riahhmiyaa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An incoming call.  

Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High. 

“…Hello?” 

“Hey, baby.”

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

“I’m real sorry to call like this—”

Your grip tightens. 

“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“

“He’s fine.”

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

A pause. The shuffle of papers. 

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

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

“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.  

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

“What happened?” 

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

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot. 

"I’m on my way." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.” 

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

“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.” 

The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you. 

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

“Momma.” 

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

And so, you follow.

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

“…Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.”

One word, clipped.  

“Does Coach know what happened?”

“Not yet.” 

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

“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”

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

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

“…Head hurts.” 

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

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

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

“Wait—" 

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

“Ti-Loup—Asaud!” 

He slows down by a millisecond. 

“I still need to know what happened—“

“Ain’t nothin’.”

“Nothing?” 

You frown, “Look at your damn face!" 

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

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

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

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

The words hit like a slap.  

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

“Fine.” 

The word comes out quieter than you meant.  

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

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

“Momma—” 

But you’re already walking away.

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

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

Then—keys. 

The front door swings open, and there he is.  

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

“‘Where my baby at?" 

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

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

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

“Hi, Papa.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong wit’ you?” 

You pick at the hem of the jersey.  

“‘Had… a day.” 

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

“He’s suspended.” 

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

“Fuck you mean suspended?”   

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

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

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

“"Y'all got into it?" 

“He didn't want to talk to me." 

A muscle in his temple jumps.  

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

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

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

“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first." 

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

And then—  

"ASAUD!" 

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

“Get yo’ ass out here.” 

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

Silence.  

Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant. 

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

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

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

“‘You alright?"

Asaud’s throat bobs.  

“Yes, sir." 

Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.  

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

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

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

“What’d you say to her?" 

“I ain’t say nothin’." 

“Tch." 

A sharp click of his tongue.  

“Tête levée quand tu m'parles." 

Head up when you talk to me. 

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

“Désolé, Pops—"

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

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

“‘What he say to you?" 

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

Onyankopon looks back to Asaud. 

“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"  

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

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

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

“I asked you a question." 

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

“Nah, see—you acted like it."

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

The words land like bricks.  

"Look at her." 

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

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

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

“Apologize." 

“I’m sorry, Momma." 

Your chest tightens. 

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

Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.  

"...I fought Jamal." 

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

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

“...Cheer team girl." 

The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening. 

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

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

“Hey, let’s just—" 

”Who the girl?" 

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

"Sabine." 

“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?" 

“Onyankopon!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Asaud!" 

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

"You right." 

A pause—sharp, loaded.  

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

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

Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.  

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

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

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

"Pop’s nothin’." 

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

“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked." 

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

Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.  

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

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

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

But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.  

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

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

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

“‘What you doin’, Papa?” 

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

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

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

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

Some things never changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His name is Tango.” 

“Same shit."  

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

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

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

“You need to eat too, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

"Did you check on your son?" 

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

“Nah. But I know you did." 

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

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

 “Funny. He’s asleep.” 

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

“You do know you were wrong, right?" 

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

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

 Stubborn man.

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

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

Silence.  

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

“He’s sixteen.” 

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

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

“You tryna be funny.” 

“I’m not."

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

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

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

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

A beat. 

“Yeah." 

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

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

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

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

Then—  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you horny." 

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

 “...You love me?" 

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

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

And yeah. That was your answer.  

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

He pauses. Frowns.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flick his ear. 

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

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

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

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

“Eat ‘fore it gets cold." 

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

“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?" 

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

“Hush, Ony.”

Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud. 

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

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

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

Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.

“…Yes Edition?”

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

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

“Whatever I want?"

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

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

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

“Aight, bet.” 

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

Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee. 

“Hell nah I’m not!" 

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

“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head." 

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

 This was gonna be an adventure. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Were you his older siblings? Friends?  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"

“Yo’ day, right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asaud whistled low under his breath.  

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

“He wanted to be one, actually.” 

Asaud turned to you, brow arched. 

"Pops wanted to be in the army?”   

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

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

A beat of silence. Then—  

“What happened?" 

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

The words hung heavy between you.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that? You were onto the next.

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

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

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

Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression. 

“I did. ‘Preciate y’all." 

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

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

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

“Yes, ma’am." 

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

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

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

You hum, tilting your head.

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

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

Onyankopon blinks. Slowly. 

