silver

The creak of Asaud’s bedroom door—always shut now—grates against your nerves like a splinter you can’t dig out. Two weeks straight of it. No more sprawled across the couch with his cleats kicked up, no more leaning over your shoulder while you cooked just to steal a taste. Just that door locked tight as a vault, the muffled bass of his music throbbing through the wood like a pulse you weren’t invited to hear.  

He used to be yours—your baby, even when he hit six feet tall. The boy who’d press his forehead to yours after bad games and whisper, “I’m sorry, Momma,” like your disappointment cut deeper than any coach’s scream. 

Now? His “Cool,” lands like a slap when you ask about practice. His backpack stays slumped by the door, untouched since yesterday. Homework? Done. Dinner? Not hungry. 

And sleep—Lord, the sleeping. You catch him slumped over his desk sometimes when you dare to knock, cheek smushed against his physics textbook, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake even in dreams. Other days he doesn’t stir ‘til noon, blankets twisted around his waist, phone clutched in his palm like it holds answers.  

Onyankopon misses it. Not because he doesn’t care—hell no. That man breathes for his son. But between welding shifts at the shipyard—arms streaked with soot, muscles aching from hauling steel—he comes home too exhausted to see past Asaud’s “I’m straight, Pops.” 

And you? You’re softer. Always have been. The one who smooths his edges when Ony’s tough love ain’t the fix. But lately…  

When your hand hovers over Asaud’s door? The wood feels colder than it should.

Your phone buzzes against the countertop, pulling you from your thoughts. The screen lights up with a text from Papa—your husband's contact name forever unchanged since the day he programmed it himself. 

Shipyard lettin’ us slide early. Gon’ grab some crawfish, swing by Nana’s for y’all. You want extra butter? 

A slow smile curls your lips. You’re halfway through typing your response—but that’s when the screen flashes again. Not another text.  

An incoming call.  

Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High. 

“…Hello?” 

“Hey, baby.”

Principal Guidry’s voice is honey thick Creole, the same one that used to holler at y’all for cutting class back in tenth grade. Now it’s laced with something heavy. 

“I’m real sorry to call like this—”

Your grip tightens. 

“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“

“He’s fine.”

She hesitates before correcting, “Physically, leastways. But…” 

A pause. The shuffle of papers. 

“My office chair ain’t never felt this heavy. Got yo’ boy sittin’ right here lookin’ like he wanna disappear into the floor. Suspended. Three days.” 

Suspended? The word doesn’t even sound right in the air.  

“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.  

Your breath catches. Asaud? Your gentle giant? Fighting? 

“What happened?” 

Cherise exhales hard, “Let him tell it. ‘Need you to come get him.” 

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot. 

"I’m on my way." 

The tires of your truck screech against cracked asphalt as you fishtail into the Bonnabel High parking lot, heart hammering against your ribs. You should text Onyankopon—should—but even thinking about it makes your stomach twist. The man would burn down the entire Eastbank if he heard his son was hurt, the welding torch still in hand, fury hotter than molten steel. No, better to handle this first.  

The school looms ahead, its faded maroon bricks and rusted Saints banners looking harsher under the afternoon sun. Then—movement. The double doors swing open, and there’s Asaud, flanked by two security guards, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to fold into himself.  

You don’t even cut the engine before you’re out the car, bare feet slapping against hot concrete.  

“Mon bébé—oh my God, look at your face!” 

Your hands flutter over his swollen eye, fingers trembling as you trace the bruise purpling his caramel skin. It’s deep, angry—someone hit him hard. The Creole spills out of you unfiltered, a storm of “Qui t'a fait ça?!” and “Let me see, cher—” 

Asaud exhales sharply, catching your wrists with a gentleness that belies his size.  

“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.” 

One of the guards—a thick necked man with a walkie crackling at his hip—clears his throat. 

“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.” 

The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you. 

“Clear the—do you see my child’s face? Who did this? Who—” 

“Momma.” 

Asaud’s grip firms, steering you back toward the car with a nudge. The kids pressed against the cafeteria windows don’t make it any better. He just climbs into the passenger seat without another word, jaw set.  

And so, you follow.

The air inside the truck is thick with unspoken words, the only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Asaud shifting in his seat. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light streaming through the window—jaw clenched, lashes lowered—a portrait of quiet defiance.  

“…Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.”

One word, clipped.  

“Does Coach know what happened?”

“Not yet.” 

That stings. Asaud loves football—loves his team, loves the way his daddy’s face lights up when he makes a play. If he’s keeping this from Coach? Something serious must’ve happened.

“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”

Little wolf—the childhood nickname slips out before you can stop it, tender as a bruise.  

His broad shoulders slump as he leans his temple against the glass.  

“…Head hurts.” 

“Baby, if you hit your head, you can’t sleep—” 

Your hand lifts instinctively, reaching to brush his temple, check for fever—but he tilts away before you can make contact. Your fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat before dropping back to the wheel. 

The moment the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway, Asaud is already moving—door swinging open before you even cut the engine, his long legs carrying him toward the house in quick strides. You barely have time to gather your purse before he’s halfway up the porch steps.  

“Wait—" 

Your scramble after him, bare feet slapping against warm wood.  

“Ti-Loup—Asaud!” 

He slows down by a millisecond. 

“I still need to know what happened—“

“Ain’t nothin’.”

“Nothing?” 

You frown, “Look at your damn face!" 

You catch his wrist, forcing him to turn—only for him to yank free with a force that makes you stumble. 

“Why are you being like this? You don’t—you never avoid me.”

This time when he turns, his eyes aren’t just tired. They’re cold.  

“Damn, can’t I just breathe without y’all up my ass?” 

The words hit like a slap.  

For a second you just stand there, the sting of them settling deep beneath your skin. Your chest tightens—but you won’t cry. Not here. 

“Fine.” 

The word comes out quieter than you meant.  

“You can wait ‘til your father gets home to talk about it.”

His whole posture shifts—shoulders stiffening, eyes widening—like the mere mention of that man flipped a switch.  

“Momma—” 

But you’re already walking away.

The tension in the house is thick enough to slice with a butter knife—the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, heavy and oppressive. Asaud's bedroom door hasn't budged since you got home, not even when you knocked softly with a plate of food an hour ago. The plate is still sitting untouched outside his door, grits congealing into sad little lumps.  

This is how it always goes when Asaud knows Onyankopon is coming home to discipline him—radio silence, tense shoulders, the boy steeling himself like a soldier bracing for battle. Normally you'd bridge the gap, smooth things over with a joke or a hug. But today? The sting of his dismissal lingers like a bruise, and you can't bring yourself to force it.  

Then—keys. 

The front door swings open, and there he is.  

Dressed in a navy blue shipyard uniform, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms corded with veins, tattoos a roadmap of ink against deep brown skin. A faded Saints cap sits low over his cornrows, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face—that strong jaw, all the way down to the facial hair coating his chin. The scent of saltwater and engine grease clings to him, mixing with the spicy aroma of the crawfish takeout in his hand. 

“‘Where my baby at?" 

His gaze locks onto you—your bare legs peeking out from under his jersey, your hair still crimped and wild from the kitchen heat—and his glare is all sin. 

“Goddamn,” he grunts—“You been walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that while I’m gone? Gon’ make me come over there.” 

You huff a weak laugh despite the weight in your chest, watching him flex his fingers like they’re stiff from gripping a welding torch all day.

“Hi, Papa.” 

He grunts again—this one softer—as he stomps toward the kitchen, setting the takeout bag on the counter before peeling off his grease streaked work jacket. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his white tank as he tosses it over a chair, his voice rough but easy as he starts rambling.  

“Shit was a goddamn warzone today—‘foreman got on my nerves ‘bout some pipe measurements, then ‘them Lafitte boys tried to cut in line at Nana’s.” 

He pops the lid off the crawfish, steam billowing up as he scowls—“Like I ain’t gon’ notice they tryna’ snake my order.” 

You lean against the counter, watching him. Normally you’d interject—tease him about being territorial over seasoned crustaceans—but your mind is still tangled up in the quiet rage of your son’s dismissal.  

Onyankopon glances up, finally catching your silence. His dark brows furrow.  

“What’s wrong wit’ you?” 

You pick at the hem of the jersey.  

“‘Had… a day.” 

He murmurs, “I’m knowin’, Mama. A nigga glad to be home. ‘Been thinkin’ bout’ a shower, rubbin’ on yo’ feet—Where ‘Saud at? Lil’ nigga better be hungry ‘cause I got extra sausage just for hi—“ 

“He’s suspended.” 

The moment the words leave your lips, Onyankopon goes still—unnaturally still. Like every muscle in his body locks down at once. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickens. You can practically see the switch flip behind his eyes—the shift from husband to father, from easy laughter to cold calculation.  

“Fuck you mean suspended?”   

You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of how small you feel beneath his gaze.  

“…I don't know, Ony. He wouldn't tell me."

His nostrils flare—once, twice—before his dark eyes scan your face, picking up the tension in your brow, the way your fingers clutch the jersey fabric too tight.  

“"Y'all got into it?" 

“He didn't want to talk to me." 

A muscle in his temple jumps.  

“He ain't got no choice but to talk to you."

His voice is low, final—“Ain't no option." 

For a moment, silence stretches between you—thick and loaded—before his calloused fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, gruff but tender.  

“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first." 

You exhale shakily, leaning in. His lips are warm, firm against yours—brief but grounding—before he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling faintly of peppermint and the crawfish he'd been handling.  

And then—  

"ASAUD!" 

His roar shakes the damn house. No hesitation, no preamble. 

“Get yo’ ass out here.” 

You flinch, knowing how quickly Asaud heard him. Even through walls. Even through attitude.  

Silence.  

Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant. 

Asaud appears in the doorway, broad shoulders slumped just slightly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His eyes flicker up—just once—to meet his father's gaze before lowering again, careful not to show outright defiance but unable to hold the intensity of that stare for long.  

Onyankopon doesn't speak at first. Just looks at him, eyes raking over the swollen skin, the purple black bruise blooming beneath his son’s eye. Then—movement. 

His hand shoots out, calloused fingers gripping Asaud’s chin with a firmness that isn’t rough but leaves no room for resistance. He tilts his face toward the light, inspecting the damage with the clinical precision of a man who’s seen—and dealt—his share of blows.  

“‘You alright?"

Asaud’s throat bobs.  

“Yes, sir." 

Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.  

“Then why ain't you tell yo’ momma what happened?" 

Asaud’s jaw flexes beneath his father’s hold, his voice barely above a murmur.  

“...Didn’t wanna talk about it, sir.” 

“What’d you say to her?" 

“I ain’t say nothin’." 

“Tch." 

A sharp click of his tongue.  

“Tête levée quand tu m'parles." 

Head up when you talk to me. 

The Creole rolls off his tongue sharply, and Asaud’s chin lifts almost immediately—eyes snapping to meet his father. The apology spills out before he can stop it—  

“Désolé, Pops—"

“Whatchu’ apologizin’ for if you ain’t say nothin’?"  

The silence in the kitchen turns electric, thick enough to choke on. Onyankopon’s grip loosens just enough to turn Asaud’s face toward you—not rough, but insistent. 

“‘What he say to you?" 

“He said—" Your voice wavers, but you force it steady. “'Damn, can I breathe without y’all being up my ass?'"  

Onyankopon looks back to Asaud. 

“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"  

He steps into his son's space, forcing his head up again with a rough tap of two fingers beneath his chin.  

"’You think you grown enough to talk to yo’ momma like that?”

Asaud’s lips part—but no sound comes out.  

“I asked you a question." 

“No, sir," Asaud mutters, jaw tight.  

“Nah, see—you acted like it."

 Onyankopon’s voice sharpens, cutting like a blade—“You got one mother. One. The woman who carried yo’ big headed ass for nine months, who still make yo’ plate first even when yo’ dumbass bein’ ungrateful. And ‘this how you talkin’ to her?" 

The words land like bricks.  

"Look at her." 

Asaud’s eyes flicker to you once, then darting away again.  

“Soft as fuck wit’ you," Onyankopon continues—“Always been. ‘You sick? She up all night. ‘You hungry? She cookin’ before you even ask. You ain’t just disrespectin’ yo momma—you disrespecting’ my wife.” 

Asaud swallows hard, his shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact. Onyankopon doesn’t let up though, drilling into him with a stare that could crack concrete.  

“Apologize." 

“I’m sorry, Momma." 

Your chest tightens. 

“I’m not upset, baby," you murmur, “It just hurt my feelings—I wanna know what’s going on, okay? That’s all.” 

Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.  

"...I fought Jamal." 

That catches both of you off guard. Jamal? His wide receiver—his best friend? 

Onyankopon’s brows shoot up, "The hell for?” 

“...Cheer team girl." 

The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening. 

“So you gon’ fuck up yo’ throwin’ hand—lose yo’ scholarship—over some girl?” 

The words come out low, measured, but they hit like a sledgehammer. You step forward, hands lifting slightly—  

“Hey, let’s just—" 

”Who the girl?" 

Asaud shifts uncomfortably, shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing for war.  

"Sabine." 

“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?" 

“Onyankopon!” 

He doesn’t even glance your way, his glare still locked onto Asaud.  

“Why you callin’ my name?" ’His voice drops dangerously—“That gotta’ be the reason. Otherwise, I  need yo’ son to explain why he fuckin’ up all his opportunities over some bullshit."

“It ain’t bullshit!" Asaud’s voice booms, raw and defensive—“She’s different.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t laugh—doesn’t even smirk. His expression stays stone-cold as he steps forward, closing the gap between them with a single stride.  

“That’s what you thinkin’ right now,” he growls, “But I promise—she ain’t. You thinkin’ bout some pussy, and that ain’t gon’ get you in the NFL or keep yo’ wide receiver." 

He jabs a thick finger against Asaud’s chest—hard. 

“Yo’ head loose, and I ain’t raisin’ no kids outside of you." 

Asaud’s chest heaves, his nostrils flaring as his temper flares hotter. Then—  

“You were younger than me when you knocked Momma up.” 

The moment those words leave Asaud’s mouth—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut—your stomach drops. Your lips part in quiet disbelief, brows knitting together as hurt flashes hot behind your ribs.  

“Asaud!" 

But Onyankopon is already moving—fast, too fast—his massive hand snatching the front of Asaud’s hoodie, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart. Asaud’s breath comes ragged, shoulders rising and falling under the strain of his father’s grip, but he doesn’t fight it.  

"You right." 

A pause—sharp, loaded.  

“Here I am sixteen years later—still bustin’ my ass for you the moment I ‘knocked’ yo’ momma up."

His fingers tighten in the fabric, knuckles whitening—" I don’t ever regret havin’ you, and if I can prevent you from goin’ through the same shit me and yo’ momma handled? That’s what Imma’ do." 

Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.  

"Ion’ give a fuck ‘bout no lil’ ass girl," Onyankopon rasps, “Or yo’ feelings just ‘cause you on some puppy love shit. Football. School. That’s yo’ priorities." 

Your fingers curl into Onyankopon’s sleeve, tugging gently—“Baby… let him go." 

Asaud’s voice cracks as he mutters, “Pops—" 

"Pop’s nothin’." 

Onyankopon shoves him back—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. He spits something in Creole—low, guttural—before jerking his chin toward the kitchen.  

“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked." 

The moment Onyankopon issued that command, Asaud's shoulders slumped—defeated but still simmering with that same stubborn fire his father carried in his bones. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with frustration before he turned on his heel, storming down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot, rattling the frames on the walls.  

Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.  

“Don’t be slammin’ no doors in this bitch you can’t pay to fix.” 

And all you could do was sigh, pressing your fingertips to your forehead as the weight of the afternoon settled over you like a heavy blanket.  

Hours later, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when two prideful men refuse to be the first to break. Nightfall crept in, painting the walls in long shadows as you moved through the dimly lit kitchen, plating a heaping serving of shrimp and grits—still warm, just the way he liked it.  

But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.  

Not in the living room, not in the bedroom—so you already knew where he was.  

Stepping onto the porch, the humid Louisiana air wrapped around you like a second skin. The cicadas sang their nightly chorus, the scent of magnolias thick in the breeze. And there he was—shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as his massive frame crouched near the steps.  

The metal bowl in his hands rattled impatiently as he shook it, muttering under his breath.  

“‘What you doin’, Papa?” 

He didn’t even glance up, his deep voice gruff with irritation.  

“…Tryna’ feed this damn cat ‘Saud be so worried about.” 

A soft mrrow sounded from the bushes, and a scruffy orange tabby slinked out, eyeing Onyankopon warily before darting forward to swipe at the bowl.  

Of course he was out here—still pissed, still stubborn—but making sure his son’s stray was fed.  

Some things never changed.

The stray cat—scruffy, wide-eyed, and perpetually suspicious—padded cautiously along the porch railing, its tail flicking with a mix of curiosity and defiance. It sniffed the air, nostrils twitching as it scented Onyankopon instead of Asaud’s familiar presence. With a deliberate hmph, it turned its head away from the bowl, pretending disinterest even as its stomach growled loud enough for you both to hear.  

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips.  

"You’re mean to him too—that’s why he won’t eat." 

Onyankopon scowled, shaking the bowl harder, the dry kibble rattling like a warning.  

“Yeah? I take care of his ungrateful ass too." 

You sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe as you murmured—“The Tin Man does have a heart, it seems."

Onyankopon shot you a look before gruffly calling out, "Aight, Tiger—come get this damn food."

“His name is Tango.” 

“Same shit."  

Finally the cat hopped down, sauntering over with an air of reluctant grace. It rubbed its entire body along Onyankopon’s bare calf, purring loud enough to vibrate the porch boards beneath him.  

“Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, nudging the bowl closer with his foot—“Gon’ head." 

You stepped forward then, bringing the plate of shrimp and grits closer, the rich aroma mixing with the warm night air.  

“You need to eat too, baby.” 

Onyankopon’s fingers then curl gently around your throat—not tight, but there, possessive and grounding. He dropped a series of rough, smacking kisses against your lips, each one firm and fleeting before he finally took the plate with his free hand.  

“Aight," he muttered, settling onto the wooden stairs.  

The cat ate. Your husband ate. Now, you could have the real conversation you’d been holding off on.

You settle onto the wooden steps behind him, the worn planks creaking softly under your weight as you wrap your legs around his waist, molding your body against the warm expanse of his back. He’s hot to the touch—always running like a furnace—and you bury your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the faint lingering scent of his cologne as he eats. 

"Did you check on your son?" 

The fork scrapes against the plate as he chews, his shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.

“Nah. But I know you did." 

A gruff pause, “‘He still alive? Limbs all attached?"

You hum, fingers trailing lazily through the neat rows of his cornrows, tracing the patterns like you’ve done a thousand times before.

 “Funny. He’s asleep.” 

Silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid things. Then, softly—  

“You do know you were wrong, right?" 

“Which part? ‘Cause I ain’t wrong about a lot of shit."  

You exhale through your nose, leaning into his shoulder as you murmur, “Ti tèt di."

 Stubborn man.

He doesn’t respond, just keeps eating—his jaw working methodically, the muscles in his back flexing beneath your touch. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck before continuing—  

”Remember when we found out I was pregnant? How scared you were?"

Silence.  

You then whisper, “He’s got an amazing head on his shoulders, Papa. Just like you. Maybe...he’s serious about this girl." 

“He’s sixteen.” 

“And we were fifteen—sneakin’ into my momma’s house when she went to sleep, havin’ unprotected sex, and then what happened?” 

He leans back into you with a rough huff, his head tilting just enough to bump against yours.

“You tryna be funny.” 

“I’m not."

 Your fingers trail down to his jaw, tracing the line of his beard as you say—“Our parents kicked us out, and we’ve been on our own since then."

The silence between you grows heavier, thick with the weight of memories neither of you ever really talk about—nights spent sleeping in his beat up Chevy, the way his voice had cracked when his own father slammed the door in his face, the quiet tears you'd wiped away when your mama called you a disgrace.  

You press a kiss to his shoulder, soft as a prayer. 

"But we knew our little wolf was special, didn’t we?”  

A beat. 

“Yeah." 

You smile against his skin, “Asaud is yours, but he’s not you. He’s not gonna make the mistakes we did—and shuttin’ him down like our parents did to us? It’d be unfair.”  

Onyankopon exhales—long, slow—his head tipping back against your shoulder.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft yet carrying the weight of years as you murmur, "Give him the grace we never got." 

Your husband goes quiet. The cicadas hum in the thick night air, the stray cat now curled on the porch railing, licking its paws as if amused by the whole scene.  

Then—  

“‘Guess I ain't have to yank his ass up like that." 

The admission comes out gruff, and you can't help the faint smile that tugs at your lips. With a playful flick to the side of his head, you tease, "Don’t be puttin’ hands on my baby no more." 

Before you can blink, his massive arm hooks behind you, tugging you effortlessly onto his lap. You let out a surprised squeak of laughter, instantly melting into the familiar warmth of his hold—his thick thighs beneath you, the hard plane of his chest pressed flush against your back. His heat engulfs you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a second skin.  

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the shell of his ear as you murmur, "But hey… we didn’t do so bad, did we?" 

His arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing your temple—"Nah. We did better.”  

You giggle as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, hotter—your tongue stroking his with a suddenly filthy, practiced familiarity. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “‘Wore your jersey just for you…" 

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. 

“You know I’ll never say no—but a nigga tired as hell." 

You gasp in mock offense, pulling back to squint at him.

 “Oh, so you can yoke up my child— but no dick for me?" 

That deep, rich chuckle vibrates against your ribs as he leans back against the porch railing, pulling you tighter against him.

“Daddy ain’t Superman. One city at a time."

You blow out an exaggerated huff, lips pursed in playful frustration as you mutter, “You're annoying." 

“And you horny." 

You cross your arms over your chest but sink deeper into his embrace anyway, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. After a beat, you nudge him with your elbow, voice softening.

 “...You love me?" 

For a moment he says nothing—just holds you there in the quiet, southern night humming around you both. 

Then, sweet as molasses—“When don't I?" 

And yeah. That was your answer.  

The next morning, Asaud wakes up early—his body already braced for a day of grueling chores and another lecture still hanging heavy in the air. He tiptoes down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, expecting silence. Instead? The rich, savory scent of butter, garlic, and smoked sausage hits him the moment he steps near the kitchen.  

He pauses. Frowns.  

