𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔 (𝒏𝒐𝒕) 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 | 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

i think I just want her all to myself tbh nd thats why I completely agree with this!!

I understand why Melvika is a ship, but honestly I don't think it would work. There seems to be this assumption that anyone from Zaun would fall for anyone from Piltover and I think y'all don't realize that Vi is an outlier. Sevika is the last person to fall from some Piltover, especially the fattest cat on the council.

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sweat and sweet temptation!

synopsis: a city girl’s summer on a quiet farm leads to unexpected encounters, where boundaries blur and desires awaken. what begins as an escape soon becomes something she never imagined.

a/n: i have no words....just pure filth for you all :3 enjoy ladies

18+, mdni, farmer sevika, city girl reader, farm life, sevika weighs a lot, reader also sort of likes that, sevika has a big tummy that reader strokes :3, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, strap on, strap on sex, fat kink????, sweat, like a lot of it, mentions of food???????, body hair, size difference, basically, sevika is like 300 pounds n ur like....idk 90 lol

chapter I: heatstroke and honey

the sun hated you. that was the only logical conclusion.

it beat down like it had a vendetta, turning your thighs slick where they stuck to the cracked leather seat of your grandpa’s rustbucket pickup. the air reeked of gasoline and cut grass, your glittery pink nails tapping out an annoyed rhythm on your phone case as you refreshed instagram for the eighth time in five minutes.

nothing. no service. again.

you blew a bubble, slow and loud, letting it pop obnoxiously before snapping your gum back between your teeth. grandpa didn’t even flinch—he was too busy humming off-key to some ancient country song as the truck rattled down the dirt road.

you adjusted your crop top for the hundredth time, tugging it down over your stomach, which was not made for this heat. your tiny jean skirt bunched up every time the truck hit a bump, which was every five seconds.

“this place is literally the middle of nowhere,” you muttered, wiping a line of sweat from your temple. “like, how is this even legal? it’s giving human trafficking vibes.”

grandpa just chuckled. “you’ll get used to it, sweetheart. fresh air’ll do you good.”

you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache. “fresh air smells like cow ass.”

“then you’re finally smellin’ somethin’ real,” he said, eyes twinkling in the rearview mirror. “we’ll hit the market before we head back to the house. your grandma wants that apple jam she likes.”

“you guys don’t have amazon or something?”

another chuckle. “not everything’s deliverable, sugar. some things you gotta earn.”

you sank back in the seat, crossing your arms and stewing in your own sweat and bitterness. a whole damn summer stuck here while your friends partied without you. no clubbing. no rooftop bars. no air conditioning.

just you, bugs the size of birds, and the backwoods hellscape your parents called a “character-building opportunity.”

────

the farmers market looked exactly how you imagined it—quaint, dusty, full of people who probably didn’t know what gluten was. tables lined the parking lot of a tiny church, shaded by canopies and umbrellas that did absolutely nothing to block the sun. people milled around carrying tote bags full of peaches and squash like that was a fun thing to do on a saturday.

you trudged after your grandpa, already annoyed, already over it. your platform sandals kicked up little clouds of dirt with every step, and you made sure your gum popped extra loud just for the looks you were getting.

he chatted with some old guy selling pickles while you scanned the rows of tables, bored out of your mind—until you saw her.

or maybe felt her first.

the heat got heavier in her direction. like it thickened around her.

she was leaned back in a folding chair behind a rough wooden table, arms crossed under her chest, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows. her thighs spread wide, dark jeans stretched tight around them, boots caked in dry mud. one boot rested on the edge of a wooden crate like she owned the ground under it. a worn ballcap shaded her face, but not enough to hide the way her jaw flexed when she chewed on a stalk of straw.

she had a dozen jars of homemade jam stacked in front of her—simple labels, no frills—but it wasn’t the jam people were staring at.

she smelled like sun and sweat and woodsmoke. like whatever hard work did to a person over years and years. her skin was brown and streaked with a fresh sheen of sweat, a few strands of dark, messy hair stuck to her neck under her hat. the muscles in her arms didn’t look like gym muscles. they looked earned. ropey, real, heavy.

your stomach did something stupid.

you blinked and realized you’d just been standing there, staring like a moron.

she raised her eyes to you, and the corner of her mouth curled.

“well,” she drawled. voice low and scratchy, like gravel on velvet. “ain’t you a sight.”

you snapped your gum and tilted your head, defaulting to brat mode. “a sight for sore eyes, i know.”

her smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. her gaze flicked down your body—your glittery eyeliner, your crop top, the stretch of thigh your skirt barely covered—and then back up again, lazy and hot as july.

“somethin’ like that.”

you flushed, hating how your skin betrayed you. you weren’t even sure if it was from the heat or the way she looked at you like she could snap you in half—and might enjoy doing it.

“grandpa,” you hissed as you turned away, tugging on his sleeve. “that’s the jam lady?”

he followed your gaze and chuckled again. “that’s sevika, yep. been bringin’ her jam home for years. best damn apples in the county.”

sevika stood, and it was like a barn wall moved. she was easily over six feet, wide as a fridge, and every inch of her looked like it could crush you without trying. she moved slow, unbothered, wiping her hands on a rag pulled from her back pocket.

“got that honey apple batch your wife likes,” she said to your grandpa. then, to you: “you helpin’ him carry stuff today, sweetheart, or just here to bless us with your sass?”

you scowled. “i’m here against my will, actually.”

“lucky us,” she muttered, sliding two jars into a bag.

you hated that your thighs clenched just a little when her fingers brushed the jar lids. rough hands. big hands. calloused, worn, strong.

she handed the bag over, her fingers brushing yours for a heartbeat too long. “careful now. that jam’s sweet enough to rot your teeth.”

you snapped your gum again. “good thing i have a perfect smile.”

her smile said she didn’t believe in perfection, but she might make an exception just to ruin you.

────

you didn’t speak the entire ride home.

not that you could, with the way your heart was still thumping dumb in your chest and your thighs were glued together under your skirt like your body was trying to keep a secret. you hated how easily that woman—sevika—had crawled under your skin. hated the way her eyes followed you like she’d already decided what kind of sounds she’d pull from your mouth if you gave her the chance.

the truck bounced over a pothole, jolting you hard enough that your bare thigh smacked the hot leather seat.

“ow! jesus,” you snapped, adjusting yourself again. “does this truck have any suspension?”

grandpa just chuckled like everything was hilarious. “gotta say, you handled yourself well back there.”

“what, at the barnyard bake sale?” you rolled your eyes, blowing another bubble. “i deserve an oscar.”

“i meant with sevika.”

you froze. “i didn’t do anything.”

“oh, she noticed you, alright. always does when she sees something pretty walk by.” he threw you a look. “don’t play dumb.”

“i’m not playing anything,” you mumbled, shifting again, crossing and uncrossing your legs. “she was just... gross. sweaty. big.”

he snorted. “didn’t stop you from gawkin’ like a deer in headlights.”

you glared out the window, watching fields roll by. she was gross. and huge. and smelled like hard work and heat and sweat. you could still feel the weight of her stare on your bare skin, could still hear that slow southern drawl winding around her words like honey. it was disgusting how your stomach flipped just remembering it.

“gross,” you muttered again. but your thighs squeezed together all the same.

────

the farmhouse your grandparents lived in was old, two stories with peeling white paint and a porch that creaked under every step. you’d barely had time to set down your suitcase before grandma started talking about chores and “helping out around here.” you weren’t even safe in the kitchen—every drawer had knives that looked like they’d killed someone.

and to top it off? the jam sat right there on the counter like a goddamn temptation. you glared at it for a solid five minutes while scrolling your phone and pretending you weren’t still thinking about rough hands and drawled-out pet names.

you popped another piece of gum and took a spoonful of the apple jam straight from the jar just to prove a point. it was good. disgustingly good. sweet and tart with just enough spice to burn the back of your tongue.

stupid hot farmer bitch knew what she was doing.

that night, lying on the twin bed in your upstairs room with a ceiling fan that did nothing but push the heat around, you did something you swore you wouldn’t.

you searched her name.

just “sevika southern jam farmer” into every social media app you had.

nothing. of course. no digital footprint, no selfies, not even a facebook page. she was the kind of woman who probably didn’t believe in passwords or smartphones.

you chewed your gum louder, annoyed and slightly turned on by that fact.

your fingers hovered over your phone keyboard again. search: local farmstands. search: homemade jam vendor. you even tried sevika sweaty arms hot milf.

nothing but tumblr results from 2012 and a pinterest board called “southern butch vibes.”

you threw the phone across the bed with a groan and flopped back into the pillow, pressing your thighs together again. you hated the way your body wouldn’t listen. hated how that damn smirk haunted your brain every time you closed your eyes.

the way she said sweetheart like she was tasting the word. like she wanted to see what else she could call you once she had you bent over her lap.

you turned over with a frustrated grunt.

and then, like a curse, you heard grandpa call from downstairs.

“up early tomorrow! sevika’s needin’ help harvestin’ for the market. you’re goin’ with me!”

you sat up straight, heart in your throat.

“no the hell i’m not!” you yelled back.

“yes the hell you are,” came the reply.

you stared at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily overhead.

you’d be on her farm. in her space. with her sweaty, powerful, infuriating body walking around like she owned the damn world.

you swallowed hard.

this summer was going to kill you.

and not softly.

