunder rumbling, and you would snore the gentlest snore known to mankind. He would practice in the dark. I love you. Hey. I love you. Then morning came, and you blinked awake and teased him about talking in his sleep, and he swallowed it again and made you pancakes you ate off the same plate.

There was a studio day you claimed you were “just hanging,” but ended up laying down the softest, breathiest backgrounds on a hook he couldn’t get right. He watched you through the glass, nodding to your own rhythm, one earcup off and the other pressed tight, the curve of your mouth careful on vowels. You stepped out and looked at him, all nervous—“Was that okay?”—and he wanted to tell you it wasn’t just okay, it was the missing piece he hadn’t learned how to ask for. On the ride back to the crib, he said, “You turned that hook into a home,” and you smiled like that was enough. He took the long way, windows cracked so the night air could carry your perfume back out to wherever songs go when they’re still shy.

When you got sick and refused to admit it, the words tried to spill again. You insisted you were “fine,” then shivered under three blankets with a fever that made your voice small. He pulled your hair back careful and you pretended not to notice how sloppy he’d made it since it made your heart thump a little. He sat on the floor with his back against the bed and read you tweets about yourselves in multiple voices until you laughed and choked and glared and he apologized with tea and honey and a sticky kiss to your forehead. He rubbed your calves and texted your mom for the soup recipe and knew, absolutely knew, that he loved you. He said, “Don’t go anywhere,” instead. You said, “Why would I leave?” and he took that answer and slept on it like a child with a secret marble in his pocket.

On your birthday, his family showed up, loud and generous and nosy in the best ways. His auntie took one look at you arranging the cake and announced, “Oh, Leon. This one is peace.” Everyone nodded like a choir. You pretended not to hear as you tried to save the frosting roses from the heat, and Leon pretended not to glow but failed. Later, when the house was quiet and you were barefoot in his kitchen stealing forkfuls of your own cake with no witnesses, he leaned on the doorway and watched you dance to a song only you could hear. “What?” you laughed, caught. He shook his head. “Nothing. Everything.” The words were in the frosting, on the fork, in the way you swayed without asking the room for permission. He walked to you and kissed frosting off your lip and said, “I don’t ever get tired of you,” and meant I love you, I love you, I love you.

He wrote a song he swore wasn’t about you and then rewrote it because duh, of course it was. He kept trying to put the phrase in the bridge, but every time he wrote it down it felt too small to carry you. He left a space and filled it with a melisma that sounded like a confession sung from the other room.

The night he finally said it didn’t look like a music video. No fireworks. No fancy dinner. Just the city doing its late-night hum outside his windows and the soft kind of rain that made everything reflective. You were stretched on the carpet beside him because the couch had lost the plot and you’d abandoned it mid-movie for the floor like kids. There were half-eaten mango slices sweating in a bowl on the coffee table, and his guitar leaned against the chair like it had taken a break too.

You were tracing shapes on his palm—little crescents and spirals—while you told him a story about your grandmother teaching you to wrap a headscarf so it wouldn’t budge in wind or rain or dancing. He asked questions he already knew the answers to because he liked the way your voice softened on the memories. His chest felt too full. He let it. He rolled to face you, propped on an elbow, and you did the same until your noses nearly brushed.

“Can I try something?” he asked.

You blinked. “Try what?”

“Just… being honest without overthinking it.”

“Bold,” you smirked, though your breath hitched.

He took your face between his hands like a prayer he didn’t want to drop. No flourish. No performance. His thumbs sat warm at your jaw. He looked at you the way you always wanted someone to look at you—like a decision, not a gamble. And then he said it, simple as a door opening.

“I love you.”

The room changed temperature. That was the only way he could explain it later. The radiator hissed, the rain threaded itself tighter, a bus sighed out on the avenue. In the tiny pause after the words, your eyes went bright and then brighter. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t put on a clever thing to wear over the moment. You let it hit you. You touched his bottom lip like you’d heard it there first and whispered back, steady and sure, “I love you too.”

He laughed—low, relieved, a little wrecked—like air returning to lungs. He kissed you the way a song resolves after standing on the wrong chord too long. He said it again in the kiss, and again when you broke for breath, and again when you laughed because he wouldn’t stop. He carried it to your shoulder, your wrist, your palm. You counted them on your fingers like you were keeping score of something that didn’t need keeping. He tucked you into him, both of you still on the floor, and you stayed like that long enough for the credits to loop twice.

