💕27

Toji. 

Midnight black hair styled within a wolf cut, towering frame blocking half the hallway light, tattoos crawling up his neck like shadows. His deep gray eyes pinned you in place—cold, unreadable, pissed. That scar across his lips only made his expression sharper. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you like he was debating whether to drag you out or leave you here to rot.  

And then, Suguru. 

Long, dark hair tied half-up, eyebrow piercing glinting under the harsh lights. His hazel eyes flickered over you—checking for bruises, probably. His broad chest rose with a heavy sigh, arms crossed over his shirt. Exasperated? Sure. But probably more relieved to see you than the man standing next to him.

“Guess it’s my lucky day, huh?” 

The cop didn’t dignify that with words—just a hardened glare, jaw clenched tight. You blew him a kiss anyway, the brown gloss on your lips glinting under the harsh station lights.  

Then—instinct. You knew better than to approach Toji first.  

You launched yourself at Suguru with a playful squeak, legs wrapping around his waist as he caught you effortlessly—one hand gripping your ass through the tight leather shorts, the other securing the small of your back. His deep chuckle vibrated against your chest as you buried your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of leather and cigarettes.  

“Troublemaker," he murmured, voice thick as he squeezed your thigh—“What are you doin’ here, huh?" 

You pulled back just enough to flash him those wide, doe eyes—all innocence, no guilt.  

”Just had a little fun." 

His hazel gaze darkened, lips hovering so close to yours you could taste the mint on his breath—but then, you felt it.  

That heat. 

Your lashes fluttered toward Toji who hadn’t moved an inch—just stood there like a storm barely contained, veins in his forearms popping with every breath. So you did what you did best.  

Slender eyes rounding, lips parting in that perfect smile—the one that always made him cave.  

“Hi, Daddy.”   

His scar twitched.  

“‘They hurt you?" 

The question was low, lethal—like he was already calculating which of these cops he’d break first. You shook your head fast. 

Toji didn’t wait for another word. Just turned on his heel, the heavy clack of his boots echoing as he stalked toward the exit.  

“Let’s go." 

Of course this is how it always went—Suguru with his soft hands and easy forgiveness, Toji with his ironclad discipline and zero tolerance for your antics. And right now, pressed into the buttery leather backseat of Toji’s sleek black Corvette, you knew exactly where to seek refuge.  

Suguru slid into the passenger seat, long dark hair spilling over the headrest as he tipped his head back, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with his cologne made him effortlessly attractive, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he took another drag, tattoos peeking from beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Meanwhile, Toji gripped the steering wheel like he wanted to snap it in half, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he peeled out of the parking lot with a growl of the engine.  

Silence.  

Then—  

“Omae wa itsumo anta ni amaeru kara, sonna koto shiteru no sa." 

You let her be cute with you. That’s why she thinks this shit is funny. 

You didn’t need a translator to know he was talking about you.  

Suguru flicked ash out the window, unfazed.  

“Futari de okotte mo shikata nai darou? Dame na ko da." 

Both of us bein’ mad at her isn’t gonna’ fix anything.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.  

“You know I can’t understand what you’re saying." 

Toji’s grey eyes flashed in the rearview mirror—dark, dangerous.  

“I don’t wanna hear all that whinin’ right now," he snapped, voice dropping to a rough timbre that curled your toes—“I’m close to reachin’ in that backseat and tearin’ your ass up." 

You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning to stare out the window—but not fast enough to miss the way his brow arched in the reflection, that unspoken try me written all over his face.  

Suguru just chuckled, taking another drag.  

The tension in the car was thick enough to choke on, the only sound being the low hum of the engine and Suguru exhaling smoke out the cracked window. You couldn’t take it anymore—your stomach growled loudly, betraying you before you could even open your mouth.  

“I’m hungry." 

Toji’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. 

“‘You thought about that when you were makin’ dumbass decisions?"

Your lips twisted in defiance—“I didn’t even get to say what happened!" 

His jaw clenched, “‘Had to talk a cop outta’ pressin’ charges after you swung on him. You think I’m a fuckin’ idiot?" 

You bit the inside of your cheek, refusing to cave—instead, you leaned forward, pressing yourself against the passenger seat, your chest pressing into Suguru’s shoulder as you peered up at him through your lashes.  

“‘Guru…” Your voice dripped in a needy way, wanting his rescue. 

Suguru released a breath. He tilted his head just enough to meet your gaze, hazel eyes softening despite himself.  

“‘'We get you somethin’, and you tell us what happened—yeah?" 

You nodded quickly, already victorious.  

Toji muttered something under his breath, but the car slowed, pulling into the neon-lit parking lot of a 24-hour diner.  

“Move fast," he cut the engine, “Before I change my goddamn mind."

The second your Pleasers hit the pavement outside the diner, a little giggle escaped you—relief flooding your veins as you tugged on Suguru’s arm while he was only halfway out of the car. You caught the tail end of whatever he muttered to Toji in Japanese, his deep voice laced with something between exasperation and amusement before he shut the door and let you pull him toward the diner’s flickering neon sign.  

Even softened for you, Suguru was intimidating. 

Standing beside him in line, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the eyebrow piercing glinting under the fluorescent lights. His build was pure power—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black long sleeve, thick arms corded with muscle, tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves. His natural scowl had the couple in front of you shifting uncomfortably, but you just leaned into his side, playing with the hem of his shirt.  

Then—  

He leaned down, catching your lips in a rough kiss that stole your breath, his free hand gripping your waist possessively. You giggled against his mouth, squirming when he murmured, “Behave,” against your lips before pulling away.  

Your curls tumbled over your shoulders as you leaned against the counter, your ass poking out deliberately while you ordered in that sweet, innocent voice you reserved for moments like this. The cashier’s eyes flickered down—lingering a second too long on the swell of your heavy tits beneath the tight leather jacket—before Suguru’s hand suddenly hooked into the waistband of your shorts and yanked you back against him.  

You barely had time to pout before he was tossing a wad of cash onto the counter, his gaze locked onto the cashier with a silent sneer that had the man scrambling to hand back his change with shaky hands. 

The greasy paper bag crinkled in your lap as you tore into your burger like a starving little creature, cheeks puffing out adorably with each oversized bite. Suguru watched you, shaking his head slightly as he passed his cigarette to Toji—who sat with one boot propped outside the open car door, smoke curling from his lips as he stared straight ahead, silent as a tomb.   

Usually, Toji’s anger was loud—sharp Japanese curses spat, deep voice raised just enough to make you squirm. But tonight? Nothing. Just the occasional drag of his cigarette, grey eyes cold and distant even as you swallowed your food with a tiny sigh and finally launched into your explanation.  

“Okay—so," you started, wiping a bit of ketchup from the corner of your lip, “It wasn’t even my fault—some drunk bitch kept stepping on my damn shoes, and when I told her to watch it, she tried to swing on me." 

Toji’s eyebrow twitched in the rearview.

You kept going, waving a fry for emphasis. 

“And then her dude tried to jump in—so I grabbed a bottle. That’s when the cop tried to grab me like I started it—so yeah, I might’ve... y’know. Elbowed him.” 

Suguru snorted, rubbing his temples like he was fighting off a headache. 

“Goddamn, baby."

Toji took a slow drag from the cigarette, his grey eyes cutting through the rearview like a blade.  

"Lie again."  

You huffed, tossing your half-eaten burger back into the bag—"Okay, fine—I hit him. But only because he tried to grab me first!"  

“‘You think that was smart?" 

You folded your arms across your chest. 

“It wasn’t my intention to be smart, Fushiguro. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten arrested." 

A muscle in Toji’s temple jumped.  

“Watch your fuckin’ tone.” 

“I wasn’t trying to get in trouble," you then muttered, dropping your gaze.  

Suguru sighed, running a hand through his dark hair—“Why didn’t you call me, huh? Or Fushiguro?" 

You shot him a look.

“‘And have him mad at me because he had to fight someone at the bar?" 

That’s when Toji’s voice snapped like a whip—  

“'You think I wouldn’t protect you?" 

The air in the car went still, his eyes burning into yours through the mirror.  

“I’d kill for you. Don’t fuckin’ play like I wouldn’t." 

You curled your fingers into your palms, suddenly feeling small.  

"...I know." 

Toji’s nostrils flared. Then, without another word, he flicked his cigarette out the window and started the car.  

And just like that—the conversation was over. 

You couldn’t help but imagine Toji standing in that precinct, stone-faced and seething, having to negotiate—apologize—for your reckless hands. He wasn’t the type to bow his head for anything. Not for money, not for pride, and definitely not for some cop who probably pissed him off just by breathing wrong.  

But he did it for you. 

Suguru’s patience was softer, easier—even he wasn’t letting you off the hook. The way his thumb brushed your knuckles wasn’t just comfort—it was a silent, you fucked up. 

The car rolled to a stop outside their sleek, modern condo—all sharp black architecture, floor-to-ceiling windows, and dark furniture accented with deep reds that reminded you of blood and wine. Toji stepped out first, boots heavy against the pavement as he stalked toward the entrance without looking back.  

"I need a shower," he muttered, voice gruff—more to himself than anyone else.  

You scrambled out after him, almost tripping over your own feet in your hurry.  

“Let me come clean you," you offered, half-teasing, half-desperate for the forgiveness you knew wasn’t coming easy.  

“Nah." 

Your lips nearly formed a pout before you caught yourself.  

And just like that, the night's consequences finally settled in.

The shower steam curled around you and Suguru in thick, fragrant clouds—vanilla and sandalwood from his body wash mixing with the citrus of yours. Your giggles were honey sweet, bouncing off the marble tiles as he cupped water in his large hands to rinse the suds from your shoulders. His touch was methodical as he worked the soap into your skin, his fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.  

Your lashes fluttered when you caught his reflection in the fogged up glass—his torso a canvas of ink, muscles flexing as he reached for the shampoo. His dark hair was slicked back, water sluicing down the sharp planes of his face, that eyebrow piercing glinting even in the low light. Handsome. So fucking pretty it made your chest ache.  

You toweled off together, tugging on one of Toji’s oversized black long sleeves—the fabric swallowing you whole but still clinging to the swell of your hips, the shadow of your bare thighs peeking beneath. Your curls were a wild, damp halo around your face, freckles darker against your freshly scrubbed skin.  

Now, kneeling on the massive silk bed—black as midnight, cool against your knees—you watched Suguru lean against the headboard, shirtless, smoke curling from his lips. His hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few damp strands escaping to frame his face. The TV flickered silently, some late-night infomercial playing as he mindlessly flipped channels.  

"You hate me too?" you whispered, voice too small for your own liking.  

Suguru’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.  

“You know goddamn well I don’t hate you," he said, exhaling smoke—“Don’t start all that dramatic shit." 

The words should’ve comforted you. Instead, they made you curl inward, arms wrapping around yourself.  

“Where’s Toji?" 

“Probably in the office or library part of the house," he muttered, his free hand idly tracing circles on your bare thigh where the shirt rode up—“Tryna’ get his mind right." 

You frowned, worrying your lip between your teeth as your fingers fidgeted.

“…He’s never this mad at me," you admitted softly, a little crease forming between your brows.  

Suguru’s thumb paused its lazy pattern on your skin, and you felt the shift in his energy—the way his chest rose with a deeper inhale before he spoke again.

“He should be. Anythin’ could’ve happened to you gettin’ arrested by yourself.”

His voice was low, a rough edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine—“You know he’d fuck up an entire city behind you." 

A little giggle bubbled up in your chest at the image—Toji, massive frame clad in black, storming through the streets like some avenging god—and before you could stop yourself, you were pressing smushing kisses into the column of Suguru’s throat, your lips warm against his tattooed skin.  

He grunted but didn’t push you away—just let you nuzzle there, your curls tickling his jaw as you inhaled the familiar scent of him—cigarettes, expensive cologne, and something inherently Suguru. 

“You smell good," you mumbled against his pulse, your earlier guilt momentarily forgotten in the comfort of his presence.  

“Yeah, yeah," he drawled, but you could hear the affection beneath the gruffness—“Quit’ tryna’ seduce me, woman.”

Your fingertips glide along the intricate ink of the serpent coiled around Suguru’s abdomen, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You hesitate for just a second before your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging gently—your voice soft, laced with soft remorse.  

“Just wanna show how sorry I am," you murmur, eyes flickering up to meet Suguru’s dark gaze—“…I know you’re mad at me too."

Then—  

A presence at the doorway.  

You freeze, your gaze snapping toward the shadowed figure leaning against the frame. Toji stands there, massive shoulders filling the entrance, grey eyes locked onto you like a predator tracking prey. Shirtless, tattoos sprawling across every inch of his sculpted torso, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips—he’s a vision of raw, barely contained power.  

Your lip finds its way between your teeth as you slowly crawl toward the edge of the bed, hips swaying just slightly with each shift of your knees.  

"’Missed you,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper.  

“I’m knowin’," he rumbles, deep voice vibrating through the room. Then, after a beat—  

“What’d you say earlier? ‘Bout how you wanted to show how sorry you were?" 

Your eyes search his face for any sign of softening—but Toji’s expression remains steel.  

You reach for him, fingers trembling as they brush the fabric of his sweats—but before you can get any further, his hand snaps up, gripping your chin with bruising force. 

“So go show him how fuckin’ sorry you are," he growls, “I didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout you touchin’ me." 

His grip loosens just enough to shove you back toward Suguru—who watches the exchange with dark eyes, cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. 

The sting of rejection burns hot behind your ribs, your bottom lip trembling before you can stop it—fat, glistening tears welling in your lashes as you drag your gaze back to Suguru.  

He sees it. Of course he does.  

Those hazel eyes of his—sharp, knowing—trace the wobble of your pout, the way your fingers hesitate before curling into the fabric of his sweatpants again. But Suguru’s never been one to bend for tears—not when he knows they’re your weapon of choice, not when he’s spent years learning the difference between your real cries and the ones you wield like a blade.  

“Nuh-uh," he tsks, grasping at your jaw—“You know I don’t do all that poutin’. Swallow my shit like you fuckin’ mean it."  

Your breath hitches—but you don’t argue.  

Instead, your fingers hook into his waistband, tugging impatiently until his cock springs free—thick, already swollen at the tip, a bead of pre-cum glistening against flushed skin.  

You whimper but you don’t hesitate, dragging your tongue over the head, lapping up the bitter salt of him before sinking down, down, down— 

His groan is sharp above you, fingers tangling in your curls as your throat flutters around him, greedy and desperate. It’s a struggle—his size stretching your lips, your jaw aching—but you take it, tears spilling over as you hollow your cheeks, swallowing around him like you’re starving.  

“There you fuckin’ go," he rasps out.

Your mouth works over Suguru’s cock with a needy desperation, lips stretched obscenely around his girth as saliva drips down your chin in messy, glistening strands. His deep pink lips curl into a sneer above you, that silver eyebrow piercing catching the dim light as he watches you through half-lidded eyes—hazel darkening with every filthy, wet sound your mouth makes around him.  

Your whimpers spill out unbidden, high and muffled around the thick weight on your tongue, your hips rocking involuntarily against the air, the fabric of Toji’s stolen shirt riding up to expose the plush, pink folds of your cunt—already slick, already aching.  

Then—  

A stinging spank against your ass sends your entire body jolting forward, a choked mewl leaving you as your hands instinctively fly to grip Suguru’s thighs for balance.  

But Suguru tsks again, fingers tightening in your hair as he yanks you back just enough to glare down at you.  

“Did I say you could use your hands?” His voice is a dark, mocking purr—“Put ‘em back.” 

Before you can even think to obey, Toji’s rough palms are already catching your wrists, wrenching them behind your back with effortless strength. 

“It’s never a fuckin’ option,” he growls—“Never a choice. That’s your problem now, don’t fuckin’ listen.” 

The angle is awkward, your knees weak and head spinning with the lack of air, and you can barely focus on anything but the way your jaw aches—your tongue running frantically over the side of Suguru’s length like an apology. Without the use of your hands, you can't properly steady yourself—Suguru's thick cock fully slips from your lips with an obscene wet sound as you frantically drag your tongue along the veined underside, desperate to keep contact. A bead of pre-cum smears across your cheek as you struggle, drawing a low, arrogant chuckle from Suguru's lips.  

“Mmm, ‘you ain't too fuckin' sorry,"  he rumbles, voice dripping with amusement as his fingers tighten in your hair.  

Behind you, Toji's breath ghosts over the arch of your back—dark, mocking.  

“‘She never was." 

Your head twists toward him, lips parted around a breathy mewl—“I am," you whimper, voice breaking.  

“Why's my cock so fuckin' hard then?" Suguru challenges, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip—“Should've milked me by now."

“…’S too big, baby," you tremble, lashes fluttering—but Suguru sees right through it.  

And that's when Toji growls, "There she goes. All that fuckin' whinin'. ‘Go ‘head, give her a reason to keep that shit up." 

Suguru's grip shifts, his other hand coming down to palm roughly at your clit through the soaked fabric of Toji's shirt still clinging to your hips.  

“‘Come sink down on my shit," he orders, voice dropping to something lethal—“Hurry the fuck up."

Your limbs tremble as you drag yourself onto Suguru’s lap, every movement shaky and uncoordinated—the tears aren’t an act anymore, fat and hot as they spill down your cheeks.  

“‘Want Toji,” you whimper, voice thick with pouty desperation, your fingers clutching at Suguru’s shoulders like you’re torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, “Suguru...please.”

“Sink down on it,” he growls, voice rough with restraint—“Shut all that shit up.” 

And then—  

His tip drags against your folds, blunt and unrelenting, spreading you open in one brutal glide until you’re forced to take him, your body yielding with a wet, filthy sound as he bottoms out inside you. Your pussy pffts around the stretch, the obscene noise drowned out by your own guttural whimper—half-pain, half-relief—as your walls flutter violently around him, gushing slick that drips down his thighs.  

You already know the drill, unfortunately.  

Your feet plant against the bed, thighs trembling as you bounce yourself on his cock, each desperate little grind forcing another broken noise from your lips. Your pout deepens, your mouth hanging open as your eyes roll back—helpless, overwhelmed, ruined—while Suguru watches you with dark amusement, his hands resting heavy on your hips, letting you do all the work.  

“Look at that,” Toji growls, “All that cryin’, and she’s still fuckin’ drippin’ for it.” 

Suguru grunts in agreement, his thumb swiping through the mess between your legs before bringing it to your lips—“Taste that shit,” he orders, smearing your own slick across your tongue, “That’s how sorry you really are.” 

And you—  

You can’t do anything but take it. 

"She’s creamin’ already," he then growls, voice rough with amusement—"Can’t even fuckin’ handle me." 

Behind you, Toji’s hand cracks down on your ass again—stinging—his fingers tangling in the nape of your neck to keep your head bowed, preventing you from twisting to look at him.  

“Eyes forward," he orders, his voice a rough rumble against your spine—“‘Ain’t no lookin’ back at me." 

Your pussy spurts around Suguru’s cock with every desperate bounce—obscene, wet—and the sensation wrings a broken squeak from your lips—“Fuuuckkkk, ‘m sorry, baby—"

Suguru arches a brow beneath you, hips stilling completely. 

“Who’re you apologizin’ to?"

You whimper, bouncing harder—frantic now—as you sob out, “Y—you!" 

A slow, knowing grin curls Suguru’s lips as he finally—finally—thrusts up, grinding his cock deep inside you in a brutal, deliberate roll.  

“Me, huh?”

You’re trembling, eyes rolling back as another gush of cream spills out around him—his grunt of approval vibrating through your core before you choke out a silent, breathless squeak—  

“…Y—you, baby." 

The sound of your own ass clapping against Suguru’s thighs echoes in your ears—loud, obscene, embarrassing—as you struggle to keep rhythm, thighs burning from exertion. Your pout deepens, lips swollen and parted around pathetic little whimpers, your eyes glazed over with a mix of pleasure and desperation. Suguru watches you with dark amusement, his grip bruising on your hips as he lets you fuck yourself stupid.  

“You doin’ all this for me?" he murmurs, voice dripping with mocking sweetness—“Bouncin’ stupid on my cock ‘cause you’re sorry?” 

You whine, nodding frantically, your words dissolving into a stuttering mess, “Ye—ye-y—yes—" 

Suguru clicks his tongue, tilting his head as he watches you struggle.  

“Nah," he decides, voice dropping lower—“You ain’t worried ‘bout me. You’re puttin’ on a show for him.” 

Behind you, Toji exhales a slow, rough breath—hot against your shoulder as he rasps, “She ain’t gettin’ me. ‘Might as well finish you off." 

Your tears return in an instant—thick, hot, real—spilling down your cheeks as you silently bounce on Suguru’s cock, your movements losing coordination as the weight of your punishment sinks in. His grip shifts suddenly—one hand sliding up to cradle your throat, his thumb brushing gently over your trembling lips—soothing you even as his hips snap up, fucking into you with brutal precision. 

“Love you so much, ‘Guru…”

It slips out, weak and trembling, muffled against his skin—and just like always, Suguru softens.  

His grip on your hips gentles just slightly, his rhythm losing some of its brutality as he curses under his breath and tugs you down into a searing kiss. Your whimpers melt into his mouth, your tongue lapping against his in desperate, sweet little strokes—like you’re trying to apologize with every flick, every needy press of your lips.  

“‘She’s always gettin’ her way with you,” Toji growls—“Come suck me off ‘fore I change my mind.”

Your body trembles—from exhaustion, from overstimulation—but the moment Suguru releases you, you’re scrambling toward Toji, your hands shaking as you reach for him.  

You missed him.  

Missed the sharp cut of his glare, the way his jaw ticks when he’s pissed, the way his dominance settles over you like a heavy blanket—unshakable, inescapable.  

You tug his sweats down with clumsy fingers, your breath catching as his cock springs free—large, long, dangerous—thick and heavy in your palms.  

Toji watches you through hooded eyes, “‘’Better do a good fuckin’ job, too. I’m watchin’.” 

And you try. 

God, you try.  

Where you were needy with Suguru, you’re desperate with Toji—your lips stretching obscenely around his girth, your hands working in tandem to stroke what you can’t take. You’re messy—saliva dripping down your chin, your nose pressing into his pelvis as you choke around him—but you don’t stop. 

“That’s all you got?”  he rasps—“‘Thought you was sorry, huh?” 

His hand cracks against your cheek—stinging—drawing a deep, shuddering whimper from your throat as your eyes water.  

Toji’s gaze flicks over your head to Suguru, his voice dropping to a growl—  

“‘Come eat her. Need her loose enough to sink every fuckin’ inch of me in so I can pound her shit out.” 

Suguru’s broad palms spread your thighs wider from behind, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe over your swollen clit. The pleasure is blinding, your back arching, your moan vibrating around Toji’s cock—and suddenly, your attempts to suck him off grow even messier, your rhythm faltering as Suguru’s mouth works you open with ruthless precision.  

“Focus,” Toji orders, gripping your hair tighter—“‘Ain’t done with you yet.” 

His jaw tightens when you force yourself deeper, taking him down your throat until your nose presses flush against his pelvis, until your vision blurs with tears, until your gag reflex burns—before you drag yourself off with a wet, gasping choke.  

“‘Ass up,” he roughly orders—“‘That’s how you wanna feel me?”  

You nod—pouty, eager—turning away from him, pressing your face into the sheets as you arch your back, presenting yourself to him. Your thighs tremble, your cunt dripping, already clenching around nothing as you hear the soft click of Suguru leaning back against the bedframe, his hand lazily stroking himself as he watches.  

And then—  

Toji enters you.  

The stretch is brutal—splitting you open in a way that borders on too much, his cock carving into your tight heat with punishing precision. Your breath catches, your fingers twisting into the sheets as you mewl—high and broken—arching your back even further as you try to sink down onto him. 

“‘You want the whole thing already, huh?” His voice is a dark rasp—“‘Fuck me.” 

You throw yourself back onto him, but your strength is gone, your thighs shaking too violently to do more than bounce weakly against only the tip of him. Your lip catches between your teeth, a strangled whimper slipping free as you feel it—the stretch, the ache, the way your body struggles to accommodate him.  

Suguru’s voice is low in front of you as his fingers trail up your spine, “‘Needin’ help, baby?” 

Your cheek presses deeper into the sheets as you nod, curls spilling wildly around your face—Suguru’s palm lands heavy between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying possessively before he pushes, forcing you down onto Toji’s cock in one merciless thrust. The stretch punches a low, throaty moan from you, guttural and filthy, as your walls flutter violently around him.  

“Fuhhhhck—!”

The sound rips from you, ragged and broken, as Toji lets out a growl. 

“You feel that?” His voice is a rough purr, thumbs circling the dip of your waist—“I’m in your shit, huh?”

You whimper, nodding desperately, your voice climbing into a squeal—  

“So f—fucking deep, Daddy…”

Toji’s glare turns lethal. 

“Say ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’” 

You don’t hesitate—your voice spills out dumb, loud and stupidly obedient—  

“’M sorrryyy—!”

The moment the word leaves your lips, he moves—snapping his hips up in brutal, unforgiving strokes, driving into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. His voice stays level, controlled—“Sorry for what?”

“Makin’ s—stuff harder for you…!” You hiccup, twisting the sheets in your fists—”D—Don’t be mad at me…!” 

Your entire body shudders beneath Toji’s relentless pace—his cock pistoning into you with such raw, possessive fury that your thighs tremble, your back arching deeper into the sheets as you sob uncontrollably. Suguru watches from the bedframe, his fist working harsh, deliberate strokes over his own length, his dark eyes glinting with something between amusement and hunger.  

“Lil’ problem,” he huffs, voice thick with desire—“Even now.” 

Toji leans over you, his thrusts grow heavier, each snap of his hips punctuated by a deep, guttural grunt. His voice drops to a rough, almost broken rasp—  

“You know what I would’ve done if somethin’ happened to you, huh?” 

You whimper, your cries muffled against the mattress, your fingers clutching uselessly at the sheets.  

He doesn’t wait for an answer.  

“I’d fuckin’ kill for you.” 

Suguru’s chuckle is dark, his grip tightening around his cock as he echoes—  

“We’d fuckin’ kill for you.” 

You’re gone.

A trembling, tearful mess beneath Toji—tears streaming down your cheeks, your pussy clenching around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses as if begging for more—yet your tears say otherwise. 

“Stop cryin’, baby—“ he murmurs, “Just open m’ pussy up for me. Keep feedin’ my dick.” 

Your back arches impossibly further, letting him take everything he wants. Your cries soften into breathless, shuddering moans as you melt around him, your body yielding completely—  

“…M’ g—gonna cum!” 

Toji doesn’t pause.  

With a rough grunt, his hands lock around your waist, tugging you back and forth onto his cock with effortless strength—treating you like nothing more than a toy, something to be used, something that weighs nothing to him.  

"’Better do more than that," he rasps, “Give me a fuckin’ show ‘fore I fuck you ‘til you break." 

Your orgasm hits you like a truck.  

A high pitched squeak tears from your throat as you squirt violently around him—so hard you actually push him out, gushing slick all over his thighs and the sheets beneath you. Your face presses embarrassingly into the mattress, shoulders trembling as Suguru’s fingers dig into your curls possessively, his groan rough with approval.  

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.” 

Suguru’s thumb rubs slow circles into your skin, murmuring—“Good fuckin’ job, baby."

All you can do is whimper—now exhausted, fucked-out, ruined. Exactly how they wanted you.

Toji’s rough fingers grip your chin, tilting your face toward him as he murmurs in low, husky Japanese—  

“Anata ni awa sete kudasai.”

Let me see you.

He studies your face—your freckled cheeks flushed deep, your wide, glossy eyes blinking up at him, lips parted in tired satisfaction. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, pressing down slightly before he shoves your face away with a gruff grunt. 

“Yeah, she’s fuckin’ sorry.” 

You whimper, collapsing onto your elbows as you watch them both—and god, they’re breathtaking.  

Suguru’s tattooed frame gleams under the dim light as he lazily lights a cigarette between his lips before passing it to Toji. Their skin is still slick with sweat, their powerful bodies marked with ink and scars—yours, in every way that matters.  

You shift onto your knees, your aching thighs trembling as your gaze flicks between them. 

Your voice was soft, “…Did I do good?” 

Suguru exhales a slow stream of smoke, his dark eyes raking over you before he murmurs—  

“Amazin’, baby.” 

Toji clicks his tongue, muttering in Japanese—  

“Mata hajimatta yo, kanojo o chōshi ni nora seru yōna koto o itte.”

There you go again, hypin’ her head up.

You don’t understand the words—but you know his tone. It makes your eyes well up all over again, tears spilling as you sniffle and wipe at them pathetically—  

“‘’M really sorry, Fushiguro…”

Toji watches you—his expression unreadable for a long moment before something softens in his gaze, despite the frustration still lingering there.  

He grunts—  

“C’mere.”

You crawl toward him on shaky limbs, your tear streaked face pressing into the hard plane of his chest as you quickly swipe at your damp cheeks with the back of your hand. Your sniffles quiet, but your breathing is still uneven—little hiccups of emotion trapped in your throat.  

“Stop cryin’.”

“….You’ve never been mad at me like this before,” you whisper, voice trembling, “And I don’t know how to fix it.” 

Suguru’s touch ghosts over your thigh from where he lounges beside you, his fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin—gentle, reassuring.  

“I love you so goddamn much. You know that?” 

You blink rapidly, fresh tears clinging to your lashes as you nod frantically, your breath hitching.  

But Toji shakes his head, lips twisting into a scowl—  

“Nah, gotta hear you say it.” 

Your lower lip quivers, ”You… you love me…” 

And then—  

He kisses you. 

Not soft. Not sweet.  

But hard, possessive—smushing rough, impatient kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth—everywhere but your lips, as if punishing you just a little longer. 

A faint giggle bubbles up from your chest, escaping through your sniffles—  

And that’s when you see it.  

The faintest twitch at the corner of Toji’s lips.  

His rough palms cradle your face as his dark eyes lock onto yours, “Don’t put me in a situation like that again."

His thumbs swipe under your lashes, wiping away lingering tears. 

“I’d lose my goddamn mind if anythin’ happened to you.” 

You knew how much you meant to him, and you couldn’t argue with that.  

“I love you, Toji.” 

And then—  

He kisses you again.  

Really kisses you.   

His lips move over yours like he’s memorizing the shape of them, like he needs to taste your promise. His hands slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he deepens the kiss, pouring every ounce of frustration, fear and love into it until your toes curl against the sheets.  

When he pulls back, you giggle once more—soft, breathless, so full of love. 

“So…’can we be a big happy family again?"

Toji doesn’t even look at Suguru, grunting as he flips the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. 

“Shut the fuck up. We’re all goin’ to bed."

You don’t hesitate—curling instantly into Toji’s side, your leg hooking over his hip, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck like you’ve done a thousand times before. His arm locks around your waist, dragging you tighter against him with a possessive grunt.  

The room settles into silence—warm, safe, finally feeling like home. Until Suguru sighs dramatically, flipping onto his side toward you both—  

“No goodnight kiss for me?"

A pause. 

“Goddamn, I’m really the third wheel."

And in perfect unison—muffled, half-asleep, you both mutter—

The bed creaks as he rises, body unfolding like something carved from shadows and early light. His dick hangs heavy below pelvis, swaying slightly as he pads across the floor—bathroom door clicking shut behind him with deliberate softness, like he’s memorized the exact pressure needed to keep you wrapped in sleep.  

Then music bleeds through—Collide With The Sky, Pierce The Veil’s album filling up space between tiles and steam curling under door cracks. You recognize it immediately because of course this is what he chose today—guitars slicing through morning air while drumbeats match your pulse slowing against silk clad pillows.

The towel clings low on his hips when the door re-opens, water still beading along the ridges of his abs— hair drips down the nape of his neck, dark strands plastered to ink and skin alike. That mouth of his—full, pink, impossible to ignore—twitches at some thought he doesn’t voice while gathering up sweatpants and a compression top for later.  

Then he stops.  

Because there you are—sprawled naked across tangled sheets like some Renaissance painting come alive—spine arched under morning light filtering through curtains left half open; ass lifted slightly even in sleep because your body knows how much he loves gripping it awake; lips parted against silk where quiet breaths escape between them.

Calloused palms sink into soft flesh without warning—kneading slow circles into each cheek until you whimper into fabric. His voice rumbles out rougher than intended, chuckling mixes of southern drawl thick enough to taste.

“You know it’s too early for you to be makin’ noises like that.”

Fingers dig deeper, just because they can. 

“New Orleans ‘don't sleep for nobody.“

Sunlight drips over your caramel skin like honey, catching the coiled silk of curls, dark as bourbon spilled on mahogany. A sleepy whine tumbles from those pouty lips, “Come lay with me for a little longer…”

Eren pauses mid reach for his socks, one thick brow arching toward his hairline.

“Didn’t you swear up and down you were comin’ to lift with me today?”

All amusement had drained from his face, “You know I don’t do late workouts. ‘Like my shit done early.”

Your lashes flutter against freckled cheeks—playing innocent even as hips shift under tangled sheets just to watch his jaw tighten, “Maybe I’m just missin’ you in bed, ‘ren.”

He moves almost like a cat circling prey—all coiled muscle and focus as he leans down, bracing both arms around your body. That mouth of his hovers just out of reach of your lips—close enough to feel the slight huff of breath as he murmurs, “You know I’m not gettin’ back in bed to sleep. That ain't how most of our mornin’s go.” 

Eren then grins—wide and wolfish, as he suddenly mimics the whine that spilled from your mouth last night—making your face flame with embarrassment as you cry out, “Don’t be mean, Eren!”

He presses his forehead to yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin as he lets out a low chuckle—deep, rough at the edges like gravel under tires. His thumbs swipe over your cheeks, calloused palms cradling your face like something precious as he murmurs—  

“Stop gettin’ off track then. Come shower and get dressed."