Spread across the countertop is a full Louisiana-style breakfast—crispy-edged fried eggs, golden-brown grits swimming in cheese, spicy Cajun hash, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits still steaming from the oven. His favorite. 

Confusion knits his brows as he steps further inside, only to freeze at the sight of you and Onyankopon standing near the stove.  

Onyankopon's massive frame is leaned into yours, his head tilted slightly as your fingers glide through his cornrows, re-braiding the edges with careful precision. You're both talking—voices low, words unintelligible from where he stands—but the ease between you is undeniable.  

Then you glance up, spotting him lingering in the doorway.

 "Mornin’, baby," you greet, smiling—“How’d you sleep?" 

Asaud shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between the food and his father's impassive face. 

“...Good," he mutters—“What's all this?"

“Yo’ momma insisted on makin’ yo’ favorite breakfast," Onyankopon grumbles, voice rough with morning fatigue.  

You flick his ear. 

He then huffs, “Aight, I told her to." 

You’re then crossing the kitchen toward Asaud, your bare feet padding softly against the tile. His eyes flicker with wariness, still bruised from yesterday’s heated exchange—though the mark looks lighter now, less angry. You reach up, fingers ghosting over the spot as you murmur, “Want momma to ice it for you?"  

Asaud ducks his head slightly, but shakes it—“No ma’am, I’m aight." 

You smile, nudging him toward the table where his plate waits. 

“Eat ‘fore it gets cold." 

Hesitant, he sinks into his chair, poking at the food before glancing between you both suspiciously. 

“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?" 

"Ain’t I tell you he was finna’ think that?"

“Hush, Ony.”

Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud. 

“We had a…revelation last night... and we just want you to know—we love you. All of you. Every stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful part." 

The kitchen falls silent—save for the sizzle of grease in the skillet, the hum of the ceiling fan.  

You take a deep breath, clasping your hands together excitedly. The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen table as you announce, “Me and Daddy have been feeling a little disconnected from you lately, so we came up with an idea—Family Date! Yes Edition.” 

Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.

“…Yes Edition?”

You beam, “Whatever you want to do today—no matter what—we have to say yes to!" 

Asaud's frown deepens, but there's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze now. 

“Whatever I want?"

You nod enthusiastically. On the other hand, Onyankopon rubs his temple as he mutters, “My damn wallet achin’ already." 

“The sky is the limit, baby. What’d you wanna do?" 

For a long moment, Asaud chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he considers his options. Then? It hits him all at once. 

“Aight, bet.” 

He sits up straighter as he lists off, “First—we hittin’ up Bayou Guns for some target practice. Then, monster truck rally tickets—front row. After that, ’whole rack of ribs from Big Mike’s Smokehouse, extra spicy. And,”—he pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to his father—“Pops, you gotta let me drive the truck today." 

Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee. 

“Hell nah I’m not!" 

You level the look at Onyankopon—the one that makes his jaw twitch because he knows he’s already lost. His dark eyes flick from you to Asaud’s hopeful expression before he exhales sharply through his nose, resigned.  

“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head." 

Asaud’s grin is immediate, lighting up his entire face like a kid on Christmas morning.

 This was gonna be an adventure. 

The day starts with everyone scrambling to get ready—you weren’t exactly thrilled about spending hours immersed in testosterone fueled chaos, but the thought of just being with your boys? Had you smiling despite yourself.  

Onyankopon emerges looking stupidly fine—his black long sleeve clinging to every defined ridge of muscle, the ink snaking down his arms and neck peeking out from beneath the fabric. Camo pants hang low on his hips, black Dunks laced tight on his feet, and those damn chains glinting against his chest like he stepped straight out of some high end streetwear ad. His face—God—those sharp tattoos along his cheekbones contrasting his deep brown skin, that signature don’t fuck with me glare permanently etched into his expression.  

You keep poking at it as you all get ready, making him swat your hand away with a grunt.  

Asaud mirrors his energy effortlessly—hoodie layered over his own fitted tee, shoes swapped for something sleeker, but the same vibe radiating off him. Like father, like son.  

You press kisses to both their cheeks before stepping back, smoothing down the backless top and capris hugging your curves—classy enough to turn heads, erotic enough to have Onyankopon’s fingers twitching. His dark gaze drops to your chest where your nipples press visibly against the fabric.  

“‘You cold?” he rumbles, dragging a single fingertip over one peaked bud.  

You pout, swatting his hand away—“It’s just chilly!" 

Now, here was the card ride. Pure chaos as you’d imagined—Onyankopon gripping the passenger side handle like he was seconds from yanking the wheel himself every time Asaud hit the gas too hard or took a turn a little too sharp.

“Nigga, I swear—if you don’t slow down, Imma’ have you pull over right here and make you ride in the back like the toddler you actin’ like." 

Asaud just smirked, glancing at you in the rearview before purposefully tapping the accelerator again—just to watch his father’s eye twitch.  

The gun range parking lot was packed, buzzing with the low hum of engines and the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance. Stepping out of the truck, you immediately felt that familiar dread creep in—not from the firearms, but from the eyes. The looks. The inevitable moment when someone would glance between you, Onyankopon, and Asaud, their brows furrowing as they tried to piece together your dynamic.  

Were you his older siblings? Friends?  

Then—the shock when they realized—Oh. You were his mother. 

Being a parent had never forced you to dress older than you were, never dulled your vibrancy to fit some matronly mold. Even now, trailing behind Onyankopon and Asaud—both towering over you, broad shouldered and imposing—you looked every bit the effortlessly sensual, youthful woman you were. Your deep merlot Coach purse swung at your hip, charms jingling with each step, your jet black curls bouncing against your back. Meanwhile, Onyankopon moved like he owned the ground beneath him, all quiet power and simmering dominance—a kingpin with his diamond in tow. 

The inside smelled like gunpowder, leather, and faintly of the fried catfish wafting from the snack bar in the corner. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as soon as you stepped inside—sharp cracks of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls, making your shoulders tense involuntarily. Each shot sounded like a miniature explosion—too loud, too sudden—and you instinctively pressed closer to Onyankopon's side, fingers tightening around his hand as if anchoring yourself to him.

The man behind the register gruffly asked, “What’chu wanna shoot with today?” 

Asaud’s eyes flickered toward the glass case displaying an array of firearms—some sleek and modern, others heavy and intimidating. His gaze lingered on the biggest one—a monstrous, black tactical shotgun that looked like it could knock a grown man flat on his back.  

Onyankopon didn’t even blink, “That one."

Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"

“Yo’ day, right?"

You retreated to the far back of the room, perched on a worn leather bench like a reluctant cheerleader. Your knees pressed together, hands folded in your lap as you watched them gear up—ear protection, gloves, safety glasses.  

Onyankopon looked illegal—his black sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, tattooed forearms as he handled the firearm with the kind of casual expertise that made your stomach flip. The range owner walked him through the basics—not that he needed it—but Onyankopon nodded along anyway, his deep voice rumbling something low in response.  

The sight before you had your lips parting slightly—Onyankopon lifting that heavy shotgun like it weighed nothing, his massive frame balanced with effortless precision. The first BOOM of his test shot rattled through the private room, the recoil absorbed effortlessly by his broad shoulders. Smoke curled from the barrel as he exhaled, lowering the gun and turning to Asaud with that same unreadable expression—except you knew him, knew the subtle pride in the tilt of his chin, the patience in his stance as he prepared to teach his son the way his own father had taught him.  

“Regarde,” he murmured, shifting fluidly between English and Creole as he adjusted Asaud’s grip. 

“Firme, yeah? Shoulder tight—non, like this.” 

His large hands guided Asaud's calloused fingers, pressing the younger man’s palm flush against the stock.

“You feel that? That’s control. ‘You nervous, ‘that gun know.” 

And just like that—Asaud shifted. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring under his father’s approval. The next shot he took wasn’t perfect—but it was strong, the kickback barely rocking him as the target downrange splintered at the edge.  

“Decent,” Onyankopon conceded, “For yo’ first try.” 

Your hands shot up in excited applause, curls tumbling over your freckled cheeks as you cheered, “Yay!”—you then blew a stubborn strand out of your face with a playful huff, watching as Asaud wandered over to stand beside you, wiping his palms on his hoodie.  

"Gon’ head, Pops," he called out, nodding toward the range.  

Onyankopon stepped up, and suddenly, the gun in his hands wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of him. Each shot boomed like thunder, paper targets shredding into confetti under his relentless precision. He moved like liquid—fluid, deadly—twisting the gun with an assassin’s grace, reloading without breaking rhythm. The sheer power radiating off him had your pulse thrumming in your throat.  

Asaud whistled low under his breath.  

“Aight, Sergeant! ‘Where you learn that from?" 

“He wanted to be one, actually.” 

Asaud turned to you, brow arched. 

"Pops wanted to be in the army?”   

Your gaze lingered on your husband, watching the way his shoulders flexed as he fired off another perfect shot—the way his focus never wavered, even now.  

"Higher up in the Navy, actually," you murmured. “‘Wanted to follow in his father’s path… before I got pregnant with you." 

A beat of silence. Then—  

“What happened?" 

Your fingers toyed with the charms on your purse, but your eyes stayed on Onyankopon. You exhale, “He disowned him. Hasn’t spoken to his father since I was in my first trimester." 

The words hung heavy between you.  

“He would’ve found a way to go overseas," you continued softly—"But he didn’t want to leave me. Or you. ‘Wanted to watch you grow up." 

Asaud’s voice was quieter now, “So…he never went for what he really wanted?” 

You turned to him then, smiling—really smiling—despite the ache in your chest.  

“You became our first priority the moment I held you in my arms, baby.”

Your voice dipped into honeyed warmth, "And you cried, cried, cried.” 

A dreamy little smile tugged at your lips, the memory of tiny fists gripping your finger, Onyankopon's unreadable mask cracking just once as he pressed his lips to your sweaty forehead in that delivery room.  

You blinked back to the present, tilting your head toward Asaud. 

“Your father can be…difficult," you admitted, “But know this—he loves you more than anything in this world. Everything he does, every hard lesson...it's because he wants everything for you." 

Asaud scuffed his shoe against the concrete floor, "I know that, Momma.” 

Just then, Onyankopon's shadow fell over you both, smelling like gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne he only wore on special occasions. 

“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?" he rumbled, slinging an arm around your shoulders.  

You batted your lashes up at him innocently—“Just tellin’ our son where he gets his handsome features from." 

Onyankopon's nostrils flared, “Don’t be flirtin’ with me in front of our child, girl," he muttered, the heat in his low voice betraying him.  

Your giggle spilled freely as you leaned even more into him, “Too late." 

“Aight, Aight,”  Asaud groaned, “Y’all weird. Monster trucks next—before y’start kissin’ or sum’." 

And just like that? You were onto the next.

The monster truck show was deafening, and entirely too boyish for your liking. You spent most of it grimacing, and hiding behind Onyankopon’s shoulder each time you thought you were gonna witness a crime scene explosion. From the activities today? You were sure to be rewarded by this meal. 

The scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat hits you the moment you step into Big Mike’s Smokehouse—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and bluesy guitar riffs pouring from the jukebox in the corner. The worn wooden booth creaks as you slide in beside Onyankopon, your thighs pressing together beneath the checkered tablecloth. Across from you, Asaud taps his fingers against the menu, though all three of you already know what you’re ordering—extra spicy ribs, collard greens swimming in pot liquor, and cornbread so buttery it melts on contact.  

Your fingers trace idle circles over Onyankopon’s knuckles where his hand rests in your lap, his rough skin warm against your touch. You take a breath, leaning into his shoulder before murmuring, “Did you enjoy yourself today, baby?" 

Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression. 

“I did. ‘Preciate y’all." 

You smile, cheeks flushing—but then you straighten slightly, catching Onyankopon’s eye. 

“Well—now that we’ve played—let’s have a serious conversation, yeah?" 

Asaud’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but he nods.

“Yes, ma’am." 

“Jamal," Onyankopon starts, “What really happened between y’all?" 

Asaud exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his locs.

 "I…always liked Sabine. Jamal knew that. ‘Still tried to get at her." 

You hum, tilting your head.

 “I don’t doubt she’d like you, baby. But—“ You choose your words carefully, "Did she seem…responsive to your feelings? Or does she actually like Jamal?" 

Asaud’s jaw works before he mutters, “She do like me. ‘Told me my dreads was cool last week." 

Onyankopon blinks. Slowly. 

Then turns to you, one brow arched—“‘That’s how the lil’ girls get niggas’ attention?"

Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug, “I guess?” 

Asaud frowns, “Why y’all actin’ like confused old people right now?” 

You bite your lip, exhaling through your nose—“I’m sorry, baby. Y’all’s generation is just…different in courting each other. The only way you know how is to—” 

Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.  

Your spine stiffens. Eyes widening, you lean halfway across the table, gripping Asaud’s hands tight enough to make him blink.  

“Asaud?” 

He freezes.

 “Lawd, Momma. You scarin’ me. What’s wrong?” 

“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?” 

“Haven’t what?”  

Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow. 

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both before he huffs, “Contrary to stereotypes with bein’ quarterback—yes, Momma—I’m still a virgin. Damn.” 

The breath you’d been holding whooshes out of you. Your head drops forward, curls spilling over your shoulders as you clutch your chest. 

“Thank God! Okay, I just…whew,” You fan yourself dramatically, “I almost fainted.” 

Asaud shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before he drops the bombshell. 

“Despite y’all thinkin’ my head is loose, I plan on waitin’ ‘til marriage." 

“Mon chéri!” you squeal in Creole, launching yourself forward as you kiss his forehead no less than three times as he groans, trying to duck away.

“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!” 

Oh, my baby!

Onyankopon watches, amusement lacing his voice as he mutters, “She finna’ start speakin’ in tongues—don’t say shit else, boy."

You're still catching your breath from the emotional high when you lean forward, smoothing Asaud’s shirt before saying with earnest warmth, “Okay—well, although that’s amazing to hear—don’t be afraid to ask questions, baby. I know sex education isn’t the best in schools, so…anything in that aspect, you know you can always come to us, right?" 

Onyankopon clears his throat, "I think you gotta leave that conversation for me, shawty—" 

You wave a hand dismissively, “We’re supposed to be bonding! Don’t leave me out of it.” 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose. He then says,  “‘You right. Yo’ pops an open book, ‘Saud.”

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating. 

Then? 

“Does the pull out method really work?" 

Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—  

Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits. Before you can even think of a diplomatic answer, Onyankopon leans back, arms crossed, and says completely deadpan—

“Ion’ know. I nut in yo’ momma everytime—" 

“OHMYGOD—“

 You shriek in Creole,  “Pouki ou fè sa nan piblik?!”

Really, in public?

“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”

You’re so disturbed by Onyankopon who nonchalantly begins eating his food, taking a moment to process Asaud’s other question. You take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your napkin. 

"I got my tubes tied after I had you, baby. You’re my lifeline—but it was a horrible pregnancy."

 Your hand drifts unconsciously to your lower stomach, remembering the months of bed rest, the way your ankles swelled like overripe fruit.  

Then, shooting Onyankopon a look, you point a stern finger at Asaud—“Had your father answered educationally, you would’ve known why we can have unprotected sex—but you should not! Condoms. Every. Time."

Onyankopon interjects, "Unless y’all in love. Then? ‘Make yo’ wife a twinkie’.” 

Your fingers clutch desperately at the diner table as you squeak, “Let’s move on!”—voice pitching high like a deflating balloon. You clear your throat, smoothing a hand over your top as you force yourself back into Mom Mode. 

“What do you really like about this girl?”

Asaud pauses, staring down at his half-eaten ribs as if the bones might spell out the answer for him. For a moment, there’s nothing but the clatter of silverware and Big Mike’s raspy laugh booming from the kitchen. 

“She got this…quiet way ’bout her," he starts, voice lower than usual. 

“Like, she don’t gotta laugh loud to be heard. And when she do smile—" He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips—“Man, it’s like she savin’ it just for you. Makes you feel…special, I guess."

You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist. 

“That’s sweet, baby. Real sweet. But…" You hesitate, exchanging a glance with Onyankopon before continuing gently, “Are you willing to pursue this girl and lose your best friend over it?"

Asaud’s jaw hardens, “Jamal clearly ain’t my friend." 

Onyankopon shakes his head, “Nah. He’s a boy on some puppy love shit—just like you.”

You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.

“Baby, think about it. Jamal stayed at our house more nights than you did sometimes. Went to your cousins cookouts, helped your daddy fix up the car—" 

“Even came to yo’ grandma’s funeral," Onyankopon cuts in, dead serious—“That’s family shit." 

Your voice softens, “A real friend would’ve stepped back the moment he knew how you felt. But love makes people act stupid—especially at y’all’s age. You sure this girl worth torching that bridge?" 

Asaud’s throat bobs.

The diner’s chatter fades into a dull hum as Asaud sits back, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his thoughts. His fingers fiddle with the condensation on his sweet tea glass, tracing idle circles as he chews on his bottom lip—the same nervous habit he’s had since he was a toddler.  

Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.  

“A girl ain’t finna’ have me lose my wide receiver," he mutters, shaking his head. 

“But that ‘don’t mean I ain’t got feelin’s, Momma."

He thinks on his words for a moment. 

Asaud’s voice then drops lower, “A lot of my friends’ parents don’t get along—divorced, fightin’, separated, only cordial ‘cause they made a mistake back in the day. I know I clown on y’all’s gushiness…” he continues, waving a hand at the way you’re still practically draped over Onyankopon’s arm, “But…I’m glad I got parents that love each other. And I just—" He hesitates, eyes flickering down before meeting yours again—“I want somethin’ like that. Somethin’ real." 

A whimpery giggle escapes you as tears well in your eyes—hot, stinging—before spilling over.  

“Shit, here ‘she go," Onyankopon mutters, already rubbing at your hip affectionately.

Your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. You slide out of the booth in one fluid motion, your hands cupping your son's face—rough stubble scratching your palms, his locs soft against your forearms.

“Do you know how much we love you, sweet boy?" 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.  

“I’m knowin’, Momma."  

Then, quieter—“Look…I’m sorry for bein’ mean to you yesterday. And…"

He glances at Onyankopon who’s watching with his usual stoic expression, though his dark eyes hold a warmth only you and Asaud ever really see—“Sorry to you too, Pops." 

That’s all it takes.  

You squeak, pulling him into a crushing embrace, smothering his face in kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose—while rapid-fire Creole endearments spill from your lips like a prayer.  

“Mon petit roi! Mon cœur! Bondye beni ou, mwen renmen ou tout bagay!" 

My little king ! God bless you, I love you with all my heart !

Asaud groans, half-heartedly trying to squirm away—"Damn, Momma—I said I was sorry—" 

“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!" 

I’m not done with you! 

Onyankopon watches, shaking his head—but when Asaud shoots him a pleading look, he just smirks and shrugs.  

“Take yo’ medicine, boy."

Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as you turn pleading eyes toward Onyankopon, fingers still tangled in Asaud's locs.  

"Be sweet, Papa!" you urge, batting your lashes dramatically—“Tell your son you love him—none of that manly grunting stuff!" 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose, but after a beat, his deep voice rumbles—low, rough, but undeniably fond—  

“I love you, ‘Saud. Even when you actin’ dumb."

Asaud snorts, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he mutters back, “Love you too, Pops." 

You sigh happily, finally releasing Asaud—only to immediately eye his half-finished ribs. 

“Baby, lemme get a bite of—" 

“Nuh uh!" Asaud yanks his plate away, nodding toward Onyankopon. 

“You better ask yo’ husband!" 

Onyankopon slides his own plate toward you without a word, smirk smug as you stick your tongue out at Asaud.  

“Haters," you mumble around a mouthful of smoky, tender meat.  

Later, you’re curled into Onyankopon’s side on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm as some old cartoon flickers across the TV. The peace is shattered by Asaud’s bedroom door creaking open. He steps out fully dressed—hoodie, sneakers laced tight—and your head lifts from Onyankopon’s chest.  

“You okay, baby?" 

Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m straight. Uh…Jamal finna’ be here in a couple minutes." 

You and Onyankopon exchange frowns—just as a knock echoes through the house.  

Jamal now stands on the threshold when Asaud opens the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed. 

“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”

You blink, glancing between him and Asaud—who’s now lurking awkwardly by the foyer.  

“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"

“We talked. It's straight," Asaud mutters, shifting his weight as he glances between you and Jamal.  

Your eyes narrow slightly.  

“So that's it? Y’all ain’t fighting over this girl no more?" 

“This my ‘quarterback, Momma—“ Jamal chuckles, “Beta to his alpha—even though we both run shit, you know how it go."

“Language, ‘Mal." 

Jamal dips his head immediately at Onyankopon’s voice—“My fault, Mr. Osei." 

You exhale, shaking your head as you sink back against Onyankopon’s side.  

“You men are so strange." 

Then, glancing back at Jamal with a small smile, you add, “Well—are you staying to hang out, Jamal?" 

Before Jamal can answer, Asaud slips in smoothly—too smoothly—“Nah, we headed to a party." 

Onyankopon’s arm tenses beneath you, his jaw tightening. 

“Did you ask if you could go to a party?"

You press your palm gently against Onyankopon’s chest, “Ony, c’mon.” 

He exhales through his nose. 

“Curfew at eleven. Not a minute later. And both of y’all better answer yo’ phones when I call.” 

Asaud nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes—“Got it." 

"We out, then. Love y’all!” 

You wave them off with a smile, “Be safe!" 

Your lashes flutter slightly as you watch Onyankopon’s sharp side profile an hour after they leave—the strong line of his jaw, the way braids shape out his face, his deep set eyes locked onto the TV screen like he’s studying every frame. You trace idle circles over his chest with your fingertips, admiring the way the dim lamplight catches the faint sheen of his skin.  

"What you starin’ at, girl?" 

You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.  

“My amazing husband." 

“Mmm”, he rumbles, “You just love flirtin’ with a nigga.”

You murmur, “Maybe," in a playful tone—then, with a gentle tug at his chin, you guide his face toward yours.

“You haven’t kissed your wife all day."

“Damn,” he grips at your waist, “A nigga finna’ get locked up, huh?" 

You giggle close to his lips, “Life with no parole." 

And then his mouth crashes into yours—full, warm, tasting like sweet tea and the lingering smokiness of barbecue. His kiss is slow at first, until you smoothly climb onto his lap, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing his bottom lip until a rough grunt vibrates against your mouth.  