Later, when the rain faded to a hush and you’d migrated to the couch you’d abandoned, he said, “I been trying to say it for months.”

“I know,” you said, smiling into his shirt.

“Do you?”

“You talk in songs, Leon. I learned the language.” You lifted your head and found him, then added, quiet and playful, “Also, the mango aisle. You’re not subtle.”

He groaned, face in his hands. “I’m so embarrassing.”

“You’re so in love.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Can I be both?”

“You already are.”

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

leon fic coming.

[myhobari]

pov: you and Miles are having a date night and your old fwb sees you and says hi and you’ve never mentioned him to Miles and he’s super smug about it so Miles is feeling some type of way and kinda jealous. anyways he takes you to go handle dattttt

- who dis?

miles caton x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: ik yall have been waiting on a miles fic, its been a min.

masterlist

————————————————————————

The night had been smooth, laughter spilling out between you and Miles as you walked down the sidewalk, his arm around your waist like it belonged there. He’d been teasing you about how you’d finished dessert before he did—“you didn’t even breathe between bites”—when you heard it:

“Yo… I know that ain’t who I think it is?”

Your stomach sank. Turning, you came face-to-face with a ghost from your past—an old situation. He looked you over slowly, that smug grin plastered on his face.

“Damn, been years. You still fine as hell,” he said, too casually.

Miles stiffened instantly, his grip on you tightening. You forced a smile, replying quickly, “Yeah, uh, good to see you.”

But he didn’t take the hint. “We should catch up sometime,” he added, eyes flicking to Miles like he wanted to see a reaction.

You could feel Miles’ glare burning, though he didn’t say a word until the guy finally walked away.

⸻

The ride home was suffocating. Miles’ hand stayed heavy on your thigh, his thumb dragging circles that weren’t gentle—they were firm, like a claim. He didn’t speak until halfway down the street, jaw tight.

“You ain’t tell me about him.”

You sighed, turning toward him. “Because he doesn’t matter, Miles. That was years ago— wayyy before you.”

He glanced at you, his voice low. “Didn’t look like he thought it was ‘years ago.’ He looked at you like… like he remembered every detail.” His grip tightened. “Like he thought he still had some right to.”

You reached for his hand, softening your voice. “Hey. Don’t do that.” He looked at you, eyes dark and burning. “You’re the only one I want. The only one I ever wanted like this.”

His gaze softened for a split second before hardening again. “Nah, I gotta remind you—remind both of us—that you mine. Period.”

⸻

The second you got inside, he pressed you against the door, kissing you with urgency. It wasn’t gentle; it was raw, teeth grazing your lip as his hands roamed your body like he needed to erase any trace of the other man.

“You let him talk to you like that?” he murmured against your mouth.

“I didn’t say a word back,” you whispered, kissing him again. “Miles, you’re it for me. He’s nothing.”

But you couldn’t resist teasing him a little, your fingers dragging down his chest. “You sound jealous, though. Kinda cute.”

His eyes narrowed, his forehead resting against yours as his voice dropped, husky. “Cute? You think I’m playin’?” He lifted you suddenly, your legs wrapping around his waist. “Bet you won’t think it’s cute when I’m done with you.”

He carried you straight to the bedroom, laying you down but not letting go, kissing you again—slower this time, deeper, almost desperate.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, whispering, “I love when you get like this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, voice thick. “You love when I’m jealous?”

“Maybe,” you teased softly, your smile daring him.

That did it. His mouth claimed yours again, harder, his hands roaming your body as though he needed to prove a point. Every kiss, every touch, screamed: You’re mine.

When he finally sank into you, the world blurred, your moan caught in his mouth as he held your face between his hands.

“You so damn pretty,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as his hips moved with urgency. “All mine. Don’t forget that.”

You clung to him, whispering through the haze of heat, “I want youuu, Miles. Only you. Always you. Nobody else could ever—ever—make me feel like this.”

Your words seemed to push him even further, his movements deepening as his grip on you tightened. “Say it again,” he demanded softly, almost begging.

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “I’ve always been yours!”