But when he moves to pull away, your fingers catch gently along the hard line of his jaw—just a soft tug. Barely there. Not enough to stop him if he really wanted to leave—but enough. He exhales through his nose at you before leaning back down, a knowing sound rumbling in his chest.  

Then? His mouth is on yours, before trailing featherlight over the bridge of your nose—your favorite. 

”You hearin’ me?"

“…Get dressed,” you parrot back between half parted lips still tingling from contact; watching as that massive frame then disappears toward your shared closet. 

The moment your bedroom door clicks shut? You blow out an uneven breath before flopping backward onto mussed sheets dramatically—palms pressed against flushed cheeks, mentally preparing yourself for the inevitable hell that was working out alongside him. 

The day unfolds in the rhythm only he sets.

 Pierce The Veil’s album still thrums through the house, guitar riffs bleeding into the aggressive whir as he mans his protein shake station like it’s a military operation. His massive frame—swathed in black compression sleeves that cling to every ridge of muscle and sweatpants riding low on tapered hips—moves with that signature masculine urgency, shoulders rolling under fabric as he nods along to the music, head bumping in the most unbothered manner. 

That bun sits at his nape—dark strands escaping near his ears where stubborn flyaways curl defiantly against his jawline. But then there’re those pink socks—soft Nike checks peeking out from under cuffed sweatpants, because you had batted those lashes at him while some employees swore they were "Arch support kings." 

And what does Eren do? 

Grunts, tosses them in the cart like they aren't blush colored against all his gloom aesthetic just because you asked. 

You appear after a while—materializing halfway down the staircase like some modern Aphrodite draped head to toe in your own pink. A fitted long sleeve stretched taut over full tits where perked nipples press eagerly against fabric; leggings scrunched to accentuate an ass so round it could cause theological debates; curls bouncing beneath a matching headband with edges laid flawlessly around your forehead like a halo made mortal. 

“The fuck you wearin’, Bunny?”

Your freckled nose scrunches, eyes narrowing into slits as you huff—“Why can't you just say I look pretty?" 

Eren doesn’t dignify that with words—just shakes his head, sliding your pastel pink shaker cup across the counter with a thud. You eye it suspiciously while he downs his own shake like it's nothing but water—throat working with each gulp, Adam's apple bobbing beneath tattooed skin.  

Arms loop around his waist from behind as you press yourself against him, batting those thick lashes up as if this was gonna achieve what you wanted.

“…Did you put ice cream in it this time?"

His palm smacks against one plush cheek of your ass—kneading hard enough to make your breath hitch before giving it a rough shake, “Tryna' be cute ‘ain’t gonna change how protein powder tastes," he murmurs, “And no."

You exhale sharply through flared nostrils before popping the lid off and sniffing cautiously—nose immediately wrinkling at the artificial sweetness, chalky afterthoughts mixing with whatever unseasoned bullshit supplement he swears by daily now. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, already halfway checked out of this conversation.  

“What’s the point of me drinking these anyway?” 

His gaze snaps down and locks with yours, all intensity and focus. He doesn't waver.

He never wavers. 

“It helps build muscle.” 

Eren’s voice slices through your daydreaming like a blade through silk—grating, deep—but layered with that familiar patience reserved only for you.  

“You barely eat meals unless I put ‘em directly in front of you.” 

"I do eat," you argue, I just don’t—obsess over protein and macros and—I’m not like you, okay? Now you're making me feel unhealthy."

His sigh is heavy—not annoyed, but frustrated with himself for ever letting you think that way. Calloused fingertips press into your waist as he tilts his chin down to meet your gaze head on.

“You know that’s not what I’m tryna’ say, baby.” 

A beat passes, “You told me you were serious about this body recomp shit. ‘Said it yourself.”

His thumb brushes along the curve where your hip meets thigh—gentler now, because despite all his gruffness? He means every word deep down in places he doesn't show often enough. 

“‘Think you’re th'prettiest thing alive, Bunny. I just want my girl’ happy.” 

He was right. You were always so quick to critique yourself, spiraling into insecurities even when he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. His admission—rough around the edges but tender where it counts—makes your chest tighten with quiet gratitude.

Your arms loop around his neck as you press close, burying your face against his collarbone for just a second before murmuring, “‘M sorry… I’m bein’ pouty.” 

“You are.” 

But then? When lips brush against the underside of his jaw and whisper “Love you, ‘Ren,” something shifts in him instantly—his mouth crashes onto yours before either of you can breathe again. This kiss isn't sweet or gentle; it's claiming, all teeth and dominance like he needed you to feel at this very moment.

In one swift motion, Eren’s hands are under your thighs—tugging you up against him with zero warning. Your legs lock around his waist as he lands two sharp spanks against your ass—each cheek stinging deliciously under his rough palms.  

“Gotta keep this shit heavy for me," he grunts, 

your squeal into the crook of his neck shy and feminine, laughter bubbling up as he carries you toward the door like you weigh nothing at all—you sing against his ear in finality, “Gym timeee!"

The words drip with playful mischief as Eren grunts out a half hearted “Pain in my goddamn ass," but even he can’t fight the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before kicking the door shut behind you. No matter how gruff, cocky or insufferable he acted?  

This man was absolutely wrapped around your finger.

The gym hums with energy—polished black floors, chrome equipment glinting under bright lights, and the low thump of bass heavy music vibrating through the air. This isn’t just any gym; it’s luxury, where every dumbbell is racked perfectly and the punching bags are pristine— your boyfriend didn’t care how much he paid, no interruptions when he wanted his peace of mind. 

First stop? The boxing area.  

Type Shit by Future blasts through the speakers—bass rattling your chest as Eren explodes into motion. Every punch is brutal precision—shoulders rolling like pistons, abs flexing taut beneath his sweat damp shirt as his fists connect with deafening thuds. His eyes stay narrowed—lashes casting shadows over that sharp glare locked onto an invisible target only he sees. Muscles ripple under olive skin each time he pivots; biceps straining against fabric when he digs in deep for another flurry of hooks, chains rattling violently above him. You perch at the end of a bench across, giggling with playful claps. 

“Good job, baby!” 

Eren’s nostrils flare as he catches his breath—striding over with that predator’s gait until he’s towering above where you sit. He lowers his face to yours in a sudden snarl, lips brushing your ear as he smirks, “Yeah? You like that?” 

The deep rumble of his voice sends a shiver down your spine and makes you dissolve into another fit of giggles—half arousal, half sheer amusement at how ridiculous this man is.  

But boxing was just his warm up. Now it was your turn to suffer—oops, train. 

Eren moves like an architect constructing something sacred—loading the barbell with deliberate care before stepping back to watch you attempt squats under his gaze. His voice is always stern, but patient when correcting your form,”Feet wider.”  

A large palm presses against your lower body for support as you descend again, “Hips back first, baby.” 

His fingers trace along your thigh lightly—just enough to make sure tension stays where it should, murmuring approval against your temple when you finally nail it right on rep five—“There you fuckin’ go.”

Now? Lat pull downs. 

Your palms grip the bar too wide at first; Eren doesn’t say anything immediately though. Instead, he steps close behind until there's no space left between—one hand tugging gently on your curls while guiding motion downward, “‘Not jerkin’. Control.”

And then comes encouragement low enough only skin could hear, “‘Doin’ good as fuck, Bunny. Take what you’ want from it.”

Touch is Eren’s language—his way of pushing you, praising you, possessing you right there in the middle of a crowded gym. Every time you finish a set? That large palm smacks against your ass with a sharp thwap, sending heat blooming under your skin before he’s already nudging another weight into place for the next rep. When you swap plates on the barbell, his mouth finds that damp curve of your neck—tongue dragging slowly just to hear that little mewl mixed giggle slip past your lips. 

And his praises? Gruff. Filthy. Wrapped in growls that rumble against your ear when he leans over mid set—“That’s my fuckin’ girl right there. ‘Ain't nobody else workin’ this hard for me.”

But let’s be real—you're no saint either.

His shirt rides up when he wipes sweat from his forehead, and suddenly? Your fingers are sliding beneath the hem—nails scraping lightly over washboard abs just to feel him flex between reps. Deadlifts turn dirtier when your lips press against his bicep while he grinds through the last few reps—that’s when Eren fully turns his head, kissing with slurps and teeth—until a growl rips out chest, barbell dropping harder than necessary.

It’s now the final set. The entire gym fades into background noise as Eren channels every ounce of his focus into those heavy deadlifts. His muscles strain, veins popping along his forearms as he lifts with controlled power, a deep grunt tearing from his chest each time he slams the weight down.  

You sit there, transfixed—lips slightly parted, eyes darkened with something between admiration and pure lust as you watch him dominate that iron like it owes him something. Sweat rolls down the sculpted planes of his back; every tendon in his neck standing out in stark relief before he finally straightens up with a masculine huff.

Your voice comes out softer than intended—almost breathless, “…Ready to go?”

Eren’s gaze cuts toward you instantly—sharpened to a predatory edge at that look in your eye. He doesn't answer right away; just stares for a long moment before saying, “Mhm.” 

But here's the truth.

The gym? That was only part one. Because the way Eren fucked you as soon as you got home—it was a workout no less than the one you’d just got finished with. Eren's dominance wasn't loud, no—it’s lethal in its quiet control.  

Those same dilated eyes from the gym now flicker up at him from below—lips stretched tight around his cock, saliva slicking your chin as he tugs you forward by a fistful of curls, only to yank you back with a wet pop. His grip is unforgiving—knuckles brushing your cheekbone as he guides your mouth along his tip with rough precision, grunting when your eyes roll from unrelenting pleasure you get just from sucking him off. 

“Quit clenchin'.” 

The command rumbles low and dark above you, forcing yourself to relax even as tears well up in those pretty browns looking up at him helplessly.  

“‘Shit’s only gonna’ make me go deeper.”

He reaches up to re-tie that loose bun of his—dark strands slipping between his fingers as he gathers them back with rough precision. The motion stretches the cords of his neck, tattoos flexing as he tilts his head slightly—exposing that sharp jawline you love to trace with your tongue.

And speaking of tongues—  

Yours swirls around the flushed head of his cock before you drag messy, slurping kisses along the veins while jerking him off slowly. Drool drips from your chin but you don’t care—not when he’s looking down at you like this, all heavy-lidded and possessive.  

“You’re so pretty, ‘Ren.”  

Eren doesn’t hesitate. He leans down abruptly, grip tightening in your hair just enough to make your scalp tingle as he spits directly onto your waiting tongue—saliva stringing between his mouth and yours before growling, “‘Ain't no one prettier than my fuckin' Bunny.”

And if that’s what he said? He meant every syllable, every word.

Another thing—the way Eren eats your pussy? It’s like a religion—slow, methodical, and devout. 

He starts by pressing hot, open mouthed kisses against the delicate skin of your inner thighs—each one leaving behind a brand of heat that makes you squirm. His teeth graze just barely, teasing as he drags his lips higher… and higher… until you’re burying your face in the crook of your elbow, hips twitching when his breath ghosts over where you need him most.  

And then? His tongue drags up your folds in one long, filthy stroke.  

Your pointed toes curl into silk sheets, muffling the cutest whimper behind the back of your hand. But Eren? He just buries his face deeper between trembling thighs—tongue dipping inside with purposeful precision before pulling away just to slurp at swollen folds shamelessly.  

You’re never loud when pleasure hits, no—you don’t have to be.

Eren reads you like an open book. Each flutter of your lashes, each shaky breath drawn between parted lips telling him everything he needs to know. Your face is flushed, tears glistening at the corners of your eyes as you watch him through hooded lids—that little pout making his cock twitch where it strains back against his sweatpants.  

His tongue continuously swirls slow and deep, savoring the way your hips jerk helplessly when he sinks two thick fingers inside, curling them just right before sealing his mouth over your clit with filthy suction. You tense up, thighs trembling around his head—but Eren never let’s up.  

“C'mere,” he growls against slick heat before lifting slightly—just enough to catch your gaze as he guides one of your hands into his hair.

“Hold me there.” 

And when smaller fingers twist into dark strands? He buries himself between trembling thighs again like a man starved—tongue lapping at swollen folds while practically making out with your pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Your lower body shudders violently; muffled whines slipping past bitten lips because if there's one thing your boyfriend knows how to do? It's ruin you silently.

But nothing was more erotically devastating than this. 

Eren’s favorite position wasn't chosen by accident—It was always strategic. One foot planted firmly on the ground, the other braced against the edge of the bed, his towering frame caging you beneath him completely. Your legs hooked over his shoulders left you open, exposed—trapped under all that raw, coiled strength with nowhere to go.  

And worst of all? He could see everything. Every bitten whimper trapped behind trembling lips as he pressed his forehead against yours at a harsh angle—his breath hot and ragged while that dangerously thick cock nudged between slick folds, so teasingly slow just to watch your pout deepen.

Then he sinks in. 

Your little frown twists into something prettier when pleasured pain crashes through you in waves too intense to hide. Hands scramble for purchase on sweat slick skin, but Eren doesn’t let up ever—just grips your thighs tighter and grinds deeper, murmuring filthy praise against parted lips like it’ll make taking him any easier.

“C’mon, Bunny… s’just me.” 

You’re always the silent type—until you break.   

That’s when the sounds spill from your lips like a confession, raw and unfiltered. Eren fucks you with deep, measured strokes—each one deliberate and punishing as he watches the pleasured pain twist across your features. Your pussy clenches around him, wet noises growing louder with every drag of his cock stretching you to the limit.  

Your eyes stay locked onto his—wide and glassy under furrowed brows as if begging without words—Then comes that first soft whimper, “‘L—Love you…”  

But it doesn’t stop there. The words spill again—and again—your voice fracturing under the weight of overwhelming pleasure until tears streak down flushed cheeks in glistening trails between ragged breaths, “‘Ren… love you… love you—”

Your body surrenders completely when you cum; a sob ripping from your throat as cream coats his length chaotically. Each brutal thrust still rocks into slick heat despite how sensitive you are now, sniffling through overstimulation like some weepy little mess trying to regain control of yourself beneath him. And he just soothes you assertively, like he always did. 

“I’m knowin’, baby. I know.” 

From that moment forward, your voice is his—stolen, fractured, completely under his control.  

Eren flips you onto all fours without warning, the sharp crack of his palm against your ass echoing as you throw yourself back onto his cock with desperate little ooh’s. Each smack leaves behind a blooming sting—he watches the skin redden with possessive satisfaction before growling, "Atta fuckin' girl," when your pussy creams around him shamelessly once more.  

But then? His grip yanks you up by the hair—commanding without words for you to take control now. You have a way of turning into something sweetly submissive under his order; climbing over him like a minx with doe eyes and parted lips before swallowing his cock down again, tears prickling at your lashes from how deep he forces himself past that pretty mouth. 

The contrast is sinful—tiny hands gripping the base of him while slurping messily on balls too heavy for such a delicate throat—Eren’s groan rumbles through both of you when he gathers curls into one fist, just to mutter gruff praise between clenched teeth. 

“That’s good as fuck, Bunny… jus’ like that.” 

Then? It’s your turn to ruin him. You’re sinking down slowly at first, to then taking every inch in pornographic bounces — tits swaying while pleasure flickers across Eren's usually stoic face. 

He tries, tries—but then? He can’t stay quiet anymore.

The moment your ass claps against his pelvis, something primal snaps in him. His grip locks onto your hips like iron, fingers pressing bruises into soft skin as he slams you down harder—forcing himself deeper with every roll of your waist. A rough groan tears from his throat when you tighten around him instinctively, his head knocking back against the pillows as pleasure cracks through that usually controlled composure.  

“Fuck.” 

His voice is ragged, a broken growl slipping between clenched teeth each time you ride him just right—the kind of pace that has his abs flexing beneath you violently.  

And then? He stutters. Just once—just enough for that deep timbre to fracture into something desperate; "That's so fuckin' good, baby. D—Don't stop.” 

The command is a half threat, half plea; hips lifting off the bed to meet every filthy bounce of yours like he can’t help it anymore—because if there's one thing Eren can't control? It’s how easily you unravel him, too.

Your hands grip your own tits, squeezing them shamelessly as you bounce even harder—pitiful little mewls spilling from your lips between breathless pants of, “D—don’t stop?”

Eren tenses beneath you like a bowstring pulled too tight, his jaw clenched so hard it trembles. His grip on your hips loosens—not because he wants to let go, but because the sight of you is ruining him. He can’t control anything right now—not the way his abs flex with every snap of your waist, not the way his cock throbs inside you like it's seconds away from snapping.  

And then? The sounds start slipping even more. 

His mouth falls open in a silent gasp—simmering into a plummet of ragged moans—low and rough at first, then climbing higher as pleasure shreds through him completely.  

“Keep—Keep goin', Bunny."

It’s almost a whimper when he says it—his voice wrecked beyond recognition as his fingers dig into your thighs just to feel something solid before they slide up helplessly again. He can’t even keep his hands still anymore; shifting between gripping sheets and dragging blunt nails down the dip of your spine like he doesn't know what else to do with himself while watching you fuck him so perfectly.

Your stoic, serious boyfriend was now completely reduced to a shuddering, whimpering mess beneath you.  

His hips stutter up desperately as he bounces you down onto his cock, his usual dominance shattered into breathless submission. Your lips hover just inches apart—hot panting mingling between ragged moans as your foreheads press together. The sound of skin slapping grows louder, more frantic—every clap of your ass against his pelvis drawing another broken noise from his throat.  

"Oh fuck—f-fuck," he whimpers like it’s being punched out of him, fingers gripping your waist weakly now instead of controlling it. His eyes are glassy with pleasure and something almost like disbelief at how good you’re making him feel.  

You nod frantically in response—pouting just as pitifully as him now while whimpering back in agreement between each rough bounce, “Mhm! Mhm.”

“F—Fuck, b—baby—I can't t—take this shit," Eren whines—voice cracking in the most uncharacteristically desperate way as his hips buck up helplessly beneath you. His usual rough dominance is completely unraveled, stripped down to nothing but shuddering breaths and shaky hands gripping your waist like a lifeline.  

But you? You’re feeling dangerous now.  

Fingers trail down from his collarbone before wrapping around his throat in one smooth motion—squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch as you slam yourself down on him again, grinning at the way his eyes roll back instantly when pleasure and pressure collide. 

Choking was always his thing, wasn’t it? 

And right now? He looks so pretty submitting to it—lips parted around ragged moans, muscles tensing under your touch like he doesn't know whether to lean into it or pull away.  

And then comes your own broken plea—whimpered against sweat slick skin between messy bounces of your hips, “G—Give it t' me, baby… please.”

The switch is dizzying; from predator to prey in seconds flat because even though he could flip you over and wreck you ten different ways right now? He’d rather lay there with tears prickling at sharp lash lines, nodding frantically through gritted teeth for whatever sick little mercy you decide on next instead of stopping any time soon.

Beneath you, Eren is a vision. Always. 

His tattooed chest heaves, ink rippling over taut muscle as his breath comes in ragged bursts. Freckles and moles scatter across his flushed skin like constellations you’ve already traced earlier. His dark hair—usually so meticulously tied back—now spills loose from its band, messy strands clinging to his damp forehead while those piercing green eyes dilate with every whimper that slips past his bitten lips.  

“K—Keep goin’… don’t stop,” he rasps, fingers trembling as they slide down the curve of your spine possessively.  

And then? He cums—hard enough for veins in his neck to stand out starkly under strain when release crashes through him violently... but you don't let up even then; grinding down slow and filthy just to watch pleasure turn into near pain on that handsome face of his.

His face contorts in overwhelming pleasure—mouth pouty and kiss swollen, lips parted around rough breaths as he tugs you back down into a messily final kiss. He whines into your mouth like you're ruining him, his tongue sliding against yours desperately while hands roam desperately for purchase. 

"C—C'mere," he mumbles helplessly when you pull back, his voice a shattered mess—almost like he's begging for your mouth again, because he suddenly feels too dizzy and submissive to care about how pathetic he looks right now.

Your kiss melts from feverish to slow—deep and lingering, tongues brushing in tender sweeps as the adrenaline ebbs into something warmer. Eren’s grip shifts from desperate to deliberate, calloused fingers cupping your chin as he pulls back just enough to growl against your lips—“You love me? Huh?” 

Your answering mewl is immediate, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzle closer—body still thrumming with aftershocks. His palm slides up your spine in slow circles then, touch firm but soothing now; all that earlier intensity gentled into something protective. 

A quiet hush settles between you two, the only sound being the steady rhythm of your breaths mixing together. Eren's massive hands smooth up and down your trembling back, his touch both grounding and possessive once again. 

“…Eren?” 

You call his name softly—fingers lifting to cradle his jaw as you pull him into full view beneath you. He looks huge like this—all corded muscle and sharp angles under scattered freckles; head tilting up with that signature intensity locked onto you like nothing else exists in the room but this moment. 

Then comes your question. Smaller than intended, almost lost between shaky inhales. 

“…Would you ever tell me if you were unhappy with how I look?"  

Eren's entire expression tightens instantly.

He smacks his lips once before scoffing outright—“The fuck are you on? You think I’d ever be unhappy with you?” 

His grip on your waist flexes unconsciously, pulling tighter as if offended by even the suggestion. But then he sees it—the flicker of insecurity behind those pretty browns despite how hard you try hiding it behind pouted lips.

And just like that? His voice drops lower; gruff but careful now—“Bunny… you see me in the gym ‘cause that shit keeps my head straight.” 

A pause. He then nudges your chin up firmly, making sure there’s no avoiding eye contact when he growls out—“But you? Ain't a single day where I don't wake up wantin' every part of what's mine.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the loose strands of his dark hair as you murmur against his lips—  

"You're my everything, you know that?” 

And for once? Eren actually smiles. A rare, unfiltered grin that crinkles the corners of those sharp green eyes before he's tugging you into just one more kiss—this one slow and sweet until you suck his tongue into your mouth,  just to hear him grunt.  

But then? He retaliates by throwing his head back with a loud, exaggerated howl—like some overgrown wolf suddenly unleashed. The ridiculousness of it makes you burst into giggles instantly; squirming when he flips you both beneath the covers in one swift motion while muttering something about, “Always gettin’ yourself into trouble.”  

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

“Turn.” 

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

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

She didn’t have time to be gawking. 

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

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

“Let go of me!—“ 

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

Click on the side of her temple.

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

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

“Fuck you.”

“Yo’, Ony—What’s going on?—“

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

“This one’s Rogue.”

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

“Onyankopon, get off of her.”

The woman comes closer, “Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

They all stare. 

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

“She coulda’ been bit.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re bleeding.”

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

She waits for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The baby coos within the woman’s hands. She frowns, “You’re actually Rogue?” 

They all stared at one another. 

“How long ‘you been alone?” 

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

“We can help you—“ 

“I don’t need help.” 

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

Those words lay heavy on her chest.

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

“I’m not going to the Embassy.” 

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

“And?”

“Hollows are everywhere, Onyankopon.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, she doesn’t reply. 

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

They waited in anticipation.

That’s when she takes a deep breath, dropping the gun from her hands, kicking it in the direction of the man that attacked her.

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

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

They both nod, turning to leave the room.

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

She looks unsure about answering.

”Sahfeya.”

Nami grins, “Yeah? That’s pretty.” 

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

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

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

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

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

She mutters, “Sorry.” 

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

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

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

Sahfeya breathes deeply, “Two months now.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Boyfriend?” 

Nami shakes her head.

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

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

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

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

Nami smiles.

“You’re a ballsy one, huh?”

Sahfeya’s mouth twitches. Her face falls quickly as the alcohol wipes along her neck, the smaller wound stinging more than the bigger one. 

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

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

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

Sahfeya hums dryly, “He seems nice.” 

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

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

“No.” 

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

Nami gives her a soft smile.

“You're welcome.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She figures she could be—polite. 

“Y’all from here?” 

“Originally,” Elijah replies, “We moved to New York when we got married—Nami picked up on livin’ inna’ north, that’s why she don’t’ have an accent.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine.”

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

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

Her throat feels closed. 

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re yours?” 

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

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

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

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

“What was yo’ friend’s name?”

She blinks at the question. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sahfeya’s eyebrows raise, “So me?” 

“Independent.” 

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

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

His face twitches, like he’s fighting off anything close to amusement. 

“You gon’ apologize?”

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

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

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

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

“Same difference.”

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

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

“And?” 

“And, what?” 

“And you tryna’ steal from me?” 

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

His eyes graze over her entire body. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Bout’—eight,” he tells her, “I washed yo’ clothes.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm? That’s all you got?” 

Sahfeya blinks. 

 “Yeah—heard you.”

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

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

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

“Mornin’,” both men greet her. 

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

Sahfeya hesitantly greets, “Uh—Good morning?” 

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

“Decent—“ 

Nami’s still smiling. 

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

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

“We did.”

“And?” 

“We—“ 

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

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

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

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

Her words make them all chuckle again. 

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

“Major,” Elijah adds.

“Expeditiously,” Theo finalizes.

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

“We talkin’ ‘bout me?” 

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

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

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

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

“I’m already knowin’.” 

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

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

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

She notices his face. He was glaring. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you done?”

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

And with that, the door shuts. 

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

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

Her eyes squint as the sun comes out, “You sure there’s no Hollows back here? What do we need the guns for if there’s no threat?” 

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

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

“You got ammo on that shotgun?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ain’t payin’ attention.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think far enough gon’ feed us?” 

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

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

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

“We gon’ keep walkin’.”

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

“We can’t go to trade today?”

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

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

“You gon’ learn.” 

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

“Ony—“ 

"Hold it.” 

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

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

She releases a breath, “Push it in?”

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

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

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

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

Sahfeya stiffens. 

“Relax,” he grunts.

She lets out another breath, “Okay.” 

“You see the one I’m pointin’ at?” 

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

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

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

Sahfeya just nods, not trusting her voice.

“Shoot.” 

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

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

“Sorry.” 

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

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

“My fault,” he murmurs, “You good?”

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

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

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

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

But that only lasted for a millisecond.

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

“Onyankopon?” 

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

They listen. 

Just then, another moan echoes.

“Hollows.” 

And then—they see them.

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

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

“Move!” 

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

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

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

“Sahfeya!—“ 

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

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

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

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

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

Another moan echoes.

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

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

“I’m here.”

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

“I can’t leave you here—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s yelling, “Onyankopon, c’mon!”  

“I can’t let them get past—Go!” 

He takes his palm—slamming the gate shut where he stands. 

Her voice trembles the entire ground as she cries, “No!” 

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

But the only thing he has is a knife. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

“You don’t got’ a choice!”

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

“Onyankopon, please!—“

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

He’s falling. 

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

best friend. Sahfeya’s—

He collapses. 

Nothing.

He was nothing.

                                            移行

FOR IT TO BE NO ELECTRICITY WITHIN THE HOUSE, THE CANDLES ALMOST SEEM LUMINESCENT.

 Heavy eyelids catch the blur of flames, going from narrowed, to open. 

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

“Hey.” 

Was it a dream?

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

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

“Don’t touch me. I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

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

“Onyankopon.”

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

Sahfeya eyes him for a moment.

 She then sighs, “‘Even almost dying, you’re still stubborn.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn't change,” he mutters.

Sahfeya eyes him once more. And then, a tilt of her head. 

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

“The cure?” he frowns, “You had it?”

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

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

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

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

The words she speaks sinks into him. 

"You saved a nigga life.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You sayin’ I stink?" 

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

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

She blinks softly, “Maybe.” 

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

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

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

His voice is low, “Gon’ head.”

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

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

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

“And?” 

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

“You don’t?”

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

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

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

“Ony.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You gon’ let a nigga have you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s as if he commands her attention.

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

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

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

“You wet as fuck.” 

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

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

Onyankopon’s forehead connects with hers the moment his towel drops, Sahfeya jolting at the feel of his dick smacking her folds, tip rubbing her clit—he was right about something though, his dick was nothing nice. Veiny, girthy, long. 

But the moment he sinks into her, her mouth parts open at the truth of his words—her fingers clutch, hips unable to move as he holds her down. He grunts when she gives a whimper, her body tugging beneath his—she feels full, a pleasured discomfort warping around her sensations. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s grunting this to her. 

“OohmygodOny.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My shit feel that good?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onyankopon growls—the grip on her throat tightens. 

“Do that shit again.”

“Ony.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There, baby.” 

His dick curves to the angle Sahfeya wants as he slams into her—she cries out— clutching onto him, a rapture of pleasure wafting her entire body. But he wanted more. 

He then flips her onto her stomach, eyes facing the mirror directly across from the bed. His hand is already clutching her throat, Sahfeya’s eyes rolling as shoves back in, her ass clapping to the gush of his dick returning inside—She drops her face into the sheets, mewling for the thousandth time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Slow down, baby…” 

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

“Oooh!” she’s groaning, “Fuck, Ony.”

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

 “You gon’ give me all of you?”

He smacks her ass again. 

“Tell a nigga.”

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

“You gon’ be mine forever, huh?”

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

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

Sahfeya’s eyes flutter when he lowers himself back into a kiss from behind—a low groan coming from his lips, “Look at me,” he’s coaxing—she’s quick to obey, “That’s it, baby,” his lips sucking at her own, “My fuckin’ girl.”

It’s a rush of emotions between the two— she frowns between her soft sob of, “I’m cumming.”  

She keeps repeating it, holding onto him like she’d never touched him before—like she did when she thought he’d held his last breath. 

There’s a sudden groan from his chest as he slows—a flash of emotion comes across his features—he moans with her, the final smack of their lips louder than before as he feels her folds drenching his tip feverishly, as he fills her up without another thought. It doesn’t stop—it doesn’t stop, they’re moving, rocking together—hot, messy, passionate.

Then, they’re silent. 

A moment of peace, of reassurance—Sahfeya is the first one to break the tension, her voice soft, “I’m sorry.” 

He remains in her, his breathing soft as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, “For what?” 

“‘Think I scratched your arm where you were bitten.”

Onyankopon furrows his eyebrows. 

His lips tug into a small smirk, “You too good.”

“Yo’! Nami’s finally makin’ that beef stew—“

The door swings open, Theo adjusting his glasses as he continues, “She needed to know if—oh shit!” 

Sahfeya’s body is instantly shielded, her lips squeaking at the sudden movement.

 “Nigga, you forgot how to fuckin’ knock?”

Theo’s head dips, “My bad, bro,” he’s saying quickly, “Uh—hey, Sahfeya—“

Sahfeya covers her face beneath Onyankopon, “Hi, Theo.”

Onyankopon’s frown deepens, his eyes glaring as Theo takes the hint, “Right—I was gon’ ask if y’all need somethin’ to eat, but it seems like you already ate—“

“Theo, Imma’ knock yo’ ass out. Why you’ still standin’ here?”

“I can’t come check on my bestie? You almost died!” 

Onyankopon’s head shakes as an exhale comes from his lips, “I’m alive,” he rasps, “Leave.”

“I get it, man,” Theo’s smiling, his hands held up in mock defeat, “Pussy prolly’ great after allat’—“

“Theo.”

“You hungry, beautiful?” He directs his question towards the body hiding.

Sahfeya giggles, “I’m fine, Theo. Thank you.”

“What’s happening? Are they gonna come eat? Can Onyankopon come to feed Aaila? I need to cook!” 

Nami’s voice is heard all the way from downstairs. 

Onyankopon grunts out, “Where yo’ damn husband, Nami?”

“I’m helpin’ cook!” Elijah shouts.

Theo leans against the door, a smirk on his lips, “So—how’d this happen?”

Onyankopon’s eyes narrow, “Imma’ be worse than a Hollow if I gotta’ get up, Theo. Swear ta’ god.” 

“I’m actually a lil’ hungry,” Sahfeya’s voice is soft, her hands over her nipples, “And you’re heavy.” 

“You heard the woman—we comin’. Now getcho’ ass gone.”

Theo smiles, “Aight—Yo’, they’ in here hunchin’!” 

“What?!” Both Nami and Elijah bleat in return. 

The door slams shut. 

And once more, Sahfeya’s amused in a time where Onyankopon thought nothing was funny. 

“We gon’ have to deal with that every time?” she questions.

“Unfortunately. You ready for allat’?”

Sahfeya sighs, “I don’t know—maybe I should just take my things and leave—” she goes to turn on the bed, a mixture of a shriek and laugh pouring from her lips as he tugs her back. 

“Like hell.” 

He groans when her lips latch onto his, the kiss slow yet warm. Sahfeya’s fingers trace the side of his face, eyes closed as she breathes, “Is this too fast?” 

“Nah,” he’s low, “Nah.” 

“Maybe we should skip dinner then,” Sahfeya sucks at his lips, “Yeah?” 

“We gon’ eat— just lemme’ get a lil’ appetizer in.”

Like Candyman or Bloody Mary, these were examples of ominous things that possibly existed, including her students' father. She’d attempted to contact him since the year started, Megumi’s nanny being the only person that dropped him off from the first day up until now. When she asked the nanny if there was any particular reason why he never showed up, it was always vague. 

“He’s a busy man,” she’d say. 

It wasn’t a teacher's business to pry, but she’d concluded something— The reason why Megumi clung to her so much? It was only because this attention was lacking at home. She proclaimed that whenever his father decided to make his grand entrance, she’d give him a piece of her mind. 

She just didn’t know that day would be today.

“Hey, Ms. Honey.” 

The familiar voice catches her attention—brown eyes flicker to the doorway of her classroom, seeing lavender overalls coated in colored handprints—Mrs. Emery, a teacher from across the hall that taught first grade. 

“‘Afternoon, Mrs. Em.”

“I love your classroom—your kids are like the ultimate palate cleanser,” Mrs. Em grins, “Ready to get out of here?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ms. Honey sighs, “What’s with the painted overalls? I hope you aren’t exploring a new sense of fashion.”

“Girl, no. My first graders got a little carried away during art time—You’d think they were Picasso.”

“You look like you’ve been vandalized.”

“I was.”