“Why you feenin’?” 

You don’t answer—too busy loosening his belt with practiced ease, your lips trailing down his neck as you palm him through his pants, earning another gravelly curse through your husband's mouth. 

“Saud’ could walk back in this house at any moment, girl—" 

Your laughter spills against his collarbone in breathy giggles, warm and honeyed, as your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants—finally freeing him into your grip. The moment his tip springs free, your breath catches—a sharp, needy whine escaping your throat as your eyes drink in the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins straining against heated skin, the tip already glistening with his impatience.  

“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?” 

You mewl these words so desperately, lips brushing the twitching head as you gaze up at him through fluttering lashes.  

Onyankopon’s grip tightens in your curls—not pulling, just holding—as he rasps, “Goddamn. Aight.” 

Your tongue then darts out, tracing the swollen ridge beneath his crown, relishing the salt-sweet taste of him before dipping into his slit. His hips jerk—hard—knocking a choke from your lungs, but you don’t relent. Instead, you press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, nuzzling into the thatch of coarse hair at the base before swirling your tongue around the tip again.  

“Hollon’, Mama—” he grits out, fingers flexing in your hair, but you’re already sinking down, taking him halfway with a blissful whimper. The stretch burns sweetly, your lips sealing around him as hollowed cheeks suck him deeper. His thighs tremble beneath you, a ragged, “Fuck—” tearing from his chest as your tongue swirls along his length on the upstroke.  

You pull off with a lewd pop, running your tongue viciously against your puffy lips at the way his stomach muscles clench. 

“Missed this,” you purr, licking a stripe from root to tip before swallowing him down again—deeper this time—until your nose brushes his skin. His groan is filthy, echoing through the living room as his head thuds back against the couch.  

“Gon’ make me act up,” he warns, voice dark with promise—but you just whimper again around him, eyes fluttering shut as you bob faster, hungrier. The wet sounds of your mouth on him mix with his ragged breaths, the cartoon still playing forgotten in the background. 

Your lips stretch obscenely, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as you take him all the way down—nose pressed into his pelvis, throat fluttering wildly around the intrusion. Your eyes roll back slightly at the stretch, tears pricking at the corners as you whimper around his girth again— needy, gagging sound that vibrates against his skin and makes his hips jerk instinctively.  

“Fuck—look at you," Onyankopon growls, fingers tightening in your curls, yanking just enough to make you mmph—air rushing into your lungs before you dive back down, hollowing your cheeks shamelessly.  

You pull off with another wet pop, spit slick lips swollen and glistening as you pant—only to spit directly onto his dick, the glob of saliva trailing thickly down his shaft before you smear it with your mouth. You then smack his length against your tongue, giggling breathlessly.

“Goddamn," he snarls heavier, voice dripping with lust—a vein popping in his neck as he glares down at you like he wants to eat you alive.  

You swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping at the precum beading there before sinking back down—deeper, messier—your throat working in desperate swallows around him. Drool drips down your chin, your brows knitting together in a mix of pleasure and strain as you gag prettily around him—the sounds leaving your mouth absolutely disgusting. 

“Ain’t no way you suckin’ dick this good and actin’ all innocent at the dinner table," he grunts, thrusting shallowly into your throat, his grip on your hair bordering on painful—“Fuckin’ glutton—can’t even breathe right and you still tryna’ swallow my shit whole.” 

You give a desperate moan in response—half-protest, half-agreement—your fingers digging into his thighs as you bob faster, sloppier, spit and precum fully smearing across your lips. His hips buck up violently, forcing himself deeper as he curses under his breath—“Gon’ make this bitch nut all over yo’ pretty ass face.” 

You're drunk off him—every suck, every gag, every slurp of your lips dragging up his shaft leaving you dizzy with greed. Your tongue lolls obscenely along the underside of his cock, spit-slick and desperate, drool dripping in thick strands onto his heavy balls, making them glisten under the dim light. The mess coats your chin, smears across your cheeks—ruins you beautifully—but you don’t care, too lost in the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue.  

You usually ask—Papa, can I?—but right now, you don’t want permission. You want everything. 

So with an aroused impatience you climb fully into his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. One hand grips his shoulder for balance as you yank your capris with the other, exposing bare skin—no panties, never panties when you knew he’d be home. His tip slaps wetly against your folds, already soaked just from sucking him off, and you whimper—high and broken—as his thumb ruthlessly circles your clit, sending sparks up your spine.  

His mouth crashes into yours, tongues tangling sloppily, spit mixing between you as he grunts against your lips—  

“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.” 

Your fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck as you sink down—slowly, so slowly—stretching around him inch by torturous inch. And the burn? It’s delicious. White-hot and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly as you take him deeper. Your eyes even begin to water, lashes sticking together as tears spill over, your mouth trembling against his in a silent sob.  

Then—squelch—a wet, gushing sound punches from your pussy as you bottom out, his hips fully flush against your ass. The obscene noise—like air forced from a tight space—makes you shudder, your thighs shaking violently around him.  

“Fuck—” Onyankopon snarls into your mouth, his grip on your waist bruising, “Tight-ass pussy always tryna act brand new.”

You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.

His palms cradle the plush underside of your thighs—calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh as he lifts you effortlessly, your body hovering above him for one breathless moment before he drops you back down.  

The descent is slow—agonizing—every inch of him dragging against your walls until you’re whimpering nonsensically, Creole curses and praise tumbling from your lips in a slurred mess—  

“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”

Then—smack—your ass lands heavy against his thighs, skin sticking wetly before peeling apart with a lewd clap that ricochets through the living room. Your vision whites out for a second, mouth falling slack as pleasure crackles up your spine—  

“Shit.”

Your voice fractures, knees trembling where they bracket his hips. His grip tightens—lifting you again—only to drop you back onto him, the force punching the air from your lungs.  

“Fuck,” you sob, nails raking down his chest, “P—Papa, li two gwo—!” 

You’re too big. 

“Talk that shit now,” he taunts, “Thought you was hungry?” 

“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!” 

I can’t.

The fabric of your top crumples violently in Onyankopon’s fists—fingers twisting, yanking the material taut as he uses it like reins to drive you down onto him. Every bounce wrenches a gasp from your lips, your body jolting with each punishing thrust, his dick spearing into you with a relentless, bruising rhythm. Your face crumples, pouting down at him—eyes glazed, lips swollen and trembling—as he growls up at you in thick, guttural Creole.

"Ou vle sa, mm? Ou vle Papa kraze ou?" 

You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?

You nod frantically, a pathetic, shuddering “Mm-hmm—!" hiccuping from your throat as your cream spills obscenely down his shaft, pooling at the base where his balls glisten with your slick.  

“I—I’m gonna’ cum—!" you mewl, voice breaking, thighs quivering as your walls flutter wildly around him.  

But Onyankopon doesn’t speed up—doesn’t slow down—just keeps grinding you onto him at that same, devastating pace, letting you feel every inch as your orgasm crests. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing through you as your pussy gushes—hot, wet pulses of arousal soaking his lap, dripping down his abdomen in sticky rivulets.  

“Regarde ça," Look at that, he mutters, voice rough with lust as he watches you squirt all over him—“Fais un gros désordre, mm?" 

’Made a big fuckin’ mess.

Onyankopon’s grip shifts—his hands cinching around your waist as he stands in one fluid motion, twisting you midair before slamming your back flush against his chest. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling at his forearms as he bends you forward in the same motion, your spine arching obscenely as he crowds over you.

“Ain’t took my pussy like this inna’ minute. Let a nigga feel you.” 

This position—back arched deep, ass tilted up, your body folded in half—was never one you could handle. He knew it. You knew it. Years of marriage, and he only pulled it out on two occasions: when you’d pissed him off just enough to deserve it—or when he wanted to ruin you so thoroughly you’d forget your own name.  

His dick sinks back into you—slow, sadistic—the stretch bordering on pain as your walls flutter wildly around him. A petulant whimper claws from your throat, your face tucking into your own shoulder as you try to steady yourself.  

Too deep. Too much. 

Before you can adjust, his palm wraps around your throat from behind—his fingers splayed possessively as he jerks his hips forward, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision blur.   

Your cry is muffled against your own skin, tears pricking at your lashes as he starts moving—no build-up, no mercy—just deep, piston-like thrusts that punch the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.  

“Always actin’ brand new,” he grits out, “Like I ain’t had this pussy a thousand times.” 

Onyankopon yanks your head back as he starts fucking you with those long, slow, punishing strokes, burying himself to the hilt each time with a rough grunt. Your entire body shudders in shock, fingers clawing at your own ankles as you struggle to stay grounded, but there’s no escape—just the relentless drag of him stretching you open, over and over, the obscene squelch of your soaked pussy echoing in the air between you.  

A dumb, pleasure-drunk frown twists your face—eyebrows knitted, lips parted in a silent gasp—before your voice finally shatters into whiny, hiccupping sobs.  

“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!" 

Your thighs tremble violently, your back bowing even more as pleasure coils tighter in your gut—each thrust dragging you closer to the edge. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Just keeps stroking into you—rough, unhurried, perfect—until your mind whites out completely.

The next shift happens like lightning—his arms wrapping around you, hauling you flush against his chest as he lifts you just enough that your toes barely skim the floor, his strength suspending you effortlessly between his body and the air. His palm presses flat against your throat again—his lips dragging hot against the shell of your ear as his thrusts turn uneven, deeper, desperate. 

“Missed this shit... missed you…” 

You’re too far gone to answer—just weakly nodding, your head lolling back against his shoulder as pleasure crackles through every nerve. Onyankopon’s thrusts turn frantic, his breath ragged against your neck, his voice breaking every snap of his hips—  

“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—" 

Your body aches—muscles trembling, thighs slick with sweat—but you force yourself to roll your hips back against him anyway, meeting each deep thrust with a weak but determined grind. Your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, barely audible over the filthy slap of skin, but you need him to hear your words.   

“I love you—love you so much—“ 

Your words dissolve into a gasp as he rams into you again, the force of it making your toes curl against the floor. You tilt your head back, pressing your temple against his, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper—  

“Such a good...good father... takin’ care of us.” 

Onyankopon groans—low, raw—the sound vibrating against your skin as his fingers flex possessively around your throat. 

"Fuck—" he grits out, voice strained—almost shy—as if he’s not used to being unraveled like this.  

You reach back blindly, fingers tangling in his braids, tugging just enough to make him growl.  

“Sound so pretty,” you slur.

He curses again, biting at your shoulder as if you contain his own pleasure. 

“Chill.”

His warning rumbles against your lips, but it's unsteady—almost shaking—his usual arrogance stripped bare as his breath hitches. You don’t listen. Instead, you crash your mouth against his in a sloppy, desperate kiss, swallowing his next groan whole as he thrusts up into you—harder, deeper—his hips pistoning in a rhythm that has you both practically singing into each other’s mouths.  

His moan becomes muffled against your lips—“Oooh, shit—“ low and graveled, his forehead pressing against yours as his pace turns erratic. You nod frantically, whimpering in agreement, your own sounds just as broken as his, your nails scraping down his chest as you begin begging him. 

“Fill me up, baby.” 

And that’s all it takes.  

Onyankopon cums with a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he spills into you in thick, pulsing waves—hot, endless, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he rides it out, fucking his release even deeper inside you.  

You giggle—weak, breathless, but elated—the sensation of him twitching inside you sending little aftershocks of pleasure through your own trembling body. 

Onyankopon’s chest heaves against your back, his lips still hovering over yours as he mutters—“Goddamn." 

“Mmm,” you arch farther into his touch, “Would’ve gotten that last night if you weren’t so tired…" 

His lips drag slowly along the curve of your ear—hot breath making you shiver as he murmurs, “Patience builds tension, girl.” 

He grinds deep one last time, lazily rocking into you just to feel your walls flutter weakly around him.  

Your fingers tighten around his forearm, a pathetic little “‘M tired now, Papa…" slipping from your lips—weak, whiny, still buzzing from pleasure.  

“Oh, ‘you tired now?”

You twist in his arms, draping yourself fully against him—your arms looping around his neck, forehead pressing to his as you sigh, “C’monn, let's go shower."  

“Aight. We hunchin’ again?" 

“No, boy! I wanna go to bed. It's nearly twelve." 

He smacks his lips, eyes flicking past you to the clock on the wall—then freezes. 

“It's what time?" 

You blink up at him, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone—that dangerous edge creeping in. 

“Um…fifteen minutes to twelve?" you offer hesitantly.  

Onyankopon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes. 

“Imma' kill yo' son." 

Your hands fly up in protest, gripping his shoulders—“Well hold on!—He's a little over curfew, it's fine!”

“So now I'm doin' too much?” He smacks his lips, pulling back just enough to level you with a look—mockingly pitching his voice higher, mimicking your earlier whimpers— “’You’re such a good father’—what happened to allat’, huh?" 

You squeak, cheeks flushing hot as you slap a hand over his mouth, cutting off his teasing. 

“Stop it!” 

He licks your palm—nasty—making you yelp and yank your hand back as he grins, triumphant. 

“So you gon’ need the belt after him, huh?” 

You scrunch your nose.

“No. And you’re grumpy.” 

A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away—just tilts his head, pressing his forehead a little harder against yours in that way he does when he’s softening, letting you know he’s conceding.  

“Imma’ let up, aight?" 

Your shoulders relax, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you exhale, melting into him.  

“'…’Kay.” 

His lips brush your temple before he murmurs, “Lemme’ just call and check on ‘em—after that? Imma’ rub on yo’ feet and knock the fuck out."

You exhale as he finally pulls away, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Always unable to let go of that protective dad instinct, even when he was supposed to be letting up—but that was just him. Overbearing, stubborn, yours.  

The moment settles into something tender as you watch him grab his phone off the coffee table, his heavy silhouette outlined by the dim light of the living room.  

“I love you," you murmur, the words slipping out sweet and easy—like they always did.  

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that rare, real smile—the one reserved just for you.  

“’Love you more, girl.” 

You bury your face into his pillow, inhaling deeply—or trying to. His scent, that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and blunt smoke, has faded to a ghost of what it once was. Three months without him sleeping beside you, without his deep voice grumbling nonsense in your ear as he pulls you closer. The emptiness is heavy. 

Your massive pitbull, Bear, stretches across the bed like a living shadow, his muscular frame pressed against your thigh as if sensing your longing. 

You run your fingers through his coarse fur, murmuring, “You ready for Papa to come home?” 

Bear’s ears twitch at the mention of him, dark eyes flickering with something like understanding. Even the house feels quieter without his presence—no bass rattling the windows, no deep laugh shaking the walls, no rough hands tugging you into his lap just because.  

Onyankopon. 

Deep brown skin kissed by the Louisiana sun, glowing like polished syrup under the streetlights. His cornrows are always fresh, laid to perfection, trailing down to the nape of his neck with a crisp lineup sharp enough to cut glass. That mouth of his—shiny grills flashing when he smirks, a warning disguised as charm. His beard-goatee combo is always kept tight, framing full lips that can curse a man into the ground or praise you so sweetly it makes your knees weak.  

And his body. Lord. Broad shoulders, thick arms wrapped in ink—every tattoo telling a story. The fleur-de-lis stamped near his left temple, a silent declaration of loyalty to the soil that raised him. More Louisiana love etched into his skin— oak trees, 504 in bold script. His knuckles say NO LOVE, but you know better—know the way those same hands cradle your face like you’re the air he breathes.  

You’ve seen him in business mode. Jaw clenched, voice dropping to something low and lethal, a Glock tucked in the back of his waistband like a second shadow. He didn’t play—not when it came to money, not when it came to respect.

But you know the truth.  

That same man who’ll put a bullet in somebody’s kneecaps over disrespect is the one slipping Mrs.LeBlanc a stack of bills every month so her lights stay on—the one who refuses to sell to fiends nodding out on the corner. The one who bought the whole block Thanksgiving turkeys last year just because.  

A good man with rough edges. Yours.

Your heart aches with the knowing—the kind that lives in the quiet spaces between his laughter and the way his eyes get distant sometimes, staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for something just out of reach.  

You’ve seen the flicker in his gaze when y’all pass a college campus, when he watches old men playing chess in the park with no worries weighing them down. You know he dreams of something else—legitimate money, a life where he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder every five seconds. But survival mode is a beast he can’t shake, not when the streets raised him harsher than any parent ever did.  

Your mind flashes back to that night—the night. 

The way his face twisted in fury as the cops swarmed, their boots kicking up gravel as they yanked his arms behind his back too rough, too eager. You remember screaming his name, lunging forward only for his voice to cut through the chaos like a blade—Go back in the fuckin’ house!—and the way your legs shook as you obeyed, tears blurring your vision until all you saw were flashing red and blue lights swallowing him whole.  

Three months.  

Three months of letters tucked into envelopes smelling like your perfume, of collect calls where his voice was gruff but his words were soft—“How you holdin’ up, baby?" 

Three months of praying the charges wouldn’t stick, of begging your parents to understand why you couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away.  

You think God would approve of this, child? Running with a man who feeds poison to his own people? 

Their words stung, but not as much as the truth burning in your chest—you loved him anyway. Loved him when he came home smelling like gunpowder and regret, loved him when he held you so tight it felt like an apology.  

But still, there’s a part of you that dreams too—of lazy Sunday mornings without fear, of a future where his hands are stained with paint instead of blood. A future where he chooses differently.  

You sigh, pressing your face into Bear’s fur as if he can absorb the weight of your thoughts.  

Soon.

Your dark curls lay across the pillow like spilled ink as you sink deeper into Bear’s warmth, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips lulling you into a false sense of calm.  

Then—movement. 

Bear tenses beneath you, his massive body going rigid before he suddenly hikes up with a deep, rumbling growl—not the dangerous kind, but the kind that vibrates with recognition. In an instant, he’s off the bed, paws thudding against hardwood as he bolts toward the living room.  

Then—the creak of the front door. 

You left it unlocked. You knew.  

Before you can even sit up fully, you hear Bear’s excited whines, the frantic scratch of his claws against the floor as he launches himself at someone—at him. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor before you even realize you’re moving.  

And there he is. 

Standing in the doorway like a storm, shoulders bigger than you remember, muscles straining against the thin fabric of his white muscle tee like he outgrew it in just three months. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the same pair he’d left in before they took him, but now they cling to thighs that look harder, more defined.  

His cornrows are freshly done, edges sharp enough to draw blood, that damn fleur-de-lis tattoo peeking out from beneath the slant of his brow. But it’s his eyes that grip you—dark, calculating, hungry—as they rake over you like he’s memorizing every inch.  

“The fuck you leave the door unlocked for?” 

Your lips part—but the second his voice hits you, really hits you, something inside cracks wide open.  

“…I—I knew it was you,” you whimper, voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. 

Onyankopon knows you.

‘Knows the way your bottom lip trembles right before the tears fall. ‘Knows how your voice gets small and shaky when you’re trying—and failing—to hold it together. ‘Knows that no matter how spicy your mouth gets, that tender heart of yours spills over first.  

And right now?  

His dark eyes drink you in all of you.  

Your caramel skin glows under the dim lights, bare except for the tiniest rebellion inked along your ribs—his name, etched in delicate script, hidden beneath the swell of your tits like a secret only he’s allowed to touch.  

Those freckles—god, those freckles—dusting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose like constellations. Your round face flushed, slender eyes shimmering with tears, long dark curls tumbling wildly over your shoulders as you try to hide the way your body shakes.  

Hips fuller, ass heavier, waist somehow even smaller than he remembered, all wrapped up in that deep plum babydoll dress that barely covers your thighs. His gaze drags lower—no bra, just the thin lace of your panties peeking beneath the hem, your brown nipples stiff and visible through the fabric.  

And then—  

“You left me.” 

Your tits bounce heavily as you hiccup, hands flying up to cover your face in that adorably flustered way you do when you’re overwhelmed. 

“Aight, Mama—lemme’ hold you," he murmurs, voice thick with that gravelly warmth that usually melts you right where you stand. But not today.  

You shake your head hard, curls whipping against your cheeks, suddenly furious—at him, at the streets, at the damn system that keeps snatching him away from you. 

“No," you snap, voice wobbling despite yourself.  

This is your routine.  

The one where you unleash every pent up ache—where you sob about how Mrs. LeBlanc asked about him at the store last Tuesday, how you burned the first pot of gumbo because he wasn’t there to taste test it, how Bear whined at the door every night for a week after they took him.  

“You missed—you missed everything—"

Onyankopon exhales through his nose, patience wearing thin. He reaches for you again, fingers brushing your waist, but you smack his hand away—or try to. Your tiny slap barely fazes him, and the way his jaw tightens tells you his sympathy’s run out.  

One large hand fists into the back of your dress, yanking you against him so hard your breath whooshes out of you. His other arm bands around your waist, locking you in place as your tits press flush against his chest.  

“Ony—!" 

“Nah," he growls, “You done?" 

And just like that—you crack. 

Your fingers claw into his shirt as you bury your face into his neck, inhaling that familiar scent—jailhouse soap, and him. A choked sob escapes you as he grunts, adjusting his grip to cradle you tighter.  

“Yeah," he mutters, lips brushing your temple—“That’s what I thought.”

His nose drags along the curve of your neck—inhaling deep—like he’s trying to drown himself in you. Vanilla. Spiced cinnamon. Caramel. Your scent clings to his senses, and a rough groan vibrates against your skin before he cups your face in his big, calloused hands.  

Then—his mouth crashes into yours.  

Not soft. Not sweet.  

Claiming.

His tongue strokes against yours, hot and demanding, before he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth—sharp, just how you like it. The sound of his grunts fills the space between kisses—“Goddamn, you smell so good—” his palm smacks against your ass with a sharp CLAP!, making the flesh quiver beneath his grip as he kneads it possessively.  

“Why you doin’ allat’, huh?” His voice is gruff but softer now, forehead pressed to yours—“A nigga was gon’ find his way back to you.”

“Your lawyer said…” your voice cracks, fingers tightening in his shirt—“‘Said they coulda’ gave you more time…”

His jaw ticks—once, twice—before he exhales hard through his nose.  

“Look at me.” 

When you do, his eyes burn with something fierce.  

“Ain’t no cage gon’ keep me from you.” 

And just like that—his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your whimpers, his grip tightening like he’s determined to erase every second of those three months apart.

