So tight that his knuckles turn white. He has been sitting here for the past ten minutes, the car running but the headlights cut off to not alarm anyone. He isn’t even this nervous when he has a show to do, often quelling it with a shot of tequila and some cardio hours before he’s due to hit the stage. 

But this? This is the scariest thing he has ever endured. He can’t understand why though. He has been over your place plenty of times before…when you and him were fucking and trying to date, of course.

He hasn’t been over here in quite some time, so he already knows that the memories will come flooding back. Which means this will be harder for him to do. “Fuck,” he murmurs, leaning his head against the steering wheel. 

He had originally come over here to talk to you as Armin suggested. He had been sitting on your proposal for over a week, mulling your words and all the possibilities and outcomes if he really goes through with it. It didn’t take him long to slowly stress and lose sleep over this, so he consulted his two best friends for help. 

He told this to them last night, a Friday, over beers at Eren’s favorite bar for its seclusion and lowkey atmosphere, making it a good place to duck away from paparazzi and fans. Armin and Mikasa stared at Eren across the table, wide eyed and silent. Eren stared back, nervous. “So? What do you guys think?” 

“About what?” Mikasa asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “About the fact that you two still aren’t over each other and are just too prideful to say it?” Eren scowled at her, hating to be called out by his friend. “I’m not prideful…okay, fine, maybe, but this isn’t about me. It’s about HER. SHE broke up with ME.” She rolled her eyes at him, sipping from her beer bottle. “Yes, Eren, we know. You explained it at least fifty times.” 

Eren ignored her, instead sipping on his second beer of the night. He was beginning to feel the buzz that he needed to feel to have this difficult conversion. “She thinks the sex will help cure us of our attraction to each other or whatever so we can move on.” 

Armin sipped on his beer before he spoke, obviously choosing his words very carefully. “And you really think that’s gonna work?” he asked. 

“I don’t know!” Eren groaned, exasperated. “That’s why I’m asking you two! C’mon, give me advice!” Truth be told, he had no idea if your idea would work or not. While he liked the idea of getting you in bed again, to do it for the last time pained him, especially if you just wanted to move onto someone else afterwards. 

Armin wasted no idea putting in his two cents. “Well, I for one think it’s a horrible idea. Who’s to say if you decide to do this that it won’t make things worse for you? How are you supposed to move on now after another shot of a good drug?” 

Eren stopped short, hanging onto his friend’s words. Armin was right: you and your sex were like the strongest drugs he’s ever had. How could he ever say goodbye and kick his habit if you were THAT good? “Yeah, but Y/N may be right,” Mikasa argued, playing devil's advocate. “Maybe it will help them find closure.” 

Armin scowled at her, confused. “By fucking one last time?” he blurted, blushing a hot pink at the profanity that dropped off his tongue. He was tipsy, and when he was tipsy, he cussed a lot more than usual.

Mikasa responded, barely even taken aback by the golden boy’s swearing. “That’s why it’s called breakup sex. You end things on a good note with the intention of never being together again.” Armin sniffed, indifferent to her argument. “Yeah, but how often do people who have breakup sex actually break up? Why is she proposing this again?” 

He squinted at Eren, cocking his head to the side while Eren sighed, swirling the amber-colored liquid around in his bottle. “Apparently, ‘cause of her new boyfriend. Or soon to be boyfriend anyway.” He said it with so much malice that one would think that your new man-to-be proposed to you. 

“See?!” Armin exclaimed, motioning a hand towards Eren’s pinched look. “That’s why this is a bad idea! Why not just tell her that you want her back?” The musician glared at the blonde across the room, knowing that he knew the answer to that. “Because I don’t do that, Armin. Plus, you’re assuming she’ll even agree! Sex does not equal wanting someone back.” Even though he desperately wanted it to.

But Armin stood ten toes down on his opinion, practically begging Eren to see reason. “Just call the whole thing off, Eren. Talk to Y/N about it and try to work things out some other way that doesn’t involve intimacy. I promise you: things will only get worse from here if you decide to have sex with her. It’s like twisting the knife in your gut. You’re not over her, so why cut yourself deeper?” 

Eren was silent, letting his best friend’s advice sink into his bones the same way the beer did. Realizing that Armin was unfortunately right, while at the studio, Eren hit you up the very next day while you were at work. He called your cell phone with no answer, so he took a chance and called your work number which he often did if he wanted to toy with you while you were at your work desk. Shockingly, you answered. “Art exhibit, this is Y/N speaking.” 

He nearly shivered at the sound of your sexy, professional voice. “Hey, it’s me. Sorry that I’m callin’ your job. You weren’t answerin’ your phone.” He swallowed hard, gripping his water bottle to avoid shaking. Why was he shaking?

“Hey,” you greeted, actually sounding pleased to hear from him. “No, it’s cool. Everything okay?” 

No, it wasn’t, but he couldn’t tell you that the past few days, he’s been stressing and bugging out over your proposal. “Yeah, I just thought about what you said earlier this week. You know…about us and that.” He blushed, the beer intensifying his embarrassment. 

You paused for a moment, obviously confused, and then gave a short, surprised, “Oh! Um…okay. And what did you decide?”

Eren took a deep breath before asking, “Can I come over later tonight? What’s up for the evening?” He kind of hoped you weren’t free so he didn’t have to go through with this. 

“Just laundry,” you answered. “Yeah, you can come by. Is 8 PM okay?” He released the breath that he didn’t know he was even holding, realizing that the universe was pushing him to face this. “Fine with me. I’ll be there.” As soon as he got off the phone, he jumped into the shower and mentally prepared himself to meet you. 

Fast forward to now, he sits here, contemplating every step that has led him here. Can he really go through with this? Can he really sit you down and have an honest, vulnerable talk with you about your relationship? He can only get his answer if he gets out of the car, so with a deep inhale, he gets out of the car and begins his walk to your apartment. 

With each step, he hypes himself help, telling himself that he can do this. That he can be an adult. That he can tell you how he feels while also making you see how bad of an idea this is and how this will only make things worse. 

But when he finally gets to your door and rings your doorbell, all of that flies out the window when you open the door, revealing the silk robe you have on that clings to your body. Your braids cascade down your back and you smell sweet, like coconut body wash and a hint of citrus. Your face is bare and glowing, the only stitch of makeup being a swatch of pink lip oil on your lips that make them succulent and juicy-looking. 

Eren feels the breath leave his lungs at the sight of you, unable to think about anything but your soft skin and what you might be wearing under that robe. You give him a pretty smile despite the tension that has been brewing between you for months now. “Hey,” you greet him. “You came.” 

“I said I would,” he replies after a thick swallow. You give a small laugh and widen the door for him to enter. “You can come in.” As he walks by you, he catches a whiff of your body wash mingled with the scent of a flowery perfume. ‘Goddamn,’ he thinks, cursing all above who are doing this to him. 

How can he POSSIBLY talk to you about something so serious when you smell so fucking good? ‘Just think of Armin,’ he thinks, his hands balled at his fists as he stands in your cozy living space. ‘Just think of his advice. Don’t be a horny fuck.’ 

“Listen,” he finally sighs, turning to face you as he hears the door click shut. “I-I wanted to come over here to talk to you about–” 

The rest of his words are cut off when he sees you standing there with the robe off and at your feet. You’re wearing a black and red lace panty and bra set with the kind of panty that cuts just above your hipbone, giving Eren the impression that you’re wearing a thong or a cheeky panty so your asscheeks are damn near eating it up.

Your tits are pushed up enticingly on your chest, succulent and soft to the touch, your skin glistening with an oil that makes them shine and shimmer. You stand there confidently, hands at your sides, your eyes hooded. “You said you wanted to talk?” you ask, your voice breathy and seductive. 

Eren almost forgets how to speak, rendered mute by your luscious body and brown skin on full display for him. “I…I, uh…” He swallows again, feeling his cock grow hard. It only swells more when the corner of your lip inches upward. “I…well, I-I didn’t want to…” 

Just like that, your confident smile fades. “You didn’t want to do this?” you carefully ask, your voice small. Eren rubs the back of his neck, his heart pounding and his hands growing clammy. “Shit,” he hisses. “I-I’m sorry. I had come over to tell you that maybe this was a bad idea–” 

Instantly, your pretty face pales. “O-Oh, my God!” you stammer, instantly covering your cheeks as they flame with heat. “Oh, fuck, I-I didn’t…God, this is so embarrassing.” You bend down to get your rope, turning around as soon as you have it in your hands. 

“Wait, Y/N,” Eren says. “It’s fine.” But you shake your head as you yank the robe on. “No, it’s not,” you argue. “This isn’t fine at all.” He pauses when he hears the thick emotion in your voice. “Are you crying?” he asks, his tone serious and firm. 

“I didn’t know,” you softly sob, still turned away. “I-I thought that you were comin’ over to…this was such a bad idea. You should go.” You start to reach for the door, but Eren stops you, crossing the living room while you’re turned around. 

Slowly, he turns you to face him, seeing the watery tears in your eyes. “Wait,” he whispers. “You didn’t let me finish.” He pauses, wiping a lone tear away from your cheek with his thumb pad. “I had come here to tell you that maybe this is a bad idea,” he continues. “But now…seein’ you like this…” 

He takes the flaps of the rope and pulls it down to expose your body to him again. You stand as still as a statue, letting him do it. At the sight of and smell of you so up close, he finally loses all composure and cups your jaw. “I just can’t refuse you,” he exhales before his lips softly touch yours. You softly moan as you kiss him back, your lips falling into place despite the time that has passed between you. 

Eren pushes himself up against you, his hands grabbing your waist and then your ass, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers. You moan again, your arms wrapping around his neck, holding him tight. He then pulls his lips away to kiss and nip your throat, needing to see your skin marked in hickeys. Your moans are luscious and sweet, full of longing, the sounds going straight to his dick.

“Eren,” you whisper against his jaw, your hands grasping his biceps. He pulls away to look at you, one hand leaving your ass to cup your cheek again. “Do you still want this?” he murmurs. “Tell me now before I go too far.” 

His cock is straining against his pants, threatening to bust through them, but still, he keeps a hold on himself. He can see the want shining in your chocolatey eyes, but he doesn’t move forward until he hears you say: “Yes,” you whisper, “but only if you do.”

His heart skips a beat at this, the hand on your ass gripping it possessively. “And you still want this to be the last time?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you. Once again, silently, you nod, determination in your eyes. 

Eren pushes past the disappointment, not wanting you to see it. “So you understand?” you ask, your voice on the hint of a mew. You push yourself up against him, giving him a feel of your soft skin and curves.

He swallows hard, his blood boiling with arousal. “Yeah, I understand,” Eren raspily replies. “I understand that I need to make this count.” He then presses his lips up against yours again, his tongue swirling with yours.

‘I understand that I need to fuck you better than any man ever will.’ 

The more you kiss, the more his need for you grows, causing him to strip off his jacket and leave it on your floor. You share moans with one another as your tongues and lips sloppily dance together, slow and heated, just like your kisses used to be. As your soft, glossy lips coat his in your lip oil, he unhooks your bra from the front, exposing both of your soft, juicy tits to him that drip like hanging fruit from a branch. He pulls away from your mouth, gently pulling on your bottom lip as he does. 

You stand there, topless and shivering in arousal, lips parted and eyes glazed over. He ogles at your tits and hard, brown nipples, his mouth aching for a taste. “So beautiful,” he murmurs. He can’t stop himself from leaning down to massage them. Mold them in his hands. Tweak your hard nipples between his thumb and index fingers just hear your little whimpers. Finally, he latches his lips around each, alternating between each one to swirl his tongue around the hardened peaks. 

Your moans grow loud and wanton, your chest pushing into him as your back arches against his fat, wet, pierced tongue. Your hands finger through his dark locks, causing his cock to chub and form a hard bulge against his pants. He can’t take much more of this torture and neither can you. 

“Oh, Eren, please!” you whine. “I need you!” He peers up at you, smiling cockily at you. “You have me, baby,” he sighs against your tits. “Where else do you need me?”  

Your expression is so cute written with need and desperation, brows knitted and eyes soft. You take his hand off of one of your tits and instead press it against your panties where he feels them growing wet at his touch. “Here. Put your mouth on me here.”

He damn near moans at the feeling of your wetness on his fingertips, making them slick with your juices the way his tongue should be. He wastes no time shedding the rest of his clothes, letting you help him unbuckle his jeans while he rips his shirt off from the back, bringing it over his head. 

The way you drink in his muscular body makes him burn with want. And possession. He doesn’t want you to look at another the way you do him, your eyes licking up his muscles inked with tattoos, his happy trail, and his V-line trailing down to his designer briefs. But he can’t think about that now. Not when your pussy needs his mouth. Gently, he lays you down on your carpeted floor, nearly cumming when you lock eyes with him as you lay back and spread your thighs for him. 

Slowly, he drags them cheeky panties down your soft legs to your ankles right down to your cute, painted toes. Ever the freak, Eren pauses to take a sniff of your panties, your scent like a drug to him, and then tosses them aside. He then lays himself onto his stomach between your legs and gazes at the beauty in front of him: soft, glistening, puffy lips slightly parted but still hiding your clit just beneath your folds. 

How he has dreamed of this pussy. Ached for this pussy. Yearned for this pussy. Wasting no time, he presses his mouth to you, starting with open-mouthed kisses against your pussy lips to make you softly moan and grip the carpet below you. “Mmm,” you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of his soft lips against yours down below. 

He then moves onto tasting you, pressing his tongue between your folds and licking over your slit, groaning as you gush into his mouth. All the nights he’s spent tasting you come flooding back the same way you flood his tongue with your juices, your hands carding through his hair as his tongue writes his name over your slit. “Ah, fuck,” you softly moan. “Yes, ‘Ren. Keep going.” 

He does just that, swirling his tongue, his piercing pressing against each sensitive part of you. “Wrap your legs ‘round me,” he orders. “Pull me in, baby.” 

You happily oblige, wrapping your legs around him to pull him into your hole. His tongue slips into it, the way you grip around the muscle making him grind his hips down into the floor to rub his cock against something, anything, for relief. Your moans are like music to him, sweet and tempting, making him throb as he slowly tongue fucks you. “Oh, yes!” you whine, your voice bouncing off of the walls. “Mmm, fuck, more! Give me more, Eren, please!” 

As he continues to eat you out, he tries not to think about how hard it will be to give this up. To no longer hear your sweet sounds or taste your sweetness on his tastebuds if he gives you up. But still, he powers through, knowing that the more he licks, the more he comes addicted to you. He locks eyes with yours through the V of your thighs, growing feral at the sight of your heaving breasts and desperate face. “Take me, baby. Take my fuckin’ tongue.” 

He growls the words out before continuing to tongue fuck you, pushing it deeper and deeper into your wet core. Your moans and sobs grow louder, your hips beginning to gyrate into his mouth to push yourself harder against his mouth. He uses his hands to angle your pelvis up, his palms cupping your ass so he can drink more from your well. Soon, you begin to grip his hair and he knows that you’re close. “Oh, fuck!”you sob. “H-Ha, fuck, Eren, yes! W-Wait, baby! Oh, shit, I’m gonna cum!” 

“Mmm-hmm!” he groans into your pussy. He works his jaw faster, needing you to cum. Needing you to understand that no man will ever be able to make you cum with his tongue like he can. “No, no, stop!” you beg, gently pushing him away. “I wanna cum with you inside me. I want you, Eren.” 

At the dirty words you utter and the need in your tone, he pulls away from your soddened pussy, lips still dripping with your juices and his own spit. His cock throbs impatiently, needing the same thing you do. “How do you want it?” he rasps, the last shred of self control leaving him. “You pick, baby. It’s your night.” You give him a small smile despite the situation, obviously appreciating this. So you choose doggystyle, one of your favorites. Eren’s too. 

Slowly, you turn over and get into position, arching your back and presenting that perfect ass to him. Something ignites in him, primal and animalistic, as he lays a hand across your soft, supple ass. “Do me a favor real quick, mama,” he coos, smirking when you shiver. “Spread your asscheeks apart for me. I wanna see what’s mine.” For the last time. 

He watches with arousal and interest as you place both hands on your ass and stretch your cheeks apart, exposing your puckered asshole and gripping pussy for him. “Like this?” you breathlessly ask, looking back at him curiously. 

Eren wraps a hand around himself, slowly pumping his cock in an effort to not cum on the spot from your exposed holes. “That’s perfect, baby,” he answers before tapping his cock up against your sticky pussy lips. “You just get better and better.” 

He begins to slide his cock over your clit, emitting luscious, needy moans from you. “Eren, please, no teasing!” you whine, still prying your asscheeks apart so he can gaze at your perfect little hole. “Just fuck me now! I need you to–” 

You don’t get to finish your hot begging because Eren is already pushing inside of you. He bites his lip as you squeeze around him just as you release your ass to grip onto the carpet, gasping. “Oh, God!” you moan, gripping the rug below you. “Slow, Ren. I-It’s been awhile.” 

He understandably strokes your back as he slowly pulls out before plunging a few inches back in, giving you time to relax and adjust. “Of course, baby,” he whispers. “Anything you want.”

He isn’t complaining about fucking you nice and slow either, loving how your lips cling to his shaft. He loves feeling every inch of your tight, satiny, wet pussy grip him, having yearned for it for months. “God, I’ve missed you so much,” he babbles. “You have no idea how–” 

“Ren, don’t,” you interrupt him. “Please.” You look back at him, your lips forming a thin line of disapproval. He feels his heart break off in a few shards at this, but he hides it well. He can’t ruin this for you right now. He can’t push you away when he’s so close to you again finally. “Sorry. You just feel really good wrapped ‘round me.”

He grips your hips and begins to piston himself into you, still keeping his thrusts slow. But with every thrust into your silky, wet pussy, all he wants to do is pound into you faster. But the slow strokes give him a chance to admire the way your ass bounces against him and how your juices glisten on his shaft. How your back arches, and the way your skin enticingly glows, and the way your braids fall over your head like a curtain. 

You’re so perfect, and perfection like that needs to be studied. To be paid close attention to. It’s all Eren can do to not lock you up, throw away the key, and keep you forever, especially when your pussy begins to grip him tighter than a vice and your moans grow louder. “Harder, Eren!” you beg. “Please, do it harder!” He smirks, loving it when you beg. “Harder?” he teases. “What, like this?”

He takes a handful of your ass in one hand as he slams himself into you a little harder, upping the tempo to create a faster rhythm of his balls slapping against your clit. You whine and moan with each thrust, sent through a world of pleasure as Eren fucks you from behind. “Yes!” you whine. “Yes, yes, please!” 

His cock throbs inside of you, surging to life from your sweet sounds, and he leans over you to press a kiss to your temple. “Keep beggin’,” he growls into your ear. “Keep it up and I’ll give you whatever you need.” You oblige, babbling all the “please”s in the world as your ex continues to fuck you dumb from behind, pulling you back into his cock to fuck him back. 

“Oh, fuck,” Eren groans, unable to stop himself from verbalizing his pleasure. His mind becomes blurry and dizzy off of your scent and the feeling of your cunt, so heavenly. So good. He knows he’s about to cum, so he pauses and slowly pulls out of you to save himself the embarrassment. You turn to face him, confused. “Why’d you stop?” you pant. 

He wraps a hand around his cock slick with your juices and slowly pumps a hand over it to keep himself hard. “‘Cause I wanna have that mouth for a minute,” he murmurs, wantonly pushing his cock into your face. “Taste yourself off me.” 

You turn around fully to face him and his hard cock, your brown eyes wide with lust. You are eager as you suck him off, stroking whatever you can’t fit into your mouth because his cock is just sooo long and thick. Perfect for you. He knows it too. “Fuck,” he softly groans, tilting his head back at the feeling of your hot, wet mouth. “I’ll miss this mouth so much.” 

You moan around his cock as you begin to push him deeper into your throat, filling the tight tunnel with his length. “Oh, shit!” he yelps, his hand gripping the back of your hair as your head bobs up and down, fucking him in your throat. You turn yourself into a fleshlight for him, using your mouth to please him. 

He watches as you take him, your cheeks hollowed and thick, pretty lips filled up with him. You look so beautiful with him stuffing you up like that. He can’t let you go. He just can’t. “I can’t,” he pants and slides his cock out of your mouth to lay you down on your back. 

He tosses your thighs up over his shoulders, much to your shock and enjoyment, and sinks into you again without warning. All of the anticipation for this moment builds up, only being let out through the rough, possessive fucking he gives you.

You moan, whine, and gasp as you grip his biceps, your tits jiggling in his face as his cock slams into you. “God, you’re so tight!” he groans. “I–oh, fuck, baby!” 

Stray, black strands of his hair fall into his face and his chain swings in your face, coaxing you to lift your head up to gently suck on it. The act only makes him harder, especially seeing the need alight in your eyes. “More,” you beg him. “Give it to me more.” 

Eren does just that. He presses himself down onto his forearms and proceeds to fuck you into the floor, the sound of his thighs slapping against yours filling the air along with your shared moans and sounds of pleasure. He is so close that you’re practically sharing breath, chest to chest, heart to heart.

“Is this what you want?” he whispers. He snatches a hand out to grip your throat, loving it when your mouth falls agape. “Huh?!” he asks louder. “Is this what you fuckin’ want from me, baby?” 