The first grade teacher scans over the room, taking notice of an unfamiliar sight; Megumi leans into his classmate, showing her the drawing he was in the process of completing for her. 

Mrs. Em’s eyes go slightly wide as she whispers, “Is that Megumi—making friends?” 

 Ms. Honey giggles softly, “Trying to. I asked him to show Layla his drawing, I thought he was gonna faint.”

Mrs. Em grinned at her words, hands landing on her hips with a slight laugh, “He’s so shy, what a cutie.”

“I just wish he wouldn’t be so afraid to make friends, you know? Everyone in class always wants to talk to him—And his drawings? It’s nothing I’ve ever seen from a five year old. They’re phenomenal,” she crosses her arms, “You’d think he’d want the company since he’s an only child. I know how lonely that can be.”

“Speaking of home, any updates on Mysterious Daddy?” she raises a brow, “I still need the details on that.”

“Girl, if only there were details to give—I have to go through an interview just to have the nanny tell me he can’t talk—I’ve never spoken to the man directly. To make matters worse, she’s terrified of him.” 

“No email?”

“Not even a letter from a bird,” Ms. Honey counters, “The nanny also said she only speaks with him when it’s close to Megumi’s bed time—She doesn’t know what he does for work, nor does she feel the need to ask.”

Mrs. Em leans her elbow on a bookshelf, raising a brow at the information she was given, “Sounds like a mob boss, if you ask me.” 

Ms. Honey shoots her a look, shaking her head before saying, “If you ask me, he’s a lazy parent or doesn’t even want to be one. What man can’t talk to his child’s teacher about his own kid?”

Both women’s gaze fell towards Megumi once more, the little boy now showing the finished drawing to another classmate that peered over his shoulder with curiosity. 

“At least he has you, Ms. Honey. You’re practically a Mommy.” 

Ms. Honey sighs, a small smile at the notion, “I’m trying—But it’s not enough. I can tell he craves that one on one attention from a parent, and that’s not something I can fully give as his teacher.”

“Are you gonna give his father a piece of your mind if he ever comes up here?”

“A piece of it? No. My entire cranium? Absolutely.”

Mrs. Em grins widely at that, letting out a chuckle as she concludes, “Now that I’d pay to see.” 

The two women continued their gossip for another minute or so—but this introduction needed no words to gain attention. 

Cologne wafts at their nostrils, pulling their eyes in the direction of the classroom’s door frame. 

 A scar. Jagging across full, deep pink lips told Ms. Honey everything she needed to know. The scent of him was sharp and spicy—an epitome of masculinity, heavy boots made for the ground to quake with every step he took—eyes grey, but dark enough to appear almost black, like a raging storm in an unforgiving ocean beneath his equally onyx eyebrows and hair. His broad shoulders were camouflaged by a sable shirt, tight along his hard torso that almost pulled inwards—that’s just how built he was.

The two women went silent in their conversation, eyes widening at the presence that stood in the classroom’s doorway—He stood tall, so tall that both of the teachers had to look up from where they stood, their eyes scanning his body with clear intrigue. Tattoos, tattoos, tattoos. They cover his body like art, all the way up to where his neck ended and his jaw began—but the star of show was a skull seeping within the flesh of his throat on the left side, radiating an intimidation Ms. Honey never thought she’d engage with. He dropped the motorbike helmet and leather jacket he held within a vein covered palm, furrowed brows searching for something—or someone within the room.

"Who's that?” 

Ms. Honey murmurs, “…I don’t know.”

The moment his stormy eyes lock onto hers, it’s like lightning striking twice—She could feel the crackle of tension in the air as his gaze rakes her frame. A rose blooms against the side of her neck, the wine red ink contrasting with her honey brown freckles and caramel complexion. His vision drags lower—taking in the curve of her waist, hips that sway even when she stands still, legs barely hidden beneath the flowing burgundy fabric of her skirt. The deep ginger of her curls are snatched into a ponytail to show the pure beauty of her face, edges curled along her forehead, spiraling down to her lower back.

Giving a comforting touch to Mrs. Em’s arm, she then makes her way over towards the door—a polite smile reaches her lips, “Good afternoon, um—I don’t think you have the right classroom, what teacher are you looking for?”

The man’s eyes never wavered from her form. He noticed a nervous habit as she tugged on her ponytail, anxious as she waited for a response. Her scent then wafts his nose—Cinnamon.

“Nah.”

His voice had a rasp, a deep baritone that crawled through her entire spine.

“I’m in the right place. ‘You Ms. Honey?” 

Her eyebrows raise up. 

She replies, “Um, I am. I just—I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you to be one of my students' parents,” she places her hands behind her back, his eyes dropping down to her physique, eyebrow twitching.

“I’m Megumi’s father, Toji Fushiguro.”

His words hit her like a ton of bricks. All that shit talking had gone out of the window, never expecting this to be the moment of their long awaited confrontation. 

“Oh,” she murmurs out loud, turning back into the classroom’s direction, “Mrs. Emery, would you mind getting the kids started with dismissal?”

Her first grade colleague nods, “Alright—let’s gather all our things and get ready to leave for the day!”

Ms. Honey’s smile fades as she turns back in his direction—she exhales, “So, you’re Megumi’s father?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, “That’s what I just said.”

She blinks at that. 

Reaching a hand out anyway, she smiles, “It’s finally nice to meet you! You’re the person I’ve been wanting to speak to, actually.” 

A hand never comes out in return. 

“You’re the one with concerns ‘bout how I’m raisin’ my kid.” 

Okay, so he wasn’t the type to be passive aggressive. Just aggressive aggressive. 

Ms. Honey places her tongue within her cheek—she laughs awkwardly in response, “Well, I just more so wanted a conversation to happen between us. You’re a very difficult man to get in contact with,” she attempts to joke, “Would you have time to talk?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging through the fabric of his shirt—Toji glared down at her with those unreadable, steely eyes. 

“I’m listenin’.”

Her chin lifts slightly at the challenge in his tone. Sweet as honey she may be, that sunny disposition began to dissipate. 

“Well, Megumi’s a brilliant child—but he's struggling socially,” She keeps her voice low, “He avoids group activities, has an issue making friends, and the only thing that keeps his interest is his school work and drawing.”

“You’re upset ‘cause the kid ain’t a social butterfly?” 

Her eyes squint at him. 

She pensively disagrees, “No. When I asked him who he’s drawing for, he said his father. He seems to be seeking your approval, Mr. Fushiguro. It’s not my place to give tips on your parental guidance, but I’d give the notion that if you were more of a figure in your child’s life, his participant skills would bloom just like a social butterfly.” 

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You’ got kids?” 

The question makes an etch of emotion flicker across her face.

 It fades, her voice flat as she responds, “No, sir. I don’t.” 

“Then who the fuck are you to tell me ‘bout raisin’ mine?”

There it is. Her nostrils flare, irritation now rising at his response. 

“What I am is somebody tellin’ you to watch your mouth around my students. Quickly,” her voice goes lower to repeat, “What I am is someone who knows with enough love and attention to your son, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place, Mr. Fushiguro.”

“You think you know me?” His voice was equally low, dangerous—each syllable dripping with warning, “You don’t know shit.” 

Ms. Honey doesn’t flinch—her back straightens and she holds her ground, eyes blazing right back up at him despite the obvious difference in height and intimidation factor.

“I never said I knew you,” she counters, “But I do know your son—and he deserves to feel like he matters to somebody.”

“You don’t think he matters to me?” 

His voice carries, “Who do you think puts the clothes on his back, the food in his mouth, tucks him in bed at night? I don’t need some gentle parentin’ bullshit ‘bout how to raise my own son. ‘Know I’m not one of those other parents you’re used to—I’m your worst goddamn nightmare.” 

She knocks her face back, raising an eyebrow. Was this motherfucker trying to scare her? Who in the goddamn hell was he talking to?

All of her professionalism went out the window. 

She sneered, “Come find me in my sleep, then. I’d appreciate the effort of at least faking as if you’re committed to having a child, rather than clockin’ in and  out when you don’t feel like being a father.”

“Maybe I ain’t one of those fathers that bakes sugar cookies with my kid and reads him a bedtime story, Ms. Honey, but I’m present. I don’t need your fuckin’ advice.”

“Then double it and pass it to the next person, Mr. Fushiguro. I literally don’t give a fuck!—“

“Ms. Honey, can I take this book home with me from your shelf?”

A sweet voice calls from below, the teacher's attention being pulled away by a pair of doe eyes. Green, round and curious as they lift The Hungry Caterpillar in her direction. 

The mindless eyes of her student Rhylin brings her to reality. She takes a step back, pressing her fingers softly into the four year old’s cheek—“Of course, baby boy. Make sure to bring it back tomorrow, okay?”

Rhylin nods profusely, scurrying off into the flurry of other children with no awareness of the tension between the two adults. 

Her warm voice, her gentle touch, her calmness—how easily his son could have been on the receiving end of such a gentle, motherly natured woman didn’t go unnoticed—Toji shoved his hands deep within his pockets, the veins along them protruding as large fingers curled tightly into the black material.

When she faced this man again, it also made her realize that she’d made a fool of herself. She allowed him to rile her up in a way that she’d never interacted with a parent. 

Taking a deep breath, she leaves him with, “I’ll go get Megumi.”

She makes her way over to the art station—squatting down, her fingers rake back the tousled hair sprawled along the five year old’s cheeks, “Hey, handsome. Look who’s here for you.” 

Megumi’s head snaps up at her words, his dark blue eyes lighting up like tiny fireworks when they land on his father. In an instant, the shy little boy transforms—his small legs carry him across the classroom in a flurry of excitement, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bounds toward Toji.

Similar to his son, Toji’s entire demeanor shifts—the moment those tiny arms wrap around his leg, all that gruff hostility melts away. His large hands scoop Megumi up effortlessly, settling him against his chest with a tenderness that stuns Ms. Honey where she stands. The way he cradles the back of Megumi’s head with one palm while pressing a firm kiss to those messy black bangs, it doesn't match the man who was just snarling at her seconds ago.

His native tongue naturally flows through the scar of his full lips, voice deep, “Daijōbudesuka? Kyō wa dōdeshita ka?” 

No response escapes Megumi at first, his round face buried into his father’s chest as his tiny arms tighten around the man’s broad neck. Toji doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the lack of words, stroking a callous palm down the back of his son’s head. Pressing his tiny face into his father’s neck, he then murmurs back in Japanese—quiet words that only his father could hear. The man hums in response, rubbing circles along the boy’s back with rough fingers that somehow handle him so carefully.  

The contrast is jarring.  

Ms. Honey can only stand there frozen, still squatted by the art station as a realization settles over her—She might’ve been wrong.

“You wanna take home your morning snacks, Meg?”

She tries to sound normal, but her embarrassment of the previous interaction has her awkwardly smoothing out her skirt as a distraction.

Megumi peeks at her from over Toji’s shoulder—his cheeks still pressed against his father's neck, but he nods shyly, “Yes.” 

She manages a smile despite the tension in the air, moving to gather up his little paper bag of snacks. She somehow avoids her gaze along Toji when she drops the bag in his hand, taking a breath as she clasps her palms together, “I didn’t hear the clean up song while Mrs. Emery instructed dismissal time!” 

The entire class began reciting the tune, collecting up their last bit of things into their backpacks. If only she’d noticed the way a pair of eyes dropped down to her ass, watching the flesh jiggling with every step she took around the classroom.

“Bye, Megumi—“

A shriek interrupts her sentence as he swiftly drops from his father, tightly wrapping his arms around her lower half.

Ms. Honey can’t help her small giggle, hugging him back as she speaks softly, “I’ll see you tomorrow, handsome. ‘Promise I’m not gonna run away.”

Megumi squeezes her middle even tighter, tiny fingers bunching up the fabric of her skirt as he buries his face against her hip. For someone so quiet, he sure knew how to make his affection loud—the sheer force of his hug nearly knocks the breath out of her.

She smooths a hand over his unruly black hair one last time before offering him that warm smile again, “I promise.” 

With a final shy wave from Megumi, small fingers grasp onto Toji's much larger hand. His father gives their intertwined hands a gentle swing as they begin walking away—but not before those dark stormy eyes flicker back towards hers.

The weight of their gaze feels like lightning crackling between them—heavy and charged with something neither can name yet. Toji doesn't say another word though; just holds her in that silent stare for one heartbeat longer before turning on his heel, guiding Megumi out into the hallway.

When she turns back towards her classroom, her brown eyes go wide as saucers as she locks in with Mrs. Emery, who stands there with a hand pressed over her mouth to stifle laughter. 

“How bad was that?”

Mrs. Em gives her an innocent shrug, hiding the slight grin on her lips with her hand. 

“I definitely got my money’s worth.”

Yeah, it was bad. 

Being left alone within the classroom gave her time to think as it was an hour after dismissal, wishing that conversation hadn’t gone so left. Crashing out on a parent could’ve gotten her fired. 

She simmered on this thought as she sat at her desk going through her students homework, the buzz of a FaceTime call tugging her eyes in the direction of her phone.

Ezra. 

She sighs, connecting the call in preparation to hear the rambles of her best friend. 

“Yes, Ezra?”

Ezra groans dramatically as his face appears on her screen, brown skin and emerald green waves appearing through the camera. He draws out her first name, “Asael, I’m boooooreeeed.” 

“Don’t you have that car show to go to later?” Asael looks over the camera, “Or have a little sneaky link to link with?”

Ezra rolls his eyes, “That last nigga was a lil’ hookup. Besides, you know I have a new boo—Cameron,” he dreamily sighs, “Speaking of, that’s actually what I called you for. The car show is tomorrow night—and you’re coming with me.”

“Says who?”

Ezra glares at her through the screen, a scowl falling across his flawless features.

“Says me. I need you there for moral support—what if all them’ country bama, Confederate flag loving niggas is out? I’m only going ‘cause my Cameron wants to show off his car. Or maybe, all the fine niggas will be out! You could find a sexy biker to swipe your little celibacy card,” he teases, ignoring the glare she sends back through the camera.

“It’s abstinence, smart ass.”

“A year of no dick is insane either way. You have a strong sense of mind and body,” Ezra hums.

“Anyways, I’m good. Not in the mood to watch a bunch of guys do donuts on the street for hours.” 

Ezra pouts, his plump lips turning into a frown as he whines.

“Come on, it’s not gonna’ be just guys doing donuts. There’s going to be live music, food—hot guys, oh, and hot guys again! You know the fine niggas be on Bourbon Street.” 

Asael thinks it over, tilting her head to the side. 

“Hot guys, food, and hot guys with their cool cars? ‘Guess that doesn’t sound too bad.”

She finalizes, “I’ll come. I need a drink after the shitty day I’ve had.”

This piques Ezra’s interest.

“Do tell. Who pissed you off?”

“It’s not—“ 

She sighs, “Do you remember my student, Megumi?”

“The adorable little quiet one that draws all those Spiderman pictures? Of course I do—Wait,” Ezra gasps, pressing closer to the screen dramatically, “Did he get into a fight with another kid? Throw crayons at someone? Bite ‘em?!” 

“Worse, I finally met his father. Ghostface ripped my ass to shreds. ‘Told me it wasn’t my business how he raised his son, that I needed to mind my own, and that I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.” 

Ezra’s brows shoot up so high they almost disappear into his hair. 

“Bitch, you’re lying.”

“Did I mention the bastard is the hottest fucker you’ve ever seen?” She adds on, seeing Ezra’s jaw drop down to the core of the earth. 

Asael nods at his reaction, “The nigga could put a nun out of commission.”

“And he ate you up that bad?”

“‘Chewed me up and spit me out. I was ready to swing on his ass, but I’m starting to feel like that entire argument wasn’t my business to begin with. He seemed—comforted in Megumi’s presence.” 

Asael then sighs, “But you know how I feel about his son, Ezra. I’m just afraid that the lack of attention will cause him to change.”

Ezra hums in thought, propping his chin on his palm.

“So let me get this straight—fine as hell, bad attitude, but then is all gentle with his kid?” he tilts his head, “‘Sounds like someone caught feelings after realizing he’s a good man.” 

Asael scowls at him, “What? No. I just—”

“Aht,” Ezra cuts off , wagging a finger, “When men show softness like that? That’s how you know they got layers.”

“Whatever,” she huffs, “All I said was the nigga wasn’t wrong about me stepping out of line, I’m not tryna’ give him a bouquet of flowers. Now he hates me.” 

"Don’t say that. You were just worried ‘bout baby boy, and that man knew it deep down."

Asael tugs at her pony tail once more—she parts a sigh from her lips once more, “I feel bad. I want to apologize—even if he was a dick.”

She leans back into her chair, rubbing a hand over her face as she groans, half covering her mouth as she quietly admits, “He had a fuckin’ neck tat, Ezra! I wanted to lick him.”

Ezra snickers, “‘Can’t believe you didn’t snap a picture with your eyes and mind transfer it to me,” he smacks his lips, “But seriously. If he comes to pick him up tomorrow, just take off your prideful panties and apologize! That’s all.”

“You think he’ll accept it?”

“You’re not apologizing for him to accept it.”

Asael grumbles, “Right. You’re annoying.”

“And also morally correct.” 

She softly laughs, rolling her eyes as she finalizes, “I gotta finish these papers—meet me at my place by the time I’m off work tomorrow?”

“Noted. One more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t want him, can I have Ghostface? I promise imma’ answer the phone.”

“Ezra, get the fuck off my phone.”

“Muah! Bye!”

When the next day comes, Asael becomes antsy; glad for it to be Friday, but not glad that she admittedly had some apologizing to do. She hoped that she’d receive an apology in return, but she wasn’t holding her breath on that one—especially when the person who picked up Megumi was the nanny and not Toji.

“Are you almost ready? Cameron said we’re gonna be late!”

Asael stands in front of her full length mirror, still lost in thought. Her burnt orange curls cascade wildly down her back and shoulders, framing that flawless caramel face with delicate freckles dusted across it. She smooths her hands down the black baby tee that hugs her chest—the outline of her nipples visible beneath the fabric, matching mini skirt barely covering the poke of her ass, riding high on thick thighs that taper down into toned calves. 

The early 2000s vixen heels add an extra three inches to her already blessed height—but not even their fluffy fur trim could distract from the way she chews at her bottom lip.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, “I’m ready.”

The Bourbon Street Car Show had the usual energy of nightlife, a melting pot of people filling up the area as they admired all the custom vehicles. The air was thick with the smell of southern food, the sound of music and chatter, and the occasional squealing of tires. It was the perfect Friday night. 

But Ezra was right about one thing. This would be a good night—she’d forced to be even if it killed her. 

“Daddy!” 

Ezra squeals as a tall, broad figure comes up behind him, wrapping thick arms around his waist from behind. The stranger spins him playfully before setting Ezra back down with a chuckle. 

Cameron was dark-skinned and devastatingly handsome, sporting deep brown waves that glisten under the neon lights—strong jawline dusted with neatly trimmed stubble, lips curled into an easy smirk as he looked down at Ezra like he hung the stars.

"Damn," Cameron rumbles, pressing a kiss to Ezra’s temple while eyeing Asael appreciatively, "’This your girl?" 

"Yep!" Ezra beams proudly, “This is Asael. Asael, this is Cameron—don’t let that pretty face fool you though, this nigga built like one of them Titans underneath all this!" He tugs teasingly at Cameron’s loose brown sweatshirt, hiding his massive shoulders.

Cameron grins sheepishly as he reaches out for her hand—his grip warm and calloused, “He’s tryna’ make me blush. But it’s nice t'meet you, Asael.”

Asael takes his hand with a warm smile, “Nice to meet you too. Ezra won’t shut up about you, so I feel like I already know half your life story.”  

Cameron chuckles as Ezra dramatically slaps her arm—only for Cameron to reel him back in by the waist. The little moment between them makes Asael smile, happy her best friend had found someone who adored him this much.  

“I hear Ezra had to drag you here. Not a big fan of car shows, huh?” 

“Correct. ‘The thought of motorbikes and extremely loud cars is annoying, but they’re cool to look at. I’m just here for the ride—No pun intended.”

Cam grins, “By all means, you can always just chill by my car. It’s the ’79 Dodge Charger.” 

The vehicle sits low and menacing—jet black with red pinstriping that gleams under the streetlights. The chrome detailing makes it glint like a blade, its thick tires hugging the pavement as if built to tear through asphalt. The whole thing exudes raw power, an unspoken promise of speed lurking beneath its glossy hood. 

Ezra bounces excitedly on his toes before dragging her towards it—Asael raises her brows, “This is amazing, Cam. How much did you spend on all the work?”

Cameron flashes a proud smile, running his fingers across the glossy black hood as if caressing the very heart that beats beneath.

“It was fasho’ a splurge, but worth every penny. She purrs like a kitten when she's revved up."

Ezra leans onto the vehicle, “It purrs better than me?” 

His boyfriend smirks, pulling Ezra flush against him with a possessive grip on his waist—he murmurs, “Nothin’ sounds better than you.”

Asael barely catches the way Ezra mewls before Cameron’s lips are on his, swallowing whatever flustered comeback he was about to throw out.  

She rolls her eyes fondly, third wheeling as if it were a profession.

“I’m gonna’ go find a drink.” 

Slipping away unnoticed, she weaves through the crowd towards the nearest drink stand. The scent of fried food and spiced rum hangs heavy in the air as she orders herself something strong enough to erase the past couple of days. 

Two tequila shots and a margarita later? She starts to feel alive again. Music thumps from nearby speakers, bass rattling her ribs pleasantly as people dance between parked cars glowing under neon lights.  

Asael strides down the street, hips swaying with an almost feline-like grace as she struts between the rows of gleaming cars, men pausing to look her way. A few of them even try to catch her attention with low wolf-whistles, only to be met with a roll from her eyes. Women carry a mixture of envy and suspicion, pulling their partners close with each step she takes. 

She slows down her stride as she saunters past a slick red Porsche with a glossy hood—a brown skinned man leans into the engine, grease staining his strong, tattooed forearms as he works.

Maybe she was feeling a little overzealous.

Asael leans against the hood of a nearby car, stirring her drink idly as she watches the stranger adjust something beneath his Porsche’s open hood. The muscles in his back ripple through his thin white tank top—the sight enough to make her sip just a bit slower. 

“So,” he drawls, “You gon’ tell me why you starin’, or I gotta guess?”

She takes another sip from her straw. Her curls sway as she tilts her head, “Just admiring your car.”

“Yeah, aight.” 

His lips twitch upward slightly as he reaches for an open beer beside him, taking a swiping gulp before meeting her gaze again—smirk still intact.

"’My ride’ too nice for you to look away, or you really lookin’ at me?” 

"’Could be both.”

"Mmm,” He licks beer foam off his bottom lip lazily, eyeing her over once more. 

“Maybe I need a lil’ passenger princess.”

“Maybe you do.”

The sound of rowdy voices and engine roars has her attention pulled briefly in a different direction of the night, where a group of people have seemed to gather around one particularly loud and obnoxious street bike. 

It wasn't hard to miss—no, he wasn’t hard to miss.

Standing tall amongst his entourage of groupies and admirers alike, his skull neck tattoo gleams beneath the neon glow. It’s as if the hairs on her body stand up; Asael instantly recognizes that aura from a mile away.

It was him. 

The lights reflecting off chrome and polished paint do nothing to hide that familiar stance—shoulders wide, spine straight like he was carved from stone. The flicker of his lighter catches her eye first, illuminating the sharp angle of his jaw as he brings a cigarette between those scarred lips. He takes a slow drag before exhaling smoke into the thick air—his deep-set eyes scanning lazily over the crowd like some bored king observing peasants at his feet.

Then she sees it—the quick exchange between him and another man; money slipping into pockets with practiced ease before something small gets tucked away discreetly through their clasped palms. 

Asael’s stomach twists. Once again, she could’ve minded her business. Should have. But she could blame this instance on the alcohol—her heels click sharply against pavement as she marches straight in that direction without hesitation, ready to blow up this entire car meet. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It was her. 

His gaze drifts from her face to the outfit that accentuates the natural curve of her figure, a mused twitch tugging at his scarred lips. His shoulders are more relaxed, voice calm and collected to her surprise.

"Evenin’, pretty girl.”

She bristles at the pet name; dark eyes narrowing slightly, a scowl marring the features of that pretty face. He takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke away from her direction before flicking the butt to the ground.

“You look good as fuck,” he rasps, “Who you showin’ out for?”

That statement makes her mind go blank. She realizes once again that she’s outside of her job atmosphere, pulling at the mini mini skirt. The last person she expected to see was one of her students' parents, especially the one she’d just previously had beef with. To make matters worse? He was looking at her in a way she hadn’t felt before. She wanted to punch him. Or make out with him—no, she wanted to punch him. 

“Are you serious, Toji?”

“Say that shit again. My name.” 

Asael blinks. 

“Bastard. What the hell are you doing here? What the fuck are you even doing?”

He actually does smirk—and it’s sexy—like her anger entertains him.  

"Answer my shit first," Toji rumbles.

 His voice drops lower, rough like gravel under tires as he murmurs, “Who got you lookin’ like that tonight?”

“Me. Wait—No, that’s not what we’re talking about! Answer my question!”

“I’m just showin’ off my bike like everybody else.” 

“And the handoff I just saw? That part of the show too?”  

A muscle twitches in his jaw—his casual amusement dims slightly, forcing her to crane her neck even more to hold his gaze.

That’s when the corner of his scarred mouth ticks up—Toji exhales sharply through his nose, grinning like a wolf as he tilts his head down at her. 

“Donatin’ to charity.”

The irritation runs so deep, her own native language spouts—“Donating to charity. You tryna be funny, nigga? Ou soti isit la ap fè kaka estipid lè ou ta dwe enkyete sou pitit ou a—“ 

She halts, taking a deep breath. Another breath to calm herself, she then asks, “Where’s your child, Toji?”

Toji raises an eyebrow at her sudden change in language, seeing how riled up he could easily have her. But overhearing her question brings him a sense of reality.

“You think I’d have my son around this kinda environment? Don’t fuckin’ play with me.”

The sneer in his voice has her cross her arms, needing more information than that.

 He then confirms, “I’m not a dumbass, woman. He’s with the nanny—her kid comes over durin’ the weekends to hang with Megumi. ‘Got some other shit you wanna scream ‘bout?”

“You act like I’m screaming for no reason. Actually, I can give you five more things I wanna scream about!—“

“I got your beer, Fushiguro.” 

Before Asael can finish her sentence, a blonde in a crop top and ripped jeans appears—her freshly manicured fingers curl around the neck of an ice-cold beer as she hands it to Toji with an exaggerated sway of her hips.  

Her eyes flick towards Asael—pale blue irises narrowing ever so slightly before she looks back at Toji, “Who’s this?” 

He cracks the beer open with his teeth. 

“Megumi’s teacher, Ms. Honey. ‘Ain’t nowhere near sweet, though.” 

“Funny,” she sarcastically drawls, “It’s just Asael.” 

The blonde giggles at Asael’s tone—high pitched and grating—before looking her up and down again. 

"I wouldn't have guessed,” she leans closer to Toji's side like she's trying to stake some kind of claim, “Teachers don't usually dress like that.” 

Was that shade? 

Yup, had to be. Asael feels every muscle in her body tighten at once. 

“Sorry I wasn’t able to please you,” she dryly counters, “Would a cardigan satisfy?”

The girl rolls her eyes, flicking a blonde curl from her face before wrapping a slender arm around Toji's bicep. He doesn't make an attempt to pull away, and she seems to take it as some sort of win—her fingers toying with the sleeve of his shirt with a smirk.  

“No. But maybe a whole outfit that doesn’t beg for attention.”

The girl's insults are corny, not enough to actually entertain. Asael dismissively turns Toji—her tone a bit more serious as she exhales, “We need to talk.” 

“Now?”

“Do you think I give a fuck about your play time with Barbie?” she narrows her eyes, “I don’t. Yes, now.”

The blonde snaps like a live wire, stepping forward with a scoff.

“Excuse me? Who are you calling Barbie?” 

Asael blinks slowly at her—completely unfazed as she deadpans, “Would you rather play-thing?” 

“I’m not a play-thing, bitch.”

Asael raises a brow, “Who are you calling a bitch, bitch?” 

She steps forward, allowing the alcohol within her system to take control of her patience. She wasn’t exactly thinking, either. 

The blonde scoffs, “What’s your problem?” 

“Now you wanna ask what my problem is? You just called me out my name, now I’m on whatever type’ of time you on!”

Toji wasn’t the type of man to get into women's business. But this particular interaction has him irritatedly standing to prevent an escalation—his large frame steps between them in one fluid motion, a palm landing on Asael’s waist to firmly nudge her back before she could get any closer. His grip is ironclad, making sure she stays put despite the fire in her eyes.

"Chill,” he murmurs lowly. 

The blonde huffs behind him, crossing her arms with a glare aimed at Asael. 

“No one’s worried about her,” the girl sneers, "She's just acting like a typical New Orleans hoodrat.” 

“Hoodrat?” 

Asael lunges forward—she doesn’t even get a chance to swing before Toji locks an arm around her waist, hauling her back against his chest. The sudden press of his hard body against hers nearly knocks the wind out of her, but she’s too busy spitting fire to care. 

"Say that shit again!" Asael snarls, “I dare you!” 

The blonde actually flinches this time—taking a full step back under the weight of Asael's fury. Toji tightens his grip around her waist like steel bands—his chin brushing against the top of her head as he mutters low into her ear.

“Knock it the fuck off.” 

His breath is warm on the shell of her ear; it sends an involuntary shiver down her spine despite how pissed she was—but it doesn't stop Asael from twisting in hold just enough to glare up at him. 

"Let me go, Fushiguro.” 

"’Can't do that."

She jerks in his hold, “You like bitches who throw slurs?! ’Fuck off me, bro. I’m not playing.”

He doesn't even blink at her struggling form, his scarred mouth twitching at that accusation. 

"Calm your ass down. I’m not worried ‘bout nothin’ else but you right now.” 

Asael frowns below his glare, “Don’t tell me to calm down! Tell yo’ hoes to watch they’ fuckin’ mouth! Talking ‘bout some hoodrat—you don’t even know me!” 

She attempts to lunge once more, the girl flinching back again. Toji grips Asael even harder, now pissed off rather than being irritated. 

"You ain’t listenin’. You're not gettin’ into a fight over this.“

He then turns towards the girl as he simply commands, “Go.”

“What?” She frowns, “Go?” 

“You heard me. Fuck off.” 

The girl looks dumbstruck, her pale face turning a scarlet red at his harsh tone. She looks ready to argue, but a subtle stare shuts her up. With a huff, she murmurs, “Whatever,” her blonde locks flying all over the place as she weaves through the crowd. 

The moment she leaves, Asael still feels herself still shaking— she rips herself away from Toji as she sneers, “I didn’t need your goddamn help.” 

He instantly tugs her back, “Yeah? Then why was your little ass about to start a fight in the damn parking lot?" 

“You think I was gonna let some white girl call me a hoodrat? Have you lost your mind? Like I’m just actin’ out for no reason—“ she yanks herself back, a game of tug-o-war at this point.

Toji was now fully pissed off.

His voice was low, “Get in the car.” 

She looks over to the nearest car being a Dodge Durango Hellcat—the engine hums, wrapped a shiny black with blood red headlights shining across and below the vehicle.

“What? I’m not getting in your fucking car.”

“Woman. Get in the goddamn car.”

Asael doesn’t budge an inch—she stands there, shoulders squared, chin tilted up at him in open defiance. The glow from the streetlights reflects off her burning glare, lips sneered as she holds her ground.  

Toji spares her for a couple more seconds. He rolls his neck with a quiet crack, exhaling sharply through his nose. A humorless chuckle escapes him—Before Asael can react, his calloused fingers curl around the back of her neck—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to make resistance futile, yanking her towards the car in one smooth motion. She squeaks at the sheer force behind it, having no time to scramble for balance as he’s manhandling her into the passenger seat with ease. 

The leather creaks beneath Asael as she straightens up sharply, “The fuck is wrong with you!—“ 

Toji braces one massive forearm on the roof of the car, leaning in so close his breath fans across her lips—his voice is nothing but a rough growl, dark eyes flashing with something dangerous.  

"I’m seconds away from handlin’ your ass in this backseat. Put your damn legs inside.” 

The command leaves no room for argument—his patience hangs by a thread as she glares up at him through thick lashes. However, another chill runs through her spine. For once, Asael actually listens, tucking her legs into the car without another word. The second they clear the doorframe, he slams it shut with enough force to make the entire frame rattle—she jolts at the vibration. 

His shadow looms through tinted windows for another moment before stalking around toward the driver’s side—he falls into the seat, reclining back with a sigh—his body relaxed as he reaches into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. 

With a practiced ease, he plucks one to his lips before searching for a lighter, finding it tucked into the center console. He flicks the flame to life and brings it to the tip of the cigarette, inhaling deeply as he exhales through the window. Grey smoke curls out into the humid air, the smell of nicotine clinging to the interior.  

He takes his time as he glances at Asael, dark eyes scanning over her tense form.

“You’ good now?”

“I’m fine.”

"Like hell. You nearly got into a fight over some dumbass words,” he mutters, exhaling smoke from his nostrils.

She turns her head. 

 “Do I need to repeat why I was initially upset? I don’t give a fuck about that hoe. I’m mad about what she said.” 

He flicks ash out the window, unfazed.  

“And you thought scrappin’ was gonna’ solve it? ‘Fuck you think that would’ve done?”  

She bristles at that, looking away from him to stubbornly stare down at her heels—her body is still rigid as she murmurs, “It’s just the principle of it all.”

Toji lowers his brows.

He then says, “You gotta’ let stupid shit roll off the tongue, baby.” 

She glares at him, but she stays quiet. 

He exhales another stream of smoke, leaning back in the seat as he watches her from the corner of his eye, “Don’t give strangers the time of day. It ain’t ever that deep.” 