Your whimper melts into something hotter, needier—tongue sliding bold and filthy against his, dragging slowly before plunging back in, tasting the mint on his breath mixed with something darker, smokier. Onyankopon growls against your lips, tongue stroking yours with a rhythm that makes your thighs clench.  

“Greedy ass," he rumbles, voice thick with amusement—"Threw that lil’ tongue at me like you ain’t just been cryin’." 

“‘Want you, Papa…" you pant this, rocking your hips against the hard ridge of him, shameless.  

His hands tighten on your face—rough but reverent—as he pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze burning through you. 

“Three months, baby. Three months ‘I been dreamin’ ‘bout my pussy," he grits out—“But nah, we gon’ do this right." 

Your brows knit—confused, frustrated—until his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smug as hell.  

“A nigga got a whole garden in the Hummer for you," he admits lowly, "Tulips, roses, shit you like—whole backseat covered."

That freckled smile of yours spreads slowly across your face, until you realize something. 

“Wait—you got your car back?"

His smirk doesn’t falter, but something shifts behind his gaze—hooded, calculated. 

“Handled it." 

You blink once. Twice. Then deadpan, “I won’t even ask." 

“You already knowin’," he chuckles, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip one last time like he’s erasing the question altogether.  

“Go ‘head, start gettin’ yo’self pretty. Imma’ run some plays by these niggas, handle some business ‘fore we head out."

Your stomach knots. Already? 

Three months gone, and the streets demand his presence before the sheets even lose your warmth. You bite your protest back regardless, swallowing it down with a soft “Okay," that barely fills the space between you.  

Onyankopon studies you for half a breath—like he sees it, the tension in your jaw—before gruffly adding, “Aight? I’m happy to be home." 

And just like that he’s turning away, crouching to ruffle Bear’s ears as the dog practically vibrates with joy. You watch them—the way his tattooed hands roughhouse with the beast who missed him just as much as you did—and exhale.  

“Yeah," you murmur, touching the heart pendant at your throat. 

“…Me too."

The afternoon light slants through sheer curtains as the scene shifts to another familiar rhythm—Onyankopon planted on the bedroom bench like a king holding court. His muscular thighs spread wide, fresh out of the shower but already dressed in that effortless urban elegance—crisp black tee straining across his chest, black Amiri cargos, icy AP watch glinting at his wrist. Cuban links drip down his neck as he barks into his phone, voice sandpaper rough—“Nah, that product ‘move different now. ‘Tell them lil’ niggas to tighten up or get got." 

Meanwhile, you exist in your own world mere feet away—naked as the day you were born, lost in the ritual of getting ready.  

Your reflection in the vanity mirror is sinful—that waist cutting in like an hourglass before flaring out into heavy hips and that ass he can’t stop smacking. Oversized tits sway as you lean forward to dab blush over freckled cheeks, brown nipples stiff from the breeze drifting through the window. Between your thighs—pretty pink folds glistening with arousal, still tender from the thought of him earlier. 

You’re so engrossed in blending highlighter along your collarbones that you don’t notice his approach—until thick fingers suddenly part you from behind.  

“Papa—!” 

Your giggle bubbles up as his calloused thumb swipes through slick heat, inspecting you with a low hum of approval.  

"Fuck you laughin’ for?" he grunts, still half distracted by his phone conversation—“‘Just checkin’ my property."  

The juxtaposition is ridiculous—him murmuring “Two keys max,” into the receiver while his other hand teases your clit—until you slap his wrist away, cheeks burning.  

"Stop it!” 

“‘You the one bent over lookin’ like dessert." 

Sigh. Business and pleasure, always intertwined.

Now fully dressed, you feel every bit the masterpiece you’ve crafted—your curls styled in a voluminous flip over cascading like spilled ink down your back. Dark, feathery lashes make your almond shaped eyes look bigger, doe like, while deep brown lips—blended with a hint of plum—give your mouth a sultry, kissable pout.  

The outfit is pure temptation—tall, strappy heels that add inches to your shorter frame, black capris clinging to every curve of your full hips and round ass like they were painted on. The lace trimmed camisole is sinful, its sweetheart neckline framing the swell of your breasts, the sheer fabric teasing glimpses of skin beneath. Your small Coach purse twinkles with playful keychains dangling from it, a hint of softness against the fierce femininity of your look.  

You do a slow, deliberate spin for him—hips swaying, lashes fluttering—before rolling your eyes dramatically when he barely glances up, his big hand absently rubbing the side of your hip as he continues growling into the phone, “Nah, lil’ bruh, that’s not how we move.” 

Frustration flickers.  

With a huff, you drop onto his lap without warning, your weight forcing his thighs to adjust beneath you. His free arm instinctively wraps around your waist as you play with the coarse strands of his beard, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw while he keeps talking.  

You murmur against his ear, “I got all pretty for you, y’know.” 

 “Aight, Imma’ see you in twenty.”

You blink. 

“Twenty minutes? Where?" 

“Across the Westbank," he replies smoothly, fingers trailing up the curve of your thigh where the capris hug tightest—“‘Told you I had business to handle." 

Your arms cross over your chest,  “This was supposed to be our time." 

“Youn’ think I know that? I got shit to do." 

“Yeah, ‘cause a drug dealer has way less free time than the average working man."

The words hang in the air—sharp, but edged with truth. His brows lift, a silent challenge, and you bite your lip before melting back against him with a soft “Sorry…” 

Your voice dropped to a whisper, “I just want you to myself today."

Onyankopon exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders loosening as his hands slide up your back. 

“You got me," he murmurs, lips brushing the slope of your bare shoulder. 

“But I got a whole neighborhood to take care of—including buyin’ everythin’ yo’ greedy lil’ ass wanna see under the sun." 

His mouth trails up your neck, each kiss a quiet apology, a silent promise. You sigh, tilting your head to give him more access, your resolve crumbling beneath his touch.  

“Fine," you concede, “But hurry, please?” 

“Ain’t gon’ be long enough for you to miss me." 

And just like that, he had you under his spell.

The first time you rode shotgun on one of his business runs, your pulse had thrummed with something illicit—the thrill of danger, the heat of rebellion licking at your skin like a forbidden flame. Back then, watching him command respect with just the tilt of his chin felt electric, his dominance a live wire beneath your fingertips.  

Now?  

Now you slump in the passenger seat of his freshly detailed Hummer, fingers drumming against the leather as you stare determinedly out the window. His employees—lean, hungry looking young men with eyes too old for their faces—nod at you with careful respect, like you’re some kind of queen they’re afraid to glance at too long. You offer weak smiles in return, teeth digging into your plum stained bottom lip.  

Onyankopon moves like a storm—methodical, unhurried—handing off product wrapped in crisp bills, exchanging terse words with buyers who swear they can handle weight they clearly can’t. Every so often his palm lands heavy on your thigh—reassuring, possessive—but your skin feels too tight today.  

Your gaze flicks to the Glock tucked between his seat and the console, the .45 holstered at his ankle, the AR barely hidden beneath the flower blankets in the back. The arsenal used to make you feel safe. Now it just makes your stomach twist.  

“Can we go?" 

He pauses mid sentence, dark eyes cutting to you—reading the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers twist the rings on your hands.  

“Five minutes," he grunts. 

Onyankopon’s jaw ticks as he leans out the driver’s side window, his deep voice dropping to a lethal calm—  

“Nigga, you movin’ like you want problems.” 

The young boy couldn’t be older than nineteen—puffs his chest out, fingers twitching near his waistband like he’s itching to prove something. 

“I ain’t scared—” 

“That’s yo’ first fuckin’ problem.” 

Before the kid can retort, Onyankopon shoves the car door open and steps out, looming over him like a shadow. Even from the passenger seat, you can see the moment the boy realizes his mistake—how his shoulders tense, how his eyes dart sideways for backup that ain’t coming.  

“You gon’ get smoked actin’ like this,” Onyankopon growls, jabbing a finger into the boy’s chest—“Get yo’ shit together ‘fore I help you.” 

“Aight, Onyo’. Damn. My bad—” 

“Get the fuck on.” 

He dismisses him before sliding back into the driver’s seat, his energy crackling like live wire. You don’t say a word—just shift in your seat, crossing your legs tight, lips pressed together.  

The engine roars as he peels off, tires biting pavement. At the first red light, his hand cups the back of your neck, dragging you into a kiss so filthy your toes curl in your heels.  

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, “Appreciate you holdin’ me down.” 

You nod, still quiet, but your fingers tighten on his wrist—Where are we going? 

“Yo’ lil’ candy ass arcade on Canal.” 

Your frown melts instantly—the one with the vintage Pac-Man machine and strawberry mochi. A grin tugs at your lips despite yourself.  

“…’Kay.” 

Once again? Under his spell.

The neon glow of Canal Street buzzed around you as you stepped into the old-timey arcade, its retro facade hiding a freshly renovated interior that smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and digital nostalgia. The weekend crowd pulsed around you—laughing teenagers, couples locked in competitive banter, families chasing kids hyped up on sugar—all seeking the same escape from reality. Your fingers tightened around Onyankopon’s large hand as you tugged him inside, watching his sharp gaze flick over the space—new LED lights where flickering fluorescents once hung, sleek game consoles replacing the creaky ones he remembered.  

“Ain’t been gone that long,” he muttered, but there was no real irritation in it, just the low rumble of a man recalibrating.  

“Three months can feel like a sentence, Papa.” 

He thinks on your words for a moment. 

“‘C’mon, then. I’m tryna put ‘belt to ass in Mortal Kombat.”  

“In your dreams!” 

You darted away with a giggle, weaving through the crowd as his deep chuckle chased you. The sound was rare enough to make your chest ache—he was letting his guard down.

And when he did?  

It was like the sun breaking through a storm.  

At the game station, he was ferocious—button mashing with the precision of a man who took everything seriously, even play. His victorious howls shook your ribs where you stood pressed against him, his arm slung around your waist as he crowed about flawless victories. But then—your turn. His competitive edge melted into something softer, his hands guiding yours over the controls when you pouted about losing. 

“Like this, mama—time it right.”

 It was a quiet parallel to his life—his instinct to protect, to guide, even in something as trivial as a game.  

Later at a secluded lounge area tucked in the back of the arcade, you both shared strawberry mochi and sweet wine. The other couples around you laughed easily—holding hands, stealing kisses without glancing over their shoulders first. Your fingers traced the rim of your glass as the thought settled heavy—Did they have regular lives? Were they happier?

Onyankopon’s voice cut through the haze.  

“You been thinkin’ on somethin’ since we left the house." 

His voice is low, steady—a statement, not a question.  

“Hm?” 

“Hm?” he repeats, “Yeah, you."

You swirl the sweet wine in your glass, avoiding his gaze for just a beat too long before answering, “I’m just happy to have you home." 

He leans back in his chair, arms folding across his broad chest. 

“‘You want me to believe that?” 

“That’s what I’m telling you.” 

A beat passes. Then another. His expression doesn’t change—just that same quiet intensity, like he’s reading every flicker of hesitation in your body language.  

He stands, the chair scraping against the floor.  

“We gon’ talk over dinner," he confirms, “It’s aight." 

And just like that, the conversation is postponed—but not forgotten. You exhale softly, nodding as you rise to grab his hand, the unspoken weight of your thoughts lingering between you like an extra shadow.

The restaurant hums with the soul of New Orleans—exposed brick walls draped in vintage jazz posters, flickering candlelight glinting off brass fixtures, the rich scent of gumbo and buttery cornbread hanging thick in the air. Live piano notes drift from the corner, smooth and lazy like the Mississippi at dusk.  

You sit across from him, legs crossed just so, your lace camisole dipping to frame the heavy swell of your breasts. Small dimples flash as you press your lips together, watching him watch you with that quiet, unnerving focus of his—like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve carefully stacked since this morning.  

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you murmur, fingers tracing the rim of your water glass.  

His response is a low rumble—“Ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ shit a nigga supposed to do." 

Silence stretches between you. You know that look—chin tilted down, thick brows slightly furrowed—he’s turning something over in his mind.  

Then, out of nowhere—“How yo’ mama doin’?" 

You smile, soft and genuine. 

“Still prayin’ for you."

His lips quirk—“‘Wouldn’t want it any other way. She give a nigga ‘travelin’ grace." 

You tug a curl behind your ear, exhaling softly.  

“Well…" You reach for your purse, heart skipping—“I got you somethin’."

Your fingers tremble slightly as you pull out the blue velvet box—small, unassuming, but holding all the hope you've tucked away.  

His lips quirk before he even opens it, that deep voice laced with mischief—“Lemme’ guess—is it you, butt ass naked on top of a second Hummer? ‘Cause I was already plannin’ on makin’ that happen." 

You roll your eyes, “No, boy." 

He flips the lid open, thick fingers pausing as he pulls out the sleek, leather bound planner—matte black with silver detailing, masculine but refined. The attached pen glints under the soft restaurant lighting.  

“i got you a planner!" you squeak, suddenly nervous.  

His brow arches, thumb tracing the edge of the booklet before he meets your eyes—“That’s sweet, baby. But why?" 

You fidget, twisting a curl around your finger—“Well…I thought maybe it could be a new bonding experience for us?"

Your voice is softer now—"You know…we could journal on Sundays during online sermons, make grocery lists, plan things together…" 

Your next words come out in a rush—“I thought…maybe even show your parole officer that you do want more in life, you know?"  

The air between you shifts.  

His expression hardens, “Youn’ think I want more in life?" 

"I didn’t mean it like that, I just—" 

“So what you sayin’?" 

His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it—the kind that makes your pulse stutter. You swallow, choosing your next words carefully.  

"I just…want you to try something new, On’." 

Your gaze lifts, meeting his—“There are these moments where you talk about your future—goin’ to trade school, gettin’ off the streets, somethin’…practical. You’re just too smart for that to go to waste." 

A beat passes. Then his lips curl—not quite a smile—“You think bein’ pragmatic gon’ pay the bills?" 

"Ony—" 

“Niggas out here with degrees still hustlin’ backwards. You think a planner gon’ change the fact that this city don’t give a fuck about no trade school paperwork?"

His voice drops low, gravel rough with conviction—“I got half a fuckin’ city to feed, ion’ do this shit ‘cause I like tellin’ niggas what to do. The side of town we stay on? You still there ‘cause you refuse to leave yo’ family, and I respect that."

 His jaw flexes, thumb brushing over the planner still in his hand—“But I should get the same in return." 

He’s right. He’s always talked about putting you up somewhere better—somewhere with gates and quiet streets, or even leaving New Orleans altogether—but he’s never pushed you. Never made you choose when you never agreed to that. 

And now here you are, handing him a planner like it’s an ultimatum, like paper could fix the jagged edges of the life he’s built.  

You blink hard, swallowing the lump forming—“I’m sorry…” 

Fingers trembling, you reach to take the planner back, but his hand closes gently over yours before you can.  

“Don’t do allat’," he murmurs, voice softer now. The planner stays in his grip—not rejected, not dismissed—just held. 

“‘This the shit that’s been weighin’ on yo’ heart all day?” 

The question hangs between you, raw and exposed. 

“…I talked to your parole officer,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper—““Before your release.” 

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.  

“He said if you get caught again…it’s twenty-five to life, Onyankopon. No parole.” 

A single tear escapes before you can stop it, sliding hot down your cheek. You swipe at it fast, but the damage is done—your face is warm, your lips trembling as you whisper, “I can’t lose you again.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

His voice is gruff, thick with something that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t promise miracles. Doesn’t swear he’ll change overnight. But the look in his eyes—the vow in them—says more than words ever could.  

“You have to be here, y’know?” 

His thumb swipes under your eye, rough but tender.  

“I’m knowin’, baby.” 

But you can’t stop now—the words spill out like a confession, shaky and raw—  

“When we have our first lil’ Papa…when we get married…when you finally graduate…” 

Your breath hitches, lips quivering as you grip his wrist, needing him to hear this, to feel it like you do.  

“You can’t leave me like that again.”

The words break on the last syllable, “You just can’t.” 

That’s all it takes.  

In one swift movement, he’s out of his seat, leaning across the table, his big hands cradling your face—not gentle, not this time—commanding your attention.  

“Stop that fuckin’ cryin’,” he growls, “I’m never leavin’ you again.” 

You whimper—half protest, half relief—but before you can speak, his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath along with the last of your tears. It’s not a sweet kiss—it’s desperate, possessive, a promise sealed in salt and heat.  

The waitress approaches with a tray piled high with steaming Creole dishes—crispy fried catfish, creamy shrimp étouffée, golden cornbread muffins—but freezes mid step when she catches sight of you two, your faces still inches apart. 

Her voice squeaks out, “I’ll—uh—‘come back!” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch, just leans back slightly, his deep voice smooth as molasses—“Nah, you good, love. We ain’t mean to stop what you gotta do.” 

You quickly wipe your face with the back of your hand, giggling apologetically at her, your earlier tears replaced by a warm, flustered grin. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you murmur as she carefully sets the plates down.  

“Is there anything else y’all need?” she asks, glancing between you two like she’s half-expecting another emotional hurricane.  

Onyankopon settles into his seat, stretching his long legs out before casually dropping the bomb—“Can you box her up as a to-go entrée?” 

Your mouth falls open before you snatch a fry off his plate and flick it at him. He catches it between his teeth, smirk victorious as he chews.  

“Damn. Nevermind then,” he murmurs, low and playful, making the waitress bite back a laugh before she scurries off.  

The rest of the night feels good—normal in a way that makes your chest ache with gratitude. Before leaving, you drag him into the restaurant’s vintage black and white photo booth, cramming yourselves into the tiny space. He grumbles “This shit for teenagers,” but still lets you pose him—gruff, sexy glares mixed with moments where he suddenly pulls you in, his lips at your neck, his hands possessive on your hips while the flash captures it all.  

And when you climb back into the Hummer later, the LED lights inside now glow a soft violet—you can’t help but watch him with quiet fascination.  

He’s on the phone with one of his men, voice a low, authoritative rumble—“Nah, don’t move ‘til I say so”—while his free hand rolls a blunt with effortless precision, his thick fingers crimping the paper just right.

The Hummer idles softly outside your apartment building, the engine a quiet purr beneath the hum of the city at night. The LED glow from the dashboard paints his sharp features in an otherworldly hue—high cheekbones catching the light, the flicker of his chains as he moves.  

You sit curled in the passenger seat, cradling the bouquet of flowers he’d surprised you with earlier—roses, peonies, all lush and fragrant. You press your nose into the petals, inhaling deeply as your lashes flutter shut for just a second. Sweet. Just like him when he wanted to be.  

Across from you, Onyankopon flicks his lighter—the flame casting brief, dancing shadows across his deep brown skin, his tattoos momentarily illuminated like ancient script. He takes a long pull from the blunt, smoke curling from his nostrils in smooth, practiced streams.  

“Non, fais pas ça—Nah, don’t do that. Li pa bon pou biznis.” 

You watch as he takes another hit, the ember glowing bright before he exhales again, smoke filling the space between you.  

“Mwen pral rele ou pli ta,” he murmurs into the phone before ending the call.  

Silence settles, but it’s comfortable—heavy with the scent of weed and flowers, the quiet understanding between you two thicker than the smoke.  

You reach over, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.  

“Teach me,” you murmur.  

He arches a brow.  

“Creole?” 

You nod. 

His lips curl into that half smirk that always makes your stomach flutter as he nudges the blunt between his fingers and murmurs, "Say ‘Mwen renmen w’." 

I love you. 

You bite your lip to suppress the grin threatening to take over your face—you know what it means—but you play along anyway, voice lilting sweetly, “Mwen renmen w." 

His eyes darken, the low purple light catching the flecks of gold in them as he exhales smoke and leans closer, rough palm cradling your jaw. 

“I love you so much fuckin’ more, girl." 

You only took two hits, but it’s enough—your body melts against his side, pliant and warm, your cheek pressing into the firm curve of his shoulder as he scrolls through his phone with one hand, the other absently tracing circles on your thigh.  

Messages light up the screen—coordinates, confirmations, the usual—but you’re too busy nuzzling into the scruff along his jaw, breathing in the mix of his cologne and weed. You press a feather light kiss there, right where his beard meets his cheekbone.  

“Thank you, mama," he murmurs, voice gravel rough but tender.  

You go in for another, but this time he turns his head just enough to meet you halfway—a quick peck at first, teasing. But when you chase his lips, he hums low in his throat and suddenly it’s not quick anymore.  

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, demanding entry, and you part for him with a breathy sigh. The kiss deepens—slow, filthy, calculated—until you’re squirming in your seat, your fingers tangled in his chains.  

“Aight," he growls against your mouth, one hand already on the door handle—“"We takin’ this shit upstairs."

The kiss is molten, unhurried but heavy with intent—your foreheads bump together, lips slanting clumsily as you whimper into his mouth, needier than usual. Your heel slides up over the center console, legs spreading just enough in that shy, wordless way of yours—can’t wait, don’t make me wait. 

Then—there—the rough pad of his middle finger swiping over your clothed folds, and fuck, the fabric is already damp, sticking to your skin. Your tongue stutters against his, a broken huff catching in your throat as your head falls back against the seat.  

“….Ain’t even touched yo’ ass yet,” he murmurs, but his finger circles again, mimicking the lazy thrust of his tongue—slow, then slower—until you’re squirming, your hips canting up into his touch.   

“Mwen renmen w,” you mewl, and his fingers curl, gripping your thigh as he licks into your mouth like he’s trying to taste the words.  

“‘Fuckin’ right you do.”

The air in the Hummer is thick—hot with the weight of desperate breaths and the slick, sinful sound of his fingers teasing you through damp fabric. Your hands fist gently in his beard, the coarse strands scraping against your palms, sending a shiver down your spine. You can’t help it—you nuzzle against the roughness, craving the friction, the burn of it against your skin before dragging him down into another filthy, open mouthed kiss.  

Your legs spread wider—so fucking wide—knees falling slack against the leather seats, silently begging.  

His fingers then hook into the waistband of your capris, dipping just beneath. He doesn’t even push inside yet, just swipes slow along your soaked folds, gathering the slick there before dragging back up. Your hips jerk, but he pins you with a glare, forehead pressed hard against yours as his breath fans over your parted lips.  

“M’gonna cum if you put ‘em in,” you whimper, voice trembling, weak.  

You squirm, biting your lip—“Ony…I’m so wet.” 