────

chapter II: rotten apples, dirty hands

you woke up in a tangle of sheets, sweating through your tank top and cursing whoever decided this house didn’t need air conditioning. the sun was barely up, light filtering through gauzy curtains in gold and pink streaks, and you were already miserable.

and then you remembered.

the farm.

sevika.

your stomach did a dumb little flip, and you cursed again, dragging yourself out of bed and throwing open your suitcase. if she thought she’d see you in some dusty-ass overalls like a damn peasant, she had another thing coming.

you picked a skirt that barely covered your ass, bubblegum pink with white trim, and a matching crop top that clung to your tits like a prayer. your bra was optional, your makeup was glittery, and your bubblegum popped loud enough to echo through the hallway.

by the time you made it downstairs, grandpa just shook his head.

“she’s gonna throw you into the pig pen.”

you winked. “only if she wants a show.”

────

the drive to sevika’s farm was all bumpy dirt roads, the kind that made your thighs jiggle and your teeth rattle. when you pulled up, the barn loomed in the distance, big and red and sun-bleached. apple trees stretched behind it in neat little rows, heavy with fruit, their leaves whispering in the wind.

and there she was.

sevika stood near a rusted-out pickup, one arm hoisting a wooden crate up like it weighed nothing. her flannel was rolled to the elbows, thick forearms covered in dirt and sweat, a piece of straw tucked into the corner of her mouth. her skin gleamed under the sun, tanned and slick with heat, and her thighs strained against worn jeans as she set the box down with a grunt.

you nearly choked on your gum.

“morning,” grandpa called out, grabbing another crate from the back.

sevika looked up, and when her eyes landed on you?

a long pause.

a smirk.

“well, i’ll be,” she drawled. “you really brought the barbie doll.”

you snapped your gum loud, hands on your hips. “this barbie don’t do manual labor.”

sevika cocked her head. “you’re wearin’ about six inches of skirt and not a single inch of sense. you’ll do whatever i tell you to, sweetheart.”

your stomach dropped.

grandpa just laughed and waved her off. “she’s all yours.”

sevika wiped sweat from her brow and gave you a once-over so slow it made your skin prickle. “guess i’ll have to put her to work.”

“touch me and i sue.”

“touch you and you melt,” she shot back without missing a beat.

she handed you a basket. wooden, big, heavy. you glared at it like it had personally insulted you.

“you’re pickin’ apples today,” she said. “trees won’t bite. you might break a nail, though. tragic.”

you blew a bubble and stomped after her into the orchard, her boots crunching dry dirt, yours slipping in your platform sandals. you could already feel sweat dripping down the back of your neck.

“this is hell,” you muttered.

“nah,” sevika called over her shoulder, “hell would be me makin’ you shovel pig shit.”

you nearly turned around.

she laughed—a low, throaty rumble that made your thighs clench. she knew what she was doing. every slow stride, every roll of her thick shoulders, every casual spit of that straw between her lips was calculated.

the apples were big and ripe and high up in the trees, and your tiny little arms didn’t stand a chance. you stood on your tiptoes, straining, skirt riding higher and higher until—

“sweetheart.”

you jumped. sevika was behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off her skin like a furnace. she reached past you, arm brushing your side, and plucked the apple down with ease.

“you’re gonna break that pretty back,” she murmured.

your breath hitched.

she smelled like woodsmoke, sweat, and something warm and deep—like summer and sin wrapped in one big brutal package.

“i don’t need your help,” you snapped.

“didn’t say you did. just enjoyin’ the view.”

you spun around, flustered, the apple forgotten in your hands. “pervert.”

sevika leaned in, one arm braced on the tree behind you, caging you in without touching. “you keep wearin’ skirts like that, and callin’ me names with your mouth all shiny from gloss? you’ll find out i ain’t a gentleman.”

you didn’t breathe. couldn’t.

she smiled slow. “get pickin’.”

────

by the time you were done, your legs were covered in dirt and your top stuck to your skin. the basket was half-full—because apples were heavy, thank you very much—and you were pretty sure you had sunburn forming along your shoulders.

sevika didn’t say a word when you came back wheezing, dragging the basket behind you.

just raised an eyebrow. “you call that work?”

you flipped her off and collapsed under a tree.

she walked over, leaned against the trunk beside you, and popped the cap on a beer. she didn’t offer you one. just drank, throat bobbing with every swallow, sweat still glistening down the side of her neck.

“you’re gonna die out here,” she said casually.

“not before i sue you for harassment.”

she turned her head. “tell the judge what? that i looked at you too long while you were bent over shakin’ your ass like it owed you money?”

you gasped.

she grinned.

you wanted to slap her. or kiss her. or both. at the same time.

“i hate you,” you hissed.

sevika drained the rest of her beer and tossed the bottle into a bin. then she crouched down beside you, her thighs spreading wide, elbows on her knees, gaze dropping to your mouth.

“no, darlin’,” she said, low and rough. “you want me. and you hate that you do.”

you swallowed hard. and for the first time since you got here, you couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

────

chapter III: dirty hands, dirtier thoughts

you were still trying to catch your breath under that tree when sevika stood, stretched her massive arms over her head, and said, “time to clean up.”

you blinked. “don’t you have, like, a hose?”

she snorted. “a hose? what is this, summer camp?”

and then she walked off—toward the barn—sweat sticking her flannel to her back and those thick thighs moving like sin under denim. you scrambled up, brushing off dirt from places you didn’t know could get dirty.

inside the barn, it was worse. hotter. the air thick with hay dust, the scent of apples and animals, wood and sweat. sunlight streamed through the cracks in the slats, catching particles in golden rays. you hesitated at the door, suddenly aware of your sticky thighs and the way your glittered lip gloss felt too much.

sevika stood at the workbench near the far wall, back turned, tugging off her flannel.

and you… froze.

her broad, scarred shoulders gleamed under the light. her white ribbed tank top was soaked through, clinging to the thick slope of her back, the curve of her waist, the roll of soft stomach that peeked out every time she reached up. her bra strap peeked out from under one shoulder, twisted like she hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

you swallowed hard.

then harder when she turned and caught you staring.

“you lost?” she asked, reaching for a rag and wiping the back of her neck.

you cleared your throat. “no. i just—wanted to see what kinda cleaning we were doing.”

she raised an eyebrow. “didn’t know watchin’ me get half-naked counted as chores.”

“maybe if i’m lucky,” you shot back.

and something shifted.

her mouth twitched into something feral. “you flirtin’ with me, sweetheart?”

you looked her dead in the eye. “what if i am?”

she dropped the rag. took one step forward. then another.

the barn suddenly felt very small.

her boots thudded across the floor, each step echoing until she stopped in front of you—towering, glistening, breathing slow and deep like she was measuring you up.

your back hit the barn door.

“don’t tease me, little girl,” she said low, voice rough as gravel. “i bite.”

you looked up at her, heart jackhammering in your chest. “i bruise easy.”

“good.”

her hand lifted—just two fingers—and she brushed a bit of hay from your shoulder, trailing down your bare arm slow enough to make goosebumps rise. her callouses scraped the soft skin of your inner elbow.

your breath hitched.

and then—

“SEVIKA!”

you jumped.

she sighed.

some old guy’s voice floated through the barn from outside. “we got a busted water line by the back fence!”

sevika didn’t look away from you. she just muttered, “cockblockin’ son of a bitch,” under her breath, then tilted her head.

“you stay here. don’t touch shit. you hear me?”

you nodded, too fast, still trying to breathe normal.

she leaned in, mouth near your ear. “i will finish what i started.”

then she was gone. just boots thudding away and a slammed barn door.

you stood there, flushed and buzzing, thighs pressed together and heart hammering. and god help you, you wanted more.

────

she drove you home that afternoon—your grandparents’ truck being “too old for these damn hills,” as grandpa said.

you climbed into the passenger seat of sevika’s dusty pickup, the leather seats hot against the backs of your thighs. she adjusted the mirrors, cracked the window, and peeled off down the dirt road with one hand on the wheel.

the other? resting right on your knee.

you froze.

her fingers were wide and rough, resting just heavy enough to make a point. she didn’t squeeze. didn’t tease. just let the weight of her hand stay there while the sun dipped low behind you both and the road hummed beneath the tires.

“you’re awful quiet,” she said after a few miles, eyes still on the road.

you wet your lips. “i'm getting felt up by a senior citizen.”

that earned a low, genuine laugh—deep in her chest, like she didn’t laugh often but you got it out of her anyway.

“careful, sweetheart,” she said, voice like whiskey. “keep talkin’ like that and you’re gonna end up sittin’ on more than my passenger seat.”

you squeezed your thighs shut. hard.

by the time she dropped you off, the sun had dipped behind the hills. fireflies were blinking in the tall grass, and your grandparents’ porch light flickered on.

she didn’t get out of the truck.

just leaned back in her seat, wrist draped over the wheel, eyes on you.

“you show up tomorrow,” she said, voice low.

you raised an eyebrow. “or what?”

sevika smiled slow. “or i come lookin’ for you.”

then she peeled off into the dark, tail lights glowing red like a warning.

────

chapter IV: no panties, no problem

you showed up to the farm the next morning just after sunrise, same as sevika told you. no ride this time—just your glittery pink sandals crunching down the gravel road, your phone tucked in your bra, and your skirt barely covering anything at all.

it was thinner than usual. shorter, too.

and underneath?

nothing.

not a stitch.

you’d looked yourself in the mirror that morning, chewed your gum slow, tilted your head, and said out loud: let her work for it.

by the time you reached the barn, the air already smelled like grass and sweat, and sevika was tossing hay bales like they weighed nothing. just her tank top today. stuck to her back. her thighs wide in those old jeans, boots caked in dirt. a smear of something dark ran down her arm, and her brow glistened.

she didn’t look up when you walked in.