He flicks his cig out the window as he continues, “You give them that kind of attention, shits gonna’ keep goin’. You’ll be wastin’ all your energy on people who don't matter, ‘stead of focusing on the ones who do.”  

“So what— I’m just supposed to let people say whatever they want to me? Just like you don’t need my advice, I don’t need yours. Fuck off.”

“You always gettin’ this pissed off?”

“No. Probably that damn Tequila I drank. I don’t know,” she murmurs, the alcohol within her system feeling like two cups of coffee. Her knee immensely shakes as she feels more and more frustrated.

He watches her leg bounce up and down, feeling the entire seat vibrate with her. With an annoyed click of his tongue, Toji reaches out—his large hand grips the flesh of her thigh firmly, holding it still with ease. 

“Quit doin’ that. You’re ‘bout to shake the goddamn car apart.”

The size difference is stark; his hand could circle her entire leg—Asael tenses at the contact, immediately stopping.  

To her horror, he starts to rub his thumb over her skin. Soft circles over and over, almost comforting—almost hypnotic.

Toji glances back at the crowd outside, leaving Asael fighting off several thoughts all at once. She could blame her flushed cheeks on the alcohol, too. 

God, why was this touch rushing all the way to her clit? 

She gives it a couple more seconds. 

Asael then mutters, “My bad.”

"That's all I get?”

“I’m not apologizing for nearly giving that bitch a hands on tonsil removal. But I didn’t mean to make a scene,” she mutters, making that her version of an apology, “But don’t sit here and act like if some dickhead came up to you talkin’ shit, you wouldn’t have had his heart placed within his prostate. Don’t even lie.”

Toji actually chuckles at that—it was deep and raspy, tightening his grip on her thigh. 

“Nah. I can’t lie to you,” He admits, “Difference is, people don’t run their fuckin’ mouths ‘round me unless they’re lookin’ for a problem.” 

“So people are scared of you,” she concludes, “Don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical?” 

His thumb stops rubbing—he exhales sharply through his nose, pinning her with a heavy look.  

"Fear ain’t the same as respect. I don’t want folks shakin’ when I walk past—just means they know better than to try me,” his voice drops lower, “But you? You ain't scared of nothin’." 

Oh, how wrong he was. Asael didn't know it, but her heart was beating at a thousand miles a minute—his every touch had a way of setting her nerves on fire, the rough callouses of his hands creating a delicious friction against her heated skin. His palm practically dwarfs her in size—She swallows, shifting in her seat as she murmurs, "Maybe I just don't always have a sense of self-preservation."

“Mm.”

His thumb drags down a bit, coming within her inner thigh. Asael watches. She can feel her nipples tearing through the fabric of her shirt, hornier than she’d ever been in a while. She imagines herself stroking her tongue against his, tugging his fingers further into her—

“You said you wanted to talk?” 

She hears his voice, but she can’t look at him. 

She tries to remember the question. 

“I did,” she swallowed, “About what happened on Thursday.”

Toji hums, deep and slow—his fingers graze higher up her inner thigh, dangerously close to the damp heat of her now soaked panties.  

The thought of spreading them wider torments her—begging him silently to drag those fingers across where she aches most. 

"Thursday, huh?”

And then it happens—his thumb hooks under the lace now, just barely dipping beneath it to skim over the coated flesh of her folds.

Hell, maybe she was scared of something.

It’s as if that one moment sobered her up—she jumps out of the seat as she bleats, “We can talk another time!”, slamming the door as she flurries through the crowd of people to find that Dodge Charger. 

When she does, she finds Ezra seated atop of Cameron’s vehicle, wrapped up under his lap as they cuddle like no one’s watching. He catches sight of a flustered Asael, eyebrow raised instantly in worry.

“What the hell happened to you?!”

“Summary—saw Toji, almost punched him in his face—almost got into a fight with some hoe callin’ me a hoodrat, almost got my coochie touched by Toji!” 

Ezra stares with wide eyes, Cameron burying his face within his boyfriend's shoulder to mask his laugh. 

“Oh, friend.”

She could’ve cried on the spot.

Asael was unsuccessful in all of the promises to herself—talking to Toji about Megumi, or even getting that hot guy's number. All she wanted to do was ball up in a corner and disappear at this point. But instead, she sat atop of Cameron’s car, watching as people swerved around the street with their own vehicles. 

An hour had passed as it was now time for the annual motorbike show, large custom bikes revving loudly as they began flying past parked automobiles. Asael’s burnt orange curls fly back at the haste of wind—But of course, one roars louder than the others. 

The thunder of an engine cuts through the cacophony—a sleek, black motorcycle rolls up with an effortless glide, its chrome accents catching the lights like a blade. The rider towers over most of the bikes around him, muscular frame encased in that tight fitting black tee that strains against his shoulders, tattoos snaking down his thick arms.

She watches as the helmet tugs to release his onyx tresses—scarred lip twitching as he grunts, “Get on.” 

“I’m not getting on that.”

Ezra’s eyes could’ve popped out of his head.

 “This is Toji?” 

“Ezra.”

A boot sinks into the gravel of the concrete—Toji winks in Ezra’s direction, “Your friend’s been avoidin’ me.”

The wink makes Ezra’s jaw drop—he grins, “Shame on you. Asael. You’ve been holding out on me.” 

"I haven't been doing anything!"

Ezra gasps dramatically, clutching invisible pearls as he turns to Toji with exaggerated sympathy in his eyes—like they were suddenly co-conspirators.

"Poor guy," he teases shamelessly, "My friend here can be such a handful." 

“Really? I’m standing right here!”

Toji chuckles deeply at their antics—he brings his attention back towards her, “I ain’t askin’. Get on.”

Asael doesn’t budge—standing there with her arms crossed, her refusal couldn’t be clearer.  

“You need me to come get you?”

Asael sneers, “You wouldn’t—“

He swings his leg off the bike in one fluid motion, boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. The second he takes another step forward—Asael squeaks, scrambling towards the motorcycle before he can reach her. 

Ezra and Cam cackle in the background as she awkwardly tries to climb onto the seat, nearly flashing half of the South when her skirt rides atop of her ass, showing off the black thong she wears—Toji reaches over without hesitation, yanking the material over the tremble of her ass.

"Damn near givin’ motherfucker’s their money’s worth,” he grunts. 

She shoots him an incredulous look over his shoulder—pointing at herself, “Me? What’ I do?” 

When he doesn’t respond, a small pout comes to her face. Her eyes narrow as she questions, “Do I need a helmet? It’s gonna ruin my hair.”

Toji just looks at her—deadpan, expression flat as he swings a leg back over the bike, “Then pray we don’t crash and your head explodes.” 

Asael’s eyes go wide, “What? Toji!” 

"You gon' trust me or not?” 

“You’re scaring me!” she whines, hiding her face within his back, “What am I gonna tell my students when I die?”

The way she hides into his back is sweet; he can practically feel the heat radiating off of her skin through his shirt. Her face burrows deeper in between his shoulder blades, hands gripping the front of his shirt as she clings on for dear life.

“Please don’t kill me.”

"We’d both die if you wanna be technical.”

Asael closes her eyes at the thought, whimpering into his back. 

Toji feels the way she trembles against him—not the playful, flustered kind from earlier. This is real fear—her fingers digging into his shirt like she’s preparing for impact. His smirk falters, brow furrowing as he reaches down with one hand, covering both of hers where they grip him tightly.

"Hey.” 

His voice drops low—gruff but unexpectedly gentle.  

"Ain't nobody dyin’ tonight,” he murmurs over his shoulder, giving her hands a firm squeeze before letting go to adjust something on the handlebars, “Relax, baby. You’re good.”

“You promise?”

“Damned if I’m not.”

A voice calls, “C’mon, Fushiguro! I ain’t put five bands on this race for muhfucka’s to play around!”

Asael peeks up from his back, eyes blown wide at the line of bikes waiting for the green light. The noise is almost deafening, dozens of engines revving to life along with them—her heart hammers against her sternum.

When she loosened her death grip, that was all he needed. 

With a final rev of the engine that vibrates through both of them, Toji kicks off—the bike lurches forward with enough force to make Asael screech, arms locking around his waist like steel bands as they shoot into the neon-lit night.

Toji’s voice is heard over the noise, "You good back there?” 

She shakes her head. Her eyes are still tightly closed as she squeals, feeling as the bike increases in speed. It swerves through the streets, snapping past other bikes, gas within her nostrils as engines plummet and roar within her ears.

One eye cracks open—just a sliver—and the sight steals her breath all over again. Lights blur past them, the wind whipping her curls wild as they carve through traffic like a blade. Toji leans into each turn with effortless control, his body moving with the machine beneath them as other bikes struggle to keep up behind.  

It’s soft, but noticeable. A giggle bubbles up in her chest when she feels that familiar lurch of weightlessness—the same feeling she’d get at the peak of a rollercoaster drop—her stomach flipping as they zip down the street. Yam by Yeat plays through the speakers, a curse yelling out from a couple bikers beside them as they flurry past like lightning.

Toji feels her arms relax slightly, her body responding to the movement of every turn. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips when he actually hears her giggles. 

"You gettin’ used to it?” 

She nods her head, softly replying within his ear, “I’m okay.” 

Toji’s smirk turns wicked—he reaches the front of the pack as the street opens up—the moment he gives the throttle a twist, the front tire suddenly lifts off the pavement with a sharp jerk, balancing on just the back wheel as they continue speeding down the street.  

Asael squeals, arms tightening around him again—but this time, there’s laughter mixed in with her panic.  

Other bikers holler from beside them, their own front tires lifting into the air in response—women clinging onto their men with equal parts terror and exhilaration echoing through their voices. The entire pack of bikes becomes a moving spectacle of chrome and noise under flickering streetlights.

“Still scared?” 

She doesn't give him an immediate answer, her voice swallowed by the rush of wind. When he feels her head shake against his back, Toji’s smirk spreads into a complete smile.

He can't shake the way her laughter vibrates against him—how her arms cling, the warmth of her pressed along his back, firm and soft all at once. The racing adrenaline shifts into something else entirely, something thick and heady curling low in his gut. Animalistic, almost. 

The finish line is a blur of flashing lights and cheering people. Tires screech as they reach the end with a final snake, skidding around the corner before Toji hits the brakes—The moment they cross it first, he throws his head back with a deep howl, one hand letting go of the handlebars just long enough to grip Asael’s thigh possessively.

"That’s five grand on me, bitch!” 

Cheers erupt around them as bikes screech to a stop behind them in varying placements—riders cursing or laughing while their passengers catch their breath.

Asael peeks up from where she was plastered against him earlier, cheeks flushed pink from windburn and exhilaration alike. Her ginger curls messily fly around her caramel skin, freckles bright under the moonlight. 

She pants, “I look okay?”

She looked more than okay. Toji can't help the way his gaze lingers over her flushed skin, her lips, the freckles across her nose, the messy curls sticking to her neck. Her face is glowing—she looked good all dolled up, but she looked just as good like this, too. 

He takes in a slow, measured breath—then grins, flashing his signature set of straight teeth, “Never better, baby. Damn good, actually.”

Her body still shakes, an excited jitter as her round eyes return to a slender—they graze his entire body as she lifts her arms, “You gonna’ help me off?”

"Nah—” 

Toji’s palms grip under the backs of her still-shaking thighs, hauling her off the bike in one effortless motion—One arm hooks under her ass, hoisting her up higher—a squeak of surprise leaving her as she grabs onto his shoulders on instinct. Asael giggles, wrapping both legs around his hips instinctively, arms looping over his broad shoulders as they nearly collide face-to-face.

Their eyes lock—something hungry flashes in Toji’s arrogant grin, lingering on the plush curve of her mouth before dragging back up. 

 "Still shakin’, huh?” 

Asael barely has time to respond—Ezra bounds over—slapping a hand on Toji’s shoulder with an exaggerated gasp.  

“Damn. You really know how to show a girl a good time,” he teases, eyeing their position with raised brows before turning to Asael excitedly, “Bitch! I had no idea you were into freaky shit like this. Did you have fun?” 

Asael giggles again—the sound coming out more breathless, shaky and awkward. Not to mention, Toji’s dark eyes hold something feral, something that makes her stomach swoop. 

She squirms until he reluctantly lets go—her feet hit the pavement with a soft scuff, his fingers trailing down the back of her legs just a little too slowly before he finally pulls away.

"I had fun," she admits, “It was cool, ‘can’t even lie.” 

Ezra waggles his eyebrows suggestively—but thankfully doesn’t press further, Cam coming up behind him with car keys jingling in hand.  

“Babe—we gotta roll,” Cam murmurs lazily, “‘A nigga ready to hit the bed.” 

Ezra pouts but relents, “You ready to go?” 

Asael exhales, smoothing her wrinkled skirt—she smiles up at Ezra before shaking her head, “I still gotta talk to him about something. You go ahead.”  

“Oh? Talk about what?” 

“Ez,” Cam deadpans, wrapping a heavy arm around Ezra’s waist from behind—he gives a respectful nod at Toji, "Let them be.” 

Ezra huffs, dramatically draping himself over Cam as he glares, “Fine. But I better get a text when you get home,” he says pointedly at Asael, shifting that same look onto Toji—his tone drops into actual seriousness for once, “And you? Keep her safe or I'll hunt your ass down myself.” 

Toji doesn't even flinch—just gives him a lazy smirk in response as he pulls another cigarette out from seemingly nowhere, “Ain't nowhere safer than when she's with me.”

“Go be with your pretty little boyfriend, hm?” Asael pinches Ezra’s cheeks, “You love me?”

“Of course I do! And he ain't little.” 

"C’mon. You can show me off another night—let the adults talk,” Cam chuckles, “Be safe, aight?” 

"I hate you," Ezra whines, sticking his tongue out before letting Cam tug on his arm towards the car, "Bye, babe. Stay safe, please."

"Love you too, drama queen." 

She watches as they disappear into the crowd—only then does she turn back to Toji, suddenly hyper aware of how alone they are now in the midst of all this chaos.  

“We really need to talk about Megumi.”  

Toji exhales smoke through his nose—considering her for a long moment before stubbing the cigarette out under his boot. He nods towards the bike without another word, holding a hand out for her.  

“I know. C’mon, I wanna show you somethin’ anyway.”

She raises a brow, “I have pepper spray, gorilla.” 

That earns her a raspy chuckle—his calloused fingers twitch in silent demand until she finally takes it, “Wouldn’t expect nothin’ less from you."   

This ride on his bike was particularly more calm—the engine growls beneath them as they weave back through crowded streets—this time slower, steadier with no races to win. Soon enough, Toji pulls up to what looks like an old mechanic's garage—a rusty sign barely hanging on by its hinges above a chipped red door. 

Asael frowned. 

“I’m serious, Fushiguro. I do have pepper spray—where are you taking me?” 

He chuckles, tossing one long leg over the side and grabbing her waist—effortlessly lifting her off the bike once more, “Keep tellin’ you to trust me, woman.”

Toji punches in a code—the garage door rattles as it lifts, revealing what definitely isn’t a mechanic’s shop.  

Inside is more like an artist's loft. One half of the space is a sprawling studio with canvases stacked against walls, jars of brushes on tables, sketches pinned haphazardly over every available surface. 

The other side? A lived-in bedroom—low-lit with a projector casting black-and-white movie scenes against the far wall.  

But nothing made Asael go more stiff when she continued walking forward—a wall, every single drawing Megumi had ever brought home from her class. Even Thursday's artwork is there—carefully preserved among all the others.

She takes one trembling step forward, fingertips ghosting over them. Drawings of Megumi and his father, drawings of his Ms. Honey.

Toji leans along the wall beneath the vent to smoke the rest of his cigarette, his expression unreadable under dim lighting—yet, his shoulders are tense. 

"Kid talks 'bout you nonstop.” 

Asael swallows hard—suddenly feeling ten times worse for jumping to conclusions; Megumi hadn't been neglected at all. 

“You weren't supposed to make me feel bad about this."

"Wasn't tryin' to. Just wanted you to see.” 

He pushes off the wall, taking slow steps toward her—each one deliberate and measured—until he’s close enough for her to catch that familiar scent of smoke and leather mingling with something distinctly him. The calloused pad of his thumb brushes nearly against the side of her neck—right where Megumi’s latest drawing hangs— a family with crayon-scrawled letters at the bottom: MS. HONEY AND ME.

“‘Kid don’t draw me shit unless it matters,” he murmurs, “You matter to him.”  

Her heart aches. 

“I feel really bad about the first conversation we had,” she admits.

"You mean the one where you called me a bad father?”

Asael’s arms drop, eyes narrowing as she says, “You know that’s not what I said, Fushiguro.”

Toji's expression remains stoic, his eyes fixed on hers. He leans onto the wall nearest of him, “Potentially bad father," he corrects, his voice heavy with derision.

She blows out a breath—her arms throw themselves up as she huffs a seat onto the edge of the bed, “What was I supposed to think, Toji? I mean—I’d never met you. You ignored my emails, my phone calls, my

notes home? What was I supposed to think?”

“So the first thing to assume is that he’s neglected? That I don’t want to spend time with my own damn kid?” 

He sees the guilt on her face. Toji exhales sharply through his nose—his jaw clenches visibly, eyes narrowing as he also considers her words.

“You think I want to miss shit?” His voice is low, rough—like gravel dragged over pavement, “Every time you sent something home, every fuckin’ note—”

For a man who looks so unbreakable standing there like this—muscles taut under ink and scars—there’s something unexpectedly raw in his gaze when it meets hers again.

“I ain’t built like other people,” he admits, “My shit has always been on survival mode.” 

His throat works—his voice drops to almost nothing, rough and hollow.  

"I grew up in Tokyo before I came down here," he explains, fingers flexing around nothing at his side—like they're still fighting ghosts from years ago, “Ain't exactly had my folks holdin' my hand through life. Megumi’s mom? She's gone. And the shit I do for work—the way I gotta move?" His dark eyes lock onto Asael's with brutal honesty, "’Ain't safe. My kid can’t be anywhere near that."  

That’s all he offers—but it’s enough to paint a picture—A man raised by wolves, who learned too young that love was conditional if it existed at all. A father trying like hell not to repeat cycles he barely escaped from himself.

Asael winces, looking away—she feels the weight of his stare bearing into her when she admits,“I get it. I do, okay? I understand how badly I messed up. And I'm sorry, Toji. I just—“ 

She pauses, swallowing around a lump in her throat. She wasn’t trying to be vulnerable, she just didn’t know how else to express why she made the choices she did. Her fingers twist into the hem of her skirt—knuckles white with tension. The words come out in a whisper, like ripping off a bandage she’d kept pressed over an old wound.  

“I can’t have kids of my own.”  

The confession hangs between them—raw and aching. She forces herself to meet his gaze, her brown eyes glistening with something fragile.  

“So when I see those babies every day? It’s not just teaching for me,” she continues hoarsely, “They’re all I get.” 

Toji doesn’t react at first. His face stays unreadable, but something flickers in his dark eyes. He takes a step closer—then another—until he's standing over her where she sits on the edge of the bed.  

"Then stop feelin' guilty for givin' a fuck."  

The words are gruff, but not unkind. 

"You did what you thought was right," he murmurs lowly, "Ain't no shame in that."

His words hit her more than she expected them to. She can feel her eyes desperately wanting to water, but she refuses to cry. She exhales heavily as she gives a soft smile, “Say something that doesn’t make me wanna cry, please.”

“Shit, uh—“

Toji grunts—dragging a calloused palm down his face before scratching at the back of his neck.  

"’Kid's got way too many socks," he mutters, “They’re all ugly as hell, too.” 

It works—a surprised laugh bubbles out of her immediately, shoulders shaking as she wipes hastily at her eyes.  

"I knew he was the one picking them out,” She giggles, "The dinosaur ones with the googly eyes he always comes to class with? Terrify me.”

He smirks, “‘Said they're good luck. I ain't got the heart to tell him they’re a fashion crime.” 

Asael smiles, rubbing her palms across her face to brush the last of her developing tears away. 

Her heart is thudding again, but from something else this time. Toji stands so close to her now—still and imposing like a pillar of muscle and scars—close enough she can smell him. 

“You know, I’m still waiting for my apology.” 

"For?” 

"Um? The way you spoke to me at the school," she says simply, "You were an asshole." 

Toji huffs—the closest thing to laughter he seems capable of. He then admits, “Heard that too many times.”

She rolls her eyes, “Can’t even kiss my feet, act like you’re sorry?” 

Toji’s expression darkens.

 “A kiss, huh?” 

His eyes graze over the flushed skin of her face and down her throat, the curve of her shoulders, even to her legs. Her miniskirt rides up as she sits, revealing the silk of her thong, just barely covering the puffy pink of her folds. Taking another step forward, his hands come up to slide between her knees, fingers gripping the underside of her thighs as he forces them apart—her back hits the mattress with a soft gasp—he begins to unlace her heels, sucking his lips against the arch of her foot when they find contact with his mouth. 

“Like that, huh?” 

She giggles breathlessly, “Mhm.” 

He raises an eyebrow. 

His gruff voice calls, “Yeah?” 

The giggling she does comes from still being slightly tipsy, nodding her head as she musingly stutters, “T—that’s a start.”

“Now I got you’ stutterin’.”

Toji removes the other heel, connecting his mouth back to her flesh—He sucks at the skin of her ankles, now giving both legs attention—from gentle pecks to harsher kisses,  he latches the skin into his mouth with a popping sound. Her giggling subsides with each release of his full lips, as this causes her hips to raise a bit. 

Within all this, she’s even more nervous. She clears her throat as she dumbly asks, “Um—did that hurt?” 

She refers to the tattoo along his neck.

She feels him grin against her ankle—his tongue swipes lazily over his bottom lip before he answers, voice thick and rough.  

“Nah. ‘Ain’t hurt too bad.”

“Mine’s hurt.”

She distractedly refers to her own, pointing at the rose as if he couldn’t see it. But to be truthful, she was really  trying to keep up the conversation as she felt herself trembling—why was she trembling? Has it really been this long?

"’Tell me where else you got’ ink.”

He keeps her talking to hear the shake in her voice, looming his muscular frame above hers, slowly placing both ankles upon each of his shoulders.

“S—Something on my hip…little drunk ideas at the time,” she slurs, her mouth barely able to find the words. 

Yup, he definitely was a bastard. The moment her eyes lock within his, the tips of his fingers gently graze upon her inner thigh— it halts right over the thin material of her panties, Asael’s mouth slightly parting as he places his forehead along hers. 

In an instant, she rests her hands along his shoulders—Asael grips his shirt to stop her hands from shaking. He leans forward more, allowing their lips to just barely touch.

His index and middle finger press at the cloth, dragging against the fabric down to her opening—he hears just how wet she is, dropping his eyes down as he grunts, “Ooh, fuck.” 

Toji's low, raspy growl vibrates against her mouth—the sound sends another electric pulse straight between her legs. He doesn't hesitate—his fingers hook into the silk, peeling it aside to expose her glistening heat. The sight of her was ethereal—already wet, gummy and pink. 

"Fuckin' pretty.”

She frowns along his mouth, spreading her thighs in the way she wanted to hours before—her voice is low as she begs, “Want em’ in me.”  

He grunts, “Slow?”

“Slow, please.” 

He can hear the wreckage in her voice. He sinks them in slowly, sucking her mouth within a kiss to swallow her whimper—her thighs tremble with every knuckle that buries into her, pumping out with a squelch of her pussy. 

“Fuccck, baby.” 

Her moan drags the words, “That felt so good.” 

“You’re so wet,” he groans in return, stroking his tongue against her own, swirling her mouth into a filthy kiss.

He spreads his fingers wider—filling her up with every push of his hand. She gasps, chest rising and falling against him at the overwhelming stretch. She moans helplessly into a kiss, pulling him lower to drag her tongue against his own. Toji sucks her bottom lip between his teeth, growling through their make out.  

Her voice is broken, pouty on his lips, “I’m gonna cum already. S—Stop, Fushiguro.” 

“Pussy keep pullin’ my fingers in, baby—‘Tight as hell, ‘how long since you been fucked?” 

“Don’t ask that,” she whimpers, pressing her forehead against his, “Please.” 

“‘M sorry,” he rumbles, “S’all you, baby,” he groans in her ear, sucking that soft lobe in between rough, hot kisses, “You need this shit. Open up f’me.”

Her body hadn’t felt this much pleasure in so long, it nearly aches. As his fingers pound into her, a gasp tugs from her mouth once more—she drenches his palm, Asael's body shuddering and shaking, releasing all her pent up frustration in hot, messy streams. 

“That’s it, good fuckin’ girl.” 

His voice is low, gruff against her ear, deep breaths against her neck, “Drenchin’ all over my fingers, baby’s got so much built up.” 

Her chest rises and falls, whimpering as she kisses him again. She’s tugging her hands on his shirt, “I want you so bad.”

“I’m right here.” 

He drags her to the end of the bed, tongue already dropping on her clit—he’s widening her legs, shaking his head side to side as he spreads her opening with his jaw. His tongue laps at her wet folds hungrily, teasing her clit with strokes of his tongue—her thighs quiver, raking her fingers through his hair, already too sensitive at this point. 

“You taste good as fuck,” he moans against her—she squirms again, whining—the grip in his hair tightens more as he sucks her clit between his lips in return. 

Asael’s panting, whimpering. Every single sound is just adding fuel to the fire, pulling her tighter against his tongue as he begins to lick up and down her folds like a meal. 

“‘Need you to make a mess like this on my dick.” 

She nods her head, begging with her eyes nonetheless, but unsure if she even trusted her own body to hold out. 

“‘Know you will,” he grunts, “‘Shit’s gonna’ look so fuckin’ good.”

His palm slides down to clutch a hold of her hip, using it for leverage as he starts to rock her hips forward—he’s driving his tongue in and out with relentless drag, face and nose drenched within her. 

She’s just moaning, and it’s like music to his ears. 

“‘Gonna cum, baby.”

“Nah’, next time you cum it’ll be cause’ I’m fuckin’ you stupid,” he corrects her, “Better wait for me.”

He’s lifting her within the air as if she weighs nothing—her legs are thrown over his shoulders, her arms locking around his neck—she exhales, trying to catch her breath as she locks their lips together with another moan. 

It’s all chaotic, but in the best way. His large palms hold the skin of her ass with long fingers, spanking the flesh as it’s hot under his skin—His tip is full, fat—it smushes along her folds as if to tease her body more. 

“C’mon, Toji.”

“I’m comin’.” 

But maybe she wasn’t as ready as she thought. Her mouth goes from parting lightly to dropping open, feeling as he slowly sinks her onto the heaviness of his dick—a sense of discomfort ruptures through her spine as it’d been so long—but it overrides by a pleasure that nearly causes her to black out. 

Toji’s silent, except for the low groan against her mouth. He just wants to hear her reaction, wants to listen. 

Asael’s eyes roll back—and then, her thighs tremble as she shockingly squirts along his abdomen, body shuddering as she groans from the unexpected orgasm.

He’s relentless, his palm connecting with her cheek, “Look at you—cummin’ from me just putting my shit in.” 

His hands squeeze at the back of her legs, spreading her open even wider. There was no warning as he began tugging her onto his dick, sliding in and out of her at a pace that was slow, but harsh.

Tears begin to fill her vision, gasping mercilessly against him. Her body hasn’t subsided from her orgasm as he bounces her down, skin clapping together—Asael can only sob, “Oh my god, fuck.” 

"Tearin’ your shit up so good, baby. You feel that?” 

He’s as sinister as he looks, continuously dropping her up and down on his length, gradually increasing the intensity of their movements, battering her walls while maintaining eye contact with her tear-streaked face. 

Asael’s nails scratch his back, leaving half-moon indents on her track upward as they reach his shoulders— he grabs her by the roots of her curls, forcing her to look him in the eye again.

“You hearin’ me?” This is what you wanted, huh?” 

His tongue trails against her earlobe, sucking along the reddened flesh. 

“All you’ been thinkin’ about.”

Asael just nods her head, her eyes falling down to watch the way his dick nearly splits her in half. 

She nods, “Uh huh.” 

The way he moves her body was almost effortless—the spank he gives her ass makes her mewl softly, an almost irritation along her face from how good it all felt. 

“Fuck, baby. Fuck.” 

“That’s all you got now?” 

She drags her palm against her lips to cover her mouth, unable to stop herself from the broken moan she releases—she shudders, “Fuckkk, my god. Stop it.”

He’s snapping his hip up to meet hers, taking her mouth all in one rough, deep motion. She’s so small in his hands, practically a toy almost. He continues to slam her down, over and over. 

“You takin’ it so good.”

She can’t control the way her legs tighten around him—her hands clenching onto his shoulders for dear life, nails dragging along his skin again. 

“I’m gonna’ cum again.” 

“Thought you wanted me to stop, huh?” 

His mouth sucks against hers—she whimpers as he starts to bounce her up and down even harsher on his tip, “You lyin’ now?” 

Her eyes roll as she moans against his mouth, clutching her fingers within the nape of his hair once more—she mewls, “‘Didn’t mean it.” 

He grunts in return, “’Know you didn’t.” 

Each time he slams her down onto his dick, her pussy grips tightly around him, releasing harsh waves of pleasure that seem to radiate throughout both their bodies. It’s like an unrelenting ocean. 

“Pussy’s talkin’ to me baby.” 

“Ugh—mhmmmm.” 

She holds the side of his face, giving another nod of her head—she begs, “Don’t stop.” 

“Don’t stop?”

His fingers sink into the flesh of her ass, grinding her onto his abdomen, arousal dripping down his pelvis each time their bodies connect.

“Don’t, Toji.” 

She’s starting to feel like he’s punishing her for the mouth she had before they ended up here. Now here she was—broken and needing him, attitude nowhere in sight.

“Reckless ass fuckin’ mouth. Now look at you.”

“Ughn, baby. Please.”

“‘Keep callin’ me,” he growls, “Don’t even know what for.”

The back of her thighs clap against his hips, coating her arousal along his length in white cream. It has her breathlessly whimpering, “Sorry.”

“I’m knowin’.” 

A peevish whine leaves her lips, dragging her tongue along his jaw until it reaches his lips as she weakly repeats, “Need you so bad.”

A gruff chuckle vibrates against her forehead, Toji’s hands slide down to cup her ass, spanking her cheek again and again—his tongue licks along her neck again, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its path as he repeats, “I know.” 

The room is lewd, filled with the sounds of their bodies connecting, the sounds of pleasure they’re both making. 

"’Never heard pussy talk the way yours talkin’ to me. You want this shit bad.” 

She nearly whines like a brat when he pulls out of her, carrying her over to the bed as he lays himself against the sheets. He’s tugging Asael by her fiery curls, gripping his tip within his other hand, slapping it along her tongue.

And Asael just moans, opening her mouth wider, sticking out her tongue in return.

His free palm rakes into her curls, bobbing her mouth up and down that it creates a schluck, schluck, sound— her eyes roll back, clit throbbing at the sound of his low voice echoing within her ears. She’d never expect herself to be this indulged or submissive in a man’s words—but it made her even hornier. 

“I’m so wet.” 

She admits this as she draws her mouth away from his tip, rotating her palm against the base of his dick, coating it with her saliva.

“Yeah?”

He’s growling, “Show me that shit.”

Asael crawls up his body, straddling his waist—her hands grab palms, guiding his fingers to the damp heat between her legs.  A feral groan echoes in her ear as his hands grab both cheeks of her ass, spreading the messy folds as his thumb rolls against her clit, “So fuckin’ nasty.” 

She leans her head against his shoulder, mewling, "See.” 

He’s guiding her over the fat of his tip once more—she’s sinking down onto it, her walls hugging his length as Toji growls against her mouth, “Keep goin’. Take my shit all the way.”

It’s slow, inch after inch—filling every empty space she trembles, “Ooh,” all while he grumbles in return, “‘She missed me.” 

He’s propping her up to have her feet along the bed, placing her in an almost squatting position— his muscular arms go beneath her thighs, tugging her by the thick flesh of her ass to slam her down. Cream coats through the separation of their skin, Asael gasping deeply at the sound it makes, painting his dick like her own canvas.

“Spread your pussy. Gonna’ go deeper.” 

He guides her hands, pulling her folds apart from one another even more. Asael mewls defeatedly, feeling her eyes brimming with tears once more—pleasure is all she feels. 

“Nuh-Uh. Don’t be cryin’ now.” 

"Fuuuuuck, baby.”

“Keep goin’ with all that whinin’ shit you were doin’ earlier,” he grunts to her, a shockwave being sent along her body as he’s back to spanking her with both palms.

Asael spreads herself even more from behind—she whines lowly against his lips, “You’re so fucking deep, baby.”

“In your stomach?”

She just nods.

"Pussy tuggin’ my dick,” he groans breathlessly, “Like you were made for me," he prods, his voice rough with each word, “Just needed to be fucked.” 

“Toji.” 

“Just needed to cum, huh?” 

“Yeahhh.” 

“Yeah?” He arrogantly grunts, thrusting his hips up into her. 

“Uhhhh—ugh, fuck. Yeah.” 

The sounds are wet again, Toji’s balls slapping against her clit. 

“That’s it—you whinin’ for me?”  

She just nods once more, desperate and exhausted—she can hardly moan anymore, whining each time his tip disappears. 

“I’m gonna’ cu—uhhhh.” 

His voice lowered, deeper, darker, “You got it, baby. Need you to make a fuckin’ mess.” 

Maybe this was all to break her. Asael’s mind flickers with that thought as he swiftly throws her within another position, her stomach pressed against the sheets, hips arched up within the air. 

She hopes—prays he tires himself out. One palm wraps around her throat from behind, the other holding the flesh of her hip as he grinds down, tip sliding across her folds eagerly. 

His lips began sucking at her throat, “Pretty ass tattoo, looks like the shit hurt.” 

Her eyes clasp shut as he’s making out with her flesh, squirming beneath him as he grunts into her skin, “Lemme’ kiss that shit.” 