His nostrils flare, eyes narrowing as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“I’mma put ‘em in. You ‘bet not fuckin’ cum.”

The moment his thick fingers slide inside you, deep, your body betrays you in the most obscene way—your pussy clenches around him with a wet, shuddering pfft  as his knuckles sink into your swollen folds.  

A weak, desperate sob tears from your throat, your voice breaking high and needy like you haven’t been touched in years, like his fingers are the only thing keeping you sane. Worse? You gush around him instantly, soaking his hand in a humiliating rush of slick, your hips jerking helplessly.  

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging the word out low and rough as your eyes roll back. He’s fucking you with his fingers, slow and deep, curling them just right to make your back arch off the seat.  

“Ughn—ohmygod—“ you slur, voice wrecked, your mouth falling slack as he pistons his fingers in and out, your wetness squelching around them with every thrust.  

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“Soundin’ like a fuckin’ baby.” 

And you do—whimpering, gasping, your pussy clenching around his fingers like it’s trying to milk them for more.  

“Ain’t even fucked you yet,” he murmurs, cruel, twisting his fingers just to hear you sob again.

A desperate whimper claws its way up your throat as you crash your mouth against his in a messy, open mouthed kiss—tongue sliding filthy against his, lips smearing wet and frantic. Your brows knit together, a tight little frown creasing your forehead as his fingers bury themselves even deeper, stretching you with that perfect, brutal coil that makes your toes curl.  

“Onyo’—fuhh—!" 

The words dissolve into a senseless slur, your voice cracking as your legs hike higher, knees pressing into your chest, showing him—begging him—just how badly you need it.  

Your mind hazes, drifting back to those long nights alone—phone pressed to your ear, his voice rough through the receiver as he talked you through it, murmuring filthy promises while you rubbed your clit with trembling fingers, tears streaking your cheeks.  

And now? You can’t even handle the real thing. 

His fingers withdraw with a wet pop, leaving you empty and whimpering—until his rough grip tangles in your hair, yanking your face toward his lap with a throaty command. 

“Gon’ eat this dick up," he grunts, voice dripping with dominance—“Actin’ like you can’t even take my fingers." 

You surge forward, pressing a sloppy, desperate kiss against his lips—“M’sorry—" 

“Ion’ wanna hear allat’,” he growls, "On yo’ knees." 

He shoves the console back with one hand, his other hand still fisted in your curls, guiding you down. The sight of you beneath him is obscenely perfect—your large, teary eyes peering up through your lashes, lips parted and puffy, freckled cheeks flushed.  

With trembling hands, you tug his sweats down just enough to free him—his dick springs out, thick and angry, the tip already glistening. It’s bigger than your face, heavy in your small hands, veins prominent under your fingertips.  

"Fuck," you whimper—you can’t help yourself, smacking the swollen head against your tongue before licking a kittenish stripe up his shaft. 

His rough palm cups the side of your face, calloused fingers pressing into your soft skin before delivering a dominant smack—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper and redden under his touch.  

“How much you missed this dick?" He growls, watching with hooded eyes as you bob your head messily, spit and pre-cum slicking your lips.  

Your answer comes in slurred, desperate sucks—“Mmmhh—mmph!"—the vibration of your whimpers traveling up his length. You've always struggled to take him fully, but you try so hard, your throat fluttering around the head as you choke back tears.  

He chuckles darkly, reaching for the blunt still smoldering in the ashtray. Onyankopon takes a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose like some kind of arrogant god watching his worshipper struggle.  

“Pull them pretty ass titties out," he commands, "You know what a nigga like." 

With shaky hands, you tug your top down, letting your heavy breasts spill free. Your nipples are already peaked and sensitive, and when your fingers brush over them, you jolt with a breathy gasp. 

“Ah—!" 

“Keep goin'," he rumbles, sinking deeper into his seat, blunt dangling between his fingers as he watches you with lazy hunger.

“‘Ain't tell you to stop." 

You press your tits together around his thick length, the head of his dick peeking out between the softness of your cleavage. You begin rocking your body, fucking him with your tits in slow, worshipful strokes—  

"Mwen renmen w," you mewl again, voice weak and trembling, your swollen lips forming the words between gasps.  

“Say that shit again.”

“Mwen renmen w!" you mewl even deeper, your hips jerking uselessly as your arousal drips down your thighs.  

He grunts, finally tossing the blunt aside—“Fuck it. A nigga need yo’ pussy now."

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, pulling him down as your back hits the leather seat—his massive frame hovers over you, swallowing you in shadow except for the violet glow of the LED lights streaking across his sweat-slicked skin. Your lips find him again in a weak, sloppy kiss, your mind too fogged with lust to form coherent thoughts—just need, just heat, just him. 

“Show a nigga what he been missin’.” 

Your thighs tremble as you slowly spread your legs wider beneath him, presenting your soaked folds—puffy and glistening under the dim light.  

“Been waitin’ for you," you whimper, voice cracking with desperation.  

The words hit him like a match to gasoline.  

He crashes his mouth back onto yours in a searing kiss before trailing his lips down—lower—licking a hot stripe down your neck, sucking bruises into your throat, teeth scraping over your collarbone. Your back arches when his tongue swirls around one taut nipple, then the other, pulling whines from your chest as pleasure spikes through you.  

But he doesn’t stop there.  

Strong hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider as he licks his lips—"Fuck, look at you." 

And then he dives in.  

His tongue drags slow and filthy up your slit, savoring you before he buries his face between your legs, nose nudging your clit as he devours—deep, hungry strokes of his tongue, curling just right inside you.  

Your hands fly to his braids, gripping tight as your hips jerk—  

"Fuck, baby.” 

His response? A low, vibrating growl against your pussy, his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still as he feasts.  

Onyankopon’s mouth is filthy—so loud, messy and wet, lips sealing around your clit with a suck that makes your whole body jerk. Saliva and arousal mix in obscene, sloppy sounds, his tongue working you open with rough, languid strokes like he's savoring every damn second.  

You tuck your chin shyly, peeking down at him through fluttering lashes—his face buried between your thighs, eyes hooded with satisfaction as he eats you like his last meal. Your fingers tangle in his braids, twisting gently, playing with the silky strands as a soft pout forms on your lips.  

“…Missed playin’ in your hair," you whimper, voice thick with emotion—almost fragile, like admitting it out loud makes it more real.   

“Ain’t gotta miss it,” he rasps, his tongue plunging deep—"Keep playin’ in my shit. Gon’ let you braid me up again after you make a fuckin’ mess on me." 

Your breath hitches, fingers tightening in his hair as you nod frantically, spreading your legs even wider—"Uh-huh—y-yeah—!"  

Your words dissolve into stupid, slurred nonsense—"Ony—fuhh—I’mgonnac—“ as your pussy gushes against his mouth, the lewd squelch of his tongue working you over drowning out your weak cries. Your cheeks burn hot, embarrassment and pleasure twisting together as you feel everything—his nose grinding against your clit, his lips sucking your folds, his tongue fucking into you in slow, filthy circles.  

“Taste so fuckin’ good," he growls against your skin, the vibration making you squeal peevishly.

“Mwen renmen w..." 

And just like that? Switch flipped. 

His grip tightens, lifting your legs effortlessly over his broad shoulders, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the arches of your feet like he’s savoring the feel of you.  

“Keep tellin’ a nigga you love him,” he grunts, voice low and rough—"Let’s have a conversation." 

You whimper, arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer until his forehead presses against yours—breaths mingling, hearts pounding.  

“Mwen renmen w," you whisper again, barely audible, lips brushing his with each syllable.  

And then—oh God—you feel him. His thick length slaps against your soaked folds, the blunt head nudging at your entrance, already making your body tense in anticipation.  

“Yeah, huh? Talk to me." 

You nod frantically, pliant eyes struggling to focus as he starts to sink in—slow, so damn slow—stretching you in a way you haven’t felt in too long.  

Your face twists—lips parting around a shaky gasp—as the fullness steals your breath.  And then? Emotion hits you like a tidal wave.  

Tears prick at your eyes, your chest swelling with something so big it hurts. You feel connected—like his soul is pressing into yours with every inch.  

“Mwen renmen w," you sob—weakest yet, voice cracking—as he finally bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.  

His groan is guttural, hands tightening on your thighs—“Fuck, mama—I know." 

And then he moves.

His strokes are borderline punishing—each thrust forcing a choked gasp from your throat, the stretch of him bordering on too much, too deep, too everything. Yet your body clings to him greedily, walls fluttering around his length like it’s been starved—rewarding him for every inch he takes, every brutal snap of his hips that leaves you whimpering.  

Your toes curl, thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders. One large hand fists at the nape of your hair, yanking your face close to his until your foreheads knock together—your head jerks back with each rough thrust, lips parted in a shaky pout, tears spilling over your flushed cheeks.  

Weak little sobs hitch in your chest with every drive of his hips, your nails digging crescent moons into the sweat-slick muscles of his back. Between broken moans, your voice cracks—soft, vulnerable—  

“Hurts—seein’ you leave," you sniffle, brows knitting together, “D—don’t…wanna do that again…” 

His glare darkens, jaw tightening as he rams into you harder—deeper—a grunt tearing from his chest as his breath fans hot over your face.  

“Then don’t," he snarls, voice raw with possessiveness, "Ain’t goin’ nowhere if you keep takin’ dick like this.” 

Your next cry is swallowed by his mouth—his kiss bruising, tongue forcing its way past your lips as if to silence your doubts. And god help you, you let him—melting into the pain, the pleasure, the promise in every snap of his hips.  

You’re silent now—past words, past whimpers—just taking him, your body trembling under the sheer weight of his dominance. The only sound is the obscene squelch of your pussy creaming around him, gushing embarrassingly with every withdrawal of his thick length.  

“That’s it—take this shit. Ain’t no runnin’ now,” he growls, watching your teary eyes roll back as your walls clench around him.  

A surrendering little sob escapes you once more—weak, broken—your hands limply gripping his shoulders as he fucks you through it, his pace never faltering.  

“Fuck, girl—you drippin’ all on me." 

And you are—soaking his thighs, the leather seats, everything. Your orgasm wrings you out in slow, torturous waves as he uses you, claims you, ruins you. 

His touch softens just enough to soothe—calloused fingers brushing away your tears as he kisses you through your cries, lips lingering against yours in a rare moment of tenderness.

“M’sorry,” he just grunts, voice rough with sincerity.

“Ain’t leavin’ you again." 

Your nods and whimpers dissolve into another aching climax, your pussy pulsing around him as you drown in the love, the passion, the need. It’s a moment that could last forever. 

But just like that? The mood shifts. 

His grip tightens, flipping you effortlessly onto your knees, face pressed into the leather as he drags you back onto his lap—ass up, his dick buried to the hilt inside you. Your feet tuck atop his thighs, heels digging in as you let out a tiny, shuddering “O—Ooh—!" 

You start slow. Rolling your hips back tentatively, but he then growls, “Take yo’ time. ‘This dick ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

The command is clear.  

You listen, setting a rhythm—slow, deliberate—skin slapping together in a steady, filthy clap that fills the heavy silence. Your thighs tremble, face smushed into the seat as your whimpers grow louder—"O—O-ooh—!" 

Onyankopon’s hand cracks down on your ass, “‘There she go’. My lil’ nasty ass bitch." 

Your fingers slip between your lips, stifling your moans as you rock back onto him, ass quaking with each bounce.  

“I ain’t movin’," he warns, "Give me a fuckin’ show.” 

You press a shaky hand against his abdomen for leverage, sitting up just enough to feel him deeper—too deep—hitting a spot so painfully good your body locks up.

His grip tightens around your waist as you whimper—"Ooh, shit!” before desperately bouncing your ass back onto him, the sound of skin slapping skin deafening in the enclosed space.  

And then? Your pussy farts around him for the thousandth time, wet and obscene, the vibration dragging a trembling groan from your throat—“Ooooh, mygod—Papa—!" 

You were never loud like this. 

Your moans drag out—whiny, high-pitched, annoyed with yourself because you can’t stop them, each thrust pulling another pathetic sound from your lips.  

Onyankopon’s hand slips around your torso, calloused fingers cupping beneath your breasts where his name brands into your skin—it’s effortless. He’s bouncing you down onto his dick like you weigh nothing, your legs kicking weakly as your cream paints his length.   

“You gon’ keep takin’ this muhfucka’ like you missed it.” 

And you do—each bounce, each squelch, each fatty noise your pussy makes proving it.  

"That’s my muhfuckin’ girl." 

Your head falls back against his shoulder, mouth drooling, eyes rolling, body melting. He owns you. 

His thick forearm presses against your throat, the pressure just enough to make your vision blur at the edges as he fucks into you with even more brutal, punishing strokes. His jaw rests heavy atop your head, your weak panting the only sound you can manage past the tightness in your windpipe—your body submitting under his dominance.  

“Mmmf—hot," you mewl, sweat slicked skin sticking to his, the air in the car suffocating.  

Without breaking rhythm, Onyankopon reaches over and rolls the window down, the sudden rush of night air hitting your overheated skin—  

Oh God. 

Your noises—those pathetic, whimpering, creaming sounds—are now free to echo into the quiet neighborhood.  

Panicked, you reach a shaky hand toward the window switch—but his grip tightens around your throat, cutting off your air as he rams up into you, all while tugging you down onto his dick even harder. 

“Nngh—!" you choke, humiliation burning through you as you clench around him.  

“You whinin’ like a bitch,” he grunts directly into your ear, the vibration shooting straight to your core.  

Then, with a final rough tug, he forces your face toward the open window—forcing you to see the dimly lit houses, the quiet streets—his people, his city.  

“Let everybody know I’m back home.”

And you scream. His name ripping from your throat, raw and unhinged. 

“Mwen renmen w,”  he growls between thrusts, the Creole rolling off his tongue like honey mixed with gravel—your words, your love, thrown back at you with the same raw intensity you’d given him all night.  

Your body jerks as he nuts—deep, so deep—his release flooding you in thick, pulsing waves that make your thighs quiver. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing—his chest rising and falling against your back, your own breath hitching in your throat as aftershocks ripple through you.  

Then, weakly, you tilt your head up, catching his lips in one last, tender kiss—your little cries soft against his mouth, voice trembling with everything—relief, exhaustion, love.  

Your body melts back against his chest, muscles lax and satisfied as you peer out through the cracked window at the quiet streets of the 7th Ward. The humid night air carries the distant hum of cicadas and the faint bassline of someone’s music drifting from a porch down the block. His warmth presses into your back, steadying, as you tilt your head to murmur against his skin—  

“Where would we go... if we left?" 

For a beat, he stills—his breath huffing against your damp shoulder before he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there. 

“Wherever you wanna be, girl. ‘Long as it’s got a bed that can take how I fuck you." 

A weak giggle bubbles from your throat—but then you say it, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them. 

“‘M serious, Papa. I think it’s time to get out the 7th.” 

You feel his surprise, the way his grip tightens reflexively around your waist.

“Where ‘this comin’ from?”   

You swallow, suddenly shy. 

"Been thinkin’... ’bout quiet. ‘Bout space. ‘Bout you—us—somewhere ain’t nobody knockin’ on the door.”

His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip as he murmurs, “A crib up in the Art District ‘don’t sound bad."

“Gives more space for Bear to run around."

“Yeah," he agrees, "A nigga could look into some trade schools ‘round there too." 

Wait. 

 You turn slightly in his arms, searching his face. 

“You’re serious?" 

He nods. Then he says it—words heavy with the weight of a future he’s choosing.

“‘Wanna give you a ring. A child. ‘Can’t do allat’ bein’ on the streets.”

Your heart swells. 

You clutch his face as you say, “It doesn’t matter who you are to everybody else. You got me. I love you more than life itself, Onyankopon.” 

He grunts low in his throat—then crashes his lips against yours in a kiss so deep, so emotional, it makes you giggle against his mouth, cheeks burning.  

“We finna’ go get a ring right fuckin’ now.” 

You giggle once more, pressing a hand to his chest. 

"Let’s make it into the house first, yeah? We need a shower." 

"Aight. Imma’ fuck you again in there." 

You squeak as he hoists you up, your half naked body tucked tight against his chest as he steps out into the humid night. A few voices call out from porches down the block—“Aye, Ony back home!"—cheery, thick with that Southern lilt. 

You nestle your face against the sweat damp skin of his collarbone before murmuring, “…The 7th ain’t so bad with you here." 

When you peer up, his gaze is already locked on you—dark, heavy, full of something that makes your stomach flip.  

“A nigga couldn’t ask for anythin’ more than yo’ love.”

Before you can respond—scratch scratch scratch—Bear’s massive paws hit the front door, his excited whines vibrating through the wood.  

Onyankopon just chuckles, adjusting you in his arms as he kicks the door open. And the last thing the neighborhood hears before it slams shut? Your giggles, his grunt as Bear tackles him, and the thud of all three of you entering inside with a heap. 

Your belly grows enormous with Toji’s calf, stretching the fabric of your embroidered sundresses until the seams threaten to pop. Your udders hang heavy and full beneath the frills, nipples perpetually pebbled and damp with sweet cream. The ranch hands whisper as you waddle past, all plush curves and drowsy contentment, but none dare stare too long. Not when Toji’s glare promises violence if they so much as breathe in your direction.

Shiu, surprisingly, becomes your most enthusiastic showman. He parades you around the county fairs like a blue-ribbon heifer, your wrists adorned with ribbons that match the ones threaded through your horns. "Ain't she somethin'?" he boasts to anyone listening, calloused fingers brushing over your swollen middle with something like pride. "Got her bred on the first try, bull’s seed took reallll nice."

Toji watches from the shadows, smug as hell, arms crossed over his chest as his gaze tracks every jealous glance thrown your way. He doesn’t need to brag, your rounded silhouette, the way your tits slosh with milk when you move, the dreamy little sighs you make when he gropes you in front of company. It’s all the proof anyone needs.

You’re his masterpiece. Shiu’s favorite investment. Soon, you’ll be a mother.

Your milk has come in heavy, spilling over your sensitive nipples and down your swollen belly in slow rivulets when you stand for too long. The farmhands whisper to each other when they think you can't hear. “Look at her teats, damn near bursting outta those sundresses.”

"Toji got his cock workin' good, huh?"

Toji, of course, has no complaints.

You whine pitifully when the thin straps of your sundress dig into your swollen shoulders, the fabric stretched taut over tits so engorged they threaten to spill free with every shift of your weight. "Mmmh T-Toji," you hiccup, lashes fluttering as another bead of milk trickles down the curve of your belly, "C-can't... too full..."

Toji just grins, all teeth and wicked amusement as he palms your aching udders without mercy. His thick fingers catching the leaking cream before dragging it back up to your puckered nipples in slow, filthy circles.

"Poor thing," he coos, voice dripping with condescension as he pinches one fat nipple, hard, watching with rapt attention as a fresh stream arcs onto the hay-strewn floor. "Ain't my fault ya make enough milk for three calves."

Shiu, passing by with a bucket in hand, snorts and flicks your dangling bell with a calloused finger. "Quit yer whinin'," he grumbles, which if funny when he’s the one who ordered you extra molasses-laced feed last week. "Big tits mean healthy stock." As if you’re not already the most pampered broodmare in three counties.

They’ll never let you suffer. But they’ll definitely make sure you drip.

The day Shiu leads the new bull hybrid into the barn, the entire farm falls unnaturally quiet, even the other Hybrids seem to tense.

Sukuna is massive bigger than Toji in raw bulk, his corded muscle straining beneath scarred skin marked with strange, ink-black markings. Tattoos weren’t uncommon among hybrid-stock, but you are almost positive THIS is different.

His crimson eyes gleam with a predator’s focus as he surveys the barn, nostrils flaring at the scent of hay, sweat, and you, ripe with milk and pregnancy.

The auction papers in Shiu’s hand read "High Aggression – “Handle With Caution" in bold red letters, but the man just smirks and slaps Sukuna’s shoulder like it’s a joke. The other side of the papers write Sukuna’s name in red scrabble. “The King” scrawled in messy writing.

"Got ‘im cheap ‘cause he crippled his last owner," Shiu announces, voice far too cheerful for the way Sukuna’s tail flicks like a whip behind him. "Figured we’d break ‘im in proper."

Toji, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, doesn’t even blink, he just studies Sukuna with a calculating gaze before his mouth curls into something dangerously amused.

“Huh.” He pushes off the wood and strides forward, close enough to challenge, close enough to provoke. “…That one’s gonna be trouble.”

Sukuna’s grin splits wide, revealing rows of sharpened teeth as his low chuckle rumbles through the barn like distant thunder. "Tch. You smell like weak stock," he drawls, eyes sliding past Toji to land right on you. Your rounded belly, your swollen tits, the way your fingers clutch Toji’s sleeve instinctively. "But her…" His tongue drags over a fang. "I’ll have fun ruining that cunt once her calf drops."

Shiu doesn’t believe in gentle. The farm isn’t a charity. It’s a business, and every bull hybrid that comes through his gates learns that lesson quick.

Step One: Deprivation.

Freshly purchased bulls get locked in the isolation pen. No company, no stimulation, just four walls and the scent of fertile females they can’t touch. By day three, even the most violent hybrids are pressing against the bars, nostrils flaring at the distant sound of moans and milk hitting pails. Anticipation is the first whip that cracks across their pride.

Step Two: Humiliation.

Once they’re desperate enough, Shiu parades them past the breeding racks. He lets them watch as other hybrids mount willing cows, let’s them seethe as their own untouched cocks twitch in helpless interest. "See that?" he’ll taunt, flicking the straining length of a new bull’s erection with his crop. "That’s what happens when ya learn yer place."

Step Three: Reward.

Only when they’re trembling with frustration, when their growls have turned to pleading grunts, does Shiu finally lead them to a cow. Not a prize like you, of course. No, he starts them on an older broodmare, one who knows how to take a rough mounting without breaking. The first time a bull hybrid sinks into warm, willing flesh? That’s when the fight leaves their eyes.

Sukuna will be no different. Shiu’s made sure of it.

"Ain’t no such thing as untamable," Shiu likes to say, patting the flank of a once-feral hybrid now nuzzling his hand for treats. "Just ones that ain’t been broke right."

Sukuna laughs when they try to lock him in the isolation pen. His deep, grating chuckle echoing through the barn as he tears the reinforced steel bars clean off their hinges with a single yank of his arms. The farmhands scatter like frightened mice when he steps free, crimson eyes scanning for the nearest target.