“’bout time,” she muttered. “grab that ladder. you’re helpin’ me in the orchard.”

you blinked. “you trust me on a ladder?”

sevika looked at you then—real slow. her eyes flicked down your legs, to the hem of your skirt, then back up.

something dark sparked behind her smile.

“no,” she said. “but i’m willin’ to watch you fall.”

────

the orchard smelled like sunshine and ripening apples. birds chirped. bees buzzed.

and you?

you climbed a ladder while sevika held it steady at the bottom.

“reach up,” she called, voice lazy, “grab that one on the left.”

you stretched—knowing exactly what you were doing.

the skirt rose.

the breeze hit your bare skin.

and from down below?

sevika’s silence was louder than anything.

you plucked the apple. slowly. made sure to wiggle just enough on your way back down.

when your feet hit the grass, sevika handed you a basket without a word—but her jaw was tight. her fingers grazed yours. her gaze lingered a little too long.

“you do that on purpose?” she finally asked, wiping sweat off her neck.

you blinked up at her, all wide-eyed innocence. “do what?”

she didn’t answer.

just picked up her own basket, turned, and muttered, “keep climbin’, sweetheart.”

and so you did.

all morning.

bending, reaching, climbing—your skirt dancing high on your hips, the summer air licking every inch of exposed skin.

every time you came back down, sevika looked ten seconds closer to snapping.

and god, it made you feel powerful.

────

by the time the baskets were full, the sun was high, and your thighs were sticky from sweat and mischief.

sevika led you to the shed out back. it was small, wooden, and cooler than the orchard, shaded by big trees and full of old tools, empty crates, and the sharp smell of sawdust.

she cracked open a bottle of water and took a swig, then passed it to you. her fingers brushed your mouth when you drank.

you licked the rim when you handed it back.

her gaze dropped to your thighs.

“you got a death wish, city girl?” she murmured.

you took a step closer.

“maybe i just like dangerous things.”

and there it was—that flash in her eyes, like she was this close to grabbing your waist, pressing you against the wall, and seeing just how many times she could make you whimper her name.

but sevika didn’t move.

she just smirked, took another sip of water, and said, “ain’t no panties under that skirt, huh?”

your breath caught.

you said nothing.

didn’t have to.

sevika laughed, low and wicked.

“mm. thought so. you keep playin’ games, darlin’, one of these days i won’t stop myself.”

she turned and walked out—boots thudding, sweat glistening on her shoulders, leaving you alone in the shed with your own heartbeat pounding between your legs.

and not even a scrap of fabric to hide it.

────

chapter V: thunder rolls, a storm’s a-comin

the storm hit like a wall, just as sevika said it would earlier today.

"a storm's a-comin doll, you ever see rain before?"

the barn door slammed shut behind you, sealing in the humid, electric air. the world outside was darkening, but the inside of the barn was filled with that thick, musky scent of hay and dust. the kind of smell that wrapped around your skin like a secret.

you pulled your shirt away from your body, letting out a little huff of frustration. the rain was coming down in sheets now, the kind that soaked you in seconds. your skirt clung to your hips, and the damp fabric did nothing to cool the fire building in your chest.

“gonna be stuck here a while,” sevika’s voice rolled over you, low and steady.

you glanced up at her, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of her framed in the doorway, rain streaking down her face. her flannel shirt was already soaked through, sticking to her muscles, every curve and dip of her frame outlined perfectly. there was something about the way she moved, slow and controlled, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking.

and maybe she did.

you reached up to grab the ladder, feeling her eyes on you as you climbed. each step took you higher, showing off your bare legs and the way the skirt slipped up your thighs, inch by inch. you didn’t wear panties again—just the soft, damp fabric of your skirt brushing against your skin, knowing full well what it would do to her.

when you reached the top, you felt the weight of sevika’s presence below you. it was more than just her towering figure, more than her steady gaze—it was the way she filled the space around you, thick and undeniable.

“i told you,” she said softly, stepping up behind you, “you keep temptin’ me, and one of these days, i won’t be able to stop myself.”

her voice was rough, gravelly—like it always was when she was worked up. you could feel the heat coming off her as she climbed up the ladder behind you, each movement deliberate, controlled. her boots hit the rungs with a heavy thud, and you felt the vibration all the way up your spine.

you didn’t turn around. you didn’t need to. you already knew she was there, just a few inches behind you, close enough to feel her breath on your neck.

the top of the ladder creaked under her weight, and then she was there, standing beside you in the loft, the rain hammering against the roof above.

you pulled in a shaky breath, trying to keep your cool as sevika’s hands reached for the hay bales.

but she didn’t move right away. she lingered.

her fingers brushed against your arm, just enough to make your skin flare with heat. her touch was a promise, soft but firm. you shivered as her calloused fingertips traced along your wrist, and you dared to look at her. her eyes were darker now—heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. a storm all its own.

“you’re always gettin’ under my skin,” she growled, her voice a low rumble, “even when you ain’t tryin’.”

you swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. “i’m not trying. but you keep looking at me like that.”

sevika chuckled, low and slow. “like what?”

“like you wanna tear me apart,” you breathed out, feeling the heat radiating off her. the air around you felt thick, close, like every inch of space was charged with electricity.

she stepped closer.

one of her hands found your hip, big and firm, holding you in place. she leaned in, close enough to taste the rain on her skin. you could feel the way her chest pressed against yours—warm, strong, like a wall of muscle.

and then—finally—her lips found yours.

it was rough, desperate, the way a storm should feel. her kiss was hungry, deep, and you couldn’t fight back the way your body melted into hers, the soft groan that slipped from your throat.

sevika’s hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer, her body heat searing you through your clothes. you could feel her everywhere—her strength, her roughness, her raw desire.

the rain outside pounded harder, but it didn’t matter. not when sevika was there, holding you in her arms, her lips tracing the line of your jaw, then down to your neck.

“you keep playin’ with fire, sweetheart,” she murmured, lips grazing your skin. “one of these days, you’re gonna get burned.”

you pulled her closer, your hands digging into the wet fabric of her shirt, feeling the muscles under her skin, the heat of her body pressing against yours.

“i’m counting on it,” you whispered back.

────

her lips were on your neck now—hot, dragging, greedy. she kissed like she was starving, like you were something she’d been aching for, something she shouldn’t touch but couldn’t help herself.

and gods, it worked.

you tilted your head back, giving her more. her teeth scraped your skin, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make you gasp. and sevika growled at the sound of it. like it lit her up from the inside.

“that skirt,” she rasped, one hand tightening on your waist, “you wore it on purpose, didn’t you?”

you nodded, dizzy with heat. “yeah.”

her hand slipped lower, brushing down the back of your thigh—slow, deliberate. when she reached under your skirt and found nothing underneath, her breath hitched.

“well, fuck me,” she muttered. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

she gripped the back of your bare thigh, fingers sinking into your skin like she meant to leave bruises, and you whimpered, soft and spoiled, pressing yourself into her like you needed her to keep touching you.

“i thought about this,” you confessed, voice thin and shaky. “climbing up here with nothin’ on. knew you'd be watchin’.”

“oh, i was watchin’,” she murmured, dragging her mouth up to your ear. “and i knew you were beggin’ for it. you wanted me to see what a filthy little brat you are.”

you let out a soft moan at that, your thighs clenching around nothing.

sevika didn’t waste time. she shoved the crates aside with one hand, like they were nothing, clearing a space in the hay. then she lifted you—just picked you up like you weighed nothing—and laid you down on your back, hay scratching at your bare thighs, skirt bunched around your waist.

her eyes dragged down your body, and for a moment, she just looked.

rain pounded the roof like war drums, but all you could hear was your heartbeat in your throat and sevika’s slow exhale.

“you don’t even know what you’re askin’ for,” she said, climbing over you. “but i’ll show you.”

and when she got between your legs, when her calloused hand slid up your thigh and she found how wet you were—she cursed, low and filthy.

you grabbed at her shirt, trying to pull her closer, but she caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand.

“nuh-uh,” she said, voice dark and thick with heat. “you wanted a storm, baby? you got it. now lie back and take it.”

her fingers dragged through you—slow, slick, knowing. and when she dipped one inside you, thick and curling, you arched off the hay and let out a sound that echoed through the barn like sin.

sevika smirked, sweat and rain dripping from her jaw onto your chest.

“you’re gonna make such a mess, sugar. hope you’re ready to clean it up with that smart little mouth of yours.”

and then she added a second finger.

you’re already trembling by the time her fingers sink in deeper, your thighs spread wide in the hay, hips twitching with every slow thrust of her hand. her grip on your wrists doesn’t let up—not for a second. she keeps you pinned, helpless, her body looming over yours like thunder, heat pouring off her in waves.

the storm outside rages louder, but inside the barn, it’s just the two of you—sweat, slick, hay, and heat.

“look at you,” she mutters, voice thick like molasses, slow and sticky. “drippin’ all over my hand. all from a little touch.”

she curls her fingers inside you, and you gasp—back arching, toes curling in your muddy boots. her hand is so big, palm rough against the softness between your legs. her thumb presses down, slow, circling, and you bite your lip so hard it hurts.