He’s sopping it down with a growl, dragging his tongue along the flushed ink. His mouth is like molten lava, a slow burn spreading up her body to warm every pore with anticipation. 

“Didn’t hurt as bad as you’d think,” she whispers; her voice is soft and shaky, feeling him tease her entrance from behind, “But—fuck.” 

Then—he’s dipping his tip at her opening, quickly tugging it back out. He doesn’t stop. He just keeps doing that. It has her hips trying to catch him, whimpering softly as she can’t.

“Gonna cum. S—so close, put it back in.”

“You’ need it?”

“Need it.” 

Her body trembles and shakes, only receiving the drag of his hips in return.

“Please.” 

“Pussy tryna’ have me fall in love,” he grunts, spreading her apart with his own hand, seeing her opening throbbing, gummy pink walls pulling themselves inward as they need his connection.

“You wanna cum?”

“Mhmm.”

“Say that shit, then. Mean it.” 

“Wanna cum all over your dick, baby. Can’t wait.”

Toji rumbles a deep chuckle against her body, pulling her hair into his fist as he twists the tresses into a ponytail, other hand spreading her opening farther as he shoves his dick back inside—he’s yanking her hips back, an angle to hit directly to her g-spot. 

Asael feels elated, a high-pitched giggle leaving her lips as she whines, eyes rolled to the back of her head—she’s squirting again, nearly pushing his tip out by the strength of pleasure, face shoved into the pillow as she releases wildly, moaning in chaotic shouts. 

He jerks her head up as he grunts, still keeping his hips plummeting into her, “Nah. Fuck all that. Cum. Shit feels good, doesn’t it?”

She can’t even speak in words anymore, crying out, “Uhhhh—oh my god, Toji. I’m cumming. I’m cumming,” she whimpers in high pitched repetitions, turning her face towards him as she begs, “Kiss me.”

He’s releasing his grip over her hair, leaning down to kiss her messily, more teeth than anything. Her body was shaking almost as if in a fever, feeling him begin to pound her again, squeezing his mouth roughly against hers. He’s growling like an animal, the pleasure now consuming his body too. 

She pulls her mouth back from his just centimeters apart—her voice is wrecked as she softly begs, “Cum, baby. ‘Want you to cum with me.” 

That voice of hers is all he needs. His face is buried alongside her neck, groaning as his hands grip her hips rougher, a fire building within the pit of his stomach, spreading throughout his core as he buries his tip in her deep. 

The chaos of the moment drives him to a brink of insanity. To hear the suction of air spouting from her opening, Asael defeatedly gasping, head turning as her mascara ridden face tiredly moans, its euphoria.

His hips tremble as he pulls out with a moan—Asael turns her body, lowering herself to allow the warmth of his cum to spread across her face. Her hands wrapped around the base of his length as she sticks her tongue out, catching the rest within her mouth. 

Toji glares. 

“Shit,” he grunts, “‘Must’ve been wrong as hell. You are  sweet.”

She giggles. 

Asael runs her tongue along her lips, “‘Could just be one of my better moods.”

“Better? You’re not in the fuckin’ heavens after I just tore your ass up?”

She shrugs, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

As she continues to giggle, Toji locks in on her. She must’ve forgotten who he was just that quickly. 

But she’s about to be reminded, a gasp falling from her lips as he twists her hair into his fingers, tugging her eyes up to meet him so she can hear every word.

You had been feeling it all morning. That deep, primal pull—hormones surging, body thrumming with an urgency you couldn’t shake. 

You’d woken up wrapped around Onyankopon like a second skin, breathing in his scent—motor oil and cedar from his cologne still clinging to him despite the shower he took before bed.  

But today? Today wasn’t about you.

Your husband had spent the whole week at the shop—late nights replacing transmissions, arguing with picky customers who didn’t understand why their "quick fix" wasn't actually quick. Then last night? He gave y'all everything he could—dinner downtown where he let you steal bites off his plate while he sipped bourbon as slow as molasses; holding Asaan until the baby boy fell asleep drooling on his shoulder.  

And now? All your man wanted was some peace. His PlayStation controller in hand, headset half-cocked over one ear as Kev from down the way screamed about some nonsense through the speakers. But instead of letting him breathe? You were pouting. Hip cocked against the doorframe of his man cave, you watched him like a stalker. 

“You ain’t hear me calling you?” 

You asked this sweetly—almost too sweetly—fingers tapping along your pendant like a metronome counting down to attitude.

Onyankopon barely glanced up from headshotting some zombie midgame. 

“Nah, baby. ‘You good?”

Even if he asked that, his tone was flat. Finality lacing those couple of words because he’d told you already. Yet here you were, lip poked out thicker than a punished child because ovulation had your brain scrambled and patience nonexistent.

“I’m okay,” you murmur softly, “‘Was gonna’ lay out a little blanket for me and Asan—have breakfast on the lawn since it isn’t too hot.” 

You continuously rub your fingers against your pendant, “Did you wanna join?”

His shoulders were hunched forward, thick arms flexed and tense as he gripped that controller like a vice. He didn’t look up as he spoke—just responded with a soft grunt, “I’m cool, Mama. Gon’ head and enjoy breakfast without me.” 

Why were you upset? You knew damn well he wouldn’t be leaving the man cave until he finished this round. Then the next round. And the one after that. Because the game? It was his peace. One you hated interrupting.

Onyankopon looked dangerous like this though—shirtless, durag tied over his cornrows, tattoos winding over every inch of his skin. The bold ink along the side of his temple only made him seem more intimidating to anyone who didn’t know him—but you? You knew the truth. That beneath all that muscle and ink was a man who melted when Asaan giggled, who kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep.  

Your gaze flickered downward for half a second—just long enough to catch that thick outline pressing against those grey sweats before snapping back up just as fast.  

And then there was Asaan—your little caramel drop with chubby cheeks and Onyankopon's deep set eyes, crawling straight toward the man cave like he could sense Daddy was in there avoiding responsibility today. You scooped him up quickly before he got too close to any wires or controllers, balancing him on your hip as you stepped inside fully this time.

"Daddy ain't tryna be bothered right now,” you cooed lowly at Asaan, looking back at Onyankopon with those doe eyes that always worked on him in moments like these. 

You then murmur, “But maybe if we ask real nice, he'll take ten minutes and eat with us—yeah?” 

You saw it before it happened. His jaw tensed just slightly, fingers tightening around that controller again as frustration simmered under his skin because damn, hadn’t he earned some uninterrupted time? 

But Asaan then let out one of those drooly baby laughs and stretched his tiny hands toward him—and just like that, he paused mid game without hesitation—despite Kev yelling through the headset about zombies closing in.

He took Asaan from you effortlessly—the baby immediately gripping onto one of father’s face tats because infants had no concept of pain tolerance—but instead of stepping out behind y'all after kissing his son’s curls? He handed him right back.

“Gon’ eat, I ain’t starvin’.” 

His brown eyes locked onto yours while muscles flexed under tension; not angry, just pleading politely for what should've already been given freely. 

Space.

You allow Asaan to become easily distracted by your necklace, tugging at the golden jewelry under the blares of the TV’s lighting.

“‘You on the phone with Kev?”

Onyankopon let out a slow breath through his nose—the kind that came when he was trying not to let irritation seep into his tone.  

“Yeah,” he clipped, adjusting the headset slightly as Kev’s cackling about some grenade mishap crackled through the speakers. His thumb hovered over the unpause button, but you were still standing there like a lingering shadow—Asaan now gnawing on your necklace like it was a teething ring.  

He finally unpaused the game just to stop Kev from yelling louder and spoke without looking up this time.

“Baby.” 

One word, thick with finality.

You slammed the door behind you with a little more force than intended—Asaan giggling in your arms like getting tossed around was some kind of new game.  

In the kitchen, you juggled Asaan on your hip while yanking open the fridge—the cool air hit your flushed skin as you grabbed raspberries and pomegranates, knife chopping fruit a little harder than necessary before you dumped it into a bowl with some honey drizzled over top.  

Outside, morning sunlight draped over your shoulders as you spread out that quilted picnic blanket—the one Onyankopon’s grandma made you as a wedding gift. You plopped down in the grass, robe slipping dangerously high on caramel thighs while Asaan latched onto your nipple greedily, previously covered by the loose pink silk of your robe. It barely held anything in place after pregnancy did wonders on your body. 

And through all this? That damn window stared right back at you—man cave curtains cracked just enough for Onyankopon to glance outside if he wanted to—but he didn’t.

Until this. 

“Afternoon Mrs—whoa.” 

Mailman Claude nearly dropped his satchel when he hopped out of the truck, rummaging through his bag as he made his way towards your porch—his eyes snagged where silk gapped around milk heavy tits—before snapping up quick like god himself might strike him down for looking too long at something so sacredly tempting. 

You smiled sweetly though; shifting Asaan higher to cover the brown of your nipple. 

“Mornin’, Claude.”

Your voice came out syrup thick without realizing it—Southern hospitality mixed with no awareness made every word drip like molasses off your tongue, dark curls bouncing wild around freckled cheeks. 

Your voice is smooth, entrancing.

“Èske ou oke jodi a? They have you out here pretty early.”

Dear god, was your accent a weapon. 

Those soft, honeyed words had a way of making a man fall hard and fast. Claude shifted under your gaze, the heat in his cheeks having little to do with the humidity already sticking to his skin. He could've sworn he'd heard a voice like that come from heaven; sweet as Tupelo honey, as smooth as the best whiskey. 

“I—uh—” His voice cracked like a teenager, eyes darting everywhere, “Yeah, it’s—it's early, but I—I don’t mind it.”  

You reached up—still oblivious—to push a stray curl behind your ear, giving that warm Southern smile.

“Hopefully the weather stays nice. You want some breakfast to take with you? I have some fruits—milk, fresh to go.”

Claude practically choked on air when you leaned forward slightly to wipe Asaan’s mouth with the edge of your finger—your breasts just barely covered as they swayed freely under thin silk, before you tugged the fabric back into place like an afterthought.

“No ma'am! I mean—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head fast enough for his hat to nearly slide off, “Appreciate it but uh—gotta’ finish my route in due time.”

Your brow furrowed slightly—just a hint of confusion playing at the edges of that pretty smile as you tilted your head, robe slipping just a tad lower off one shoulder when you shifted.  

“It’s really no worry," you teased with a little giggle—sweet and light as morning dew— "Don't be shy. Ain't no harm in takin' some fruit or somethin' cold for the road—”  

But then, a voice like the devil had risen. Onyankopon’s deep timbre cut through like thunder rolling across quiet skies. 

“Claude.” 

One word. One warning.

The man nearly tripped backward over his own boots, scrambling away fast enough to leave skid marks in the grass—“Y—Yes sir! I was just leavin’. Right now.” 

His mail bag slapped against his hip as he practically sprinted back to his truck without another glance your way.

You blinked after him, turning toward your husband standing there bare chested in those loose sweats, watching you with an expression carved from pure steel. 

"Bring yo’ ass inside.” 

You scooped up Asaan with one arm, grabbing your bowl of fruit with the other before heading inside—still completely clueless as to why Onyankopon was suddenly looming over you like a storm cloud.  

"What's wrong?" 

You asked this innocently, adjusting the baby on your hip while stepping into the coolness of the house.  

“What’s wrong? ‘You outside in that lil’ ass robe with yo’ fuckin' titties out like it ain't nothin’."  

Your eyes narrowed, “What? I was just feeding ’San, you know that.”

He looked down at that innocent face cradled against your shoulder, that irritation still simmering as he ran a hand over his durag. 

“I know baby, I know. But you ain't even realize just how you’ was lookin’— Like you was tryna’ get the nigga attention.” 

You raise a brow, “You’re mad cause the mailman thinks I’m attractive?”

Onyankopon’s jaw locked tight, nostrils flaring as he exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. 

“‘San sleep yet?” He asked instead, ignoring your question completely.  

You hesitated before shaking your head no—because what kind of stupid ass question was that? The baby was wide awake, slapping fat hands against your collarbone like a drum while drool dripped down his chin.  

Onyankopon moved fast then—one tattooed arm snatching Asaan right out of your grip before striding toward the nursery without another word; leaving you standing there holding nothing but attitude and a half-eaten bowl of fruit.

But no, he wasn’t getting off that easy.

Your bare feet slapped against the hardwood as you stormed after him, that silk robe flaring against you like a warning flag.  

“Oh, now you wanna play daddy of the year?” 

Your voice came out sharper than intended—laced with enough venom to make Onyankopon pause mid step at Asaan’s nursery door. 

“You was real quick to ignore me all mornin’—but soon as a nigga look my way, you’re mad?” 

The words tasted childish even as they left your mouth—petty, bratty and deliberately meant to dig under his skin like a splinter. But did you care? Absolutely not. Maybe if he hadn’t been glued to that game for hours, leaving you starved for attention, none of this would’ve happened in the first place. 

Onyankopon turned slow—brown eyes flickering over your face like he could see straight through the act; he could smell the frustration rolling off your skin in waves alongside vanilla perfume and breastmilk.

“Ain’t got time for this back and forth shit,” he muttered, “Either tell me what’s really botherin’ you or drop it.”  

Your lips pressed into a thin line—because no, you weren’t about to admit that your hormones had you climbing the walls, craving him so bad it made you act foolish. Instead, you scooped Asaan right back up and marched out without another word, leaving Onyankopon standing there like a statue carved out of pure irritation.  

An hour passed. 

The house was quiet except for the faint hum of male voices rumbling from the man cave—Kev and whoever else laughing at something dumb through the headset while Onyankopon gave low chuckles in return. 

Asaan was finally asleep in his nursery after fighting naps all morning—leaving you alone with your thoughts, and guilt that felt stupid now that the heat of pettiness had faded.  

So barefoot and silent, you slipped back into the man cave without announcing yourself. Arms looped over his shoulders, face nuzzling into warm brown skin between ink stained neck tattoos as if nothing had even happened between you two earlier in the day. 

And despite himself? He exhaled, leaning himself into your smaller frame.

Your face still hides within the middle of his back—you ask softly, “You winning?”

His broad shoulders rose with a deep, rumbling sigh—all that annoyance from before fading with each second he felt your body pressed against him. Instead of responding to the question, his only answer was an arm stretching back to grab your free hand—long fingers gently lacing between yours before pulling you farther into him like he couldn't get enough.  

You buried your face within his throat opposite of the microphone, softly murmuring, “‘Tried giving Asaan a bottle. He wasn’t too pleased.”

He chuckled at that—low and warm—feeling your lips against his neck, soft as butterfly wings. 

“Lil’ man ain't got a sweet tooth for that plastic shit yet. You know he want’ the real thing.”

You pressed a kiss to the microphone before speaking sweetly into it—voice dripping like honey through its southern lilt, “Y'all better not be feedin’ my man bad ideas while I'm not looking.” 

Kev’s exaggerated cackling crackled through the headset—“Oh shit, we got company. This nigga Onyankopon in trouble!” 

Then you slid right onto his lap, hips rolling slowly against him as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Onyankopon groaned immediately, thick fingers gripping your waist to steady you while still trying to focus on the screen.  

“Shawty, c’mon—a nigga can’t see nothin’ like this.” 

His voice was already rough with warning as your lips brushed teasingly against his once…twice…before he deliberately turned his face away with a grunt, “Baby.” 

But when that tongue darted out? Tracing along the seam of his lips before slipping inside? He kissed you back for a short moment, pulling his mouth away as he murmured, “Chill.” 

With a dramatic little huff, you slid off his lap—but not before nipping at his earlobe just to hear him suck his teeth. Plopping down beside him instead, your hands immediately found their way to the rigid tension in his shoulders.  

“Mwen te manke ou anpil jodi a, renmen. Poukisa mwen pa ka manyen ou?”

You murmured that into the curve of his neck, words soft, taunting. 

Kev’s voice crackled through the headset again—this time louder and laced with amusement, "Damn, nigga! ‘What she sayin’?” 

Onyankopon didn’t answer immediately; just tilted his head back slightly against your touch—eyes drifting shut for half a second while he muttered under his breath, “Nothin’, nigga. She talkin’ shit."

Your freckled cheeks flushed pink as your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweats—giving a slow, testing tug while staring up at him with those big brown eyes that knew exactly what they were doing.  

Onyankopon’s grip on the controller tightened—his glare sharp enough to slice through steel as he gave you a warning look.

But even then—you dipped your fingers below the material, tugging the thick tip of him between your fingers. Your eyes awe at the sight, feeling the weight of him in your small palm as he was hard. 

You whimper softly, so low you know the microphone can’t hear—“Lemme’ suck it, baby.”

You didn’t miss the hissing breath through Onyankopon's teeth at that—low and throaty as he shifted slightly in his seat. His voice came out strained under his breath, "Mama.”

"Y'all good over there or what?” 

"’We good," Onyankopon bit out—the tone sharp enough to cut off any other questions from his friend. His eyes were dark as he stared down at you, jaw clenching.

“Quit playin’, girl.”

But you weren’t. And to show you weren’t? You drop your tongue out as you flatten it, stroking along his tip.

The second your tongue flicked out—warm, wet pressure sliding just right along the swollen head of him—his entire body tensed. A deep, growling “Fuck,” rumbled in his chest before he could stop it.  

And his friends? They were immediately back in the chat, voices full of amusement and suspicion. 

“Bruh—‘fuck was that noise?"  

Onyankopon’s fingers tangled roughly in your curls, grip tightening as he tried to keep his breathing steady while glaring down at you.

"Ain't shit.”

He found a way to lower his face just inches away from yours, heat behind his stare as he grunted, “Slurp my shit up since you want a nigga so bad. Make that bitch nasty as fuck.” 

And of course, you obliged as if you hadn’t touched your own husband in centuries. 

You begin by rotating your tongue in gentle circles around his tip, before the swell of your lips suck the thick head within your mouth, tongue grazing his slit each time he slides back in the hallowed confines of your cheeks. Then, you’re opening your throat, shoving him past the back of your tongue, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you gag—you whimper at the vibration rumbling through your entire body, jaw working up and down as you find a rhythm.

He looked like he hated you in the way he stared. His brown eyes locked onto yours like a starving man—watching the flush of your face intensify as you took him deeper. Those pretty lips, they began to swell and slick from drool. 

"Yo, bruh—you’ still there?” 

Onyankopon had to clear his throat before answering—voice thick with strain, “I’m hearin’ you, nigga. Y’all ready for another round?”

His fingers tightened in your hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to control the rhythm as you bobbed your head over his dick—which was beginning to disappear between your lips, schluck, schluck, scluck. 

"Look at you,” he growled low, thumb swiping at a string of spit connecting your mouth to his tip before pushing it back between your lips, “Fuckin’ nasty ass bitch. Why you—doin’ allat’,” he groans, hearing a soft giggle that shudders through his entire body, your little whine thrumming as you begin slamming his tip against the back of your throat. 

You were nasty in fact—you tug him from your mouth as you arch your ass within the air, lapping your tongue against his balls, sucking the veins of his tip between your mouth like a filthy routine. 

You’re lazily rotating your fingers against the heavy length of his dick, a schlack, schlack from the saliva between your palm. You’re stroking your tongue on his balls again, wagging your hips as you whimper, “‘Dick so fuckin’ fat, baby. ‘Taste’s so good.”

Your husband's breathing had gone ragged, his grip on the controller so tight the plastic groaned in protest.

"Goddamn.” 

His voice was a gravel-rough growl, barely above a whisper as he watched you worship him—those plush lips swollen, shiny and wet, drool smeared across your chin and clinging to your collarbones. The way you moaned around him sent vibrations straight up his spine, forcing another curse lowly through his lips, making his dick grow within your mouth. 

"Why yo’ ass just standing there getting shot? MOVE, NIGGA!” 

Onyankopon didn't even blink, too busy staring down at you with half-lidded eyes darkened by pure lust. His free hand tangled possessively in your curls again—forcing eye contact as he dragged you back onto him with a rough grunt, “‘Muhfuckin’ jaw prolly’ hurt, knowin’ my shit too big for you to swallow down. But gon’ do it for me, huh?” 

The wet pop of your lips separating from his tip echoed as you nodded—you’re pouting, but it didn’t stop you from trying either way—you took him deep enough to make tears well in those pretty brown eyes, hollowing your cheeks like a woman starved. You whimper as you feel his palm release from your curls, thumbing the controller to look at if he was doing something. 

All while? His other hand grazes at the fullness of your thighs as you arch into his lap—your body shudders as you feel his palm thwack the flesh of your ass. His fingers tug back the frilly lace at the edges of your robe, eyes rushing across the round globes of your ass cheeks. Onyankopon swipes his entire hand against your folds—and he groans—because he knew you were nearly dripping onto the couch from how wet you were.

The contact has you quivering—you take him deeper into your mouth, the ridges of his tip jerking in and out between your lips—but you can barely focus, as he’s just smacking, smacking your ass with repeated grunts. 

“‘Pussy wet as fuck just from puttin’ a nigga in yo’ mouth,” he sneers, “You ain’t give a fuck how you had this dick. Jus’ wanted it.”

And you did. You wanted it bad.

Your cheeks bulge as your nose brushes at his abdomen—your eyes roll as you gag loudly this time, your mouth quickly tugging him between your flushed lips as you pant. Your doe eyes flicker up to him as you whimper, “‘Want your nut all over my face, Papa.”

The game was forgotten. The controller hit the couch with a thud as Onyankopon's grip in your hair tightened when he found it once more, his other hand sliding down to cup your chin—forcing you to look up at him with those teary, submissive eyes.  

"Yeah?" His voice was a growl, “You want this nut on yo’ pretty ass face?” 

You whimpered around him—nodding as best you could with his dick lodged halfway down your throat for proof of your desires, spit slick lips stretched tight. 

He yanks himself free and drags the swollen head against your cheek—painting streaks of precum across freckled flesh while staring down like he owned every inch of you. 

“‘Keep yo’ mouth open.” 

And when you did—tongue out like some desperate little thing? He pumped himself slowly over your face just to watch the way arousal flickered in equal measure behind those brown irises, letting loose thick ropes of white right onto your waiting tongue.

You didn’t realize how much worse you were making things for yourself. Because then, your husband watched you lick his nut clean off sticky fingers like dessert after dinner. You giggled, rubbing your palms along his stomach affectionately—your mouth was innocent, “Did so good, baby.”

Maybe you weren’t paying enough attention, though. 

Otherwise, you would’ve realized how his dick hardened seconds after he nutted. You were still giggling, the soft kiss you laid against his chin sweet as a doll.

“Aight’, nigga—Imma’ call y’all back.”  

He stands to shut the door fully—seconds later, his monstrous frame looms over you.  

“Baby—“

 “Nah, baby nothin’. Assume that muhfuckin’ position.” 

You knew exactly what he meant—knees sinking onto the plush carpet as you turned around slow; robe slipping off caramel shoulders while hands braced against the floor within an arch so perfect, so familiar, that he groaned just looking at it.

“Goddamn, girl.” 

Cheek pressed against the fluffy rug, you just feel your pussy keening—the gummy folds shine beneath the dim lighting of the loading screen from his game, your thighs nearly quiver as you feel him—heavy, girthy—it smacks on your pussy from behind, making your hips tense, a low whimper passing your swollen lips. 

"Gon’ learn why playin' with me gets yo' ass fucked up.” 

Thankfully, he was nice enough to slide his tongue across your clit for a while. Your eyes flicker over your shoulder as you watch him, able to hear his mouth sucking and lapping at your pussy. 

You, “O—Ooh,” a tremble between the wet noises, sitting yourself up halfway—you wag your folds on his face, a small whine of pleasure releasing as Onyankopon’s head rotates in a circle, dragging his lips all across the entirety of you.

The sound of his tongue on your pussy is filthy. Wet, rhythmic schlick, schlick noises fill the room as his head knocks up and down, lapping from your clit all the way down to your dripping entrance before swirling back up. 

Your quivering thighs squeeze together instinctively, the pleasure too intense—but he doesn’t stop, just groans against you, vibrations making you attempt to lift up—

"Lay yo' ass back down," he grunts, “I ain’t tell you to move.” 

Your arms tremble as you try to lower yourself onto the rug again, hips still raised so you can peer back at him from beneath fluttering lashes. You pant softly—hand reaching behind blindly in a weak attempt to slow his mouth. 

“You ain’t listenin’. Now you gotta’ tuck them hands where they belong.”

He doesn’t ask things twice. 

Your toes curl at the loud slurrrp of his mouth, "Try movin’ me again and see what happens.” 

And god help you if that dominance doesn’t make the heat coil tighter in your stomach—leaving nothing but shaky whimpers and slick thighs pressed together helplessly. But you oblige, tucking your hands between your slightly parted thighs, allowing him to bury his face within your pussy. 

"You feel my tongue workin’ yo’ shit, huh?”

You nod frantically, breath hitching as his mouth 

takes you—but the second your response comes out too quiet, his palm cracks down on your ass hard enough to make you whimper again.  

“‘Hear me talkin’ to you," he growls, dragging his tongue back up in one long, slow stroke that has your thighs shaking.  

“…Y—yeah, feelsgood, baby.” 

You manage to mewl that out, voice shuddering under the weight of pleasure already coiling in your stomach—your legs tremble where they’re pinned beneath, tears gently beginning to well at the corners of your eyes. You were already overstimulated. 

“Ony, ’M sorry—“ The apology spills between whimpers—but he doesn't even let you finish, “Ain't tryna hear all that shit right now. Just keep puttin’ that pussy on my tongue.” 

 You drop your clit across his mouth, sliding and soaking his lips with it—Onyankopon’s tongue strokes until your apologies dissolve into nothing. They’ve dissipated into breathless cries against rug fibers beneath your cheek pressed flush to the floor.

"Ony—Ony, wait—"  

You gasp his name between shuddering breaths, hips instinctively trying to pull away as the pressure builds too fast, thighs clamping around as if that’ll stop him. But he knows.  

He knows.  

“Nuh Uh, C’mon.” 

Your body betrays you—shaking violently, thighs twitching as you clamp your fingers together beneath your own weight, trying to hold back. 

“Give it all to me,” his deep voice echoes in your ears, “Don’t be doin’ allat. ‘Fuck you holdin’ back for? Gimme’ that shit.” 

That's all it takes. The dam breaks—your entire body seizes up before collapsing into violent vibrations, a desperate cry tearing from your throat as warmth gushes uncontrollably over his waiting tongue, squirting all over his goatee. It’s all so loud and wet, you tuck your face within the rug, cheeks hot as you shy away from your own orgasm.

Onyankopon doesn't let you hide, of course. 

His strong palms hold your body with satisfied grunts, keeping you locked in place as he laps up every last drop—his mouth works slow, like he's savoring the taste of your weakness. 

"’Gon head an’ take this dick now.”

His voice is low, "Don't act like it's too much when yo' ass was beggin’ for it earlier."  

He was right and wrong all at once—because yeah, maybe you did start this mess by teasing him first. But now? That thick tip was already pressing blunt against your swollen folds, still throbbing from being tongue-fucked raw—it feels impossible to take. 

Onyankopon leans forward, wrapping his palm against your throat from behind, tugging you backwards to capture soft cries between rough kisses—all the while, he’s sinking himself inside inch by punishing inch. His tip is only in, and you gasp on his mouth, eyes rolling back—you whimper, “UghOny, f—fuck.” 

He doesn’t move—just holds you there, his thick girth stretching your walls to the point where you can feel every ridge, every vein pressed against your fluttering insides. Your moans are swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you deep, messy—tongue tangling with yours while your body jerks and twitches around him like a live wire.  

"Shut that shit up,” he growls against your lips when another pathetic whimper slips out, "’S what yo’ lil ass wanted, ain’t no need for all them’ tears now.” 

Then suddenly? You're being manhandled back into that perfect arch—ass up, face down on the rug. One hard smack lands on each cheek before he finally starts moving—“Gon’ take it slow,” He lies, because within seconds those slow rolls of his hips turn ruthless—each snap forward making you gasp louder than before.

Each thrust makes slickness gush out your folds like some kind of floodgate broke open inside of you. To make matters worse, you were loud.

And oh, you were losing it.  

"Ony—Ony. Mmmphfuck, baby.” 

Words dissolved into nonsense slurs against the rug—your entire body jerked with each brutal snap of his hips, all while that thick dick of his pistons inside you ruthlessly. You could feel your own cream coating him messily, your pussy clenching around him in desperate pulses as he forced orgasm after orgasm from your trembling body.  

The sound? Disgusting—wet schlicks, flesh slapping against flesh with every deep stroke, mixed with the obscene squelch of your arousal dripping down his balls and onto your thighs.  

“Pussy talkin’ so much shit, huh?” 

He taunts you in a breathless grunt, delivering another sharp smack to your ass cheek—“The bitch singin’ to me.” 

Each spank only made you cream harder—gushing around him like a broken faucet while nonsensical whimpers spilled past swollen lips—“Fuckkk, Papa. Oh my god.” 

When the pleasure turns too much, your voice cracks into something sweet—tiny, desperate whimpers slipping between shaky breaths. 

"M'sorry, Ony. I love you so much, Papa. Ughn…” 

You mewl it, your body arching prettily—but Onyankopon wasn’t taking any of that softness right now. Not when he knows just how nasty you really are under all those tears.  

"Bounce this big ass back on me,” he growls, “Hands stay where I put ‘em." 

And despite the ache in your thighs? You obey. Your hips roll back against him with slow, deliberate grinds at first—until the pleasure makes you lose control and suddenly? You're fucking yourself desperately onto his dick, bouncing, choked out moans as if he’s splitting you in half every time he bottoms out. Tears well in those round eyes again as another orgasm rips through your core—gushing around him like some broken faucet while drool slips past swollen lips.

Your walls flutter, gushing around him in slick pulses while long, shuddering moans spill from puffy lips. He watches you unravel like it's entertainment for him—not moving an inch except to lazily spank your ass when your rhythm falters. 

“This my muhfuckin’ pussy,” a rough palm smacking down, “Ain’t no nigga alive gon’ touch what belongs to me.”  

The threat is casual, but lethal in its delivery before he clutches the flesh of your ass in his palm, tugging you back on his dick like you weighed nothing—“‘Fuck ‘round and find out how serious I am.”

Your moans tremble out in long, warbling notes—sounding like some broken melody as your body quivers around him. Onyankopon’s gaze burns into where your pussy stretches obscenely around his girth, watching slick drip down his shaft with every sloppy thrust.  

“You hear that?” 

His voice is echoing, taunting as he slows his hips just to make the lewd squelch even louder—your own cream makes a filthy mess between your thighs, “That's yo’ shit talkin’ to me.” 

You squeeze him, as that’s all you can do. 

“Relax, Mama. Damn.” 

His command is harsh but laced with something darker, possessive, “Stop fightin' my dick.” 

And when you finally do? When those tight walls flutter weakly before relaxing, letting him sink balls deep in one brutal stroke? His head tips back with a ragged groan—listening intently as you sob beneath him, taking every inch like it was made for you.

“I love you, Ony…”

It’s muffled between the press of your cheek against the rug—so soft it almost gets lost under the wet slap of skin on skin. Onyankopon doesn’t pause his slow, deep strokes—just tilts his head down to watch where your body takes him so well before grunting out a rough—“I love yo’ ass too, girl.”

And then—just to ruin you further, “‘Always got me, even when you feel like you don’t.” 

The confession hits harder than sex ever could. Tears spill instantly; fat and hot down flushed cheeks as you push your hips back against him desperately, taking him even deeper with a choked sob, bouncing messily against him.

“Cum in me.” 

You whimper this, nails digging into the rug beneath you like it’ll ground you from floating away from pleasure alone, “‘Want another baby—want you.” 

“Gon’ give you a baby,” he grunts, “Ain’t no fuckin' way I'm pullin' out now." 

The words rumble against sweat slicked skin before he buries himself one last time—holding himself inside, unloading deep until warmth spills between trembling thighs and onto shivering stomachs pressed together messily, he’s moaning with you. 

As he was still buried inside you, he suddenly yanks you into a rough kiss—your lips part instinctively as his tongue swipes against yours, swallowing every last one of your breathy apologies like they were sweet nothings.  

You twist in his arms, straddling him with trembling thighs—your hands immediately cup his bearded face as you press desperate kisses to the corners of his mouth between whispered confessions.  

"’Love you so much," your voice is hoarse from crying out earlier—but it doesn’t stop the way those words tumble past your lips as you meant them.

“You know I love yo’ ass too.”  

Then? The baby monitor crackles to life—tiny coos and giggles echo through the speaker.

The both of you burst into exhausted laughter; foreheads pressed together as breathless chuckles fill the air around tangled limbs and messy bodies.

“‘Gonna try giving him another bottle,” you murmur, stroking your tongue along his mouth, “Might put a lil’ milk on his pacifier.”

Onyankopon's rough chuckle vibrates against your lips, “‘Can’t be kissin’ on me like that when we’ supposed to be done.”

Your giggle is soft against his lips as you nudge him playfully, “I need to shower and clean up first before feeding him.”  

“We can shower together,” he murmurs, “Then I’ll handle Asaan ‘fore you come in. Papa might get him to take the bottle, you gon’ see.”

The shared shower is warm—steamy air clinging to your skin as playful kisses are stolen between soapy touches and hushed laughter. But when he steps out first to tend to the baby, you take your time under the water, letting it rinse away the lingering heat of hours before, finally wrapping yourself in an oversized tee before padding toward the nursery.  

When you peek inside? There’s Onyankopon—big hands cradling tiny Asaan with surprising gentleness as he finally gets him to latch onto the bottle after some fussing. The sight nearly makes your heart burst. His broad frame hunched slightly over your son while murmuring low assurances like, “There go my lil’ man. Drink up.”

You lean against the doorframe with an endeared smile, watching them until Onyankopon glances up.

“Whatchu smilin’ at?” 

