octopi 🐙

Maybe it was his looks—dark, long midnight hair that fell past his shoulders, wafting with the scent of his cologne that was a mixture of patchouli and tobacco. The fullness of his eyebrows that furrowed in a natural glare, piercing within his left side glinting each time he frowned. Big, broad body that was inked up like a flash sheet at a tattoo shop, just coaxing you in.

But no, it was more than that. It was the cadence of his deep voice, the puff of smoke that released his full lips with every cigarette he smoked, the way his large palms raked through his hair when he was frustrated—the way he peppered you in affection despite his attitude, the way he fucked you despite his attitude, the way he loved you despite his attitude, the way he protected you despite his attitude—He was yours, as you were his. 

Of course you had to marry him. 

But with every love, came a price. A sacrifice. One thing you knew about your fiancé, as much as he worshipped the ground you walked on? He always told you where you were wrong. 

Back to the point of enjoying Sundays, you’d read a new scripture from your Bible, closing it with a soft hum as you finished. Your eyes flickered to the door leading downstairs—his territory, never yours. The industrial architecture of your condo was built by the hands of your fiancè, who’d structured the second level to be the house itself—sleek black interior, soft dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling to give a more vintage feel. He’d known your wants of a home that looked as if you lived in New York, as you were settled within the city of New Orleans. 

The first floor, a garage. Your fiancè spent most of his time down there—customizing, repairing, or maintaining vehicles brought to him as downtown's most known mechanic. You were used to the rumble of alternative metal music trembling the walls upstairs as he worked, and oftentimes you could endure it—but at this moment? Not so much. 

The deep red slip dress you wear flows on your body perfectly, the round of your ass peeking from the bottom as you stand within the kitchen—your curls clasped onto a dark cherry claw clip, Vera Wang glasses tilting at the bridge of your freckled nose, heart shaped engagement ring shining on your finger like a silver heartbeat.  

Palm wrapping along the knob of the garage door, a whoosh of motor oil consuming your nose as you pad your feet down each step—and there he was. 

My Own Summer, by DEFTONES echoed within the walls of the halfway opened garage, sun of the morning attempting to peek in from under. His back was facing you, tattoos sunken into his entire upper body—black ink traced beneath the white wife beater he wears, having a bit of oil smudged across the material. His arms flexed as he kneeled further into the hood of a Ford F250, hair draped in a messy tie at the back of his head.

“Workin’ hard?” 

He didn’t even flinch—he could always tell when you were near.

“‘Truck is old as hell,” he grunts, “My customers expectin’ a miracle.” 

His fingers tugged at the bolts within the truck’s hood, the low murmur of a cigarette hung between his lips as he spoke to you.

You hum, “You’ve always been good with your hands—I’m sure you can work somethin’ out.”

A puff of smoke, and then, a chuckle. 

“Babydoll,” he husks, “Always the optimistic one.” 

Hazel irises flick up, taking his hands away from the hood.

“You hate comin’ down here. You’ alright?”

“Just missed you.”

He was a silent killer, undressing you with his vision in milliseconds. They traced everywhere—the dark tresses of your curls, your heart shaped lips, snubbed nose and deep brown freckles on your caramel face—your nipples mirror your complexion through the thin cotton material of your slip, curved figure full as if you’d given birth.

He could damn near smell it on you, that you wanted something. 

“‘Missed me, huh?” his voice lowering, “You sure?”

Your glasses slide a bit lower on your nose, an annoying habit as you push them up—you ask in the most innocent way, “Want some company?”

“C’mere.”

You make your way over to him, giggling softly as he instantly cuffs you by the fat of your ass. Your arms wrap along his neck, his large frame looming as he has to lower himself a bit to your comfort. 

Your nose scrunches from the smoke that hazes against your face, “You have to do that this early in the morning?”

He smirks down at your little scrunch. That only makes him pull you closer, hands squeezing your flesh through the slip, the other pulling his cigarette for another puff.

“Open.” 

Your mouth obeyed, parting your lips for him. He flicks his ashy cigarette between finger and thumb, blowing a thick plume of smoke at you—the puff of sharp smoke billows into your mouth, long lashes fluttering against your cheeks in return.

You take the bud from him, “You need to quit.” 

“‘Gives me a big knoggin’,” he exhales, “You gon’ smoke it, or keep talkin’ shit?”

A roll to your eyes comes at that. You place it back between his lips, tightening your arms around his neck as you question, “Did you sleep well?”

“Slept just fine, darlin’,” he pauses, taking another puff, “You?”

“Like a baby,” you inhale the scent of his cologne, exhaling as you say, “Come upstairs. I made breakfast.”

“Oh?” he cocks an eyebrow, “You made breakfast?” 

He’s already pulling you away from the truck, keeping an arm secured around your waist as his free hand shuts off the music from the speakers. 

“Didn’t burn anythin’, did you?”

“I poisoned it.”

He could feel your body going to pull away, but a grunt has him tighten his arm around you, making you grin as you try to hide your amusement.

“Where’re you goin’?” 

He spanks your ass, “What happened to breakfast, huh? Not gonna’ feed a growin’ man?”

“Be nice, Suguru,” you pout, “I’m sensitive.”

“You’re a brat is what you are,” he counters, clutching your chin.

When he sees the genuine frown on your lips, he dips his mouth down—his hair nearly brushed against the cheeks of your face as he murmurs, “I’m sorry.” 

His grip then softens on your jaw, “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, doll,” he assures, “I promise.” 

It was rare to get an apology out of him. Not like this, at least. You figured, maybe he really was in a good mood.

“‘S okay—I love you, bunny.” 

You called him by a nickname that wasn’t his favorite, something you found yourself saying as he showed his sweet side. But of course, your tongue laps out for a kiss that might’ve overshadowed that.

A mixture of a groan and huff follows as one hand tangled into your dark tendrils, holding you still as he slotted his mouth against yours in return. He loved you right back.

Suguru then carried you up the stairs as he closed the door with his foot, attempting to persuade you into taking a shower with him before he ate breakfast. He promised kisses, and much more, but you were more into journaling to accept such an exciting offer. So, he promised to see you after.

You’d made him French toast sprinkled in sugar powder, scrambled eggs and bacon alongside a cup of coffee. When you hear the hefty thump of his returning steps, his long hair was now damp from washing it, grey tee snug on his muscular upper body, enhancing the ink on his ivory complexion—your left hand continuously scribbled off, full lips twisting a straw in between as you drank your morning matcha. 

“You’re too good to me, you know that?”

You hear that grunt before you feel it, a soft hum sounding from your nose as you feel his arms wrap along your hips from behind. The scent of his cologne masks your senses as he buries his face within your neck, smelling the vanilla oil you dabbed along it.

“I’m still gon’ be good after I tell you there was no pancake batter?”

You lean into him, continuously writing cursive letters on paper, “You forgot to pick some up last night.” 

“You forgot to remind me.”

His nose nuzzled into the space of your neck, inhaling the rice milk scented soap, a deep sense of satisfaction settling within his chest.

“What’re you writin’?” he murmured, attempting to peek at the open journal.

“You know my rule—no peeking,” You reach forward, tugging a newspaper behind yourself, “Go eat.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grumbles, pressing one final kiss to the side of your neck, before begrudgingly pulling away. 

Suguru’s broad shoulders stretched against the fabric of his shirt, emphasizing the strength beneath—He wore it like a second skin, his physique evident through every stitch—The dark material hugged tight around his frame, matching sweatpants giving no modesty as you could easily find the weight ot his dick between his spread legs. The chair groaned under his body, his imposing presence making it seem almost miniature in comparison. 

Even when he was eating, he was loud, taking huge bites out of the French toast, food crunching between his teeth before he washed it down with a swig of coffee. The newspaper you offered to him was already sprawled open, fingers flipping through the pages as he ate.

“Cat stuck in a tree?” You tease, taking another sip of your matcha, “What’s in the news today?”

“Funny,” he sarcastically drawls, completely engrossed in the section he reads, “Shooting,” he then mumbled, “Down by the Garden District. Three dead, one injured.” 

He pauses, expression sobering.

“They were kids, Baby. Not even twenty yet.”

“Jesus,” you sigh, “By the Garden District? You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he confirms, “It was a drive-by, happened around two in the mornin’. Probably some college kids fuckin’ around.”

“How’s your parents’ market doing Uptown?” You question, your voice carrying more concern, “Any trouble around there?”

“Uptown’s fine,” he assures, his tone firm as he shakes his head, “They’re always busy. Nothin’ too bad happens in the gentrified areas, you know that.”

You have the urge to feel his touch at your anxiety—you’re walking over to where he sits, wrapping your arms along his shoulders from behind—your palm slides across his hair, “I’m not so sure—somewhere like the Garden District having crime? It’s gettin’ scary being here.”

The second you made contact, he was leaning back into your front, allowing you to run your fingers through his hair.

“It’s always been scary,” he points out. 

Suguru’s free hand settles along your forearm, anchoring you close against his back. His thumb rubbed a soothing circle against your skin as he continued eating. 

“That’s why we live in Lakeview—I got you, remember? You’re safe, stop worryin’.”

This seemed like a good transition into what you really wanted to bring up. 

You peck the side of his face as you lean forward, right against his ear as you hum, “‘Wasn’t really worried about me.”

You give it a second of silence, “I spoke to my parents today.”

“You should talk to them. It’s First Sunday.” 

Okay, here was the thing. Your parents lived about twenty minutes away from you—but it’s not like they knew that. You’d run away from a pious environment years ago like a thief in the night, going a long time without talking to your family. Despite the resentment you held, Suguru’s Japanese background made him an extremely prideful man—keeping a bond with your family was important regardless of the issues you had with them, he said. 

Your voice draws a bit of irritation, “I’m shocked you’re pining for them, considering they don’t know you.”

“You chose to hide me from your family. Not the other way around.”

You frown, “I have my reasons, Suguru. You know that.”

“What’s the excuse? You haven’t even told them we’re about to get married, ‘cause what? The shit isn’t happening in some church with a pastor?” 

Yup, there it was.

Growing up in a religious home the way you did was overbearing, overwhelming, and closed you off to the life you could’ve had as a young adult. It created a resentment of others not like you, with your parents, with God, and kept you entirely shelled up until your late twenties. 

Eventually you found your way back to the Bible. Meeting Suguru wasn’t too long after, who was nothing like you—being an Asian man growing up in Louisiana, his parents were different from the traditional culture they provided back home. With that insouciant upbringing, your fiancé was in fact atheist, and had no belief of a man up above. 

It caused a lot of disagreements between you two when it came to certain topics—but you were always understanding of each other in the end, and he always appreciated your prayer over him, no matter what he felt about it. 

But this wasn’t about how you felt—your domineering parents were the concern when it came to you being married, and although you did a good job of keeping your life private—this time, you wanted them to be included. Their blessing, essentially. 

But that didn’t come too easy when you had a man that didn’t think God was in between your relationship, or parents that seemed to think otherwise.

Your arms slide from his chest, “I’m gonna go finish writing in the room.”

“So you’re mad now?”

You’re nearly halfway down the hall as you hear him call, “You walkin’ away from me?” 

That had you turn around, “Why are you tryna’ make me do this? You want me to be good with my parents, but you refuse to not bring up the fact that you’re atheist, knowing they’re gonna have a problem with that!”

“I don’t need your parents' approval. I wouldn’t give a fuck whether they accepted me or not,” he reminds you, “This marriage is between you and me—but I know how you feel about keepin’ this from them.”

You frown, “And that’s not what you’re seeming to understand, Getou. They’re not gonna accept this at all if they hear something like that.”

“So I’m Getou now?” 

He was exhausted with this ongoing argument, the same one you’ve both had numerous times over. The subject was a delicate balancing act, teetering on the edge of the emotional. No matter how many times you tried to find a resolution, it always ended up in a heated discussion.

“You think I don’t know my own parents?” 

“Baby—for so long, all you’ve ever wanted to do is mend shit with them.” 

“It’s not just about me, Suguru!” you exclaim, cutting him off, “This affects us both—“ 

“I don’t need no blessing. I’d kill for you, die for you. None of that has changed since the day we met.”

Your jaw clenches at his words.

You sigh, “All I’m asking is that you not bring all that up to them, Suguru. Why do you have to be so prideful?”

“Prideful?”

His jaw was now clenching in return. 

“The shit is called honesty—Somethin’ you’ve already failed to do by keeping this from them. Is it prideful to not want to change who I am? Me being atheist' isn't gonna be the first topic of conversation.”

“It’s prideful when you have to rub it in somebody’s face,” you cross your arms over your chest, “What would you get out of that argument?”

“You think I’m tryna’ go there intentionally startin’ an argument? That’s what you think?”

Your shoulders slouch,  “I didn’t say that, Suguru.”

The way you soften your tone had him releasing the built up tension in his own jaw, hazel irises following your form. He huffs, standing from the chair to cross his arms over his chest as well. 

“Let’s talk, baby. I’m not tryna’ argue,” his voice is just above a murmur—softer.

“I’m saying—“

You halt, your fingers fidgeting against your forearms. His eyebrow piercing shifts, sculpted face watching you, anticipating the rest of your sentence.

“My parents are strict. You know that. I’m trying to learn to forgive them and myself for the distance we have, and upsetting them isn’t gonna help the situation. I respect your morals, you know that. But they won’t. And the one thing I want is for them to love you just as much as I do.”

He couldn’t stay away from you any longer, taking a step closer. 

“…They don’t gotta’ love me,” he finally murmurs, “You do. That’s all I need. I’m not tryna’ cause trouble between you and your parents, baby—I’d never do that. But I’m a grown ass man, and I’m not gonna’ put up a front for anybody.” 

This wasn’t necessarily the answer you wanted—but one thing about your fiancé, he loved you more than the world, and he loved himself enough to be true to his word. 

Your arms wrap around his hips, burying yourself within his chest as you exhale, “You’re warm.”

“Warm?” he repeats, a chuckle escaping him as his arms wrap tight around your shoulders, “You’re always cold.” 

You give yourself a moment of silence, just being with him. 

“They wanna meet you.” 

“When?” 

“…Tonight?”

Suguru’s body tenses.

“They said First Sunday would be a good time to bless our relationship, pray over new beginnings, stuff like that—I told them okay,” you rush by your own words, as if you didn’t know what his reaction would be. 

And in return, your fiancé said—

“Shit.”

A couple of hours had gone by, and you were now sitting at the edge of the bed, watching Suguru swim through his articles of clothing as you tried to find something—presentable.

You shook your head, “Absolutely nothing short sleeved. You look like you’re in the Yakuza.” 

He had been attempting to pull on a white tee, which you immediately tugged off his arms, tossing the material aside, “Next.”

“You sayin’ I don’t look presentable?” 

“I’m saying I need you to look less like a bad boy,” you mutter, swimming your arms through his clothes on the floor—you stop, “How about a V—neck sweater, yeah? Does that say sweet boy?” 

“I could still fuck you in a V—neck.”

You glare, “Are you trying to help? Or just be a smart ass?”

“Help.”

The best thing you could find was a long sleeve black tee, a sigh pulling at your lips as you question, “Got any slacks?”

“Did you forget everythin’ ‘bout me right at this moment? Slacks?”

“Suguru,” you whine, “Please just help me.”

The sound of your whine has him suck his teeth, pushing himself off the wall to begin rummaging through the clothing piled along the floor. 

He crouched down to where the pants were, pulling out a pair of dark jeans as he tossed them on the bed, “That’s all I got, baby.”

The outfit you had to settle on was a long sleeve that unfortunately clung to his muscular build, equally dark jeans, boots and a belt along his waist. 

Suguru stood below the ventilation in your bathroom as he lit a cigarette, leaning his head back as you attempted to brush his hair up into a more neat bun. When your eyes flicker to him in the mirror, the sight of smoke exhaling from his full lips, his Adam’s apple throbbing beneath the tattoos on his neck—you nearly facepalm yourself, murmuring, “This is hopeless.”