“don’t do that,” she murmurs. “i wanna hear you. wanna hear that bratty little mouth beg.”

you do. you whimper. you whine. “please.”

“please what?”

“please don’t stop.”

that gets her. sevika groans low in her throat, hips grinding into the hay like it’s killing her not to fuck you raw right then and there.

“you’re dangerous,” she says, breathless, still working her fingers in and out of you with a rhythm that’s cruelly patient. “you don’t even know what the hell you’re doing to me, do you?”

you reach for her again, this time with a little desperation. and this time, she lets go of your wrists.

you grab fistfuls of her flannel, trying to pull her down to kiss you, but she leans just close enough to ghost her lips over yours without giving it up.

“oh, now you want my mouth?” she teases, voice rough. “what happened to all that sass, city girl? you were real mouthy this mornin’.”

“i’m—fuck—sorry,” you breathe.

she smirks. “that’s more like it.”

then she lowers her mouth to your chest, tongue hot and messy, licking a path down the valley between your breasts. she shoves your soaked shirt up, mouth closing around one nipple, her free hand still fucking into you slow and deep.

you cry out—your hands flying up to grip her shoulders. she moans into your skin, like the sound of you breaking apart turns her on more than anything.

“i could ruin you right here,” she growls. “make you come so hard your legs won’t work for a week. leave you fucked out and pantin’ in the hay.”

“then do it,” you whisper. “please, sev. i want it.”

that’s all it takes.

her thumb moves faster, circles tightening, her fingers pumping deeper—so much pressure, so much need building in your gut.

“come for me,” she growls. “be a good girl and soak my fuckin’ hand.”

you shatter. loud. breathless. soaking her fingers with a messy, shameful cry. she works you through it, slow and sweet, not stopping until your thighs twitch and your breath stutters.

she pulls her fingers out finally, slow, dripping, then brings them to her lips and sucks them clean—never breaking eye contact.

“taste like peaches,” she mutters. “knew you’d be sweet.”

you’re sprawled out, ruined, skirt hiked up and makeup smudged, hair stuck to your cheeks with sweat and rain.

and she leans over you, kisses the corner of your mouth real slow and dirty.

“tomorrow,” she says, breath hot. “we ain’t waitin’ for rain.”

────

chapter VI: orchard heat, the favor returned (pt.1)

it’s a scorcher the next day. humid, sticky, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and drips down your back before noon. the orchard’s alive with cicadas and the heavy scent of overripe apples hanging thick in the air. you’d barely gotten through your chores before your brain started melting. and all damn day, sevika’s been eyeing you like she knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about since the barn.

and she does.

by sundown, when the sky is streaked orange and pink, she pulls you into the shade of the biggest tree in the orchard. her hands are dirty, fingers stained from sap and soil, and she’s drenched in sweat—flannel wide open, tank underneath soaked through, clinging to the swell of her broad chest and the thick muscle along her arms.

her belly peeks out where the shirt rides up—soft, big, warm. you can't stop staring.

“you been thinkin’ about last night?” she asks, voice rough as gravel, leaning her weight against the tree, towering above you like temptation itself.

you nod, cheeks flushed, heart thudding in your chest.

“good,” she grins, cocking her head. “then get on your knees, city girl. show me that mouth ain’t just for talkin’.”

and you drop for her—knees hitting the dry grass, breath shallow as you look up at her.

she’s massive like this. towering. one foot planted between yours, the other braced against the tree root. thick thighs covered in dirt-caked jeans, belt buckle half undone, belly rising and falling as she pants in the heat. her body’s a lot—tall, broad, heavy with muscle and the kind of fat that comes from years of eating good and working hard. her stomach soft, her hips wide, her chest heaving.

and then you get a whiff of her—sweat and earth and something feral.

“don’t shave,” she mutters, watching your eyes trail down. “ain’t got the time or the patience.”

she ain’t lying. hair trails thick and dark from her navel downward, coarse curls already peeking out above her jeans. her pits are soaked, dark patches spreading beneath her arms, and when she lifts one to rest against the tree, it hits you full in the face—her. raw, real, musky.

and god, you want it.

you tug open her belt with trembling fingers, fumbling to get her jeans down. she doesn’t help—just watches you, chest rising, lips parted, a line of sweat trickling down her neck into her cleavage.

“fuck, look at you,” she mutters. “all glitter and gloss, on your knees like a good girl.”

her pants fall to mid-thigh, and you get your first full look at her.

she’s soaked. hair curling wild across her thick, meaty thighs, sweat glistening on her skin, the scent of her slick and heat making your head spin. her clit’s swollen, peeking from the hood, twitching with every pant.

you lean forward, tongue out, tentative.

she growls. “no teasing.”

so you dive in.

you lick her like you mean it—messy, wet, obscene. her taste is strong, earthy and musky, a little tangy from the sweat, and so fucking good. you moan against her, lips slick with her, your hands gripping her thighs just to hold yourself steady.

her body jerks when you suck, and she bites down a curse, hand flying to your head.

“you filthy little thing,” she pants, hips rocking forward. “lick it up. just like that.”

you bury your face deeper, licking from her dripping entrance all the way up to her clit, then wrap your lips around it and suck, tongue flicking rapid and tight. she groans, deep and hoarse, hips grinding hard against your face now.

she’s heavy—so heavy—you can feel her weight in every inch of your body. her thigh presses to your cheek, solid muscle and soft fat, pinning you there. her belly’s brushing your forehead, slick with sweat, her scent in your nose, mouth, everywhere.

your fingers dig into her ass, pulling her closer, and she hisses, grabbing a handful of your hair.

“shit—gonna come—don’t stop—”

you don’t. you can’t. you want her to come undone. you want to drown in her.

and then she breaks.

her thighs quake. her stomach tightens. she lets out a deep, shuddering moan that shakes through her whole body—and you keep sucking, keep licking until she jerks and swears and finally grabs your head with both hands, pulling you off her pussy with a wet pop.

“goddamn,” she mutters, breathless, sweat pouring down her face. “you tryin’ to kill me, sugar?”

you look up at her, your mouth glistening with her, eyes blown wide and dazed.

“just repaying the favor,” you whisper.

────

chapter VI: orchard heat, you earned it, now she's gonna take (pt.2)

your lips are still glistening, chin sticky with her, and sevika looks down at you with something dark in her eyes—like she’s barely hanging on, like she wants to ruin you and hold you at the same time.

she tucks herself back into those worn, low-slung jeans, knuckles dragging across her soaked belly, and you just sit there panting, thighs clenched, still on your knees in the grass.

you’re shaking, honestly. from the heat, from the taste of her, from the way her voice dips low when she finally speaks.

“you’re a fuckin’ mess,” she says. “c’mere.”

you barely get your legs under you before she grabs you—thick arms wrapping around your waist like you weigh nothin’, like she was built for it. and she was. that body? meant for holding, for breaking girls like you open. you squeak as she hauls you up off the ground, then throws you down in the grass under the apple tree like a sack of flour—wind knocked out of you, skirt flying up, thighs parted.

“gonna show you what a real woman feels like,” she mutters, crawling over you, and god, she’s big.

all heat and weight and hair, flannel falling off her shoulder, tank pulled low and stretched tight over her huge tits. her belly presses to yours, soft and heavy, and her thighs bracket you, muscles flexing as she shifts to pin you flat.

you writhe, hands reaching up to grab her shoulders, but she catches your wrists easily in one big, calloused hand and pins them above your head.

“mm-mm. you made me come,” she growls, mouth brushing your ear. “now i get to take my time.”

and take her time she does.

she licks a line down your throat, sweaty and slow. bites your collarbone. sinks her teeth into the soft flesh of your breast through your little pink tank top until you gasp and arch beneath her.

her other hand—big, blunt-fingered and rough from farm work—skims down your body and shoves your skirt up.

no panties. you came prepared.

sevika growls.

“little tease,” she hisses, dragging a filthy finger down your bare slit. “wanted me to see this pussy first chance i got?”

you nod, breath hitching.

“use it, baby,” you whisper. “i want it.”

and she does.

she’s got two fingers in you before you can even moan, thick and unrelenting, fucking you open like she owns it. she presses her full body weight down—soft belly pushing into your ribs, thighs caging you in, her arm flexing beside your head—and it’s too much, the heat, the sweat, the feel of her hair dragging along your bare skin.

her scent is everywhere—feral, musky, unshowered and wild—and it drives you crazy.

“gonna stretch you out,” she pants, her lips right at your neck. “make this spoiled little body feel it.”

you moan so loud it echoes off the trees.

she adds a third finger, and your hips buck up hard, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“f-fuck, sev—”

“you’re gonna take it,” she growls, grinding the heel of her palm against your clit as her fingers curl deep. “gonna take all of me.”

and you do.

you take it until your legs are trembling, until your voice is gone, until you’re sobbing against her chest, your hands fisted in her soaked flannel, begging for more, for everything.

she makes you come three times under that tree before she finally lets you go.

and when she pulls back—big body rising from you like a storm breaking—she leans down, wipes your face with the hem of your own tank top, and kisses you with the kind of messy, possessive hunger that says, you’re mine now.