“Oh, fuck, Eren, yes!” you sob into the sex-filled air. “Fuck me harder! Just like that! Ohhh, fuck!” You are practically crying at this point, your lashes glistening with tears as Eren fucks all of his emotions and feelings for you into you, rolling and grinding his hips against yours like he’s trying to get your pregnant. 

…But that may not be such a bad idea. Then he would be able to lock you down to him forever. 

He knows that he is close when he starts thinking about breeding you, filling you up with his cum to knock you up. 

“Not yet,” he practically whimpers, more to himself than to you. “No, don’t cum yet. Gotta make this last.” He takes one of your legs to tosses it off of him, positioning you onto your side to fuck you that way now. “Gotta make you remember me,” he pants, biting his lip as you squeeze around him. 

Your mouth opens on a series of loud moans as he fucks into you faster than a jackhammer while you frantically rub your clit in time with his thrusts, your tits bouncing and ass recoiling against his abs. Finally, you can’t take much more, your pretty face etched in pleasure. “E-Eren,” you hiccup. “I-I can’t…h-ha, fuck, I can’t anymore! Please, Daddy, make me cum!” You’ve grown delirious, the pet name slipping out into the heated air between you. 

It makes Eren absolutely feral. “Yeah? You need me to make you cum?” Frantically, you nod, your lush lips trembling. “Look at me then,” he raspily orders. “Cum for me while I fill you up, babe. I wanna see your face when you cum.” 

You turn your face and lock eyes with him, those pretty, brown slits of your irises sending him into a frenzy. Pressing his lips together, he uses all of his strength to make these last few thrusts count, pouring all of himself into making you cum. Your moans reach a crescendo as do his, bouncing off of the walls and possibly waking the neighbors as you fuck out everything you’ve left unsaid over the last few months. 

“Eren, m’close!” you pant, digging your nails into his biceps. “I-I’m so close! I need to–” 

“Cum then!” Eren grunts. “Cum for me right now! All over that dick, baby!” He continues to pump in and out, in and out, faster, faster, until finally, you let out a squeak as you cum all over his cock, your eyes fluttering shut and your mouth opening into a permanent O. Your hot, sweet orgasm triggers his own and with a groan fit for a porno, Eren fills you up with his spunk, flooding your insides with his cum. 

It is intense. It is explosive. It is perfect. So fleetingly perfect that Eren nearly crashes out at the idea of losing it once the dawn comes. But just as quickly as it begins, it is over, leaving Eren feeling drained and dizzy as his cock goes soft inside of you. With a soft groan, Eren gently pulls out, rolls off of you and lays side by side with you. 

Together, you lay on your apartment floor, staring up at the ceiling in silence. You share in each other’s heated pants, all afterglow and sweaty skin. “That was…” He pauses, unable to find the words. 

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice soft and tired. But then you pick your head up and give him a small smile, your eyes sparkling with mirth. “You know, it’s only 10PM,” you giggle. “You up for another round?” 

Eren turns to look at you, a questionable brow raised. He doesn’t need to be asked twice when he sees your smile still there. For you? He would go multiple rounds. After all, he needs to make sure you know that the sex won’t feel as good with anyone else but him. 

How else can he do that except fucking you and making you cum your brains out multiple times in a row?

**************

That night, when Eren awakens, it is 2AM and he’s still at your place, snuggled beneath a soft duvet on your couch.  

The living room is dark, his clothes are still on the floor, and he is naked with his muscles aching deliciously from what happened with you earlier. You went at least three different rounds, making you cum over and over again, until you finally passed out and he carried you to the couch to rest. 

He didn’t cuddle you. He knew if he did that it would be impossible to break away from you later. It was bad enough he agreed to fuck you one last time. Instead, he laid you down on your side and covered you with a blanket while he took his own side, watching you slumber for a while before getting some shuteye himself. 

Now he is awake and he knows that he needs to leave soon. He finds his phone among the discarded clothes and digs into his back pocket to find his phone. He squints in the darkness at the bright screen, reading the time. ‘I should go,’ he thinks, but still, he doesn’t move. He’s too busy admiring your face as you sleep.

You are turned towards him now, curled up with your knees to your chest and your braids splayed out behind you like a river. Your lashes, so long and doll-like, fan your soft cheeks as serenity softens your face. You are deep in Dreamland and he loves to admire you when you are. He loves tracing shapes with his eyes over your face, memorizing each feature to you that makes you you. His pretty baby. 

But when he blinks, the moment passes and he knows that he has to quickly leave before he winds up staying. Quietly, he leaves the couch and dresses himself, taking his time getting his clothes on to not wake you. Finally, when he bends down to get his shirt, he finds your panties still lying on the floor. 

He picks the lace panties up and shoves them into his pocket before he can give it a second thought. Better to keep a souvenir. 

As he is pulling on his shirt, he hears a soft, sleepy moan and freezes like a deer in headlights. You stir awake, your eyes glistening in the dark. “Eren?” you softly mew. “You good?” 

Dammit. He was hoping he could just slip out of here no problem without seeing you. “Yeah,” he coughs. “Sorry. I was just gettin’ up to go. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow…you know how it goes.” He is telling you a big, fat lie, but he’d say anything to not admit to you that he can’t stay in fear of falling more in love with you. 

Slowly, you sit up, the duvet covering your naked body. “Oh, okay,” you reply, and he thinks he hears some minor disappointment. “It’s probably better that you sleep in your own bed anyway.” 

‘No, it’s not! I wanna sleep in your bed, goddammit!’ But he keeps his mouth clamped shut, instead pulling his shirt over his toned, tatted body. You continue to watch him, your face unreadable. “Thanks again for comin’ over,” you softly say. “I really appreciate you doing this for me, Eren.” 

Eren awkwardly nods, his face growing hot. “It’s okay. It was for both of us anyway.” More than you could ever know. “Get some sleep now, will ya?” He manages to shoot you a small, crooked smile before grabbing his kicks and heading for the door, not even bothering to put them on. He needs to get out of here before he says something stupid, like those three little words. 

“Eren,” you call, and like a dog, he comes running back to you, his master. He turns to you, seeing you sitting there staring at him. “Yeah?” he replies, hating how hopeful he sounds. His heart hammers in his chest, so loud that he can hear it. 

“We’re…” You pause, biting your bottom lip. “We’re still cool, right?” you ask, anxiety sparkling in your brown eyes. 

And just like that, the hope that you’ll want to try again fades, but Eren swallows it down, not wanting to kill your hope too. “‘Course, we are, babe,” he answers. “I never want you not in my life. Now get some rest.” He then walks back over to you and presses a soft kiss to the crown of your forehead, holding his breath so he doesn’t have to smell your sweet scent. “I’ll see ya around.” Then he grabs his coat to leave, relishing the smile you give him as he slips out into the hallway with his shoes and keys in hand. 

But deep down, as he leaves your apartment, he knows that he’ll never be able to let you go now. After a night like that, you are completely under his skin. He is your prisoner, and he is a lot less reluctant to throw everything that you’ve shared out the window now. But he can’t tell you that. He knows that you wouldn’t agree and he’d probably lose you by pushing you away with his intensity. 

So instead, he dials up the one person who can help him put these emotions down on paper. These explosive, intense feelings that make him want to crash the fuck out as he slips into is driver’s seat. He taps impatiently on the steering wheel, his labored breath filling the empty car. “Yello!” the deep, baritone voice cheerily greets. 

“Hey, Ony,” Eren greets, relieved to hear his songwriter and producer pick up. “You at the studio?” 

“Yeah, just puttin’ the final touches on your single before your label eats me alive. Why?” 

“Scrap it,” Eren determinedly replies. “I’ve got somethin’ better. I wanna use that R&B beat you made for me a year ago and tweak it a bit.” 

That late night/early morning, Eren hits the studio and pours his heart out with Onyankopon, writing his feelings into lyrics before walking into the booth to record. The dark-skinned man sits behind the controls, peering down at the lyrics Eren wrote in his notebook, reading each one carefully. 

“Now, you sure you wanna do this, Ren?” Ony asks, raising an eyebrow at him from behind the glass. “I mean, I love it, but do you think your label will?” 

Eren actually doesn’t know, but he also doesn’t care. He’ll be releasing this on his own anyway. “They will when they see how viral it’ll go. Just watch.” He then slides the headphones onto his ears and comes up to the microphone. “Now turn me up.” 

Then the music starts, slow and sweet, and he opens his mouth to sing as he reads the lyrics off on his phone.

it’s his pet names that linger instead— sounding all soft and familiar, worn warm from use. the ones he returns to without thinking, like second nature. schatzi. simply sweet. ever so precious. the word curls from his mouth with an ease that feels almost absentminded, yet never careless. and liebling, his favorite, his darling. it’s usually spoken quieter, closer, like it belongs to you and him alone.

those are the few words you come to know. not by translation, but how they’re given. by the way his voice lowers around them, the way they brush against your skin like something tangible.

mixed by blood, eren's heritage lives in the small details about him more than anything else; his cadence, his features, his mannerisms. he doesn't necessarily talk about it. his tongues, german and turkish, live elsewhere. like in fleeting moments on the phone with his family, voice softened with a familiarity different from the kind he shows you.

it's admirable, how effortlessly he slips into the rhythm of home when catching up with his mother and father. you hear it only then, in fragments and tones, something distant. you try to glimpse into that part of him, but he leaves it unshared. 

it isn't that your boyfriend withholds any aspects of his life, or his culture, from you. rather, he lets untranslatable words fall as they come, shaped more by his feeling than intentionality. there's a certain intimacy in that. he thinks that you don't have to understand every syllable to feel the weight of it.

because with him, it's about how it lingers in the space between you long after the words have fallen away.

you know eren doesn’t make much use of deutsch in his everyday life, no. it remains tucked away as the one thing he doesn't reach for, but something that exists all the same. and maybe, that's what makes it all the more enticing, when it surfaces in the moments his control finally begins to slip.

it’s in those instances, when his breath grows uneven and composure frays at the edges, that something from deep within him begins to rise unbidden. words he doesn't consciously choose, tones he typically wouldn't shape, leaving him in a low, broken lilt. there's nothing intentional about it, just the rawness of instinct when the sensation is so overwhelming that he can't help himself any longer.

and in that unraveling, there's something disarmingly sensual. not just the act itself, or the hot slide of his hands when he touches you, but a side of him that can't be hidden away, revealed only when he's too far gone to hold it back.

"scheisse!"

it slips out of him without warning. his mind’s so muddled by the way your dewy walls squeeze his cock that he doesn’t even think to translate. he’s drawn fully into the hilt of your gushing pussy, his presence heavy both in-and-outside of you. he's got you splayed out on your back, displayed ever so beautifully, soft textured hair fanning out on the pillows, like that of a halo. how fitting, for his precious angel. 

eren has you tucked under the breadth of him and slovenly folded into missionary, your body immovably pressed beneath the heat and heaviness of his imposing frame. his attention narrows on you, you, you, until nothing else seems to exist outside of it.

your trembling leg is held in his left palm, secured at the pit of your knee as he guides it up against your shoulder as a means to fucks deeper into you. his other hand rests hot upon your waist, grip tightening whenever you react, kneading at warm brown flesh whenever you clamp down on him. he's unrelenting with how he draws out, plows in, does it again, again, again. dense clapping resounds in hollow echoes throughout the dim-lit bedroom of his paradis-city penthouse.

"e—ren! eren, erennn,” his name falls fractured from your lips, each syllable hitching as it leaves you. he hears it, and something in him shifts. a slow, unmistakable reaction that pulls at the corner of his mouth before it fully settles into a smile. it spreads wide, brazen and sharp in a way that looks as feral as he feels; all teeth, cutting sharp and boyish across his face, features drawn tight with ardor.

pleasure has already taken hold of him; face flushed, sweat gathering and rolling in narrow paths down his skin. his dark manbun sits slightly undone at the base of his head, loose strands slipping free to cling to his temples and the nape of his neck, his tattooed body damp with the same heat that coats him. his brows, thick and dark, knit tightly together, while his bright-teal eyes stay intense and wild, fixed on you with a look that doesn’t waver. you’re his maker and weakness alike, the only thing holding his focus together as he unravels for you.

"komm schon, engel," eren dips low, his large frame folding over yours, shoulders rounding as he closes the space between you, brushing the plush of your lips with his own. "hngh, wha—?" you whine against his mouth, needing of clarity. his breath is warm and close when he murmurs, earnest for a taste of your lips, "küss mich."

you don’t fully comprehend him, but eren closes the gap regardless, until there’s nowhere left for your voice to go but into him. his large hand lifts up, cups your jaw nice and steady, tilts you upwards just enough to meet him as he presses his lips to yours. firm at first, then deeper, more claiming than it is gentle. when he pulls back, it’s only by a breath’s width, enough for the curve of his smile to linger against your mouth. 

his hips take to a slow roll, grinding into yours so sweetly. the rounded end of his hard cock nudges the inner pudge of your softest spots, with the lean ridge of his pelvis brushing over the sensitive peak of your clit. the both of you hold no inhibitions, breaths pouring into each other's mouths in uneven waves, panting and moaning with not a sound refrained.

him and you, you and him, him in you. all sense becomes lost in a heated slew of sloppy strokes and the wettest kisses. he's making such a mess of you; stealing your breath, bruising your flesh, fucking stirring your insides.

for eren, countless sensations begin to merge. your velveteen walls are clamping down, tight, on his pulsing dick, dripping and sobbing all over the length of it. then there's the way you cling to him, just ferocious. the powder-white arch of your fresh nails do well at drawing fiery marks down the broad plane of his tatted back. his olive skin is warm and damp under your palms, glowing sheen with a film of sweat. 

your breath brushes against the reddening shell of his pierced ear, sounds uneven and soft in a way that makes him grow impossibly harder. eren responds in kind, groans amplified, his hold at your waist tightening just enough to keep you anchored to the you-shaped dip in his king sized mattress. you're so pretty, so perfect; behaving so well that all he wants to do is just give you more. 

so he does. 

"shh, lass mich einfach . . stillhalten." eren’s hands span down your shaking thighs, dancing around around your calf until they close around both of your ankles. his fingers wrap fully, thumbs rubbing circles while the rest of his grip adjusts you without effort. he translates what he knows you didn't catch, "don't move." 

eren shapes the physical space between you, and he continues to bend you at angles until the right silhouette is captured. he brings your knees toward your shoulders, folding the form until thighs press firmly against the core of your tummy. shifting his weight low, he transitions into a deep squat, strong thighs flexed as he assumes the position of sitting on his haunches, all without pulling out of you.

with the new vantage, he drives forward and plunges into the tightness of you with sudden, intense momentum that draws the sharpest, most involuntary cry from your lungs— a sound that brings a knowing smile to his face. eren frees self-satisfied laughter, for he always manages to pry out the very reaction he sought to provoke. he finds your body familiar. so easy to mold, too easy to play with.

"ffuuuck! p-please, papaaa, please—"

his response comes rippling out as an unintended growl, sourced from the depths of his chest, and the bass of it makes you clench helplessly around him. with every surge, every thrust forward, he loses another piece of his restraint. an especially taut squeeze of your soaked pussy is all it takes for his snark to dissolve into total surrender.

"fuck . . du bist so eng," his words grow reckless to match just how you undo him. he rambles on about just how tight you are, freeing terribly desperate praise and german incoherencies. he's too far gone to realize he'd even switched languages. frankly, eren doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, and you sure as hell don’t either. it’s hard to follow when he’s digging you out like that; hips slamming down, the fat of his balls clapping against the seam of your ass with every thrust.

more foreign words tumble from his lips— dark, guttural, yet somehow melodic, leaving you in a haze of both lust and confusion. despite it, your body understands the intent perfectly. the way you arch into him, cunt swallowing every known inch of his dick whole, slick walls clamping around him like a desperate vice, tells him everything he needs to know. 

eren finally seems to be returning to himself, eyes clearing as he grows aware; and with that, comes the teasing. another predatory smirk pulls at his mouth as he realizes just how cockdrunk he’s made you, sensitive even down to the veins that drag within you. and so, he draws out the friction, slows his pace to an agonizing crawl, buries himself into you with impossible depth.

each heavy thrust knocks at your cervix and prods at the very limit of you, blunt and demanding, as if he’s trying to leave his mark on your very soul. he's so all-consuming that the heady scent of his skin and the licking heat of his salt-slicked body fills your lungs. you’re crying, you think, unsure as to when it started. all you know is you’re breathing him in, tasting the raw, primal edge of him with every gasp and tear you choke on. 

"aww, poor baby,” he croons, tone darkened with condescend, “macht dich das an, schatzi?" he murmurs, the grunted slew of german humming against your skin. he’s asking if it turns you on— the suddenly rough shift into his mother tongue, and though the meaning of his words escape your mind, you can only nod helplessly, teeth sinking into the swell of your spit-streaked lip as a flush burns across your chest.

"feels good, yeah? i'm fucking you so deep, aren't i? mm, c'mon, angel . . . talk to me, talk to daddy." he eases more of his weight onto your pressed frame, feeding you deep, languid strokes so slow you can hear the wetness sloshing.

"yeahhh, it's good, er-en . . hnn, feelssogood, d-daddyyy," his name tears out of you in a pulled shudder, the syllables breaking over one another. it’s the type of sound that invites his wolfish grin, curled with a special kind of satisfaction. his smile is purely predatory when he gets to hitching your leg up higher, rocking into you faster. the lewdness of unfiltered noise begins to swell throughout the room.

before long, you're both trembling over the pace he’s taken; his fingers twitching along your pushed-up thighs, while you're left grappling for purchase along his bulging, corded biceps, your fingers digging into the sinuous centipede inked across his firm rounded muscle. frantically, you cling to one another as the world outside seems to fade away.

eren leans in, ink-dark strands escaping his hairtie, feathering your neck, and cascading over his shoulder to curtain your faces. overzealous, he captures your lips with his own once more, silencing your soft sounds with a deep kiss that tastes as saccharine as love itself, wettened by the salted twinge of adrenaline. his moans tumble out of him helplessly once you get to licking at his tongue. he juts it out for you to suckle on.

the tension brews to a fever pitch. you’re close, and so is he.

"komm und hol mich," he wants—no, needs you to cum for him, pleads in breathless sounds so gritty that you can feel them pass through your bones. those bright-teal eyes, glassed over with brimming tears of pleasure, desperately lock onto yours. his touch is just as urgent.

eren brings the calloused pad of his thumb to your clit, each deliberate rub a targeted press that sends fresh jolts of heat spiraling through your tummy, makes your hips buck up into the onslaught. his breath comes out in ragged puffs as his fleshy, kiss-bruised lips meet your ear, grazing the shell, words unfamiliar yet sweet all the same. “komm auf meinen schwanz, bitte.” the vulnerable rawness of his voice is a love language all in its own. something in you knows to follow his command, even if the meaning is a mystery. 

that building pressure low in your gut begins to coil, tightening into a concentrated knot that demands release. it’s a heavy, mercurial ache that pulses in sync with his movements, making your vision swim as you reach the precipice. your every nerve-ending screams for the sweet, sweet release that only his next deliberate strike can provide.

as for eren, his focus is simply fractured; hands moving with a restlessness that betrays how close he is to the edge. he lifts his free hand to knead and possess the soft weight of your right breast, his grip firm and demanding, before his fingers lift to heedlessly lace around your neck, as a means to keep you pinned in the middle of storm of his movements. 

that same grasp trails away from pressing your artery, slinks down, and squeezes a big, greedy handful of ass into one palm alone. he delivers one smack— two, three. the fourth leaves red in its wake, blooming faint along warm-brown flesh. he merely smiles when you mewl at him. 

the combination he grants you is far too much, too fucking frantic; the stinging heat of his palm against your skin and the possessive weight of his hand at your throat leaves you feeling hazy and unmoored, your thoughts dissolving into a thoughtless, honeyed fog.

a few more of those slowed, plunging thrusts, paired with how nicely he toys with your puffy clit, is what finally shatters the dam and sends rolling waves of your orgasm to crash right through you. it washes over, heavy and thick, the feeling purely electric as it zips through the base of your spine all the way down to your tightly curled toes. your quivering legs lock around his lean waist as he fucks you through the height of it, dark-chestnut hair swinging over hunched shoulders.

"don't you let go yet— m'not done." eren rasps against your agape lips, voice a broken wreck. he taps your soft cheek in two firm pats when your eyes begin to flutter shut, peers at you through hooded eyes, forcing bitten words out through grit teeth, "look at me, schatzi," his fingers tangle into the soft, dense curls of your hair to tilt your head his way. "you came so fuckin' hard, tell me you felt that—shit! mm, p-please, baby . . tell me you’re mine."

you manage to open your mouth, try for an answer, but every brutal impact of his hips knocks the air from your chest, splintering your voice into meaningless little sounds. the rhythm of his pounding, loud and heavy, turns shaky and imprecise as he utterly loses the battle for control. you can see the strain in the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his breath hitching as he teeters on the edge. 

eren frames your face with a sudden tenderness, his large hands encompassing either side of your head as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth itself. he pulls you in until your foreheads touch, eyes locking in a feral, heavy-lidded stare that teases at his release. you babble out his name with every sloppy knock of his hips.

your inner walls clamp down in a steady, involuntary pulse around him, and the friction becomes too much for him to bear. then comes a guttural sound, ripping straight from his chest, followed by a smaller, vulnerable whimper that echoes out, almost like a plea:

"scheisse, ich komme— fffuuuck!"

he jolts forward with an almost animalistic force, burying himself to the very hilt as the first warm, heavy spurts of his release spill free from his cockhead and into your awaiting womb. you feel him throbbing deep within your silken walls, the pulsing erratic as he stuffs your cunt with thick loads of his cum; emptying himself, filling you.

a hushed stillness sets over eren's thirtieth-floor apartment. all movement drifts to a weighty pause; until, eren eventually collapses his full weight onto you with a long, shuddering sigh. the solid, unyielding mass of him drives a soft huff out from your throat, pinning you into the charcoal sheets in a way that feels strangely grounding.

his inked forearms bind around you like vines, pulling your bodies flush-tight until there’s no room left between you. in turn, you drape your arms over the broad expanse of his back, your thumbs tracing soothing circles over the angry, reddened lines of the skin you tore. 