“Why are we even dressin’ nice? We’re sittin’ at the dinner table—or would you just be happier if I got naked?”

“I’m ignoring you,” you deadpan, “Just go sit on the bed while I get ready. Can you do that? And not make fun of me?”

“Gotta’ give me a kiss, bunny.”

He called you that in return when you were the opposite of sweet. 

“And then you’ll leave me alone?”

“Promise.” 

A palm comes to grab your chin, thumb gently grazing along your bottom lip as he plants his mouth against yours, “You’re cute.”

“I bet I’ll be adorable once I put you in a chokehold.”

The unfortunate issue was that you also didn’t have the best clothes to see your parents. So you settled for a black halter top secured by one shoulder, strings tying the material to your elongated waist similar to a corset, jeans molding your full hips, heels on your French tipped toes to pull the look together. You decided not to go heavy on the makeup today, your freckles sprucing heavily upon your nose—curls spiraling around your face, enhancing the natural flush of your caramel cheeks. 

You did a spin within the mirror as you called out, “Baby? You like it?”

His eyes were already locked onto you the second you emerged from the bathroom, scanning over your curves clad in the form fitting material. A slight nod of his head comes in response, hands buried deep within his pockets, “You look good, pretty girl."

“Aww—you’re so sweet today,” you pout, hearing his grunt as you plop down onto his lap. 

You hold his cheeks within your palms, “Today’s gonna be a good day, right?”

“Best day of my life.”

“Mhmm—And you’ll be good today?” You kneel your forehead against his, “‘Cause you love me?”

“You know I’m always good,” he murmured against your lips, a smirk at his mouth, “You doubtin’ me?” 

“Maybe a little.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

The Garden District was one of the most picturesque areas in all of New Orleans, situated in the heart of the city. Known for its nineteenth century architecture, the neighborhood is filled with the smell of freshly cut flowers and the sight of grand gardens—hence the name. The houses were known for being beautiful, almost like works of art themselves. 

Your fiancè leaned back against the seat of his black Subaru, twisting the wheel effortlessly as his GPS took him in the direction of a gated house—no, a mansion. 

“Damn,” Suguru murmurs, eyes peering up as he pulls in the circular driveway of the home, the outside of the house looking like something out of a movie. The mansion was made of bricks and granite, surrounded by massive oak trees sitting on a perfectly manicured lawn.

You sigh to yourself, “The fortunes of being a well known pastor.”

“You sure he ain’t a drug lord and just ‘kept it from you?”

“Suguru.” 

“Damn, tough crowd.”

An older woman wearing a lemon patterned dress exits the house, hands clapping together when she sees the two of you stepping out the car. 

“You made it!” 

The woman’s voice was laced with a distinct creole accent.

You shriek, wrapping your arms around the neck of your family’s housekeeper—Hazel, who’d been in the house as long as you’d been born.

“I’ve missed you,” you sigh, squeezing her tighter, “And your delicious cooking.”

“I’ve missed you too, baby,” she returns the hug with a laugh, clucking as her hands rest against your shoulders, “Have you been treating yourself? You look wonderful,” she playfully taps the fullness of your hips, laughing once more.

The elder woman’s gaze shifted to your fiancé, dark brown eyes trailing over his built figure, “And you’re the young man who’s stolen my sweet babydoll away, ain’t you?” 

Despite being a towering figure looming over the smaller women, a boyish grin spread along his face, gauges within his ears swinging as he extended a large palm for her to take, “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” 

Hazel nearly yanks him down as she takes his face within her palms, squeezing his cheeks, “Mwen pa t 'konnen ou te renmen gason Japonè—“

“Pa gen kreyòl devan lòt moun ki pa ka konprann li,” your face flushes as you rush through the creole dropping from your own lips, “Please, Hazel.”

She clicks her tongue, crossing her arms over her chest, “You’re big, huh?”

“Guilty,” he answers, a slight smirk upon his face, “Always makin’ sure to eat all the food your babydoll cooks.”  

She merely huffed at the smugness of his tone, “Cocky, too.”

You roll your eyes, “How are you doing, Hazel?”

“I’m exhausted, honey girl, but I can’t complain, y’know?”

She sighs nonetheless, walking back towards the front door, “C’mon—let’s get you inside. Your parents are dyin’ to see you!”

A nervous knot formed within your stomach as you followed close behind Hazel, Suguru’s footsteps heavy as he walked beside you. You hadn’t seen your parents in years. 

They could be the same. 

But they could be completely different—

No. 

You had to remain optimistic. 

Your palm felt shaky beneath your fiancés, eyes peering at the golden trimmed ceiling—you felt a small tug as he pulled you closer to him, “You good?” 

“Yeah,” your voice is soft, pressing your palm into his chest, “Just a little nervous.”

The inside was something out of an interior design magazine; white painted walls to offset the various floral rugs spread along the hardwood floors, framed family photos, and a tabletop filled with fresh cut roses. 

“You got nothin’ to worry about, babydoll. Just breathe, a’right?”

“You’ll love me? Even if this is the worst experience ever?” You question, your finger rubbing at the gauge of his ear, pushing the tendrils of fallen hair from his jaw.

“You think you got’ enough reasons for me not to?” 

You sigh, giving a weak laugh.

“You’re a dork.” 

“Ma chérie?”

That name—one you were called all the time as a child. 

Your eyes flick over, and that’s when you see them—your parents. 

Your father stands over six feet—a height you hadn’t adorned, soft brown waves dusted with strands of silver and a well kept beard, a slight paunch to his stomach. He’s dressed in casual beige slacks and a button up, a Rolex watch along his wrist. 

Your mother is inches shorter in height, wearing a floral patterned dress under a cardigan. She’s adorned with a tennis bracelet and pearl earrings, bob curled perfectly above her shoulders. 

Your mother, ever the sunshine, gives you a warm smile as she steps forward, “Baby—look at you,” she croons, cupping your cheek within her hand, “You’re as lovely as ever.” 

“Momma.”

You don’t know why you feel tears within your eyes, but you instantly bury yourself into the brace of your mother, your body shaking as you tremble, “Hi.” 

Your mother’s arms wrapped around you tightly, hushing a soothing noise to calm your tears, "Shhh—mon chou, you’re okay.”

“I’ve missed you so much,” you murmur to her, “I love you so much.”

She presses her hands against the sides of your face, her thumb swiping away the tears that streamed down your freckled cheeks, “I love you too, cheri,” she gives you a reassuring smile, “It’s been too long—“

“S’bout time you come home.”

You stiffen. Your eyes slowly pull away from your mother, finding your father’s displeased ones.

Your mother takes your hand in hers, “Ignore him—how about you introduce me to this handsome man of yours?” 

You briefly swipe the tears from your face—Your free hand takes hold of Suguru’s, “Momma, this is my fiancé—Suguru Getou.”

“Your what?” 

A loud swallow came from your throat as you gulped, “Yeah, we’re getting married in September—how about we talk about this at the dinner table, yeah?” 

Your father’s mouth opened to speak, but was shut off by your mother’s hand covering his palm—she gave you a slight nod, lips pressed together in a tight smile. 

“Right,” she manages, “Dinner.”

Here was the thing. Suguru was a man that didn’t say too much—he just observed—like now. Your father hadn’t acknowledged him, greeted him, even asked for a handshake. Suguru could tell that he was a man full of pride, and having his daughter come in with news as big as marriage? Probably wasn’t off to a good impression. But that didn’t irritate Suguru any less. 

Your mother and father sat next to one another as you and Suguru sat across the dining table—It began awkwardly, nothing but the noise of silverware scraping against the plates as Caesar salad was the appetizer. 

You couldn’t bear to have this entire dinner be silent and uncomfortable. 

So you push, “What’s Hazel cooking tonight?”

“Gumbo.”

That was the only word that came from your father, and you found no interest in trying to add anything else. Though, you could feel the agitation rolling off of your fiancé without having to look.

“Your father helped Hazel in the kitchen a bit,” your mother smiles, attempting to keep the conversation going by any means necessary—she was trying. 

Hazel thankfully waltzed into the room, the rich scent of gumbo wafting in the air with its warm aroma—A smile adorned her lips as she approached the table, beginning to fill each bowl with the soup. 

“Mmm,” Hazel lets out a hum of contentment, “That smells good, doesn’t it?” 

Your mother couldn’t help but agree, “It does, Hazel.”

She then adds on, “Your father did a sermon in Houston not too long ago, babydoll.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Really? How was that?”

“Fine,” is the word you received from your father. 

Fine. 

“Just fine?” 

You see your mother make a face—one that you usually gave your fiancé at times, almost like a warning. 

“It went well,” he then murmured, picking up the glass of his wine to take a sip, “It was for a big family’s church. They’re a generous group.”

“Right,” you hum softly—at this point, you’re not even sure what to say. So you end up circling back to the first topic of conversation, “Suguru is really good at making Gumbo too, Dad. His parents own a Market in Uptown—right, baby?”

The moment you mention Suguru, your father’s eyes flick over to his form, observing him from head to toe. 

Nothing. 

Somehow, your fiancè seemed relaxed. His expression was calm, a forced grin upon his face as he nodded, “I’m pretty good in the kitchen, yeah.” 

“Sounds like you’re feeding my ma chérie well,” your mother smiles, “Is she feeding you the same?”

He nods once more, hand tightening on your thigh for a short moment, “More than well, ma’am. She’s real good to me—probably tryna’ fatten me up.” 

You giggle, lightly swatting his chest in return. You say, “I’m not—“

“So you work in a market?” 

The attention is pulled away between you and your fiancé, hearing the question come from your father.

You answer, “Um—no, Daddy—Suguru is actually a mechanic.”

“Mechanic?”

There was something within your father’s tone that sounded almost disgusted. Your back straightens at hearing it.

“Yes, sir. My parents own a market up town—not that anythin’ would be wrong with me workin’ under their business—“ he looks directly to your father, “I own an auto shop. ‘Specialize in Japanese imports to Louisiana.”

“I see.” 

Your mother, however, seemed more pleased, “My—You have a business? That’s wonderful—my husband still doesn’t know his way around cars too much, it’s good we now have a mechanic in the family, huh?” 

“Family?” 

Your father’s brows furrowed.

“This one here”—he refers to you— “Hasn’t mentioned anything that sounds like a wedding date, so I’d be careful throwin’ the term ‘family’ around.”

Your father’s words left a silence hanging over the entire room. You felt the grip of Suguru’s hand on your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh as if to calm down his irritation.

“September 22nd, actually.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, “We’re tryna’ find a venue in Kyoto.” 

“As in Japan, Kyoto?” your mother repeats.

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve always wanted to go there, and—Suguru figured it’d be the perfect opportunity to bring our family’s together,” you nod, slipping your fingers between his own, squeezing for comfort. 

Here comes the main topic of discussion. Your father asks—

“Have you found a church?” 

Your lips pressed together.

Your voice is soft, “No, Daddy. We um—we decided not to do it within a church.”

Both of your parents’ eyebrows shot up in surprise at your statement—But it was your mother that voiced the question, “You’re not?” 

The air around the table was growing tenser by the second. 

“I want somewhere outside—a pretty, full garden.”

“There are plenty of church venues with gardens in their backyard, cheri. Have you not liked any of the ones you looked at?”

“There’ve been many,” you murmur softly, “But—“ 

“I’m not a religious man, sir.”  

Your eyes pop from their sockets.

Your mother nearly choked on her food, your father’s frown heavy over your fiancé— a slight pause of silence hangs in the air before speaking, “You’re not a Christian?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?” 

“I’ve never been able to get behind it,” he replied simply, “Never clicked with me.”

“You believe religion is a lie?” 

“Dad—“ 

“Not necessarily a lie,” Suguru replied easily, “‘Just ain’t a factor in my own personal beliefs.”

“Suguru—“ 

“Let him speak.” 

The sharpness in your father’s tone had you immediately snapping your mouth shut, shoulders visibly tensing—this wasn’t going how you wanted it to.

Your father’s jaw clenched as he took in Suguru’s words, “You’re aware you’re marryin’ into a religious family, right?” 

“Absolutely. And I love your daughter more than anythin’ in this world, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with her beliefs, just like she doesn’t have to agree with mine.”

“So you think my daughter is going to change her beliefs just to please you?” 

Suguru’s eyes narrowed, “I didn’t say nothin’ like that.”

“Sure sounds like that’s what you’re implying,” Your father hissed, “Converting others isn’t too far after abandoning a religion.”

Your mother tries to step in, “Honey—“ 

“Your daughter’s an intelligent woman, sir. Nothin’ is gonna’ change my relationship with her—including religion, or lack thereof.”

“And that’s where your problem lies, Suguru. You don’t think religion is relevant, even though it’s the cornerstone that humans built upon—you don’t think it’s a factor in what drives us as people? How do you think you got that shop of yours? How your parents' market is still in business? How any of your successes come into your life? God did that.” 

You see the way Suguru’s jaw clenches, “I don’t need religion to keep me goin’. I got your daughter, my family, myself. The same strength I always had—It has nothin’ to do with some metaphorical bullshit up in the clouds.” 

A fist slams down against the table.

Your father’s palm nearly made the dishes jump, “You don’t speak about God that way in this house!”

Hearing Hazel push through the swinging door of the kitchen from the commotion, your mother places her hand upon her husband's chest, “You both need to calm down!” 

“I need to calm down?” Your father hissed, “This is your daughters doing!” 

“I didn’t come here to make you upset,” you try to  intervene, “I just wanted you to accept—“

“You thought this was the way you’d get my blessing? Disappearing for years, coming back with a man that spits in the face of my morals? Disrespecting me?” 

You frown, “I never disrespected you, Dad.”

Your father’s eyes were nearly bulging. 

“You chose him over God.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, stifling. Hearing him say exactly how he felt was painful, and it nearly clasped your emotions by the throat. 

Your head slowly shook from side to side, voice shaky, “I didn’t choose anyone over God— nothing is wrong with him being different from me!”

“He’s supposed to be on your level,” your father snaps, eyes flashing with anger, “You’ve chosen a future with this man—With this—low life!” 

“Daddy!—“ 

“I ain’t no fuckin’ low life,” Suguru snarls, “You don’t know shit about me. You don’t even know your own goddamn daughter.” 

“Don’t you dare lecture me about my own daughter!” 

The chair legs shriek against the floorboards as the men both stood from the table—your father stood at his full height, but he was nowhere near as physically imposing as Suguru. 

You were in absolute shock—your palms tug at Suguru’s arm, pleading for him to calm down, your mothers creole echoing across the room as she tries to calm her own husband, “Sispann sa! Ou pa ta dwe goumen ak pitit fi ou yo—“ 

“You did this.” 

Your father looks directly at you. 

A mixture of absolute disappointment and betrayal was carved all over your father’s face as he spoke, the words hitting you like a truck, “You chose this.” 

The silence felt like an eternity—Your face remained blank, completely frozen in shock as the words registered within your brain. 

“Dad—“ 

“Mon chou,” your mom interrupted, “Please.” 

Your mouth clasps shut. This was all your fault, it had to be. All the years you could’ve opened yourself to them, all the apologies that could’ve come before. They were hurt. 

The kitchen door swung as your father exited through there, leaving the three of you standing in place.

Suguru frowns, “I wanna apologize—“

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Suguru.”

Your mother’s voice was soft, hand placed within a gentle hold at your shoulder, trying to sooth you as much as she was capable of, “I wanted to calm the situation down before it got worse. It’s just—different. It’s very different.” 

She could feel you nearly trembling under her hand. Another beat of silence, she then asks, “Do you smoke, chou?” she questions your fiancé.

You could feel the anger burning off him. But out of respect, he gives your mother a nod, low voice responding, “Yes ma’am.” 