The tension built until Miles buried his face against your neck, groaning your name like a prayer. His release came with a shudder, his body collapsing slightly against yours while you held him close, your own body trembling beneath him.

You kissed his temple, whispering against his hair, “You don’t ever have to worry about anyone else. It’s always you, Miles. Just you.”

His chest rose and fell heavily, but his arms wrapped around you tighter, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you. And I swear, ain’t nobody ever takin’ you away from me.”

For a long moment, he just held you, breathing you in. Then he kissed your shoulder, tender, a complete contrast from the fire a few minutes earlier.

“You good?” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost vulnerable.

You smiled softly, playing with his hair. “More than good. You?”

He let out a breath, eyes closing. “Yeah. I just… I hate when I feel like somebody think they still got some claim on you. Makes me act crazy.” His thumb traced lazy circles on your skin, apologetic. “Didn’t mean to go too hard.”

You turned to face him, cupping his jaw. “I like when you show me how much you want me. You ain’t scare me. You just reminded me how deep this is for you. And I promise—I’m yours. No one else.”

That got him. His eyes softened, shimmering with something more than just post-heat intensity. “I don’t deserve you sometimes,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss your forehead.

You laughed gently. “Stop it. You do. More than anyone ever could.”

“I know.”

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

Complete 10’s thank you so much I love your writing! I hope you get to feeling better and rest up!🫶🏽

https://www.tumblr.com/myhobari/792085909104410624/hey-can-you-do-a-bisexual-fem-reader-first-time

Thank you so much, i’m glad you liked it!!

[myhobari]

Hey! Can you do a bisexual fem reader first time with a dude(sexually) being Anthony Edwards?

- first to have you

anthony edwards x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: as a bi woman, yes. i hope u enjoy anon.

masterlist

————————————————————————

His place is quiet in that expensive kind of way—thick walls, soft lamps, the city held at arm’s length. There’s still a hint of post-game energy clinging to him—fresh shower, damp hair, a clean tee stretched across his chest, that lazy grin that could talk a crowd into storming a court. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and doesn’t look away from you.

“You nervous?” he asks, voice low and soft around the edges, like he already knows.

You shrug because your voice is somewhere in your throat with your pulse. “A little.”

He nods once like that’s the right answer. “Good. Means you care.” Then he steps in—close, but not crowding—hands sliding into his pockets so you’re the one who has to make the next move. Anthony’s like that sometimes: patient and infuriating, all at once.

You tug at his tee. “Come here.”

The smile breaks slow. “Yes, ma’am.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting all week to exhale. Warm. Intent. Not polite about it. His mouth finds yours and asks—doesn’t take—until your shoulders loosen and your fingers hook in the cotton at his waist. He hums like he felt the shift, then pulls back just long enough to study your face.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “What you want tonight?”

You know what you want. You’ve known all day, the thought of it pitching and rolling in your chest like a wave. You’re a little scared of saying it out loud, the way naming a thing makes it bigger, realer. He waits anyway. That’s the worst best thing about him—he can wait.

“Show me,” you say finally, breath whispering over the word. “I want you to show me.”

His eyes darken, that heat you’ve seen on the court cutting through the calm. “You sure?” His fingers trace the line of your jaw, the back of your neck, anchoring you. “First time with a dude… you say stop, we stop. Say slow, we slow. Say more—” a slow, cocky smile— “we’ll see about more.”

You swallow, nodding. “I’m sure.”

“Then say it,” he teases, because he likes to hear you ask for things, likes to make you admit how much you want him.

You roll your eyes and he chuckles, head tipping, hair brushing your forehead. “Please,” you breathe. “Ant.”

He leans in, lips grazing your ear. “There she go.”

He doesn’t drag you to the bedroom. He walks you there—slow, hand at the small of your back like a secret. In the soft lamplight, the room looks almost staged: neat sheets, a glass of water on the nightstand, a candle that smells like amber and something warm. It feels safe. It feels like he planned for you.

He stands you by the bed and steps back an inch. “I wanna look at you for a second.”

You fight the urge to fold your arms, to joke your way out of being seen. You let him look. He takes his time—eyes low to high, back down, not hungry so much as reverent. You hadn’t expected that—this careful, head-tilted attention that reads less like appraisal and more like praise.