"ugh— rennie, you're heavy."

"mmn." is his heedless response. you both lie there in a tangled, breathless heap of afterglow, your lungs working for shallow air as the adrenaline begins to recede. after threading through the dark, damp silk of his long hair, weaving and undoing braids in the same sitting, your arms finally loosen their hold around his nape. eren nuzzles his face into the soft swell of your breasts, the tip of his nose grazing the sensitive bone of your sternum as he seeks out your warmth.

a small, balmy laugh escapes you, the sound light and surreal against the dense, syrup-thick atmosphere. the air is heavy, saturated with the salt-sharp scent of skin, the musk of his cologne, the lingering sugar of your arab perfume, and the sweet, pungent tang of your collective release— a sensory memento of every orgasm you just shared.

"damn . .” the silence breaks around his voice, low and winded, “didn't think y’had a kink for that."

"hmm," you blink slow, the wisps of your curled lashes fluttering. "for what?"

"uh-uh, don't play dumb now," eren noses your jugular, tickling your neck with a nudge so fleeting you can’t help but break, a shy giggle bubbling up and out into the open. "could've just told me you wanted me to switch languages, princess."

“i didn't even know it was something i’d enjoy that much," you bite down on a drowsy laugh, manicured fingers lifting to idly twirl a stray, dark lock of his hair. you’re secretly glad his hair-tie snapped under the pressure.

"i like the way your brain just . . . shorts out when you hear it. makes you so . . ." a kiss, breaking the pattern of speech, is pressed to your upturned lips, so pink and soft.

“—much more," another, then a suckle to your jaw, "—responsive." there's a gravel-like texture to the sound of his teasing. "i don't think i've ever heard you get that loud before, baby.” eren hums aloud onto your skin, a low rumble of pure satisfaction that thrums low in his throat and vibrates against your chest.

he shifts his weight just enough to pepper wet, uncoordinated kisses along the sensitive expanse of your throat, his every movement sluggish with pleasure. 

“verdammt gut,” he murmurs against your skin, testing the effect he has over you, simply wishing to witness how tightly you’d pulse around him in response. sure enough, he smiles to himself when you do, walls clamping down where he remains stuffed inside you. a whispered moan falls from you, eyes screwed impossibly tight. 

his lips latch to your pulse as he mouths praises you don’t need to translate to understand. the meaning sounds as sweet as his kisses taste. “du bist so gut, liebling.” even though his brain's misted over with lust, and his dick is still warmly nestled deep inside you, he can’t help but nip playful marks into your flesh. you find yourself cooing at his affections, your fingers tangling in the deep-brown spill of his hair as you shallowly rock your hips onto his softening cock. 

he mumbles more foreign little nothings into the damp, sweat-slicked crook of your neck, the tone so tender it feels like a physical caress. 

“ich liebe dich so sehr, angel . . .” he breathes, the confession soft and embracing against your skin. the meaning devotional, so unmistakable; he loves you, he loves you, he loves you. 

the ardency of the past hour's lovemaking seems to evaporate, leaving only the two of you sinking in the cooling sheets. from the crevice of your chest to his broadened one, your hearts beat heavy against one another in a synced tempo.

with one last, lingering kiss to your collarbone, eren lets his heavy eyelids fall shut. the silence that follows isn't empty. instead, it’s full and warm, smelling of salt, sandalwood, and the raw fragrancy of his adoration.

the darkness of the room feels like a protective veil. in the stillness, with his warmth still grounding you and his scent filling your lungs, you finally let your own eyes close, drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep cradled in the arms of the man who loves you more than he has the words to say.

© 𝒫𝐼𝑁𝐾ℳ𝐼𝑅𝑇𝐻.ᐟ ⸻ all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. reblogs are highly appreciated! please and thank you! ❤︎

The woman at the front counter doesn't seem to mind Kugisaki skipping around in the store, singing to herself loudly. And lucky for you, you've chosen a good hour to come down. There are only three more customers present and if anything, they seem happy to see your daughter so chipper.

You linger by the fabric bolts. Your husband could use a new pair of trousers, you think. Fresh starts require a fresh foot, and all of that. And Kugisaki...perhaps she would like another day-dress or two. For school.

It has nothing at all to do with the cerulean blue brocade that has caught your eye.

You're being practical. You will not take your glove off in this store and you will not—well, you only want to make sure the quality is good. You don't want to be cheated with fabric that'll fray the moment you get a needle to it.

You have to shift about, in order to do it. Take off your glove, you mean. With a soft grunt, you pass the basket filled with miscellaneous items you forgotten to buy before moving to pull the glove off of one singular hand.

Your brows jump to the middle of your forehead. Your lips purse, pleased. There's a slight texture to the silk brocade. Like scales of a snake. Either way, it's beautiful. But you aren't going to buy it. No, because it's impractical. Improper too. Such a fabric would suit a lady far younger than you.

The bell chimes overhead the door, successfully bringing you out of your stupor. You snatch your hand away from the fabric as though you've somehow been burned hot, swiveling on your foot to find your daughter.

"Well, excuse me, little lady" A masculine voice says, white hat obscuring his face as he peers down at your daughter. "I don't think I've ever seen you around these parts"

Kugisaki holds her dolly underneath her arm and rocks back and forth on the heels of her brown boots. "We just moved here"

"We?—"

The man goes to say something else, but you don't care to hear it. You cross the store faster than you ever thought possible, gripping Kugisaki tightly around the wrist and pulling her behind you.

Heart rabbiting in your throat, you swallow around the panic lodged there. You lift your steel gaze to the stranger to...you don't know. Politely give him a piece of your mind, but your words get stuck in your windpipe.

Blue. His eyes, they're the prettiest shade of blue.

A slow smile pushes its way onto the mans face. Like he's trying not be amused and failing miserably at it. He's handsome, devastatingly so. You won't let your gaze drag down his body, but his shoulders are broad and oh god, there's an unmistakable star pinned over his heart.

"O-oh you must be the sheriff..." Your voice sounds breathy and awed, even to your own ears. That causes you to grimace. "I apologize...I thought you were..."

What were you thinking? That he was an outlaw, coming to kill your daughter? Ridiculous. By the looks of this man, he doesn't have a murderous bone in his body.

"No offense taken" The sheriff says, grinning so hard his eyes gleam with it. "You musta just moved in, near the apple orchard?"

"Yes, that's right" You answer simply, offering no other information. In truth, when you first moved in, there was a constant stream of visitors. Too many for you to keep up with. Contractors, farmhands, house staff, businessman. If the sheriff was among that long list, you have no idea.

You lessen your grip around Kugisaki's wrist once she begins to squirm—wanting freedom. You let go of her wrist; but you don't let her out of your sight, drawing her body in close to your side.

"It's a lovely house" He says, and holds out his hand for you to shake. "And it's lovely meetin you, too, Miss. My name's Satoru."

Miss? Oh, so he's a jester and a sheriff.

You fumble for a moment, though eventually pass him your gloved hand for him to shake–trading pleasantries. Only, for him to completely bypass it and taking your bare hand instead.

Satoru does not shake your hand. No, he lowers himself and presses a kiss right against your knuckles. One that lasts far too long to be proper. Holds it in his sure grip, even after he's lifted his head again.

"I'm married" You blurt, rushing to take your hand back with a flaming hot face. Cursing your absent mind, you slide your hand back into the glove, wiggling your fingers for good measure.

"Happily?" Satoru inquires, and holds his hat to his chest. At your panicked expression, the sheriff laughs. "Alright, Miss. Point taken. You just let me know when that changes, you hear?"

"It won't" You tell him, sternly, huffing. "Kugisaki. It's time to go"

"Mama, I want my candy"

You turn to fix with her a Look. Not now, God, please not now. "Kugisaki" You repeat, lips pursing. "You have plenty of treats at home. Ijichi is waiting with the carriage. Let's not keep him"

"I don't want those" She says, stamping her foot and crossing her arms over her chest. "They sell watermelon candies here! I want that"

"You don't want those" Satoru interjects, leaning down so that he and your daughter are eye level. He sticks out his tongue and blows a raspberry. "Trust me, darlin. I've had every candy in the world, I know what 'm talkin about."

"You have?" She asks; eyes shiny with awe. Kugisaki's always been enthused about the world. "Really? You have?"

Satoru nods with the same level of seriousness as an executioner on hanging day. He digs into his pocket and presses a candy into her hand. "Here, why don't you take this, it tastes like raspberries. You ever eat a raspberry?"

Kugisaki shook her head.

"Well; that's a darn shame" He says, really playing it up now. He stands back to his full height and smiles over her little head. At you. Satoru's smiling at you. You force your face into one of neutrality. "They're good. But this candy will taste even better when your ma is in a good mood. Woman as pretty as your ma makes everythin better"

Beside you, Kugisaki chitters. She doesn't seem to understand whats truly funny, but the sheriff is laughing, so she does too. Children are impressionable like that.

"It was nice meeting you, Sheriff" You press, redirecting the conversation into one of propriety. Shameless. This man is absolutely shameless. "But I think we best be leaving, now"

Everything you learn about the Sheriff is against your will.

He's a Gojo—big name around these parts (around the entire region of the southwest to hear people tell it). A little young for the position, 26 to your 35. But he's good for it.

Everyone loves him. From the grumpiest of old men to the more reluctant babies and toddlers, still tucked close to their mother's skirts. You've been living here for close to nine months now. And you've seen him roughing with the children, flirting playfully with sweet old women and swapping horse-care advice with seasoned farmers and the like.

Kugisaki is no different. She's utterly charmed by this man who claims to have seen the world, always demanding for stories of other places and the people he's met there. No matter how you try to pull her away, she won't budge.

Worst part is, Satoru never seems to mind. Always says, why, she ain't bothering me none, in that sleepy little drawl of his. How he has time for all of this and to be the sheriff, you have no idea.

You suppose it makes it easier to slack off when theres virtually no crime anyway.

"This used to be a real dangerous place" Says Mei-Mei, whom you don't really like, but who has attached herself to your side anyway. "Terrible outlaw problem. Couldn't even head down to the grocer without bein accosted and man-handled"

That causes you to pause, fingers stilling against the your needle and thread before resuming. "Is that so?"

It's some sort of picnic. Though, the food has long since been abandoned and packed up. Now, the children chase each other around, hooting and hollering. You can see your darling Kugisaki among them, leading two little boys by the wrists on some loudly proclaimed adventure. One of them, sandy hair that looks pink in the spring sunlight, looks incredibly happy to be there. The other...

Well. It's all fine and dandy that Kugisaki has been able to make friends so quickly.

Kugisaki is bold in ways you are not. Perhaps she gets it from her father. You're able to make do, and the other women and mothers don't seem to mind your bouts of awkwardness or the fact that your rather content to be alone. Your closest confidant is Ieiri, but as the towns sole doctor, she's constantly busy.

But Mei-Mei is a close second. Where others have given up on trying to learn your background or anything about your personal life, she has not. She's scarily persistent. But one good thing about keeping Mei-Mei close is that she acts as a buffer against some of the more...annoying personalities in town.

However, no matter how shes presses, you keep her at a (strict but) friendly distance. You won't confide in her but you'll accept her invitations to tea and other events such as this one.

It's nice to get away from the ranch every now and again. Your husband is constantly working, always on business trips. And he makes enough money to hire help so now you can't even use housework to pass the time.

"We still don't know how he did it" Mei-Mei continues, sipping at what you suspect might be wine. "I mean, he's only one man"

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who she could be talking about. Satoru Gojo is all anyone seems to talk about in these parts.

"Well, I'm glad he does such an excellent job in keeping the town safe and protected" You say, which you think is a nice middle ground. "Bandits seem like such awful news"

Mei-Mei studies you for a long moment. There's something almost...cruel, in the analytical way she engages with the world around her.

"Yes," She says, cryptically. "They are."

There's layers hidden in her words. There usually is. You don't know why it gives you such pause, hands stilling once more. You lift your eyes from the tiny doll in your hands to peer at Mei-Mei.

Her dark, enchanting eyes slide down to the doll. The corners of her mouth quirk up in a grin. Neither of your friends have children. They are also unmarried.

Mei-Mei, is so wealthy she doesn't have to. You come from old money, but Mei-Mei puts yours to shame. From what you've noticed; everyone seems to both respect and slightly fear her. Same with Ieiri (though not as wealthy). Why either of them seem drawn to you, a married woman with a child, puzzles you endlessly.

But before Mei-Mei can speak again, your daughter wanders over to you. There's a sheen of sweat covering her skin and she's red faced and glowing with happiness. It's hot enough to melt the skin off your back but Kugisaki seems to thrive in it.

"Hi Mama," She titters, sucking on a piece of candy. She seems to remember her manners and turns towards your friend. "Hi, Miss Mei-Mei"

"Hello darlin" Mei-Mei replies, voice smoother than velvet. "What a lovely flower you've got there. You breakin hearts already?"

Kugisaki's face screws into one of acute displeasure. You hadn't noticed it before, but you do now. There's a daisy tucked behind her left ear. "The Sheriff gave it to me"

This causes you to freeze. He's been doing that lately, giving Kugisaki little gifts. A doll, candy, coin. Even when you tell him she doesn't need it. Never in the presence of others though. And certainly not at a family picnic.

"He certainly seems to have taken a likin to you," Mei-Mei says breezily, and even with the smile in her tone, you feel mocked.

"He and my husband do business often" You tell her vaguely, which is semi-true. Whenever your husband is home, Satoru stops by for dinner at least once or twice a week. He helps around the ranch or retreats up your husband's study to discuss a manner of things that honestly don't interest you.

"I had no idea" Mei-Mei replies, which you suspect is a lie. "He and your husband must be good friends if he insists on dotin on you and your daughter so much"

There's a degree of knowing in her voice. Your head jerks up to look at her. "W-well, I wouldn't say he's doting on either of us—"

"No?" She interjects, head tilted to the side, shade from the large tree casting shadows across her beautiful face. "Then that isn't him headin towards us right now?"

It is.

Satoru strolls up to where you and Mei-Mei are sitting, easy as day. He's wearing a black hat today and there is nary a drop of sweat on him. He's been circling around the grounds for a while now, steadily creeping closer.

"Hello, Sheriff" You greet amicably, conscious of how everyone seems to have turned to watch the interaction. Very pointedly, you take care not to look at him.

There's a glimmer of challenge in the depths of his blue eyes. He takes a step closer and lowers himself down on the picnic blanket. "Miss, you'll hurt my feelins, you keep on. I told you already, call me Satoru"

Your lips press into a thin line. You've told him that you don't like being called 'Miss', either. 'Miss' implies that you are young or unmarried and you are obviously neither.

"Hot out, isn't it?" You say, a redirection so clear even Mei-Mei beside you ends up chuckling.

"You'll get used to it, 'm afraid" He replies, and smiles as though you've just said something particularly witty. He leans closer, peering at Kugisaki, who is dozing off. He whistles, and grins. "Saw her playin with my Megumi, and the Itadori's little Yuji. The three o' them get on better than peas in a pod"

'My Megumi'? "I had no idea you had a son" Your tongue tithers, without your consent. Inwardly, you curse yourself. The last thing you want to do is invite him for conversation. But by the way Satoru makes himself comfortable on the picnic blanket affirms the dread in your stomach. He's here to stay.

You've heard Kugisaki speak on this infamous Megumi before. Black spiky hair, sullen little frown, so glum you wouldn't have been able to guess that Satoru was father even if your life was on the line.

"A daughter too" The sheriff gives you another one of those ear splitting grins. He sombers rather quickly, and pats the space on the blanket between your bodies. "Though not by blood. Don't worry Miss, 'm an unmarried man"

Mei-Mei scoffs. "Your shamelessness surprises me, cousin"

Cousin?! Your eyes go as wide as saucers, looking between the two. They've both got that shocking head of white hair and the height to match, but thats where the similarities between them end.

"Early bird gets the worm, and allat" Satoru waves her off, eyes not leaving yours once. He catches you staring and offers a smile. He leans in to whisper conspiratorially. "Distant, very distant cousins. We Gojo's make her family look like street beggars"

You've seen Mei-Mei's family. So that only leaves one question : just how powerful is the Gojo family?

Mei-Mei, who has always been prideful and especially about her family, rises easily to the bait. "As powerful as you are...and yet you've become only the Sheriff of a small town" she says, voice soft but no less cutting. She stands, dusting away invisible dirt. "How unfortunate for you"

To make matters worse, Satoru only laughs—and doesn't look insulted one bit.

She turns her head and nods down primly at you. "Take care. I'll be sure to see you for next Sunday's charity brunch"

She isn't asking. Mei-Mei never does. But you have nothing else to do, and Sundays are more boring than you'd like to admit. So you agree, and Mei-Mei murmurs something that sounds like good luck.

Pleased, Satoru watches her stalk off. You're alone with him, you realize. Sure, there might be people present and Kugisaki nodding off against your stomach...but everyone is too busy pretending they don't see him rather than doing something about it.

"Ah! Right!" Satoru says suddenly, snapping his fingers to draw your attention. "Was wonderin if you'd like to come over tonight. Can bring the little Missus—she an' Megumi can play. Might even get along with Tsumiki"

He can't be serious.

"Sheriff," You say, slowly, because you can't understand why he isn't able to just get it. "While that sounds like a mighty fine offer, I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Why not?" He asks, lightning quick. His eyes are wide, like he truly doesn't understand. Good Lord above, he's going to make you spell it out for him, isn't he?

"My husband wouldn't think it proper for me to be alone with an unmarried man at his place of residence"

Satoru chuckles at that. "Your husband ain't as obsessed with propriety as you are, Miss. And a damn shame that is"

Your spine straightens at the insult wedged between the ominous warning. But before you can think of something to say, the good sheriff cuts you off.

"Let's say...two people made a vow" Satoru begins, brim of his hat obscuring his features. "And if one person ain't holding to that vow, say he's gettin it from somewhere else—what does that mean for the person who still is? Shouldn't they get to mess aroun' a little? Only fair"

The meaning is unmistakable now. You've never had an inkling on whether or not your husband was faithful. You've always just...trusted him. But now that Satoru's put this nugget of doubt inside your head, you can't stop thinking about it.

Uncontrollably, your eyes slide down to Kugisaki, who is fully asleep now.

Most men wouldn't want a daughter. A girl can't carry on her daddy's name the same way a son can. You never questioned the fact that your husband loved Kugisaki. You won't do anything to change that.

"If there was a third party in that vow" You murmur, stroking her cheek softly, feeling the warmth of her skin. "Then, the unfaithfulness won't matter. Not when leaving means jeopardizing a child"

The sheriff looks disappointed with your answer. There's no other way to describe the knit between his brows and the frown of his lips.

"Ya'll are in more trouble than you realize" Satoru says ominously, and stands. He removes his hat from his head, holds it close to his chest. He shakes his head sadly—like he knows something you don't. "Damn shame. A good woman like you don't deserve it, not at all"

And then he's off, stalking back down the hill, turning heads with every step he takes.

You used to live in the city, before you married your husband. Your maiden family was a wealthy one from up north. They owned half of the crabbing ships on the coast. But the west...the west had gold. Gold your family desperately wanted.

So they married you off to your husband, who is only eight years older than you. He was newer money. No parents; no living family other than a handful of brothers that he didn't keep in contact with. And he brought you west.

Being married to him was not awful. There was no love there; but you were nearly forty. Love wasn't something you believed in anymore.

You convinced yourself, over the years, that this was for the better. Love was a fickle thing, bringing only temporary joy with a lifetimes worth of grief. You've heard about the things people do for love, and you want no part in it.

Besides. It's different for men than it is for women. A man can father an entire litter of bastards, and it won't damage his reputation one bit. Even if your husband was being unfaithful, there was nothing you could do about it.

You shake your head, pushing such thoughts away from your mind. Whatever deal your husband struck while away must have been a good one. He came back with an entire chest full of new clothes for Kugisaki. Dresses and pinafores and bloomers. Big bows, all in an assortment of pretty fabrics and colors. Lovely little shoes. A play- pretend tea set with real china.

Your gifts were simpler, but they held true to who you were. You never enjoyed large, lavish things. More books. Some bolts of fabric in colors you enjoyed. A little extra spending money. You weren't impressed by expensive jewelry, or useless trinkets. Not when your own father spoiled you plenty rotten yourself growing up.

But the high had lasted only for two days before he broke the news over dinner that he had another business trip to leave for.