He breaks the first man’s spine over his knee. The second nearly loses an arm to those jagged teeth.

By the time Shiu arrives, shotgun in hand, the straw is already soaked red. Three workers down, and Sukuna lounging atop a pile of splintered wood like it’s a throne, licking blood from his claws.

"Tch. You really thought a cage would hold me?" Sukuna sneers, stretching lazily before locking eyes with Shiu. "I ain’t some common stud to be leashed."

Toji watches from the shadows, arms crossed. He’s amused, but unmoving. He won’t intervene. Not yet.

Shiu, however, doesn’t flinch. He just exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke and shrugs. "Nah," he agrees, surprisingly calm. "But you are gonna learn."

Then, with a sharp whistle, the real trap springs.

Electrified cattle prods slam into Sukuna’s back from all sides.Tranq darts pierce his thick hide. As the King snarls, thrashing against the voltage Shiu smirks. He steps closer with a syringe full of something special.

"See, brute force ain’t the way," Shiu muses, driving the needle straight into Sukuna’s jugular. "But chemistry?" The bull hybrid’s pupils dilate instantly, muscles locking, cock aching as the aphrodisiac cocktail hits his bloodstream. "That’ll have even a god beggin’ for a cunt to rut."

By sundown, Sukuna’s snarling into the dirt. Chained legs spread-eagle between two posts, knot swollen and dripping as the drugs burn through him. Shiu just pats the Bull’s shoulder.

Old Mari knows the drill before they even drag her in. Her nostrils flare the second Sukuna’s feral scent hits the air, thick with rut and rage. She doesn’t flinch when the barn doors slam shut behind her, nor when Shiu gives her rump a firm smack to guide her toward the churning beast strapped down in the center of the pen.

Her hide is scarred from a dozen calvings, her udders sagging with the memory of milk long since weaned. She’s no pampered prize like you. Just a sturdy, no-nonsense cow hybrid who’s spent her life taking whatever bull they strap her to with weary resignation.

The moment she steps within reach of Sukuna, her tail lifts instinctively, flagging high to expose the well-used slit between her thighs. It’s not excitement, it’s experience. She knows better than to fight when a bull’s this far gone.

Sukuna’s snarl dies in his throat, replaced by a guttural groan as his hips buck against the restraints. Mari just sighs and braces her hooves against the dirt, angling her hips just so.

"Atta girl," Shiu murmurs, patting her flank before stepping back. "Show ‘im how it’s done."

Mari doesn’t need to be told twice. She sinks onto Sukuna’s cock with the ease of a broodmare who’s done this a hundred times before. She can’t take every inch of his throbbing length. But the ole girl tries at least.

For a moment, just a moment, it seems like Sukuna might submit. Mari sinks onto him, her tired cunt stretching around his girth, her hooves planted firm in the dirt. She’s done this before. She knows how to take a rough mounting without breaking.

But Sukuna is not just another bull.

His muscles coil like steel springs then explode into motion. Even drugged, even restrained, the force of his hips pistoning upward is enough to lift Mari clean off the ground, her shocked moo turning into a strangled scream as Sukuna rears beneath her. He slams her back down onto his cock with enough force to make her udders swing wildly.

"Fuck FUCK !" Shiu snarls, lunging for the cattle prod as Mari’s cries pitch higher. They are no longer the steady grunts of a seasoned broodmare, but the panicked, broken sounds of an animal being torn apart.

Sukuna’s claws have shredded through the leather straps binding him, his teeth buried in Mari’s shoulder as he pumps into her like he’s trying to split her in half. Blood and slick spatter the hay beneath them.

The prods crackle against his hide, but he doesn’t not until the voltage sends him. His knot finally locks inside her ruined cunt as he empties himself in thick, painful pulses.

Mari collapses the second he’s done, sides heaving, her tail still twitching spasmodically. Sukuna just laughs as Shiu drags her away, her legs trembling too badly to stand.

Lesson learned. Some beasts can’t be broken. Only unleashed.

Sukuna is already staring past the carnage, past Shiu, to where you stand frozen in the milking line not too far from the breeding racks. Your pregnant belly heavy, your milk dripping onto the floor in terrified rivulets.

His grin is all fangs.

"You’re next."

The barn falls suddenly cold. Shiu pauses, one hand still clenched around Mari’s bloodied flank. He doesn’t fear Sukuna, but even he knows the difference between a tame bull and the beast the King has become.

Sukuna, however, is focused on you. Those bloody eyes rake over your swollen belly, your leaking teats, your face. He looks like he wants to devour you whole.

You quickly scurry away, the pretty pink bow on your tail flailing before you disappear around the corner.

The air in the barn is thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and straw as Sukuna lounges against the splintered wooden post, his massive arms crossed over his chest.

"Alright, farmer," Sukuna rumbles, his voice like gravel grinding against bone. "Let’s make a deal."

Shiu pauses mid-motion, arching a brow but saying nothing. He’s dealt with enough stubborn bulls to know when one’s about to try and outsmart him.

Sukuna’s lips curl into a smirk, revealing those jagged, too-sharp teeth. "You want me to play nice? To plow your fields, rut your cows, behave?" His head flicks towards where you had turned the corner. "Fine. But I want her."

Shiu exhales a slow stream of cigarette smoke, considering. Then "Nah."

Sukuna laughs, the sound dark and rolling like thunder. "Not even gonna pretend to think about it?"

"Ain’t gotta think," Shiu replies flatly, tossing the bloodied rag aside. "That’s Toji’s mate. His property. And even if it weren’t " He meets Sukuna’s gaze head-on, unflinching. " -you don’t get to make demands here, stud."

Sukuna’s grin doesn’t fade, if anything, it widens, feral need glinting in those inhuman eyes. "We’ll see," he purrs, leaning back again. "We’ll fuckin’ see."

Shiu just chuckles, stamping out his cigarette with the heel of his boot. He's dealt with enough cocky bulls to know an empty threat when he hears one.

"Sure you will.

And just the sight of you stirs up a different kind of hunger in Sukuna.

Day 37.

That’s how long Sukuna lasts before Shiu finally snaps.

The barn is in ruins. Stalls torn apart, fences splintered, three more farmhands nursing broken bones. The other bulls refuse to enter the east pen, sensing the predator in their midst. The losses are piling up. The vet’s bills are ridiculous.

Shiu’s at his wit’s end.

And Sukuna?

He lounges on a pile of freshly ruined hay, picking blood from his teeth with a claw, watching as Shiu paces like a caged animal.

"Y’know," Sukuna muses, voice dripping with false sympathy, "This could all stop. Today."

Shiu stops pacing. "Bullshit."

Sukuna’s grin is all fangs. "You’re smart, farmer. You know I ain’t like the others. Chain me, drug me, beat me I’ll just keep breaking your shit." He leans forward, chains rattling. "But give me one night with that pretty little heifer of yours. Let me put a calf in her that’s mine and I’ll be your best damn stud. No more trouble. No more accidents."

Shiu’s jaw clenches. He knows it’s a bad deal. Knows Toji will murder him if he agrees.

But the barn can’t take much more of this.

He exhales sharply through his nose. "One night," he growls. "One fucking night. And if you so much as scratch her- "

Sukuna throws his head back and laughs, the sound dark and victorious. "Oh, farmer…" His eyes gleam with something hungry. "I won’t need to."

Sukuna's grin stretches slow and venomous as he leans back against the hay bales, his massive arms crossed. The chains around his wrists clink, not because they restrain him, but because he lets them.

"Fine," he rumbles, tilting his head as if considering something trivial. "Let your bull's brat drop first. I ain't in a rush." His tongue drags over a fang, eyes half-lidded as they rake over your swollen belly. You are asleep in a few pens over. Toji's calf shifting beneath your skin. "More fun breaking ‘er in when she’s nice and soft after birth anyway."

Shiu exhales sharply through his nose, nodding once. The deal is struck.

Neither of them mentions it to Toji.

Sukuna’s not stupid. He knows the moment Toji catches wind of this bargain, there’ll be blood. His blood. So he waits. Plays obedient. Leers at you from across the yard when Toji’s not looking, his smirk promising filth the moment your bull’s back is turned.

And Shiu?

He just lights another cigarette and pretends not to notice the way your hands tremble when Sukuna passes by. The way your udders leak at the sound of his growl.

You’re just the broodmare caught in the middle.

The day you go into labor, there’s a storm outside.

The barn is thick with the scent of hay and sweat as your contractions hit hard, sending you to your knees in the padded stall with a weak, shuddering moo. Your swollen belly tightens like a drum, udders heavy and leaking milk down your trembling thighs.

Shiu stands by the gate, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching with the same detached focus he gives all his livestock. "’Bout damn time," he mutters, nodding to the old hybrid vet, a grizzled man with hands as rough as bark as he pulls on long rubber gloves with a practiced snap.

But it’s Toji who drops beside you, his massive frame crouched low, one hand pressing against the curve of your belly as another contraction ripples through you. His voice is a growl, but his touch is steady. "Breathe," he orders, thumb swiping away the sweat at your temple. "Push when I tell ya."

The vet kneels between your spread legs, his gloves already slick with antiseptic. "Head’s crowning," he grunts, fingers pressing gently to check. "Gonna need ya to—yep, there ya go, girl. Push."

You cry out, hooves scrambling against the straw as your body bears down. There’s little to no time for Toji to react.

It’s slippery, squirming, and warm.

A calf. Toji’s calf. His heir.

Shiu exhales smoke, grinning as the vet clears the newborn’s airways with a rough towel. "Another healthy one," he says, slapping Toji’s shoulder. "Good job, bull."

But Toji’s eyes aren’t on the calf, they're on you, his hand gripping yours tight as you pant, exhausted and spent.

He doesn’t notice Sukuna lurking in the shadows.

Doesn’t see the way those crimson eyes hunger. The deal’s been struck. Your reprieve is over.

~

Motherhood is exhausting. The calf is small, demanding, always demanding more. You're tired, sore, and leaking milk from your swollen, fat tits at all hours.

But when little Megumi looks up at you with those big, wide, innocent eyes…you can’t say no.

When he nuzzles his soft face against your chest, suckling and snuffling for more, all your exhaustion, all your pain, all the aches...

It's worth it.

No one expected Toji, the most vicious stud in Shiu’s operation, the bull hybrid who mounted and moved on without a second glance, to stay.

But the moment his calf hit the straw, something in him shifted.

His massive hands, once used to pin broodmares into submission, now cradle Megumi with startling gentleness. He rumbles low in his chest when the little one stirs, nuzzling the curve of his tiny back with a tenderness that would’ve been unthinkable before.

Shiu notices, of course he does.

"Ain’t like you to skip the breeding rack," he comments one evening, leaning against the stall where Toji sits with Megumi curled against his chest, tiny fingers fisted in his shirt.

Toji doesn’t even glance up. "Fuck the rack," he mutters, smoothing a calloused thumb over Megumi’s forehead. "Got all I need right here."

And he means it.

The other cows whisper. The bulls snicker. But Toji doesn’t care.

Not when Megumi’s first wobbly steps are toward him.

Not when you smile at him like he’s something precious instead of something wild.

He was a monster once. But now, he’s a father.

But Sukuna can be patient. And he’s rewarded for it.

The vet arrives unannounced, his weathered bag slung over his shoulder. He gives you a perfunctory nod as he kneels in the hay beside you, his calloused hands already reaching for your hindquarters. "Just a check-up," he mutters, though his eyes flick briefly toward Shiu, a silent confirmation.

You don’t suspect a thing.

Toji’s outside with Megumi, letting the little calf stumble after him in the afternoon sun, so it’s just you spread-legged and trusting as the vet’s gloved fingers press inside.

"Healing fine," the old man grunts after a moment, wiping his hands on a rag. "No tearing. Should hold up to..." He hesitates, then clears his throat. "...normal activity soon."

Shiu exhales through his nose, satisfied.

The vet stands, nodding to Shiu before letting himself out. You just sit there in silence, shifting uneasily in the thick pile of hay. You can still feel the vet's cold touch inside you, the lingering sense of being prodded and checked like a prized broodmare.

But a quiet noise catches your attention, a low, rumbling growl.

You look up just as two crimson lights flicker in the shadow of the stalls.

Sukuna stands inside, watching you. Listening.

Your delicate little nose wrinkles, lips pursing in a perfect pout as you flip your tail dismissively in Sukuna’s direction, the pink silk ribbons tied at the base twitching like an offended cat’s. "Ugh. Stop starin’, ugly," you huff, shifting your plush rump pointedly away from him, as if the very sight of his leer might taint your perfectly groomed coat. "‘Ji’s gonna kick your teeth in if he catches you creepin’ on me like some stray mutt."

Sukuna doesn’t move. But his grin widens, slow and predatory, as his tongue drags over a fang.

"Oh, darlin’," he purrs, "Your bull ain’t here right now."

The barn door creaks open and Sukuna’s grin vanishes.

Toji’s shadow falls across the threshold. His calf balanced on one hip. His eyes locked on Sukuna.

"The fuck," Toji says, very quietly, "-are you doin’ near my mate?"

There’s no one in the barn more dangerous than Toji and Sukuna. You know that. The ranch hands know that. Even Megumi can sense the tension crackling in the air.

But Sukuna knows this too. Knows that it’s too early to push. Knows that Toji will tear him apart if he tries to take you now.

So instead, Sukuna’s lips curve into a cool, arrogant smirk. Toji passes your calf to you. Megumi instantly curls into your body, seeking warmth and protection. The two little ears peeking out from his mess of black hair twitch.

"Just lookin’ at your heifer, bull," he says, hands raising in mock surrender. "Making sure she’s alright after that little birth of hers. Can’t have your prize damaged before you get your use out of her, now can you?"

His eyes flicker over you, scanning the curves of your body like a wolf sizing up a meal.

"Such pretty teats," he purrs, his grin widening. "Bet her milk’s sweet."

Megumi lets out a tiny, protective moo, pressing his little face into the warmth of your flank as if trying to shield you from Sukuna’s gaze. You barely spare the horned brute a glance, your pink-lined nostrils flaring in distaste as your tail flicks sharply a dismissive whip of silk and ribbons.

"Ugh. As if," you huff, voice dripping with disdain as you nuzzle against Toji’s thigh, your big doe eyes blinking up at him with practiced innocence. "Don’t even waste your breath on him, ‘Ji. He’s nasty."

Sukuna’s smirk twitches.

But Toji’s hand settles on your head, fingers threading through your hair as his glare never wavers from Sukuna.

"Heard her," Toji growls. "Fuck off."

And for now? Sukuna does. But not without a last, lingering look at you.

The peace of your safe little stall doesn’t last very long.

It starts with Shiu’s whistle. It’s sharp, commanding. The sound makes your ears twitch, but before you can react, rough hands are hooking under your arms, hauling you up with little ceremony.

"C’mon, girl," Shiu grunts, tugging you toward the stall door. "Need ya for somethin’."

Toji’s head snaps up instantly, his nostrils flaring as he steps forward only for Shiu to raise a placating hand. "Easy, bull. Just a quick check-up. Vet’s waitin’. Megumi stays here."

The mention of his calf makes Toji hesitate, his gaze flicking to where the little one is curled up between two older heifers, drowsy and content.

A mistake. Because Shiu never lets Megumi out of Toji’s sight.

But before the bull hybrid can protest, Shiu’s already leading both of you out, your steps hesitant, Toji’s tense. The barn door creaks shut behind you.

The breeding rack is already prepped. Padded with restraints laid open. You are guided behind the gate by two farmhands. Your knees hit the padding as you're bent over before you can yelp. The restraints fasten against your lower back and your legs are splayed open.

The realization hits you both at the same time.

"Shiu-“Toji snarls, whirling, muscles coiled

But the farmer’s already backing away, his expression grim. "A deal’s a deal, bull. One night."

Sukuna steps out of the shadows. His grin is vicious.

No Megumi. No escape. Just you. And a king who always collects his dues.

"Missed me, heifer?" Sukuna purrs, stalking forward.

Toji moves fast but Shiu moves faster.

A sharp whistle splits the air, and suddenly hands are everywhere. Farmhands lunge from the shadows, ropes coiled like serpents around Toji’s arms, his legs, his throat. He snarls, bucks, thrashes muscles straining against the restraints

But then the bite lead slams between his teeth, the thick metal bar forcing his jaws apart, silencing his roars into choked, furious grunts.

"Hold ‘im steady," Shiu barks, with the covers for his sharp horns in his hands. Shiu clamps them around the ends of the horns, effectively rendering them useless unless Shiu allows it. He’s Defanged. Defenseless.

Toji’s wrists are wrench behind his back, bound in brutal, unbreakable knots as Shiu steps away, wiping his brow.

"There," the farmer sighs, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "Now he listens."

Toji’s chest heaves, his eyes wild searching for you

But Sukuna’s already there, his claws digging into your waist as he drags you back against his chest.

"Don’t worry, bull," the King of Curses murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "I’ll take real good care of her."

Sukuna steps around you in a slow circle, his eyes trailing hungrily over your trembling frame as he drags in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. The septum’s ring flicks as his tongue drags against his upper lip.

"Hn," he hums thoughtfully, "So this is what your lil’ bull’s been keepin’ to his damn self. Pretty girl like you…all soft ‘n perfect and fertile…no wonder he didn’t want me touchin’ you." Sukuna’s palm comes crashing down against your ass cheek that peeks out from under the frilly pink skirt you wear. Shiu isn’t accustomed to his livestock wanting to wear any clothes. But your farmer and mate liked to spoil you.

The poor shorts and undergarments are shredded in seconds.

His tongue drags across the skin on the back of your neck, a hot, wet stripe that makes you freeze.

"Bet your honey’s sweet as summer, huh, girl?"

Your wail is raw, pathetic, a high, trembling sound that echoes through the barn as Sukuna’s claws dig into the base of your tail, lifting it with merciless ease.

"Fuckin’ pretty," he growls, his breath scorching against your exposed flesh.

And it is pretty. Too pretty.

Your pussy is fat from Toji’s breeding. She’s allll swollen, puffy lips glistening with slick, the delicate pink folds flushed and aching from neglect. The clit is a plump little bud, already throbbing under his scrutiny. Sukuna clicks his tongue, running a claw along the seam of your cunt, making you jerk against the restraints.

"Already drippin’ for me," he muses, pressing the blunt tip of his finger against your entrance just enough to make you squeal. "Knew you’d be like this. Knew you’d take it."

He spits right onto your clit.

The wet, warm shock of it makes you sob, hips bucking involuntarily as Sukuna laughs, rubbing the slick mess into your sensitive flesh with rough circles of his thumb.

"Gonna ruin you," he promises, his other hand sliding around to grip your throat. "Gonna make sure that bull of yours can smell my seed on ya for a longggg time.”

Shiu has to keep his eyes glued to the dark haired bull to his left, watching Toji strain against the reinforced leather straps, the wood of the restraint post groaning under the bull hybrid's raw strength. Blood drips from Toji's wrists where the ropes bite too deep, his horns thrashing uselessly against their padded covers.

Another minute of this, and he’ll either snap the restraints or dislocate his own shoulders.

Shiu grits his teeth and turns to Sukuna, who’s still lazily tormenting you with his claws, making you whimper and squirm.

"Oi. King."

Sukuna glances up, one brow arched.

"My bull’s gonna break my fuckin’ equipment," Shiu mutters, jerking his chin toward Toji. "And if he does, he’s gonna rip you apart before you even finish."

Sukuna considers this for a moment then shrugs, unbothered. "Then let him watch."

Shiu’s eye twitches. "Not an option. Vet’s bills are expensive."

Sukuna’s smirk widens. "What’re you suggestin’, farmer?"

Shiu exhales smoke, rubbing his temple. "You get her now but quick. No games. No torture. Breed her. Just Once. But then Toji gets her.”

Sukuna’s grin turns predatory. "Or?"

"Or I let Toji loose," Shiu says flatly. "And you don’t get her ever again."

Sukuna laughs after his eye twitches. "Fine." He releases you with a final, taunting stroke along your thigh. "But next time? No deals."

Shiu doesn’t answer.

Before Shiu can bargain any more, the restraints snap, the bite bit cracks under feral teeth. The farmhands aren’t keen on breaking any more bones.

Toji moves the second he’s free. Straight for Sukuna. Straight for blood.

His horns may be blunted, his wrists raw, but he doesn’t need weapons.

He is the weapon.

"TOJI WAIT !" Shiu barks, but it’s too late.

The bull hybrid lunges, plowing into Sukuna with a force that sends them both crashing into the wooden beams of the barn. The impact splinters the support post, hay exploding into the air as Sukuna snarls, barely managing to twist mid-fall.

"Fuckin’ pussy," Sukuna spits, claws raking across Toji’s ribs as he flips them, pinning the other hybrid beneath him. "You think a cuckold like you has any right ?"

Toji’s fist cracks against Sukuna’s jaw, silencing him mid-sentence.

Blood sprays. Teeth rattle.

The cattle prod cracks against Toji’s ribs like a whip, electricity snapping through his muscles in a brutal jolt. His entire body seizes, teeth gritting so hard his jaw pops but he doesn’t go down.

"Goddammit, bull LISTEN!" Shiu snarls, pressing the prod against Toji’s throat this time, forcing him to still. "He gets one round. That’s it. Then you take her back. But you fight me now? You will lose her forever."

Toji’s chest heaves, his pupils blown wide with rage but the threat sinks in. His horns lower slightly, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back.

Shiu exhales sharply. "Smart choice."

Toji steps back, wobbling as he wipes the saliva from his lip.

"Don’t worry, bull," Sukuna scoffs, turning back toward you. "I’ll be quick."

A lie. A cruel one.

Toji roars but the cattle prod hums in warning.

For now he watches. Helpless. Furious. Waiting.

Sukuna throws his head back and barks out a laugh rough, jagged, delighted as he watches your plush thighs quiver, your fat cunt dripping slick down the inside of your trembling legs.

"Ohhh, fuck," he purrs, dragging a claw through your mess, bringing it to his lips with a filthy suck. "Look at you. Soakin’ the goddamn straw. You like this shit, don’t you? Watchin’ your bull lose his damn mind over you?"

His fingers dig into your hips, hauling you back against him, letting you feel the brutal length of him pressing against your spine hard, hot, relentless.

"Lil’ slut," he breathes against your ear, mocking, taunting. "But don’t worry, heifer I’ll give you what you’re begging for."