“How about you get comfortable in cheri’s old bedroom, hm? I can’t allow you to drive home after an upsetting situation—there’s a terrace for you to smoke, Suguru.” 

Your voice is tired, “Momma, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking,” she smiles, “You’re too old to believe anything should come from you asking me to do so.” 

Her fingers brush at your hair, pushing it back from your face—she could see the frown in your eyebrows, rubbing your cheeks as she hums, “Pa gen devan, lanmou mwen.” 

She then turns back to Suguru, “How about you get a head start? Hazel will show you up, provide towels if you’d like to prep for bed—I’d like to speak to my daughter, alone.” 

Even if the request was phrased as a soft command, there was no room for refusal, and he knew that. He merely nodded, glancing towards you one last time—the grip he had on your hand was tighter as he looked over your face. Then, he let go. It felt cold without him. 

Once being left in the dining room by yourselves, your mother sits in a chair beside the table—she pats the one beside her, “Come sit, chou.” 

The moment you sit next to her, she presses her palms against the floral of her dress. She hums to you, “Do you remember the story of Joseph and the Colorful Coat?”

“I don’t know if I’m in the mood to hear a sermon, momma.”

An airy laugh comes from your mother, “You’re not getting a sermon, I’m simply reminding you.”

She leans back in her seat, a reminiscing look coming to her expression as she spoke, “Joseph is one of the most important figures out of the Bible. Do you remember why?”

You shake your head, “Not really.” 

Your mother sighs, fingers curling gently around the hem of her dress, “Joseph was favored by his father. This favoritism, however, was hated by his brothers—and out of anger, they sold him as a slave. He was taken to Egypt, where he was then raised up as a servant, and grew into a man of success and power—even while being under the control of someone else, his life had a purpose.”

Your brows furrow a bit, taking in her words.

“I don’t really know where you’re tryna’ take this story, Momma.” 

Your mother smiles once more, tilting her head so that her face rests against her palm, “Patience, babydoll.” 

She exhales, “One day, he reunites with his brothers. Even after they did him wrong—he forgave them—but he didn’t just forgive them. He helped them.”

Her next words were delivered with soft intonation.

“He was able to turn a hardship into something so beautiful.” 

Her hand rested on your own, “You’re just like Joseph, mon cheri.” 

“Momma…” 

“You’re not perfect,” she admits softly, “And neither am I, neither is your father—None of us are. Everyone in this world has a story— with those flaws being reminded, you have to forgive those who hurt you in order to move forward.” 

You didn’t realize your vision had blurred—all of the pain you felt over the years, the strain of your parents—you had to remember that they also hurt from the distance you’d put between them. 

You wrap your arms around your mother’s neck, your tears burying within her shoulder. You cry, “I’m so sorry, Momma. I just—“ you sniffle, “I just didn’t know how to come back. I wanted to live for me, and Dad wouldn’t—“

“I know, baby—“ she held you, gently rocking you side to side beneath her chin, “But your father loves you, and he’s sorry too. He’s just—a dummy, as you kids say.” 

That makes you giggle through your tears, hugging her tighter than before. 

She then says, “You’re marrying a man just as stubborn as him, you know.”

You keep your cheek within her shoulder, swiping your tears as you murmur, “I’m sorry about dinner tonight.”

“Don’t apologize,” she insists softly, voice tender and filled with reassurance, “You did nothing wrong, and neither did Suguru.”

“You don’t think he did?” 

“Suguru spoke the truth, and—he’s right. You shouldn’t be forced to live your life the way your father would want you to. And as much as he loves you, he will come to his senses.”

“You think so?”

She taps your chin, “Look—it’s late, baby. Go on upstairs. You have time to talk to your father tomorrow. And once that settles over, we can start planning a wedding.” 

You wipe the tears from your face, “You’re already planning a wedding and my father can’t stand him.” 

She presses her palm over your hand, the other wiping gently at your tears, “And I’ll make sure it’s the most beautiful, gorgeous—the most magnificent wedding Kyoto will ever see.”

You smiled.

“I love you, Momma.” 

She smiles in return, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head, “I love you more, babydoll.” 

Closing the door to your old bedroom, you leaned your back against the wooden surface, letting out the breath of air you had been holding. You stared at the deep blue walls of the room, the furniture made of white, duvet covers and frills—The angel statuettes and artwork hung all across the ceiling like heavens within the sky.  

You pushed yourself off the door, stepping towards the glass sliding door that led out to the terrace, finding your fiancé standing just in view—Your hand rests at the white sheer curtain, parting it slightly with the pads of your fingers as you looked out—Suguru had his back leaned against the ledge of the patio, cigarette raised to his lips as he smoked. 

As he stood facing away from you, you could see the muscular outline of his body in the shadows cast upon him—every contour on display beneath his top. His hair was a beautiful mess. Some strands fell from the bun he had it in, falling over his face and along the nape of his neck.

“Needin’ a little company?”

His head turned towards the glass door, spotting you standing beneath the sheer curtains—the first thing he can discern is your eyes. His expression visibly softened, pierced eyebrow furrowing with concern.

He eyed you, “You were cryin’ again.”

A beat of silence.

You nod gently, “Yeah.”

Suguru’s silent for a long moment. He comes forward, eyes fixed on yours as he pulls you by your waist, “Talk to me.” 

It’s another long stretch of silence before you break it. 

“My father…” you trail off, trying to put your words together, “He can be stubborn.” 

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You nod along as well, taking in the silence of the night—the crickets that sounded around, the soft wind that brushed against you. 

You feel his grip on your waist tighten as he asks, “You all right, though?”

He then sighs, “Baby, I wanna apologize for how I acted earlier—“

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. I wanted my father to meet you—to give us his blessing, not for him to start an argument with you.”

Your fiancé’s thumb rubbed gently at the curve of your hip, his brows furrowing just a bit, “It’s not my place to get into it with your father, but he was sayin’ shit to—“

His chest rose and fell, taking another inhale off the cigarette—he then exhaled out into the air, the smoke disappearing with the wind, “It just didn’t sit right with me.”

You rub your fingers against his bicep, trailing it up to the ink of his neck—you sigh, “I know that. I’m not mad at you, Getou.” 

“I’m supposed to be apologizin’. You’re not supposed to be consolin’ me.”

Your fingers reached for the back of his neck to scratch gently at his hairline, “So stop apologizing.”

You reach to grab the cigarette from his fingers—taking a drag of the smoke, the burn tickles your throat, nearly satisfying.

Suguru then murmured, “You seem to get that soft shit from your momma, bunny.” 

A small smile played at the corner of your lips, “You’d be the first to say so.” 

The taste of nicotine stuck to your tongue as you ran your thumb along the back of his neck, his eyes slowly shutting as your fingers moved in small circles.

He then asked, “You feel better now?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, “I wanna go cuddle.”

He chuckles lowly—deep and rough—just how you liked it, “You’re spoiled.” 

A grin pulled at his lips when you nod in response, your smaller body leaning into his. He reached to pinch the base of the cigarette, pressing it to his lips for one last inhale before tossing the remnants away.

"C’mon.” 

The moment you made contact with the soft comforter of your bed, your upper body leaned against the frame—your journal was sprawled against your thighs as you had your knees close to your chest, Suguru’s arm wrapped behind you in a way that kept you close as his face laid within your shoulder—your smaller form almost seemed to sink into his. 

“You ever gonna’ tell me what you’re writin’ in there?”

You smile, glancing to the nightstand before you answer—an angel structured night light gleams the darkness of the room, stars glowing atop of the ceiling.

“You really wanna know?”

His chin rested upon your shoulder, nose buried within the skin of your neck, breathing you in—He nods, “Yeah.” 

One of his hands rested atop your thigh as he spoke, palm rubbing along the skin in slow motions. The oversized shirt you wear smells of him. 

You hum, “Unicorns, rainbows, babies. All the things I want in this lifetime.”

There's a grin pulling at his expression, “A baby, huh?” 

You look back at him, nodding, “A boy, Keiji,” you scribble down within your journal, “‘Means peaceful.” 

Suguru’s lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck, nose just right over your pulse point, “You put thought into all of this.” 

His words send a shiver down your spine, your answer a whispered, “M’always daydreaming.” 

“I know.”

You pull your journal a bit closer to your chest, continuing to write your thoughts of the entire day. As you do so—you’re noticing something. Your fiancés fingers are circling at the top of your knee—but that’s when he slowly takes your thigh closest to him, raising it atop of his body in a way that has your legs spread open.

At first, you were too absorbed within your journal—but the moment his fingers draw closer on your inner thigh, his body looming above yours, your grip on the pen falters. Your face flushes, dropping your journal as you reach for his hair. 

You giggle shyly, “Suguru.”

A low chuckle spouted from his lips —He leans down to nudge the tip of his nose against yours, “‘Thought you were writin’?” 

He grunts the words to you.

His aura, his size—the giggles from your lips die down the moment his forehead pressed against yours, glaring down. 

Suguru drops his lips onto your mouth, sucking them in between his before snatching them back, a popping flesh sound coming in return. 

At the same moment, he spreads your legs just a bit more. His palm grazes up your leg, down to your thigh, following the sway of your hips as you gently squirm—then, his fingers make contact with your clit. They don’t move. They just—stay there.

Your fingers are the current comb in his ocean of hair. The moment you feel him below, you graze his scalp, a small pout forming at your lips.

“Whatchu’ poutin’ for?” 

His fingers stay pressed between your legs, unmoving. His nose brushed against yours, lips still a few centimeters close to your own. 

You could never hide your emotions from him—nor how sensitive you were.

And then, he’s rubbing—it’s slow, but it’s so intense. Your eyes shut as you weakly gasp into his mouth, thighs trembling in response.

He can feel the way your legs begin to respond, your grip on the back of his neck only gets tighter—He groaned out huskily, “Look at you.” 

His tongue licked at one of your parted, panting lips.

Your teeth sunk into the flesh of your mouth—hard. But it fails to muffle the little mewl of his name that comes from your lips, all four of his fingers just rubbing.

“‘Bunny’s just too sensitive, huh?” 

His voice sounds like a deep grumble to your ears. 

Your lips part, another soft, breathless plea of his name comes from your mouth. He can feel how heated you are from below, how drenched you’re getting from just the simple touch of his fingers.

“Yeah—Yeah, you’re right there, ain’t you?” 

Your head just nods so feverishly, your hand pulling him closer at the back of his neck. 

His voice is rough, “Just listenin’ to your pussy, baby. She’s so loud.” 

And it was—you could hear how wet you were, feeling the secretion beginning to build on your inner thighs. You pout even more, your mouth trembling—you say so softly, “Ohmygodbaby.” 

“She fuckin’ missed me.” 

The moment he said that, your breath left your lungs in a heavy, husky moan, a low slur of, “Suguru,” coming from your trembling lips.

His middle and ring finger suddenly sink in so slowly—Suguru lets out a moan, feeling as you tighten around his knuckles. Your mouth drops against his, cheek burying into his shoulder as you pout, “Ughn,” whining into the comforter to mask your reaction.

“Makin’ a fuckin’ mess already,” he mutters against your neck, sucking just beneath your jaw—His fingers curl inwards—Suguru grumbles a little moan, “You gotta’ open up more, baby. Gonna’ hurt when I go in.” 

You whimpered, feeling his fingers sliding in and out of you, that all you could do was hold onto his hair. 

You felt like you looked pathetic. His lips brush against yours and you try to capture them, mewling, “Suguruu.”

“You’re so fuckin’ whiny,” he grunts—“Agh,” you moan against his mouth, and he swallows it with a moan of his own, his fingers sinking even deeper.

“Look at you, baby. Look.” 

The hand cradled behind you finds its way into your hair—it’s yanking your head up to peer down—you see his fingers going in and out, dropping deeper each time. You frown up to his face, pleasure so within your eyes as you squeal, “You’re so deep, baby.” 

His fingers hit right at that little spot that made your back arch, “There we fuckin’ go.” 

“Fuck, baby—“

“”Can’t wait ‘til I’m inside, bunny.”

You whimper, “I need you now, baby. Please.” 

“There you’ go with that beggin’ shit.”

His fingers slide against your folds, slapping against your pussy—your thighs tremble, “C’mon, Suguru.”

When he gets you to a place of begging, it never stops. You take his large palm, clutching it around your throat as you lay on your side—your back presses to his chest, your palm now reaching down to spread your folds from behind as you whimper, “Please, ‘guru. Please.”

A growl comes from behind you, his jaw buried within your shoulder as his face pushes to the side of your head, pressing his mouth to your ear, “Keep sayin’ that shit. Keep sayin’ you want it.”

“Please,” you were so pouty, “I want it.”  

His palm left your neck for a second, his hand coming down to grip onto the curve of your leg, lifting your thigh to adjust himself behind you, rubbing the fat tip of his dick against your folds, “How deep?” 

“So deep.”

“Goddamn. I’m finna’ give you this shit.” 

His tip sinks in just a little, spreading you apart in a discomforting pinch. And then—

Deep. 

A grunt is ripped out of his mouth, his fingers digging into your thigh, finding their way back to your throat, “Fuckin’ hell, girl.” 

The way you grip around his dick would’ve left another man falling apart, but—Suguru—he just kept going, his hand spreading your thigh further. 

It hurt—but you loved it. This was the hurt you wanted. The pleasure is so violent that it courses your entire body, voice so whiny as you rock your hips back, “Yeah, baby. Uh—huhhh.”

Your little mewl only causes his fingers to tighten around that neck of yours—he’s tugging and yanking you back onto his dick, “Shit,” he groans out huskily, “Feels tighter every time I’m in you.”

He sounds drunk, so lost in the wet, warm feeling. You grip onto his fingers at your neck, nails sinking into his hand, “Itssobigbaby. So big.”

“Yeah?” he’s stroking into you, “This all you’ been wantin’?” 

You are in fact so whiny, “Uh-huh,” your fingers grasp at his hand, “Yes.”

“Bounce back on it,” he grunts, “Move on me.”

You’d do anything he’d ask of you.

Your ass claps on his pelvis, bouncing back against his abdomen. His forehead knocks into the curls of your hair from behind, his palm tight on your throat, “Uhfuck,” he moans to you, “Just like that. Keep doin’ that.”

He’s letting you set the pace, “Goddamn,” His fingers twitch around your neck, “You’re so fuckin’ good.” 

His moans against your ear are so much louder every time he sinks into you, balls drenched in your folds in such a nasty way, “—I feel you clampin’ so hard, girl. I can feel you all around me.”

“I’m so full.” 

Between those words, you could barely catch your breath in a repetition of, “You’re so big.”

“You’re so small, girl,” he’s moaning into your ear, “I’m fillin’ you up.” 

But something in him feels—hungry—like he’d lost his appetite hours before and found it in this moment. It’s like the blink of an eye, and his long, dark hair spills across your stomach—his mouth is now between your legs.

Your fingers are in his hair, pulling against him. His tongue is warm, sliding up and down your folds, wagging along your clit that saliva parts lines from the sides of his lips. 

His name comes from your mouth in moan, and he only moans back, feeling the way your legs are clamping around his face, his hands pressing your thighs to keep you from moving away, “Pussy so pretty in my mouth—keep movin’ for me.” 

His mouth was so good, he moans on your clit, able to taste all of your arousal—he groans into your core, “Uuunnhhh,” he moans into you, “I could eat you forever, baby.”

His hands are clamping down at your thighs, keeping you spread wide open, you could hear how sloppy his tongue was getting, “So fuckin’ wet for me, huh?” he asked, “All for me.”

He’s evil—the way his hair falls around his clenched jaw, eyebrow piercing glowing beneath the light—His pink tongue spreads out to show you the cream on it, straight teeth white as he grins above your pussy, “You see that? How you’re creamin’?” 

He’s licking it up like it’s a treat, “You taste so good,” He moaned into you, “Can’t get enough of you.” 