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

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

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

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

Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.  

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

“Asaud?” 

He freezes.

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

“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?” 

“Haven’t what?”  

Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!” 

Oh, my baby!

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

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

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

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

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

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating. 

Then? 

“Does the pull out method really work?" 

Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—  

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

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

“OHMYGOD—“

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

Really, in public?

“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you really like about this girl?”

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

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

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

You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist. 

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

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

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

You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.

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

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

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

Asaud’s throat bobs.

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

Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.  

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

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

He thinks on his words for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m knowin’, Momma."  

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

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

That’s all it takes.  

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

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

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

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

“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!" 

I’m not done with you! 

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

“Take yo’ medicine, boy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby, lemme get a bite of—" 

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

“You better ask yo’ husband!" 

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

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

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

“You okay, baby?" 

Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.

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

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

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

“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”

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

“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"

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

Your eyes narrow slightly.  

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

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

“Language, ‘Mal." 

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

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

“You men are so strange." 

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

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

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

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

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

He exhales through his nose. 

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

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

"We out, then. Love y’all!” 

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

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

"What you starin’ at, girl?" 

You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.  

“My amazing husband." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why you feenin’?” 

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

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

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

“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.” 

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

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

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

You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.

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

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

“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”

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

“Shit.”

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

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

You’re too big. 

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

“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!” 

I can’t.

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

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

You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?

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

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

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

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

’Made a big fuckin’ mess.

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

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

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

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

Too deep. Too much. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!" 

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

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

“Missed this shit... missed you…” 

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

“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—" 

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

“I love you—love you so much—“ 

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

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

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

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

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

“Sound so pretty,” you slur.

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

“Chill.”

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

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

“Fill me up, baby.” 

And that’s all it takes.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, ‘you tired now?”

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

“Aight. We hunchin’ again?" 

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

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

“It's what time?" 

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

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

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

“Imma' kill yo' son." 

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

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

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

“Stop it!” 

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

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

You scrunch your nose.

“No. And you’re grumpy.” 

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

“Imma’ let up, aight?" 

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

“'…’Kay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“’Love you more, girl.” 

September 20XX

Song 1

Another school year at the courageous Campus Town University had sprung into full effect! New students coming from all walks of life with hopes of attending the school were excited to step out on campus on their own and the upperclassmen had their hearts set on finishing the year strong. With you coming in as a Junior there was no time for extra issues on top of your extra curricular activities, the main one being this year's captain of The Canvas Town Majorettes!

The team was featured in Too Lily's music video not once but twice! You were expecting her call sometime around homecoming since she was an Alumni here herself. Tryouts were this weekend and this time instead of being on the floor watching, you were the one showing them what to do. The position was a scary one at first, having to lead, instruct, make the hard calls and push people to bring out their best when you had nothing left to give. It molded you and matured your mind enough to where you could handle your hectic schedule without breaking down in your twin sized mattress.

Luckily those days were over. Your classes were all held in the morning leaving your afternoons clear for practice, any labs since you minored in Biology and to campaign for Miss CTU! You made the announcement and made your debut along with the rest of the candidates in the yard which meant non stop promoting from now until the pageant, which also meant no time for slip ups.

It had been a week since the iconic Oil Spill that hit big numbers across social media platforms. Jabber had his face in every angle possible not that you were looking for him specifically. If anything you've been avoiding social media as whole for one so you wouldn't compare your campaign video to the other girls competing and two nothing good comes out of stalking peoples accounts, you stayed out of that business.

Yasmin however did not.

You were in the living room of your apartment tying off the last of your goodie bags so you could walk around and promote yourself with your co captain of the team Daija, who assisted with your flyers, directed your campaign video and operated on your popularity polls on campus so basically your campaign manager though she refused to call it that.

"That should be the last one, we gotta make it to a good spot before classes let out." Daija spoke up, rummaging through both boxes to get a estimate of how many you had.

"I got the poster board, goodies, my little brochure..okay I think we ready-"

"Y/N!!!!!!" A sharp shrill erupts from your front door as it opens then shuts hard with slam. The small framed girl ran across the hallway with her pink and black braids flying behind her, beads and bracelets followed by the smacks of her flip flops barged in.

"Y/N did you see it already??? You're at 2,000 likes!"

"On my campaign video??" You said with a smile

"I just posted it today! What are you talking about Yasmin?" Daija spat, picking up one of the boxes.