He spits between your cheeks, letting it slide down to where your swollen folds glisten.

"Gonna fuck you so good," he growls, "-your bull’ll taste me in your milk."

Toji howls in rage.

You just drip.

Sukuna grips the base of his cock, pressing the thick, flared head against your fluttering entrance and pushes.

It burns.

Your body fights him, clamping down in instinctive protest as the first few inches sink in slowly, agonizing, stretching you wider than you’ve ever been stretched before.

"Tch. Tight," Sukuna muses, watching with rapt fascination as your cunt struggles to accommodate him. "Greedy little heifer. Takin’ that bull’s knot like a good bitch, but me? ‘Course you choke up."

He slaps your ass hard making you jolt forward with a sob, and the sudden movement forces another brutal inch inside.

"That’s it," he coos, mockingly, cruelly. "Don’t tap out on me now."

Your belly twists, a visible bulge forming beneath your skin as he feeds you another inch, then another. Each one is a fight, each one leaving you gasping, drooling and whimpering.

"Goooood fuckin’ girl," Sukuna purrs, dragging his claws over the swell of your abdomen, tracing the outline of his cock inside you. "Fuckin’ made for this. Should’ve been mine from the start."

His calloused hands tighten around your waist, the other hand wrapped around your tail for leverage. He slams the rest of the way home.

Your scream breaks halfway, turning into a ragged, airless gasp as your cunt finally gives, taking him all the way your belly distending obscenely, rounding out under his touch.

The bull above you snarls, his sharp canines glistening in the flickering barn lights.

"Now," he growls, "-let’s see if that bull of yours can even recognize this pretty ‘lil pussy when I’m done."

Your thoughts shatter. There’s no fear anymore. No shame.

Just cock.

Sukuna’s hips slam into you with a snap that rattles your teeth, each thrust punching a weak, airy “uhn!” from your throat as your eyes roll back. Drool drips from your slack lips, your tongue lolling like some dumb broodmare in heat. Your mind is empty of anything but the brutal stretch of him splitting you open.

“Thereeeee she goes,” Sukuna croons, voice thick with satisfaction as he watches your lashes flutter, your cunt clenching around him in broken, involuntary little pulses. “Brains finally leakin’ out those pretty ears.” His canines nip at one of the twitching fuzzy ears still wrapped in those salmon pink bows. “All you are now is a hole, my fuckin’ hole.”

He thumbs at your clit rough just to watch your body jerk, your pussy squirting weakly around him like some mindless animal. It doesn’t take much at all. You're so full, the only place for your slick to go is out.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he groans, his rhythm turning erratic, hips stuttering as he chases his own pleasure now using you like the sleeve you’ve become

His bulky, meaty bicep wraps around your throat from behind. He wrenches your head back as far as he can. Your breath is cut off from his chokehold. Your eyes see more of the back of your skull more than the blurry scene of Toji fighting against the ropes.

“‘Kunaaaa~!” Your wail is choked off from his bicep flexing against your windpipe.

You don’t even feel it when he cums at first. Your ears are ringing.

Just the heat flooding your womb, the bulge of his cock twitching inside you as he grinds deep, making sure every last drop takes.

When he finally pulls out, your cunt gapes. It’s dripping cream and seed onto the straw below as your body twitches, still clenching around nothing

Dumb. Used. Ruined.

And Sukuna smiles.

The second Toji's restraints snap loose, he doesn't run to cradle you. He doesn’t whisper sweet nothings or check your trembling limbs.

No.

He moves like a man possessed. The restraints tear from your body like paper. His big hands yanking you onto your back before you can even whimper, fingers plunging inside without hesitation. He’s scraping, scooping at your insides harshly as he claws Sukuna's seed from your ruined cunt.

"Fuckin’ disgusting," he snarls, flinging the thick strands of cum into the hay with a wet slap. His jaw is locked, veins straining in his neck as he works you open, knuckles deep, scouring every inch of your insides like he can erase Sukuna's claim by force.

You sob, oversensitive and shaking, but Toji doesn't stop until his fingers come away clean. Your puffy lower lips swollen and abused from the ruthless purge.

The heel of his palm presses hard on your lower belly and you wail, hiccuping.

“Push.”

Toji’s command is a growl, his palm pressing hard into your lower belly, forcing the air from your lungs as he pins you flat. His other hand spreads your sticky, swollen folds wider, fingers digging into your trembling thighs.

“I said PUSH, heifer,” he snarls, shaking you roughly when you whimper. “Unless you want that fucker’s bastard growin’ in you ”

The threat sends a violent shudder through you, and with a sob, you bare down, muscles clenching as thick, pearlescent strands of Sukuna’s cum dribble pathetically out of your gaping hole.

Toji scoffs, wiping his fingers on your thigh with a look of disgust. ”Good. Now again.”

Sukuna just watches, lounging lazily against the barn wall, his half-hard cock still glistening with your slick as he strokes himself with idle, amused strokes.

”Ain’t that sweet,” he purrs, grinning as Toji growls at him. ”Bull’s so jealous, he’s tryin’ to scrape me out by hand.” His tongue drags over his fangs. ”Too bad it don’t work like that.”

Toji roars. Sukuna laughs. You push.

Sukuna’s chuckle is dark, lazy, as he watches Toji’s pace around you, lowering his now uncovered horn between your thighs. He takes multiple whiffs, nose curling as he can smell the scent of Sukuna even through his septum ring. Sukuna holds up a single clawed finger mocking, taunting before flicking his gaze toward the barn door where Megumi sits outside curled in the hay, oblivious.

"Ya already got yer heir," Sukuna muses, lips curling into a wicked grin. "Strong little shit. Smarter than his damn daddy, too."

Toji’s snarl cuts through the stale barn air, but Sukuna just waves him off, stretching like a satisfied predator.

"Tell ya what, bull," he murmurs, tilting his head. "I get one, just one strong son outta this pretty cunt. Then?" His smirk widens. "She’s yours. Forever. I won’t so much as look at her again."

The offer hangs between them thick, poisonous.

Toji’s fists clench, his jaw working as he glances at you trembling, used, his before his gaze flicks to where Megumi is being held.

His calf.

His blood.

His future.

"...One."

Sukuna’s grin is triumphant.

"Smart man," he purrs. Toji saunters over to where your head dangles over the edge of the rack. He helps roll your pliant body to your already full tummy. No matter how much Toji scooped out, the cum settled in your womb was inescapable.

You whimper, drooling against Toji’s fingers when they push past your lips. "Hush," Toji rumbles, stroking your mouth with his thumb, coaxing your trembling tongue out to taste his callouses. “Easy girl, m’ right here Pretty.”

Toji strokes the sweat slick hair away from your flushed cheeks. You flinch as you feel the ground creek under Sukuna’s weight. "’S okay. Just me. I got you." You let Toji ease the world away.

When you’ve finally gone still, limp as a ragdoll, Toji lets his fingers slide away.

"Just how I like ya." Toji huffs, a familiar sound that Megumi no doubt got from his father. "Now be good, heifer. Open that pretty mouth."

As your jaw drops open, Toji guides your face to him, guiding the tip of his cock against your lips. It's a comfort this time his thumb moving against your cheek. His voice is like a balm. Once upon a time his mere presence had you pissing yourself, quivering in need and fear.

After bringing his calf into the world, Toji had shifted. Became a protector more than a challenge. "There’s my good heifer. Just make me feel good, yeah? Take my cock the way you take my words. And leave the rest to me. He won’t go too hard. I won’t let him."

Your lips wrap around the leaky tip. The tip of your tongue slips along the slit of his cock. The salty taste, along with the heavy scent of a working stock makes your brain go numb again.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a gentle croon. "There's my good girl. You just take whatever ya need."

While you're lost in him, in the heavy sack resting against your chin, Sukuna strokes across your back flank. Toji’s words of praise wrap around you like a safe haven.

Sukuna had brutalized other Bulls for just looking at him wrong. But Toji was a formidable foe. Even as he treated you like a precious treasure, his flannel was peeled open. His jeans were hugging each crevice of his muscular thighs like a lifeline. His heavy cock dangled from the shimmied down denim, being fed between your pretty bruised lips like a snack.

"You think I don't know what you're doin', bull?" Sukuna sneers,"You can try to comfort your little bitch all ya want...but I'm gonna break her one way or another."

Toji just snickers, plucking a piece of hay from where it was scattered in your pretty boy. He pops it between his glistening teeth, using the feed to keep himself from tearing out Sukuna’s jugular.

“Suck,” he orders, voice raw, not cruel, but desperate. “Suck like ya mean it. Like you’ll die without it.”

And suck you do. The kitten licks and kisses to the tip turn to long strokes with your tongue. Each bob of your head takes more and more. Toji was a good teacher. The virgin little heifer who Shiu had brought in over a year ago was now his little cockslut.

Speaking and Shiu, he leaned against the gate, trying his best to hide the raging boner straining against sun-bleached trousers. He was chain-smoking like a freight train, hands shaking as he tried to decide between another light or fisting his cock.

Behind you, Sukuna doesn’t like to be ignored. “Yer lovesick,” he growls at his fellow Bull, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your soaked folds, making you jolt. “Still thinkin’ you can save her?”

“I ain’t savin’ shit,” Toji snarls. “I’m reminding her.”

Sukuna doesn’t give you a moment to hide your pretty pussy. Your tail is snatched mid-flick, and he’s sliding in with much less resistance this time. Sukuna tries to bite his lower lip to stifle the pathetic groan he lets out. Your sore, puffy walls welcome him in like an old friend.

You moan around Toji’s cock, tears spilling as Sukuna’s hips pound into you, each thrust jolting you forward, forcing Toji deeper down your throat.

Toji bites back a chuckle with Sukuna’s thrust has you gagging on him. Those welled up tears leak down your face with each harsh thrust.

“Breathe,” he orders. “Ain’t dyin’ on my cock today. And when fucker here is done?” His grip turns possessive. “I’ll wash him out of you. Use my cum and piss like a water hose if I have to.”

Sukuna’s laugh is wicked.

“Promises, promises.” The pink haired bull laughs.

You obey. You suck. And you take it.

Sukuna's fingers dig into your hips as he yanks you back onto his cock. Each bounce punched a gurgled gasp from your throat. Your mouth stretches obscenely around Toji’s length as he fucks your mouth in tandem. The poor pink ribbons on your ears never stood a chance.

"She likes it," Sukuna taunts, his grin audible as he watches drool spill from your lips around Toji’s girth. The drool and pre-cum bubbles at the corners of your mouth. The gags from your esophagus shouldn’t sound so fucking hot.

"Look at her drippin’ from both ends. Shoulda seen how her cunt clenched when I told her she’d be breedin’ my heir."

Toji’s snarl vibrates through you, his hips snapping harder, forcing himself deeper down your throat in retaliation. "Shut your fuckin’ mouth," he growls, thumb wiping at your tears. "She’s mine. You’re just borrowin’ her."

Shiu has somehow wriggled down his jeans to fist his angry cock. The head is red and sensitive, especially when he swipes a thumb over it. The cigarette goes barely smoked between his lips as he strokes himself.

He doesn’t know who he’d rather be. Sukuna, Shiu…or YOU.

Sukuna laughs, dragging his claws up your spine just to feel you shiver. "Funny. ‘Cause she takes me better." He rams home, hilt-deep, making your toes curl. "Bet she’d beg for my knot if you weren’t here."

Toji’s fingers tighten. "Try it," he dares, voice deathly calm. "See how long you keep your tongue after."

You whimper around Toji’s cock, your overwhelmed and used body strung tight between them as they argue over you. You're the finest slab of meat in this damn barn and they knew it. Every few seconds you swear you’ll pass out. From the lack of air and your guts feeling like they’ve been pushed up into your chest at this point.

Sukuna’s hand smacks your ass, flesh rippling from the contact. “Quit squirming," he chides, "You’re here to be filled, not fuss."

“She’s tryin, fuckin’ dick.” Toji holds your bottom jaw to make the glide easier. Your jaw is starting to ache so the support is most welcome. Sukuna’s grin is wicked.

"Y'know," Sukuna smacks your ass again, reveling in the way your cunt clenches around his length. "That brat of yours almost pissed himself when I stalked his dam."

There are two things (well, three) that NOBODY in this barn messed with. Toji’s feed, Toji’s mate (we know how THAT went), and Toji’s calf.

Toji’s horns crash into Sukuna’s with a sickening crack, the force of it sending you slamming forward onto Toji’s cock, gagging as he bottoms out in your throat. Sukuna’s hips jerk back, dragging his length halfway out of your dripping cunt before he snarls and shoves back in, harder. As he surges forward, his horns lock with Toji’s.

"YOU LYING SACK OF SHIT!" Toji roars, his voice raw with rage, his hands clawing at Sukuna’s shoulders as they wrestle over you. Your body jolts between them, impaled on both their cocks as they fight.

Toji’s cock rams down your throat in the same brutal instant Sukuna blows your pussy open again and again

"Fuck look at her," Sukuna snarls, his voice strained with exertion, sweat dripping from his brow as he grinds deeper, forcing your thighs wider. "She’s dumb on it, just a fuckin’ hole for us now."

Toji digs a heeled boot into the ground, using body weight for leverage as his horns overpower Sukuna’s for a split second. "Shut your mouth," he snarls at Sukuna before slamming his cock back between your lips, his hips pistoning in savage, possessive thrusts. "Put a baby in ‘er first. Took her innocence right on this fuckin’ rack.”

"Then why’s she squeezin’ me like she’s scared I’ll leave?" he taunts, grinning as your cunt flutters around him, betraying you.

Toji roars and their horns lock again, their bodies pressing you between them like a sacrificial offering. Their cocks claim you in tandem, one splitting your throat, the other pounding your womb raw.

The barn air is thick with sweat, musk, and the metallic tang of blood. Both horns bleed at the base, a mixture of blood, sweat and spilled saliva from their feral attitudes dripping over your flesh.

Toji’s breath comes ragged, his rhythm faltering as his hips stutter against your face, his cock twitching deep in your throat. His fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your tear-filled gaze up.

"Gonna fill that pretty mouth," his cock twitches heavily on your tongue. "Gonna make sure you taste me for days."

Behind you, Sukuna’s is faring no better the second time around. He can’t help it. The smell of pheremones, your sweet cunt, the thought of a little bull with wild pink hair and his horns and his eyes-

"Fuck-fuck! " he snarls, his breath hot against your back. "Tight little heifer squeezin’ me like you want my bastard."

Your body is no longer yours, just a vessel. A plaything caught between two titans as they chase their release inside you.

Toji’s hips snap forward one last time, his cock throbbing as he spills down your throat in thick, heavy pulses. He forces you to swallow each spurt. When your throat fills up, you whine and gag when the rest shoots from your nostrils. It burns, but you don’t get a rest yet. Sukuna is too busy using your pussy like a flashlight.

He locks inside you, his claws biting into your flesh as he shoves impossibly deeper, his release flooding your womb in scorching bursts. His knot swells in full, the flesh locking in his cum this time around.

“Mmmm fuck yeah…can’t wait ta see ya all swollen. T-take it-Nu uh…no runnin’ pretty girl~.” Sukuna chastises when you squirm on their cocks like a pig for roast.

Shiu can hardly muffle his own moans as his cum hits the metal pail in front of them like tobacco. Heavy spurts paint the metal white as he snaps the poor cigarette between his lips like a twig.

He’ll definitely use that pail to milk you later. Maybe he’ll feed you with it too.

It is HIS farm after all.

Shiu wipes himself clean quickly with a handkerchief, trying to not let the shame settle in his belly.

The bulls are panting, sweat and blood slick on their skin as they lift you out of the breeding rack, your body limp and wrecked. They gently settle you back against the leather as they maneuver you around like a little doll.

Shiu clicks his tongue as he examines you. Your bruised, swollen, cheeks still tear-stained, eyes glassy and far-off.

"She's gone,” he mutters, his hand shaking you gently. "Hey Girl….”

You hiccup wetly, your face crumpling the second Shiu’s fingers brush your cheek, your entire body quivering like an overripe peach about to burst.

“Mmmf—Shiiiiu,” you whine, your voice raspy from throatfucking and sobs, your pout trembling as you nuzzle pathetically into his palm. “They were meeeeean!”

Shiu blinks down at you, his brow arching as you flop your head against him, your limbs still loose and useless, your cunt dripping between your thighs.

“Mean?” he repeats, dry as hell. “Sweetheart, they bred you like a barnyard heifer. What part of that was supposed to be nice?”

You sniffle, dramatically wiping your nose on his sleeve before wailing.

“They didn’t CUDDLE me after!”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

You nod vigorously, still teary-eyed.

“And ‘Kuna spit on me!!” you accuse, pointing a shaky finger at the King. “And Toji scraped me INSIDE—!”

Shiu sighs, long-suffering, as he scoops you up like a tantrum-throwing toddler.

“Alright, alright—let’s get you hosed down before you start listing more war crimes.”

one comment turned into another, then another, and all of a sudden the argument began. toji wasnt yelling, but his voice had gone sharp in a way it almost never did with you, rough edges showing where he usually kept them tucked away.

he wasn't meant to argue. not with you. ever.

and thats how you end up like this.

the room is dim, his broad frame hunched over your own. you're sprawled on the mattress, thick thighs spread open in front of him. every inch of him working its way into your soft heat.

he's softer this time, his rhythm slow and deep. so unlike his usual rough nature.

his mouth slants over your own, his hips rocking into yours so slowly, his cock brushing each deep crevice inside your pussy. the sound of your mouths working together is wet, filling the room along with each creak of the bed.

he holds you, his arms strong and heavy around your body, fingers digging into the plushy flesh of your back and waist. you moan, eyes hazy, tilting your head back against the mattress.

"ain't mean it," he whispers, voice low and rough.

his hips pick up the pace a little, making you moan out loud. he's so unbelievably deep inside of you, his tip hitting each sensitive bit inside of you, brushing right against your cervix.

"...toji," you whine, legs spreading wider involuntarily.

he holds you like you're something sweet, something thats meant to be held and protected and not shouted at.

he grunts, his hips never stopping, fastening up with each thrust he gives you. he's not just fucking you, hes making love. making you feel every thick ridge and vein he has inside of you.

"..please, faster!" you sob, full breasts bouncing with each thrust inside of you.

he groans, picking up his pace, his hips slapping against you, filling you up over and over again. hes holding you by the hips now, using his grip as leverage to fuck into you faster, pounding right into your warm, velvety walls.

"hah," he groans, his pace relentless, muscles shifting with each shift his body makes. you're a moaning mess, soft and curvy under his hands, your lips open, his name falling out of your mouth like a prayer.

"toji.." you moan, "toji, i didn't mean to argue..-!" you whine, another loud moan cutting off your words. god hes so good, so deep inside of you.

"yeah?" he pants, fucking into your cunt harder and harder, putting his whole body weight into it. "I ain't mean to either. fuck, baby." he groans, his lips moving to suck the skin right beneath your ear.

you moan again, your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling his body closer to yours. his tongue is wet, wet and warm beneath your ear, sliding down to suck gently at your neck.

skin slaps against skin, the curly hair on his base mixing with yours, the friction heavenly as he grinds his hips against yours, a thick sheet of sweat covering both your bodies.

he's nastier now, licking up your neck and into your mouth, swallowing each moan you give him. you claw at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. the pressure in your stomach is deep, tight and so ready to snap.

he's getting closer, his hips still snapping against yours, slapping right against your sweaty skin.

"gonna fill this pussy up, gonna make that tummy full," he groans, his tip rubbing up against your cervix.

"yes!" you whine, hips jerking. "please, please come in me!" you sob, face all scrunched up and cute with pleasure, your eyes still hazy.

"you want it? yeah?" he groans, his hand moving to press on your lower body.

you moan, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. you can't control the pleasure that falls over your body, the feeling making your back arch, hands gripping onto tojis skin as you come undone.

his own hips stutter, his tip grinding right against you as he groans again, spilling thick waves of his seed into your pussy, filling your walls up with his white gooey goodness.

his orgasm hits him hard, his hips grinding against yours in order to ride out the pleasure, his body still on top of yours.

the waves of pleasure finish, making you fall limp against the mattress, expression more fucked out than ever.

you whine, your arms weak as you try to wrap them back around your mans broad shoulders. "..toji," you whimper, panting for air, hands seeking his warmth.

he's still buried deep inside of you, his big hand smoothing over your side to bring you closer to him. he leans down, pressing his mouth against yours, kissing you softly.

"I know, doll," he replies, his hand tugging your arm around his shoulder. "pretty baby. I ain't ever mean to shout at you, ya know that?"

you nod, lips warm against his.

he presses another kiss to your soft lips, letting his own linger against yours, mouth moving to press a series of kisses all over your pretty face.

he kisses your jaw, your nose, the corner of your lip, your cheek, anywhere he can reach, really.

he shifts onto his back, tugging you so you're sprawled on his chest, tucking your head right under his chin.

his fingers tangle into your hair, rubbing at your scalp, the motion soothing. lips brushing over your hairline. his other hand moves down, rubbing over the soft flesh on your waist.

you both lay there for a while, lingering in the afterglow of your love. letting yourselves calm down, letting yourselves breathe.

you bask in the warmth of eachother, your body's warm against eachother. your limbs are tangled under the bedsheets, toji holding you with so much love, despite his rough attitude.

"..i love ya'." he whispers against your hairline, the words soft and gentle against your skin.

"my girl..." he adds. "ain't ever arguin' with you like that again, ya hear?" he asks, his fingers continuing to rub at your scalp.

"i ever act like that again. ya slap me across the goddamn face, baby" he says, voice still gruff.

you nod against him, nuzzling your cheek into his shoulder. he hums, his face moving to half bury against your hair, pressing yet another sweet kiss to you.

"..i love you," you reply, settling against him.

"so much."