The feeling was mutual—you couldn’t get enough of him, either. You find yourself tugging him up, pulling his mouth into a kiss that wraps your tongue around his, his large body looming above yours—his hair shadows the both of you into a deeper kiss, tongues sinking in and out of each other's mouths.

His tongue laps your own, “You want me this fuckin’ bad?” 

You don’t necessarily answer—but instead, flip yourself to where his back is against the bed—your tongue glides up the flesh of his abs, slender eyes coaxing his vision deeper into yours.

“Where you’ think you’re goin’?”

But he didn’t have to ask again—now, your mouth was on his tip. 

Suguru groans—Your tongue laid flat, slowly lapping at the base of his length—his fingers sink into your hair as his head hits the headboard, “Shit, baby.”

Your fingers grip the base of his dick, stroking him up and down as your mouth works the head—he’s so big, he stretches your mouth wide, but you love it. You’re drooling spit onto his tip, the sexiest smile on your face as saliva coats your full lips—your freckled face is flushed, curls sprawling around your head so prettily—you whimper to him, “I miss you inside me, baby.”

He grips your hair, fisting your tresses as he tugs you back upward, “You wanna’ be on top that bad, huh?” His fingers grip the flesh of your waist, “Come fuck me.” 

“That’s how you want it?” you slide your fingers against your swollen nipples, “Tell me.”

You keep your weight on him with one hand at his shoulder, the other gripping his tip as you slid it on your dripping folds. 

“You’re too big.” 

“Quit playing,” He moaned into your throat, “You’re tryna’ get me to beg.”

You grip the clench of his jaw—your palm connects with his face, the grunt he gives in return making you giggle—you whimper at the smack he gives your ass, “I know you’ll beg.” 

“You’re a brat.”

His hips grind along yours, and you repeat, “Lemme’ hear you beg, pretty boy.”

Your hands find grip within the mess of his hair, yanking against the tresses. His jaw clenches, “Mmnnngh,” he moaned as you slapped his tip against your folds, “Fuck.”

His voice is low in your ear, his grip tight and hard on your waist, “I want you so bad.”

His tip is back to sinking in, curls hanging above his face as you whimper, “You want me this bad, baby?”

“I need you, fuck.” 

Your fingers rake through Suguru’s hair—He’s so deep, he’s spreading you open—you moan, “I’m so wet—just stay here,” you beg him not to move, smacking your lips against his for a moment.

“So good,” he’s panting to you, kissing you back, “You’re just so good.”

His hand slides down your back, finding the curve of your ass to hold. His other hand clenched around your thigh, beginning to lift you up, “Look at that, baby.” 

Your thighs are clapping onto his, bouncing. Your mouth falls open at the feeling of him, your back curving forward, “Fuck.” 

You whine to him, “I love bouncin’ on your dick, baby.”

“Yeah?” He’s grunting, “You take it so fuckin’ good. You must love that shit.” 

Your curls are in your face—your eyes peer back to watch your ass jiggle and bounce with the rhythm of your tits —that you mewl, your head falling back as you groan, squeezing your arms tighter around his neck.

“There you go.”

 He’s watching you with dark, glazed eyes, fingers coming up to your lips to wipe away the spit around your mouth, dragging it across your nipples, “Don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

It happens before you realize—you’re squirting on him, your eyes watering all at the same time, rolling, face pouty as you grind on him, feeling the rupture of your body’s release.

You’re drenching his tip—You’re so over sensitive, he’s just grunting and moaning, like something out of a dream, “Goddamn, your shit is leakin’, baby,” he thrusts, “Let it all out.” 

”I made a mess on you,” you’re sobbing, your body trembling in his arms as your sensitive clit aches. Suguru’s hand comes around and lands a smack that echoes off your ass. You moan as he snarls, “You’ made a fuckin’ mess, girl. You and that pretty little pussy.”

“Cum with me, pretty boy,” you whimper, “Cum in me.” 

That name, it makes Suguru huff in return—but the sound is weakened by a whimper he does, “You’re so fuckin’ wet.” 

His fingers grip the back of your neck as his body tensed beneath yours, “I’m gonna’… fuck…” He whined, burying his face against your shoulder, rocking you through the cum warming your insides, you’re panting in each other's mouths, moaning, so full of passion you’d never have for anyone else. He was yours, and you were his.

There’s silence for a moment in your shared bliss—your foreheads rest against each others, fingers brushing through hair, your chests rising and falling with heavy breaths. 

Both of you laugh softly, feeling eased and content. He looks up to you, pressing a kiss to your chin, "You alright?” 

“Yeah. I’m…”

You’re unsure—maybe it’s the moment—maybe it’s the fact that you were already crying. But more tears begin to fall from your face, your hands flying onto your flushed cheeks—you’re sobbing once more.

His face twists in panic, hands immediately coming to wipe at your tears, “Woah, baby, you’re good. Why you’ cryin’?” 

He’s so gentle, sitting up straighter, keeping you close on his lap as you cling onto him.

“You’re okay,” he repeats, “Was it me? Did I do somethin’—“

“No,” you sniffle, “I just—I’m so sorry for keeping you from my family this long. I love you so much, Suguru. I wanna marry you a thousand times,” you whimper to him, “I wanna have your little babies and everything.” 

When you press your face into his chest and cry harder, your fiancé can’t help but chuckle at your emotions—he cradles your head to his body, “You make a good case. But I’m not mad at you, baby.”

He lowers his neck, peeping your eyes through your covered face—he murmurs, “You gonna’ let me in?” 

You sniffle, lowering your fingers from your face. 

After a second of comfortable silence—just the sound of your breathing and Suguru’s soft laughter, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, “You had to connect with your family before I came in, and now we got’ all the time in the world to make shit right. I can’t wait to see you all pregnant, and married—I’m gonna give you a whole damn clan, girl.”

Your arms wrap around his neck so tight that you feel a grunt, squeezing as you repeat, “I love you so much, Suguru.”

“I love you so much more, pretty girl.” 

“More than automobiles?”

“More than a damn car lot.” 

Of course, you giggled.

When your eyes open again, a ray of sunlight peaks through the slit of white curtains, dancing across the bedsheets to greet your body the next morning. As your vision adjusts, an arm shifts around your waist—the ink on the strong, defined muscle holds a grip, fingers digging just slightly into your flesh.

Your heart was so warm, that it nearly had forgotten about the day before. But you were quickly reminded seconds later, as a soft knock came to the door of your old bedroom. 

You frowned. 

Slowly, your body turns towards your fiancé, mouth raising over his ear as you murmur, “I’ll be back, okay?”

He stirs just slightly, his thick fingers reaching to clutch onto your side when you move—his eyes cracked open, “Don’t forget ‘bout me.” 

You smiled softly, reaching to brush the hair out of his eyes, “Promise I won’t.”

The moment you throw Suguru’s shirt onto your head and slip on some sweatpants, you quickly tug at the door in anticipation of Hazel—instead, a more familiar face. 

Your fathers. 

You glance around the hallway, narrowed eyes going back to him, “Good morning—you okay, Daddy?”

He clears his throat, hands resting behind his back. He looked exhausted. 

“Can we…” he began softly, “Talk?” 

You’re quick to nod, “Of course,” opening the door a bit further to step out, closing it gently behind you.

You stood opposite of him in the hall, face showing no emotion as you waited for him to begin. He exhaled silently, hands folded behind his back, “About yesterday…”

He shook his head, “I’m sorry to both you and your fiancé for the way I acted. I shouldn’t have—behaved the way I did.” 

He takes another breath, “From not seeing you in years, to finding out you’re getting married—I just couldn’t admit to myself that you had grown up without me, baby girl. And—if you left home, it must’ve been my fault.”

Your eyes soften as you watch your father. He’s being completely vulnerable, and that wasn’t something you expected of him. You can’t help it—your hand reaches for his, gripping it tightly in a comforting gesture, “Daddy, that’s not true.” 

He shook his head, fingers tightening around yours, “I messed up, baby,” a small sigh left his lips, “I messed up, not you. You wanted to see the world and spread your wings. That’s something I had to respect, even if it hurt me. I’d do anything for you, you know that.”

Your fingers are still wrapped around his, your free hand coming up to rub his shoulder affectionately, “Of course I know that.” 

You sigh, “I have to apologize too. Being an adult, I should’ve been communicative with how I felt about leaving home—I just didn’t think you’d be receptive to it, so—it was easier to just leave. And—meeting Suguru, he made me realize how important family was.”

Your father’s eyebrows raise.

“Despite your moral differences—Suguru is amazing, Daddy. He loves me more than I could express to you, and wants nothing more than for me to be happy. He encouraged me to come here yesterday.”

“He told you to come here?”

You nod, “He did.”

Another beat of silence. 

“You’re happy, mon chou?”

Your hand squeezed his, your voice a soft whisper, “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

“Then that’s all I want, baby girl. I’m happy for you, I’m so proud of you.”

A few tears welled up in your eyes, your fingers gripping onto his back so tight that you were afraid you’d leave a mark underneath his button up, hugging him. You buried your face into his shoulder, “I’m sorry for leaving, Daddy.”

“Don’t be sorry, princess,” his hand rubbed up and down your back, “You can always come home.”

You smiled, “I’d really like to make up for the missed years.”

He let out a soft hum from his chest, hand coming up to graze your cheek affectionately, “We can start by planning this wedding together—Tell me everything you want, and how much my pockets gonna break from it.”

He then sighs, “And—by letting me know when your fiancè wakes up, so I can talk to him as well.” 

Your head tilts at that, eyes wide, “Really? You’re ready to do this?”

“As ready as I can be.” 

Your face lights up, excitement spreading through your body as you cling onto his arm, “Good—I have so much to tell you! C’mon, you can treat me to some beignets— Then, you and Suguru can be besties, yeah?”

“You’re pushing it, babydoll.”

Her eyes glanced up to the sky, seeing the mixture of pink and orange hues clinging to one another as a sign of the sun being tugged away by the moon. 

Close to nightfall. 

She adjusts the tactical slung across her shoulder and hip, the material swaying with each step of her curved frame—shredded flags hung from discolored buildings, molded beads sunken under the murky waters along the ground. The sight is nearly a leeway to a neighborhood—she stops.

Maybe she was just lucky. Maybe she wasn’t. Her eyes peer over a gated house—no, a castle of sorts. 

A once majestic Southern mansion, now a fortress. A wrought chained fence surrounds the perimeter, punctuated by razor wires atop the high stone walls and a sturdy wooden gate being the only entry point. A faint glow emerges from the cracked windows to show a sense of humanity—yet an ominous silence permeates the area.

She’s quick to move. Her fingers sting as she climbs along the metal, grunting as makes it to the curve of the barbed wire—she feels a light sting on her thigh, dropping down with the hold of her backpack still within her clutched palm. The light she’d taken attention to earlier shines from a window towards the back of the home, wood covering atop of it to block entryway. Of course, this looked like green signs pointing to come in for her. 

She’s quieter than before, taking soft steps towards the window—her eyes fixated through the dirtied glass to get any signs of lifeform—but it’s only a singular candle flickering against the wall. 

She pulls her head back, digging her fingers down and slowly pulling up to crack the window—it opens without much struggle. Using the ledge of the window to hoist herself in, she drops herself down to the wooden ground a few feet below. It was nicer than she’d presume—a golden mirror from across the bed, more candles planted across the vintage dresser, but that’s when her eyes halted. Snacks, jewelry, weapons everywhere—she was like a kid in a candy store. 

The clicking of her flashlight echoes throughout the room as she rummages through the drawers, throwing aside useless items in search for something more—satisfying. She throws her hand into the drawer, pulling out a gold watch that shined along the candles flame. She holds it up to the light, admiring the piece of jewelry in the mirror—a small smirk appears on her face. 

But that succession didn’t last long.

The smile on her face might’ve been wiped off. Not literally, but the weight of metal connecting to her skull might’ve had her entire body freeze.

“I suggest you move when I say move— unless you want this bullet in the back of yo’ skull.”

It was the baritone voice of a man; it was low, stern. His finger pressed tightly on the trigger.

“Turn.” 

She doesn’t move. After the metal pushes further into her curls, she slowly turns on her left side, keeping her arms at her sides—that’s when she meets his face.

His form was big, broad-shouldered and muscular, to the extent his bicep flexed with the tension of the weapon, dirt smeared muscle tee hugging his sculpted abdomen. He was intimidating—the furrow of his thick eyebrows narrowed down like his eyes—his brown skin glows beneath the candles within the room, cornrows tight and neat despite the jagged energy he carried. Tattoos cascade his body, never stopping until they reach his cheek—a cross beneath his right eye.

She didn’t have time to be gawking. 

So, she swipes the weapon out of his palm as she reaches for her pistol, the other hand gripping his arm as she attempts to twist it behind his back—of course, that didn’t work in her favor.

His palm latches around her neck and forces her body to the ground. He uses one hand to keep her throat in place, using the other to rip the handgun away from her grip. Fingers dig into the crevasses of her throat. 

She grunts, “Let go of me!—“ 

He tightens his grip, “Or what? You finna’ call yo’ people?” 

Click on the side of her temple.

“You gon’ give me a reason why I shouldn’t pull this shit?” 

His strength irritated her. So she does what she can—she spits in his face. 

“Fuck you.”

“Yo’, Ony—What’s going on?—“

Footsteps come trampling down the hallway—That’s when they all see the scene in front of them. More guns now point in her direction—but a pair of feminine eyes outside of the three men within the room question, “Onyankopon, what the hell are you doing?!” 

“This one’s Rouge.”

She was pretty. The woman that spoke before takes softer steps into the room, her grip loosening on her handgun. Her hair was braided similarly in cornrows, brown skin and full lips glowing under the lights—a baby was strapped to her chest.

“Onyankopon, get off of her.”

The woman comes closer, “Are you alright?”

“Fuck off,” she spits in return, eyes narrowing as the man’s strength doesn’t let up.

The woman takes another step closer, the other two men following closely—a dark-skinned man with an unbuttoned shirt, followed by a lighter skinned man with glasses and a buttoned-up tee. 

The lighter man spoke, “Onyankopon, bro—get off of her, she’s not a threat—“

“You finna’ act stupid?” his deep voice cuts off, “Youn’ see what’s in her hand?”

His free hand grips her wrist, forcing the girl to open up her clenched fist—the watch. 

They all stare. 

That’s when the dark skinned man speaks up, “Nigga, c’mon—“ 

“She coulda’ been bit.”

“You gon’ give her the opportunity to tell us that?” the lighter skin man counters.

A slight frown rests on the woman’s face, “Onyankopon—just let her explain herself, please?” 

A couple of seconds pass—Onyankopon slowly releases her throat from his palm. She immediately yanks at the gun in his other hand, pointing it at all four people staring at her. Her fingers tremble a bit, but she doesn’t loosen her hold nonetheless.

“We’ not tryna’ hurt you, aight?” the darker man speaks up, “You gon’ tell us why you broke in?” 

She doesn’t answer, just letting her eyes shift to the woman’s again—she was the most calm, even with a gun pointed at her. 

“You’re bleeding.”

The girl's eyes fall to her own body—that’s when she sees the gash at the top of her thigh, the olive green of her shorts oxidizing a dark hue from the blood. Her head flicks back up, adjusting her fingers along the weapon as the woman questions, “Were you bit?” 

She waits for a second.

“No,” she attempts for her voice to carry, “Cut myself climbing over the fence.” 

The dark skinned man takes another step forward—her fingers tighten, “Stay back—“

“She was a nurse,” he raises his hands in defense, “She just wants to help you.” 

“Put the gun down,” the light skinned man orders, his voice deep and calm. He holds his hand out, waiting for it.

“What group are you with?” The man, Onyankopon, questions. His entire body is still tense. 

“I don’t have one,” she answers, voice pensive.