"NoNONO! NOT THAT!" She shouted throwing her arms out

"Girl what?" You said with a huff, snatching her phone to see not one, not two but three pictures of Jabber holding you up in the air. One pic with your face covered, one picture too blurry to understand and one where your back was turned with him sticking his tongue out.

"What is it Y/n why are you- its a que party. So what?" Daija peered over your shoulder watching you frantically scroll through whoever posted it. It looked similar to a photography account, the profile picture didn't help either.

"The girl on his shoulder is-"

"A girl we recognize! She's also running for Miss CTU." You cut in hard, shoving the phone back into Yasmin hands so you could grab your own.

"Her face is covered but if anybody recognizes that dress it wouldn't be a good look. Partying is fine but it's your reputation that matters around here ya'll know this."

Your heart dropped out of it's casing straight into your bowels, you looked back at Yasmin slowly exiting herself from the conversation to go waddle into your kitchen with an sorry expression on her face. How could you've missed that? The oil wasn't that potent for you to forget your surroundings or your common sense! One cup and a hop ended up having your body plastered on social media enough for two thousand people to see. You quickly swallowed, your chest locked on automatic heaving up and down as you bent over pretending to pick up the other box, looking at your phone to see the comments and how many people really seen the picture.

~

While you were playing Inspector Gadget, on the other side of campus Jabber walked around the dorm banging on doors and barging into rooms tossing whatever he could grab in his distance to wake up his brothers for a chapter meeting scheduled by none other than him.

Yes the Oil spill grew to be a successful event but that didn't mean they got away scot free throwing a whole party at the deans house. No matter if his son crossed into the fraternity or not Arkha didn't play when it came to his home so as a punishment, the entire chapter had to clean his house as his own form of "Community Service."

"15 minutes and 15 minutes only! Getcho ass..up!" Jabber launched a nearby stuffed basketball at the tall darkskin sprawled out on his twin mattress the covers only covering his bottom half as the toy bounced right off his chest causing him to hit his head on the side of the wall.

"HUUU-"

"Unless you got time to stop by the car wash I know Mankira needs another wash.."

"I'm up man I'm..shit." He rubbed his noggin tossing the toy right back earning some snickers from Jabber and King emerging from the door already dressed and ready to go.

"You didn't wake me up??"

"No." King deadpanned

"What happened to one fail we all fail? My brother letting me down.."

"All this talking we doing is losing time..I'm pulling off with or without the both of ya'll get that shit together.." Jabber chuckled to himself dodging the toy flying by his head.

"And that's 10 MJ.."

He sucked his teeth watching Jabber walk out of his room still putting the blame on King not getting him up in time, if they were on line this would be a no laughing matter but since then Jabber had grown soft towards the boys but still kept his guard when it came to the high position of Chapter President.

From when he first crossed he made it his goal to progress not just in his studies but within the brother hood as well, going so far as to organize his own events, lead his brothers to have the highest GPA on the yard and becoming a star model on campus despite his "reputation" with women.

Jabber being a virgin was partially true, he hadn't slipped into to anyone only using his fingers or his mouth to get the job done, not until that night he had met you. Something about the way you asked so sweetly, the sounds your pussy made when he dipped inside of your heat it pulled him in further than he thought he could go, he hadn't stop thinking about that night. The customized thong you'd left behind was the only thing he had in remembrance and the pretty noises when he made you cum so hard, he needed to contain himself before going into a meeting semi hard.

His car door flung open as he slumped himself in, mindlessly scrolling through his feed throwing his arm over his head resting on the car seat while he waited for his brothers. He liked so many pictures from that night secretly hoping to find your face in one picture or maybe your username tucked in the comments but nothing came up close. With the way things were going getting a hold of Liyah was like trying to find a needle in a haystack especially with her own probate coming up later this semester. He was close to ending his little game of hide and seek until his thumb froze on a set of pictures he hadn't came across, it was from his own friend Kareem who was growing his photography business.

No tag, no comment, just 3 pictures of him holding you up with your face blocked out of almost every single one of them.

"Damn.." He cursed to himself, bringing the phone closer examining your hair, the logo on your shirt, looking for paraphernalia just in case he missed it last time but he confirmed his suspicions. You weren't in a sorority, you go to this school and you were a friend of his friend so that eliminated 5 percent of the school!