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he'd looked you in the eyes and mumbled sweet things about how he'd missed you today, how he'd been waiting to get home to you.

his hands were all over you, either palming the round globes of your ass in that rough, affectionate way of his, or rubbing up and down your sides.

and it wasn't long before things got real nasty.

it started with him licking into your mouth, your lips slanted over eachothers as you kiss and make out, all teeth and tongue. his hand moving down to grope you, the wet sounds of your making out nasty.

he'd taken pride out of manhandling you like you weighed nothing, like some sort of sex doll. spreading you right there on the couch, the callouses on his hands rough against the creamy texture of your skin, grip hard when he pulled your thighs apart.

he tongued at your pussy through the fabric of your dainty little panties, the wetness of your pussy now dark and prominent against the fabric.

one thick digit came up to tug on the laced elastic, pulling your panties alll the way down your thighs until they dropped to the floor.

that was when he gripped your thighs back open, spat on your folds and latched his maw around your clit oh so roughly.

fuck.

he sucked and licked your clit so precisely that it had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, thick thighs closing over his head.

your manicured hands pushed at his head, trying push him away. It was too much, too good, too fast.

"please...toji, nghh-" you whined, little panting breaths falling out of those pretty glossed lips.

toji sucked harder in retaliation, licking a long stripe upp and down your pussy before closing over your hole with a wet squelch.

"mm, pussy taste so fuckin good." he groans against you, the vibration of his voice sending a chill up your spine, his tongue wet, warm and intruding against your folds.

and now?

now he had you bouncing on his lap, his thick cock shoved so deeply into your velvety walls that you swore you could feel him poking into your stomach.

you were both so sweaty, so horny, so drunk on eachother.

you sucked on his tongue, his teeth tugging on your lip as you rocked against him. all spit and wetness.

he leans back against the couch, all male bravado and warm, hard muscles. his chest is on full display, small purple marks blooming against his skin from where you'd kissed him earlier.

one hand grips the back of your thigh while the other stays planted on the small of your back. the hand on your thigh moves up, digs into the flesh of your ass, now lifting you up and bouncing you up and down onto his length.

"takin' this dick so fuckin' deep." he grunts, hissing through his teeth when he feels your walls tighten against his dick, sucking him in like your pussy needs it.

"..toji, hah- fuck!" you moan, your ass slapping against his thighs whenever he lifts you up and shoves you back down onto his cock.

your arms are wrapped tightly around his neck, wide hips moving against him in unpracticed movements, but toji loves it.

he pulls you further up, his mouth moving to latch at one of your nipples, tongue flicking the small peak as he sucks and makes out with your tits.

yeah, toji loves having the weight of his woman on his lap as he slams and pounds into her, a creamy ring of white forming below on the base of his cock. his mouth full of her breast.

no matter how many times you complain about being too heavy for him, or whatever bullshit you say, toji will always end up having you like this. just the way he likes.

if you tell him you'll be too heavy for him? toji just thinks thats fucking heaven.

"ya' think i can't handle tha'? can't lift my pretty woman?" he says to you, almost offended that you think he couldnt hold his woman.

"I'd carry three of ya' and still have room for more." he'd say, always completely and utterly sure of himself. because hes right, and you know it too.

even if you continue complaining, telling him that its not true, hes not having it.

"you're a woman, baby. you're supposed'a be soft." he'd hum, not listening to whatever bullshit you try and feed him, hands moving to squeeze you in the reassuring way of his.

"you ain't blind, yeah? look at ya. all soft, its cuz your a woman, means ya' look good."

its those words that are the reason you end up like this.

his hands move to grip your waist, his mouth leaving your nipple with a wet pop. he squeezes the softness that makes your waist before lifting you up and off his cock. he shifts, flipping you over on the couch, your soft belly now pressed against the mattress.

his hand lands on your ass with a firm slap, and hes already there, a thick wall of muscle positioning himself behind you.

"m'dirty girl.." he hums, rubbing his tip against your hole, making you whine. you wiggle your hips back against him, and he chuckles, low and teasing, his hand already travelling down to land another firm smack to your ass, humming in approval when he sees the flesh jiggle.

the tip of his cock forces its way back into your tight hole, and you moan out loud.

"mm..fuck." he groans, head tipping back as he adjusts to the tightness of your warm, wet walls again.

it doesn't take long before hes pounding back into you, his length shoved all the way inside as he thrusts in an out, harder and harder each time.

you moan, eyes rolling back. his hips are relentless, slamming into you with the force of a brute. his hands squeeze your waist, forcing you to move back against him, enjoying the way you move and wiggle your hips.

the room is filled with the sounds of your shared moans, the wetness of your pussy squelching, and the sound of skin slapping against skin.

theres a warm sheet of sweat covering the both of you, and the room feels hot, hotter than ever.

tojis muscles flex with every movement, all 6'3 of him heavy and hot as he moves. the scar on his lip pulls as he grins, hes looking down at you, looking at the way your ass ripples, the way you swallow his cock whole.

one hand leaves your waist to travel up your sides, smoothing over your skin, your shoulders, and over your neck before opening your mouth and shoving two of his thick fingers into your mouth, reminiscing in the way you gag and immediately latch onto them.

you feel the pressure building up in your stomach, tight and heavy and wanting release. tojis balls slap against your pussy, full and heavy with his release.

"look at tha' ass move," he groans, eyes travelling back up to watch the way you suck on his fingers.

you gag, a soft moan leaving you when he speaks, you angle your head so you can look at him, and toji hums, his pace still fast as he plummets into you like theres no tomorrow.

"lil' cute face" he says, and you whine, still taking him, still so full of his cock.

thats when toji leans down, nose brushing against your back before he licks a long stripe up the length of your spine, the salt of your sweat like whiskey on his tongue.

"mmm.." he hums, taking his fingers back out your mouth so he can grip your waist again, now fucking you deeper than before. his cock brushes all those spots inside your pussy, making you cry and writhe under his touch.

he latches his mouth onto the side of your neck, sucking dark purple marks into your skin, kissing and mouthing along the flesh.

you can hear him grunting against your neck, his breath hot against you. his tounge moves, licking a longgg stripe up from your jaw and onto your ear, chucking when you shivered against him.

god, he was so nasty.

he leans back again, returning to his full hight, his pace getting sloppier, and you know hes close.

"tojii..mm, fuck- im gonna come!!" you whine, high pitched moans falling from your lips as you continue to move against him.

"yeah?" he replies "my baby's gonna cum? gon' make my cock all wet?" he rasps, still plunging into you.

"yes! yesyesyes!" you moan, back arching and ass slapping harder against his pelvis.

toji takes that as a sign, shifting to fuck into you deeper, his thickness reaching all your deepest spots. he groans, his hands moving from your waist to cup your breasts, squeezing onto you like its the only thing holding him back.

"..gonna cum. yeah, fuck.." he groans, voice low. "gon fill ya' up baby, ya want that?" he asks, heat coiling deep in his stomach.

"yes!" you moan, "i want it, want it all inside!! toji, please!"

he keeps going, keeps fucking into you, keeps pounding right against your cervix. his hands move back down to your hips, squeezing.

"..tojii!!" you moan, eyes rolling back for the final time as the knot inside your stomach snaps, pleasure running up from your pussy and into your spine.

he groans in reply, slamming into you one final time. he fucks into you slowly as he cums, hips moving as he spills hot ropes of his cum into your womb, filling you up to the brim. the remnants of the cum wrapped around the base of his cock mixing in with the dark hair that curls at his base.

he slows down, panting as the high of it all leaves his body, making him shiver. toji pulls out with a wet squelch, hissing at the feeling of you squeezing against his now sensitive dick.

you whine at the feeling, turning to lay on your back, your eyes hazy as you stare up at him. god, hes so handsome.

toji falls back onto the couch, the weight of him making the sofa dip, one hand moving to grip your waist and pull you onto him until your sprawled over his chest. he breathes in and out, your hand resting over his chest as you pant with him, his hand coming down to brush over your thighs, collecting the drops of cum now falling down your inner thighs.

he looks down at you, his eyes roving your face as he brushes your hair out of your face, his lips ghosting over your cheek.

"took it so well, hah?" he says to you, holding you tighter against him.

you giggle, a small, breathy sound as you nuzzle into him. he smirks, his lips moving down to brush over yours, a light kiss, so very sweet and soft compared to the way he'd just wrecked your whole world.

he hums, nuzzling into your neck and taking a deep, deep breath.

mhm.

If she tries to run from Smoke dick:

Smoke wouldn’t let her get more than an inch. The moment he feels her hips shift or her body try to re oil from the sheer size and thickness of his dick his reaction would be instantaneous and physical. He wouldn’t shout or ask why, he would simply react.

He’d reach out with those large, calloused hands and seize her hips in a vice grip. He would haul her back against him with a brutal, singular motion, pinning her firmly against the mattress or the wall. He’d lean in close, his chest hard against her back because we know this man love to bend you over. Then he would speak in a low gravelly rumble against her ear or her neck.

“Where you think you goin’?”

He would use his weight to anchor her, ensuring she feels every inch of that dick pressing into her. He’d slowly drive that thick dick back in her. Smoke doesn’t do “gentle” when he feels her slipping away or trying to run. He takes control. There is no exit until he’s finished.

He’s keeping that stroke, he wants you crying on the dick.

When she presses her palm against his stomach or chest to push back:

It’s a signal, her saying “daddy, it’s too much.” Or “I can’t take it.” When he’s stretching her past her limit.

Smoke don’t react with hesitation he only gets triggered by her body fighting the girth and length of him. It makes his deepest, most possessive instincts come to life. Smoke ain’t a man of many words, and he isn’t one for gentle reassurance. To him, her resistance isn’t a request to stop it’s a sign that he successfully claimed every single inch of her.

Smoke will lean his full, heavy weight forward, pin her deeper into the mattress or the wall with either his hands on the backs of her thighs/knees. He may even bear hug her while he in it. He catches her wrists in one of his large hands with a steel grip and pin her arm above her head or firmly against his own chest.

Smoke would say little to no words. He’ll grunt, growl, breath heavy through his nose. He’ll look down at her his expression hard and neutral (😩😩😩) though the intensity in his gaze is scorching! He wants her to see that he knows exactly what she’s feeling.

“You mine…take it.”

He would hold her there, frozen and stretched, letting her feel the thickness of him pulsing deep inside her. Then with a slow, brutal efficiency, he would begin to drive back into her, he’d use his hips to grind his dick directly against her most sensitive spots, forcing her body to accommodate his size. Every thrust is a heavy, thudding impact that reminds her exactly who owns her. He won’t stop until her nails start to claw at his shoulders, his chest, his abs.

If she tries to run or pull away from his dick:

Stack wouldn’t react like Smoke. Instead, he’d treat it as a challenge, a playful game of cat and mouse. The moment he feels her recoil from his big dick he wouldn’t just grab her he’d tease her about it.

He might let her slide back just an inch, only to catch her by the waist with a low, melodic chuckle. He’d pull her back toward him with a sliding, sensual friction that makes her skin tingle. He’d lean in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a smooth, honeyed tone that vibrates through her entire body.

“Now, where you goin’, sugar? We just gettin’ to the best part,” he’d whisper.

Stack uses his charisma to coax her back, kissing her deeply, his tongue dancing with hers to distract her from the intimidation of his size. But once he had her settled, the “pretty gangster” disappears and the predator emerges. He’d grip her thighs, hoisting them higher over his shoulders to open her up completely. He would slide back in her with a slow, agonizing pace, watching her face with a smug, knowing grin. He wants her to feel the stretch to feel the way his dick sits perfectly against her spot.

When she presses her palm against Stack’s stomach, that frantic, trembling push that tells him it’s too much:

That his girth is stretching her to a breaking point. Stack don’t react like Smoke. Instead, he’d react with that chuckle and that smirk. To Stack, her resistance isn’t a signal to stop it’s a compliment. It’s the ultimate validation of his masculinity. He treats her struggle like a game he’s won.

Stack doesn’t pin her down with force he uses his charisma to dismantle her panic. He leans back just a fraction to look in her eyes. He’s got that predatory grin with deep dimples popping as he watches her expression of overwhelming desire. He’ll let her hand stay there for a moment, feeling the heat of her hand against his flexed muscles before slowly wrapping his fingers around her wrist and kissing the inside of it with his eyes still locked. Then he makes his voice sound all smooth and sexy.

“Now, baby…you know you want every single inch of this. Don’t lie to me. I can feel how tight you grippin’ me. You just a little overwhelmed by how big I am, ain’t you?”

Then he’ll guidance her hand down from his stomach, sliding her palm over the hard ridge of his hip and then directly into the base of his dick, forcing her to feel the thick, pulsing vein and the heavy weight of him as he remains buried deep inside her. He wants her to acknowledge the size of him, to feel the way his dick sits deep.

Then he moves, driving that dick at a slow pace. He pulls back until he’s almost out to tease her with the sensation of emptiness then he’s sliding back in with a steady pressure that makes her toes curl. All while watching her face and savoring every reaction.

“Just breath for me…open up for daddy. Take it all. I’m gon’ fill you up so full.”

You’d gone quiet then, frozen with your teeth still embedded in the fleshy curve of his bicep. In the wake of the strike you’d ceased your riot against the grip of his hands and sort of… melted into him instead. Lifting your head, you’d blinked up with wide watery eyes, a slightly dazed expression painting your face. He’d nudged you a little, expression unreadable, and you’d soon resumed your onslaught, giggling and poking at him again. Distracting him enough with your teasing that he didn’t bring up the way you’d basically rag-dolled at the slap.

From that point, the seed had been planted, and in the dark depths of your mind, hidden in the deep recesses - it festered.

The second time he’d hit you was a little more intentional - a loving pat to the side of your face, fingers tracing the plump fat of your cheek, hollowed while you sucked him off.

“Let me see,” he’d murmured, fingers tapping gently at your cheekbone.

You’d leaned your head back, jaw slack and tongue lolled out to show him the milky cum pooling there. He’d cursed sharply, carmine eyes blown wide and dark, and you’d grinned in reply. Curling your tongue back into your mouth before you drooled the mess down onto your bare tits, and watched with a grin as he craned his head to catch the rogue dribbles with his tongue.

The third time, well, the third time you’d begged him for it.

“Hit me,” you panted, peering up at him with wide wet eyes as you grasped desperately at his wrists. Clawing at where they were planted firmly into the mattress either side of you.

He had you on your back, writhing in the messed sheets as he split you apart on his heavy cock. He’d spent the last twenty minutes coaxing slow brain melting orgasms out of you. It was soft, sweet. Too sweet.

“Hit you?” He echoed, eyes widened in mild surprise.

You nodded frantically, thighs clenching tighter around him at the mere promise of the words slipping from his lips.

“On the face,” you clarified, expression screwed up tight in desperation, lower lip wobbling so much he thought you might actually cry. “Slap me, please.”

The second the last syllable left your lips he’d lifted a hand and lowered it over your face in a quick slap. It was undeniably gentle, a little hesitant - barely more than a pat.

You frowned deeply, huffing a frustrated breath through your nose as you shook your head.

“Harder ‘kuna, want it harder,” you whined.

You watched the slow bob of his Adams apple for a few moments before he lifted a hand and slapped you again, hard enough this time that you heard the impact as well as felt it, head turned to the side with the force. Tears sprang to the edges of your eyes, and your ear closest to his palm rang hot. You blinked a few times, slow, indulgent - and then opened your mouth and moaned.

Before you could quite recover, or utter another demand his palm came down to strike you again, square across the cheek. You must have clenched around him, or maybe it was just the dumb fucked out way you peered up at him afterward with your mouth slack and face burning where his hand had made contact. Whatever it was he cursed sharply under his breath and slipped a big hand up to rest across your throat, in an action that read as decidedly possessive.

“Fuck, that’s really doing it for you, isn’t it?” He groaned, sounding equal parts awestruck and breathless. “Like it when I slap you, huh?”

“Love it… oh… fuck-… I love it…” You agreed, head lolling with each pump of his hips, utterly empty aside from the sensation of him stuffing you full, and the searing heat blooming over your cheeks in the shape of his palm. You felt him throb at the sound of your voice, so breathy and broken beneath him.

“Yeah. My sweet girl wants it nice and rough, is that right?”

You were nodding before he even finished, eyes half lidded and unfocused, peering absently at the blur of him moving above you, locked on where his hips were grinding into yours.

The rhythm he set was steady - not weak by any account, but subdued enough that you could tell he was actively making an effort to hold back for your comfort. But seeing the way your eyes rolled back a little, hand wrapped limply around his wrist while his fingers closed around your throat - all that delicacy went out the window.

His hips rolled in sinful thrusts now, smacking into yours with stern sticky slaps.

“Yes yes yesyes….oh fuuuuck….” You moaned, and swallowed against the curve of his palm where his fingers were pressed to your throat.

“Still want it harder baby?” He panted, deep groans of his own slipping free.

“Ngh-uhuh…” You babbled, head nodding.

“Greedy girl,” he teased, though his thrusts didn’t slow, and you swore you felt him throb nice and deep where he was kissing your cervix. “You’re such a fuckin’ brat, know that?”

If you’d been coherent enough to string a sentence together you would have replied back that he loved it, and if you’d had the strength to peer up you’d find that it was true - maroon eyes all but heart shaped, lowlidded and blown dark as he watched you come apart beneath him.

────────────────

“Brat.”

Now that gave you pause.

You lay frozen in the dark, blinking wildly at the shadowed bulk on the couch opposite you, trembling hand still tucked into your slick panties. Maybe you’d imagined it, the gruff, familiar voice of your best friend curling out from the darkness.

But Sukuna wasn’t stupid, it wouldn’t have taken a detective to figure out what you were doing. Not with all the frantic breathing and the half muffled moans barely caught by the damp fabric of your pillow.

“Sorry,” you swallowed a thick, dry breath before you continued, “just needed to… uh…”

The lump on the sofa across from you began to shift, and you realised as your eyes slowly adjusted that he was rising to his feet, slipping free from the sheets with a low groan and a few muted cracks.

You followed suit, pulling yourself to your elbows before a sharp and disappointed tut made you stop.

“Stay where you are,” came the short command, “don’t move.”

After a moment of pause, you acquiesced and settled back onto your belly, arms outstretched to clutch your pillow beneath your chin.

Sukuna approached without another word, a broad shadow eclipsing your vision until you felt the delicate thrum of fingers dancing along your lower back.

“Hips up.”

Your pulse raced, that familiar sticky heat licking up your neck at the sternness of his tone. When you complied, he shoved a pillow beneath your hipbones, forcing your spine into a severe arch.

“Good.”

Thick fingers hooked over your waistband, tugging your sleep shorts down with little effort. You shivered against the cool kiss of air for only a moment before you were blanketed by his body heat as he settled into place behind you. There was the barely audible shuffle of clothing in the still silence before you felt him - the grind of thick inches pressed against you, hard and raw.

“Deep breath,” he murmured, waiting to hear the shaky pull of air from your lips before he finally nudged inside.

He sunk in slowly, let you map each pulsing vein stretching your tight heat until you felt the delicate tickle of hair at his base, and your eyes rolled back.

“Oh… S’kuna…” you breathed, a whiny little exhale slurred where your cheek was pressed against the pillow.

He hit deep like this, so deep that with each breath you could feel him poking incessantly at what could have been your stomach for all you knew. It was stunning, enough to make your thighs tremble and a spineless little moan escape you.

He gave no reply, just slipped out a few dizzying inches before pressing back inside with a wet sucking slap. He set a steady pace, not rushed or particularly delicate - firm and intentional, just like everything he did.

“Don’t know why you insist on touching yourself like that,” he grunted, head craned so that you could feel the puff of his breath against your sweat-soaked nape with each accusatory syllable, “when you’ve got a perfectly good cock right here.”

As if to prove his point, his thrusts slowed - firm deep pumps pulled all the way out only to sink back inside with a force that pulled a broken little sound from your throat.

His voice was low and serious, still thick with sleep as he worked you open with the practised roll of his hips. The weight of his words sent a little tremor of need through you, and you heard him curse when you clenched around his length.

“Didn’t -hn-… want to wake you…” you panted, tongue slipping on the words as your brain gave in to the fuzzy haze of pleasure beginning to settle over you.

Each nudge earned a sticky slap, heavy balls smacking against your creamy cunt as he took you apart, fucked you into the couch in a mean prone bone.

“Don’t be stupid. It’s yours,” He grunted, hips pressed snug into a mean grind that had little blinking stars dancing in the blackness behind your eyes. “So use it, whenever you want.”

His bluntness, alongside the kiss of his cockhead against your cervix made you writhe desperately, tenfold when with the next rock of his hips you felt the slick sheen of the leather sofa graze your tender clit.

Your brain was foggy, swirling with obscene images of waltzing into his room whenever you pleased, tugging down his sweats and settling down onto his fat cock like you belonged there, using him like a toy who’s only purpose was to get you off.

“You… hn-… you mean it?” You sniffled, cheek smushed to the side just to throw a desperate glance over your shoulder.

“Fuck, of course I do,” he growled, breaths coming a little frantic now, “I’ve said it before haven’t I? My hands, my mouth, my fucking thigh if you want.”

Knuckles dug into the couch cushions either side of your head, and his lips grazed your throat, the shell of your ear, the delicate hair curling at the nape of your neck.

“So I don’t want to see you touching this needy little pussy again. No toys, no fingers, no humping the goddamn pillow, got it?”

You buried your face between your arms and nodded limply, sinking into the sheets, feeling less and less lucid with each targeted buck.

mean bf!toji likes dragging the heavy, blunt tip of his cock up and down your wet slit, teasing you ruthlessly until you're begging him to just put it in. instead of giving in, he’ll slap his wet tip against your clit over and over, mocking the needy little noises you make and telling you that you haven't earned it yet.

mean bf!toji just laughs when you try to complain that he’s being too rough or too mean. he won't slow down; instead, his chest rumbles against your back as he grips your hips harder, driving into you with even less mercy just to prove that he rules the bed.

mean bf!toji loves leaving you completely ruined and breathless. he likes looking down at the mess he made of you—smudged makeup, tangled hair, and thighs shaking uncontrollably—while he casually rolls off to grab a drink, completely unfazed while you can barely move.

mean bf!toji will pull your hair back with just enough force to make your eyes water, forcing you to look directly at him while he pounds into you. he hates when you try to hide your face in the pillows or close your eyes; he wants to see every single expression of pleasure and overload on your face.

mean bf!toji uses verbal degradation as a tool to keep you completely flustered. he’ll call you a "good little slut," mock how loud you're breathing, or ask you why you're crying over a little bit of fun, his voice deep, raspy, and completely devoid of the warmth he usually speaks to you with.

mean bf!toji will deliberately overstimulate you, rubbing his thumb harshly against your clit while hammering into you, and when you start to sob because it's too much, he’ll just kiss you hard to muffle your screams and keep going right through your orgasm.