The baby coos within the woman’s hands—she frowns, “You’re actually Rouge?” 

They stared at one another. 

“How long ‘you been alone?” 

Onyankopon’s questions are aggravated. There’s a silence in the room—her fingers twitch on the piece of metal as the woman speaks again. 

“We can help you—“ 

“I don’t need help.” 

“So what are you gonna’ do? Bleed out?” 

Those words lay heavy on her chest.

That’s when Onyankopon’s low voice questions, “What y’all tryna’ talk her into? We needa’ be takin’ her to the Embassy.”  

“I’m not going to the Embassy.” 

The woman frowns, “Even if we wanted to do that, we can’t. The suns going down.”

“And?”

“Hollows are everywhere, Onyankopon.” 

“And,” the dark skinned man interrupts, “We have no idea where the Embassy even is. She’ll be more useful here than—“ 

“Useful? For all you know she coulda’ been bit!—“

“I already told you I wasn’t,” she snaps. Her eyes flick to everyone in the room—the silence speaks louder than her words. 

That’s when the woman continues, “Are you hungry?” 

She’s hesitant to answer. She is hungry, but she wasn’t going to tell a group of strangers that. 

Her finger falls from the trigger of the weapon slightly, her shoulders beginning to slump as the woman questions again, “Can you just—please let me treat you? I can’t imagine it’s been easy on your own—being Rouge.” 

“She been’ alone this entire time. She’ll be fine.” 

“Onyankopon—that’s enough,” the man with glasses calls, his eyes narrowing on him. 

He turns back to the girl with an assuring voice, “She’s right. It’d be better for you here.”

Still, she doesn’t reply. 

“Please,” the woman repeats, “If you need somewhere to sleep, just—stay for the night, alright? And when the sun rises, you can go—okay?” 

The room was quiet. They waited in anticipation—that’s when she takes in a deep breath, a slow nod in response, and she drops the gun from her hands, kicking it in the direction of the man that attacked her.

His face remained stone like. She could feel his glare burning at her, but she was too invested in the woman moving closer with a soft, faint smile. 

She turns to the dark skinned man, “Elijah, go get me the first-aid kit,” her eyes flicker to the man next to him, “Theo—grab some towels from the upstairs bathroom.”

They both nod, turning to leave the room.

She takes another step, “I’m Emery—your name is?”

She looks unsure about answering.

”Sahfeya.”

Emery grins, “Yeah? That’s pretty.” 

She lowers herself to meet Sahfeya’s body, unstrapping the baby off the front of her—Emery questions, “Hey—Ony? You mind taking Aaila to the living room?”

Onyankopon’s broad stature towered her as he slowly bent over to take the young infant into his arms, the same hand that once held a gun to Sahfeya’s head now securing Aaila’s body. 

He leaves the room silently—but not before giving one more look to her. 

“Alright,” Emery exhales, “Let me take a look, yeah?” 

Sahfeya nods, her body tense—at this very moment she feels the pinch of her injury—She sucks in a breath, mindlessly clutching the hand Emery. 

She mutters, “Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse reactions in my time.” 

The alcohol from the wipes sting the cut on her thigh—a harsh huff comes from Sahfeya’s mouth.

“So,” Emery distracts her, “How long have you been traveling?” 

Sahfeya breathes deeply, “Two months now.”

Emery is quick, already working on the cut along her thigh as she murmurs, “You’re brave—I’d be too scared to take New Orleans on my own.” 

That’s when Elijah peeks his head back in, “You good? Need anything else from me?”

“Wound isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. Thank you, baby,” she mumbles, not looking up from the work she’s doing. 

Sahfeya stares at him for a moment—he warmly grins, making his way out of the room. 

“The other guy—Onyankopon—he’s not your…um…”

“Boyfriend?” 

Emery shakes her head.

“Absolutely not,” she releases a small chuckle, “He’s my older brother, actually. Elijah’s my husband. Theo is Onyankopon’s best friend.” 

She wraps the bandage around Sahfeya’s thigh, the girl letting her eyes follow the work of her hands. 

Emery pauses, “You’re also bleeding on the side of your neck—did my brother do that?”

Sahfeya’s fingers slowly go over her neck, feeling the light cut on her flesh. She shrugs, “I’m not sure. I uh—spit on him, so it wouldn’t surprise me if it was.”

She smiles.

“You’re a ballsy one, huh?”

Sahfeya faintly smiles. Her face falls quickly as the alcohol wipes along her neck, the smaller wound stinging more than the bigger one. 

She softly questions, “How old is your baby?”

“She’s six months,” Emery hums, using the gauze in her palm to dab the blood away. 

Another faint laugh releases, “She’s a big baby, though. I blame Onyankopon—he makes sure to hunt the ends of the earth for baby food.”

Sahfeya hums dryly, “He seems nice.” 

“He can be an ass—but he’s just protective,” she mutters quietly, smiling, “I know that can be hard to believe since you literally just got a gun pulled out on you, but—he means well.” 

Emery then sighs, “You’re all patched up,” she gives a pat to her thigh, “Anything else you need me to look at?”

“No.” 

“Okay,” she doesn’t press it; it’s clear Sahfeya needs a moment to breathe, “You can rest awhile, if you need it. We have a guest bed near the living room—I don’t suggest sleeping in here—this is my brother's room,” she lightly jokes, standing from the floor as she dusts herself off.

When she makes it towards the door, Sahfeya slowly stands up as she calls, “Emery?”

“Yeah?”

“Um—thank you,” she whispers, “Your kindness—it means a lot.”

Emery gives her a soft smile, “You're welcome.” 

She exits the room, leaving Sahfeya filled with only silence. Her fingers trace along the cuts on her neck, her mind filled with the overwhelming thought of—What now?

She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep. When her eyes peered open, her body laid against a twin sized mattress within the guest bedroom. Sahfeya slowly rose up, glancing around the darkened walls—her eyes frantically searching—but when she looked to the dresser, she saw a bar of soap, two towels, and a change of clothes seated next to her backpack. She sighed. 

The feel of hot water along her skin felt like heaven, her fingers dousing the vanilla scented soap everywhere—her large curls, her freckled cheeks, her curvy frame. 

Emery was unfortunately a little smaller than her, so the pale pink tee she gave her fit like a baby tee, her midriff showing above the sweatpants that didn’t even have much room for her ass—she exhales, the full tresses of her curls already drying back up into full waves passing her lower back. She had to dismiss the embarrassment as bunny slippers—also lended by Emery—squeak down the hallway with each step—when her body turns into the kitchen, the familiar three bodies sit at the table.

 Emery’s lips part to greet her, “Oh good! You’re awake, and the slippers fit you—are you still hungry?”

Sahfeyah just stands in her spot, shifting the shirt down her waist as she shrugs, “A little.” 

“Aaila was a little fussy, so Onyankopon made dinner—is meatloaf okay? We have some other vegetables, too,” she takes a moment to breathe, “We don’t have much variety since supply runs get harder so—hopefully you don’t have any allergies.”

Sahfeya glances at Onyankopon—his wife beater is now clean, the back of his muscles flexing as he stands over the stove. She can feel the irritation coming off his body. 

Her voice is soft, “I’ll manage—um, thank you.”

“You were out cold,” Theo mentions, standing from the table as he asks, “Do you wanna’ sit down?” 

When Onyankopon makes his way over, he nearly tosses the plate in her direction. Sahfeya places her palms on the sides of it, glancing back to Emery who gives an apologetic nod. So instead of taking that plate upside his head, she sits down to eat.

She tries her best not to dive into the food, but she can’t help it—she swallows instead of bites, keeping her head down as everyone Emery, Elijah and Theo talk amongst themselves. She also can’t help her eyes stealing glances at Onyankopon on the end of the table, eyes peering away each time he notices her staring.

She figures she could be—polite. 

“Y’all from here?” 

“Yeah,” Elijah replies, “We moved to New York when we got married—Emery picked up on living up north, that’s why she doesn’t have an accent.”

She pouts at her husband, “I do, too! It’s just not as strong.”

Elijah just chuckles, kissing her temple, “Came back to visit Onyankopon and Theo to introduce them to Aaila—that’s when the world went to shit.” 

“What was left of it, anyways,” Theo hums, leaning back into the chair as he flicks his gaze toward Onyankopon, who was looking between everyone at the table, “But it’s livable here, I guess. What are you doing here?” 

“Theo,” Emery scolds, “You can’t just ask the girl questions like that—”

“It’s fine.”

Sahfeya lowers her fork, wondering exactly how to answer this question—she couldn’t lie—her throat felt a little tight already. 

“I lived out in Mississippi with my best friend before everything happened. The Embassy ordered groups, so we just—stuck with some people we’d grown up with. But then she was—um—bit by a Hollow, and when we learned that there was a cure we planned to travel in hopes of finding the Embassy—the group we were in didn’t think it was safe, and just figured it was easier to kill her. So—“

Her throat feels closed. 

“Sorry—“ she politely stands from her chair, feeling her body beginning to shudder, “Would you—excuse me—“

Sahfeya’s already making her way back into the guest room—she didn’t realize that hearing herself say this out loud was harder than watching it happen. She refused to cry in front of a bunch of strangers. The room was perfectly dark as she raised her eyes to the ceiling, holding her fingers over her face as she took a deep breath, feeling her body trembling as she fought the tears attempting to release. 

Her body then jolts, hearing the sound of the door creaking open—when she looks over to the frame, she sees that familiar tatted figure standing in between. He holds out a pair of sweatpants.

“I know Emery’s clothes a lil’ uncomfortable so—here.” 

Her eyes flick down to the pants, going back up to his eyes. 

She asks, “They’re yours?” 

He stands still in the doorway, his fingers clutching the material a bit tighter, “Mhm.” 

His deep voice is softer than before, but his shoulders are still tense, eyes watching her face in silence.

Sahfeya steps forward as she slowly takes the pair from him. Her voice is equally soft as she replies, “Thanks.” 

He nods at the reply, glancing away as he shoves his palm back into his pocket—his shoulders square back, eyebrows pushing together as he stands a bit taller.

“What was yo’ friend’s name?”

She blinks at the question. 

Her throat returns back to that tightness as she replies, “Samira.”

“Samira,” he repeats slowly, his eyebrows loosening just a bit. 

The silence between them is deafening, and he doesn’t realize she has to look up in order to actually see him—her features were soft, eyes big and vulnerable. 

“I’m sorry about yo’ friend, Sahfeya.” 

She stares and stares, her brain trying to process the words coming out of his mouth. 

”I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you, so—I see why you’ so—you.” 

Sahfeya’s eyebrows raise, “So me?” 

“Independent.” 

She’s never been unsure of herself, but maybe it was the face that belonged to this man. It was intimidating. She could see the way he eyed her body and face—like he was trying to read her. 

That’s when she replies, “I’m a little surprised you sayin’ all that after I spit in your face.”

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips.

“You gon’ apologize?”

Her eyebrow raises, “Is that what you’re looking for?”

“I mean, I did bring you a lil’ peace offering, even wit’ them sticky ass fingers you got.” 

She holds the pants up, “Oh—this equates to putting a gun to my head?” 

“I ain’t put no gun to yo’ head,” he corrects, “Just aimed it at you.”

“Same difference.”

She then takes a breath, realizing she might’ve been in the wrong. 

She sighs, “Look—I’m sorry for spitting on you, okay?” 

“And?” 

“And, what?” 

“And you tryna’ steal from me?” 

“I ain’t know it was your room, Onyankopon. Are you gonna accept my apology or not?” 

His eyes graze over her entire body. 

“It’s aight,” he leaves it at that, “You gon’ come eat the rest of yo’ food?“ 

It seemed like they were two sides of the same coin, unable to be entirely vulnerable with each other. So if this was a step—it was better than nothing. 

“I need to change out of these uncomfortable ass pants—but yeah—I’ll be there.” 

Silence—his eyes watch as she turns around, wrapping her fingers beneath the waistband of her pants. 

Sahfeya’s notices him, eyes narrowing, “You just gon’ stand there?”

Her fingers are still hooked under the pants as she turns back around— he’s gone. 

The sun had risen quicker than she expected it to the next morning. Her body had sunken into the bed, it being a while since she’d known the comforts of an actual duvet. She could hear the faint sound of crying within the kitchen, assuming Aaila was fussing as Emery attempted to feed her. 

But what she didn’t expect was to be woken up as abruptly as she was. Her body jolts when she feels something drop down on her—her eyes fly open, looking down to see her clothes from the day before.

When she looks up, the first thing she sees is Onyankopon—bare, a towel wrapped around his lower body as his deep voice greets, “We don’t sleep through the mornin’ ‘round here.” 

Sahfeya’s eyes narrow, “And what time is it now?” 

“Bout’—eight in the morning,” he tells her, “I washed yo’ clothes.” 

With the natural light coming into the window, she’s able to see him—his features were sharper against the morning, the wetness from the shower leaving his skin glistening. His toned shoulders were wide, the tattoos along his body darker than yesterday. 

Her eyes flicker over him as he’s turned away—her voice soft, distracted—she mindlessly murmurs, “Thank you.” 

“You comin’ shortened our food supply, so we gon’ have to hunt—When we’ outside of the house, you gon’ have to listen to everything I say, aight?

Her eyes are still wandering over his body. Her brain is a bit muddled, “Mhm.” 

He pauses, glancing behind himself to realize she had zoned out. His face remains unfazed, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. 

“Mhm? That’s all you got?” 

Sahfeya blinks. 

 “Yeah—heard you.”

“Don’t take too long, then,” he orders, tattooed back flexing, “We’ goin’ in thirty.”

Her eyes might’ve followed him on the way out. 

Sahfeya walks into the kitchen twenty minutes later, seeing Emery who’s feeding Aaila, Theo and Elijah sitting at the table reloading their weapons. 

“Mornin’,” both men greet her. 

She gives them a soft nod, turning towards Emery who’s— smiling? 

Sahfeya hesitantly greets, “Uh—Good morning?” 

“Good morning,” Emery gives her a small wink, “How’d you sleep?”

“Decent—“ 

Emery’s still smiling. 

Sahfeya raises an eyebrow, “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

Emery’s voice is giddy, “I heard you and my brother talked last night.”

“We did.”

“And?” 

“We—“ 

Sahfeya sighed, “We might’ve found some common ground.”

That causes the others at the table to snicker, both Elijah and Theo eyeing one another with the same smirk on their face. 

“Common ground?” Emery questions with a hum, “What kind of ground would that be, exactly?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know—we’re both—prideful, I guess.” 

Her words make them all chuckle again. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Emery attempts to reassure, “He’s actually a big softie.” 

“Major,” Elijah adds.

“Expeditiously,” Theo finalizes.

In that moment, Onyankopon turns into the kitchen—he adjusts the chain he wears, muscle tee hugging his abs he tugs it over his body, camouflage printed cargo pants held by his tactical, hefty boots weighing his feet.

He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. 

“We talkin’ ‘bout me?” 

He’s making his way to the window, eyes narrowing through the blinds.

Emery shakes her head, “Just talking about how we hope you find something good out there.” 

Onyankopon lets out a hum before moving, adjusting the pistol at the back of his pants. It’s quiet, the only audible noises being Aaila’s slight coos. He goes over to his sister, pressing a kiss to her forehead and her baby girls, “You good?” 

Emery nods, “Always. You’ll be careful, right? I’m making beef stew for lunch, so please don’t take too long.”

“You already know.”

Sahfeya’s distracted as she props her finger in front of Emery’s six month old, her dark curls sprawling all the way down to her wide hips—the olive green shorts she wears clings to the fat of her ass, the black long sleeve doing no better as it hugs her upper body, showing her midriff—her nipples might’ve been poking through, too. Her paratrooper boots come up, tying all the way to her knees. Maybe this was the first time Onyankopon caught himself looking at this girl in the sunlight. 