Still, he posted the infamous picture of him sticking out his tongue onto his story with the caption saying "she showed owt part two coming soon"with a purple heart at the end, snapping his neck seeing his frined Devin hop in the car. Jabber dapped him up smoothly still swiping his thumb waiting for the rest of slow ass brothers to come on.

"Ohh shit you got some more pictures from the probate? I ain't think we messed up his spot that bad.." Devin chuckled, peeping Jabber scrolling through that specific set of pictures.

"Man blame Arkha's son for saying we could throw it there.. matter of fact where did you run off too? I saw two or three girls on your shoulder!"

"I took one of em to the car and I think the other two were Poodles so you know how that went. I should be asking you the same thing! We couldn't find you when ol boy was throwing up oil."

"I told you I had to handle something..it's all a blur really but this girl…she went crazy on me D.." Jabber spoke, spacing out his words as he pondered in his mind, trying to piece together all of the details that happened that night.

"So Monty wasn't lying? How you slip up like that Jay?" He exclaims, laughing into his hand.

"So from what I can think back to..my friend Liyah introduced me to this girl for some…reason..I know it was a stupid one 'cuz I laughed in her face. We hit it off real cool in the kitchen and my dumbass drunk another cup of that shit knowing I mixed 2 bottles of Everclear and man after that ass was on me, my tongue in her mouth I got her up in the air doing what I usually do next thing I know she talking bout "Put it in me.."..Nigga you damn right I folded!"

Flashes of light shone across Jabber's memory showing split second clips of your voice whimpering in his ears, the singe of pain coursing through his veins remembering your nails digging in his skin, the color of your eyes glossy from the liquor yet he couldn't remember a name!

"Whatchu rate yo first time then? Don't tell me you falling Mr President I can't save you from that.."

"First time? Off rip head game 10 outta 10 but that puss-"

"EEEEEUUGGHHHHHHHHHHH…shut that shit up shut it upppp!" MJ yelled getting into the back seat of the car with King quietly shaking his head with a laugh.

"Nobody wanna hear about how some chick took yo cookies! We still ain't done with the left wing of Corvus's house!"

"We going back this weekend to finish up he called me into his office this morning. If anything yall niggas need to be on yo Ps and Qs, I had to fight to get him to credit these hours for us and convince him to green light Hop Like a Que so after the meeting I'm gonna have a few of ya'll posted up in the cafe to talk to a few girls.

"You think that girl gon show up on you all pissed off cuz you ain't call her like King?" MJ snorted

"What was her name? Nori?"

"None of you niggas are funny.." King huffed

"Do you even wanna look for this girl?" Devin's voice breaking the miniature conversation

"I meannn…." Jabber hummed, leaning back in his seat trying to cover his cheeks.

"Awwwww!" All of the boys scoffed in the car, laughing, jeering and making kissy noises.

"DP out of the game like that?" Mj smirked.

"The only clue I got is her thong she left with me and these pictures Kareem just posted. So imma see if I can get a hold of Liyah and connect some dots." Jabber thought out loud.

"You still got em on you?" MJ exclaimed, his eyes widened to full capacity. King and Devin joined in looking back to one another with a ounce of concern.

"Nigga no! You think I'm finna carry a thong around while I'm serving plates today? I ain't that slow." He huffed, thinking back to that night he tossed them on his dresser only to hide them quickly with the rest of his boxers, capturing that moment in his head every morning he opened the drawer.

"Don't trip about it Jay I'll help you find yo little Thongerella.." He cracked, bracing himself for the harsh thud Jabber laid on his chest while the rest of his boys joined in to clown on him. All he could do was roll his eyes to stop his own cheeks from tugging at a smile. He allowed a joke or two if it was good enough otherwise all four of em would be late due to him jumping to attack, he just got cursed out by Corvus leading him to be an agitated state. Just when he was about to give up hope on finding you the perfect hint fell right into his lap and the pink eyed man couldn't deny the giddiness he had to keep at bay.

Maybe she'll show up while we're recruiting..

Maybe I'll see her on the yard..

Maybe..

The roaring engine of his Dodge Challenger rushed his daydreaming thoughts to the side, his phone automatically connecting to the blue tooth as he pulled out of the dorm parking lot smoothly allowing the gravel to crackle underneath the wheels.