You managed to hold your tongue. Kugisaki was loudly disappointed enough for both of you. And by then, it seemed too childish to nag your husband on top of your daughter's whining.

Instead, you'd be forced to pick up the shattered pieces of Kugisaki's heart. Again. Dealing with her foul temper and harsher words. Her tears and night terrors. And then her father will return just when you've gotten her into a sense of stability to wreck everything you've built with her.

A mother endures, you remind yourself, rolling out the dough for this week's bread.

Three sharp raps at the front door pull you from your mind. "I'll be there in a moment!" You call out, quickly wiping the flour from your hands onto your apron and tottering over to the door.

The wary smile drops from your face when you see the Sheriff standing on your doorstep. He removes his hat from his head, black, and presses it into his chest. Two men stand behind him, dressed the same.

"Sheriff...?" You prompt, feeling uneasy, eyes fearfully jumping between the men. Your hand flies out to steady yourself against the door. Something is wrong. You know it is. You just have no idea what. "Is everything alright?"

"'fraid not" Gojo says, at last, and inclines his head towards you. "Might we come in?"

Wordlessly, you step aside and let them in. Gojo, who has been to your house dozens of times, beelines towards the blue settee and makes himself at home. His fellow officers busy themselves with openly looking through your things.

"What's the meaning of this?" You ask, impatient, snatching a glass figurine out of one officers hands, fixing him with a glare.

"Your husband was found dead, Miss," Gojo says, voice somber and gentle. The glass shatters into a thousand pieces as it crashes to the floor.

One officer helps you down into a chair. The other, following the Sheriff's instruction, leaves and returns with a broom and pan.

"P-pardon..." You start to say, and then your mouth shuts. Then you open it again. For a while, nothing comes out. "Are you sure?"

Grimly, Gojo nods. "Verified the body myself" he says and begins to recall the grisly tale of how they happened upon his body.

Your husband was found, miles away from the train station, deep in the woods. He had been shot six times, though the town's doctor says that isn't the official cause of death.

The official cause of death was a severe blow to the head with a blunted weapon. So he had survived each and every one of those gunshot wounds. And he had laid there, likely for hours; unable to call out for help.

"Is it alright if I send them up there to your husband's office?" Gojo asks, all of a sudden, derailing from the tale.

"Huh?" You murmur, quite dumbly, shaking. "His office?"

Gojo's lips purse into a frown. "We don't get trouble around here, Miss. Not anymore. This was personal"

Personal. Not an accidental shooting. Not an unfortunate run-in with riff-raff or bandits near the train station. Bandits seem like such nasty business. No. This was personal.

Your husband was murdered.

Your finger shakes, but eventually you point to the stairs. "Hi-his office is the third down on the left. Take...take whatever you need"

There isn't an ounce of the flirty Gojo you remembered seeing at the family picnic. This must be the Sheriff. With steely blue eyes and a pen and paper out to take down your statement.

Do you know anyone who might have wanted your husband dead? No. Of course not. What about his work? What can you tell him about that? Not much. He doesn't tell you the happenstance's of what he does. When was the last time you saw him? Yesterday; when you sent him off to the train station with a kiss on the cheek and his breakfast to go.

"And how did he act, when he was leavin?" Gojo inquires, white strands obscuring his face from view in a way that frightens you. "Anythin that stood out to you?"

"I was busy" You whisper, choked and trying not to cry. "I had to get Kugisaki re-ready...uhm, ready for school. So I...I just told him I would see him when he got back" Only he never would be.

What if you had insisted on letting him take the carriage? What if you had just let Kugisaki be late, just this once? Would your husband still be alive today? Is this your fault?

What would happen to you and Kugisaki now?

Gojo stands just as the officers come back down with a box of items. His face is closed off, pensive. Whatever you've told him, it wasn't good enough. Clumsily, you stand to your feet as well. You try and take a peek at their faces, to see if their expressions betray anything. But they don't.

"We'll see ourselves out" He instructs, stopping you in the middle of the room when you try to walk them to the door.

"Gojo..." His name slips out of your mouth before you can think twice about it. He stops, and turns to look at you. You don't even know what it is you want to say.

Your face seems to say enough.

"Don't worry Miss, we'll find the bastards who did this" Gojo says, wild eyed and frantic. "In the meantime, if you ever need anythin, you know where to find me"

You spend the first four months of your deep mourning completely isolated from town.

You don't remember the funeral. Kugisaki was inconsolable, you think. Wouldn't let the preacher continue with the sermon. The Sheriff was kind enough to take her out for a few minutes. Four months, and thats all you can remember. A tiny snippet in time.

If it were up to you, you would retreat completely from life itself. Ironic how this ranch that once stifled you had become your sole refuge. You couldn't imagine yourself staying here for days on end, not to mention entire months; without conversation with another living person.

Nowadays, you hardly ever leave your chambers. If things get really bad, trapped too far inside your head, you sleep on the desk in your husband's office, where everything remains untouched. Well, besides the things that have been taken for the investigation, that is.

You spend every second of every day hoping for news from the Sheriff. He comes over occasionally, though he stays downstairs. Occasionally, you'll catch him, Kugisaki, and his children chasing each other around in the large backyard.

It's far from proper. It rubs you the wrong way because you don't know when the behavior started. When Gojo went from announcing his presence to just coming in, whisking your daughter through the house. The sound of Kugisaki's laughter drifting throughs the floors and walls.

All you know is that the Sheriff comes over. He scrapes away at the molding grief threatening to choke Kugisaki—and for a few hours, a few times a week, things seem like they could be normal again.

But he never comes upstairs, where you lurk. Which means he doesn't have any updates on the case. Which means every hour he spends with Kugisaki in your house, is another hour your husband's killer is on the loose.

A break in monotony comes in the form of Ieiri. You're shocked to see her, the first visitor that isn't the Sheriff or the servants. You wonder if her visit is unplanned, or if you accepted her invitation for lunch and simply forgotten about it.

You don't let her come upstairs. You can't let her see what you've become. But as you gaze at your reflection in the window, you realize that she'll be able to tell anyway. You're gaunt, for one. Skin pallid and clammy. You get plenty of sleep (not much to do otherwise), but there are deep; dark circles underneath your eyes anyway.

Ieiri is kind enough not to say anything about it.

The sun threatens to blind you. The grass is soft beneath your boots as you lead her out to the patio. She's donned in a simple white day dress. No frivolous lace or bows. Only a blue hairpin and a gold necklace adorn her throat.

What a pair you make. You, dressed in a plain black muslin dress, bonnet shielding your face from the sun. Ieiri, a maiden in white. Two opposing ends of the mourning period.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" She asks, already pulling out her tin and a match.

"Not at all" Your voice is slightly croaky for months of disuse. You wave away her look of concern, turning your head blankly towards the stables as the smell of tobacco rises in the air.

"I'm sorry about what's happened" Ieiri says, pulling you back into the present. You've received countless letters and compliments dictating the same. But she is the first person who says them and means it.

"Thank you," You demure, with an incline of your head. If you could cry, you would. But you haven't had the tears to summon in months. "Could you tell me...about what's been happening in town?"

Ieiri snorts. "I didn't take you for a gossip, you naughty thing" But she smiles as she says it, and it makes you feel like you can smile too. So you do, wavering and short. But a smile nonetheless. "Luckily for you dear, I happen to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, I'm not telling you anythin, till I see you eat a bite of this food. Come on now, just a lil..."

Another nervous smile. You break off a bite of your sandwich and push it into your mouth. True to her coaxing word, Ieiri begins the tale of an on-going riff between two young socialites in town. A friendship rift caused by a man of all things.

"And, to be frank" Ieiri says, putting out her cigarette and lighting another. She coughs, waving away the smoke, and then grins. "I don't even see him as much of a looker. Both girls can do much better. Men can come and go easily, but it's friendships that test time itself"

Truth is, Ieiri puts Mei-Mei to shame when it comes to gossip. She isn't malicious about it, the way Mei-Mei often is. It's just as she said : Ieiri just happens to be right there front and center every time.

You're interrupted by the sound of Kugisaki's excited yelling from the inside the house, and the bob of her shadow through the windows.

"She seems to be doing better" Ieiri drawls, non-judgmental, a soft smile on her face. "I lost my parents at a young age too. But I wasn't handlin it well at all"

"I'm sorry" You say, automatically. You've lost your husband, yes. But both of your parents are alive and well. They'll live for a long time yet. "How did...what happened?"

"Bandits." Ieiri says shortly, and puts out her cigarette just as Kugisaki comes into the back yard.

Kugisaki wanders up to you warily. She gives you a stiff hug and then melts into your body with a sigh.

You hug her back, twice as hard, unable to stop the gunshot wound of a noise that escapes you. "Your hair..."

Your daughter freezes. Out of guilt or admission, you cannot tell.

"I cut it" She says, sounding too mature for a nine year old. Kugisaki pulls back from your embrace and squares her shoulder. "Do you like it?"

"Your father loved your hair..." You whisper brokenly, carding your fingers through the now blunt ends. It's the wrong thing to say, but you can't help it, mourning the long brown strands that reminded you so dearly of your late husband. "When did you cut it?"

How hadn't I noticed?

"A month ago" Your daughter states, looking unsure of herself. "Satoru helped me. He said you might like it, if I did acted mature and helped out more. That you might come down. And it worked!"

Your brows nearly jump right off your head at the mention of Kugisaki's casual use of the Sheriff's first name. But you don't mention that. You also don't mention that you leaving your bedroom for the first time since the funeral has more to do with Ieiri than Gojo.

You don't like it. Not at all. Gojo whispering suggestions into Kugisaki's ear. Going behind your back. You appreciate him for what he's done for you...when you...weren't well. But already you can feel yourself feeling better. You're ready to be Kugisaki's mother again.

Because setting up playdates with your daughter is one thing. Acting like her father is another.

Ieiri's eyes meet yours over the rim of her teacup. If she thinks the boundaries between you, your daughter and the towns beloved Sheriff are inappropriate—she wisely keeps her mouth shut.

The next time the Sheriff waltzes over, you plan to do it then. The words are on the tip of your tongue. Send Kugisaki out of the room. Gently broach the subject. Tell him you are eternally grateful for his help and suggest that if he wants to continue to bring your children together, he should act more like a stranger and less like the man of the house.

Your house.

It never quite happens the way you plan. And the longer you put it off, the more out of control Gojo gets. The more unspoken boundaries he continues to cross.

One morning, you come down for breakfast and there are five plates set instead of two. Gojo's turned over all the mirrors, and he's sitting with Tsumiki and Kugisaki, giving them matching hairstyles. His son, Megumi, stands off to the side, steadily observing.

Gojo, sitting in your painting room. Gojo, reading the newspaper and sitting on your front porch. Gojo, coming back from the henhouse, or dragging bales of hay out to your horses. Or helping your servants water your garden, for God's sake.

Until you realize it's been a year and two months since your husband has died. Until you realize that Kugisaki has stopped mourning three months early. Until you realize that while Gojo seems to be over more times than he isn't, you still haven't heard a single update about what's happened to your husband. Until you realize that Kugisaki has that same starry-eyed awed expression and admiration for Gojo that she has for her father.

Had. Had for her father.

It's Gojo, surprisingly, who broaches the subject.

You've just come back from a day of errands. First the general grocer, then the doctors to pick up Kugisaki's hay fever tonic and then at the millers for flour and sugar.

When you come home, you aren't shocked to see an extra pair of shoes in the foyer. What you are surprised to see, is the lack of them. Panic laces through your body like a taught wire. You set your things down onto the island bar, tearing through the house for your daughter. She isn't there. Why is Gojo here, and Kugisaki isn't?

You find Gojo in your garden, sipping on a glass of sweet iced tea, humming to himself. He arches a brow when he sees you, and does little else.

"Where's Kugisaki?" You ask, chest heaving with exertion. Your eyes are wild with worry, you know, sweat beading along the back of your neck.

"With a younger cousin of mine. Yuta. Nice boy" He explains, casually. "Babysittin" he has the nerve to add, and then winks.

"You didn't think to ask her mother before you allow her to leave with someone else?" You snap, shaking. What if Kugisaki is kidnapped? What if she's hurt? You can't afford to lose her too. "Sheriff, you forget yourself"

"I'm really gettin peeved with you, darlin" Gojo says, brushing your concerns aside as though they mean nothing, though there's a sudden sharp glimmer in his eyes that makes you hesitate. "Satoru. My name is Satoru. Sa-to-ru"

"My daughter—" Glacier blue eyes snap to your face. He takes a step closer and stares you down. "Where is she?"

"I told you" The Sheriff replies, hand too low on your lower back as he urges you inside. "With a babysitter."

"Where's Moira?" You ask instead, as Gojo settles behind the counter and proceeds to pour you a glass of tea. He even goes as far as to rifle through the ice box for something for you to snack on.

"Had to let her go" He answers, back turned as your blood freezes.

"You fired my servant?" The words are caught in your throat, and come out all weird. Breathy, almost. The nerve of this man. This has gone on too far. Gojo simply rounds the table, places your food in front of you and then kisses the side of your head.

"She was stealin the silver" He murmurs, eyes flickering down to your lips. "She shouldn't be around the kids, or you"

The kids, he says. Like you're married.

"I can determine whats best for Kugisaki and I" You grit out. "You are not my husband. You do not determine what goes on in my house. I appreciate the help you've given me but I think you and I need to alienate ourselves from one another"

You breath raggedly. There. Now the words are out. You've said your piece. Things can finally go into a sense of normalcy now.

"Alienate ourselves" The Sheriff repeats, smiling into your hair before stepping away. He isn't listening. No. He isn't taking you seriously, you realize. He doesn't care. "You need me" He says.

"I—"

"When's the last time you've paid a bill for this place?" Gojo asks, and before you can pin down the thought that you haven't; he continues. "How much money has your husband left in the bank for you? How much land comes with this property? How much are you payin your stablehands? How many are hired? Who's the gardener? Do you know anythin about this house, Miss?"

The questions fly at you. Too fast for you to even think of a lie or a rebuttal against them. Each one strikes a vital chord in your defense. Each makes you realize just how little of a control you've had on things.

"The thing is, that piece of shit didn't save you a single penny" Gojo answers his own question, uncaring of the way your heart plummets to your stomach. "He's got a second account, sure. But all of that money went to his son"

Son.

"You see" The Sheriff says, drumming his fingers down on the table as your nerves threaten to make you fall apart. "Your husband has led a second life. He's got another wife and a set of little brats with another woman further south. His son's older than Kugisaki. Makes me think it's been happenin since before you entered the picture. Ever wonder what happened to half your savins that was meant for that nice house north of here? Two...three years ago?"

Ice floods your veins. "Stop" You croak, eyes wet with tears. "Gojo, stop"

How does he know about that? Any of it? How long has he known? Why hasn't he said anything about it before.

His hand latches onto yours, and then skims further up your wrist onto the cuff of your dress. "While you've been sittin here, faithful picture of a lady, that asshole has been funnelin your money to another family. But the ruse has to come up eventually. And the husband of your husband's affair is affiliated with some bad, bad men. The kind I don't like stayin around in my town"

Bandits. The picture comes together.

The night your husband said he had another business trip...there was no business. And how did he act, when he was leavin? The Sheriff's words swirl in your ears like a bad omen. Perhaps he knew, and wanted to run. Or perhaps that man had managed to catch your husband by surprise.

You choke down a sob. But the tears come anyway, and Gojo pulls you into his chest. His broad palm rubs down your back, hot even through the layers of your clothes. Searing. You want to push him away. You try to. He only clucks his tongue and holds you all the more tighter for it.

"Haven't I done right by you?" Gojo asks, peppering kisses against the side of your face. His hands don't wander, not how you'd expect them to. You wonder how you're supposed to shove him off if he decides to go further. "You never worry about anythin when I'm here, don't you want it to be like that all the time?"

"What do you want?" You finally grit out, putting some much needed space between the two of you.

"I need," Gojo corrects "A show of faith. I ain't a bad man. I don't wanna force myself on ya, wasn't how I was raised"

You say nothing, refusing to betray your faults. Inwardly, your mind spins. If what the Sheriff is saying is true, there's no money and there hasn't been for a long time. How can you raise Kugisaki and keep the property at the same time? Where will you go if you can't?

Gojo boops you on the nose with his finger, bringing you out of your perilous thoughts. "How long do you plan on mournin that bastard, anyway? It's already been a year. You can take another husband now. I waited, see?"

"I miss seein you in color" He continues, playing with the edge of your bodice. "All this black, doesn't suit ya."

A show of faith.

"You want me to marry you," You conclude, voice shaky and small.

"That would be nice, yes" Gojo hums, as though it was all your idea. Wolfishly, he grins at you. Darts forward, and steals a proper kiss. His lips are sweet from the tea. "Jus' think about it some, okay? Got some loose ends to tie up, so I'll be gone for some time. When I come back...."

He tugs at the hem of your bodice again. "This better be gone, you hear?"

Even before Gojo left, you knew what your answer will be.

You've never worked a day in your life. Your parents taught you wifely duties with the expectation that you'd never have to work a day in your life. Even things that lesser women had to learn, managing books, the household. Those were beyond you. Your mother had servants to do that for her and she expected the same for you.

The second day, Ijichi drives you out to the bank in the big city half a days journey out. Just as the Sheriff said, your accounts are pitifully low. Not enough to last on your own, if Gojo decides to take his good will away.

You want to ask around for work. You could be a seamstress, or maybe the assistant to one. But something in you won't. You step into town and you notice the stares. The way people seem to pause before speaking with you.

Someone genuinely saw you coming and crossed the street, eyes staring down at the cobblestone.

You know, that even before you ask, no one here will hire you. Not with the metaphorical blood on your hands. You'd climb the highest roof in town and shout out your innocence if you believed it would have an inkling of changing anything.

You remembered your first thoughts about this tiny little town. Quiet. Unassuming. So unlike what you were used to. The people here were tight-knit. Close lipped. And you had broken that fragile trust by bringing your husband and his demons together into their depths. Their cautious, derisive looks say enough.

No one here trusts you.

A week later, you hear news from Kugisaki that Gojo will be back soon.

"And you like the Sheriff?" You ask, suddenly. Something about your tone makes your daughter freeze, owlish brown eyes peering up at you.

"Satoru's great!" Kugisaki chirps over her dinner, head tilted curiously to the side. "Don't you like him too, Mama? Everyone says he's sweet on you"

Do they now? "Who have you heard that from?"

"Miwa from primary school says her mama says that he does" She replies; with utmost seriousness. "And she's a love fortune teller. She looks at the cards and tells you your fortune! It's very serious, Mama"

Miwa's mother should mind her own business, you think sourly.

"And if we were to live with the Sheriff...with Satoru—" Your grip on the fork tightens and you force a smile onto your face. "Would you like that? If Satoru and I married?"

Kugisaki's face splits into a grin. Your heart plummets to the bottom of your stomach and dread washes over you like freezing cold water.

She wants this you realize.

Aren't you afraid, you want to ask. He could replace your father. Don't you remember how you used to adore him so? The thought makes you reel back. Who are you; to seek comfort from your daughter? This shouldn't be about you. It's about Kugisaki. It's about making sure she's safe.

And by law, that's exactly what marriage to Satoru will do.

The day you go to meet Satoru, you don a blue dress. Maybe the color will soften him. Maybe you won't catch a glimpse of the man lurking underneath the veneer, if you can satisfy him in this small way.

It feels...unnatural, to be seen wearing color again. The stares you earned dressed in black seem to double, triple. Everyone seems to look at you and know exactly where you're going.

Mei-Mei would remark with a smile, about the sudden abrupt end to your mourning.

It's all in your imagination, you want to think. But Satoru's servants don't seem shocked at all to see you. Rather, its more like they were expecting you.

Like you were right on time.

"Satoru!" Kugisaki sings, loud, as she crosses the foyer. Seconds later, the man of the hour rounds the corner. Your daughter leaps at him, and he catches her easily; spinning her round and round until she's dizzy and begs for mercy.

You stand in the middle of the room like a voyuer, waiting for him to finally acknowledge you.

And he does. He breathes, a cross between a sigh of want and relief when he spots the blue and white day dress. The lack of the veil and bonnet. Your gloveless hands. And he smiles.

"Kugisaki, Megumi and Yuji are down at the stables" It's a clear dismissal if you've ever heard one. "Tsu-Tsu ain't here right now"

Playfully put-out, your daughter groans. "Yuji better not have taken Straw" she says, and wriggles out of his arms to race down to the stables.

Silence stretches on for a full minute. Then, two more.

Finally, Satoru speaks. "Glad to you're no longer mournin. Got tired of seein you in those dreadful things. Now you look more like yourself"

There a smug undertone to his words. You should say something. You know he's expecting you to, but you just can't.

"Why don't I show you aroun'?" He asks, grabbing you by the arm.

"That would be nice" You demure. If Satoru won't bring attention to the elephant in the room, you won't either.

As the Sheriff leads you through his opulent home, you begin to understand the sheer differences in status between you and him. You nearly get lost in the rooms, their sheer sizes, the way lavishness seems to drip in excess. Even your maiden-home, the richest you've ever been, wasn't nearly as wealthy as this.

"And this," Satoru purrs next to your ear, "Is our room"

His hand settles on your middle back, gently nudging you inside. Like the other rooms, this one oozes wealth. An ensuite bathroom. Two ensuite closets (for the Miss, Satoru says, and winks). A large bed. A set of beautiful glass windows that overlook the estate and its wonderful landscaping.