However, he dismisses his own thoughts, “You gon’ sit around with the baby all day, or you gon’ come help a nigga hunt?”

Sahfeya’s eyes were round, attempting to be masked by her naturally long lashes, dark pink lips flushed as her freckled face glanced over to him, “Yeah—Where are we going?”

She notices his face. He was glaring. 

His voice is low, “We gon’ hit the forest nearby. Here,” he goes into the corner, the loud click of his shotgun shifting in his palm as he reaches it out to her.

She wraps her fingers around the weapon, “Uh—What am I supposed to do this? I have a pistol.”

He raises a thick eyebrow, “It’s a shotgun. ‘Can’t kill no Hollows with that lil’ ass pistol you got.”

“It ain’t little,” her nose scrunches, “Just ain’t no shotgun.” 

“You done?” He grunts, “I’m tryna’ be back before the sun goes down.” 

“Are you done?”

“I’m not finna’ keep arguing with you, girl—Let’s go.” 

And with that, the door shuts. 

“Lawd—they gon’ kill each other out there.”

Birds soar above the trees, cawing loudly through the clouds as the sky attempts to clear up above. Sahfeya’s body bends as Onyankopon holds a broken part of the gate open, crouching into a walkway that leads towards the forest. 

Her eyes squint as the sun comes out, “You sure there’s no Hollows back here?”

Onyankopon’s steps are long, he takes one stride to her three. His head cranes behind him, “That’s why it’s called a hunt.”

He’s a few steps ahead of her as the foliage becomes thicker, his tone more serious. 

“You got ammo on that shotgun?”

She’s dragging the weapon as it feels heavy in her fingers. Sahfeya glances down, slowing her steps as he’s still walking, “Uh—maybe?” 

“Yours is a pump action,” he calls back, “Put the end of the shotgun against your shoulder.” 

He continues through the thicket of trees, his voice a hiss, “Load and rack it.”

That’s when Sahfeya fully stops. Her expression is a frown, “You’ must be speakin’ creole or something.”

Onyankopon stops—his head turns back to look at her. He slowly walks, moving to stand just a foot ahead as he snatches the weapon from her hands. 

“How you’ been on yo’ own and can’t even use shit like a shotgun?” 

He begins to load the weapon. His movements are swift, showing that he’s done this an effortless amount of times. 

“Look—“ he leans closer, “You pull this lil’ tab here right before you shoot. If you don’t do it right, you’ll know ‘cause the shit gon’ kick right back and break yo’ face—“

“I thought you said we were hunting for food, we huntin’ Hollows or something?” She cuts him off, curls draping over her shoulder, head tilting in confusion.

She has no time to react before he’s lifting the shotgun—he fires, her body flinching at the boom as he takes a shot a couple feet away from her. 

“You ain’t payin’ attention.” 

“I am!” her face almost goes into a pout, “Why can’t I just have your pistol?”

“Hollows ain’t a joke,” he narrows his eyes, “Yo’ lil’ gun like a damn peashooter. You tryna’ die?”

“You ain’t gon’ protect me while we’ out here? What’s all these muscles for? Cuddling?” 

She reaches for the pistol in the back of his pants, shrieking when she feels her knife suddenly tugged from her shorts, pointed directly at her throat.

“What you gon’ do when another Rouge comes at you tryna’ snatch yo’ ass for everything you got?” 

She huffs, “Why are you playing that scenario now?”

“It ain’t playing,” he places it back in her tactical, “You just ain’t ready.” 

The shotgun was unfortunately back in her hand. She’s still dragging it, “Don’t you think we’re far enough?”

“You think far enough gon’ feed us?” 

The sun shines fully, eyes squinting as he looks back to her, “You want me to catch you—what, a rabbit?” 

It’s more of a mossy pond they come upon—and as if on cue, a bunny goes flying past their feet, taking off further into the trees.

Sahfeya’s shakes her head, “I would hope not—where did Emery get beef from if y’all hunt animals too?”

“We gon’ keep walkin’.”

His boots thud against the soft ground, “People got’ meat,” they come upon a lake—a group of deer slowly drinking from the water, “We trade with ‘em sometimes.”

Sahfeya watches the animals, a soft sigh coming from her lips, “We can’t go trade today?”

He raises the shotgun at her, “Just for that—you get the first shot.” 

“I just told you I don’t know how to shoot with  that, Onyankopon.”

“You gon’ learn.” 

That’s all he responds with—he steps closer, taking her small body into his bigger, broader one. He pulls the shotgun over her shoulder, his chest now against her back, “Hold it.”

“Ony—“ 

"Hold it.” 

He places her finger underneath the trigger with his grip firm. His warm breath hits the side of her ear, his voice a deep grunt.

"You gon' have to get comfortable wit' it. This ‘your safety,” his body somehow moves closer, her back pressed firmly into his torso as he points to where he’s referring, “This tab here gon’ eject the bullet when I push it in.” 

She releases a breath, “Push it in?”

"In,” he repeats, slow and deliberate, watching the way she almost flinches at his voice in her ear.

“It’s gon’ release it from the chamber,” he rasps, “Means you still got two more bullets in here.” 

Onyankopon’s thick bicep moves to grip underneath her own, aiming the gun towards a deer. His other arm wraps around her waist to steady the rifle, “You hearin’ me?” 

He slowly shifts his hand around the trigger, moving the tab just like he said—a bullet ejects, causing the deers to scatter at the sound. 

Sahfeya stiffens. 

“Relax,” he grunts.

She lets out another breath, “Okay.” 

“You see the one I’m pointin’ at?” 

One of the deer had a large pair of antlers, standing taller than the others. Sahfeya lets out a soft, “Mhm.” 

“When you actually shoot—the gun gon’ kick back. I’m holdin’ it tight, so it ain’t gon’ hurt you.” 

She can feel his grip tighten around her, “All you gotta do is hollon’ to me, aight?” 

Sahfeya just nods, not trusting her voice.

“Shoot.” 

The shotgun goes off, the deer dropping to the ground with a loud bang—Onyankopon’s grip on her body is the only thing that keeps her from falling backwards. 

Sahfeya’s ear rings as she shrieks, but nothing hurts more than the warmth she feels on her back from him. His face is close to her own, the smell of cedar from his neck filling her nose.

“Sorry.” 

Onyankopon’s grip remains firm. The swell of her ass pressed tightly to his hips, and she was scared that if she moved, she’d feel more than his tactical. 

She smells like vanilla, like everything that was sweet— pretty. 

“My fault,” he murmurs, “You good?”

A rush of adrenaline pours through her body—she leans deeper into his, a breathless giggle falling from her lips, “Think I’d still prefer my pistol.”

It’s like hell had frozen over—Onyankopon chuckles, the sound deep—sexy, “You’ cute.” 

He allows her to step out of his grasp, her body somewhat missing the warmth as soon as she does. He adjusts his cargos with his large palm, “Lemme’ grab the deer. We’ll head back.”

Their eyes seem to linger over each other for a moment—Sahfeya’s face flushes a bit, keeping her eyes focused on the weapon still held within her palm. She smiles. 

But that only lasted for a millisecond.

A groan ceases through the trees. The birds from above begin flying away—Sahfeya frowns, her eyes glancing around the area, her entire body tensing as the deers take off in different directions. 

“Onyankopon?” 

The sound brings a sudden stillness—Onyankopon’s jaw ticks, his movements silent as he looks towards the woods on the other side—He takes a step towards Sahfeya, arm entrapping her behind him. 

They listen. 

Just then, another moan echoes.

“Hollows.” 

And then—they see them.

She counts two. One is a man, his stomach ripped—intestines dangling from his open wounds. His face is scarred, his head a matted mess. 

It’s the sound of his heavy breaths that cause them to tense—but he isn’t alone. Before they can even think, he’s flying towards them—the speed of his body nearly breaking the sound barrier. 

“Move!” 

Onyankopon’s hand grips her shorts, tugging her in the direction back towards the mansion. He yanks his pistol from the back of his pants, already aiming—firing, the sound loud as it bounces off the trees.

Sahfeya takes off, crunching branches beneath her boots as she flurries through the woods—her heart drops the moment another groan surfaces in the direction she’s running—she halts, raising the shotgun towards the feet sloppily trampling towards her—she fires.

The kickback from the shotgun thumps her jaw—it aches, but she doesn’t have time to accept the pain—The Hollow slumps to the ground, dead. 

“Sahfeya!—“ 

She hears Onyankopon call, but a force steps into her path, making her flinch—a Hollow reaches, mouth snapping towards her, only being held back by her arms blocking his bite. It’s strong.

She struggles—the force pushes her onto the ground, snapping teeth just a mere second from her face. She beats at its chest, “Shit!” 

Onyankopon is fast, his hand raising as a bullet flies from the weapon, shooting the Hollow in the head—there’s a moment where it cries, dropping directly next to Sahfeya’s legs. 

The moment she throws her body up, her shoulders nearly jolt as her body is snatched behind a tree—her scream stifles under Onyankopon’s palm, body against the front of his chest as he clasps her mouth shut. 

His large palm is so big compared to her face, completely covering her mouth with a strength that doesn’t take much to keep her in place. Their breathing is harsh, her heart racing—Onyankopon’s muscles on her back aren’t helping to bring her pulse down either. 

Another moan echoes.

Sahfeya’s body stiffens, watching Hollows surfacing from the trees. This was the first time she’d ever been this close to one. Not since—

“Onyankopon,” her voice mewls through his fingers, the warmth of her tears on his skin—she’s reaching back to tug at his shirt. They’re everywhere.

“I’m here.”

His voice is just as low when he finally releases his palm, “I don’t got’ the clips to kill all of them. Go—“ 

“I can’t leave you here—“

“Yes the hell you can,” his voice grows a bit louder, his body hardening against her own, “Imma’ be behind you, girl. I promise.” 

He didn’t lie—he couldn’t lie. He’s tugging her arm as he begins to move, his strides wide. Onyankopon shoves the pistol in his pocket, now pushing his arm in front of her smaller frame as he hastily clears his way forward—she didn’t seem to think of herself as weak and scared, but for the moment, he was using the lightness of her body, pulling her as fast as he could. 

They make it back towards the broken part of the fence, the sound of bullets zipping past her ears—Onyankopon’s firing off every shot from his pistol, heavier footsteps pounding behind them, spits and groans loud. 

He tugs the bottom of the gate open, still firing off shots with one hand as Sahfeya crawls her way through—when she turns, he’s still on the other side—shooting, shooting.

“Ony—Onyankopon!” Sahfeya calls, fingers brushing the tattoo on the side of his arm, reaching for his body.

Her fingers fumble from the adrenaline coursing through her body—she’s trying to lift the fence, the metal too heavy. 

She’s yelling, “Onyankopon, c’mon!”  

“I can’t let em’ get past—Go!” 

He takes his palm—slamming the gate shut where he stands. Her voice trembles the entire ground as she cries, “No!” 

Onyankopon’s back is pressed to the gate as the grunts of the Hollows become louder—his gun empties, the clips dropping to the ground second after second. He’s breathing hard as his eyes dart, his fingers reaching into his other pocket. 

But the only thing he has is a knife. 

His eyes narrow at the sight of more Hollows emerging, his palm slamming into the chest of the first one who gets within his space—the blade pierces through its throat with a squelch.

But nothing is scarier than his body beginning to be piled by three of them—and that’s when it happens—a loud groan comes from Onyankopon himself, gnashing teeth digging into the flesh of his arm, sinking deeper by the second. 

Sahfeya didn’t know where she’d found this strength, but she yanks the gate up, tugging the knife from his palm as she’s stabbing forcefully, blood splattering all over her body in return. She’s fighting.

One bullet—it surfaces from the end of the shotgun, sending the final Hollow running back into the forest. Sahfeya groans as she drags his body under the gate, clasping it shut into the grass as much as she can—she holds him up, “Hey, Hey—Ony? Are you—hey, look at me!” 

His brown eyes widen, a groan leaving his lips as he stares at the sky, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He tries to push up, but his arm feels like it’s on fire. 

Blood drips down his elbow, pooling on the ground near her fingers, “I’m good,” he pants, “I’m good, Sahfeya.”

“Fuck,” she quivers—her voice rushes, “You’re bit, Onyankopon.”

The adrenaline that fueled his body is beginning to dwindle as she brings him back into the mansion, he’s staggering with every step. He’s trembling as they reach the back door, Sahfeya shoving it open and yanking him inside. 

She’s crying, tears leaving a trail on her cheeks as she begs, “Emery!—Emery!”

Emery runs as soon as she sees them, her body freezing at the sight, Theo and Elijah right behind her. 

“My god,” she gasps, eyes widening as his arm dangles helplessly, “Ony?—what happened?” 

“Them fuckin’ Hollows,” his voice is hard, as if he was running out of oxygen to even talk, his eyes rolling as he pants— he’s fighting the urge to pass out. 

“He was bit—“ Sahfeya expresses, her words scrambled, “He shot all the ones he could—I couldn’t—I couldn’t push the gate up—“

“Hey,” Theo is firm, “It’s gon’ be okay—“

“Get the fuck outta’ here,” Onyankopon’s voice is loud, eyes wide, “Put me outside. I’m not finna’ let myself hurt y’all.”

“What?” 

Theo’s eyes go wide, “What ‘you mean outside? You sayin’ you gon’ just let this happen?” 

Elijah gives Theo a look, "He's gon’ turn—it’s in his body.” 

Emery shakes her head, tears in her eyes, “You can’t do that, I’m not watching you die!”

“You don’t got’ a choice!”

He knocks his head down to Sahfeya as he still holds on, “Let me go.” 

“Onyankopon, please!—“

Onyankopon tries to take another step, but his knees buckle, his hand gripping into the wall beside them—the floor feels close—comfortable. 

He’s falling. 

The fear that grips everyone’s body vibrates the walls—it feels nauseous, a soft sob spilling from Emery’s lips as she watches her brother try to push away from all of them. Her sibling. Elijah’s brother in law. Theo’s

best friend. Sahfeya’s—

He collapses. 

Nothing.

He was nothing.

𝓐ᥫ᭡

FOR IT TO BE NO ELECTRICITY WITHIN THE HOUSE, THE CANDLES ALMOST SEEM LUMINESCENT. Heavy eyelids catch the blur of flames, going from narrowed, to open. 

They try to find some type of focus—the sable duvet of blankets, back to the flames flickering softly—or, the feminine silhouette, darkened curls framing the round face that doesn’t come into full vision yet. However, the faint scent of vanilla comes to fruition. 

“Hey.” 

Was it a dream?

Things become more clear—and seeing those round brown eyes, freckles, soft features—maybe it wasn’t a dream. 

His body jolts—a warm, small palm coming above his, “It’s just me.” 

“Don’t touch me.”

His voice grunts as an effort to raise himself from the bed, “Is everyone okay?” 

“Onyankopon.”

The events of the day begin to flood his memory; he struggles to sit up, but his arms feel weak—he growls, “Don’t lemme’ repeat myself.”

Sahfeya eyes him for a moment. She sighs, “Even almost dying, you’re still stubborn.” 

Her voice is softer, “Everyone’s fine. They’re all resting—Aaila’s been real fussy for the past couple of days—she just misses her uncle,” she lightly pokes.

At the mention of Aaila, his expression softens. But he can’t lie, he’s confused. 

“A couple days? That’s how long I been’ out?”

Sahfeya shakes her head, “Almost a week now,” she corrects, “You’re probably experiencing a bit of soreness.”

His eyes glance down to his arm—the bitten one, his fingers running along the now bandaged skin. At the sight, his eyes narrow.

“I didn't change,” he mutters.

Sahfeya eyes him. 

“Never got the opportunity to use that cure—I figured I’d do some good, put it to better use than using it on myself.”

“The cure?” he frowns, “You had it?”