~

Song 2

The cafe around this time was normally packed to the brim with students forcing their way into the lunch lines or finding their friends to see what communities or clubs they could find an interest in. You were on the hungry side, bored from class and exhausted from running your mouth to almost 100 students, the sun had barely touched the middle of the sky.

"That's all you're eating? A sweet tea and slice of cake? What are you? Forty?"

"They ain't have nothing I liked today..I'll cook when I get home.." You sighed, glad to be inside so you could rest your feet. One moment you were perfectly fine the next your stomach flipped inside itself, your thighs trembled, your breath hitched like you were back in time.

The dick was mediocre at best! All he did was flip you around like a rag doll, snuck his tongue inside like he owned the place and made you bark like a fucking dog. Nothing too serious enough for you to be having hot flashes in the middle of the day.

"The least you could do is relax, you look so distraught.."

You loosened your jaw muscles, released your shoulders and un-scrunched your face trying to have a cool head, but your face spread out your true emotions. Truth was you were stuck between a rock and doghouse, his poisoned elixir dug it's claws into your system and you were hooked! The morning after your legs couldn't comprehend what your brain was trying to tell them do, the stinging pain mixing in with the orgasmic pleasure still shaking from within it was miracle you made it to your first class.

Like a moth being summoned by a stroke of light a familiar sound of beads and bracelets could be heard growing louder by the second, pulling you out of Omegaland before Yasmin sat down with a plate full of chicken nuggets and fries. Your fingers snuck their way over to grab a couple of extra ones on the verge of falling to the ground.

"Does that make you feel better?" You laughed holding up a fry while Daija scrunched up her face.

"Any-ways, you're doing well on Insta the video is pushing 9 thousand views, the polls are looking good in your favor but your problem is…you're boring."

Yasmin coughed on her food, shooting a look at Daija trying to change to subject.

"Boring?! I've helped countless community centers, read to children on the weekends and I'm CPR certified!"

"Yes that would work if you were campaigning to be the school's nurse! Some of these girls have jumped out of planes, skilled in 3 or more instruments and I'm pretty sure contestant number 6 can build a motorcycle from scratch!"

"Daija everyone is expecting me to perform a dance routine I don't want to be typical! Who wants to sit through an entire 3 minutes of something they see on the field at every game?" You said, stealing some more fries from Yari's plate with your head resting on your other hand.

DING

Your phone went off with a message from your Coach so you cut the conversation short to peer down at your device while Jabber walked past your table heading over to the little booth setup where his brothers were having mini interviews with the women they managed to find.

"Aye perfect timing, we got at least 30 girls signed up!" One boy exclaimed

"30? Okay that's a good turn out and ya'll haven't seen.."

"No we ain't find the owner of that thong Jabari. You think she gon waltz up here and be like "Um Jay I think you got something of mines.." MJ mocked in horrible falsetto causing Jabber to flinch at him like he was about to hit him.

"Yall haven't seen Devin? Is what I was finna say.."

"Oh he's walking around with his clipboard, you know how he get when you leave him in charge." MJ replied,turning over to a girl who came up interested in the poster board they had set up.

"All I'm saying is in order for you to be noticeable you need to do something out of your comfort zone!" Daija continued, stabbing her salad to eat a couple of bites as your eyes paced around the cafe building for anything to stick avoiding the obvious purple and gold eye sore in the back end of the room. When you did your intense research on how many people stumbled across that set of photos, you ended up on Jabber's profile and scoured through each and every picture like you were investigating him for a crime. You were careful enough not to like a picture, even more precise looking through his highlights and caught a glimpse of him when he crossed with a shaved head and all, it made you wonder just how fast his hair grew.

His voice lingered through your memory, his hand prints were still faintly on your body and his scent was so drenched into your homemade dress that after the 3rd wash it remained stamped on the material. You've never changed up a hairstyle so quick fearing that you would be recognized, it's not like you were a hermit on campus or even had a bad reputation. You had enough recognition to be waved at during your walk to class but nothing like what Jabber had with women screaming at him like maniacs.

"What if you tried out for Hop Like a Que?" Daija asked, spotting the booth once she raised her head.

"For what??" You spat almost choking mid chew.

"NO!" Yasmin yelled, laud enough for someone to turn around to look at her.

"Yasmin I thought you were all for those frat boys!"

She laughed nervously, dipping her chicken nugget into the ketchup.

"You know how she get around Ques, why would you want her to freak out like that? We want to win Daija not end up in a Psych Ward."