His tone is all faux grumpiness, but his eyes soften when they meet yours across a dimly lit room; sweet, love filling the air.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt," you reply softly, “Just watchin’ my two boys."  

“Ain’t never a bother, Mama.”

For a moment, silence settles—just the soft suckling of Asaan drinking at his bottle.

Then, hesitantly—

“You sure about wanting another baby?" 

You press, “I know in the moment we say…things. But with your schedule and—and how much you value your space sometimes…I don’t wanna assume—“

"Baby. Look at me." 

When your eyes finally meet his? There's nothing but certainty staring back at you, “If I didn't want our second baby, a nigga would’ve said sum’.”

His thumb brushes over Asaan’s cheek absently as he continues—“Ain't no assumin' when I'm tellin' yo' ass straight up what I want.”  

The reassurance is blunt—so very him. But when his free hand reaches out to tug you closer by the end of your shirt, strong arms wrapping around both your son and you—That says enough on its own, too.

You press soft kisses against his chin—a shy, “Okay,” passing against his skin in return. You press your finger against Asaan’s cheek, smiling at the little gurgle he does as he’s finished off his bottle. 

"You think Papa’s gonna join us outside for lunch this time, hm?” 

“I can't trust yo’ ass outside without me no more. Don't even know why you askin'."

You flick his temple, “That’s not my fault Claude acted like he’s never seen breasts before!” You pout, “They’re just a little bigger.”

Onyankopon scowls instantly at the mention of Claude.

 “Yo’ ass better stop sayin’ that nigga name if you want him to keep breathin’.” 

The growl in his voice is only half serious, before it melts into something teasing—eyes trailing down your chest with a smirk.  

"Can't blame ‘em though. You know what they lookin' like,” he grunts, "'Specially since you’ been wearin' them thin ass robes all week.” 

Asaan babbles suddenly—tiny hands reaching out toward you as if sensing the shift in conversation between his parents. Onyankopon immediately turns competitive again—“Nah, say Papa, lil’ man.”  

You lean in closer—“Nooo, say Momma!”—bouncing on your toes to coax those first syllables from him,  Onyankopon making exaggerated clicking noises near the baby's ear just to distract him from choosing you instead. And just like that, you were a family again. 

It's ridiculous.

Broad shoulders stretch against his black tee, tattoos snaking up his thick arms, all the way to his neck where a small cross rests just under his left eye like some kind of divine warning label. His Cane Corso trots beside him on a heavily chained leash—a beast just as intimidating as its owner—tongue lolling between sharp teeth as it pants eagerly at something unseen down the block.   

Kimora’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.

“Oh?” 

Lola blinks like she’s trying to reboot reality itself, and Ruya? Her mouth drops. Her jaw literally unhinges so hard you hear it creak, she whisper’s, “Who the hell is that?”

His skin glows under the streetlamp, deep brown and smooth like aged whiskey, stretched taut over thick muscle that flexes as he adjusts his grip on the leash. The cross tattooed just beneath his left eye winks when he turns his head slightly—dark eyes scanning lazily ahead while those full lips press into a hard line. The rest of him is a canvas—black ink crawling up corded forearms, disappearing under rolled-up sleeves, only to resurface along the column of his neck where veins sit prominent against artful chaos.  

And then there’s his hair—tight cornrows braided straight back from a sharp widow’s peak, each plait gleaming like polished onyx before disappearing at his crown; neat enough for church, but dangerous enough to make you wonder what those hands could do if they weren’t occupied with pounds of pure canine muscle beside him.

Intimidating? Undoubtedly. 

Your throat goes dry. 

Ruya peeks over the balcony, “Damn. That’s the type of nigga your husband would get mad at you for just lookin’ at.”

“That’s the type of nigga you have an affair with,” Kimora blinks, leaning towards her friend as she also watches him.

“Y’all shut up,” Lola whispers, “Girl—do you know him?”

"Girl….that’s the neighbor I told y'all about," you murmur, voice lower like he might somehow hear, “He moved in a month ago. I see him walking that monster of a dog sometimes when I'm leaving for work."  

Ruya's eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into her hairline.  

"Wait—this is the new neighbor that’s kinda cute?!” Her whisper is practically a screech at this point, hands flying to grip the balcony rail like she might vault over it if given enough incentive, “Oh my god. You lied!” 

Kimora chokes on her wine mid sip, coughing into her hand before wheezing out—“Hollon’—You never said he looked like that!” 

“I didn’t think it mattered!” you hiss back defensively, still keeping your voice low. 

Lola just shakes her head slowly, disappointed but not surprised by this critical omission of detail. The four of you crouch like naughty children as you and your friends peer over the edge of the balcony—staring. 

He mumbles something low to the dog, voice seemingly deep even from afar. But that’s when it happens—he pauses when the animal suddenly sits and lets out a low warning bark, ears pulled back as its eyes narrow—its gaze fixed on the unit you lived in. 

The man follows the dog's gaze. And then? They lock right with yours.

Ruya, Kimora, and Lola immediately drop to their hands and knees, flattening against the ground as they hide like their lives depend on it. Your eyes go wide as you look down at them, “Don’t be weird—get up!”

“No, now you have to go say something! He caught us!”

“Me?!” you whisper yell, “I wasn’t the one stalking!”

Ruya grabs your ankle and yanks—suddenly you're on your knees beside them, wine glass clutched like a lifeline as all four of you huddle like spies behind the railing. 

Kimora peeks through the gaps, her whisper frantic—“Oh my fuckin’ hell, he’s still looking.” 

And oh god, he is. One thick eyebrow arches slowly over those hooded eyes, the dog letting out another chuff, tail thumping against pavement while its owner’s lips twitch. 

Ruya pinches your thigh under the table, “Go!” 

Lola shoves you inside the house, “You’re the one that lives here!”

“I don’t even have clothes on!—“

Sometimes? You hated your friends. Now, you were scurrying down to the ground level of your apartment, the squeak of your bunny slippers patting along the concrete—you can already feel your nerves getting the best of you as you get closer to that broad frame of his, the dog immediately turning to recognize your presence first. 

“Excuse me?”

Those dark, hooded eyes drag from the sidewalk up your frame. And God, standing this close? You realize just how huge he is—towering over you with shoulders that block out the streetlights behind him, tattoos peeking from beneath his rolled sleeves as thick fingers flex around the dog’s leash.  

The animal sniffs toward your bunny slippers first, wet nose bumping against fuzzy pink fabric, then letting out a low huff of approval.  

But unlike the dog? His gaze doesn’t stop at your feet.  

It lingers on your hips barely hidden beneath those sweatpants, traveling up past the curve of your waist where caramel skin disappears under a long sleeve white tee. The outline of full breasts were impossible to ignore as his eyes flicker there for half a second too long—freckled cheeks dusted in brown tones and lips painted deep pink by nature alone; glasses catching moonlight when you nervously adjust them atop flushed cheekbones, dotted with brown constellations across smooth skin.

His nostrils flare subtly at bergamot laced vanilla curling off heated flesh. Finally, he meets your almond-shaped eyes blinking back at him through round frames, onyx curls draping all around your face and body as you tilt your head. 

Looking at him closer, your brain short circuits.

So you say—

“Does your dog bite?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. 

That one little movement makes your stomach flip. The way that small shift in expression cuts through all that heavy stoicism makes you realize he’s got a dimple on one side.  

A single, deadly dimple.

The dog huffs again, licking its jowls as it sits obediently at his side—still eyeing your slippers with vague interest.  

His voice comes out deep; gravel scraping velvet, “Depends.” 

One thick brow arches higher as he lets the word hang between you two, “You plannin’ on pissin’ him off?”

Your mouth parts a bit. Then, movement catches above you. Three heads pop up from behind porch rails only to dip back down immediately when noticed again—your friends are literally spectating this train wreck instead of helping steer this conversation away from disaster. 

Traitors, all of them.

“No! I—um,” you try to think of words to say, but you could only think about the way this man could probably see your nipples through the fabric of your top. You then manage to get out, “I just—I thought your dog was pretty, ‘wanted to know what breed it was. I have a dog—I mean, no I dont—I want a dog.”

That dimple deepens—just for a split second—before his face smooths back into that unreadable mask. The dog, sensing your nerves, lets out a soft whine and nudges your hand with its massive head.  

His eyes flicker to the porch where your friends are now failing spectacularly at pretending they’re not eavesdropping—Kimora’s shoe is visibly sticking out from behind the railing—Then back to you.  

“Cane Corso,” he says finally, voice low like it’s some kind of secret just for you, “Italian mastiff.”

“Oh,” you nod, “Right. He’s um—he’s a cutie,” you smile a bit, “Can I pet him?”

“Gon’ head, been tryna’ teach him to be more polite around strangers.”

Your fingers smooth over the tip of his head, rubbing both palms against the side of the animal's face—you lean in, “People are scared of you, hm? But you’re a sweetie bean.” 

Why was it easier talking to a dog than a man?

You realize this as you scratch under its chin—you clear your throat to ask, “What’s his name?”

"Bully."  

That one word rumbles out of him like thunder cracking over the bayou—low, inevitable, and somehow amused beneath all that stoicism. Bully immediately flops onto its back at your feet—exposing a belly speckled with pink scars and thick muscle, it kicks its legs in the air like some overgrown puppy begging for rubs.  

You blink down at the beast currently acting like a glorified teddy bear before slowly dragging your gaze back up to his owner’s face—his goatee wafts a fruity scent, seemingly oil, you assume. 

“Why’d you name him Bully?”

“‘Nigga got an attitude most of the time.”

The seriousness in his voice somehow makes you a bit amused—it garners a real giggle from your lips, your fingers splaying over Bully’s stomach to pat rubs onto it—you then murmur, “Well, I’d hope your owners name isn’t as scary as yours, hm?”

His chest shakes with a silent chuckle. A deep, barely-there vibration that makes your fingertips tingle where they're buried in Bully's fur.  

"Onyankopon.”

Your nose scrunches before you can stop it, “That’s long." 

The corner of his mouth twitches again—dimple warning, “Call me Ony, then."  

Bully chooses that exact moment to roll onto his side and nearly crush your bunny slippers under pure muscle, tail thumping against the pavement as if approving this entire interaction.

You catch his eyes as you stand, the invitation of his name somehow making you more nervous. You tug a curl of your hair, adjusting your glasses reflexively as your cheeks flush—you nod, “It’s nice to meet you. You um—live here?” 

Girl.

“I mean—you live in this unit? Did you just move here? Oh god, I sound like a stalker—I just meant, do you like it?”

That dimple breaks free again, before his face smooths back into something unreadable.  

“Moved in ‘bout a month ago,” he confirms. His thumb flicks toward the unit across from yours, “Quiet over there. 'Cept for Fridays.”  

His eyes cut pointedly up to your balcony, three pairs of hands clearly gripping the railing as they eavesdrop. Kimora’s wine glass nearly tips over—ice clinking violently as she jerks back out of sight again with an audible “Shit!” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even blink, “Y’all do this every week?” 

You bury your face in your hands, caught in your entire plan. Your freckles practically go pink as you nod, “Yeah, we do.” 

Bully whines sympathetically, licking your ankle through one bunny slipper.

Onyankopon hums like he’s filing that information away somewhere. Something about him scares you. He’s quiet, observant.

You sigh, “I’m sorry. My friends are the most annoying people on the planet, we weren’t trying to seem creepy. They…thought I should introduce myself,” you briefly explain, “I really thought your dog was cute though, I don’t have enough time to get one of my own.”

He studies you for a long moment. Those hooded eyes trace the nervous way your fingers twist together before landing back on your face.  

“You work nights,” he says suddenly—not a question, an observation. 

Your brows knit together, “How did you—”

“I be hearin’ yo’ lil’ ass sneakin’ through the gate ‘round three in the mornin’.”  

That single sentence lands between you two with all the subtlety of a grenade, his voice casual while your mouth drops open slightly. It takes everything in you not to whip around and glare up at your friends who are definitely losing their minds listening to this right now.

“I, um—Yeah,” you admit, voice dropping an octave like you’re sharing classified intel, “I work at the funeral home on Chartres—‘Embalming right now, but finishing up my Mortician license soon.”  

You brace for that familiar flicker of discomfort in people’s eyes when they hear about your job. Or worse—invasive questions about corpses like you’re some walking encyclopedia on decomposition.  

But Onyankopon? He just nods. 

He glances down to his dog before muttering, “Mortician, huh? That’s why I ain’t never smell no food cookin’ when I walk by?”

That gets another small smile from you. 

You pull a curl behind your ear, “I’m not the best cook,” you admit, “Definitely not the first thing I tell on a date. But um—since you see me coming in from work, I’ve seen you leave for work a couple of times—either you’re a secret agent, or you’re the first person I’ve met to also be an Embalmer.” 

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh—just once, sharp and deep.  

“Firefighter,” he corrects, jerking his chin toward the faded emblem on his left pec where NOLA FD sits half-hidden beneath taut fabric, “Station 7.”  

Bully huffs like even he’s judging your terrible cooking confession, flopping onto his side again to expose more belly as if trying to derail this entire conversation back into petting him instead.  

Onyankopon watches you chew your bottom lip. He then asks, “So what you be sayin’ on dates, then? ‘Sides the fact that you can’t cook.”

Another dumb giggle bubbles up—partly from the wine, partly from the way his eyes haven’t left your face since you walked up. You adjust your glasses again, a nervous habit.  

“Well,” you sigh, “I don’t lead with how I spend my days elbow deep in formaldehyde.”  

That gets another rumble of laughter out of him—richer this time, vibrating through his chest like distant thunder. Bully’s tail thumps approvingly against the pavement between you two.  

“What? That ain’t romantic enough for ‘em?”

You muse, “I’ve literally had men ask if my hands smell like embalming fluid on a regular basis. You can say it scares people off.” 

“Ain’t never met nobody who could scare off weak niggas just by tellin’ ‘em what they do for a living,” that dimple flickers again—brief but deadly, “Shit sounds efficient.”

It takes everything in you not to visibly swoon at the compliment. The combination of his voice doing that gravelly rumble thing and his unapologetic honesty? It's intoxicating in a way you can't explain. Of course, now that you’re over the shock of him not completely recoiling in horror over your profession, you really start to notice how ridiculously attractive he is.   

Those tattoos on his arms, that sharp jaw and those perfect teeth behind his plush lips—

“I—I mean yeah! Yeah, it um—” a nervous laugh slips out as you straighten up too fast, nearly tripping over Bully’s sprawled legs, “Definitely filters out the losers.” 

Somewhere above you comes Kimora’s muffled “Oh my god!”, followed by Ruya violently shushing her. 

Onyankopon’s gaze flickers down to where your fingers play with your hair, lingering on the curve of your bottom lip for a second too long.  

“Might wanna tell yo’ friends they ain’t slick.”

You glance back up, before looking back to him. 

“I might need the fire department after I’m done with all three of them.”

He snorts—a quiet, barely there sound that makes you realize you've actually managed to catch him off guard. But then, he does that thing again where his expression goes back to carefully blank. It's somehow even more dangerous because of the intensity of his eyes—dark and focused as they watch you fidget like a cornered animal. 

“Well, I’m gonna go. Yeah, I um—need to—do something.”

Onyankopon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink, just lets you drown in your own flustered words while Bully whines pitifully at your feet, like even the dog knows this escape attempt is pathetic.  

“Do somethin’,” he repeats slowly, voice dropping to that rough timbre again. 

A beat passes. Two. Then—  

“Aight.”  

That single word shouldn’t feel like a challenge, but it does. Especially when paired with the way he steps back just enough to let you flee—knowing full well you’re gonna have to walk past all six-foot-whatever of him to get away while your friends silently cheer from the balcony above.

You give Bully one last scratch behind his ears—“Bye, Bully,” you coo, voice an octave higher than normal. Then, turning to Onyankopon with what you hope is a casual smile—but probably looks more like a grimace—“Nice meeting you.”  

“Nice meetin’ you too.”

You pivot on your heel—immediately tripping over absolutely nothing, catching yourself before face-planting into the pavement. You don’t dare look back to see if Onyankopon’s dimple made another appearance at your expense.

You just scurry forward, locking your eyes back towards your terrace as your friends freak out, in which you yell from below, “Oh my god, that was horrible. Imma’ kill y’all!”

And that dimple? Did in fact reappear. 

The next week of your life hadn’t changed by much. If anything, it was a little more interesting. Ever since you’d had that conversation with Onyankopon, you were finding yourself running into him, seeing him, stumbling over your words each time you talked to him. It wasn’t your friends to blame now, you were just—shy.

That first time you passed him was in the hallway on your way to work, his uniform stretched taut over those broad shoulders, NOLA FD emblem gleaming under the fluorescent lights as he adjusted his duffel bag. He’d paused when he saw you, dark eyes dragging from your freckled face down to the textbook clutched against your chest like armor. You’d offered a shy little wave—all fingers wiggling awkwardly before tucking a curl behind your ear.  

And Onyankopon? Smirked. That dimple carved into his cheek for half a second before he nodded back and kept walking—leaving you standing there feeling like you’d just been branded by that look alone.

Then came the gym incident.

You hadn't meant to spy, but when you glanced out your kitchen window while washing dishes one evening, there he was across the courtyard; shirtless and glistening 

as he worked through reps with weights that should've been illegal in size. Every muscle in his back flexed with movement—tattoos rippled over sweat slick skin, cornrows perfectly intact despite exertion.

You'd dropped an entire plate into soapy water loud enough for him to freeze, head tilting slightly toward where the sound came from—

Your curtains snapped shut so fast they nearly tore off their rod.

But worst of all? The patio debacle. 

 After another grueling embalming session where formaldehyde clung stubbornly beneath fingernails, you stepped onto the balcony hoping fresh air would clear that lingering chemical scent—you froze when you saw him.

There he was, framed within his own apartment window tugging a black tee over an ink-streaked torso, defined abs leading down to a deep v-line, hips disappearing into low-slung sweatpants hanging dangerously loose. And from the thin material? It’s big, girthy, long.

Was this man orchestrating your downfall? 

It didn’t help that friends won't shut up about him either— Just give Big Daddy your number already! 

Giving him your number might’ve solved all the issues of your short circuiting each time you saw him, but you just didn’t want to make a fool of yourself if he wasn’t interested. So, you played it cool. 

Well, not cool enough.

The universe was absolutely conspiring against you.  

Three days after your last humiliating encounter with Onyankopon, you’d decided—against all better judgment—to attempt cooking real food for once. No more microwave meals, no more takeout. You were going to make jambalaya like a proper New Orleans girl if it killed you.  

Which apparently, it nearly did.  

You had your laptop propped up on the counter, an instructional video playing at full volume—“Now add the holy trinity—bell peppers, onions, celery—” while your Mortuary Science textbook sat open beside it, chapter on arterial embalming glaring up at you in stark black and white. Between frantically stirring what was slowly becoming charcoal in your pot and trying to memorize which vessels required the most pressure during fluid injection? Disaster was inevitable.

One second you’re squinting at a diagram of the brachial artery—

The next? Flames. 

Not just a little kitchen mishap either; orange tongues licked hungrily up toward your cabinets as oil spattered violently from an overheating pan of sausage links. In true dramatic fashion, your brain short circuited into full-blown panic mode. 

"FIRE! FIRE! OH MY GOD. I'M GONNA DIE LIKE THIS?”  

Between sobbing into your hands and desperately fanning smoke toward open windows with anatomy flashcards, the fire went out, leaving behind mildly charred cabinets. But oh—the blaring smoke detector overhead now screeched like a banshee straight from hell itself, warning the entire complex about the crime you’d just committed.

Peeking through the blinds, your stomach drops like a stone. The entire apartment complex is outside—neighbors in robes, pajamas, even one lady clutching her cat carrier like she’s prepared for Armageddon. The flashing red lights of the fire truck paint everyone’s faces in alternating pulses of panic as your manager scurries around with a clipboard, visibly doing headcounts.  

Then you see him. 

Onyankopon steps out of the truck—fully geared up in his NOLA FD uniform; thick suspenders strapped over broad shoulders as he speaks into his radio. His partner—a shorter but equally serious-looking guy with salt and pepper hair—nods toward your building just as the apartment manager throws her hands up mid-count.

You duck away from blinds so fast they rattle—but that knock comes exactly three minutes later, firm enough to shake the doorframe.

You consider pretending death for half a second. 

And there they stand—Salt and Pepper looks mildly concerned, while Onyankopon wears an expression of sheer disbelief once he gets a full view of the disaster zone behind you. Smoke curls the ceiling lazily around that still screaming detector; charred remained jambalaya clinging to the pot pathetically, your textbook splayed graphic images of embalming diagrams right beside your laptop currently blaring— “And that’s how you make the perfect Roux!” 

“Ma’am,” Salt and Pepper starts gently, “We had reports of smoke coming from this unit—”

“‘Manager says you were the only tenant unaccounted for,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly, “What happened in here?”

You're standing there in oversized sweats with a headful of messy curls, soot smudged cheeks and an expression like a puppy that's gotten into trouble—hell, you're pretty sure your nose is even twitching from holding back tears. But instead of cackling like the universe seemed intent on making you endure? Onyankopon's face remains perfectly impassive—just quietly studying the mess around you like he's trying to make sense of the situation.

You nearly sob then and there.

"I was just—I was cooking! I was trying to cook and study and—I—I didn't mean to—"

To your surprise, Onyankopon's voice softens. 

 "Hey, Mama. Breathe. You know you can talk to me, stop allat’.”

“You know her?” Salt and Pepper questions.

Onyankopon doesn’t even glance at his partner, eyes locked on you as he steps forward—just enough to block the full view of your disaster kitchen from Salt and Pepper’s prying gaze. 

His voice drops lower, rough but steady like he’s talking someone off a ledge—which, given the way your bottom lip is trembling? Might actually be necessary.  

“Ain’t nobody hurt,” he mutters, “Building still standin’. You put it out yo’self?”  

You nod frantically, wiping at your face with the back of your hand only to realize it’s covered in flour and something suspiciously sticky, “I used baking soda, learned that in one of my classes.”

For one second, Onyankopon's expression does something complicated—like he's fighting six different reactions at once.

“Good.” 

That single word shouldn't feel like absolution—but it does. Especially when paired with the way his thumb brushes over your wrist when he hands you his handkerchief, “C’mon, let us do our job so we can clear this alarm.”

Still trembling a little, you clutch the handkerchief in your hands and look up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.  

"Did I actually almost burn down the building?" you ask weakly, your voice barely above a whisper, “Because it really felt like I did."  

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—almost like he's holding back a laugh but doesn't want to set you off again. He tilts his head just slightly, and that damn dimple makes an appearance as he murmurs, “Nah. But if it'd been worse? ‘Coulda carried you out over my shoulder,” a beat, “Dramatically.”

The unexpected humor catches you so off guard that a giggle bubbles up before you can stop it—which only makes him smirk harder.

Salt and Pepper looks between the two of you like he’s witnessing some kind of code red workplace violation. He clears his throat pointedly, motioning towards the smoke detector still wailing overhead, “We should probably—”

“Right,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly without breaking eye contact with you, “But next time? Maybe stick to orderin’ takeout.”

You press the handkerchief to your face in mortified defeat as they finally step inside—leaving Salt and Pepper to handle technicalities while Onyankopon lingers just close enough— and, for his low chuckle to ghost over your ear when he adds—

“Or call me.”

The next few days were painful. 

After your apartment manager gave you a strongly worded lecture about fire safety—complete with pamphlets and an emergency evacuation plan shoved into your hands—you went full hermit mode. Only leaving for work and coming straight home, avoiding eye contact with every neighbor who may or may not have witnessed the Great Jambalaya Incident.  

You had an exam coming up, so burying yourself in embalming fluid ratios and cranial sutures was a decent enough distraction—except when your mind would inevitably wander back to him. 

Today was also Sunday. Saints game day, football being your one true love outside of mortuary science. Your two-piece set clung in all the right places, gold and black Saints logo stamped across shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass, long sleeved top hugging every dip of your waist before plunging just low enough to tease your full cleavage. Your curls were pulled back by a headband while still cascading past your hips; lashes thick from extensions, catching sunlight as your freckles glowed against caramel skin. 

You're bent over checking the mail when his shadow falls across yours—

“Headin’ out?” 

You jump, mail scattering as you spin around to find Onyankopon standing there. He also wears a long sleeve—football logo large on the material—molding around his muscular frame like it was painted on him, durag and cargo pants making him attractively relaxed. 

“Uh—” You scramble for words while gathering fallen envelopes, “I was. But Ruya has food poisoning, Lola got caught up with her husband, and Kimora just ghosted. So—I’m just gonna’ watch upstairs, do some studying too.” 

His gaze flicks pointedly towards your textbook sat atop of the mailboxes, Embalming & Restorative Techniques Vol 2.

Onyankopon tilts his head, dark eyes scanning over your figure with a slow—almost lazy—appreciation that makes you feel seen in a way that's unfamiliar. 

"’Saints’ colors look good on you," before his gaze drifts pointedly to your shorts, "Even got allat’ ass pokin' out.”

Your breath catches, cheeks flooding with heat as you straighten up—too fast, nearly dropping the mail again. His smirk deepens at your fluster, that damn dimple making another appearance.  

“You um—watching the game too?” You blurt out, desperate to deflect from how his words just made your brain go blank. 

Onyankopon hums in affirmation.

 He then questions, “You got’ a headache?” 

You blink up at him like a deer in headlights. You then remember you had been rubbing your temples before he walked over, “Oh—Yeah, probably from studying too much. I’m always squinting, even with my glasses on.”

"Nah," he murmurs, "’Headache probably came from suckin' allat’ smoke in." 

You swallow as his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer. Then, he nods towards the stairs, "You said you finna’ watch the game?”

Onyankopon doesn’t wait for your answer—just adjusts the strap of his durag with one hand, while the other gestures toward the stairwell like this is a foregone conclusion.  

“You can study at mine,” he says simply, “‘TV loud enough that you can watch from the couch while I cook.”  

The offer hangs between you two—heavy and loaded despite how casual he makes it sound. His eyes flick down to where your teeth worry at your bottom lip, voice rough around the edges, “Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout burnin’ my place down either.”

“Funny, but—I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

Onyankopon doesn’t budge—just arches a brow, stepping closer until his shadow swallows yours whole.  

"You ain't askin'," he corrects smoothly, plucking your  book right out of your grip, “I'm tellin'."

His apartment was immaculate—modern, open, almost minimalist. The kind of space you'd find in an interior decorating magazine, but with a distinctly masculine feel. Dark wood, black and brown furnishings. Art pieces and family photos adorn the walls. The only spots of color come from the vibrant pillows and blankets strewn across the sectional, Saints jersey hung in a frame next to a mini bar that looks stocked to the gills with top shelf liquor. The TV plays the pregame, volume low. 

You're too busy staring around the place to notice Bully bounding up until he all but knocks you over—you giggle as you nearly stumble back.

Onyankopon scolds the dog with an amused shake of his head, "Bully, goddamn,” as he reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, “You can't just jump on a woman like that, boy. You gon' hurt her."

“It’s okay,” your murmur softly. You place your other textbook on the table, tugging him down to lay on his stomach—“You missed me, sweetie bean? I missed you too.”

Bully rolls onto his back like he's never seen better days, tail thumping against the floor in ecstasy. He whines, tongue lolling like he's smiling. His tail thwacks the floor. 

“Don’t be givin’ that nigga too much attention, he already spoiled.”

“‘That right? Papa spoils you, hm?” You coo, “That’s okay. You deserve all the love and kisses.”

Onyankopon stands there watching you, eyes darkly amused as he murmurs, "I'm startin' to think you only came over for the dog."

“Don’t listen to him,” you murmur, “He’s just jealous.” 

You grin up at him without thinking, sunshine-bright and unguarded, before realizing how close he is. How domestic this all feels. Your smile falters slightly as heat creeps up your neck.

Onyankopon notices immediately. That smirk returns full force as he pushes off the door, “Sit down ‘fore you start petting him like y’all married or some shit.”  

Bully whimpers when you stop scratching him, trotting after you like a shadow while Onyankopon moves to the fridge.  

“‘You drink?” 

“Did you forget I’m tryna’ study? I can’t be giggling over my textbook.”

You take a second to think though, “Unless you have Stella Rose in there.”

His chuckle is low as he pulls out a chilled bottle of Stella Rose: Black, “You’ in luck,” he murmurs, pouring with practiced ease, coming over to hand you the glass from where you sit. The deep red liquid swirls as he taps his glass against yours, “‘To not burnin’ shit down this time.” 

“Funny.”  

You can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips, Bully immediately plopping his heavy head onto your lap like he owns you now.  

“Game starts in’ ten,” Onyankopon gestures towards your textbook, “Better hurry up with allat’ studyin’. Saints don’t wait for nobody.”

He settles into the sectional beside you—all casual, spread legs, one arm stretched across the back of the couch, body angled toward yours like he's got all the time in the world. Even Bully gives up his spot on your lap to circle around you and collapse on top of his owner's feet, huffing contentedly when his big hand starts scratching under the dog's chin without looking away from you. 

You sigh, “It’d speed up the process if you were a genius—you know anything about Pathology?” you slide your textbook along your lap, tucking your legs on the left side of your body.

“Depends,” he rumbles, “You talkin’ forensic pathology or just general shit?”  

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Smart man.”

“Firefighter EMT certification had us studyin’ some wild shit,” Then, quieter, “Plus, my lil’ sister a’ pre-med.”  

“Seems like the whole family wants to save the world. You’re like Superman,” you hum, “What part of New Orleans are y’all from?”

He chuckles at that—low and deep, “9th Ward,” He nods, watching your eyes go slightly wide. 

He adds, “What, you thought a nigga was gon’ say Uptown?” 

“No, I just—“ 

He cuts you off with a shake of his head—not mad, “Relax,” he mutters, leaning back slightly, “Ain’t shit wrong with being from Uptown if that’s where you at,” His thumb brushes against the fabric of the couch near your shoulder, like he's resisting touching you outright.  

“We moved out when I was ‘bout sixteen after Katrina fucked up everythin’,” The way he says it is has no pity expected—before shifting gears smoothly, “But yo’ turn now. Where’ you from before this apartment tried killin' you?"

You shake your head, swirling the deep red in your glass before taking a sip, “Born and raised Uptown—whole family’s still here.”  

“Explains why you walk around like you own everythin’ but can’t boil water.”  

“Rude!” 

“Just sayin’.”

You both look at Bully who's now flopped between both of your legs, paws up like roadkill, “He agrees with me." 

The dog yawns. Traitorous animal.

Before either of y'all can retort though—the game starts blaring from TV speakers loud enough to make you jump, the crowds roar filling the apartment as the Saints run onto the field.

You try hard to focus on your notes, highlighting key terms, murmuring definitions under your breath—but it's impossible not to peek up every time Onyankopon leans forward, cussing at the TV like the players can actually hear him.  

"Man, what kinda bullshit call was that? That’s a flag! Throw it, blind ass nigga!” 

Bully barks in agreement like he understands every word, pacing before plopping down dramatically when a play resumes.  

Somehow though? The chaos is weirdly comforting. You find yourself smiling into your textbook whenever he gets particularly animated; his deep voice growling obscenities one second, then booming with celebration next as Saints score their first couple of touchdowns.

Halfway through the second quarter—and three glasses of Stella later—you've given up pretending to study entirely, leaning back against cushions while watching the game from over Onyankopon’s broad shoulder.

“‘Thought this nigga ‘boutta graduate,” he mutters without turning around, “Now she watchin’ the game instead.”

“This class is kicking my ass,” you stressfully admit, “Imma’ just stay an Embalmer at this point.” 

“Aight.”

 He reaches for the remote, lowering the volume slightly before twisting fully toward where your legs tuck; he notions, “Tell me what ain't stickin'.”

You hesitate for half a second before sighing, flipping open your notebook to the most confusing section, “Okay, so—putrefaction. The stages keep tripping me up.”  

“Aight. Think of it like this—” His finger taps against your notes as Bully rests his head on your thigh again for moral support, “Stage one? That’s when shit first start lookin’ wrong but ain't smellin' yet. Them’ gases build up, and the body gon’ look like a microwaved balloon.” 

You giggle a bit, “Sounds extremely gross when you put it that way.”

“Stage two? Now we get stank,” He gestures loosely with his free hand, "Skin slippage, blistering—like when you leave chicken out too long and it turns green. Except this chicken used to be yo’ uncle."  

“Onyankopon!” 

“What?” 

His grin is unrepentant, “I’m teachin’, ain't I?”

“You are, Professor. Continue.”

“By stage three? Everything meltin’. Liquefaction got fluids leakin' everywhere—” 

“Okay! I got it now,” you giggle once more, “Thank you.”

“Thank me in yo’ valedictorian speech,” he stands from the sofa, “You hungry now?”

“After you compared spoiled chicken to a decomposing body? Sure,” you muse, “What are you making, chef? Since I’m apparently the worst cook on the planet.”

He shrugs off the playful insult like it's nothing, already stalking toward the kitchen with Bully following behind, “Not just a chef. Culinary King, baby.”  

He then says, “Gumbo. Real gumbo,” he tosses over his shoulder, "Ain't gon’ need no YouTube video for this either." 

You watch from the couch as he moves around the kitchen, graceful for a man his size. His tatted arms flex as he chops vegetables with quick precision, sleeves rolled up to reveal more ink along his forearms; bold black lines weaving stories you can only guess at.  

One tattoo in particular catches your eye—a small, intricate design near his temple. 

“That’ one mean something?” 

His hand pauses briefly on the pot. 

“Yeah.”  

A beat passes where the only sound is sizzling roux. Finally, “Got jumped in at fourteen,” he murmurs, “Took my face tat’ the same night.”  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s good, shawty. You jus’ wanna know.”

He then continues, “Lost my lil’ brother not too long after,” The words come out rough-edged, “Wrong place, wrong time type shit. Made me realize ain't no glory in that street shit either way.”