We Gojos make her family seem like street-beggars.

"You have a very lovely home" You tell him, and mean it, turning around. Only, Satoru's standing way too close, crowding you against the window. "Satoru...?"

Satoru groans, erotically, dropping his face into the crook of your neck. "Finally, been tryin to get you to say my name like that this whole time..."

He nuzzles into your throat. Like a puppy. You freeze up once more as his hands travel up and down your body. He's tactile, thats for sure. You can't help but pale in the face of his desire.

"S-Satoru..." You gasp, writhing as his hands begin to unlace the back of your bodice. You wrap your fingers around his wrist to still his advancements. "Stop. A moment; please. This isn't proper—"

Satoru cackles into your skin. "You can drop the shy act now, darlin. It's not like I don't know what I'm gettin into. Come on, don't tell me you only fucked that bastard while you were tryna make Kugisaki? You never did it for fun? Cause it felt good?"

Heat blooms across your face, worms its way down your neck and settles down in your lower stomach.

When you haven't said anything for a minute, Satoru stills. Pulls back from sucking a bruise into your skin like it physically ails him to be separated from you.

"You really haven't...?" He asks, eyes so dark they frighten you.

"Sex is done so that a woman ends up pregnant" You warble. A slow, almost mad, grin spreads onto his cherubic features.

"Well, I'll still make sure you end up pregnant, if that's wha you want" He drawls, and unzips your skirt, yanking it down to your hips. "Can't lie and say I ain't thought of it. A little you runnin around. Long as you don't mind Megumi bein my heir, I'll give you a litter of 'em"

”are you sure you’n wanna wear a mask?” ony grumbles, watching you shuffle through earring options. you raise one to your ear, shake your head, and drop them back into your jewelry box. you try another and make a ‘meh’ face before dropping it into the ‘maybe’ pile. it’s a whole process, and he honestly enjoys watching it.

”I’m fine, ony. I need to be able to connect with people as much as I can so I can get that money,” you laugh softly. he’s always conscious of your health, maybe more than you sometimes, and it’s sweet. you turn and show him your ‘maybe’ earrings as you talk, wanting his input. “this is a really big event, and I have to do everything to capture their investment interest. this is a million dollar smile, you know.”

you’re getting all dolled up to convince people to spend what could be hundreds of thousands of dollars. you look so so pretty, but ony knows you’re about to be around way too many people. whenever something like this happens and you don’t prepare fully, you get sick to some degree. whether a cold or a full blown flu, it never fails.

somehow, though, you’re surprised every time.

”of course I know. and that’d be fine if you didn’t have a weaker immune system,” he mumbles. he nods towards the pair he likes the best and watches as you put them on. you can feel his hands settle on your hips, pulling you back to meet his chest with a gentle touch. “your job is important, but so is your health. you’ll get sick, baby.”

”yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll be sick with a big ass commission.” you turn in his arms and give him a smile, resting your hands on his biceps. “I’m a big girl, ony. I’ll be fine, especially since I’ll be taking some well-deserved pto after. you just worry about me too much.”

“it’s my job,” he mumbles. he bends to press a kiss to your forehead and then your lips, holding you close to him to murmur quietly. “I’m supposed worry about yo ass. my woman makes good money, but sometimes you don’t pour into yourself like you pour into your job. I’m just remindin’ you, boss lady.”

with a roll of your eyes, you kiss him once more before stepping away to grab a pair of heels. “hi, pot, I’m kettle. remember when you were doing the same thing but worse? yeah, I don’t wanna hear it. almost worked yourself to death.”

“learn from my mistakes, baby,” he teases, smiling as he watches you hop to slide your shoes on. he steps forward and holds his hand out so you can use him for balance, eyes trailing over your outfit. “beautiful fiancee of mine.”

you smile at the compliment, always loving the reminder that the two of you are engaged now. “well, I won’t say you’re wrong. I might have a lil cough when I come home, but I should be fine. I’ll drink a bunch of water and take my vitamins, okay?”

ony scoffs. “vitamins. yeah, I’ll go get some tea while you’re gone. you gone be sick.”

“I will not.”

“you will.”

“no, I won’t!”

“you will, but that’s okay, cause I’ll do my duties and take care of your stubborn ass.”

“the nerve! are you wishing sickness upon your beloved fiancee?”

“no, I’m wishing sense upon her, but she a lil lackin’ in that area—“

“onyankopon!”

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

a couple days later— and a couple dollars richer— you find yourself exactly where ony predicted you’d be.

stuck in bed and sick.

you’d woken up with a tickle in your throat and immediately knew that was an omen of the symptoms to come. luckily, you avoided the inevitable ’I told you’ so from ony, who’d gone into work while you were still knocked out. you decided to use the time to drink all the things— orange juice, water, some nasty ass V8, and the ginger lemon tea he’d purchased— and take whatever meds were in the cabinet.

of course, you only felt worse as the day went. you got warmer and your nose started to run. the strength in your body lessened more and more. the thought of walking up the stairs started to sound like hell. with a final groan, you resigned yourself to the couch, and got lost in the world of messy romance reality shows to distract you from your slowly declining health.

when ony came home, he wasn’t surprised to see you asleep on the couch. you always need time to recover after big events. all the talking and ass kiss— kicking can drain a lot of energy. he smiled at the sight of you all bundled up and headed straight upstairs for the shower, missing the box of tissues and tea that were sitting on the coffee table.

as he showered, you woke with a groan, wondering what fucking year it was. the sky had darkened and the tv automatically shut off— and ony’s shoes were at the front door next to yours.

ugh. you love the man, but you weren’t looking forward to hearing his mouth. you figured you’d just go back to sleep and deal with it later. you rolled over and bundled yourself back up, only to hear ony travelling back down the stairs.

he leaned against the back of the couch, peering down at your pretty, sleepy face. you opened one eye to look up at him, and the corner of his lips lifted at the sight. “hey, baby. gonna get some dinner. you hungry?”

you just shook your head and nuzzled back into your blanket.

“hm. you’re quiet today,” ony mused with a tilt of his head. “you probably did a lot of talking, though, huh? makin’ all that damn money and flirtin’ with those rich men.” he’s always loved to tease you about your job. he’s secure in the relationship, and so are you, but you usually have some snarky response and he loves the banter.

but when you didn’t shoot back a retort, ony knew something was up.

”you good?” he asked, eyebrows pulled together. he reached down and moved your blanket from your face, wanting to get a clearer picture of what was going on. you just nodded and yanked the blanket back up, coughing softly.

shit.

“…what was that?”

double shit.

you finally decided to speak, looking up at him with squinted eyes. ”nothing.” it was no point. the damage was done. you didn’t even know why you tried. that one little cough signaled the end of your peace.

ony didn’t look the least bit convinced. you knew he wouldn’t. ”it wasn’t nothin’. you coughed,” he stated blandly, his gaze unimpressed.

you persisted, which didn’t exactly help your situation. “I didn’t. I cleared my throat.” you cleared your throat then, as if demonstrating. the two sounds weren’t similar at all.

ony was over it at that point. he looked at you— really looked at you— and started to notice. low and watery eyes, disgruntled face, dull skin… ”stubborn fuckin’ wom— you sick, aren’t you? why you ain’t tell me? I would’ve came home.”

“it’s not even that bad! I’m fine,” you tried to reassure him. but your voice was kinda groggy and you were obviously tired, and ony had noticed the tea and tissue by then. he had to briefly marvel at your audacity.

“yeah, it’s not bad yet. listen to you, voice all hoarse and shit. go get in the bed,” he fussed. he’d already started putting a plan together in his head of all the things he needed to get for you, irritation painting his face at your little antics.

“I’m not—“

“go get in the bed ᥫ᭡. I’m not playin’.”

and that brings you to now. you’re tucked under layers of covers, medicines lined up on the nightstand, and you’re now under the watchful eye of dr. ony. he’s been no nonsense, especially after you basically hid your sickness, but he’s been so tender too. no surprise there.

“okay. I made you soup and some more tea, and I brought some cool instead of cold water so it doesn’t hurt your throat,” ony mumbles, carefully carrying a tray into the room. “I hope the soup is good. let me know if it needs somethin’.”

he sets the tray on the nightstand and looks over at you, taking in your appearance. you’re sniffling often and holding the blankets close to you, as cozy as can be in your state. he’s set you up with a vicks steamer for your congestion, cough drops, and plenty of tissue.

“thank you,” you rasp, immediately reaching for the water. you sound congested as hell, and ony wishes he could just make the sickness go away. you look damn near miserable.

“you’re welcome, baby. do you need anything? is your headache gone?” he sits on the edge of the bed and places his hand on your forehead. still burning up. you lean into his touch with a sigh, the coolness of his skin a small relief.

“I’m okay. it’s better but not completely gone. there’s so much pressure in my head,” you mumble. a cough escapes you and then quickly one cough becomes a whole fit. you turn from ony and cough into a tissue, wincing at how it worsens your headache.

ony winces with you. it’s almost like he can feel your pain. fuck, he hates when you’re sick. you should be all sunshine and laughing, not stuck at home sick because you’re good at your job.

“here, baby, use the steamer. it’ll help,” your fiancé soothes. he turns it on and helps you get a good grip of it, watching as your breathing becomes easier. he can’t help but sigh. “hate seein’ you like this. c’mere.”

he easily scooches you closer to him and sets a large hand on your chest, rubbing in gentle circles. your eyes fall shut as the pain eases. he might be annoying sometimes, but you couldn’t ask for a better life partner. even if he told you so, he isn’t rubbing it in. he’s just taking care of you, no question.

you’d be no good right now without him.

“here, let’s get you to eat something,” he mumbles. even when your face scrunches at the thought, he still holds up a spoon of soup for you. “it’ll help you feel better. just eat as much as you can, yeah?”

you almost feel pathetic, getting spoon fed at your grown age, but you can’t deny how good it feels to just relax. your body’s going through a lot.

you down as much soup as you can, nodding in approval at the little bit you can taste. it’s not much, but it’s better than not being able to taste at all. “thank you. I don’t think I can eat anymore.”

ony hums, noticing you were actually able to eat quite a bit. “okay. let’s get you some medicine and you can sip on your tea till you fall asleep. I’ll put on some jeopardy.”

ah, yes. it’s become routine for jeopardy to be your sick show. you usually watch it for a bit before it starts watching you. meaning you fall asleep and let it become soothing background noise.

“you gonna lay with me? or do you not wanna catch my germs,” you murmur, blinking over at him. you should tell him to stay away, protect him from whatever it is you’ve got. but he’s just as stubborn as you, and you know there’s no point in telling him to go away.

he laughs and shakes his head. spoiled lil thing you are. “this happens every time, baby I tell you you gone be sick, you don’t listen, I take care of you, and then I get sick myself. I know how to recognize the pattern even if you don’t. scoot over.”

you giggle softly at what you know to be the truth and shift in the bed to make room for him, immediately cuddling up against his form. “thank you for taking care of me, love. I know I get on your nerves but you’re the best caretaker.”

“you know I got you,” he mumbles, his hand starting to massage your back. “you a lil hard headed somethin’ but you gone be my wife. there’s nothin’ I rather do than be with you, even when you sound like louis armstrong.”

“onyankopon!” you laugh, smacking his chest. he laughs asking with you until your laugh eventually becomes coughs. the steamer is in front of your face again before you can even think, and you reach to hold it to your face with an appreciative glance.

ony watches you for a moment, ensuring the coughs settle. you’re getting more exhausted by the minute and he can tell sleep will overcome you soon. but he can’t lie… your little sick bubble is uncomfortable as hell. he doesn’t want to get stuck in it for hours while you nap.

“damn, baby. it’s hot as hell under these covers. can we get rid of a couple?” he frowns, feeling the heat creep up his body. there’s got to be at least four blankets on top of the comforter, and he knows one of them is fucking heated. fuck, he’s going to die from heat stroke.

you lift the steamer from your mouth, only long enough to respond, “don’t touch my blankets, ony.”

his frown deepens as he starts to squirm a bit, feeling the prickles of sweat at his skin. “baby, I ain’t gone be able to take this. can we at least move turn off the heated one?”

again, you remove the steamer only for your response, your eyes squinting now. “don’t touch my blankets, ony.”

“nah, I’m finna burn up. gone make me sweat. let me go get some ice water at least.”

“noooo, stay. you said you gone get sick anyway. might as well get a head start.”

“baby, you can’t do me like this. I’m gonna pass out or some shit.”

“well, pass out next to me. you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Fuck.” You could hear his voice echo in your small apartment; he sounded tired, like he’d been working out for a while.

Your door creaked as he was shutting it, and you could hear his sneakers shuffle off. His quiet footsteps came closer to your room.

You placed your phone on your bed and lifted your head just as he entered the room.

“Why you still up?” He almost got scared when he saw you staring straight at him.

“Why you in my apartment in the middle of the night?” You rolled your eyes at his sass and pulled his hoodie over his head.

He ambled toward you, and just as he was about to crawl over you, you placed your foot on his hip, stopping him in his tracks.

“What—” He cut himself off when he felt your manicured feet tug at the ends of his shirt, your toes curling around the hem, and you pulled up his shirt, showing the gun tucked in his waistband.

“My bad, baby.” He raised his hands in pretend defense before removing the gun and sliding it into a drawer in your dresser.

As he walked back toward you, he unbuckled his belt and tossed it on the ground.

“Nope.” You pressed your foot against his solid chest, holding him back.

“Da’ hell you mean ‘no’?” He scrunched his nose, his hands still reaching for you.

“No, you can't have me tonight.”

“And why da’ hell not?” He didn't like that answer, not one bit. If there was one thing he searched for after long days of work, it was you and your body.

“I don't think you’ve earned me or deserve me.” A smug smirk filled your face. You watched the man groan and toss his head back in frustration, nothing but pleasure flowing through you from the sight.

“Ma, not tonight. Do this shit another time. I don't want to be part of whatever TikTok shit you saw. Just let me have you.” He leaned forward, hands reaching for your waist, only to be pushed back with a kick to the chest.

“You're not helping yourself, sir.” You tilted your head slightly with a raised brow.

“What you want me to do?” He exclaimed, giving in to your “shit.”

“Beg.”

“Beg?” He repeated.

“Beg, need a hearing aid, darlin’?” You teased him, taking advantage of your power.

“I ain't begging, you mine—da’ fuck I'm begging fo’?” He huffed and snarled in disgust at the mere thought.

“This is the problem—you think you can just leave and come back, then have me however you want. Not this time, buddy. You beg for what you want.” He hated the look on your face; it ticked him off. He knew you had the power, and damn, he wanted you badly.

“If I possibly beg, I get to fuck you?” He turned his head back toward you, his eyebrow twitching up as he asked.

“Beggars can't be choosers. We'll see what I let you do.” You lifted your eyebrows and watched his shoulder relax as his body turned toward you.

The tall man lowered himself to his knees and rested his warm palms on yours. He bent forward and kissed up your thigh, grumbling into your skin.

“I'm sorry baby, can I please have you?”

“May I please?”

“I'll be so grateful, I'll make you feel so good.”

“I missed you so badly. I need you.”

You couldn't tell if he was faking; he sounded so desperate. His voice was raspy with longing, his nails digging into your knees as his small kisses grew stronger and hungrier.

He was good at it. You didn't know how, but he was. He already had your panties soaked by the second sentence.

“I guess I'll let you have a little something.”

His eyes lifted at your words.

His head was drowned in the depths of your drenched pussy, his tongue lapped up your cloying juices like a hungry dog and his hands were clenching your thighs in his hands.

“Quit movin’.” He grumbled, the pads of his rough finger pressing deeper into your thigh and holding you tighter in place.

His tongue darted past your folds and into your hole, his slick tongue dragging over the walls of your pussy. His nose nudged your cilt, making your hand involuntarily dart to squeeze his hand. You heard a low chuckle come from him, the vibrations of his vocals sending pulsations through your pussy, your cilt twitch, and your walls began to drastically search for something to squeeze.

“O-Ony, baby! Slow down!” You squealed, your hips jumped against your will and your back formed a nasty arch because of the pleasure consuming your mind.

Your eyes rolled back farther than what you thought was possible, your nails clawed at his hand, and your moans were growing so loud that someone had to hear you.

Your hips initiated a rhythm, rolling against his face and fighting to match the pace of his quick and hungry tongue deep inside of your walls. His tongue curled upwards, stroking your mushy inside with the pad of his tongue.

You could feel juices pour from you and down onto the bed, his hungry eating made pulse flow from cilt to neck, and your body tensed the closer you got.

The louder you got, and the more juices he gained access to, the harder he got, his length was pressing against his jeans leaking pre, twitching, and begging to be in your tight barriers.

“Holy—Ony, I'm gonna—fuuuck!” You yelped. You were gushing all over his face, hips lifted off the bed and spasming, hands clutching the sheets beside you, and toes scrunched.

It didn't stop him, he kept his tongue out, slurping up all the juices spraying out of you he could.

When you finished, your hips dropped back onto the bed, and you were a panting mess. He lifted his wet face from in between your thighs a stupid handsome grin on his face.

“Wonder if you’ll squirt like tha’ on my dick.” But after that comment, he dove back in.

That time a slow make-out with your hyper-sensitive pussy. His lips dragged over your fat, swollen lips, and his tongue sucked up all the remaining juices he could.

His tongue caressed your folds and trailed his saliva over you, it was a slow and gentle movement compared to what he was doing before.

His lips moved and puckered around your pulsing cilt and established a rhythmic suck, it was just right. It made hums of pleasure pour from your lips, he sucked your dark pink cilt like a kid with a lollipop who also didn't want it to be gone too fast. He teased it with the tip of his tongue just to get a small yell out of you to fill his satisfaction.

Your thighs were still shaking and your hips pumped every other minute but it began to calm and you also realized that he was engulfing you like he had no intention of stopping any time soon.

You were going to be there for a while.

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Arts Of Heaven Sections Of Heaven

he has you, his sweet, precious lady who he treats like a queen, on the floor.

your pajama pants are ripped open, shirt halfway up your body and bonnet about to slip off and go to fucking timbuktu. the carpet below you is rubbing up against your knees with every thrust and you know saying anything about it is pointless when he gets like this.

you can only hold onto the leg of the coffee table as he fucks into you from behind, large hand coming down hard against the softness of your ass cheek. the sting is welcome—it’s all welcome—and you’d stay down there all day if you could.

“fu-uck…”

“shut up.”

and shut up you do. because at that moment, ony lifts one of his legs to plant his foot, dick digging deeper into you at an angle that has your jaw dropping. his hand firmly grips you by the nape and tugs you up, bending you into an arch.

smack! smack! smack!

“sometimes you needa be fucked like a slut,” he grunts, upper lip pulled into a slight snarl. “sometimes you need to shut up. sometimes you just need to take it.”

you don’t disagree. you can’t speak, anyway, if the drool dripping down your chin is anything to go by. all you can do is moan and reach between your legs, fresh set that ony paid for glistening as you play with your clit.

smack! smack! smack!

“you ain’t gone thank me? what kinda shit is that? know I’m fuckin’ you good,” he huffs. “know you love it when I fuck you like this. gimme this shit. sloppy fuckin’ pussy.”

you groan, knees burning from the carpet, ass burning from his spanks, and thighs burning from the position.

but fuck if it doesn’t feel good when he smacks your hand away to play with your pussy himself, his teeth biting down on your shoulder as he tugs you back to meet thrust after thrust.

“ain’t gone say shit? or you can’t?” he laughs breathlessly. it has you clenching around him, pleasured pout pulling at your lips. “awww, po’ baby. you embarrassed? too fuckin’ bad. gimme my shit.”

you come—again—but he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, slows down just slightly, but his hips still meet yours again and again, ignoring the complete mess you’re making beneath him. he’ll worry about that later.

“tap out,” he mumbles, hand sliding to the front of your throat. it’s a firm grip, not tight, and grounds you to the moment. he’s giving you an out, but you don’t want it. you shake your head as quick as you can in your state.

Michael B. Jordan knew how to wear a mask.

He’d been wearing one so long it fit like skin. The cameras loved him for it. The sun hit his dark skin just right as he stepped out of the private training facility in Studio City, fitted black tee clinging to his sculpted chest, sweat drying in slow lines along his collarbone and down the center of his sternum. His beard was trimmed with surgical precision, lining his jaw like it had been carved there. His smile came easily, dimples cutting deep into cheeks that magazines swore were perfect, and he gave them exactly what they paid for.

Paparazzi called his name, and he turned with that practiced warmth, voice low and smooth. "Appreciate yall. Stay blessed." He signed a boxing glove for some teenager shaking with excitement and clasped the kid’s shoulder like he meant it. He told a reporter he was focused, grateful, locked in on the next project. His laugh rolled out rich and controlled, the kind of laugh that made headlines call him humble and grounded.

Blessed. Focused. Controlled. That’s what they saw.

Inside, he felt nothing but a low, constant hum of irritation. Fame was a leash. A diamond one, custom-fitted and polished for the world to admire, but a leash all the same. Every move documented. Every woman speculated about. Every breath monetized. He was always performing, even when he pretended he wasn’t.