"Plus I don't think it would be good for my image, remember that picture we saw with that girl?" You claimed.

"Her face is covered it's not like she was tongue kissing him and with you being a contestant you handling both the pageant and that, it'll blow over. Nobody will care! Has anyone cared about that picture except you?"

You paused to take in her question suddenly realizing that the only thing you HAD been worried about was the pageant and mostly those pictures! While you were passing out goodies bag sharp flashes of his tongue melting on your skin and the slight coldness's of his rings pressing deep into your mouth, you felt like his name was always on the verge of slipping out, it was becoming unbearable. It's not like anyone else was talking about it, you weren't even sure if Jabber had thought about it as much as you did or coherent enough to remember.

"I'm concerned for her that's all.." Yasmin added

"Look at you showing sympathy for a girl scared of colors! Come on at least take a look at the event to see if people are paying to go." Daija confirmed, meaning you didn't have much of a choice. "It's a que event what you think you gonna do?" Yasmin scooted her chair across the floor, clearing her plate clean right as she shoved her foot into the side of your shin making sure you got your ass up. It didn't help that your Coach moved practice to a later time giving you a free afternoon and no choice but to emerge yourself back into Omega Land. You swallowed quickly and rose out of your seat, tossing your plate away and kept your cup of tea in your grasp as a point of focus if you lost it again.

He was right there! Yasmin hadn't noticed him but that signature smoky scent, that sharp contrast of his pink eyes cutting the entire room, those locs glimmering in the midday light shining through the open windows, your lips instantly wrapped around your straw to keep your focus, speeding up your walk to catch your friends inching closer to the booth peering at every other table except the one you were aiming to go for. You caught a glimpse of one of your old friends who happened to be an Alpha, one of the first black fraternities. Onyan never let you hear it down either, he gave a soft smile with a head nod signaling you to walk over to catch up and at the moment it sounded like a great idea and a perfect excuse to postpone any conversation with Jabber.

Or any of them!

Your eyes were set on heading over to his table only for them to cut to Jabber who had his locs covering his face while he talked to a girl twirling her fingers in her low slick puff, giggling just a little too hard. Your lips scrunched up and your body collided with a clipboard and strong scent of Dior Savage a scent you smelled too many times this week alone.

"Oh that's my bad.."

"I'm sorry! I wasn't watching where I going.."

"Hey wait I recognize you from somewhere!" The voice boomed, judging by his lanyard and the obvious letters on the corner of his purple shirt, you ran right into an issue. The hairs on your body shot up at attention, the fuck you mean you recognize me? Your thoughts ran without a second to process, your looked up at the face to see it was one from the party, that's when you really felt the panic settle in.

"Yeah, yeah you're the dance team's new captain! I seen Too Lily's stuff so I know you can move you should definitely sign up." Devin said with a smile, showing you the clipboard with names stacked and one space being left open.

"She would love to! Tryouts in Gountess Hall room 315.." Daija said scanning the clipboard she snatched from his hands before you could make a move, let alone speak. She wrote down your name and passed it to Yasmin to see if she wanted to join for moral support so she put her name right under yours, handing it back to Devin who was glad his sheet was filled.

"Alright, alright I'll see you ladies at 3?"

"We'll be there.." You managed to speak, reaching out to shake his hand watching him walk back towards the table where the girl walked off from Jabber's presence and Devin showed him his filled list of names. His arm flexed as he grabbed the clipboard, dapping up his brother.

"I'm starting to become so proud of you Y/n.." Yasmin snickered into her hand, hooking onto your arm as the three of you walked past Jabber making your way to the exit. In the middle of his conversation Jabber paused, taking a sudden deep inhale of the air around him.

"Nigga you got perfume on your hand?"

"Do you know how many women I've talked to? I smell like a bath and body works."

Jabber sniffed the air again like he was trying to find a culprit wearing speed stick because for some reason it brought him right back to that night. He didn't want to admit that he was hoping for the owner of the thong to walk up and spit the truth right then and there, some of the girls he talked to today were willing to give him their underwear unprovoked, some with similar hairstyles that caused him to take a couple extra glances to calm his excitement yet still he found nothing until that scent Devin had lingering on him snapped him back.

"Did all three of them sign up? I saw you had a crowd on you.."