────

chapter VII: ride it, cowgirl, you brought this on yourself.

you’re already up in the loft when she walks in.

the sunlight filters through the cracks in the wood, casting golden stripes across the hay bales, across you. legs swinging where you’re perched, dress hitched up scandalously, phone dangling from your fingers, gum snapping between your teeth. you don’t even look up when you hear her boots on the stairs.

but you feel her.

all six-foot-four and three hundred pounds of her. the loft creaks beneath her weight as she climbs, slow and deliberate. like she knows you’re waiting. like she’s in no damn rush.

you finally glance over, and there she is.

sweaty as hell already, just from loading crates below. flannel tied around her waist, white tank soaked through across her tits and stomach. her arms look even bigger in this light—roped with muscle, tan skin gleaming, thick veins bulging from effort. she’s breathing heavy. hair a mess. and she’s staring right at you.

you suck your gum back between your teeth and tilt your head.

“need help with somethin’, farmer?”

her nostrils flare.

“you’re not wearin’ a damn thing under that dress, are you?” she asks, voice low and wrecked.

you smile. swing your leg again. “you tell me.”

she’s on you in seconds.

slams your phone down onto the hay. grabs you by the hips and drags you forward so your legs fall open, that thin dress riding up. her breath stutters.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” she growls. “look at you. drippin’ already, huh?”

you nod, biting your lip. “all for you.”

she doesn’t even bother teasing this time.

sevika shoves you back onto the hay, kneels between your legs—her big thighs spread wide, heavy body blocking out the sun—and runs her tongue from your knee to your thigh, tasting the sweat and sweetness clinging to your skin.

you writhe.

“you knew what you were doin’,” she murmurs, voice like thunder. “climbin’ up here with that pussy bare and ready.”

“i wanted you to come find me,” you whisper, fingers already fisting in the hay.

and god, she does more than that.

she climbs up onto you, settles her full weight over your smaller body, presses her hot, hairy thighs around your hips and grabs your wrists to pin them above your head again.

“you’re gonna ride me today,” she growls. “earn it.”

and baby, you do.

she lies back in the hay, chest heaving, that tank top riding up to show her belly, soft and full and sweat-damp. she pulls her jeans down just enough to free her strap, and it’s huge, thick and curved and strapped to those broad, scarred hips.

you crawl over her like a girl possessed.

straddle that big farmer’s lap, hands on her belly, her tits, her face—kissing her filthy, mouthing at her jaw while you grind down. her hands grip your hips like vise clamps, guiding you, slow at first.

then rough.

you bounce on her, crying out, drenched and desperate. her strap hits deep, her stomach slaps against yours, the hay sticks to your back and thighs. her big hands never stop moving—grabbing your tits, spanking your ass, pulling your dress down so she can suck marks into your chest while you ride her like she owns the whole damn county.

and she does. and now? she owns you.

“fuck, baby,” sevika groans, sweat dripping off her chin. “you ride me so good.”

you’re panting. “t-tell me i’m your girl—tell me this pussy’s yours—”

she slaps your ass, hard enough to echo in the barn.

“you’re mine,” she growls. “this pussy’s mine. you hear me?”

you scream when you come, full-body shaking, collapsing against her slick chest while she holds you, heavy arm across your back.

and when you finally roll off her and catch your breath, she tucks a piece of straw behind your ear, grinning like a goddamn devil.

“you wanna sleep out here tonight, sugar?” she asks, smirking. “or should i carry you back to the house?”

you bite your lip, cheeks flushed.

“…hay’s fine.”

────

chapter VIII: breakfast of champions, you like waking up here now.

no more rolling your eyes. no more groaning about roosters or dusty boots or early mornings. not when they mean her.

you’re out of bed faster than ever. a quick splash of water on your face, dress yanked over your head, a slap of clear gloss. no panties again—habit now. you like how it makes you feel all day. loose. bare. ready.

she notices, every time.

the walk to her place is still long—dirt crunching under your sandals, sun already warming your skin—but you like it. like the ache in your thighs from yesterday’s riding, the faint sting of hay scratches on your back. little reminders.

she’s already up, of course. has been for hours. the tractor’s silent now, barn doors open, the smell of breakfast hitting you before you even see her.

inside?

a massive wooden table and an even bigger plate of pancakes.

towering. twelve, at least—stacked high, drowning in syrup, melting butter dripping down the sides like something sinful. there’s bacon too. eggs. a glass of milk. and right across from it: a little pink plate with two pancakes, already cut into neat quarters, a few raspberries on the side.

she doesn’t say a word when you walk in—just eyes you up and down real slow, her big hand sliding her chair back as she leans back in it.

“come sit,” sevika grunts, nodding to the chair next to hers. “figured you’d be hungry after yesterday.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you trying to fatten me up or something?”

she smirks. god, that smirk.

“nah. just feedin’ my girl right.”

my girl.

it makes your knees feel weak.

you sit beside her. her knee brushes yours under the table, thick and warm and firm like everything else about her. and then she tears into her food.

jesus.

fork in one hand, a slab of butter in the other. she eats like she’s starving—cleans up five pancakes before you’ve barely touched your second. syrup clings to her fingers. her jaw flexes with every bite. she’s loud, too. chews. groans. washes it all down with a swig of milk that dribbles down her chin and into the thatch of hair on her chest where her tank top gapes open.

she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“somethin’ wrong with yours?” she asks, glancing at your still-full plate.

you blink, cheeks hot. “n-no. i just—how the hell are you still eating?”

she laughs—booming, belly-shaking.

“big girl’s gotta keep her strength up,” she says, leaning in, eyes dragging down your body. “especially when you’re keepin’ her busy all night.”

you look down at your plate to hide the flush crawling up your throat.

you never thought you’d like being around animals, sweating in the heat, or walking through dirt barefoot. but now? you like the work. you like sevika. like her attention, her food, the way she always has something for you—cold lemonade, extra sunscreen, a clean flannel when you get dirty.

you love when her giant shadow falls over you while you’re watering tomatoes. when she lifts bales of hay like they weigh nothing. when she leans over your shoulder to show you how to hold the rake properly and you can feel every inch of her warm, wide chest brush against your back.

she treats you like you matter.

and even though you're still spoiled, still pouty sometimes—you’re starting to understand the language of sweat and sunburns and syrup-covered mornings.

you reach across the table and steal a strip of bacon off her plate.

she raises a brow. “you bold now, huh?”

you smirk back. “feedin’ your girl right, remember?”

she grins. leans in close. her flannel still smells like hay and hard work.

“damn right i am.”

────

by noon, the sun’s brutal. your thighs are sticking to the porch swing, your gloss long gone, and your hair’s tied up in a messy knot with a rubber band you found in one of her junk drawers, your hair tie- thin and pink had snapped somewhere between lifting hay and picking apples. sevika ruffles every time she walks past.

“c’mon, apple pie,” she calls from the kitchen. “lunch is ready.”

odd nickname. perhaps it was because you were so sweet. you hoped so.

you step inside and stop short.

the whole table’s covered.

you blink. “are we feeding the entire county?”

she shrugs, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “nah. just you and me.”

just you and me.

you swallow hard.

there’s fried chicken—crispy, golden, still steaming. mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. sweet corn cut fresh off the cob. fluffy biscuits, a bowl of honey butter. collard greens. mac n’ cheese so thick and creamy you can see the strings of cheese clinging to the spoon. iced tea in big mason jars. and, of course, a slice of pecan pie sitting off to the side like dessert’s already decided.

sevika moves around the kitchen like it’s nothing—big, broad back to you as she grabs a fork. the floor creaks under her. every time she turns, her stomach brushes the counter, and it makes something flutter deep in your belly.

you sit down, still staring. “you really cook all this?”

“mhm.” she flops into the chair beside you, makes it groan under her weight. “told you i like feedin’ my girl.”

then she goes to town. watching her eat is… something else.

she doesn’t hold back. doesn’t care if the gravy drips down her chin or if her fingers are shiny with grease.

her bites are huge.

you watch her demolish two legs of chicken before you even finish scooping potatoes. she eats like she works—big, bold, messy.

you shouldn’t like it. you shouldn’t. but your thighs are pressed tight together under the table, lips slightly parted as you watch her chew and swallow. watch the way her throat moves. the sound of her low grunt when she reaches for more.

it's filthy. you're not even eating anymore. just sitting there, heat pooling under your skirt, watching her devour food like she hasn’t eaten in a week.

“i like feedin’ you,” sevika says around a bite, mouth still full, voice thick with pleasure. “like seein’ you lick your fingers. makes me think about what else you’d lick.”

you nearly knock over your tea.

she grins, eyes gleaming.

you clear your throat, try to grab a biscuit, your hands shaky. you dunk it in your mashed potatoes just like she taught you and bite.

“somethin’ on your lip,” she says suddenly.

you glance up. she’s watching you close, still chewing, but she reaches out—big hand cupping your jaw with fingers rough and warm.

she smears her thumb across the corner of your mouth. and then, slow as molasses, she presses that same thumb against your bottom lip.

“go on,” she murmurs. “clean it off.”

you don’t even hesitate.you wrap your lips around her thumb, sucking gently.

your tongue slides over the pad of it, tasting salt and gravy and something darker underneath. her breath hitches.

you feel her twitch next to you.

“jesus,” she mutters.

you pull off with a pop and lick your lips.

“don’t want your sauce to go to waste,” you say sweetly.

she stares at you like she might break the damn table. there’s gravy still on her chest, her neck glistening with sweat. you imagine licking it clean. imagine her pressing you down into the mashed potatoes, holding you there with a greasy, syrup-slick hand around your throat.you shift in your seat, thighs rubbing together.