“Beautiful,” he says simply, like it’s a fact nobody sane would argue. “I been saying it, but you gon’ make me prove it.”

“Prove it, then,” you shoot back, and he laughs, delighted that you met him there.

The teasing starts as a hover. His mouth almost meets your neck and then moves. His hands almost grip your waist and then skim. His knee nudges yours; you shift; he waits. He’s so good at this—at building the ache, at making the anticipation hurt more than the thing itself. You feel each withheld touch like a match struck and blown out. Your breath starts to stutter without asking permission.

“Tell me what this feels like,” he says, lips at your jaw, voice a fraction rougher. “Use your words.”

“Like you’re being mean, teasing me,” you manage.

He grins against your skin. “I can be nice. But you said heated.”

“I did,” you say too fast, and he hears it, and it does something to him.

Clothes give way to skin in a slow blur. He’s careful with everything he removes and careless with everything he kisses—your shoulder, the curve beneath your collarbone, the little places you didn’t know would feel electric. His hands are big and gentle but not tentative. He moves you where he wants you—onto the bed, pillows under your head, one knee hitching your thigh higher—checking in with a look each time, waiting for the little nods you don’t realize you’re giving.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs, reading your mind. “I can tell.”

“Just nervous, Ant.”

“No need baby. You know I got you.”

He goes slow at first, because he’s proud and because he likes to watch you tip. His tongue learns you in long, patient lines and then shorter, precise ones; his hands keep you right where he wants you when your hips try to run from the tension he’s feeding. Heat draws tight, then tighter, then tight enough that you have to grab for something—the sheet, his shoulder, his name.

“Ant… feels good,” you whimper out.

“I know ma, i’m eating you good huh?”

You come apart with your breath breaking in little bursts, with his name caught on the edge of a sound you didn’t know you could make. He doesn’t stop when you break—he carries you through the aftershocks, softening the rhythm without letting go of it, the kind of patience that feels like worship.

When he finally climbs up to kiss you, you taste yourself, him and something bright. His chest brushes yours, warm and solid. He’s smiling. “You good?” he asks, and it’s not small talk; it’s inventory.

“Mhmm.” Your voice is wrecked and you don’t care. “More.”

He bites back a laugh like that might be the best thing he’s ever heard. “Say less.”

He reaches to the drawer—responsible, unhurried—and you could cry from how that small, thoughtful motion makes you feel safer than any words. When he settles between your knees again, he’s not cocky. He’s deliberate, eyes locked on yours like the only thing he wants is to do this right.

“Breathe with me,” he says, and you do, chest to chest, matching. “If you need me to stop, say it. If you need me to slow down, say it. You lead, I follow.”

You nod, hands on his shoulders, thumbs sweeping over the warm curve of muscle there, grounding yourself in him. The first push is careful. Your body tenses on reflex, then listens, then opens like a door learning a hinge. He stays deep but still; you breathe; he waits.

“You’re okay,” he says, voice gone rough with restraint. “I got you.”

Your fingers flex. “I know.”

The second push is easier. The third makes you gasp because you didn’t know something could feel both new and undeniable at the same time. He hears the sound and swallows a curse he turns into your name, a low, pulled-thin groan pressed into your mouth.

“Look at me,” he asks, forehead against yours. “Let me see that face.”

You do, and something clicks—an invisible line pulling taut between his gaze and the way he moves. The rhythm builds gradually: slow, then deeper, then a little faster, testing, checking. His hand finds yours and pins it by your head; his other hand slides beneath your lower back and lifts—an angle that changes everything. Your breath punches out; his jaw locks; the next thrust steals your focus like the lights went out and came back brighter.

“You feel—” he has to stop to breathe— “insane. You know that?”

Your laugh is a broken thing. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

He doesn’t. The pace turns intent, a little ragged at the edges like his control is fraying in the most satisfying way. You can feel his restraint in the way his hips check and roll instead of slam; you can feel his need in the way it threatens to slip. He keeps both truths on the table—care and hunger—lets you taste them both.

“Get on top, baby.”

Sweat beads at his temple and runs down to his jaw. You reach to catch it with your mouth and he shivers, teeth grazing your bottom lip like thanks. The bed complains softly under the rhythm you’ve found. Somewhere outside, a siren wails and fades; time blinks; the room narrows to breath and heat and the rightness of being exactly where you are.