That’s when she raises her hand, “Sticky fingers, remember? Who knows, I may be on the run from the Embassy.” 

Something in him wants to be amused. But he can’t help but to say, “You ain’t have to do that—that shit could’ve happened to you, Sahfeya.”

Sahfeya shrugs, “It could have. But it didn’t.”

Her fingers brush along his palm, “I gave it to someone who deserved it—Just as much as Samira did.” 

The words she speaks sinks into him. 

"You saved a nigga life.” 

Sahfeya gives a gentle smile, “Call it an actual apology for trying to rob you in the first place.”

Onyankopon just stares at her for a moment—his eyes roaming over her figure with an unreadable expression.

Her shoulders hike up a bit, more tense than she should’ve been as she notices, “Are you feeling okay? Oh god—are you having a stroke or something? Do you need water—“ 

No, he just needed her. 

Onyankopon’s rough palm cradles the smooth flesh at the back of her neck, pulling her mouth against his, kissing her.

It’s slow—his lips soft, gentle, a contrast to everything else about him. He’s warm, fingers wrapping to the back of her neck, taking in every part of her—her eyes flutter shut as she exhales against his mouth, hands trembling a bit as she leans herself against his biceps—she tenses as she feels her fingers along his gauze, pulling back as her face flushed a red, “Um—“ 

She presses her fingers to her mouth, “You should shower.” 

"You sayin’ I stink?" 

“No,” her giggle feels awkward, “I just—you’ve been laying in bed for days—it might clear your head a bit—“

“What you’ sayin’? That I kissed you ‘cause my brain muddled?”

She blinks softly, “Maybe.” 

And to her surprise, he listens. His body might’ve felt a slight soreness, but the hot water against his muscles definitely helped his mind clear, the past couple of days replaying all in a multitude of imagery within his mind. Everything meant something to him. 

Onyankopon steps out of the shower, towel hanging low along his hips, only being held by the clutch of his palm. His durag is tied atop of his head, full lips flushed from the warmth of the shower, the steam hazing into the bedroom as he steps out, catching sight of a silhouette—the bare dip of Sahfeya’s back curves inwards, her ass heavy as she pulls the oversized tee to cover her body—she hears him, pulling the material down as her soft voice questions, “You mind if I sleep in this?”

His eyes had lingered, drinking in his fill of her soft body before looking up to meet her gaze—she’s flustered, body flushed from head to toe as she stood at the edge of the bed. 

His voice is low, “Gon’ head.”

She tugs a curl of her hair, pulling a bit as some type of distraction—her eyes look at him, but she doesn’t make it entirely obvious as she questions, “The shower made you feel any better?” 

His body moves towards the dresser, tattooed chest glistening in the dim light—he leans forward as he pulls out a drawer filled with his clothing, but he doesn’t move to retrieve anything yet.

Onyankopon leans further, “The hot water felt good,” he husks, “Made it easier to think—my mind was all over the place when I first woke up.” 

“And?” 

“And—ion’ remember much now,” he takes a step towards her, Sahfeya’s round eyes blinking in return. 

“You don’t?”

Onyankopon shakes his head, eyes moving over her own, “Nah—Everything before me gettin’ in that shower is kinda blurry.” 

His tone lowers, “But—ion’ know, I might’ve remembered a lil’ kiss or sum’.”

Sahfeya’s face drops, her palm swatting his arm as she whines, “Don’t play like that,” stepping back as he dips his face to meet hers—he’s grunting as he reaches for her waist, “Play like what, huh?”

“Ony.” 

He chuckles, his palms gripping her soft hips, pulling her forward as she attempts to move, “You already forgettin’ me?“

“No,” her arms hesitantly found his shoulders, “I just—wanna make sure it wasn’t a pity kiss—you know, ‘cause I helped you.”

“That shit’ crazy,” he grumbles, “I kissed you ‘cause I can’t get my mind off you, girl.” 

His nose brushes hers—Sahfeya’s body tenses a bit, her nod soft as she glides her teeth along the plush of her bottom lip, “Okay.” 

Through all of that shell she’d protected herself with being here, he feels it being broken down the moment her fingers trail the silk of his durag, her breath hitching as his lips brush against hers. 

“You gon’ let a nigga have you?”

The question makes her body taut in his arms. Her teeth dip lower into her bottom lip, Sahfeya tensing to ground herself, “Ony—”

His voice is gruffer than before as he narrows his eyes down, his lips brushing her own in torturous repetitions,  “Relax yo’ hand.”

Her eyebrows furrow a bit, a throb coming from her clit in a way that it shouldn’t have. She takes another breath, her palm slowly releasing from the nervous hold she had, whimpering the moment his mouth sucks at her lips.

"You’ a good ass girl. Don't tense," he grunts—Sahfeya squeaks softly the moment he grabs her by the thick flesh of her thighs, tossing her down the bed—his shoulders loom the arch of her body. 

Onyankopon’s head then dips, his lips pressing to hers with more force, “You know what you doin’ to me?”

His fingers slip into the intertwine of hers, holding her palms against the bed. It causes her lower body to sway a bit in return, her forehead knocking into his as her face flushes, eyes fluttering shut. 

"Don't do allat’," he rasps, “You a nigga riled up," his fingers trail up her arms, grazing the tips of her knuckles with his thumb. He grips onto her fingers, "Gon' let me see you, girl.“

The kiss he gives her is hard—his mind blank as he comes down onto her plump lips, “Eyes.” 

Her lashes flick up, palms trembling under his—at the same time, his tongue slides deep into her mouth, Onyankopon lowering down to begin sucking up the flesh of her throat. Her eyes clasp shut. 

“Nah,” he growls —his fingers grip onto her jaw with one hand, pulling her gaze up, breath hot against her lips, “Keep them’ eyes up here.” 

It’s as if he commands her attention.

“You gon’ have to relax—my shit ain’t nothin’ nice.” 

If his lower region wasn’t nice, his mouth certainly wasn’t any better. 

He’s tugging off her panties, dragging her to meet his mouth—a slurp resounds against the room as his lips suck at her clit, the facial hair along his face becoming coated with the arousal that glistens on her pussy—Sahfeya hitches a breath, clawing for his shoulder. Her thighs tremble, “Ony—s—shit…” 

“You wet as fuck.” 

He’s giving her a mean showing of pleasure, his tongue lapping between her folds with every shiver of her body—Her thighs trap his head, back arching from every rapture that courses through her stomach. It seems like the words he speaks are laced with fire and truth, a soft shudder making her mind feel fuzzy—his shoulders rise, tongue sweeping across the top of her lips, “Keep them legs up.” 

He’s telling her that, but he’s moving them on his own as  latches her ankles above her head—Sahfeya’s eyes are low, fighting to keep them from closing at the sight of him. The brown of his eyes and skin, his jaw clenched as he watches her, handsome features hard.

Onyankopon’s forehead connects with hers the moment his towel drops, Sahfeya jolting at the feel of his dick smacking her folds, tip rubbing her clit—he was right about something though, his dick was nothing nice. Veiny, girthy, long. But the moment he sinks into her, her mouth parts open at the truth of his words—her fingers clutch, hips unable to move as he holds her down. He grunts when she gives a whimper, her body tugging beneath his—she feels full, a pleasured discomfort. 

“I know,” he rumbles, tightening the hold he had on her hands, “You full, baby. My shit curvin’ in you.”

Her legs tremble beneath his body, and when his tip lugs  deeper, Sahfeyah’s face hides within her shoulder, tears brimming her eyes as another deep, fiery pinch of pleasure rushes through her body—her voice is soft, “O—Ooh…”

His lips sear into her own, “You gon’ take me?”

She shakes, her nose finding his—she’s mewling, “It’s big, Ony.” 

Onyankopon’s grip tightens on her wrists. He’s grizzled at the plea of a voice, “You wanna see how you takin’ it?”

He releases her hands, cradling both of his palms at the back of her head as he strokes so slowly—he pulls her face up, allowing her eyes to find the connection of their bodies below. She’s watching. 

And just from the sight—her legs slowly spread open in a way that her folds stretch to take more of him in, her forehead pressing further against his as her arms wrap around his back—she whimpers, “Oh my god…” 

He doesn’t stop pounding, the grip on her head possessive, her mouth parted open, yet, nothing comes out. 

“Just keep watchin’ my shit go in—it’s gon’ go deeper every time.”

He’s grunting this to her. 

“OohmygodOny.” 

“You bet’ not fuckin’ move. Keep it up.”

The connection of his palm to her face has Sahfeya moan, Onyankopon groaning to her in repetitions, “Keep it up. Keep it up.” 

Her walls are softening the more his dick encases her folds, it makes her feen for more. Sahfeya takes her ankles, wrapping her palms around the soles of her feet as she spreads her legs completely open—now, they’re to the sides of her head—this angle, her eyes roll—she’s groaning.

The splatter and schluck overwhelm her ears, her cream coating his dick to a discoloration. He has her pressed into the mattress, her face screwing up—she’s loud.

“On—Onyan,” she breathes, a small, soft sob coming from her lips, “My stomach…” 

“Yeah?” The grip he finds on her jaw goes tight, “I’m in there?” 

“You’re in there, baby,” she harshly exhales, “Fuck.” 

“I know. You gettin’ loud, all in a nigga ear.” 

She’s still holding her own legs up, her lower lip bruised as her teeth sink into it. She’s repeating with every move, “Oooh, Oooh, Oooh,” her mouth going. 

“Good girl,” he coos, his hand gripping her chin so her eyes are back on his, “Can a nigga spit in your mouth?”

Sahfeya faintly nods—all of a sudden, she’s shy. 

“Use them’ big girl words, ion’ want that shy shit.” 

Her breathing is hard, panting when she attempts to speak, “Yeah, baby. Lemme’ have it.” 

Onyankopon snarls at her plea, the tip of his fingers sliding along her chin as he re-grips her jaw—his fingers curl, his spit landing on her tongue, jaw flexing at the sight of her—Sahfeya squeezes her eyes, mouth parting to catch his saliva.

“My shit feel that good?” 

“Uh-huhhh,” her eyes rolled back in return. 

She whimpers in such a bimbo way, “Like the way you fuck me, Ony.” 

“Good ass girl—you gone,” his lips are close, breath hot against her own, brown eyes gleaming over her face—Sahfeya sticks her tongue out once more, twisting it around with his—she moans, flicking it up and down against his, just tasting him.

“Ooh,” he groans, “Just like that, girl—Just. Like. That.” 

Onyankopon’s kiss is aggressive, his palms gripping her jaw as his hand slides up her face—his tongue strokes hers, his grip rough as it finds the flesh of her throat. 

His breathing turns sharp, grunting in a way that’s loud, his hips snapping.

“This shit good,” his hips deeply thrust down into her pussy—holding at her cervix—Sahfeya gasps intensely as he tugs back out. 

Onyankopon growls—the grip on her throat tightens. 

“I heard that. Do that shit again.”

“Ony.” 

On the second stroke—Sahfeya’s voice is high, her back arching from the bed—her body shakes against his.

His palm slaps her cheek, "Gimme’ that noise again."

“Oooh,” she moans, fingers still holding her ankles in place, “Onnny.”

She raises her nails up to his abdomen, dragging them along the flesh. She whimpers, “Come’ closer.” 

His groan is gruff, his arms wrapping around her waist as he yanks her close—Her arms latch around his neck in return, holding him tight as she smashes her mouth to his. He feels her. 

This kiss is slow, a contrast to the hard grinding Onyankopon does. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he’s coaxing, his hands sliding up the smooth flesh of her back, “Keep them sounds comin’.” 

They’re nearly seated up at this point, Onyankopon holding her by the flesh of her thighs—Sahfeya’s clinging on, clawing along his back while her other hand rests at the nape of his neck. His groan is low, his hand gripping the back of her curls as he yanks their mouths together, still stroking, “Got a nigga fuckin’ you crazy.”

“A—Agh,” she mewls, knocking her cheek into his jaw, eyes shut as she moans within his ear. 

“O—Ony,” she’s whining, "Oh my god, baby.”

He thrusts deeper, her body shaking in his hands, “You sound so pretty, baby.” 

“You feel good as hell,” he continuously rasps, “You feel so good.” 

Onyankopon is hissing, his lips sucking at the side of her neck—Sahfeya’s whining out, her grip on him tight, fingers holding.  

“There, baby.” 

His dick curves to the angle Sahfeya wants as he slams into her—she cries out— clutching onto him, a rapture of pleasure wafting her entire body. But he wanted more. He then flips her onto her stomach, eyes facing the mirror directly across from the bed. His hand is already clutching her throat, Sahfeya’s eyes rolling as shoves back in, her ass clapping to the gush of his dick returning inside her—She drops her face into the sheets, mewling for the thousandth time. 

“Nah—look,” His hand forces her face to look up, “See how I got you?”

His palm slaps the flesh of her ass, a loud echo coming within the room mixturing with the rhythm of her ass bouncing on his abdomen—Onyankopon’s palm grips her asscheek, his eyes narrowing at the reflection in the mirror, “Look at that.” 

He lays his body atop of hers, face burying into the crook of her neck as his lips rests at the shell of her ear—her face is flushed, cheeks rosy and lips bruised as her low eyes look within his.

But she’s no better than him—she’s taking her lower body, grinding it back. Her head turns to face him, keeping her ear against his mouth as she hears him groan into it. 

She giggles through her whimper, “Lemme’ bounce back on it, baby. Wanna hear you.” 

Onyankopon’s voice is a huff, his teeth sinking into the flesh of Sahfeya’s neck, the hand on her chin yanking her head to the side,  “You don’t gotta’ beg.”

His body sits up, fingers spreading her pussy from behind, “Get close,” he grunts. She’s obedient, grinding her body back against his, whimpering, “Oh my—Ooh—,” her body shaking against him, Onyankopon’s head rolling back.

She’s whiny, voice hiccuping as she just—takes him.

“You got it,” he’s biting his own lip as his curved palm pulls her into each thrust, his eyes narrow as they travel from their reflection back to her—he swats her ass, “You a muhfuckin’ pro. You takin’ this fat ass dick.” 

“Slow down, baby…” 

From the mirror, she watches his palm slide to the right side of her face—he slaps at it, “You gon’ take me like you want it. Don’t be cryin’ now.” 

“Oooh!” she’s groaning, “Fuck, Ony.”

Her lips are parted, a soft gasp coming from her mouth as he keeps. Going. 

 “You gon’ give me all of you?”

He smacks her ass again. 

“Tell a nigga.”

Her pussy rocks back onto his dick—Onyankopon finds her throat from behind as she responds, her voice quiet, “I’m yours, Ony.”

“You gon’ be mine forever, huh?”

He’s sloppily tugging her—his breaths quickening as his palm goes to the back of her neck. 

“Uh-huh,” she’s nodding, “I’m—so close.” 

Sahfeya’s eyes flutter when he lowers himself back into a kiss from behind—a low groan coming from his lips, “Look at me,” he’s coaxing—she’s quick to obey, “That’s it, baby,” his lips sucking at her own, “My fuckin’ girl.”

It’s a rush of emotions between the two— she frowns between her soft sob of, “I’m cumming.”  

She keeps repeating it, holding onto him like she’d never touched him before—like she did when she thought he’d held his last breath. 

There’s a sudden snarl from his chest as he slows—a flash of emotion comes across his features—he moans with her, the final smack of their lips louder than before as he feels her folds drenching his tip feverishly. It doesn’t stop—it doesn’t stop, they’re moving, rocking together—hot, messy, passionate.

Then, they’re silent. 

A moment of peace, of reassurance—Sahfeya is the first one to break the tension, her voice soft, “I’m sorry.” 

He remains in her, his breathing soft as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, “For what?” 

“‘Think I scratched your arm where you were bitten.”

Onyankopon furrows his eyebrows. His lips tug into a small smirk, “You too good.”