“you full yet?” she asks, voice low.

you nod. “yeah.”

but your eyes stay on her plate—still piled high—and your voice goes a little breathless as you add, “but i wanna watch you finish.”

she leans back, sets her fork down.

“well,” sevika says, slow and dark, “i got a lot more in me, sweetheart.” you bite your lip. and you believe her.

────

you don't even realize you're doing it. just sitting there like a dumb little doll in your tiny skirt and tank top, watching her finish off a second helping of biscuits and gravy with a low groan in her throat, her belly pushing up against the edge of the table like it’s part of the feast.

she leans back with a deep sigh, rubbing at her stomach under the hem of her stretched-out shirt.

"you really put it away, huh,” you tease, even though your breath’s shallow. you’re still clenching your thighs like it’ll help the ache growing worse by the second.

she just smirks. “gotta keep all this up somehow.” her hand drops to her soft middle with a lazy pat, thick fingers spreading over her curve like she knows exactly what it does to you. “you starin’, sugar?”

you bite your lip. “maybe,”

you whisper.

sevika pushes her chair back with a low creak. then she spreads her legs wide and taps her thick thigh.

“well, c’mere and sit in my lap if you wanna stare that bad.

your mouth goes dry. you hesitate for a split second—but then you're moving. slowly. purposefully. sliding into her lap, your thighs pressing down against the heat of hers, her bulk under you so solid and wide that you feel tiny and delicate by comparison.

she wraps one heavy arm around your waist. the other? it slides right up the back of your skirt. no panties. her breath hitches. you feel her freeze for a second. then: a low, broken chuckle. “well, well,” she murmurs. “came ready to get your ass felt up, huh?”

you nod, lips parted, your chest rising fast against hers. “i figured i’d be climbin’ ladders later,” you breathe. “didn’t wanna deal with anything... in the way.”

she groans, head tipping back.“you’re gonna kill me.” she grabs two handfuls of your ass, palms big enough to nearly cover it all, and starts kneading, rough and slow. her fingers dig in, calloused and demanding.

you rock into her touch without meaning to, little gasps slipping from your mouth as she explores everything you gave her.

“y’really got no shame, huh,” she mutters into your neck, lips dragging over your skin. “teasin’ me all morning in that little skirt, swayin’ those hips like you don’t know what they do to me.”

“i know,” you whisper. “i like what it does to you.”

she groans again—louder this time. her stomach grumbles under you. “fuck, you wanna help me digest, sweetheart? i got all this food sittin’ heavy in me and nowhere to put this energy.”

“use me,” you say, breathless.

“use me how you want.”

her arms tighten around you.then she stands up. with you in her arms like you weigh nothing. like her aching, overstuffed belly isn’t a thing at all as she lifts you and sets you down right on the edge of the kitchen counter, pushing your legs open with her knee.

“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, voice low, rough, full of hunger. “ruin you right here with gravy still on my chin and syrup on my shirt.”

you gasp. wrap your arms around her neck. “please.”

you wouldn't be walking tonight.

────

chapter IX: under the steam, you liked her shower

the farmhouse creaked in the heat of the evening, cicadas humming outside like a lullaby made of sweat and dust. the sky was bruised purple and gold, and the air clung to your skin like syrup. after a full day mending fences, hauling hay, and baking under the southern sun, you were sun-tired and aching in the bones. but you weren’t alone—sevika was right beside you, sweat dripping from the tip of her nose, her broad shoulders rolling with each step.

dinner had been heavy. comforting. a mountain of spaghetti slathered in thick, garlicky sauce, with an entire loaf of buttery bread to match. you sat across from her, your plate half-eaten, while she went back for thirds. her fork twirled with effortless hunger, sauce smearing her lip as she groaned low, chewing with lazy satisfaction. her belly, full and warm, stretched the hem of her tank top. you couldn’t stop watching the way her body moved—like she was built for excess, for indulgence, and proud of it.

after the last bite, sevika leaned back in her chair with a loud, satisfied sigh and gave you a lazy look.

"you smell like a cow’s ass," she drawled, lifting her chin. "c’mon. shower time."

you didn't resist when she tugged you by the wrist, guiding you to the tiny bathroom just off the kitchen. the shower wasn’t meant for two—but that didn’t stop her. steam billowed the moment the water hit the tile, and sevika began stripping right there in front of you, with no ceremony. her flannel, soaked with sweat, hit the floor with a wet thud, followed by her tank and jeans.

she was huge. bigger than life. hair curled around her thighs and belly, glistening in the soft amber of the flickering light bulb overhead. her body bore every sign of a life earned by muscle and survival: stretch marks, a gut heavy with comfort, calloused feet, broad hips, thick thighs, arms like tree trunks.

you swallowed hard, unsure if it was the heat or the sight of her that made your knees weak.

"get in," she said simply.

you obeyed, stepping into the cramped stall, water cascading down your back. before you could even shiver, she joined you. her belly pressed into your chest, pushing you against the cool tile wall with a gentle but unyielding force. you squeaked, hands bracing behind you, but sevika only grinned.

"don’t act like you don’t like it," she whispered, hot against your ear.

your hands, trembling, reached for the soap. you lathered your palms and, slowly, hesitantly, began to glide them across her stomach.

it was soft. warm. massive. you couldn’t even span it with both hands, just ran your fingers along the swell, over the curves of her waist, under the underside where her gut met her thighs. she exhaled sharply, pleased.

"mmm. that’s it. wash me proper."

her belly pinned you in place, slick with suds, your cheeks flushed crimson. she ground into you, slow and teasing, letting you feel all of her—every heavy inch. you bit your lip to keep from moaning.

"you like cleanin’ me, sugar?" she teased, eyes glinting. "you gettin’ off on it?"

you were. you couldn’t lie. the heat, the weight, her voice—it was all too much. your hands roamed lower, tracing the crease where belly met thigh, lathering the soft, hairy skin with reverence.

sevika’s hand found the back of your neck and pulled you forward, pressing your face against the curve of her side.

"bet you never had a woman like me before, huh? bet you thought you’d spend your summer sippin’ lattes, not buried under three hundred pounds of real farm girl."

your whimper was all the answer she needed.

steam swirled around you both as the water pounded down, a soundtrack to the quiet moans and heavy breathing. you stayed there, rubbing her down slowly, like you were memorizing her through every drop of soap and every inch of skin. she let you, head tilted back, enjoying the worship.

and when she kissed you—deep and lazy, tasting of garlic and sweat and something sweeter—you clung to her, letting the rest of the world fall away.

because here, under the steam, with your hands on her belly and her weight keeping you warm, you felt like you finally belonged.

────

you wake up tangled in sevika’s sheets, her body heavy and warm behind you, one thick arm draped over your waist like it belongs there. the scent of her—earthy, musky, a little sweet like hay and sweat—clings to your skin. your thighs ache in a way that makes you blush just thinking about it.

downstairs, the smell of food wafts up—bacon, eggs, and something buttery. you throw on one of her shirts, oversized and smelling like her, and pad barefoot to the kitchen.

she's already at the stove, shirtless under her flannel, her broad back glistening with a sheen of sweat, her messy hair tied back. she’s humming, and when she turns, there’s that crooked grin.

“mornin’, sugar.”

you mumble back a greeting, cheeks flushed as you sit at the table. she sets down a plate in front of you—three eggs, half a slab of bacon, toast glistening with butter. then she drops hers down. her plate? double yours. stacked high like a feast. she eats like a damn bear, but somehow it just makes her hotter.

"didn't think you'd be up after last night," she says with a knowing smirk, taking a huge bite of toast. "you looked like you were about to melt in that shower."

you avert your eyes, flustered. “you didn’t help.”

she laughs low and rumbly. “didn’t hear you complainin’ while your hands were all over me.”

she reaches across the table and brushes your thigh under the table with her calloused fingers. you squirm. she’s already working on her second plate, and watching her eat, the way she devours everything with zero shame, makes your stomach twist with something that isn’t just hunger.

“you keep starin’ like that, and i’m gonna think you want me to have you for dessert too.

you take a shaky breath as you watch her continue to eat—watch the way she licks butter from her fingers, the way her thick throat bobs with every swallow. your thighs press together under the table, heart thudding. you feel ridiculous, sitting there with a fork in your hand and dirty thoughts in your head before 9 a.m.

but you want to give something back. you want to do something for her.

when she gets up to rinse her plate, you follow quietly, watching her broad back flex with every movement. she's humming, content and casual. she doesn't notice your steps until your hands are sliding under her flannel, fingertips grazing the slope of her belly, soft and solid and warm.

she stiffens, just a bit. “what’re you up to, darlin’?”

“i wanna make you feel good,” you murmur, voice smaller than you intend it to be. you press a kiss between her shoulder blades. “let me take care of you for once.”

she huffs a low breath, but doesn’t stop you. “you sure?”

you nod, pressing tighter to her back, her belly pushing you back a little just from how big she is. she smells like soap, sweat, and woodsmoke, and you sink into it.

you guide her to the chair and she lets you—sprawled out, thick thighs spread, flannel half open. her belly is round and soft in the early light, rising and falling with each breath. her chest heaves under the wife-pleaser still clinging to her, soaked through in places.

you kneel.

your fingers are trembling as you run them over her thick thighs, over stretch marks and coarse hair, across the curve of her belly. she groans softly as you press your lips to it, kiss the softness like it’s sacred.