“Tell me,” he says, breathless but bossy. “Where you at?”

“Close,” you whisper, surprised at the honesty in your voice. “So so close.”

“Yeah?” He adjusts, tiny, precise, and your body answers like it’s been waiting for that exact math. His head tips back. “There it is. Ride it.”

You do because you can’t not. Everything tightens from the inside out, gathering, glittering, then breaking—a rush that takes your voice with it. He holds on—literally—his hand tight in yours, his other palm braced beside your head like he’d pin the world down if it tried you. He talks you through the end of it, soft praise threaded through gravel.

“So good… that’s it… let it happen… I got you.”

You’re still shaking when you realize he’s gone very, very still. The restraint finally snaps in a sound that’s almost a prayer—your name torn up, his body shuddering against yours as the moment hits him. He buries his face in your neck, breath breaking, shoulders trembling. You hold him like he held you, fingers playing in his hair, whispering nothing words—“yes,” “it’s okay,” “with me”—until his breathing evens out.

For a long minute, nobody moves. The lamp hums. The candle burns low. Your heartbeat learns his rhythm again, the two of you syncing without trying.

He moves his head last, eyes heavy, smile slow and grateful and more than a little stunned. “You good?” he asks again, because he will always ask.

You nod, touch his cheek. “You?”

He laughs quietly. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He kisses your forehead, your mouth, your jaw. When he slides away to take care of the practical things, he does it with a tenderness that undoes you—quick trip to toss what needs tossing, a hand at your shoulder guiding you to the bathroom. “Rule,” he says, gentle but fake-stern. “Go pee. Not negotiable.”

You make a face at him in the mirror and he grins like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. When you come back, there’s water waiting on your side of the bed, plus a cool washcloth he presses to your neck with the kind of care people write songs about.

“You okay-okay?” he asks one more time when you’re tucked against him, your leg thrown over his like you’ve been sleeping like this for years.

“Yeah.” You mean it in a way that feels new and old at once. “Thank you.”

He snorts softly. “For what?”

“For making it feel like this.”

He exhales, something unguarded in it. “I told you I’d show you,” he says, lips against your hair. “And I’m not done showin’ you.”

You settle in the cradle of his arm, the city a quiet suggestion beyond the window, the room warm with the afterglow of a thing done right. He traces slow shapes on your back until your eyes go heavy. Just before sleep pulls you under, you hear him again, low and sure at your ear:

“Next time,” he murmurs, smile in his voice, “you ain’t gotta be nervous. Just tell me what you need… and I got the rest.”

You don’t answer because you don’t need to. Your body already has. And in the hush that follows, with his heartbeat steady under your palm and your name still sweet on his tongue, you realize the best part isn’t the heat—it’s the way he turned it into something you can fall asleep inside.

——

muahhhh 💋

[myhobari]

andrew nembhard comforting reader through a panic attack

- my all

andrew nembhard x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

fluff (no warnings!)

a/n: i hope you enjoy anon !!

masterlist

————————————————————————

You weren’t sure when the spiral started.

One minute you were fine, just scrolling on your phone while waiting for Andrew to get back from practice, and the next, your chest felt too tight. It was like the walls of your apartment had inched closer without you noticing, the air thinning in ways your mind couldn’t make sense of.

Your thoughts were fast — too fast — but somehow sluggish at the same time, like they were piling up in a traffic jam. And underneath it all, a low, relentless hum of dread, the kind that didn’t seem to have a reason but made your stomach drop anyway.

You put your phone down, tried to stand, and immediately felt that lightheaded, floaty sensation. Your heart thudded harder. Your hands shook. You tried to take a breath, but it was short, shallow — a sip instead of a gulp.

You hated when this happened. You hated that it came without warning. And most of all, you hated the feeling that no matter how much you told yourself it wasn’t real, your body didn’t care.

By the time you heard Andrew’s key turn in the lock, your knees were drawn up to your chest on the couch, your fingers pressing against your temples like you could force your brain to slow down.

“Babe?” His voice was casual at first, calling from the hallway. Then his head appeared around the corner, and you knew the second his eyes landed on you, he understood something was wrong.

He dropped his gym bag to the floor without even unzipping his jacket, crossing the room in a few quick strides. “Hey, hey—” His voice softened immediately as he crouched down in front of you. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head. You couldn’t. Your throat felt tight, words stuck behind the racing of your pulse.