The confession hangs heavy between the both of you. 

“‘Moved Uptown right after," His voice gentles, “I finished school, got into the fire academy straight out. ‘Wanted do somethin' that mattered more than colors onna’ block."

You exhale, absorbing the weight of his answer. 

A few beats pass before you venture, “I think you matter. Firefighter sounds much more cool than some nigga inna’ gang anyway.”  

He huffs out a soft chuckle at that, “You think I don’t know I’m cool?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips, “No, mister humble. You really don’t know just how cool you are.”

You expect a retort—maybe that cocky smirk you've come to find weirdly endearing—but he surprises you with a genuine expression instead. It's softer, less guarded than his usual demeanor; the kind that makes you realize he isn't used to taking compliments.  

Something about that makes your heart skip a beat, but he recovers quick enough—that smirk is back in full force as he murmurs, “You know what is more important than allat’? Food. This gumbo ‘boutta be straight fire, too.”

“Lawd, here he go’. I’m judging like Gordon Ramsay.” 

“That’s cool. We gon’ see.”

The fourth glass of Stella has definitely done its job—loosening your limbs, flushing your skin, making every thought move slower.  

Your textbook lays forgotten on the coffee table as you lounge against Bully like a makeshift pillow, fingers lazily stroking his fur while your gaze lingers on Onyankopon with newfound boldness.

Onyankopon checks on you as you’re silent—he turns to see your low eyes, thick lashes locking onto him from across the kitchen island. 

“Yo’ headache gone?”

You swallow hard around sudden dryness in your throat, managing a weak nod followed by mumbled agreement, “Mhm.” 

You don’t realize, but you’re smiling a bit.

"Uh huh," he rumbles, “You definitely feelin' that wine."

He wipes his hands on a towel before rounding the island toward you—each step deliberate, unhurried—until he’s towering over where you’re slumped against Bully.  

"You good?" his thumb brushes your chin to tilt your face up toward him, "Or I need to cut you off?"

"I'm fine," You murmur—a little too breathless for someone who's supposed to be studying, “I thought you were feedin’ me?” you mindlessly pout in his palm, not realizing how you look beneath him.

He tuts softly, thumb tracing just under your chin, "Now why’ you lookin’ at me like that?" 

"Like what?"

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—half amusement, half something far more dangerous as he leans in, “You gone, shawty. Imma’ get you some water.” 

There’s a sharp, unwelcome pang in your chest when he pulls away—one that sobers you up faster than any water ever could. You straighten yourself out quietly, adjusting your top and clearing your throat as if that could erase the way his touch lingered. 

Bully whines when Onyankopon snaps his fingers twice toward the hall—“Go on,” The dog obeys instantly, throwing you one last glance before trotting off toward his play room. 

He returns with two steaming bowls of gumbo, perfectly dark roux, plump shrimp glistening on top. His large frame settles beside you with far more distance than before. Now you really felt rejected.

You take a few bites of that gumbo and have to resist a reaction. It's perfection—thick, rich, brimming with spices as it slides down your tongue. You can't help but hum in utter satisfaction, eyes nearly drifting shut as you murmur, "Hate to say how good this actually is.” 

Onyankopon chuckles softly at the sight, a low rumble that resonates through the space between you two.

“Told you it was gon' be fire."

You roll your eyes, taking another bite. Your head's spinning from the alcohol, but it's nothing compared to the dizzying rush you feel under his gaze whenever you look over at him. You swallow thickly.

"Listen, I'm sorry if I’m a little too tipsy," You apologize, “It’s been a while since I drank without eating.”

He shakes his head, watching you with that same quiet intensity as he leans back against the couch.  

"You ain't gotta apologize for nothin’," he says simply, voice low, “I wasn’t tryna’ make you feel bad. ‘Long as you’ good? That’s all that matters to me.” 

His words settle over you like a blanket—warm, reassuring. 

After a beat of comfortable silence between bites and faint commentary from the game still playing, Onyankopon tilts his head toward your abandoned textbook on the coffee table, “So why embalmin'?" 

He asks this casually—like it's normal dinner conversation, “Ain’t many people wake up one day thinkin’ they wanna drain bodies for a livin’.” 

The question catches you off guard enough that laughter bubbles out. You compose yourself again, “It sounds bad when you put like that,” You admit with a slight shake of your head.

Your fingers trace the rim of the bowl while gathering your thoughts. You then sigh, “I’ve always been fascinated by death. Not in a morbid way, but—“ you search for the right words—“More about how we treat it? Honor it? My grandmother used to tell me stories growing up about how they’d wash the dead themselves before burial, and sit with them the whole night so the spirits weren't alone.”

Then quieter, you almost become shy about the subject matter. 

“I wanted to do work that meant something even if nobody ever thanked me for it.”

You pause mid rambling, a shy giggle releasing your lips. Onyankopon encourages your words with a quiet, “Keep goin’.” 

He is so goddamn attractive like this—focused on you completely while his food goes ignored, “I'll listen all night."

The warmth of alcohol and his attention makes you soften. You lean your head against the couch, studying him with a lazy, appreciative smile.  

"Sweet," you murmur, "Even though you look like you could break me in half."  

Onyankopon's smirk is instant—sharp and knowing as he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees again. But he doesn’t deny it; just lets that statement linger between you like a challenge. 

"When was the last time somebody had all this?" Your fingers gesture vaguely at his whole existence, "Don't lie either."

He blinks, expression unchanging for a beat before shrugging—almost too nonchalant, “Couple months." 

You raise a skeptical brow, "Couple months,” you echo mockingly, "That’s all?" 

"Why?" He returns, "You got a nigga or sum’?"

Your expression deadpans, “Don’t be funny, nigga. Why would I be here if I did?”

"Ain't tryna’ be funny. Just askin'."

When he speaks again, his voice is much rougher than before. 

"When was the last time you been’ with somebody, then?"

You exhale slowly, swirling the last of your wine before finishing it off. The admission feels heavier now that it’s out in the open—floating between you two like something tangible.  

"A year," you admit with a slight shrug, "Not for any big reason. Just felt like breakin’ the streak wasn’t worth it.” 

Your fingers trace the rim of your empty glass absently before adding quieter, "Especially not when I got school and this career to focus on."  

His gaze remains steady on yours; a silent, almost dangerous intensity as he murmurs, "Ain’t nobody had you inna’ year?”

You swallow hard, thighs clenching involuntarily as you force yourself to keep your composure. But as you go to part your lips—the game roars within the room, catching your attention and cutting the tension you’d felt before.

You giggle a little awkwardly, suddenly needing to do something—anything to shake off the lingering heat between you two. Washing dishes sounded pretty excusable. 

“I got these.”

Onyankopon watches you for a beat as you make your way to the kitchen, only a beat. He then pushes off the couch with a quiet chuckle, following you into the kitchen anyway. You feel him before you see him—his broad frame crowds behind you, reaching around to rinse his own bowl under the sink water. 

“Thought I was doin’ those?” You question halfheartedly—eyes flicking over your shoulder to eye him, “I told you I had it.”

He doesn’t answer right away—just turns off the faucet and places his dishes aside without breaking contact with your body once. It happens so subtly—strong arms snake around waist from behind, pulling you gently against him in one slow motion until there is no space left between.

 His chin rests atop of your shoulder that it makes you giggle, the sound breathless as you let your head tilt back against him. He rests atop your curls while the both of you sway gently—like there's some slow song playing only the two of you can hear.  

"’Thought you were supposed to be watching the game, Ony.” 

"Game borin’.” 

Then? 

"Been tryna' be good all night,” He admits gruffly into your skin—his fingers tighten their grip ever so slightly at your hips when he feels the way they tremble, "Ain't workin’.”

Your breath hitches when his lips press against your neck—warm, soft, teasing. You can’t help but hum nervously, squirming slightly in his hold. 

“Ony.” 

You giggle playfully, but it comes out more like a whine when he drags another slow kiss just below your ear.

His hands rub soothing circles against your waist like he’s trying to calm you down, even as he continues trailing those maddeningly light kisses along the column of your throat.  

"Stop actin' scared,” He murmurs, “Ain’t gotta’ run from me.”

You lean back fully against him, tilting your head up just enough for your nose to brush against his. Another giggle, met with a low chuckle both filled with heat. Onyankopon’s breath fans over your lips—warm—before you close that tiny distance yourself, pulling him down into a slow, deep kiss.  

His grip tightens on your waist as soon as your lips meet, the sound of soft sucking filling the kitchen between shaky exhales. You can feel his tongue slide against yours in lazy strokes—no rush, just pure indulgence—each press of his mouth making the heat coil tighter in your stomach until you’re panting between kisses.  

Your heads tilt opposite ways naturally every time he pulls back slightly before diving back in; noses bumping playfully, locking together again even deeper than before. That’s when you stick your tongue out, fully stroking it with his. 

Onyankopon breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur, "Goddamn,” before he grabs your face and yanks you back up against him with a hungry grunt—tongue licking into your mouth immediately.  

He’s sucking your bottom lip, tugging it between teeth before slipping between your open mouth again; that’s when you feel a smack on your ass—you squeak breathlessly, giggling as you tug your mouth away—“Bully’s barking, Ony.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch at the sound of Bully’s distant barking. He just slides one hand up to cradle the back of your neck, tilting your face back toward his with a low, throaty growl.  

“Fuckin’ hell, Bully.” 

His mouth crashes into yours again—hotter this time, hungrier, tongue sweeping past your lips before you can even process the curse. You finally manage to think, pulling away long enough to murmur, “You gotta—“ you swallow hard when the words come out in a hoarse exhale, “‘Gotta feed him.” 

It takes a beat for his breathing to even out—a rough exhale as he leans forward, chasing your mouth for a second kiss that you manage to evade with a breathless laugh. He exhales roughly, “You’ tryna’ kill a nigga.”

“You can show me to your room first,” you hum, “Carry me?”

Onyankopon doesn't hesitate—his hands slide under your thighs in one smooth motion, hoisting you up effortlessly as you wrap your legs around his waist.  

"Greedy.”

He’s stealing another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours as he walks backward through the apartment without looking away from you once.  

His bedroom is exactly what you’d expect—dimly lit sunset LED strips running along the ceiling, casting shadows over sleek black furniture. The walls are adorned with bold, striking paintings; splashes of color against dark canvases that look like they cost a fortune. A massive king-sized bed dominates the space, neatly made black satin sheets practically gleaming under the glow of those lights.

Onyankopon carries you straight to it without breaking stride—barely managing to kick his door shut behind him before dumping you unceremoniously onto that sea of silk. You bounce once before he’s crawling over you with slow precision; one hand already tugging at your waistband while his mouth finds yours again in a kiss so filthy it should be illegal. He’s dropping his tongue in your mouth, snarling against your lips like he’s hungry for you. 

“This whatchu’ wanted?” 

You stifle kisses through giggles, fingers tracing along his sharp jawline. He groans into your mouth—low and guttural, before you break the kiss to teasingly murmur, "Go feed Bully," against swollen, reddened, lips. 

Onyankopon exhales heavily, "You can’t keep playin’ wit’ me.” 

Your tongue runs across his mouth, “I’ll be here,” sucking on his lips, making that your promise.

Another groan, this time even darker than the previous one. He reluctantly pushes himself off the bed, eyes flashing dangerous when he looks down at you.   

"Behave, girl.” 

You hear him murmuring to Bully in the other room—low, affectionate growls of “Yeah, yeah—eat,” The sound of kibble hitting a bowl follows as you glance around his space again, eyes catching on the small tray tucked neatly on his nightstand. A half-rolled blunt rests atop it alongside a lighter and some rolling papers.  

Before you can investigate further, the door creaks open again—Onyankopon leans against the frame with eyes only on you.

“Nosy.” 

You’re like something out of his fantasy. Your freckles dance beneath the lights of the room, curls draping around your curvy frame at the position you sit along the bed. You sit along your knees as you lean forward, “‘Missed me?”

He’s tongue in cheek—big hands already working at the buckle of his belt, expressing pure hunger as he locks onto where you’re sprawled across his sheets. 

"I did. I’m done playin' nice with yo’ ass too.”

Your lips curl into a slow, teasing smile as your eyes rake over him—tatted arms flexing as he undoes that belt, that hungry glare in his gaze fixated. 

“So…Firefighter Onyankopon,” you purr, “They don’t drug test you?”  

His smirk deepens as he stalks closer, knees pressing into the mattress where you lounge. One hand grips your ankle to drag you firmly towards him, “Nah,” then, “You tryna smoke?”  

You bite down on your lower lip, “Mhm.” 

Onyankopon stands at the edge of the bed, blunt already rolled and sealed between his lips as he flicks the lighter. The flame hisses to life, illuminating the sharp planes of his face for just a second—cheeks hollowing as he takes that first deep pull. Smoke swirls around him when he exhales slowly, eyes locked onto you like prey through low lids. He holds it out between two fingers—taunting as he curls his fingers towards himself.

“Come get it,” His voice is rough with smoke and something darker; command laced beneath amusement.

And at his words? You crawl.

Knees pressed into satin sheets, your hips sway with each deliberate movement until you’re close enough to smell that rich, earthy sweetness clinging to him. His free hand grips your chin at the last second—holding you back from taking it, leaning down so his next exhale coats your parted lips in hazy warmth.

“‘Thought I told yo’ ass not to tease no more,” he grunts, letting go, “Open.” 

You lean back just enough to take a deep pull from the blunt, holding the smoke in your lungs before exhaling slowly—right into his face with a wicked grin on your full lips.

Onyankopon doesn’t flinch. Just watching, those dark eyes tracking every shift of your mouth—every taunting breath out. He finds a grip on your throat, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver.

"Told you,” he murmurs lowly, voice roughened by smoke, “Play too fuckin’ much.” 

You slide your palm beneath his shirt, rubbing the sculpt of his tatted abdomen. 

He grunts, “‘Gon' learn today.” 

Your teeth dip into the plush of your lip, tugging your hands along the hem of his pants—your lashes flutter, “Lemme’ put it in my mouth, Ony.”

His grip on your neck tightens. Onyankopon’s head tilts slightly, eyes going dark enough to match the room, those muscles jumping against your skin in anticipation.  

“Gon’ head.”

The moment you tug his tip from beneath his briefs? It nearly smacks you in the face, bigger than you imagined it to be. It’s veiny under your tiny palm, and the size of it makes you horny. You drag your tongue against the entire length of him, wrapping your lips along the tip as you immediately begin sucking.

“Fuck,” he groans—low and rough—you’re so crossfaded that you’re already stroking him up and down with your hand and tongue together before pulling up—sloppy as saliva drools from your lips, dragging until he falls free. You look up at him through your own reddened eyes, pupils blown wide, just a moment before he grabs onto your hair, guiding you back down.  

 “Look at me wit’ them muhfuckin’ eyes.” 

You do, mouth open and tongue out. He grunts, smoke spilling from between his own lips.

The sight of your mouth wrapped so perfectly around him was like a dream, poking through your cheek from his size. Even the taste of him is dark and rich, mixed with the sweet burn of the blunt—that scent and smoke swirling in the air as he takes another pull.

You move faster to make him moan, sucking him deep. He drops the blunt somewhere to grab your head with his free hand—thick fingers digging into your curls in ways that make you whine as he guides you against him. You’re taking him as deep as you can—throating him, your mouth tugging back as you whimper, “‘Dick so pretty, baby.”

The air fills with the sounds of your moans and his deep grunts, the scent of weed and smoke still lingering. He’s using your mouth like it was made for him, like your mouth was made to take him, “Mouth so fuckin’ soft, Mama. You suckin’ this dick.” 

You try to respond between wet, rough sucks— all you can manage are slurred whimpers that somehow make him fuller in your mouth. You pull back once more, “Spit on it.”

He obliges, of course.

Onyankopon lowered his mouth, dropping spit on his own dick. It’s dirty, sloppy. But seeing you like this? Mindless, pliant— was like no other. You grip the base in your fist and drool onto him, coating those veined ridges with your own mess before swallowing him again.   

You don’t stop—you stick your pink, slippery tongue out, drooling down the length of him—slicking it up good. He makes a sound in his chest that’s almost animal, thick fingers holding you still while he strokes it against your tongue—you just moaned. 

 It’s rough and delicious as you slurp and drool, taking him down while sliding your hands up and down over what you can’t reach—your eyes nearly flutter shut as you slur out, "Taste sogood, baby.” 

He’s all you can taste.

Your pretty eyes are a haze, curls draping through his fingers like sable oceans. You’re lazily stroking him now as you pull your mouth back—you run your tongue along your lips as you whimper, “So big, Ony. Not gonna’ fit in me.”

His smirk is cocky as you salivate on him, eyes half-lidded but laser-focused on the way your mouth moves along his shaft. He’s too big to take, and he knows it.

“Nah, ain’t gon’ fit you,” he agrees, voice gruff, “Gon’ make you fit me.”   

You give him that dazed look again, eyes muddled—drunk off his smell, his taste— your hands grip him again and start stroking him back and forth. His hand cups the back of your neck once more—firm but careful, holding you still as he strokes himself into your mouth over, over and over again. 

Maybe pleasuring him was distracting your own thoughts of having to take him—but it seems you’ve been caught, as Onyankopon yanks you by your curls, tugging you back in a way to lock your lips with his own. You’re both greedy as you push your head deeper when you kiss one another, tongue sliding against his like you’d never kiss him again.

It’s as if you didn’t just have him bulging within your mouth. The moment his fingers slide down your stomach, dipping beneath your shorts as your legs spread open beneath him—your body tenses, dragging your fingers along the back of his neck as you kiss him shyly.

The sight of your pussy was mesmerizing—already soaked, flushed pink and twitching beneath your shorts. 

“Yo’ shit prettier than a muhfucka’," Onyankopon murmurs—half to himself, half a rough compliment aimed at the way you shudder when his thumb drags through your slick folds. You tremble, hips jerking up off the mattress with a small gasp—your grip on his neck tightens all at once, all while those thick fingers begin working slow circles over your clit.

It’s no words, just a high pitched whimper escaping your swollen lips.

You pout along his mouth, spreading your legs just a bit more—your voice is so soft, begging as you mewl, “Put em’ in me.” 

He grunts, “Imma’ slide them in slow.”

You nod, shuddering. That’s exactly how you want it. 

Onyankopon’s thumb stills at your clit—the roughness of his fingers drags down, sinking inside so slow—he presses forward, burying nearly to the knuckle with a single push.  

You don’t expect the reaction you give—but a year of no sexual activity in fact leaves you tight, two fingers nearly being the death of you in this moment. It feels so good, you’re creaming on his fingers, tears glistening within your eyes as you sob in pleasure, “Oh my god, Ony.”

“Why’ this shit so fuckin’ wet already?” He grumbles through his own parted mouth—his palm grinds over your clit, dropping his fingers in, listening to your folds squelch in return. It doesn’t help that Onyankopon’s grunting into your mouth every time his fingers sink in. 

You tug your mouth inches from his—you mindlessly pant, “I needed that so bad,” it’s soft, breathy as he adds another finger in even slower. 

“Keep talkin’ to me.”

“They’re so big,” you softly whimper, “Stretchin’ me.” 

When his fingers curl, you gasp—your mouth pulls back from his, palm reaching for his fingers to tug them out—you feel his other hand grip you by the throat, yanking your mouth back onto his. 

“Ion’ do that runnin’ shit,” he grunts, “You gon’ take me.”

His fingers slide right back in, spreading you wide as he sinks down to the knuckle once more. It’s hard to catch your balance when he’s rocking you onto his fingers like this—your hands find his wide shoulders to grip onto, head spinning at this point. 

You’re shaking—trembling beneath him as he growls into your kiss, those big hands clenching harder against your neck before sliding down. He licks your lips, “Goodbaby. Watch my fingers just goin’ in.” 

And you do. In and out, they’re just going. 

Maybe he was just good with his hands—in seconds, your shorts are removed, back fully hitting the soft comforter—your clit is being stroked by his tongue, all while his fingers still plummet in and out of you.

He’s so rough—hungry as his mouth feasts on you, eating you out like a man starved of oxygen. Your moans get lost in the sheets, every sensation sending you into a spiral as you’re trapped beneath him, fingers still stretching you out just right. And the noises, they’re getting wetter and messier each minute. 

You’re panting, “Fuck, baby.” 

“This bitch drippin’,” he murmured against your clit, another lick as you mewled helplessly, hands clenching the sheets beneath your fingers, writhing against his mouth that was eating you messily. Your legs are shaking, thighs attempting to close around his head.

“Hold ‘em back.” 

He’s reaching for your thighs in that warning voice. His tongue flattens over your clit, sucking. 

That’s when your vision starts to fade, head spinning as you desperately try to stay present with him. You nod your compliance though, pouting as you hold your thighs open by the tips of your nails, spreading your pussy open. 

You mewl to him, “Wanna’ watch your tongue go in me, baby.”

His tongue plunges in with a grunt of, “That’s a gooood fuckin’ girl.” 

Your back arches off the bed, head tilting all the way back. It’s just too much, being filled like this—every nerve lighting hot and sensitive with so much of him all at once. 

“You’ so wet.” 

He sounds lost—voice disappearing between strokes of his tongue, “You. So. Fuckin’. Wet,” sinking inside—his fingers take over again, pumping thick and slow, “You taste good everywhere, girl. Goddamn.”  

He’s eating you faster, moaning as his mouth works at your clit again—his tongue slips in between your spread folds, lapping like a canine. You’re shaking beneath him, head in the clouds with nothing but gasps to give. 

Your hand reaches down to grip the back of his head—and he doesn’t resist, just allows you to guide his mouth right where you need him most. Your legs shake on either side of his head as he buries his face into your clit, “I’m goin’ all in, baby. Keep droppin’ yo’ shit on my tongue.” 

You were gonna blackout if you let him keep going. You pull him up by the coil of his goatee, sliding your tongue into his mouth with a moan. Hands grip your waist under your shirt as you both share another messy, nasty kiss. You feel his hands pushing your top up, freeing your huge, heavy tits—and then, his mouth is on them. 

Something about your nipples being sucked always made you infinitely more horny—you breathily giggle as you whimper, “Ooh, baby. I love that.”

His mouth was insistent—taking turns with your stiff nipples in his mouth, suckling and licking as they hardened more. He was rough as he grunted, “Pretty ass fuckin’ titties,” tongue circling them in the best way, teeth tugging just right. 

You ramble, “Imma’ take your dick so good, Daddy.” 

Onyankopom grunts at the name. Your grip on his durag tightens when he slides two fingers back through your folds—just to test you—just to make you whimper. 

You don’t run.

Your legs are spread open wide for him as he holds you, “You gon’ let me fuck you?”

“Promise, baby.”

“Yeah? Gon’ let me take this pussy how I wanna take it?”

You’re nodding, begging, essentially—but that might’ve been stupid on your part. Because when he lays the both of you on your side, yet somehow trapping your legs over his shoulders in a missionary position? You’d never been put like this before. 

One arm rests over your knees, the other sliding along the back of your neck in a way that traps you. Your body tenses the moment you feel his tip slapping amongst your soaked folds, your doe eyes peering through his low ones, needy, vulnerable.

As he sinks in, your folds spread apart slowly. Even with how wet you are, the uncomfortable stretch of pleasure burns your stomach like fire, every inch sinking deeper by the second. 

“You look so small like this, like you breakin’.” 

You try to respond—anything to sound like you have any semblance of control—but your mouth only parts open, eyes rolling at the whiplash of pleasure and discomfort.

“You know you ain’t runnin’, huh?” 

You nod, eyes glazed over as he sinks further inside, “Ughn, shit.”

He’s not even halfway in by the time your legs are shaking around his head, hands fisting sheets in a white knuckle grip as he stretches you out, spreading you wide. You’re moaning so helplessly as he slides in another inch. Your hands reach for his—finding his thick, rough ones so you could squeeze them for dear life. 

His voice is a low groan in your ear, “You takin’ it so good.” 

He’s smacking your ass, spanking again at how good you feel. 

You’d never been filled like this before—not this deep or this girthy. You’re trembling in his arms, eyes glassy as he leans forward, forcing your legs wider by the backs of your thighs, “I told you— keep them’ eyes onna’ nigga.” 

You tuck your face within the pillow as you feel the first stroke—he’s still not even fully in, your face pouting as the first expression you give him.

The second stroke, your whole body clenches, fingers fisting the sheets so hard, eyes rolling at one slow roll of his hips.  

“Ooooohh, my god.”  

Another stroke, deep—“Ughh, fuuuck.” 

“You sound too pretty, girl.” 

You’re whining as he strokes a slow, deep rhythm inside of you, your head tossing between the pillow and his face. Your arms throw around his shoulders, fingernails digging into the back of his neck with a vice grip like you’re trying to keep yourself grounded—anything to make sense of the intensity of it all, curls spreading all across your cheek and pillow. 

He’s still pressing you down onto his lap, holding you in place as he just keeps rolling his hips with a grunt, “Ooh, fuck.” 

You nod so fast, whimpering at that feeling of him in so deep, stroking you open. He’s holding your bottom left thigh up in the air, spreading you in a way that made you ache at how much he was giving you, “You hearin’ us?” This shit sloppy as fuck.”

The air was a chorus of mixed breaths, grunts, your guttural moans and sloppy wet sounds from his strokes splitting you apart. Onaynkopon’s hips move slower than he’d ever thought possible—you were just too tight for anything too hard. 

Squish. Squish.Squish. He’s slow stroking—which means he’s pounding into you—his balls are slapping at the cheeks of your ass, his tip bouncing at your cervix in the meanest way. You lock your mouth around his arm, groaning deeply as your eyes roll back. 

“Ughh… Ughhh… Oh, my god… Ugh.”

It happens—you drench his tip as you squirt on him, the groan sinking into a squeal as your thighs tremble dangerously. You tuck your mouth back onto his arm to calm yourself, moaning helplessly through his flesh.

“That’s so good, Mama. Good lil’ bitch, squirt all on me,” Onyankopon’s voice is an octave deeper when he growls onto your lips, “Make a mess on my fuckin’ dick.” 

He snaps his hips forward roughly, almost punishing that spot he’d found for this reaction. Your gasp is prolonged, a broken cry grunting from your lips—you’re singing, “Ohhhh my god!” 

Your whining was delicious as it spilled onto his arm, his mouth hot on your ear that he began mumbling nasty things into. You feel one hand slide up to grip a fistful of hair at the back of your head, moaning into his chest. Your whole spine was shaking because of that roughness, your legs were shaking—his hips still bouncing brutally between your legs. But his last sentence left you pulverized.

“You think I’m done with you?”

In fact, he wasn’t. 

Your sanity was being held by your fingers weakly pressing against the headboard for leverage—you’re now ass up, face down into the comforter as Onyankopon’s palms grip you by both arms, tugging you onto his dick. Your eyes are rolled back, moaning to him chaotically.

You’d never looked this pretty—this fucked.

You can’t even see the expression on his face behind you, not when your eyes keep watering, or rolling back. All you could feel was the brutal snaps of his hips, that grip he has holding you spread so wide for him. Your ass docks on his skin with every thck, thck, thck of his strokes. Your face is smothered between the sheets as you moan into the space, too lost to even speak, let alone think of anything else.

“Fuck me back,” he grunts, “Lemme’ see this bitch bounce.” 

Your body responds by instinct, fingers fisting the sheets in a white knuckle grip as your ass bounces to that pace he’d set. You can feel the wetness between your cheeks as he slides in over, over, over…

You managed to pull yourself partially up the bed, hands gripping the pillow as your voice cried toward him. 

You clench when you hear him groan behind you—his hands spread your folds to keep you open for him, so far forward that you’re on your elbows as he’s pounding against your spot. Your breath hitches when he groans, “Ooooh, girl. Fuck.” 

Your ass jiggled against his hips, those wet sounds echoing between your legs as he stretched you open with every stroke. The sound of your ass clapping against him was downright pornographic. He’s gripping you by your lower waist to make your pussy grind against him even more, taking you roughly. 

“Bounce on this big dick.” 

You turn to find his eyes, reaching your hand up against his lower abdomen—you’re dropping your ass down to his abdomen, your eyes rolling as you mewl, “‘Balls hitting my pussy, baby. Go slow,” you whimper, “Just pound me.”

His grip was practically bruising against your hips, guiding you into that bouncing pace he’d set. Your body was trembling with it—those slow, punishing strokes leaving your head spinning. Your face was smeared down against the sheets again. 

You’re catatonic at this point. 

His hips were still going—thicker strokes that left you shouting every time he pushed back in. His face was still expressionless, the darkness in his eyes still so intense like the first time you’d met him. You’re barely even coherent at this point, just a mess of moans and words that didn’t make sense.

“You finna’ tap out, huh?”

You can only grunt, too busy trying to hold yourself together as your face pushes further into the mattress.

You were too gone—too gone to even form words right now. You barely had enough control over your body either, your thighs and knees were trembling with every stroke he gave. You felt him in your stomach, your spine, every nerve—he was all you thought about as you moaned into the sheets. He was turning your brain into white noise—your vision was almost blurry. 

That’s when you give a whine—it’s loud, so loud that it drags, squirting all on him once more—you’re messily rubbing your clit, bouncing yourself back through your overstimulating pleasure. You’re a whimpering mess to him, “I love this dick, baby. Fuck me, just fuck me…”  

His eyes darkened as your back arched, spine curling forward as that dazed expression danced across that pretty face. You’d squirted all over him again—his hands pulled away as he sat back, looking down at the way your body was squirming, hips still bouncing against the mattress. 

You’re looking back at him from under your heavy eyes, mouth moving to try and speak but all that came out was another whine,, “Ughh… uh, uh.”  

“You’re so fucked out, huh?” He murmured, hand spanking your ass harder than he’d done before, smoothing it over as he heard you sniffle. 

“Lemme’ give you them’ slow strokes.” 

He gently places you on your back, dragging you under his looming frame to place your legs back along his shoulders. The moment he slides back in, Onyankopon presses his nose to yours, nuzzling it as you did to him earlier in the night. The feeling makes you emotional in a way you hadn’t expected—tears glisten in your eyes, your arms wrapping around his neck as you just take him. 

His head buried itself in the crook of your neck as he murmured, “You’re so beautiful,” sliding out, back in, all the way out, “You good, baby? I ain’t hurt you, huh?”

Your hands slide up to his hair, tugging at his durag as you finally manage to breathe, “Need you, Ony.” 

His face is the closest it’s been to smiling in the night. His hand slides down to grip your knee, holding your thigh in place against him. 

“Need you too, girl.” 

You’re giving him small, broken cries. His face is within your neck as your mouth is by his ear, whining softly as your body trembles like you’d been tased. His mouth kept pressing against the top of your head between his rough murmurs, the words too quiet and jumbled for you to really understand. 

“I’m cumming, Ony…”

“I know, baby.” 

His voice was hushed against your neck, hands pressing your hips down into his to keep you still. Your nails dug into his back, teeth biting down on a shoulder to try and muffle your moans. 

“Ughh…Oh. Oh my god. Fuugghhh. Fuck.” 

Your arms were wrapped around his neck in a death grip, holding him to you as you moaned and mewled through your orgasm. You shiver, sniffling as you nuzzle his nose once more—you hear a low chuckle, a soft kiss being snatched against your lips.

You were crazy, but it was in the moment.

“Cum in me, baby. Fill me up,” you tremble, “Please.” 

And that’s when you hear it—a real moan from Onyankopon.

You didn’t even realize how quiet he’d been in contrast to your moans and pants. But the moment he moaned against your neck, it’s all you could focus on. You hold him tighter as you feel the warmth within your folds, Onyankopon grinding into you, moaning into your ear. 

You felt his face in your neck again when he finally collapsed against you—still connected to you, his full weight falling flat against your chest as his arms locked around your waist. You stroked his hair, his durag ending up somewhere away from the bed—his forehead pressed into your neck as he inhaled deep. 

Almost ten minutes of silence went by. 

“You’re heavy.”

You had murmured this, your fingers running down the ridges on his back, feeling the curve of his mouth pull into a grin. His hands roamed your sides, squeezing at the flesh just under your ribs as he murmured back, “‘Feel good, Mama. I’m sorry.”

Now it was your turn to blush, the words being a sweet surprise—your hands slid up to his cheeks, fingers stroking that dark beard as you giggled once more. 

“You don’t gotta be sorry, Onyankopon.” 

You ran the pad of your thumb over the ridge of his mouth, tracing over the roughness of his lips, “You’re good.” 

You gave a small grin, “You were good.”

“Damn right I was.” 

You huffed a laugh that was more like another giggle, hands sliding up once more to run through his hair. His arms wound back around your waist, his mouth sliding up to suckle a new hickey onto your neck. You shivered as he continued, “You got a cute lil’ laugh, you know that?”

“And somehow you have a boner,” you flick his nose, “Unhand me!”

“Not my fault you’ fine as hell.” 

But he did release you, rolling off of you with some effort. 

Onyankapon watched you closely, able to see the wince on your face from the soreness you began to feel.

“You okay, Mama?”

That’s when you shake your head—you throw yourself back onto his body, wanting his warmth and comfort, “No. ‘Think you scraped my insides worse than a Pap smear,” you murmur, “Cuddle me.”

“Just say you’ clingy, girl.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping back around your waist—this time, pulling you on top of him. Your head rested on his chest, your body splayed out in a tangle of limbs. 

You find yourself reaching up for his earlobe, rubbing comfortingly at the flesh. You then ask, “Is clingy bad for you?”

“Nah.” 

His voice held an honesty that you weren’t sure you were expecting. His hands smoothed over your back, fingers spreading across that soft expanse of skin.

He then confirmed, “I like clingy.”

“Even if I’m a bad cook? You’ll still like me?”

“Especially if you’ a bad cook.” 

You felt the roughness of his beard graze against the crown of your head, “You gon’ be a mess in my kitchen.” 