He slid into the driver’s seat of his matte black SUV and shut the door. The outside noise dulled instantly, and silence wrapped around him. No flashes. No questions. Just tinted windows and his own reflection staring back from the rearview mirror. Dark eyes. Sharp. Restless. The mask loosened the second he was alone.

That was when he saw her.

Across the parking lot near the grocery store entrance, Kendra balanced two brown paper bags against her hip while digging in her oversized purse for her keys. The wind caught her sweatshirt slightly, the burgundy Howard University letters stretching across her chest. Her natural curls were pulled into a high puff, edges soft and imperfect like she’d done them in a rush between tasks. She wore simple black leggings that hugged thick thighs and slides that smacked lightly against the pavement when she shifted her weight. She looked real. Untouched by the industry. Untouched by him.

No makeup. No performance. No spotlight. Just her.

Michael went completely still because three and a half years hadn’t erased the memory of how she laughed with her whole chest, head thrown back without worrying who was watching. She listened more than she spoke. She checked on everybody else in a room before she ever asked herself if she was okay. She’d always been selfless to a fault, absorbing tension like it was her job, carrying other people’s feelings like they weighed nothing.

He remembered how that used to piss him off because he wanted her to choose herself, and if she was being honest, he’d wanted her to choose him first.

A small blur of movement wrapped around her leg, pulling his attention down.

A little boy.

Michael’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel until the leather creaked under his grip. The kid couldn’t have been more than three or four. Dark brown skin glowing warm and rich against a bright red Spider Man hoodie that looked slightly too big for his tiny frame. Tight coils bounced wildly as he moved, every curl alive with motion. He talked fast, hands flying everywhere, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’d been plugged into a wall socket. His energy didn’t just fill space. It demanded it.

Then the boy looked up.

Michael’s breath left his body so sharply it felt punched out of him. The eyes were his. Same deep brown that turned almost amber in direct sunlight. Same slight crease between the brows when confused. Same stubborn set to the jaw, even in a child that small. The same full bottom lip he’d hated in middle school until women started complimenting it and he learned how to use it to his advantage.

The kid laughed at something Kendra said, high and bright and reckless.

It sounded like him.

Not similar. Not close.

Him.

Michael’s chest tightened, and it had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with recognition. Something ancient and territorial stirred in him, something that didn’t care about public image or press cycles.

He opened the car door slowly, movements deliberate now. Hoodie pulled up over his head. Sunglasses sliding down over his eyes. The celebrity disappeared, and something more primal stepped forward. He crossed the lot but kept his distance, blending into the steady flow of shoppers, slipping into the grocery store a few seconds after they did.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in sterile white. He grabbed an empty basket to complete the disguise and stayed two aisles behind them, pretending to examine cereal boxes while watching their reflection in the freezer glass. He didn’t blink much. Didn’t need to.

Kendra knelt to the boy’s level, brown fingers brushing curls away from his forehead with easy tenderness. "Snow, slow down," she said softly, calm but firm. "You about to knock over the whole damn display and I am not paying for all that."

Snow.

The name hit him square in the chest. The boy grinned widely, revealing a tiny dimple in his left cheek. On his right cheek, just under his eye, was a distinct birthmark shaped like a delicate snowflake, a shade darker than his rich brown skin and mapped in a sharp, intricate pattern that looked intentional, almost sacred.

Michael swallowed hard because he didn’t need a DNA test to know what he was looking at.

Snow darted toward the apples and picked one up like it was a trophy. "Mama, look. This one big as my head."

"Everything big as your head," she teased, kissing his temple. "You just dramatic."

Snow cackled, spinning in a circle and nearly bumping into an elderly woman with a cart.

"Snow. Personal space," Kendra warned, catching him by the hood before he collided with anyone else.

Michael watched the entire exchange with a focus so intense it bordered on obsessive. Snow. He did the math automatically, his mind flipping back through timelines like a producer reviewing footage he should’ve paid closer attention to.

Three and a half years.

Three and a half years ago, he’d been filming overseas, phone calls coming late and short. Three and a half years ago, he and Kendra had ended on a fight that never really ended, voices raised in a hotel suite about privacy and control and whether love could survive headlines. Three and a half years ago, she’d walked away quietly, saying she needed peace and space and something that didn’t feel like a circus.

He had let her go because he thought she’d come back.

He watched her now, taking in the way she moved around that child with instinctive protection. Her hand never strayed far from him, even when she reached for something. She smiled even when exhaustion shadowed her eyes. She looked softer but stronger at the same time, like motherhood had carved something deeper into her.

His jaw flexed slowly.

She had been carrying his son. Growing him. Protecting him. Naming him. Loving him.

And she hadn’t said a fucking word.

Heat spread through Michael’s chest, controlled but rising. His mind was no longer calm. It spun chaotically like a hurricane tearing through everything in its path, but at the center of it he was locked in, focused, and hungry for answers. This wasn’t blind rage. This was precision.

He left the store before they did, abandoning the empty basket near a display of canned beans. He moved like he’d already decided something and was just waiting to execute it.

He reached her SUV and scanned it quickly. No security cameras on that side of the lot. The neighboring cars were empty. The windows were slightly tinted, but not enough to hide movement if someone looked too hard. He moved fast and quiet, years of celebrity paranoia and security briefings making him efficient. The lock popped with practiced precision, and he opened the back just enough to slide inside.

He slipped into the third row she used as trunk space, folding his tall frame down behind the seats. The faint scent of baby wipes, strawberry fruit snacks, and cocoa butter filled the enclosed space. A small pair of light-up sneakers sat beside him, one shoe blinking faintly when it shifted. He picked one up briefly, thumb brushing over the plastic sole, then set it back down like it meant something.

He closed the interior panel gently, and darkness swallowed him whole.

His breathing slowed until it was steady and patient. "You really thought I wouldn’t notice," he murmured to himself, voice barely above a whisper.

Minutes later, the back hatch lifted. Light spilled in briefly before grocery bags thudded down around him. Plastic rustled. A juice box rolled and tapped against his forearm.

Snow’s voice was loud and rapid fire, words tumbling over each other. "Mama I want nuggets tonight and mac and cheese and can I call Nana and can I watch the dinosaur movie again and why that man was staring at you in the store and can I get ice cream if I eat broccoli"

Michael’s heart slammed once, heavy and deliberate.

Kendra’s voice followed, calm but carrying an undercurrent he recognized. "What man, Snow"

"The tall one with the hoodie. He looked like me."

Silence filled the vehicle so thick it felt physical.

A small, controlled breath from the front seat. "You imagine things," she said quietly. "Seatbelt. Now."

The doors shut. The engine started. An old school R and B song played low from the speakers, smooth and familiar.

Michael stayed perfectly still as they pulled out of the lot. Snow kicked his light up sneakers against the back of the second row, humming loudly and narrating everything he saw out the window. "Mama that dog big. Mama that car loud. Mama why the sky pink. Mama when my birthday again." His energy never dipped below ten.

Halfway through the drive Snow’s voice softened unexpectedly. "Mama."

"Yeah baby"

"My daddy big"

The air shifted instantly.

Kendra hesitated, and even from the trunk Michael could feel it. "What you mean"

"In my head. He big. Like superheroes big. Bigger than Uncle Ray. Bigger than the rock man on TV."

Michael closed his eyes slowly, pride and fury twisting together in his chest so tight it almost hurt.

Kendra laughed softly, and it sounded tired and hopeful at the same time. "Yeah," she whispered. "He big."

That was all the confirmation he needed.

By the time the SUV rolled into her garage and the engine cut off, Michael wasn’t the polished man from twenty minutes ago. The public mask had slid clean off, and what sat folded in the third row was possessive, volatile, and certain of one thing.

Kendra reached for her door handle.

"We need to talk."

His voice filled the car from behind them, low and steady and completely unbothered.

Kendra froze.

Snow gasped dramatically, eyes wide with excitement instead of fear. "Mama," he whispered loudly. "That man in our trunk."

Kendra’s hand was still wrapped around the driver’s door handle when the air shifted behind her, thick and sudden like the temperature in the garage had dropped without warning.

She didn’t move at first. Didn’t breathe. Her heart thudded so loud in her ears she swore Snow could hear it over his own constant movement. Slowly, deliberately, she turned in her seat, already knowing before she saw him that her peace had just cracked wide open.

Michael pushed himself up from the third row like he’d been there the whole time, and the car had simply caught up to his presence. He unfolded to his full height inside the cramped space, broad shoulders brushing the ceiling, hoodie still up, sunglasses still on. Calm. Composed. Like breaking into her car and hiding in the trunk was a logical step in a conversation he believed he was owed.

Snow twisted in his car seat, eyes wide and curious instead of scared, legs kicking so hard the soles of his light-up sneakers flashed against the leather. "You the man from the store," he said loudly, leaning forward as far as the seatbelt would allow.

Michael lowered his sunglasses slowly, revealing those deep brown eyes that were now locked on the child with an intensity that felt almost sacred. For a split second, the volatility in him went quiet. Not gone. Just contained.

"Yeah," he said, voice low and steady. "I am."

Kendra finally found her voice, and it came out sharp enough to cut skin. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Her words echoed off the concrete walls of the garage. "You broke into my car?"

Michael’s gaze lifted to her, and the calm in his expression was almost more unsettling than if he’d been yelling. There was no apology there. No embarrassment. Just certainty. "We need to talk," he repeated, like that explained everything.

"Get out," she snapped immediately. "Right now. You don’t get to ambush me like this."

He ignored that completely and shifted his attention back to Snow. He studied him openly now, no reflections, no distance, just inches separating them. Up close, the resemblance was undeniable. Same nose. Same jawline. Same intensity in the eyes, even if Snow’s were bright with innocence instead of calculation. Even the way he held his chin had a familiar stubbornness to it.

"What’s your name?" Michael asked softly, like the rest of the world had disappeared.

Snow puffed his chest out like he’d been waiting his whole life for that question. "Snow."

"Snow," Michael repeated, slower this time, letting it sit on his tongue. "That’s a strong name."

"I’m strong," Snow declared instantly. "I can beat Uncle Ray in arm wrestling and I run faster than Mama but she say I can’t run in the street."

Despite herself, Kendra felt her chest tighten at how natural this looked and how wrong it felt at the same time. "Snow, baby, unbuckle your seat. We’re going inside," she said, trying to regain control of something.

Michael’s jaw tightened at the ease in her voice, at the way she moved like she could redirect this and pretend it wasn’t happening. He climbed over the seat and stepped out of the SUV before she could stop him, landing on the garage floor with controlled precision. He moved around to Snow’s door and opened it himself.

"Don’t," she warned, stepping forward quickly. "Don’t touch him."

But Snow was already reaching for him, hyperactive energy shifting into fascination as he stared up at the tall man blocking his sunlight. He didn’t sense danger. He sensed something else. Recognition without language.

Michael crouched down so they were eye level. Up close he could see every detail. The birthmark shaped like a snowflake just under his eye. The tiny scar on his chin from a fall he’d probably taken at full speed. The way he didn’t flinch under direct eye contact, just stared back like he was measuring him too.

"You talk a lot," Michael said quietly, studying him like he was memorizing a blueprint.

"Mama say I be on ten," Snow replied proudly. "She say I don’t got no chill."

A ghost of a smile tugged at Michael’s mouth before he could stop it. "Yeah. I see that."

Kendra stepped between them then, protective instinct snapping fully into place. "Back up," she said, voice low but steady. "You don’t get to just show up like this and act like you belong here."

Michael stood slowly, towering over her now, and the garage suddenly felt too small for both of them. "You don’t get to hide my son from me," he replied, and the calm started thinning around the edges.

Her chin lifted even though her pulse was racing. "I didn’t hide anything. I protected him."

"From what?" His voice sharpened, the first crack in the smooth tone. "From me?"

"From this," she shot back, gesturing at him, at the SUV, at the invisible cameras that seemed to follow his life everywhere. "From paparazzi. From headlines. From strangers thinking they’re entitled to his life because they know your name. From people dissecting his face on blogs before he even knows how to spell it."

Michael stepped closer, invading her space without touching her. His presence pressed against her like heat. "You should’ve told me," he said, quieter now but more dangerous.

"And what?" she demanded, frustration rising to meet his intensity. "You think I didn’t run that scenario through my head a thousand times? You think I didn’t picture TMZ parked outside the hospital? You think I didn’t think about what it would do to him to grow up with cameras in his face?"

His nostrils flared. "You didn’t even give me the chance to decide."

"Because it’s not just your decision," she snapped. "It’s his life. And I’m the one who carried him. I’m the one who held him at three in the morning when he wouldn’t sleep. I’m the one who makes sure he’s safe."

Snow’s head moved back and forth between them like he was watching a tennis match, confusion slowly replacing excitement. The tension thickened with every word, voices rising inch by inch until the air felt electric.

"He’s mine," Michael said, and the possessiveness in his tone surfaced fully now, raw and unapologetic. "You don’t get to erase me."

"I didn’t erase you," she fired back, hurt bleeding into her anger. "You weren’t here."

That hit deeper than anything else.

His composure cracked, and the hurricane inside him spun harder. "I wasn’t here because you left," he shot back, volume climbing. "You walked away and didn’t say shit. You disappeared like I was the problem."

"I left because I was drowning," she yelled, voice finally breaking open. "Because loving you meant living in a circus, and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t raise a baby in that."

Snow’s lip trembled, small fingers curling into fists at his sides.

Neither of them noticed at first because they were too busy bleeding on each other.

"You don’t get to decide I’m unfit because I’m famous," Michael continued, pacing once across the concrete floor, hands dragging down his face before pushing into his hoodie pockets. "You don’t get to look at me and think I wouldn’t step up."

"I didn’t know if you would believe me," she admitted, and that was the first crack in her armor. "You think it’s easy telling a man like you he has a kid? You think that doesn’t sound insane? You think I wasn’t scared you’d think I was trapping you?"

Snow’s breathing changed. Fast. Uneven. His eyes darted between them, absorbing everything.

"Stop yelling," he whispered, voice small and shaky.

The word barely made it out before his eyes filled with tears. His shoulders lifted toward his ears, and his small hands flew up to cover them.

Michael saw it instantly.

Everything in him halted.

The hurricane collapsed inward, spinning down into something tight and controlled. The rage that had been building snapped back under his skin like a leash yanked hard.

He dropped to one knee without hesitation, lowering himself until he was smaller, less threatening. "Hey. Hey, I’m sorry," he said quickly, voice completely different now, softer and grounded. "Nobody yelling at you. We good. I promise."

Kendra exhaled shakily and crouched on Snow’s other side, brushing his curls back from his forehead. "It’s okay, baby. We just talking. It’s grown up stuff."

Snow sniffed hard, tears clinging to his lashes as he looked between them. "Y’all mad," he accused quietly.

Michael shook his head slowly, eyes locked on the boy. "Not at you. Never at you. I don’t even know you and I could never be mad at you."

Snow studied him for a long moment like he was testing the truth in his voice, then reached out and grabbed the front of Michael’s hoodie with sticky fingers.

"You big," Snow said again, softer this time.

Michael swallowed, something shifting in his chest that felt dangerously close to awe. "Yeah," he replied, voice rough for a different reason now. "I am."

Snow leaned forward slightly, curiosity pushing past his tears. "You strong too?"

A faint exhale left Michael’s nose. "Yeah. I’m strong."

"You my daddy?" Snow asked suddenly, as it had just clicked in his head.

The question landed heavy and unfiltered.

Michael didn’t look away from him. "I’m trying to be," he said carefully.

Kendra’s breath caught at that, and she straightened slowly, emotions warring across her face.

Michael rose to his feet again, but this time he didn’t tower or crowd her. He kept a small distance, conscious now of the child watching them both.

"We’re not doing this in front of him," he said, voice controlled again but not cold. "I’m not leaving. But I’m not yelling either."

Kendra crossed her arms, still guarded, still protective. "You don’t get to make decisions in my house."

"Then let’s go inside and talk like adults," he replied evenly. "Because I’m not walking away from my son again."

The word hung between them like a claim staked into concrete.

My son.

Snow looked up at Kendra, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Mama," he asked quietly, needing confirmation now, "he my daddy?"

Silence swallowed the garage whole as both of them realized there was no easy way out of this anymore.

Kendra looked down at Snow, and for a split second, she considered lying. It would’ve been easier. Cleaner. She could’ve said Michael was a friend from work. A neighbor. Somebody helping with groceries. Something harmless and temporary. But Snow’s eyes were wide and searching, bright with a hope that made her chest ache, and Michael’s presence behind her felt immovable, solid and undeniable, like a storm she could hear rolling in whether she acknowledged it or not.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself the way she did before delivering hard truths, the way she had when doctors asked if she had support and she lied back then too. "Yeah," she said finally, voice steady even though her pulse was racing so hard it made her fingertips tingle. "That’s your daddy."

Snow blinked once.

Then twice.

Then his whole face lit up like someone had flipped on every light in the house at the same time, joy flooding through him without hesitation or fear.

"I got a daddy?" he shouted, bouncing in place so hard Kendra had to grab the back of his hoodie to keep him from tripping over his own feet. "For real for real? Like other kids?"

Michael didn’t grin wide or react big the way most men might’ve. He didn’t shout or laugh or reach immediately. But something shifted in his eyes, something dark and bright at the same time. Pride settled in first, heavy and undeniable. Then possession followed right behind it, quiet and absolute.

"Yeah," he answered quietly, voice lower now, weighted with something deeper than excitement. "For real."

Snow launched himself forward without warning, arms wrapping around Michael’s leg in a half-hug that was more momentum than coordination. Michael stiffened for half a second out of pure shock because he hadn’t prepared for that part, hadn’t prepared for the physical proof of it. Then instinct took over. His hand came down to Snow’s back automatically, large palm spanning almost the entire width of it. Careful. Protective. Claiming without asking permission, as his body had already made a decision, his pride was still catching up to.

Kendra watched it happen and felt the ground tilt under her feet, like the foundation she’d built alone was suddenly being tested.

This was exactly what she’d been afraid of.

The immediate bond. Snow attached without hesitation. The way Michael looked like he’d found something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

Inside the house, everything felt smaller with Michael in it. The walls were painted warm beige, soft and inviting, family photos lining the hallway in mismatched frames she’d collected over the years from clearance aisles and small local shops. Snow at the park with grass stains on his knees and dirt on his palms. Snow was covered in birthday cake frosting, chocolate smeared across his cheeks while he grinned with reckless pride. Snow asleep with his mouth open on the couch, one sock missing, his little hand curled into the couch cushion like he was holding onto it even in dreams. Every picture told a story of a life built quietly and intentionally.

There was no trace of Michael anywhere.

No empty frame. No shadow. No hint of him.

He noticed that immediately, and she saw it in the way his eyes moved across the walls.

Snow ran ahead toward the living room, still talking at full speed, his words tumbling over each other. "Mama I got a daddy. I told you I had one. I knew it. I knew it. I knew he was big too."

"Go wash your hands," Kendra called after him, needing a second to collect herself before this turned into something she couldn’t control. "And no jumping on the couch."

"Okay," Snow yelled back, which probably meant he wasn’t actually listening and was already halfway up the stairs in his mind.

The moment he disappeared down the hallway, the energy in the room tightened, subtle but undeniable, like the temperature had dropped just enough to notice.

Michael stepped fully into the living room, taking in the space like he was committing it to memory. The couch. The toys in the corner. The stack of children’s books on the coffee table with bent corners and sticky fingerprints. A small pair of sneakers by the door. "So this is where you’ve been," he said, voice controlled but edged with something sharper, something that sounded almost wounded.

"Don’t," Kendra warned immediately, already bracing herself. "Don’t start acting like I exiled you."

He turned toward her slowly, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. "You did," he said, not loud but firm.

Her laugh came out brittle and strained. "You think I had the luxury of that? You think I wasn’t sick every morning by myself? You think I didn’t sit in a doctor’s office alone trying to figure out how I was going to raise a baby without turning his life into a headline?"

Michael’s jaw flexed hard enough to show muscle beneath his beard, but he didn’t yell. Not yet. His restraint felt deliberate, like he was forcing himself not to explode.

"You made that choice for both of us," he said evenly. "That’s what you don’t get. You decided I didn’t deserve to know. You decided I wasn’t capable before you even gave me the chance."

"I made the safest choice for him," she shot back, stepping closer now because she was tired of shrinking. "Everything I do is for him. I don’t get to be selfish. I don’t get to gamble with his peace just to see how you’d react."

"And what about me?" The question slipped out before he could catch it, softer than the rest but heavier.

It hung there, raw and unfiltered, stripping away the anger for a second.

Kendra stared at him, and for the first time since he’d stepped out of her trunk, she saw something beneath the intensity. Not just pride. Not just ego. Something bruised. "You’re Michael B. Jordan," she said quietly. "You’ve got money. Power. Security. A whole team that fixes problems before you even know they exist. I had prenatal appointments and cravings and fear. I had nights I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t know how I was going to protect him from a world that doesn’t respect boundaries."

His eyes darkened, not with rage but with something closer to hurt. "You think I’m the kind of man who’d call you a liar? Or accuse you of trapping me?"

"I think you’re a man who lives in a different world," she replied carefully. "And I didn’t want Snow paying for that difference. I didn’t want him growing up thinking cameras were normal."

Before he could respond, Snow came tearing back into the room at full speed, hands still damp and hair slightly frizzier from water, energy back at full volume. "Daddy," he said again, testing the word like it was brand new each time. "You play superheroes? You strong?"