Andrew didn’t push. Instead, he shifted onto the couch beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body but not so close that it crowded you. His hands rested palm-up on his knees, an unspoken invitation.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

You managed a small nod, and his hand came to rest gently against your shin. Not gripping, not pulling — just there. Present.

“Alright,” he murmured. “We’re gonna slow it down together, yeah? Just you and me. Forget everything else for a second.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, soft but focused. “Breathe in with me,” he said, exaggerating the inhale so you could match him. “One… two… three… hold it… and let it out slow.”

It took a few rounds — you stumbling, him patient — but eventually your breaths weren’t as shallow. He didn’t let go of your shin the whole time, his thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.

“You’re here,” he said softly. “Right here. You’re safe. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

You swallowed, your eyes burning. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted gently. “And even if you can’t, I’ll do it with you. Every step.”

He glanced toward your hands, still trembling slightly. “Give ‘em to me?”

You placed them hesitantly in his, and he held them without squeezing, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “Feel that?” he asked. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

Your vision wavered, tears slipping free. “I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “But it’s just a wave, baby. It’s gonna pass. And I’m not letting it take you under.”

You sat there for a while, just breathing together. Every time you faltered, he reset the rhythm. Every time your mind tried to sprint ahead, he anchored you with a quiet “stay with me” or “look at me.”

When your breaths finally evened out, he shifted, tugging you gently into his lap. You resisted for half a second — out of habit more than anything — but the second his arms wrapped around you, the tension in your shoulders loosened.

His hoodie smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the outside air, and his heartbeat under your ear was steady, grounding. He didn’t speak for a long while, just rubbed slow circles into your back, his chin resting against your hair.

Eventually, when your breathing was steady and your hands weren’t shaking as much, he murmured, “Do you want to tell me what set it off? Or we saving that for later?”

“Later,” you said quietly. “I’m just… tired.”

“Alright,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Then all you gotta do now is rest.”

He adjusted you so you were curled sideways in his lap, your legs stretched across the couch. One arm stayed wrapped around your waist, the other tugged the throw blanket over you both.

You felt his fingers stroke slowly up and down your arm. “You know,” he said after a beat, “there’s nothing weak about this.”

“I feel weak,” you admitted.

He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s strong as hell, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of his words sink in. He had this way of making you feel like you weren’t broken — like this was something you could ride out instead of something that would drown you.

When your body finally stopped buzzing with leftover adrenaline, you mumbled, “Thank you.”

He tightened his arms just a little. “Always.”

And he meant it — not just in the easy, everyday way people say it, but in the way you felt deep in your bones. He was here. He’d always be here, even when your own mind tried to convince you otherwise.

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

YOU AINT WROTE FOR MILES SINCE AUGUST 11TH BITCH ARE YOU OK????????

there’s a lottt going on with me rn pook, mentally. ik yall do not care but 😭

and i do requests by order, so there will be one soon. don’t worry love.

[myhobari]

pls please please please dirty andrew nembhard smut 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 i love the way you write!! and your anthony edward’s smuts were greatttt

- what you need

andrew nembhard x black reader

Summary - your boyfriend andrew goes incredibly too soft on you when it’s time for sex… it’s time to change that. who knew your canadian man could be so mean? 😪

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: i had a BLAST writing this. i hope you love.

masterlist

————————————————————————

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The way you brushed past him in the kitchen, fingertips grazing just a little too slow over his back. The way your shorts were just long enough to be decent but short enough for him to notice when you bent over.

Andrew had always been gentle with you — almost maddeningly so. Every night in bed, every kiss, every touch, he handled you like you were the most delicate thing in the world. And you loved it, you really did… but tonight, you wanted to see what happened if you pushed him.

You wanted him to break.

It started subtle. You leaned against the counter while he scrolled through his phone, sipping your drink and watching him from over the rim of your glass.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“Maybe I am,” you replied, voice light. “You gonna do something about it?”

His eyes flicked up at that, a flicker of amusement and warning in them. “Don’t start.”

That only made you smile. “Why not?”

The smallest smirk tugged at his lips before he went back to scrolling, choosing not to engage. So you upped it. You brushed past him again, slow enough that your hips grazed his thigh, murmuring a soft “sorry” that didn’t sound sorry at all.