“you don’t gotta—”

“i want to,” you interrupt, nuzzling into her warmth.

she’s still for a long moment. then she tips her head back and lets you have your way, your hands and lips worshipping her like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

you trail your fingers over her soft skin, your heart racing as you kneel before her. the sheer size of her overwhelms you in the best way—the way she towers over you, the way she fills the space. your lips follow the curve of her belly, pressing gentle kisses, feeling the heat of her skin, the slight rise and fall of her breath.

sevika watches you, eyes heavy with something darker, something approving. her hands settle on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you take your time, savoring every inch of her. there’s a soft, contented rumble in her chest, a sound that makes your pulse race.

when you nudge her thick thighs apart, your gaze flicks up to meet hers. her eyes are hooded, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a smile.

“don’t stop, sugar,” she murmurs, voice low and rough.

you lean in, planting your lips on the softest, most tender part of her—just below her navel. you kiss her, slow, gentle, then work your way down with your lips trailing over the curve of her belly. your fingers follow, brushing against the coarse hair on her skin, feeling the heat that radiates from her body.

her fingers tighten in your hair, urging you closer, deeper. she guides you, but you don’t need any help—this is what you’ve wanted. to be this close to her, to touch her like she’s everything you need.

her breath catches when you move lower, your hands and lips exploring the space between her thighs. you kiss the inner curve of her leg, feeling her pulse, the heat from her skin making you dizzy. her body tenses slightly, but it’s a good tension, the kind she can’t hide.

“you’re so damn beautiful,” you whisper, just above her skin, the words leaving a mark in the air.

sevika’s hand moves from your hair to your shoulder, pushing you back slightly, her lips forming a teasing grin.

“you’ve got a way with words, sweetheart,” she says, voice thick with desire. she pulls you up, her grip firm and possessive, and she holds you close, breath against your ear. “you wanna do more for me, huh?”

you nod before you can stop yourself, eager to show her how much you’re willing to give, how much you need to give.

her lips crash into yours, hungry, but it’s not just about the kiss. it’s everything—the way she holds you, the weight of her body pressing you into the wall, the scent of her filling your lungs, the roughness of her hands as they slide over your skin.

“then take it,” she growls against your lips.

her hands move like she’s been waiting for you to ask—lifting your shirt over your head, her fingers sliding over your curves with ease. her body presses against you, chest to chest, and you feel her weight, her warmth, her strength. you can’t stop the shiver that runs through you, the way your pulse quickens, the way your whole body reacts to her.

you reach up, tracing her jawline, feeling the rough stubble there, the heat of her skin, the undeniable pull between you.

“sevika,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion, “you’re everything i never knew i needed.”

her hand lands softly on the back of your neck, holding you in place as she pulls you back into a kiss, harder this time. it’s not gentle, but it’s not cruel—it’s need. you feel her press her full weight against you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way.

she pulls away just enough to look down at you, eyes smoldering, a wicked grin pulling at her lips. “you think you’re the only one who can give? wait ‘til i’m done with you.”

────

chapter X: don’t wanna leave, picking apples has become a daily routine for you

it happens during dinner. just a regular tuesday night. your grandparents' dining room table creaks under the weight of roasted chicken, string beans, thick cornbread dripping with butter—half of it made from sevika’s produce, her apples, her jams. you’ve been the one cooking more lately. helping out. staying in. laughing with them.

you almost forgot what day it was.

until your grandpa clears his throat, eyes soft but firm, and says—

“so,” he starts, slow, “just wanted to ask if you’ve started packin’ yet.”

you pause mid-bite.

“packing?”

“well, it’s almost september, sweetheart.” your grandma’s voice is warm, gentle. “figured you’d be headin’ back soon.”

back.

back to the city.

back to your apartment and rooftop parties and mall food courts and too-short attention spans.

your fork clinks against your plate. you blink, staring at the table, suddenly unable to swallow.

“oh,” you say.

“we’ve got a buyer lined up,” your grandpa adds. “for the farm. upstate couple. quiet folks. we’ve been thinking it’s time. you know, slow things down.”

you nod.

it’s the polite thing to do.

but your ears are ringing.

you can barely taste the chicken anymore. you can’t hear the rest of the conversation over the blood rushing in your head. and all you can think is—i'm not ready. i don’t want to leave.

because she’s still here.

because sevika’s muddy boots are probably kicked off at her door right now, her flannel peeled off and tossed somewhere near the sink, and you don’t want to be anywhere else. not when she looks at you like you’re worth slowing down for. not when her touch makes you feel real for the first time in your life.

that night, you don’t sleep.

you sneak out around midnight. walk down the dirt path barefoot, skirt too thin, arms folded tight. the moonlight slices through the trees and your breath catches when you see the soft yellow glow in sevika’s window, the way it always is when she’s still up late reading or fixing something in the barn.

you don’t knock.

you just open the screen door and step inside. her eyes meet yours from across the room.

“hey,” she says softly, brow furrowed. “what’s wrong?”

you stand there trembling, throat tight, eyes stinging.

“i don’t wanna go,” you whisper.

sevika rises slowly, big frame stretching in the lamplight, shirt riding up her belly. she crosses to you in three strides and pulls you into her arms, warm and solid and smelling like hay, tobacco, and something that feels like home.

“you don’t have to,” she murmurs into your hair.

“but i do,” you say, voice breaking. “they’re selling. my grandparents. it’s—it’s done.”

she stiffens.

and then she holds you tighter. like she’s scared too. like she doesn’t know how to ask the question forming behind her teeth.

you pull back just enough to look up at her.

“i wanna stay,” you say, “with you.”

"then stay" she says.

you don’t give sevika a straight answer that night.

just curl against her chest and let her hold you until the morning breaks, until the light cuts through the curtains and reality settles like dust on your skin. she never asks again—not out loud. she doesn’t need to.

the next few days, you scramble.

you beg your grandparents, half-hearted at first, then desperate.

“can’t we stay a little longer?”

“i think i finally found a rhythm here…”

“wouldn’t it be better to wait until next spring?”

“i could help out more—run the market table, maybe even work the orchard…”

they exchange looks. that kind of knowing glance that says more than words ever could.

“sweetheart,” your grandma says gently one morning over breakfast, “you hated this place when you got here.”

you swallow hard. “i was wrong.”

“about what?”

you hesitate. “everything.”

but the papers have been signed. the new owners are sending movers. boxes are stacking up near the front door. your grandma starts handing out mason jars of sevika’s jam like going-away gifts. you don’t pack your things. you just… shut your door and lie there in bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, dozens of unread messages from city friends pinging at the top.

“where the fuck are you”

“you better be back for halloween or i’m slapping you”

“babe i just got us tickets to the rooftop dj set next month get ur glitter ass BACK”

they don’t know you anymore.

not really.

you don’t even know yourself anymore, except when you’re barefoot in the fields or in sevika’s pickup truck with your thighs sticking to the seat and her calloused hand brushing your knee. you know yourself when you're sitting on her lap while she tells you the difference between a john deere and a massey ferguson, or when you're pressed against her chest in the barn with straw in your hair and your panties balled up in your fist.

you know yourself best when you’re with her.

and that self isn’t ready to leave.

but your time’s up.

the night before your departure, you walk the edge of sevika’s orchard, the moon hanging low and gold over the fields. you can hear the wind pushing through the tall corn, the crickets loud in the dark.

you find her at the barn, shirtless, her heavy body slick with sweat from loading up the last bales for the season. she doesn’t say anything when she sees you.

you just stand there, arms crossed tight against the chill, eyes burning.

“i’m leaving tomorrow.”

a nod. slow. she sets the last bale down with a grunt.

“i know.”

“i asked them to stay.”

“i figured.”

“they said no.”

silence.

you take a step forward, then another.

“i didn’t think i’d care this much,” you admit.

sevika’s breath catches in her throat. her eyes flick down to your lips, your hands, the hem of your hoodie—hers, you stole it last week and never gave it back.

you close the distance, chest tight, voice a whisper now.

“i don’t want to go back to that life. i wanna stay out here. with the dirt, the sweat, the heavy things. with you.”

still, she doesn’t move.

but her jaw tenses. her hands ball into fists. she’s scared too—you can see it in the way her mouth softens, her eyes refuse to meet yours.

“then stay,” she rasps.

“i can’t.”

you both fall quiet.

somewhere in the dark, an owl hoots.

and all at once, you realize—this isn’t a love story with an easy ending.

it’s real.

it’s hard. and messy. and full of aching gaps.

but god, you want her.

you want this.

you take her hand. it’s big and rough and warm. you press your mouth to her knuckles, eyes stinging.

“i’ll come back,” you promise. “i don’t care how long it takes.”

she just pulls you in. lets your head fall against her chest again. and for the rest of the night, she holds you like she’s afraid if she lets go, you’ll disappear forever.

────

epilogue: the cold city, her warm skin

the city felt like a cage, even as you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

college was a whirlwind of classes and late nights, lectures and new faces, but your mind was always half a world away — back in that small southern town, beneath the endless stretches of apple trees, where sweat and earth mixed in the air like an intoxicating perfume.

you kept the letters you sent to sevika tucked away in your drawer, ink smudged from hurried notes and trembling hands.

each one was a whisper, a confession, a thread reaching across the miles, carrying pieces of your heart home.