“Yo’! Emery’s finally makin’ that beef stew—“

The door swings open, Theo adjusting his glasses as he continues, “She needed to know if—oh shit!” 

Sahfeyah’s body is instantly shielded, her lips squeaking  at the sudden movement.

 “Nigga, you forgot how to fuckin’ knock?”

Theo’s head dips, “My bad, bro,” he’s saying quickly, “Uh—hey, Sahfeya—“

Sahfeya covers her face beneath Onyankopon, “Hi, Theo.”

Onyankopon’s frown deepens, his eyes glaring as Theo takes the hint, “Right—I was gon’ ask if y’all need somethin’ to eat, but it seems like you already ate—“

“Theo, Imma’ knock yo’ ass out. Why you’ still standin’ here?”

“I can’t come check on my bestie? You almost died!” 

Onyankopon’s head shakes as an exhale comes from his lips, “I’m alive,” he rasps, “Leave.”

“I get it, man,” Theo’s smiling, his hands held up in mock defeat, “Pussy prolly’ great after allat’—“

“Theo.”

“You hungry, beautiful?” He directs his question towards the body hiding.

Sahfeyah’s giggles, “I’m fine, Theo. Thank you.”

“What’s happening? Are they gonna come eat? Can Onyankopon come feed Aaila, I need to cook!” 

Emery’s voice is heard all the way from downstairs. 

Onyankopon grunts out, “Where yo’ damn husband, Emery?”

“I’m helpin’ cook!” Elijah shouts.

Theo leans against the door, a smirk on his lips, “So—how’d this happen?”

Onyankopon’s eyes narrow, “Imma’ be worse than a Hollow if I gotta’ get up, Theo. Swear ta’ god.” 

“I’m actually a bit lil’ hungry,” Sahfeya’s voice is soft, her hands over her nipples, “And you’re heavy.” 

“You heard the woman—we comin’. Now getcho’ ass gone.”

Theo smiles, “Aight—Yo’, Em’, they’ in here hunchin’!” 

“What?!” Both Emery and Elijah bleat in return. 

The door slams shut. 

And once more, Sahfeya’s amused in a time where Onyankopon thought nothing was funny. 

“We gon’ have to deal with that every time?” she questions.

“Unfortunately. You ready for allat’?”

Sahfeya sighs, “I don’t know—maybe I should just take my things and leave—” she goes to turn on the bed, a mixture of a shriek and laugh pouring from her lips as he tugs her back. 

“Like hell.” 

He groans when her lips latch onto his, the kiss slow yet warm. Sahfeya’s fingers trace the side of his face, eyes closed as she breathes, “Is this too fast?” 

“Nah,” he’s low, “Nah.” 

“Maybe we should skip dinner then,” Sahfeya sucks at his lips, “Yeah?” 

“We gon’ eat— just lemme’ get a lil’ appetizer in.”

Onyankopon came into your life like any other relationship would. He was sweet, charismatic, gentle. He was everything you could have ever asked for in a man. Patient, a rock when you needed him, and a safe space for you to just…be. When everything around you fell to chaos, he was the one thing that could lead you back into serenity. He quiet devotion to you was unmatched, making you feel seen and appreciated in every way a woman needed to be. Only was a simple gentleman who loved his lady. And he showed it even in the smallest of gestures--a hand-picked flower, a warm sweater on a cold day, a soft kiss on your forehead when you least expected it. It just felt right.

But with each gift, you felt a twinge of unease, a little tug in your chest. Those words repeating in your brain.

What was his endgame?

Ony loved you. Plain and simple. Anyone could see that. But yet you were so blinded by past hurt, you couldn’t step outside of your own head. Surely, he isn’t doing these things and expecting nothing back? No, it's just like before. So you did what you’ve always done. You matched him, made sure each gift was of equal or greater value. Yours needed to be more meaningful, more dramatic. You had to outdo him.

Every. Single. Time

It started early, a few weeks into your relationship--like when he bought you your favorite coffee from the cafe around the corner of your apartment that you loved so much. Of course you had to treat him to lunch the next day. “What’s this?” he asked when you walked in the house. He was working from home, headphones covering one of his ears. “I figured you were hungry so I wanted to bring you a treat.” you had replied. He smiled up at you, placing a gentle kiss against your temple. “Thank you baby girl.” his voice was soft with you, hands tracing gentle circles into your hips.

Further into your relationship, it continued. For you birthday, he bought you the beautiful tiffany princess cut diamond necklace that you were raving about one night as you scrolled on tiktok. “Omg, Pa look at this! It's gorgeous.” you had exclaimed. You saved it to your cart for you to buy later but he beat you to it. So what did you do? You bought him a Berluti Men’s leather jacket for his own birthday that you knew he had been eyeing for months.

But soon, the game escalated. You found yourself overthinking every little thing he did. Your mind wondering what you could give him in return. And no matter how hard you tried, you always felt like you had to top his gestures, matching him with something bigger, something better.

Ony had an inkling about your behavior for a while but he left it alone. Until your two year anniversary. That night, you sat together in his apartment, you hand him a gift--a black bag with two boxes inside. He smiles at you as he opens it up. Inside were two new grillz, one silver set and one gold set for his collection. His shocked expression morphed into a small smile of appreciation. “These are fire mamas, thank you so much.” he said before sitting them to the side. You smile bright at him “You deserve it baby.” you say to him.

Before you could even think, Ony placed the bag aside, reaching for a box from the table in front of him. You raised an eyebrow. "Hold up," Ony interrupted, his voice steady but serious. "I’ve got something for you too." He hands you the blue tiffany box with a bright white bow attached to the corner. “Wait,” you said, a little too quickly. “You didn’t get me anything else, did you? Because I just—"

He hands you the box, much smaller that the one you had given him. You hesitate for a moment as he opened it, revealing a stacked rose gold diamond ring. Your heart lurched in your chest. You blinked at the gift, unsure what to say. The ring was beautiful—perfect—but your immediate thought was that you needed to do better. Your mind raced, running through possible gifts you could return with, how you could top this beautiful piece of jewelry. Your instinct to outdo him kicked in, but then you saw the look on his face. He wasn’t waiting for you to match him.

“Ony…” you started, your voice wavering slightly. “I can’t just... take this. You know I—"

“Yeah, I know,” he said softly, cutting you off, his voice low. “That’s the problem.”

You blinked, confused. “The problem?” He sighed “I’ve been watching for a while and I didn’t know if I was for sure until now.” He lets you sit the box to the side and waits until you turn back towards him. “I noticed it a while back. The way your face contorts when you see me get you something. And before I know it you’ve repaid the favor.” he explains. “I mean we are in a relationship baby. That's what we do.” You attempt to laugh it off.

He leaned forward, his gaze steady as he watched you, his dark eyes soft but intense. “You’re not getting it, are you?” he said quietly, shaking his head. “You think everything has to be a transaction. That if I give you something, you have to give me something back. But that’s not how it works with me. Not with us.” he says “Ony, I’m not…” you speak up but you’re cut off

“Even in our bedroom. It’s like I can’t even please you without you feeling as if you need to outperform me.” He says. Your chest tightens at that statement. You hadn’t realized how much this had affected your relationship. You could see it now the wear and tear it was causing him. “Like don't get me wrong baby I love when we fuck but…sometimes I just want to make love to you.” he says gently.

You looked down at the ring, your fingers nervously tracing the gold, feeling the weight of his words. Your heart skipped a beat as you tried to process them.

“I don’t want you to match me,” Ony continued, his voice gentle but firm. “I’m not giving you this because I expect something in return. I’m giving it to you because I want to. Because I love you. And I don’t need anything back. Not right now, not ever.”

You swallowed hard, his words sinking deep. A lump formed in your throat as you felt the sting of emotion build up inside you. Ony wasn’t playing the game. He was giving you something real. Something without strings attached. Yet you struggled to accept it.

“I...” You found it hard to speak, the words getting caught in your throat. “I don’t know how to accept that. I’ve always had to give something back. I’ve always had to prove...”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he interrupted softly, reaching out to take your hands in his, his touch warm and grounding. “Look,” he said gently. “I don’t know who he is that made you feel like this. Or who they were that told you that this is the only way you can receive love. It’s not.” He says softly ”But you don’t understand. It not okay for you to do for me and I don’t do for you.” You attempt to explain tears burning your eyes. “You can do for me. But do for me because you love me and appreciate me. Not because you feel like you have something to prove.”

“You don’t have to keep playing that game, baby. You’re enough just as you are. I love you, and that’s not conditional. It’s not about what you give me. It’s about what we give each other. And if you can’t accept that, then we need to have a different conversation.”

Your heart ached, a flood of emotions threatening to spill over. You had spent so much of your life protecting yourself, hiding behind the walls of your own expectations, and here was Ony, asking you to tear them down. To let him love you without the conditions you had always set in place.

You took a shaky breath, feeling the warmth of his hands around yours. “I’m scared,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I know,” he replied, his voice tender, the understanding in his eyes never wavering. “But you don’t have to be anymore. You don’t have to do anything, or be anyone, to deserve my love. You’ve got me. No strings attached.”

And with those few words, you felt the walls inside you begin to crack. The tears you had been holding back finally spilled over as you let out a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of his words settle in your chest.

He caresses your head gently, kissing away your tears. You don’t move, allowing him to nurture you. Ony pulls you closer to him. Kissing down to your lips. After a few minutes, you pull back. “Your lips are salty.” you giggle. Laughter fills the air as tension leaves both your bodies. Ony picks the box up and opens it, the ring on full display. “Ony…” you start. “This is my vow to you. My vow to love you endlessly if you let me. To give you all of me and more. No questions asked. My promise that you have all of me.” he slips the ring onto your finger. “It's beautiful baby. Thank you.” you lean up and press a kiss against his lips. His kisses you gently, pulling your bottom lip into his mouth.

You whimper in his touch. “Ony.” you speak breathlessly. He hums before kissing you again. Heat rises in your body as his hands trail up your thighs. You whine, wiggling closer to him. Ony pulls back a bit from you. “Wha…” you startle. “I want you to allow me to love you and please you without conditions. Can you do that for me?” He asks. You look into his eyes burning with sincerity and a sense of newfound peace washes over you. “Yes” you answer and you feel yourself being lifted up. You smile as Ony carries you back into your bedroom and places you gently on the bed.

“Just let me worship you baby. Like you deserve.”

He speaks before gently removing your clothes. His eyes rake over your body, taking in the curves of every part of you. “Fuck, you're so fucking pretty.” he said, hands caressing every part of you. His fingertips trace your neck and down to your nipples, circling them gently. Your back lifts from the bed but he presses you back down carefully. “Relax mamas, let me take care of you.” he cooes, continuing his descent down your body. His feather light fingers move down your torso and to your thighs. He draws gentle shapes into your inner thighs, massaging your body to loosen you up. “Breathe deep for me mamas. In and out. Focus on your breathing.” he whispers before moving his head down to your pussy.

His nose grazes against your clit and your body jolts. Ony’s thick hands come back up and flatten you back against the mattress again. “Relax baby. Keep breathing for me.” You will your body to relax as he resumes his actions. Nose grazing against the meaty flesh, he begins to pepper soft kisses along your skin. Tantric breathing methods allow your body to release the tension you held in your muscles as Ony’s lips press against your already wet one. He makes out with your pussy, softly tugging your lips into his mouth and using his tongue to flick your clit ever so often.

“Fuck pa. Right there. Don’t stop.” you whine. Ony’s kisses are slow and deliberate. His pace is steady, tongue dragging from opening to clit, like a cat lapping at it's milk. “You so fucking sweet.” he growls into your pussy, warm breath blowing into your pussy. Your pussy clenches around nothing, causing more of your juice to pour out, landing right on his tongue. “Fuck.” You gasp for air. Your toes shape into ‘C’s as Ony explores your body. Mouth pleasuring you as his hands grip and knead at your flesh. Your juices drip down his chin as he slurps you down, soft moans release from his chest at the sight of your arousal. Ony’s dick hardens as he presses his hips into the mattress to relieve pressure while he honors your body. Your eyes roll back as your head presses back into the pillow, breathing doing little to keep shivers from racing through your body.

“Ony baby, please.” you whine, hips grinding against his face while his tongue fucks your center. Your pussy so wet, the sounds echoing through the room as she sings sweet music to him. Ony was in a trance, getting lost in your essence. The speed of his tongue increases causing sparks to sizzle underneath your skin, alerting your body of the pending release. Your moans get louder as your breathing gets heavy, Your hands reach down to grip the back of his head, hips stuttering against his face. “Ony, Fuck Pa, I’m gonna cum.” You’re borderline groveling as your body begins to convulse, saccharine secretions glaze his beard as you call out his name.

You struggle to catch your breath as Ony finally comes up for hair, lickign you from his lips. “You ready for me baby?” he asks, dick hardened beneath his boxers. “I-...” you breaths still trying to level themselves out, “Are you sure you don't need me to help you baby?” you manage to push out between breaths. “No mamas. Just let me praise you like the muse you are.” his deep praises caress the deepest parts of your heart, mending unspoken wounds with each word. He steps forward, pulling his dick from his boxers and gently slapping your swollen clit with his tip. “You’re my princess, yeah?” he asks softly looking down at the gold mine between your legs. “Y-yes.” you respond to him. “Remember that. Always.” he slips his tip through your entrance. “Onyyyy, fuck baby.” you body clenches, attempting to pull him in deeper. “Tell me you deserve it baby.” his eyes meet yours, brown irises burning with intensity. “I deserve iitttt…” your words drag as he sheaths himself all the way inside you.

“You deserve it all baby girl. You’re so fucking precious to me.” the sweet words contrast with the thickness of his voice as his hips jut forward, strokes deepening and increasing in speed. Only’s hands trail your body, one hand coming up to gentle press against your throat as the other locks your wrists above your head. His body leans closer, strokes shallowing as his hips grind into yours, words of praise whispered against your skin as he caters to every need that your body requests. Both bodies move in tandem as breaths deepen and arousals heighten. You feel your body teetering on the edge of another climax. Only can tell by the way your pussy grips him desperately, craving him.

“Ony, I’m..I’m c-close.” you cry out, body begging for him. “It's okay. Give it to me princess.” he commands. “Bless me with your essence baby. Release it all for me.”

You don't register the sounds being released are yours until your body starts to shake in his arms. Tears fall from the corners of your eyes slipping down your face and around your ears. Bed wet with your tears and your release as your aura explodes from inside of you. Ony’s breaths choppy as he requests, “Can I pour into you princess?” he whispers brokenly into your ear. Words don’t come so you feverishly nod your head in agreement. His growl follows his nut as you feel your pussy warm from his release coating your gummy walls. You both sit, holding each other as you come down from your high.

After a moment, Ony raises up. “All good or one more?” He asks using his thumb to swipe the tears from your eyes. “All good Pa. Thank you.” You let out. Ony rises up and goes into the bathroom. Your eyes flutter open and closed as you let yourself calm down. He returns with a warm towel and works on cleaning you up. He replaces your clothes with a warm t shirt of his and gets fresh blankets for the bed.

You sit and allow it. It feels good being on this side. Your heart feels light as you watch him move around the room getting everything comfortable for you. “Better?” He asks. “Better.” You repeat as a response. “Good. Now take your pretty ass down while I go get you something to eat.”

Ony didn’t ask for anything in return. He gave freely, unconditionally. And maybe, for the first time in your life, you realized you could do the same. He came back in the room with your food and slipped underneath the covers with you, pulling your body in his warmth. You pulled him into an embrace, wrapping your arms around him tightly, as if trying to hold onto the love he was offering you.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

“I love you too,” Ony murmured, holding you even tighter, as if he never wanted to let go.

In that moment, everything changed. You didn’t need to play the game anymore. You didn’t need to prove anything. You just needed to accept what was right in front of you: a love that was simple, pure, and free from the weight of expectations.