By the time you settled on the couch, legs stretched out across his lap, you could feel his patience thinning — his hands resting on your calves, his thumb drawing lazy circles against your skin, his eyes fixed on the TV with a little too much focus.

“You’re quiet,” you teased.

“Not much to say,” he answered evenly.

You shifted your leg so your bare foot brushed against his bulge. “You sure? Not even about how I look tonight?”

His jaw ticked, and you caught it. “You know how you look.”

You grinned, leaning forward a little. “Maybe I want to hear it.”

He turned his head then, giving you a look that sent a shiver down your spine — a silent, heavy kind of look that told you he was one breath away from ending this game you were playing. But you weren’t ready to stop yet.

When he finally stood to grab something from the kitchen, you followed. You pressed up behind him at the counter, your fingers tracing over the plane of his back, sliding down to his sides, then resting just above his waistband.

“Baby,” you murmured near his ear, “why are you still holding back?”

That was it. The break.

One moment you were smirking behind him, and the next you were backed up against the counter, his hands gripping your neck hard enough to make you gasp. His eyes locked on yours, darker now, his voice low and edged.

“You really want me to stop holding back?”

Your pulse skipped, but you nodded. “Yes, baby.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you hard, none of the usual slowness — just heat and urgency. His hands roamed with a new kind of intent, guiding you backward toward the bedroom, his mouth only breaking from yours to murmur, “You asked for this.”

By the time your back hit the mattress, he was over you, caging you in, his weight pinning you just enough to make your breath hitch. He kissed you all over, your cheeks, your neck — that spot right under your ear that makes you shiver — everywhere.

“Take these fucking shorts off,” he urged, snapping the band of them to smack against your skin. You pulled them off with zero hesitation, revealing your sopping wet pussy. “Shit… you this wet all because you wanna be fucked?” He asked, rhetorically.

You were speechless at this point, panting, ready for him to just ruin you already. He sensed your impatience, and leaned down to lick a long line up your pussy.

“Fuckkk drew…” you moaned.

He went ballistic from there. Putting not one, but two fingers into your hole, curling to hit that spot, all while tonguing at your clit, occasionally sucking. You began to clench around him, a telltale sign that you were about to come undone.

“Baby— i’m bout’ to—“

“Cum for me, ma.”

The scream you let out was damning, vibrating the walls of your shared bedroom. As Andrew eased you down from your release, he could feel you shaking, pulsing on the bed. You reached for the comforter, prepared to just turn around and head to bed, as usually would happen on a regular sexcapade with him.

“Unt unt..” was all you heard before being flipped onto your front, and before you could even breathe, you felt his tip. Bulbous, throbbing, ready to go inside of you. He circled it around your hole at first, then up and down the length of your pussy. You shook your ass a little, teasing, yet begging for attention all at once. A hand came down out onto your ass, one that made you settle back down onto the bed. “Be patient… you’ve been fucking with me all day. It’s my turn now.”

And before you could even come up with a witty response, he sunk in. Not slowly, liked he’d always do — no easing into it. Hard, rough, the way you’d wanted and how he’d had always wanted to fuck you.

“Oh— SHIT!” you screamed, taken back by his persistence.

“You like that? You like being treated like this, huh? Answer me…” he smacked your ass.

“Yessss… yess baby. I love it so muchhh..!”

His fingers tightened on your hips, grounding you even as the pace grew rougher, every thrust hitting deep and making the mattress jolt beneath you.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, hear the way his breathing had gone ragged, his focus locked completely on you. Every push and pull left your body buzzing, your mind foggy with the intensity of it.

The pace built until it felt like the air between you was charged, his grip landing onto your ass as he drove into you. His breath came harsher now, deep groans slipping past his lips without restraint.

“Don’t—” he bit out, his voice strained, “—don’t you move.”

You felt him falter for half a beat before he pushed in hard one last time, his whole body tensing against yours. A shudder tore through him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a low, rough sound escaped him — relief and release tangled in both you and him as one. His chest rose and fell rapidly against your back, every breath brushing warm over your skin.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both catching your breath, the heat between you slowly ebbing into something softer.

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Oh yeah,” you smirked.

——

muah 💋