"dear sevika," you wrote one night, after a particularly hard day of exams,

"the city is loud and empty without you. the buildings are tall but cold, and i miss the warmth of your skin, the way your laughter fills the room like sunlight through the barn windows. when i close my eyes, i can still taste the syrup on your pancakes, feel the weight of your body pressed against mine, steady and safe. i’m counting the days until i can come back to you, to the farm, to the sweat, to the apples, and to us."

she wrote back too, her words like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat you could feel through the paper.

she told you about the crops, the changing seasons, the stubborn weeds she battled and the slow, steady growth of her orchard.

she described how the sun baked the fields golden and how the smell of fresh-turned earth stayed on her skin after a long day’s work.

her letters smelled faintly of hay and sweat, and that was the sweetest scent of all.

time moved in strange ways — slow and fast, filled with longing and hope — until finally, the day came when you stood on that cracked farm road again, suitcase in hand, heart pounding louder than you thought possible.

the farmhouse stood there, the porch light flickering as twilight settled, and then you saw her.

sevika. still massive and powerful, every inch of her telling stories of earth and strength.

her flannel hung loose around her broad shoulders, stained with dirt and sweat, her belly soft and full beneath the fabric, her calloused hands tucked into the pockets of her worn jeans.

her hair was streaked with silver now, but those dark eyes — fierce, tender, unyielding — held all the fire you remembered.

“you’re back,” she said, voice low and rough, a smile tugging at her lips.

you dropped your bags, your breath catching.

“you’re home.”

you fell into each other like the earth embraces rain — thirsty, desperate, full of life.

she pulled you close, her hands warm and steady on your back, and you traced the curve of her belly with your fingers, marveling at how much she had grown, how much she had held onto, how much she held you now.

you kissed under the fading sky, the world shrinking to just you two, to the soft rhythm of your hearts beating in time.

days melted into nights and back again.

you worked the farm side by side, learning the language of the land, her teaching you how to listen to the trees and the soil.

mornings began with giant stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, her laughter booming through the kitchen, her hands steady as she poured coffee and wiped syrup from your lips.

afternoons were spent tangled in the grass, sun-warmed and sweaty, her body a fortress around you, her breath hot against your neck.

the nights were yours alone.

she was heavy and strong, the weight of her body grounding you, her hair wild around your face, her scent raw and alive.

you worshipped each other — every curve, every scar, every calloused palm and soft whisper.

her hair grew wild, her skin kissed by the sun and sweat and time, and you loved every inch of her, every secret the earth had carved into her.

your parents called less and less, their voices tinged with disappointment when they heard you weren’t coming back to the city.

they disowned you, made it clear the farm and sevika weren’t the life they wanted for you.

but you didn’t care.

here, beneath the apple trees and the wide open sky, you were free.

here, you were loved.

one afternoon, as the sun dipped low and the orchard smelled of ripe fruit and rain to come, sevika pulled you close.

“you stay,” she said, her voice soft but sure.

“this is where you belong.”

and you smiled, because you knew it was true.

you were home.

────

epilogue, (pt.2): the honeysuckle heat of home.

your days began to blur together in the most beautiful way.

you woke each morning wrapped in the weight of her — limbs slung over you like anchors, her breath warm against your neck, her belly brushing your spine as she shifted, groaning softly in her sleep.

you’d roll over and kiss her chest, nestling there, listening to the slow, steady thrum of her heartbeat like it was your favorite song.

you made coffee while barefoot in the kitchen, her behind you, hips swaying lazily against yours as she reached around to grab the sugar.

sometimes she’d lift you onto the counter without a word, her palms spreading across the backs of your thighs, and just stand there, forehead against yours, soaking you in like sunlight.

you didn’t always speak — you didn’t have to.

some mornings you’d head into the orchard right away, baskets in hand, her massive frame silhouetted against the sun.

you’d watch the muscles shift beneath her skin as she worked, sweat clinging to her in ways that made your throat tighten.

sometimes you’d sneak up behind her just to wrap your arms around her soft belly, rest your cheek against the curve of her back and breathe her in.

she always leaned into you with a low grunt of satisfaction, her hands still working even as you clung to her like a second skin.

you sold jam on saturdays.

set up your little table at the farmer’s market, her towering presence a magnet for attention — rough hands, sharp jaw, worn boots, belly rounding beneath her apron like a harvest moon.

she’d let you talk to the customers while she leaned on the table, chewing sunflower seeds, watching you with eyes half-lidded in adoration.

and when you got too hot or tired, she’d shove a lemonade into your hand and drag you behind the tent, her palm splayed across the small of your back, muttering, “you work too damn hard, city girl.”

you’d lean into her, your temple against the sweat-slick swell of her stomach, and nod.

because you did. but for her, you’d do

────

epilogue, (pt.3): greying hairs and peace.

years passed like petals in the wind.

sevika got grayer.

you got lines around your eyes.

the farm never stopped needing you — weeds to pull, fences to mend, jars to fill, apples to pluck.

but the world got quieter.

softer.

you started dancing in the kitchen more.

you kissed without reason.

you laughed like you had all the time in the world.

your parents never called again.

they sent back the letters unopened.

but it didn’t matter — not really.

because for the first time in your life, you weren’t reaching toward someone who’d never reach back.

you were building something.

with her.

you planted more trees.

painted the bedroom walls a soft peach.

put up wind chimes in the porch archway that clinked and clattered like a lullaby in storm winds.

sometimes you’d lie in bed and whisper about the life you’d carved out —

the one no one ever expected,

the one you almost didn’t choose,

the one that saved you both.

“you know,” she’d murmur, her lips pressed to your shoulder, “i think you were the best damn thing that ever happened to me.”

you’d smile.

“funny. i was just thinking the same thing.”

and that was it.

no grand epiphany, no cinematic swell.

just mornings of sunlight in mason jars.

just sweat and apple blossoms and the way she held you like you were the only soft thing she'd ever been allowed to love.

you never needed more than that.

not when forever looked like her.

not when forever smelled like earth and jam and sun-warmed cotton.

not when forever was a woman with a strong back, a big belly, and hands that never let go.

and so you stayed.

and stayed.

and stayed.

until staying became the only story you’d ever need to tell.

until her name was stitched into the seams of every quiet hour.

until the apple trees bent low with fruit, and your heart —

well.

it was full.

THE MOTHER FUCKING END BITCHES!!

#i love pussy

#wheres my fat butch

#just wanna be a girl w her farmer butch

#i want that tangy fat puss

doctor mike is so fine.

That feeling when your favorite writter still aint post the next chapter...

Im jp yall, i just be talking shit lol

i need this man so BADLY.

academic validation is over, all I need is someone on tumblr to think I’m cool.

here are my fav matt pics 4 u queen (i love your content with a passion and this is my first time submitting anything to anybody's inbox even though I've been on Tumblr for a while over a year)

STAWP I SEE UR USER ALL THE TIME AND I ACTUALLY ADORE YOU ( I see the comments lol)

He’s so bf ✨✨✨

this mf is marcus from finance

Oh, we’re cooked. Hasbro, what the fuck is this?

That mf is NOT Miguel, that is Mason. Y’all took his O’Hara name n ran w that shit 😭😭😭

Antiblackness Isn't Sexy!

As #Kinktober is upon us, I want to take this time to remind everyone that certain things may not carry the same "sexy" connotation for everyone! This isn't just a "your yuck is my yum" situation, this is a "hey, you're being racist" situation. Now if that's what you enjoy, I can't tell you otherwise. But if you'd like to be considerate towards your Black readers and peers, here are *some* (not all!) things to keep in mind:

1) Objectification is not respect. You can think Black people are sexy- I certainly do! That does not mean treating us like sex toys. An example: if your first thought when you look at a Black male character, is "This'll be good smut, I bet his dick is gigantic"- if your first thought is about their genitals and that they're a good fuck... That is weird. Abeg. Nothing else stood out to you? Just ye olde "Black men have big dicks?"

There's a racist and dehumanizing history behind the oversexualization of Black men, Black bodies in general. Sure, big penises are not insulting or bad, but just as you don't want to be brought down to your bits... Don't do it to us. We can be sexy without being objectified. You can think we're sexy without objectifying us!

2) Making your Black character more sexually aggressive (if fic: -than their canon counterpart). Your Black character having a high libido is fine, but if you've essentially written a sex pest, especially in comparison to a nonblack counterpart... Why? Why do you think that they're automatically the one that would be like that? One example of that is the whole "step on me mommy" thing with confidently sexy Black women. What makes you deem she's the "aggressive" one? She could be a gentle pillow princess.

3) Making your Black character more physically hulking (if fic: -than their canon counterpart). They don't look like that, you know they don't look like that, and you need to consider why you felt the need. Especially in comparison to their nonblack counterparts.

4) Chains and whips, Specifically the large, hulking Black or Brown character in chains held by a skinny white character. Especially if they're like a werewolf. You know why these visuals can be questionable! I know the intended symbolism is supposed to be steamy and animalistic, a bodice ripper deal. But think about it- how often have you seen the opposite- with a skinny Black person holding a hulking, animalistic white person in chains? What imagery are we evoking when we draw this, constantly? We are not animals, we are not raging, uncontrollable sex beasts.

Consensual sex and kink are supposed to involve respect between all parties. Respect, communication, vulnerability, and trust. You can have an interesting, sexually active, high libido, kinky Black character without morphing them a stereotype to be used for the sexual satisfaction of white viewers. Just as white people that do kink are humans with inner lives, so are we. Do better by your Black characters, and your Black readers, by showing us that respect. 👍🏾