The word hit Michael square in the chest again.

Daddy.

He crouched instinctively, muscles moving before pride or anger could interfere. "Yeah," he said, voice softer now, grounded and steady. "I can play superheroes."

Snow grinned wide, already planning the scene in his head. "I be Black Panther. You be the bad guy."

Michael lifted an eyebrow, almost amused. "Why I gotta be the bad guy?"

"Because you big," Snow answered simply, like that was logic enough.

Kendra almost laughed despite the tension twisting low in her stomach.

They played longer this time, longer than either adult meant to. Snow darted around the living room at maximum speed, leaping from couch to rug to imaginary rooftops, narrating his own fight scenes while Michael followed, careful not to knock over furniture, careful not to let the emotion rising in his chest show too clearly on his face. Every time Snow called him Daddy, even casually, even by accident, it rooted deeper into him.

And then his phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Three times in rapid succession.

Michael ignored it at first, focused on catching Snow mid jump before he could crash into the coffee table. But the buzzing didn’t stop. It grew more insistent, more aggressive, like the outside world was pounding on the door and refusing to be ignored.

Kendra’s phone buzzed too.

She froze instantly, a chill sliding down her spine.

Slowly, she walked toward the kitchen counter where she’d left it charging. Her fingers felt numb as she picked it up, like she already knew what she’d see.

Her stomach dropped.

There it was.

A blurry photo from the grocery store parking lot. Michael in a hoodie, unmistakable even half hidden. Snow mid laugh beside her, his snowflake birthmark visible if you zoomed in enough. The image was already circulating.

The headline was forming beneath it in bold letters.

MYSTERY CHILD?

IS MICHAEL B. JORDAN A SECRET DAD?

Speculation was spreading by the second. Comment sections were already dissecting timelines and comparing childhood photos.

Her hands started shaking so badly that she had to grip the counter to steady herself.

"It’s happening," she whispered, fear threading through her voice. "They found us."

Michael stood slowly, Snow still wrapped around his leg like an anchor keeping him grounded.

His own phone lit up with notifications from his publicist, his manager, two producers, and three different news outlets requesting comment. Group chats were exploding. Missed calls stacked one after another. His team was already in crisis mode.

He looked at the photo once.

Then he locked his phone without flinching.

"Good," he said calmly.

Kendra stared at him like he’d completely lost his mind. "Good? Are you serious right now?"

"Yeah," he replied, voice steady in a way that felt almost unhinged. "Now it’s out. No more hiding. No more pretending."

"Out?" she repeated, incredulous, voice rising despite herself. "Do you understand what this means? They’re going to dig into everything. They’re going to find this address. They’re going to camp at the end of the street. They’re going to zoom in on his face like he’s a storyline instead of a child."

His jaw flexed slowly. "Then I’ll handle it."

"Handle it how?"

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so Snow wouldn’t catch the tension building again. "Security. Lawyers. NDAs. I’ll have a team here by tonight if I have to. I’ll reroute press, shut down speculation, threaten lawsuits if it comes to that. I’ll lock this shit down before they even get comfortable."

"You can’t just bulldoze your way into our lives and take over," she said, anger flaring again because fear always came out that way. "This isn’t a set. You don’t get to call cut and fix it in post."

His eyes flashed, that possessive heat rising once more. "It’s my son," he said, each word deliberate and controlled. "I don’t need permission to protect what’s mine."

Snow looked up between them, confusion flickering across his face but curiosity winning out. "We famous?" he asked, eyes bright with the idea.

Kendra closed her eyes briefly, exhaustion pressing hard against her temples.

Michael crouched again, forcing himself steady, softening his tone so it wouldn’t scare him. "Nah," he said gently. "You just special. That’s all."

Snow grinned at that, satisfied for now, already distracted by the idea of being special.

But when Michael looked back up at Kendra, the calm in his expression was thinner, stretched tight over something far more volatile and determined.

The world had found them.

And this time, he wasn’t letting it take anything else from him.

It didn’t happen all at once.

It happened in layers, quiet and deliberate, like a man rebuilding something he believed had always been his.

The next morning there was a black SUV parked across the street that didn’t belong to the neighbors. It idled there before sunrise, windows tinted, engine low and steady. By noon, two men in discreet polos were installing cameras at the edge of Kendra’s driveway, working efficiently without ringing the doorbell. By evening, a security system she hadn’t asked for was synced to her phone, complete with facial recognition and perimeter alerts.

Michael didn’t ask permission.

He informed.

“It’s temporary,” he said, like that softened it, like temporary things didn’t have a way of becoming permanent. “Just until the press cycle cools down.”

Her phone started receiving emails from law firms she’d never contacted. A custody attorney. A media privacy specialist. A financial advisor with a portfolio breakdown already drafted.

“I didn’t call these people,” she said flatly, staring at her inbox like it might start speaking back.

“I did,” Michael replied without apology, leaning against her kitchen counter like he owned the marble.

By the end of the week, a trust fund had been created in Snow’s name. College fully covered. Living expenses mapped out through adulthood. Investments diversified into accounts she’d never heard of. Documents were couriered to her kitchen table in leather folders stamped with gold lettering.

“You can’t just build a future without me signing off on it,” she argued, flipping through papers she hadn’t agreed to.

“I’m not building it without you,” he said calmly. “I’m building it for him. There’s a difference.”

His filming schedule shifted. Appearances rescheduled. Interviews condensed into controlled blocks. Rumors swirled that he was taking a step back from Hollywood for “personal reasons.” He was in her house more than he was in his own.

He wasn’t asking permission.

He was claiming territory.

But he wasn’t reckless about it. That was the part that unsettled her most.

At night, he sat on the edge of Snow’s bed, reading picture books in a low, animated voice that made Snow giggle until he hiccupped. He did different voices for dinosaurs and superheroes. He paused dramatically before turning pages. He memorized the cadence of Snow’s routine like it was choreography. Bath at seven thirty. Story at eight. Water cup filled halfway, not full. Nightlight on, but the door cracked exactly three inches.

In the mornings, he cooked breakfast like he’d been doing it for years. Scrambled eggs cut into small pieces. Turkey sausage sliced into safe pieces. Pancakes were shaped wrong but made with effort. Snow perched on the counter, narrating everything at full volume while Michael listened like it mattered, nodding seriously at stories about imaginary villains and playground politics.

He learned which dinosaur was Snow’s favorite and which one scared him. Learned that Snow hated socks but loved hoodies, even in warm weather. Learned that if Snow got too quiet, he was usually into something he wasn’t supposed to be, and that silence was more dangerous than noise.

He rearranged the house subtly. Moved fragile decor higher. Installed child locks. Added floodlights in the backyard. He replaced the flimsy front gate with reinforced steel and didn’t mention the invoice.

And at night, after Snow was asleep, Michael stretched out on her couch instead of leaving.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said the first time, standing in the doorway with her arms folded tight.

“Yeah, I do,” he answered, already loosening his boots.

“Why?”

“Because this is when they show up,” he said, glancing toward the window where camera flashes sometimes flickered from down the block like distant lightning. “And I’m not letting you deal with that alone. Not anymore.”

She hated how safe it felt.

Hated that when footsteps echoed outside, she didn’t tense as much because she knew he was there. Hated that when Snow ran toward the door too fast, Michael’s reflexes were quicker than hers. Hated that when the chaos outside swelled, and voices shouted his name from beyond the fence, the house somehow felt steadier instead of shakier.

Private obsession didn’t look wild.

It looked organized.

It looked like his toothbrush was beside her sink, and his cologne lingering in her hallway.

It looked like his hoodie was hanging over the back of her dining chair, and his watch was resting beside her keys.

It looked like his hand resting at the small of her back when reporters shouted from the end of the driveway, fingers firm and unapologetic.

He never asked.

He adjusted the world around them until it bent in his direction and then acted like it had always been shaped that way.

And then the pressure peaked.

The paparazzi multiplied. Neighbors started whispering. A drone hovered once above the backyard before security forced it down. Comment sections turned vicious, dissecting timelines and accusing motives. Strangers debated her character like they knew her.

Kendra stood in the living room one evening, curtains drawn tight, Snow coloring on the floor with markers scattered around him, and felt the walls closing in. The house no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a target.

“I can’t breathe like this,” she admitted quietly, voice thin from holding everything together.

Michael was standing by the window, watching the street like a guard dog. He turned toward her slowly, shoulders squared.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

His jaw tightened, decision already made before he spoke it aloud.

“It means I handle everything. Full-time security rotating in shifts. A different house if we need it, gated and private. Press statement on my terms. You don’t lift a finger. You don’t answer a single question. I shield you. Both of you.”

She crossed her arms, bracing herself against the intensity in his voice. “And what does that cost me?”

His eyes darkened, not with anger but with certainty that bordered on obsession.

“Nothing,” he said. “Except letting me do it. Letting me take control.”

She shook her head slowly. “And if I don’t want that? If I don’t want to live inside your machine?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Then you leave,” he said evenly, the calm more dangerous than shouting. “And I file for custody.”

The words hit like concrete dropped from a height.

Snow looked up from his coloring book, sensing the shift in the air even if he didn’t understand it.

“You threatening me?” she asked, voice barely steady.

“No,” Michael said, stepping closer but keeping his volume low. “I’m telling you I’m not disappearing again. I lost three and a half years. I’m not losing another day. Not to fear. Not to pride. Not to you pushing me out.”

Silence settled heavily between them.

Outside, camera shutters clicked faintly through the glass like a countdown.

Snow stood up suddenly and walked between them, small hands reaching out without hesitation. He grabbed her fingers with one hand and Michael’s with the other, tugging until they both looked down.

“Stop,” he said simply.

The simplicity of it broke something open inside her.

She looked down at their joined hands. At Snow, standing between them like a bridge neither of them had planned but both of them needed. His little fingers wrapped tight, refusing to let go.

She exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of her in a single breath.

“We do this together,” she said finally, voice softer but firm. “No ultimatums. No custody threats. Together.”

Michael didn’t celebrate. Didn’t grin wide or raise his voice.

But his smile spread slowly and deliberately, relief and victory blending into something steady and possessive.

“Together,” he agreed.

That night, the house was quieter than it had been in weeks, though the world outside still buzzed.

Snow slept down the hall, sprawled across his bed with one arm hanging off the side, exhausted from emotions he didn’t fully understand. His nightlight cast a soft glow against the wall, the snowflake birthmark on his cheek barely visible in the dimness.

Kendra lay in her bed staring at the ceiling when she felt the mattress dip.

Michael slid in behind her, arm settling around her waist like it belonged there. His body was warm and solid, grounding in a way that felt both comforting and dangerous. His forehead pressed gently against her shoulder blade, breath slow and steady against her skin.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the security system and distant murmurs from the street beyond the gates.

“You should’ve told me,” he murmured into the quiet, voice rough but controlled.

She swallowed, eyes still open in the dark. “You would’ve lost your mind,” she whispered back.

He let out a low breath that almost sounded like a laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it.

“You haven’t seen that yet,” he said softly.

There was no threat in it.

Just promise. Just certainty.

His arm tightened slightly around her waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her he was there and not going anywhere.

And for the first time since he stepped out of her trunk, she believed him completely.

She knew exactly how unhinged he could become when it came to what he considered his.

But she stayed anyway.

Because part of her wanted him to.

curls laid restless against the comfort of your white pillow, one leg kicked up lazy, the other tucked beneath, body sinking deep into the mattress like it belonged there. white panties climbed high up your ass, cotton stretched tight and fighting to stay wedged between soft cheeks, the fabric thin enough that the outline of everything showed under the low morning glow slipping through blinds.

eren stood over your bed like he owned the room, eyes hungry—desperate even. his hair was a mess from the drive, dark strands falling into his face, hoodie pulled up just enough to tease those deep dark lines of ink crawling over tan skin stretched tight across muscle. a single lengthy finger wrapped slow around one of your curls, twirling it deliberate, like he was deciding whether to wake you with his dick already hard in his sweats or let you sleep a little longer.

he leaned down, lips brushing the tip of your ear—warm breath fanning soft before the words even formed.

“get up.”

low. dripping with desire. your ear twitched against the heat of his mouth.

“hmm?” you stretched long and lazy, back arching up off the bed, ass lifting just enough to make those panties ride higher, digging deeper into the cleft. you rubbed sleepy eyes until they focused on him—tall, looming, already hard and impatient.

“i called you,” eren murmured, dropping his weight onto the edge of the mattress. back facing you for a second before he turned, green eyes locking on yours. “you didn’t answer.”

you reached out, palm sliding gentle up the broad plane of his back, rubbing slow circles. a soft smile curved your lips even half-asleep. “sorry… i had a lot of homework to catch up on.”

still laying on your stomach, cheek smushed into the pillow, curls spilling everywhere. eren just stared—eyes dark, raking over the dip of your waist, the swell of your ass, the way the cotton clung wet between your thighs from whatever dream you’d been having.

“bet so,” he said, voice rough. lengthy fingers pushed into your hair, stroking slow through the thick curls. “i like when your hair like this… all wild. messy. mine.”

he leaned in, lips pressing soft against the side of your neck—just a graze at first, then a little harder, open-mouthed, tasting the salt of your skin.

“eren.” you pushed at his chest lightly, eyes rolling even as your breath hitched. “i can’t tonight… i have a test in the morning.”

you turned slightly, rolling onto your side then pushing up until your back met the headboard, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loose around them. the motion tugged your tank higher, exposing the soft undercurve of your tits, nipples pebbled against thin fabric from the cool air and his stare.

eren leaned back a fraction, messy hair falling into his eyes as he ran lengthy fingers through it again—frustrated, needy. his hoodie rode up further, showing the sharp v of his hips disappearing into low sweats, the thick outline of his cock straining obvious against gray cotton.

he exhaled slow through his nose, jaw ticking. “you say that like i’m tryna keep you up all night.” but the way his gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower—to where your thighs pressed together, panties still wedged high—said otherwise.

you tilted your head, dimples peeking even through the sleepy pout. “you always keep me up all night, eren”

a low chuckle rumbled from his chest—dark, fond. he shifted closer, one knee pressing into the mattress so his thigh brushed yours. calloused fingers caught your chin gentle, tilting your face up.

“just one kiss then,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “promise i won’t do anything else.”

your lashes fluttered as you gently blinked, leaning in your lips brushed against his. soft at first, sleepy and sweet— but the second his tongue touched yours it turned hungry and possessive like he’d been starving for it since he walked through the door. he groaned low into your mouth, hand sliding to the nape of your neck, fingers knotting in curls to hold you there.

when you finally pulled back. breathless, lips a little plump and shiny—he rested his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded, green gone dark and molten.

“i really missed you.” his voice was softer now, a little needy, almost vulnerable in the way only you ever got to hear.

you pecked his lips quick, smiling sleepy against them. “i missed you too, eren.”

he gave a mischievous little smile, before grabbing your hand and guiding it down slow. your palm met the impatient, rock-hard bulge straining against his cotton sweats. thick, hot, throbbing under your fingers even through the fabric. he pressed your hand firmer, letting you feel every inch of how much he’d been aching for you.

“no,” he rasped, voice dropping lower, rougher. “i really missed you.”

your lashes fluttered against his cheek, eyes so close you could see the flecks of gold in those hungry green lenses, the way his pupils had blown wide just from your touch. heat bloomed fast between your thighs, panties already clinging damp again from earlier dreams and now from the way he was looking at you—like he wanted to devour you whole and then some.

you didn’t pull your hand away. instead your fingers curled gentle around the outline of him, stroking slow up the length through the soft cotton until he hissed through his teeth, hips twitching forward into your grip.

“eren…” your voice came out breathy, pouty, half-warning half-pleading.

he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “one kiss turned into this, baby. you gonna leave me like this?” his free hand slid up your side, thumb grazing the underside of your tit through the tank, teasing the stiff peak without mercy. “or you gonna help me out… just a little?”

your thighs pressed together on instinct, clit throbbing at the low rumble of his voice. you bit your lip, cheeks warming, knowing damn well you had a test in the morning, but also knowing that your panties were messed up right now.

“just a little?” you whispered, fingers squeezing his dick through the sweats, feeling it jump in your hand.

he groaned soft, forehead dropping to yours again. “just enough to take the edge off, baby. promise i’ll let you sleep after.”

but the way his hips rolled slow into your palm said he was already lying, and the way your body arched toward him said you didn’t mind one bit.

“okay just one time.” you leaned down against the pillow, hair messy once again against the white pillows, curls spilling wild like they’d been waiting for his hands all day. eren climbed deeper into your bed, knees sinking into the mattress as he settled between your thighs, green eyes taking in the view slow and greedy.

nipples hard and peaked against the thin tank top, poking through like little invitations. lips plump and wet from his kisses, still shiny. legs spread just enough for him to fit, thighs soft and trembling, white panties already dark at the center from how soaked you were. you were beautiful—sleepy-eyed, flushed, completely his even when you pretended you had willpower left.

he exhaled rough through his nose, hands sliding up your thighs to hook under the waistband of those panties. one quick tug and they were yanked down your legs, tossed somewhere behind him without a second thought. cool air hit your slick folds and you shivered, clit throbbing visibly under his stare.

“fuck… look at you,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “already drippin’ for me.. just from a kiss and my dick in your hand.”

you whimpered soft, hips lifting on instinct as he settled lower, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wider. he didn’t tease long— gripped the base of his cock and notched the fat head against your entrance, rubbing slow through your wetness until you were coating him glossy.

“eren…” your voice came out breathy, pouty, fingers twisting in the sheets.

he pushed in slow—inch by thick inch stretching you open until the head popped past your rim and your walls fluttered greedy around him. the angle had him sinking deep right away, bottoming out with a low groan that vibrated through your chest. your back arched sharp, tits pressing up into the tank, nipples scraping fabric as you gasped.

“this pussy so fuckin’ good…” eren’s eyes rolled back a little, lashes fluttering, before he refocused them on you. dark green blown wide with lust. he watched every twitch of your face, every tremble in your thighs.

you bit down hard on your finger to muffle the moan trying to claw out, teeth sinking into soft skin, eyes squeezed shut. the room was too quiet otherwise; your roommates could hear everything if you let go.

he grinned slow and wicked, hips rolling once more to grind even deeper. “let them hear, baby…”

the thrust punched a moan straight from your throat loud, needy, echoing off the walls before you could stop it. “eren—”

your hand flew to his abs, palm flat against the hard ridges, trying to push him back even as your hips tilted up to meet him. fingers splayed wide, nails digging in just enough to leave faint crescents.

“i’m givin’ you too much dick?” he rasped, voice rough and teasing. “tell me.”

he pulled back slow—almost all the way out then slammed back in deep, balls slapping wet against your ass. your walls clenched hard around him, fluttering desperate, and another whine tore from your lips.

“use your words.”

your head shook frantic, curls sticking to your cheek. “i can’t— i can’t take it.” tears gathering at the corners of your lashes.

eren bit his bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark, green eyes dark and focused, watching every twitch of your body like he was memorizing it. without a word he grabbed your thighs, big hands wrapping firm around the soft flesh—and pushed your legs up higher, folding you tighter until your knees kissed your chest and your ankles hooked against the headboard. the stretch burned sweet and sharp, locking you open, stuck, nowhere to go but deeper under him.

“oh my god—” your eyes rolled back hard, whites flashing, toes curling tight against the cool leather of the headboard. your whole body trembled like you might break under him.. pussy clenching vicious around his thick cock, walls fluttering desperate as he sank even deeper from the new angle. every inch of him dragged along that spongy spot inside, relentless, making your belly bulge just a little with how full he had you.

“fuck,” he whispered under his breath, voice cracking rough like he was trying to swallow his own moan. his hips stuttered once—then snapped forward again—deep, punishing, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder now in the small room. your tits bounced with every thrust under the shoved-up tank, nipples scraping fabric raw, and he couldn’t look away.

“look at you,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to grip your ankle against the headboard, holding you pinned while the other braced beside your head.

“takin’ all this dick like you were made for it. still sayin’ you can’t?” he rolled his hips slow, grinding deep so the base kissed your clit, making your back bow sharp off the mattress.

you sobbed soft, high and broken. nails raking down his forearms, leaving red trails over ink. “eren—too much i can’t—”

“too much?” he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, hot breath fanning over sensitive skin. “this pussy’s suckin’ me in greedy, baby. grippin’ like she don’t ever wanna let go.” another deep thrust punched the air from your lungs, your moan cracking loud enough to bounce off the walls again. “yeah… that’s it. let it out. let ‘em all hear how good i’m fuckin’ you.”

your thighs quivered hard against his big hands, toes curling tight against the headboard, eyes rolling back slow and helpless until all you saw was white sparks behind your lids.

you were getting fucked dumb! brain melted to sweet sticky nothing, that test in the morning definitely gonna be an F, no question. your eyebrows slouched pitiful, lips parted around broken little gasps as he kept rubbing places deep inside that only he could reach, the fat head of his cock dragging slow over that spongy spot every time he pulled out then slammed back in.

your pussy clenched greedy around every curve, every thick vein pulsing along his length, sucking him deeper like she never wanted him to leave. slick sounds filled the room—wet, obscene, sloppy—mixed with the sharp slap of his hips against your ass and your high, cracked whimpers.