His voice held a gruffness, but there was an underlying affection underneath it that you hadn’t quite heard from him much tonight—but you liked it, and so did he.

The both of you begin to doze off, his fingers captured in a coil of your curls, your fingers tucked within his chest. But that’s when you hear it—a phone buzzing, loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to ignore.

A second call. This one makes him exhale sharply through his nose, and by the third, he’s growling under his breath as he reaches blindly for the nightstand.  

“Yeah…Yeah…Now?” 

A pause. 

Then a grunt, “Aight. Gimme’ twenty.”  

He hangs up without another word and sits up abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face— turning back towards you, an apologetic frown was already forming on his lips. 

"I gotta go, shawty. Niggas got me on a distress call.” 

That’s all he says at first—but you must have made some kind of face, because he’s suddenly hovering above you, one hand planted next to your head while the other cups your chin firmly.

"Ain't kickin' you out," he murmurs, pressing a hard kiss onto your forehead like a punctuation mark between sentences, "Get yo' ass under them covers."

You heard him, but you were sensitive—he obviously didn’t know that. You tug the covers close to your chest as your eyes watch him go back and forth, a small pout along your face regardless of his words.

He could see the way you curled in on yourself—protecting yourself, even—and it left a strange emotion burning in his chest. That’s when he sighed heavily, running a hand over his face once more as he padded toward the bed, sitting himself on the edge.

"C'mere, baby."

You feel dramatic.

“I didn’t mean to—“

"Nuh-Uh,” he cuts you off, grabbing your wrist to tug you into his lap in one swift movement, legs on either side of his hips. He pulls the blankets tight around the two of you—your head buried into his chest as he keeps you tucked against him. 

"Look at me, pretty girl.” 

You were pouting still, eyes averted from his gaze as you stubbornly kept your lips pursed. That is, until he forced your stubborn eyes to meet his once more.

"I ain't tryin' to kick you out, aight? I just gotta go take care of business.” 

You’re still frowning. 

He leans down to press a firm kiss against your forehead, arms tightening their hold on your waist to keep you against him. 

"C'mon, don't be mad at me now."

Onyankopon's voice drops to that deep, rumbling register—the one he uses to get your attention—you’ve picked up on that. 

"You really gon’ sit here poutin’ while I gotta go handle this?" His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, tugging it down playfully, “Ain't even said you gon’ miss me."  

Then—before you can protest—his mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all tongue, teeth, and promise. It’s messy enough to make your toes curl, his hand sliding from your chin to the back of your neck to keep you locked in place. It’s to let you know that he wanted you, and everything that came with that.

"Stay right here. Keep my shit warm,” a pause, “Or I could bend yo' ass over this mattress one more time

 ‘fore I leave—your choice."

That finally got you to squirm and grumble in his lap—your fingers dig into the meat of his back in a futile attempt to escape him. 

"I was playin',” he grunted, nipping your bottom lip as if to prove a point, "Goddamn, girl. I was playin'.“ 

“Bye, Onyankopon.”

“What kinda ‘bye’, huh? Like you gon’ sneak off once I leave?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. But of course—you smile. 

“Call Bully in here so I can cuddle with my actual man.”

"Forreal?" Onyankopon repeats, looking down at you with one brow raised in disbelief. 

You can tell he's trying to hold back the grin that's threatening to lift at his lips—those dark eyes of his narrowing with mock-offense, "That's what you call yo’ forreal’ nigga? That raggedy ass mutt?" 

You giggled, “Go, Superman. Save the world.”

He gives you one last look, a boyish grin you could find yourself getting used to.

“Imma’ be back, shawty.”

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

Close to nightfall. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that succession didn’t last long.

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

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

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

“Turn.” 

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

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

She didn’t have time to be gawking. 

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

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

She grunts, “Let go of me!—“ 

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

Click on the side of her temple.

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

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

“Fuck you.”

“Yo’, Ony—What’s going on?—“

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

“This one’s Rouge.”

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

“Onyankopon, get off of her.”

The woman comes closer, “Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

They all stare. 

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

“She coulda’ been bit.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re bleeding.”

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

She waits for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They stared at one another. 

“How long ‘you been alone?” 

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

“We can help you—“ 

“I don’t need help.” 

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

Those words lay heavy on her chest.

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

“I’m not going to the Embassy.” 

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

“And?”

“Hollows are everywhere, Onyankopon.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, she doesn’t reply. 

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

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

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

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

They both nod, turning to leave the room.

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

She looks unsure about answering.

”Sahfeya.”

Emery grins, “Yeah? That’s pretty.” 

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

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

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

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

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

She mutters, “Sorry.” 

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

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

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

Sahfeya breathes deeply, “Two months now.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Boyfriend?” 

Emery shakes her head.

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

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

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

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

She smiles.

“You’re a ballsy one, huh?”

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

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

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

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

Sahfeya hums dryly, “He seems nice.” 

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

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

“No.” 

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She figures she could be—polite. 

“Y’all from here?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine.”

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

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

Her throat feels closed. 

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

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

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

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

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

She asks, “They’re yours?” 

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

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

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

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

“What was yo’ friend’s name?”

She blinks at the question. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sahfeya’s eyebrows raise, “So me?” 

“Independent.” 

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

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

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips.

“You gon’ apologize?”

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

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

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

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

“Same difference.”

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

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

“And?” 

“And, what?” 

“And you tryna’ steal from me?” 

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

His eyes graze over her entire body. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm? That’s all you got?” 

Sahfeya blinks. 

 “Yeah—heard you.”

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

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

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

“Mornin’,” both men greet her. 

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

Sahfeya hesitantly greets, “Uh—Good morning?” 

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

“Decent—“ 

Emery’s still smiling. 

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

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

“We did.”

“And?” 

“We—“ 

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

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

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

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

Her words make them all chuckle again. 

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

“Major,” Elijah adds.

“Expeditiously,” Theo finalizes.

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

He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. 

“We talkin’ ‘bout me?” 

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

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

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

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

“You already know.”

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

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

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

She notices his face. He was glaring. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you done?”

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

And with that, the door shuts. 

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

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

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

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

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

“You got ammo on that shotgun?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ain’t payin’ attention.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think far enough gon’ feed us?” 

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

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

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

“We gon’ keep walkin’.”

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

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

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

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

“You gon’ learn.” 

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

“Ony—“ 

"Hold it.” 

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

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

She releases a breath, “Push it in?”

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

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

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

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

Sahfeya stiffens. 

“Relax,” he grunts.

She lets out another breath, “Okay.” 

“You see the one I’m pointin’ at?” 

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

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

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

Sahfeya just nods, not trusting her voice.

“Shoot.” 

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

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

“Sorry.” 

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

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

“My fault,” he murmurs, “You good?”

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

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

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

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

But that only lasted for a millisecond.

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

“Onyankopon?” 

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

They listen. 

Just then, another moan echoes.

“Hollows.” 

And then—they see them.

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

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

“Move!” 

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

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

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

“Sahfeya!—“ 

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

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

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

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

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

Another moan echoes.

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

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

“I’m here.”

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

“I can’t leave you here—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s yelling, “Onyankopon, c’mon!”  

“I can’t let them get past—Go!” 

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

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

But the only thing he has is a knife. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

“You don’t got’ a choice!”

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

“Onyankopon, please!—“

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

He’s falling. 

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

best friend. Sahfeya’s—

He collapses. 

Nothing.

He was nothing.

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

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

“Hey.” 

Was it a dream?

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

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

“Don’t touch me.”

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

“Onyankopon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn't change,” he mutters.

Sahfeya eyes him. 

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

“The cure?” he frowns, “You had it?”

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

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

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

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

The words she speaks sinks into him. 

"You saved a nigga life.” 

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

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

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

No, he just needed her. 

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

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

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

"You sayin’ I stink?" 

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

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

She blinks softly, “Maybe.” 

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

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

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

His voice is low, “Gon’ head.”

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

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

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

“And?” 

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

“You don’t?”

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

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

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

“Ony.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You gon’ let a nigga have you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s as if he commands her attention.

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

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

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

“You wet as fuck.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s grunting this to her. 

“OohmygodOny.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My shit feel that good?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onyankopon growls—the grip on her throat tightens. 

“I heard that. Do that shit again.”

“Ony.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Slow down, baby…” 

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

“Oooh!” she’s groaning, “Fuck, Ony.”

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

 “You gon’ give me all of you?”

He smacks her ass again. 

“Tell a nigga.”

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

“You gon’ be mine forever, huh?”

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

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

Sahfeya’s eyes flutter when he lowers himself back into a kiss from behind—a low groan coming from his lips, “Look at me,” he’s coaxing—she’s quick to obey, “That’s it, baby,” his lips sucking at her own, “My fuckin’ girl.”

It’s a rush of emotions between the two— she frowns between her soft sob of, “I’m cumming.”  

She keeps repeating it, holding onto him like she’d never touched him before—like she did when she thought he’d held his last breath. 

There’s a sudden snarl from his chest as he slows—a flash of emotion comes across his features—he moans with her, the final smack of their lips louder than before as he feels her folds drenching his tip feverishly. It doesn’t stop—it doesn’t stop, they’re moving, rocking together—hot, messy, passionate.

Then, they’re silent. 

A moment of peace, of reassurance—Sahfeya is the first one to break the tension, her voice soft, “I’m sorry.” 

He remains in her, his breathing soft as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, “For what?” 

“‘Think I scratched your arm where you were bitten.”

Onyankopon furrows his eyebrows. His lips tug into a small smirk, “You too good.”

“Yo’! Emery’s finally makin’ that beef stew—“

The door swings open, Theo adjusting his glasses as he continues, “She needed to know if—oh shit!” 

Sahfeyah’s body is instantly shielded, her lips squeaking  at the sudden movement.

 “Nigga, you forgot how to fuckin’ knock?”

Theo’s head dips, “My bad, bro,” he’s saying quickly, “Uh—hey, Sahfeya—“

Sahfeya covers her face beneath Onyankopon, “Hi, Theo.”

Onyankopon’s frown deepens, his eyes glaring as Theo takes the hint, “Right—I was gon’ ask if y’all need somethin’ to eat, but it seems like you already ate—“

“Theo, Imma’ knock yo’ ass out. Why you’ still standin’ here?”

“I can’t come check on my bestie? You almost died!” 

Onyankopon’s head shakes as an exhale comes from his lips, “I’m alive,” he rasps, “Leave.”

“I get it, man,” Theo’s smiling, his hands held up in mock defeat, “Pussy prolly’ great after allat’—“

“Theo.”

“You hungry, beautiful?” He directs his question towards the body hiding.

Sahfeyah’s giggles, “I’m fine, Theo. Thank you.”

“What’s happening? Are they gonna come eat? Can Onyankopon come feed Aaila, I need to cook!” 

Emery’s voice is heard all the way from downstairs. 

Onyankopon grunts out, “Where yo’ damn husband, Emery?”

“I’m helpin’ cook!” Elijah shouts.

Theo leans against the door, a smirk on his lips, “So—how’d this happen?”

Onyankopon’s eyes narrow, “Imma’ be worse than a Hollow if I gotta’ get up, Theo. Swear ta’ god.” 

“I’m actually a bit lil’ hungry,” Sahfeya’s voice is soft, her hands over her nipples, “And you’re heavy.” 

“You heard the woman—we comin’. Now getcho’ ass gone.”

Theo smiles, “Aight—Yo’, Em’, they’ in here hunchin’!” 

“What?!” Both Emery and Elijah bleat in return. 

The door slams shut. 

And once more, Sahfeya’s amused in a time where Onyankopon thought nothing was funny. 

“We gon’ have to deal with that every time?” she questions.

“Unfortunately. You ready for allat’?”

Sahfeya sighs, “I don’t know—maybe I should just take my things and leave—” she goes to turn on the bed, a mixture of a shriek and laugh pouring from her lips as he tugs her back. 

“Like hell.” 

He groans when her lips latch onto his, the kiss slow yet warm. Sahfeya’s fingers trace the side of his face, eyes closed as she breathes, “Is this too fast?” 

“Nah,” he’s low, “Nah.” 

“Maybe we should skip dinner then,” Sahfeya sucks at his lips, “Yeah?” 

“We gon’ eat— just lemme’ get a lil’ appetizer in.”

since you had nothing better to do, you remembered you had to run a quick errand to return a few books you’d borrowed from the local library. there’s a sweet old man who owned the shop; mister arlert. each time he saw you he’d always give the warmest greetings. usually helping you with finding exactly what you needed or even giving suggestions of novels he’s enjoyed during his younger days. most of which he read to his wife. 

stepping deeper into the library, it’s completely silent. your clothes are slightly dampened, having to run towards the door to not get entirely soaked. with the books clutched close to your chest, you quietly make yourself known in the presence of whomever was here. you’d made the worst decision of wearing shorts, your thighs wet from the rain, droplets sliding down to your bethan doc martens. luckily, your wore an oversized toffee sweater that reached the backs of your thighs. 

“hello?! mister arlert?” 

silence. 

so, you continue your exploration. maybe mister arlert was in the back dusting off classics. suddenly, you hear a meow coming from the library’s famous cat; fluffles. the chunky orange persian feline with streaks of white on its fluffy coat — hence the name. you smile, clicking your tongue to get his attention as you coed and stumbled closer. 

“hii pretty baby. how are you today? i know, the weather’s scary, huh?” cutely, you gasp when his tiny head knocks into your palm delicately for comfort, purring softly. 

he’s feeding into your attention to him for two minutes before he’s made the decision to walk away. you follow him blindly, trying to see if anyone will pop up around the large, brown shelves of collections. to your luck, you do find someone. 

there’s a man you’ve never seen before, especially here at least. he has his back to you and doesn't seem to notice you, lost in his own world. you watch him for a moment, appreciating his focus and attention to detail as he carefully arranges the books. 

first, your eyes fall straight onto his hair, gawking with bloomed irises of pure enchantment. it’s blonde and bright, like the sun almost. ringlets of curls and really fluffy. it surrounded his features like a paper stick of cotton candy. really airy to touch, you’re sure of it. he’s tall, even though he’s standing on a latter organizing novels. he’s got earphones plugged in, blasting incredibly loud because even you could hear the muffled tunes of jazz he hummed along with. 

“excuse me?” you manage to announce yourself, lifting your hand to wave in his direction so he’d spot you. 

the man blinks slowly, eyes on yours in the prettiest shade of icy blue. it was too dreamy, he looked like a daydream. you could even smell him, too. his cologne like clean linen. laundry on a soft sunday. his lips are full and pink. his body is adorned in chocolate brown cargo pants and a white t-shirt, a plain black button-up draped over, halfway rolled up his forearms. 

“oh, sorry. didn’t hear you come in. i’m about to close, actually.”

you didn’t expect him to sound the way he did. his voice has a certain dialect to it, kind of valley-like. the baritone of it is quiet, yet has undertones of raspiness. it’s gentle, he looks the same. 

“h-hi, um — is mister arlert here? i know i came pretty late, but i promised him i'd have these books back by today."

“nah, he's not here today. won't be back for a while," he replies calmly. “i’m his grandson. names armin.”

“sorry, i’m ꒰ ❤︎ ꒱. um, is he okay?"

armin takes note of your worry, expression softening slightly. "yeah, well — he's gettin' up there and wasn't feelin' too good. i'm coming from uni for fall break, so i've just been looking over the shop for him."

the news upsets you. "oh, no. i'm sorry to hear that."

armin shrugs nonchalantly. "it's alright. he's a tough old boy, he'll be back soon." 

knocking his head fully up, he glances out the window at the pouring rain and lets out a heavy sigh. you’re eyeing the silver chain around his neck and wrist. "man, it's bad out there. did you bike or somethin'? how’d you even make it here?"

"i didn't expect it to get this bad, honestly. i was really adamant on returning this since i'll be home for fall break. but, i drove."

an eyebrow arches. "in this weather? that's reckless."

pursing your lips, you shrug. “kinda. if you say so. weather like this doesn’t scare me.” 

“hm.” 

you notice the way he . .  looks at you. it’s like he’s trying to find what to say to you while also keeping his composure. eyes running up and down your curvy figure. you’ve got this cute crocheted set on that looks handmade. shorts that sit on your hips perfectly and a thin strapped top that barely covers your torso, a teddy bear stitched into the bosom. your knit sweater keeping you warm along with leg warmers.  your hair is to your shoulders, half of it pulled back into a pony with a black bow. you’re pretty. 

breaking the awkward silence, there’s a crackle of thunder that startles the both of you, booming so loud it causes car alarms to go off. soon after, the lights began to flicker inside the shop, panic settling into you as you run to go check on your car, only to find there had been an inconvenient accident. a tree stump was cracked in half causing it to crash onto a few cars ahead of yours while also blocking the main road to head home, meaning you’d have no way of leaving here tonight until the storm passed.

“fuck,” you slam your hand to your mouth in agony. “ugh, no!" 

armin’s not far from behind you as he checks to see the collision. his face scrunches up in irritation, knowing he’d also have no way of leaving here tonight. the floods are picking up, the rain is beating down heavier, and it wouldn’t be safe for either of you to depart right now. thankfully, his car was parked in the back. 

“that’s just fuckin’ great,” armin sucks his teeth, placing his palm on the window and dropping his head. “well, that’s not good. looks like we’re both stuck here for the night.” 

your distress is fairly evident, forehead in your palm as you groan and ponder, trying your best not to crash out. “i literally can’t. i have a flight in the morning. this is really bad.” 

armin’s got a look of sympathy for you. “it's really coming down out there. and that tree looks like it could have damaged the road below it. there's really no way you're getting out of here anytime soon."

that didn’t make you feel any better. though, he tries his best to offer comfort.

“hey, it’s g’na be alright. i understand your worries about your flight, but safety is more important right now. it’s not worth risking your life trying to bypass this issue.” 

with a deep sigh to collect your emotions, you nod. you could agree on that. you’re sure your family would prefer if you visited with your body intact. “you’re right. i have to contact my parents. i don’t know, maybe the flights will be delayed?” 

“most likely. i doubt they’ll risk it. i’m hoping it’ll clear up in a few hours,” armin shakes his wrist to eye the watch on his wrist. “it’s a little after ten now. guys might come ‘round five.” 

“god, what a mess. i'm not usually stranded in a library with a stranger." you meet his gaze, feeling a bit self-conscious. “no offense."

armin chuckles and shakes his head. "yeah, i get it. this isn't exactly a normal situation. but, i’m not too bad company, right?"

"you're eerily calm about this. it kinda frustrates me.

armin smirks, "panic won't change the situation. it's best not to overthink it. plus, the old boy has plenty of natural disaster knick knacks in the back."

"hm.”

armin can see that you're still concerned. he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "sorry if i seem so cavalier about this. i’m just trying not stress you out even more.” 

maybe you were being a bit standoffish. it seems like he’s trying his best to make you comfortable. taking a deep breath, you sigh. “it’s okay, i’m sorry. i have a bad habit of being cold when i’m overstimulated.” 

when he smiles again, you notice a faint dimple sinking into the crevice of his top cheekbone. he’s super fucking cute. that’s another factor to your stress. you’re trying not to freak out over the fact that you’re stranded here with a man you’ve found yourself newly attracted to. anything could happen in this scenario. it’s straight out of a porno. question is, would you let it get that far? 

“it’s cool, i get it,” armin strokes the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, watching you. “c’mon, lemme show you the attic.” 

“okay.” 

following behind him, you can’t stop your eyes from wandering over his backside. he’s very slim but well built in the right areas, specifically his back, arms, and thighs. you study his walk as he digs one hand in his pocket and safely guides you up a spiral staircase leading to a secret room behind an almost ancient wooden door. 

it’s a cute little nook above the library that nearly resembled a loft apartment. there’s rustic brick walls, polished wooden floors, a kitchen, and futon in a living area. boxes upon boxes stocked in different sections filled with precious material.

"wow, this is pretty neat." 

armin grins. "yeah, it's a pretty cool little hideaway. the old man's had this place for so long that he's got pretty much everything he needs. even when the power goes out, this place stays cozy."

and for some reason, a few moments after he uttered those words, the power went out. the room is plunged into darkness as the power fails, leaving you and armin in the dim light that filters in through the windows due to the lightning. armin looks a bit surprised, but quickly composes himself.

“well, i guess that was perfect timing," he jokes. "looks like we're gonna test out that old man's preparedness."

hugging yourself tight, you swallow as you hear him pull out a drawer, revealing a few candles.

"help me light these, huh?"

you nod and rush over to help, and as the warm, flickering light from the candles illuminates the room, you can't help but feel a bit more at ease. the cozy atmosphere created by the candlelight gives the space a certain charm. as you finish setting up the candles, placing them in areas of the space that needed it, you notice that armin is already rummaging through the cabinets, looking for something specific. a radio he finds gets cut on to listen in on the news. 

"there's a few roads blocked, it seems. hopefully it won't get too bad to where'd people have to evacuate." 

solemnly, you nod. "yeah, i hope it doesn't come to that. it’s bad enough that we're stuck here already."

"hey, it's not . . too bad. don't get discouraged. we can make the time past. i've got some blankets and a futon for you. i can give you your space if you're feeling uncomfortable or anything."

"no, i uh . . actually wouldn't mind your company. it'd take my mind off the situation."

armin’s a bit relieved. "alright, that works for me. uh, you can sleep on the futon and i can just crash on the armchair over there." 

he walks over to a closet and pulls out a stack of blankets, handing them to you. "here, take these. it can get pretty cold up here, especially at night."

"thank you. i really appreciate it.”

“of course. anything else you need? ima go lock up the shop, feed the cat, then i’ll be back up.” 

“you got some food? if i knew this'd happen i wouldn't have left spaghetti on the stove,” you roll your lips inward after giggling. 

he finds you incredibly cute. chuckles and nods. "lucky for you, he’s got a stockpile of food in here. let me do some grocery shopping for lunch breaks. i can make some ramen. you like that?" he suggests.

your stomach growls at the thought, both of you hearing it and sharing a wholehearted laugh. "yeah, that'd be awesome actually."

"cool. i’ll be right back.” 

you get accustomed to the area you’re in, taking a seat on the sofa and wrapping yourself up into the blankets for warmth. you checked your phone to see if you had any service and possibly contact your parents, but there was no luck. even though the texts sent through green, it was better to send it just in case you’d gain connection once the power cut back on. it didn’t take long for armin to come back up, giving you a sweet smile while he heads towards the fridge to grab some ingredients. thankfully, he had a gas stove to work with.

"talk to me, cutie. i don't want you to be nervous around me."

you pause, a bit taken aback by the pet name. ignoring the way your face just heated up. “okay. what do you w’na talk about?"

"you said you have a flight tomorrow. where to?"

"uh, my parents live across country,” picking at the blanket with your nails, you study his movements. how quickly his wrist moves when cutting vegetables. god. “we're supposed to meet up for a family get together. horse riding, fishing, cook outs . . the usual."

armin listens intently, interested in getting to know you. "you can ride a horse?"

"yeah, i mean . . i don't do it as often anymore, but i'm decent at it. i'm actually more excited about the fishing. i haven't done that in a while."

"what's the biggest thing you've caught?"

"hmm, that's a tough one. there was this pretty big bass i caught when i was sixteen. i remember it took like thirty minutes to reel it in. me and my uncle cooked it up real good with some grits,” you reply, recalling the memory with a smile. "what about you? fan of fishing?"

"not really my hobby. i'll probably sound like a old man myself, but i'm into chess and shit. pottery is a thing of mine as well."

"ooo, pottery. i've always wanted to do something new like that. i’ll push it up in my list of hobbies."

"i could teach you. it's not hard. not really," he smirks, "i'm always looking for another person to play with. tease a lil', make 'em think they're doing good." 

this is flirting. has to be. so of course, you play along. "hm, masochist. am i your next victim?" 

armin chuckles and cocks an eyebrow at your question. "are you implying something?" he teases, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.

"not implying, just prying."

“next topic,” he winks causing you to roll your eyes. 

trying to figure out what else to say, you twiddle your manicured fingers in thought. "it's sweet of you to look over the library while mister arlert's gone. most people would let it rot and go about their lives."

“honestly, he’s done a lot for me so it was never g’na be a hesitation when i found out the news. i’ve always kept to myself, even as a kid. i find comfort in books and silence, and i guess that’s why i enjoy spending time here. i get to shut off my brain.” 

“you sound pretty reserved. i admire that. it's cute." 

the sound of the storm outside provides a soothing background noise along with the warmth from the candles. armin’s finished cooking the ramen. using store bought packs of shin and adding miso paste, kewpie mayo, eggs, scallions, and even some rotisserie chicken. the ramen tastes delicious and makes you feel warm. the conversations you have flows effortlessly and makes time pass as the two of you trade stories and laugh at each other's jokes.

by now, the attraction is mutual. unexpected deep topics were spoken of and the two of you found each other sitting body to body, sharing warmth. armin’s got his arm thrown behind the back of the futon where you sit, thighs spread apart while you sit cutely beside him bundled under the blankets. legs crossed, eyes and scent encompassing his. 

as the conversation begins to lull, armin glances towards the window and notices that the storm seems to be dying down. "hey, looks like the rain’s starting to let up," he observes. 

you glance over your shoulder, seeing that it’s lighter outside, meaning it’s dawn now and you’ve been chatting for hours. “oh . . yeah, i think i hear the recovery workers.” 

the thought of leaving armin in possibility that you won’t see each other for a while feels like a knife to your gut. you’re drawn to him in a way that surprises you. the night is coming to an end, so you find yourself reluctant to say goodbye. you want something more, something passionate.

without realizing it, your gaze drifts to armin’s lips. they look soft and inviting, and the desire to feel them against yours is almost overwhelming. the air between you two suddenly feels charged with eroticism. it’s as if you're both feeling the same pull, the same desperate need to touch more than you were. 

"you can't kiss me." 

his words.

it seems to break the spell that had enveloped the room. your eyes widen in surprise, expression shifting from desire to confusion.

"what?" you weren’t sure if you heard him correctly.

"it's just . . if you kiss me, it'll turn into something else."

your expression softens, and a small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "is that a bad thing?"  

he makes you anxious, his fingertips tracing the exposed skin of your hips, your body shivering. the room suddenly feels unbearably hot, and your heart is pounding in your chest. armin’s found himself torn between wanting to pull away and wanting to press you against him. 

“no, but i'll get addicted and want you more,” he murmurs, tone low and sensual. “don’t think this is the right setting right now. you deserve more.” 

“and what's so wrong with wanting more?" you’re moving even closer to him, chest pressing up on his side. 

his fingers continue to trace small circles against your skin, armin’s eyes going gray at your words. the proximity makes it difficult for him to think straight, and his desire for you is growing stronger by the second. but, he’s also aware of the danger of giving in to this passion. he could feel his resolve weakening, but he tries to steady himself. 

the more you think about it, maybe this wasn’t the appropriate setting nor time. you’ve just met this man and only known him for a couple of hours. a few good conversations were had, he cooked you some top quality ramen even under the circumstances, he’s beautiful . . but, you didn’t want to regret it if something did happen now. so it’d be best to wait. 

"you know what, maybe . . this isn't a good idea. you’re right," you manage to stammer out. but your protest is weakening as armin closes what little distance is left between you, breath warm on your neck where his lips go to kiss. 

“nah, i’m wrong. fuck it,” he rasps by your ear, opening his mouth fully to latch onto the sensitive area of your neck. his tongue follows in a sloppy kiss, hand coming up to grab you by the neck. 

a gasp falters when you feel how hot his hand was on your skin, clutching your neck entirely in his grasp, squeezing your thighs tight and scrunching your face up from pleasure. his kisses are audible, making it known how bad he wants you. your sweater begins to slip off your shoulders as he maneuvers his way down to your chest, groping and inching both of his hands inside of your top to smooth them down towards your sides and reaching your hips briefly. hotly gripping at your flesh. 

“armin,” a weak whimper. “we shouldn’t.” 

armin catches your wrist the moment you go to stand abruptly, yanking you back towards his chest and towering over you in the process, his gaze darkening as he glares down at you. 

"i want your taste on my lips. c’mon, bunny.” 

his soft plea sends a jolt through you, fingers entwining with your own before he’s guiding that arm behind your back and resting it on your ass he uses as leverage to press you up against the bulge in his jeans, body bending backwards slightly to give yourself some air to breathe. and when he does this thing, like wind his waist to rub his clothed dick against you with a snarky ‘mhm’ blown out with frustrated air — it sends you into a state of blurriness. his scent envelops your senses, growing weaker in his hold as you stare up at him with need.  

“i —” you can’t understand why you're protesting. you knew you wanted him, and it’s clearly mutual. he just scares you, in a really good way. you fear that if you have sex with this man, it wouldn’t be the end of it. and possibly could progress to more. 

“say yes so i know you want it, then sit back down.” 

it’s clear you both didn’t care about the situation you were in anymore. you just needed it, bad. done playing cat and mouse. swallowing from his switch of demeanor, you slowly nod. 

“yes.”

so, you sit. lowering your body while training your eyes to stay on his. you’ve removed your sweater completely, tits exposed to the cool air of the attic as the straps cling to your arms. he thinks you look fucking yummy. he damn near could salivate. 

taking his seat back beside you, armin’s stretching his hands to pull your top down to your stomach, grazing your skin passionately but with notions of aggression. he wants to be sweet to you, he’ll try. he’s got his back to the couch again, spreading his thighs to give relief of the blood rushing to his dick. brushing a hand through his hair, you watch in fascination as the follicles bounce back in front of his eyes, his hand coming to unbutton his jeans as he rubs your thighs and catches your soft lips back onto his. 

it’s more aggressive this time, swallowing your lips and grazing tongues, noses smushed. you suck on his tongue, grinding in your spot and trailing your hands towards his jeans, helping him tug them down to sit at his thighs. unlatching your mouths, armin grips your chin, thick fingers indenting into your cheeks before giving you another rough kiss, his pupils blown. 

“come spit on it,” he rasps.

moaning from the way he spoke, he’s guiding your face down with the hold on your jaw, brows furrowed and pink, plush lips going agape as your dainty hands pulls his cock out of his briefs. when you see it, it makes all the more sense why he acts and talks the way he does. 

“mmph,” you moan in awe almost, fitting both of your hands around it as it throbs in your possession. “s’so pretty, ‘min.”

“yeah? . . is it too much for you?” 

that makes you grin. “mm-mm,” you deny. “i like it.” 

whatever overcomes you the moment he shifts his hips in silent plead and grips at your ponytail tight could only be adored from his view. with both of your palms wrapped around his dick; fat, curved towards his stomach with a tinted pink tip. one hefty vein protruding the underside that you know will feel so good when he slips it in. and cutely, a beauty mark or two. his pubes are neatly trimmed, as blonde as his pretty hair. you’re drooling at this point. and you use that to salivate over his dick, armin practically dragging your head towards his dick and moaning when you do as you were told and coat it with spit. 

“yeahh — unh, good girl,” armin hisses, groaning and adjusting himself in his seat as you stroke your hand at the base, leading your way up and over the flushed head. 

he doesn’t expect you to do it, you really didn’t have to, but he’s not adamant on stopping you either. the minute you hike yourself up so you’re arching over him, armin’s smoothing his hand over your ass now raised up and whimpering when your mouth engulfs half of his dick with a greedy moan. 

“ooh, that’s good baby. yes,” it twitches on your tongue that’s planted at the base as you suckle and drag your lips over either side. 

swaying your hips, armin sucks on his bottom lip before landing a hit to your ass, taking a handful of the fat of it after. your throats sinking further, tasting all of him while he’s raising his hips to gently fuck into your mouth. his head gets thrown back, lips parting and releasing gasps when you go to clutch his throat, pushing his head further back so it touches the wall behind, and slurping at his dick sloppily. 

“oh my god, gimme that,” armin can’t help the way his eyes roll back into his skull, unable to properly breathe. every time he tries to silence a moan, it’d come out higher pitched than the other, alternating between rough groans and whimpers. 

the gags coming from your throat along with the paced bobs of your head makes him clutch your neck to pull you up, smashing his lips on yours and roaming his hands down your thighs. he couldn’t wait any longer. if you feel that good through your mouth, he could only dream of how your pussy felt. 

catching your breath, he’s swiping a thumb over your lips to clean you up, your body mindlessly gravitating towards him. 

“take these off ,” he whispers, biting his lip as he tugs on your shorts. “gotta taste you. i know it’s fuckin’ wet.” 

the quicker you tugged them off, the faster your heart pounded. armin situates himself by laying back on the sofa, politely taking your hand and carefully leading you up to sit on his face. his dick is heavy on his stomach, your thighs hovered over his head and crouching your pussy just enough for him to inhale your essence. it’s glistening in shiny slick, precious bud hiding underneath puffy pillows from his direct view. 

“every part of you is gorgeous as fuck,” armin groans, lifting one of his legs to plant on the sofa while he levels his head at just the right spot to catch your clit before you could even utter a word.

he’s kneading the flesh of your ass in his veiny hands, pushing and rocking you on his fat tongue as you listen to the incredulous sound of him slurping. you can’t speak, whimpering while locking your lips beneath your teeth, threading your fingers through his fluffy hair to yank on. he’s sucking you up, all of your flavors, puffy lips enclosing around your achy clit, tasting heavenly on his palate. 

"she's such a loud girl.” thwack! it’s a hard hit he lands on your ass while grunting, your stomach rolling inward from the heat that illuminates your entire body. legs shaking and moans breathless. “let me slip my fingers in, huh? make me fit.” 

“uh huh, please.” 

gyrating your pussy into his mouth, you’re leaning further down till his nose is mushed to your clit, armin giving an audible, nasty open mouthed kiss before rubbing two fingers against his tongue, parting your folds and slowly sinking them in, armin landing a smack on your ass again to feel you pulsate and clench. in the moment, he’s unable to keep his waist from grinding upwards, dick twitching, practically humping the air as he drowns his face in your cunt.