“you like how i’m fuckin’ you?” eren tilted his head, messy hair damp and clinging to his forehead, green eyes dark and locked on your face like he needed to watch every second of you falling apart.

your hands pressed weak against his chest, nails digging into hard muscle, trying to ground yourself but only making him groan low when you scratched. “y-yes—” your voice cracked high and needy, breaking on the syllable as he thrusted deeper, harder, bottoming out so rough your whole body jolted.

he grinned wicked, proud! hips rolling in tight circles to grind the base against your swollen clit, making your back bow sharp off the mattress. “yeah you do,” he rasped, voice rough and wrecked. “this tight pussy grippin’ me like she never wants me to leave—creamin’ all over my dick, baby… fuck.”

you whined softly, little tears running down your face, curls sticking everywhere, your walls fluttered tightly around him, uncontrollably— every time he dragged out and snapped back in.

“please eren—” you whined soft, voice cracking high and needy, hips twitching like you wanted to change positions, or even just drop to your knees and suck his dick until he spilled down your throat instead of ruining you like this

“please what?” he leaned down, chest pressing your folded thighs wider, folding you tighter until the stretch burned sweet and sharp, every thrust hitting deeper, hitting places that made your eyes roll and your toes cramp. lips brushed your ear, hot and wet, breath fanning over sensitive skin. “please slower? or please fuck you stupid ‘til you can’t remember shit in the mornin’?”

another deep stroke punched the air from your lungs, your moan cracking loud—echoing off the walls again—and he didn’t let up. thumb found your clit, rubbing fast messy circles while he pounded relentless, the wet gluck-gluck-gluck of your pussy swallowing him filling the quiet room, shamelessly.

“i’m gonna cum.” you whimpered, voice breaking, nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails over ink. “i can’t—i can’t stop.” the words slurred out breathy, desperate, hips bucking up to meet him even as tears kept slipping.

“then don’t.” he growled low, hips stuttering as his own edge built fast and vicious. “cum on this dick, baby. soak me. let me feel that pussy push me out.”

your body seized, back bowing as high as the folded position allowed, pussy clamping down rhythmic and hard around every thick inch of him, gushing slick heat that coated his cock and dripped messy to the sheets beneath you. the moan tore from your throat loud and unrestrained, high broken needy, while waves crashed through you, thighs trembling, vision blurring white at the edges.

eren fucked you through it, hips snapping erratic now, chasing that last edge like he couldnt stop even if he wanted to. groan muffled rough against your neck, hot and broken, as he buried deep one last time. cock throbbed thick inside you, pulsing hard, stretching your fluttering walls even wider while he spilled hot thick ropes flooding your cunt until it leaked messy around him, warm and sticky, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath your ass.

“fuck” his eyes rolled back slow, lashes fluttering, pink lips parted around the word like it punched out of him. his whole body tensed, abs flexing hard under your nails, thighs trembling against yours, as he came undone, hips grinding deep in tight little circles to push every last drop inside you, marking you from the inside out.

you felt it all: the way his cock jumped with each spurt, the heat blooming low in your belly, the slick overflow coating your thighs and pooling under you. your pussy clenched greedy around him one last time, milking him dry, even as aftershocks rippled through you, making your toes curl against the headboard and your breath hitch in soft little sobs.

he stayed buried for a long heartbeat, breathing ragged and uneven against your collarbone, letting you feel every twitch, every pulse, until he finally eased back slow, careful, pulling out with a wet filthy sound that made your cheeks burn. thick strings of cum and your slick connected his tip to your swollen folds before snapping, dripping down your ass and onto the mattress.

eren collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush, chest heaving as he pressed soft open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your eye where tears still clung. his hand slid gentle between your thighs, not teasing, just cupping your wrecked pussy warm and grounding, thumb brushing feather-light over your clit to soothe the overstimulation.

“you okay baby” voice hoarse, wrecked, but so soft now, like the storm had passed and all that was left was him holding you.

you nodded sleepy, lashes heavy, a small smile tugging at your swollen lips even as fresh tears slipped free, not from pain, just from how good how full how completely ruined you felt. “mhm love you eren”

he hummed low in his throat, pleased possessive, lips brushing your forehead. “love you more” fingers carded gentle through your damp curls, tucking stray strands behind your ear while his other arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

the room quieted slow, your breaths syncing up, the faint creak of the bed settling, distant muffled voices from the hallway like theyd definitely heard every single filthy sound but neither of you cared anymore.

you nuzzled deeper into his neck, thighs pressing together instinctively as the last little aftershocks fluttered through you. eren kissed the top of your head, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“sleep now baby” he murmured against your hair. “i got you”

a/n: as a practiced sub, please remember that knowing your limits and negotiating boundaries are imperative. enthusiastic consent, safewords, and previously discussed, non-verbal communication are nonnegotiables for creating a safe and free environment for everyone involved. do your research, vet your play partners, and take everything seriously for your and your partner(s) safety. okay, disclaimer done! hope you enjoy <3

it’s moments like these that you really wonder what you got yourself into. memories flash of heavy discussions, negotiations, going down an entire list of kinks. things you never thought you’d touch or even get to, things you’d never even heard of before meeting the man you now know as your dom.

impact play? very interested.

breath play? slightly interested.

bathroom play? not interested. a ‘hell no’, as a matter of fact.

shibari suspension, though… open for discussion.

you wished you would’ve put ‘not interested’. the more he binds your body, checking the strength and comfort level of the rope, the more your heart races. what even is the point of this? how in the world do people even get into it? more importantly, who the fuck came up with the shit?

ony’s too busy admiring your body in his rope to notice the suspicion in your eyes. 

he’s delicate with his touch, redoing a tie if it’s even slightly out of place. he has to make sure that you’re safe and comfortable because he’s been looking forward to this for months on end. if he can use the foundation of trust that the two of you have built to help you enjoy this to the highest degree, he’s going to have you up there for as long as he can.

when he steps back to admire his work, he feels a lurch in his gut. you look downright mouthwatering, sinful, any and all of the words in his head are gone with just one look. you’re not even in the air yet and he’s deep in the trenches of gratitude that you’re letting him live his fantasies out. 

the rope design he chose accentuates your curves and his favorite features of yours. it crosses your chest, snug enough to feel like a warm hug, and decorates your torso, arms, and legs. the red rope looks so tantalizing on your skin and ony has to swallow to keep from moving too fast.

soon, you’ll be at his mercy and he’ll show his gratitude in all ways possible. 

his trance is semi-broken when he looks up and makes eye contact with you, seeing the trepidation in your gaze. the man steps forward to grip your hips in his hands, eyes low lidded when he murmurs to you, “relax, baby. take some breaths. this is only gone be good if you trust me, yeah? you trust me?”

“course I do. just don’t know if I trust this rope,” you mumble with a tug of the line. “what if I fall? you gone catch me or am I just supposed to hope this padding will keep me from breakin’ my ass? and what if I get anxious?”

“not gonna fall, love. get that out your head. look,” he responds, lifting his arms to grab on tight to the rope. he lifts his own body up with ease, the lining holding him up without a trace of an issue. it eases you just so, but the determination in his eyes does most of the work. if there’s anything you’ve learned in the months you’ve spent exploring this dynamic, it’s that you can trust this man.

he lowers himself as he continues to explain, “I have safety shears right here on the table. if at any point you want to get down or start to panic, I’ll get you out of there. just remember to breathe.”

“if you say so,” you mumble. you’re still holding on tightly to the rope, although the tension in your body lessens. “just… take care of me, okay?”

“always do. I got you. what’s your color?”

“...green.”

“don’t lie to me, baby. we’re not just doin’ this for me. I need to know how you actually feel so I can adjust or let you out. this is new for us and I’m gonna make sure my lady is comfortable. so what’s your color?”

“yellow,” you mumble. “I’m just being dramatic, though—”

“you’re literally about to be suspended from the floor, ion think that’s dramatic at all. stop pressurin’ yourself. take a deep breath and relax as much as you can.” you follow his instructions to the best of your ability, nibbling on your bottom lip. “we’ll take it slow. step by step, okay? we’ll take some time so you feel secure in the harness.”

he leans to capture your lips with his, hands falling to rest on your hips. tracing soft circles there, he eases you more and more with his touch. when he can feel the tension lessen in your body, he pulls you into him.

“lean your weight on me,” he breathes out softly. one hand shifts to cradle your nape, the other rounding to rest on your back with just enough pressure to keep you against him. “sink into me, baby. let me have you.”

his hold is like home. he’s all broad shoulders and strength, a safe space for you to completely let go. even with the nerves still tickling at your belly, months of learning each others’ bodies and trust building has you sinking into that lovely headspace. your worries start to slip away, your body going lax and mind easing. 

“there you go,” he encourages. he leans back just slightly, making it easier for him to support your weight. “I got you. always got you.”

a soft breath escapes you, and it takes you a minute to realize that he’s gently swaying side to side. you’re already starting to feel soothed and floaty. your body feels heavy.

“feel good?” he asks quietly. you can only answer with a small hum, making him smile. 

he loves when you just let go for him. you’re usually so damn tense. as your dom, he makes it his mission to get you fully relaxed. “good. you ready?” when he receives another nod in return, he smiles to himself. “okay. keep your eyes closed. just lean back as far as you can. I’ll keep hold of you.”

your breath hitches as you start to lean back. this isn’t the hard part because you know ony will catch you, but when you start to lean back farther and farther, you hesitate. you’re back as far as you can, the rope harness tugging from the tension.

“just stay here for a while,” he murmurs, still cradling you in his arms. he starts to sway again and your hands fly to his biceps for purchase. “it’s okay. it’s okay, love, I got you. I promise you safe.”

after a while, you start to relax once more. ony just keeps holding you close.

“you ready?” he asks quietly. 

“swear I’m not gone fall?”

“I got you. trust me.”

with one final nod, he directs you to lean back more. you squeal as your feet are swept from under you, the rope securely holding you from the ceiling. “breeathe, baby, breathe,” he croons soothingly, hands on your body to keep you from swinging too much. “you know I got you. not gone let nothin’ happen to you.”

you force yourself to take deep breaths, gut dipping like you drove over a hill too fast. “ony,” you murmur nervously. t’s an unfamiliar sensation. he doesn’t say anything, just smooths his hands over your thighs as he lets out a breath. you look so beautiful, like an angel laid out just for him. he can only pray for forgiveness for the things he’s about to do to you.

he starts to take deep breaths and you know it’s a silent cue to focus on your breathing. slowly, in and out, as deep as you can. the shaking of your hands starts to lesson, your mind slowing its intense and anxious thoughts. soon, you start to drop in your body as you keep eye contact with him.

he’s silently encouraging you, eyes full of reassurance as he keeps his hold on your body. his eyes say what he’s been expressing, ‘I got you. I always got you. relax for me.’ it works wonders for your beating heart, reminding you of how much you can trust him in this moment.

he gives a dazed smile as he watches you sink back into subspace, your eyes lowering and breath deepening. this is his favorite part, watching you become his. he gets such a damn thrill being your pillar, being the only person that holds you down when you start to float. your anchor, your man. he loves helping you reach that nirvana.

”that’s perfect, baby,” he says softly. you whine when his hands slide up your thighs and to your torso, touch heightened in your vulnerable state. “how the ropes feel?”

you don’t answer immediately because you’re still figuring it out. it’s… different. you’ve been in his rope before, felt how it was so ironically freeing. but being in his rope and and off the ground, the strength of the rope supporting you, is more intense. your muscles go slack, eyes glazing over.

ony just watches you as you adjust, eyes running up and down the length of your body. he’s so in love, fuck. he’s never felt this way about a sub before, never wanted to do and give everything he can to keep you satisfied and safe and in that pretty little daze you both love so much.

”talk to me, love. let me know how you’re feeling.”

you don’t know why, but you can’t respond. it’s just… perfect. you let your head lull back, eyes closing. it feels like you’re flying, flying above all your problems and stress. it’s a feeling that you can’t get enough of. 

“color, baby. check in with me.”

with a sigh and a hum, you murmur a quiet, “green.” your voice is sluggish, similar to when you’re right on the edge of sleep. ony thinks this might be the most relaxed you’ve ever been in a scene, and damn is he giddy about it.

”perfect,” he breathes. “I’m gonna start swayin’ you a lil, okay?”

he’s gentle with his approach, hands still on you for support. the second you start to sway, you let out a breathy hum. “s’good,” you murmur. your eyes are surprisingly still closed, not even showing signs of anxiety. you’re just lax.

”yeah?” ony smiles. “you ready for more?”

that gets your eyes to peek open. “more?”

he nods, one hand moving from you to the table he keeps nearby. his hand raises to show you the item: your favorite flogger. the dazed smile he receives in return makes his gut jump. the way you trust him is just so… 

it really gets to him.

”let’s get started, baby. remember your safe word. I’ll check in with colors too. and if you can’t talk, just tap me five times. can you do that?”

”I’ll do whatever for you,” you sigh, now in the deepest depths of your submission. if he wasn’t so focused on your experience, his eyes would be rolling back. 

“my perfect girl,” he croons, trailing the tassels of the flogger up your leg. it tickles just a little. goosebumps start to raise on your skin. he traces the lines of your body, watching your skin prickle. he loves to play your body like an instrument, your responses just make his heart race.

with a swing of his wrist, ony brings the flogger down against your skin. it stings only slightly, a warm up. you exhale in response, your core already responding. “more,” you quietly encourage. 

ony doesn’t have to be told twice. he brings the flogger against your skin over and over, still at the same strength. he slowly but surely turns the heat up, your gasps of pleasure egging him on. one particular swing is sure to leave a mark, but the way your breath stutters reassures him that you have no complaints.

”color, baby.”

”green. please don’t stop.”

”I’ve got more for you, love. don’t worry,” he chuckles. he’s trying to hide his own arousal, but every second of watching you at your most relaxed is doing something to his brain.

his wrist swings faster, flogger meeting your body rougher. your breathing deepens, warmth between your thighs growing by the second. 

“you so fuckin’ beautiful like this, mama,” ony rasps. he watches as your skin reddens, continuing to swing his wrist. smack, smack, smack. “so perfect, so pretty in my rope. don’ so good for me.” 

his words, his touch, everything is doing you in. you can’t even think about your earlier trepidation. “onyyy, more,” you whine. the ache between your legs is unbearable and it’s taking over your senses. ony quickly moves to get you what you need. when you hear a familiar buzz, you pick your head up to look. 

“got you, mama. relax.” ony meets your gaze with a smirk as he hooks one of your legs over his shoulders. he’s holding a wand in his hand, lowest setting on, but when he sees just how wet you are, his own breath stutters. he needs a change of plans. “holon’.”

he discards the wand back onto the table, eyes glazed over as he grips your ass from underneath. he crouches just enough to meet your lower half, lifting you up to him. tongue tracing shapes up your inner thigh and around your core, he wraps one arm around your thigh so his fingers can spread you apart.

he doesn’t say a word, just dips his head down to slurp up your clit.

”oh, fuck,” you whimper, low eyes blinking down at him as he indulges in his favorite treat. his eyes are closed as he savors you, getting lost in the taste. humming, groaning, barely containing himself as he suckles on your clit. he shakes his head, wanting you to feel him. 

”shit, ony,” you moan. your hands grip the rope holding you up tight and you try not to clamp your legs around his head. you know how he gets when you interrupt his meal. 

you try to grind into his mouth, but with your position and his grip, you can’t do much. you just let him do what makes him happy, what makes him whole: serving your body with everything in him.

he pulls back to kiss on your inner thighs, maneuvering his hand so he can slide his fingers into your warmth. his eyes travel from your pussy and up your body, watching the sweat bead and your body move with the pleasure. 

“look at you, just meltin’ at my touch. I’m the only one that sees you like this, right? can’t nobody touch you like this. nobody can pleasure you like I can and I fuckin’ love it.”

your head lulls back as you just stay there for his intentions. you can’t do anything but take what he’s giving you, whining and moaning, breath bumping until you release all over his fingers.

the sight is heaven to ony, but…

”not enough,” ony huffs, gently removing his fingers. he slowly lowers you, letting you sway in the protective hold of the suspension. he shuffles away and all you can hear for a moment is him tinkering around with something.

when he returns, he has the wand in his hand again, but more rope as well. he’s got that focused look in his eye, the look he gets when he’s got a mission on his mind. ony makes quick work, using the rope to fasten the wand directly onto your pussy.

”gonna make you feel so good, baby. just wait,” he exhales. 

you can tell this is really doing it for him with the way he can’t keep his eyes or hands off of you. he’s dazed himself, mind full of ways to make you cry out in pleasure. you’re sure every one of them will bring you to your knees tonight.

when the buzz starts, your toes curl immediately. you can feel the vibrations reverberating through your body, the direct contact an instant pleasure. but the way the wand vibrates the rope against your skin? cherry on top.

ony watches with bated breath as your jaw drops. your body tenses, your face scrunches up, and he can’t help but dip his head down so his lips can close around your nipple. his hand raises to the alternate one, pinching softly before he begins to massage your chest.

your breathing is dragging, body buzzing at all of the senstions. you feel like you’re just floating in a bed of pleasure, inescapable. (although you’d never want to leave.) the second orgasm of the night builds from the depth of your core and you can almost feel your soul escaping.

you gasp deep at the mix of sensations, legs starting to tremble. it’s too quick after the first, making you see stars and feel like you almost have whiplash. he just hums around your nipple, wordlessly encouraging you through everything you’re experiencing.

but ony’s not done yet.

he lowers the level of the wand, but it stays on. his eyes are glazed and dark as he looks at you, completely smitten and drunk off of your pleasure. “color,” he rasps. even through his spaced out state, he’s still in full control of the situation and overly aware of you.

”green,” you whisper. you can’t muster the voice to speak louder, but you can’t deny that you want more. you’re absolutely wrecked, but you’ve never been happier.

”that’s my girl.” he seals to praise with a kiss, hand cradling the back of your head to lift your lips to his. it’s deep and reverent, a silent expression of gratitude for trusting him so much.

as he steps away again, the low hum of the wand is still stimulating you. it keeps you breathless and weak, your body starting to shake, and the sway of your body only adds to the sense of hypnosis you’re feeling. 

ony returns to see you completely fucked out, murmuring unintelligible things and drooling just slightly. he wants to drop to his knees out of sheer appreciation for the sight, taking a mental picture he hopes to hold onto forever.

”just perfect. so perfect, I can’t even deal with the shit,” he murmurs reverently. reaching to tenderly wipe at the drool on your chin, he can’t help but bring his lips to yours again and again and again. “baby, you’re so beautiful. you okay? can you talk?”

you blink slowly; once, twice, then three times. ‘I’m okay. I want more. I love you.’

”god, I love you so much. I’d give you the world if I could.”

he steps away again, but not before caressing your cheek as he just stares at you. love in his eyes, arousal in his gut.

when he comes back, he’s holding an unlit candle. wax is pooled in the middle, and you know what’s coming next. if you weren’t so dazed, you’d squeal in excitement.

candle in one hand and wand remote in the other, ony slowly increases the intensity of the vibrator. your whimpers and mewls only encourage him, and he starts to pour the warm wax onto the skin of your stomach.

your head falls back with a broken moan, toes almost cramping from how much they’ve been curled in the session.

”painting my pretty lady,” ony murmurs breathlessly. he watches every reaction, every jump of your stomach, every curl of your hips. he drinks up everything with eyes locked on you like glue.

this is heaven to him. this is art. getting to make you writhe in pleasure, bringing you to a state of pure bliss. it’s a blessing that you trust him so much. the two of you have worked so hard for moments like these. 

he continues to pour the wax in the spots he knows you love most: the mounds of your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, still slightly sore from the flogger. the way the wax looks on top of the welts makes ony’s brain melt even more.

all the while, the double stimulation of the wax and wand is almost too much. you can feel him turn it up more, bit by bit, and at this point you’re foaming at the mouth. ony can’t make out any of the words you’re slurring apart from ’i love you’ and ’so good’, and he’s almost just as dazed as you are without even touching himself. 

he can tell you’re right on the edge, and he can also tell that this will be the last release before you’re out of commission. he drops wax on a few more spots, biting his lip as he watches how you arch into it and not away from it. 

quickly setting the candle down, he makes quick work of getting back into your earlier positioning: your leg hooked over his shoulder, his hand keeping you steady, but his other clasps around your foot. he brings it to his mouth. kissing up your pretty ankle and foot until he sucks your toes in his mouth. 

and god, that’s all it takes. suddenly you’re gushing all over him, voice a broken but high pitched shriek as you make a mess of his face. ony just groans and lets it wash over him, eyes closing as he basks in his reward. 

you babble and cry out as you’re hit with wave after wave of unending pleasure, the wand still buzzing happily against you, and you damn near kick ony in the face when the overstimulation becomes too much.

he just chuckles breathlessly and releases your foot. still keeping a grip on your body,  he uses the lever to gently lower you down to the padded ground. he drops to his knees, something he’s always willing to do for you, and his hand travels down his torso to wrap around himself. 

eyes still on you as you start to jerk and twist, it’s not long before he’s spilling all over your chest and torso, adding to the already beautiful picture of you still wrapped in his rope, covered in small welts and wax.

a/n: meh, wanted to challenge myself. shibari suspension’s always been a dream of mine. how’d you like it, yes no maybe so? feedback always welcome and wanted <3