"Only two of them…unn Y/N L/N she's the new dance team captain I've been seeing on the field I like watching them perform during halftime.." Devin said with a snarky chuckle. "Andddd Yasmin Monroe a cheerleader… we practically got the whole cheer team trying out.

"The entire team won't make the final cut you know..that.." Jabber spoke, still getting a few whiffs in of that mind boggling scent, he even went as far as to look towards the direction you were walking in to see if any of you or friends were still there. the name didn't ring a bell or sound off any alarms, he wasn't even sure if it was your scent he was smelling but it didn't matter. He wanted his own personal bottle, in his car hanging like scented tree, back inside of his system while his hands are wrapped around your throat beggin him to-

"Jabari!"

"Huh? What? You see me thinking!" "Ms. Semiu nigga walk and think!"

Keys jingling in the distance followed by the cold hard snaps of heels clicking across the linoleum, students straighten up their clothes some lifting up their pants from sagging. Ms Semiu ran this school better than the dean himself and had a tight ship of respect when it came to the students on campus no matter the status, and everyone loved her for it…almost everybody.

"Boys.."

"Ms Grier.." Devin spoke nodding his head down.

"Afternoon Ms Semiu, Arhka sent you down here to check on us?" Jabber said, scracting the back of his head in slight annoyance

"Exactly what I came to do and grab me a little something to eat, ya'll been behaving?" "Yes ma'am keeping out of trouble my mama asked about you.."

"Tell her I said I still owe her for my jacket! Girl won't let me pay her for nothing! Oh that reminds me the CTU P agent is the same day as HLAQ which means you have to share the auditorium. The event shouldn't take that long and if you already paid for admission you won't have to pay for it again if you choose to stick around, I know most of the ladies will."

"We can't change the date?"

"With probate season coming, graduation and a plethora of other students throwing things together your schedule is looking tight."

"I see..we can make something work Semiu.."

"Ms Semiu, boy. Devin.." She acknowledged him, patting Jabber on the head with a paper she had rolled up with a smile as she walked off towards the line.

"We don't have too many girls competing in the pageant do we?" "We were supposed to ask?"

"What were you doing? Smiling and bullshitting in these girls faces, you aint ask about what they do?"

"You ain't ask Thomgerella her name?" Devin spat back, flinching with a laugh listening to Jabber suck his teeth, throwing his right fist towards him faking out near the end.

"Wrap this up since its funny before I tell Semiu about that probation you think I don't know about."

"Already on it. Dick Charming.." Devin scoffed

Jabber didn't even waste his breath to try and jump at his best friend, he huffed until his lips relaxed into a smile a little pissed off he got a laugh out of him. If it wasn't that familiar scent throwing him off his rocker, it was definitely the stress of making sure this event ran smoothly, while monitoring his brothers, managing his own classes and preparing for basketball season coming up next semester. He was a tired mess!

His phone began to ring off the hook with the contact name being Do Not Contact, the fact that the number was calling made Jabber stop in his own tracks to suck his teeth. He wasted no time to decline just for the number to call again, and again. All he did was turn his ringer off, stuffing the device back into his pocket heading towards the cafe door.

"Not now Diamond.."

~

"Can you believe her?" You exclaimed to Liyah, sitting in the middle of your living room floor legs sprawled out in a deep stretch while your roommate prepped herself for her next class.

"You asked her to help you win! You can't get mad at that.."

"I'm not mad I'm just…ughhhh." You groaned out confused with yourself if this was a happy groan or a frustrated one.

"What did Jabber say to you in the kitchen? You losing your mind over a conversation."

"It was more than a conversation.." You mumbled, lifting up to stretch the other leg. "If I make the cuts i'll be spending nothing but time with him!"

"Oh no! I'm getting to know my crush!!"

"Liyah I gotta focus on the pageant!"

"Then focus! That's IF you make the cuts which I know you will, you at least got rhythm."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Daija is doing what any campaign manager would do, you're stressing yourself out girl. If you didn't do anything with him there should be nothing to worry about." Liyah reassured, turning to face you to show her seriousness.

"Fine fine..don't be late."

"You don't be late to Tryouts! You finally get to experience what greek life is really like I just wish you were on my line."

"The day I cross into Deltaland.."

"Delayed never meant denied.."

"Bye Liyah.." You chuckled, focusing back on your form to make sure you don't pull anything before the event even took place. You knew that the boys wouldn't go too hard on the first day but that didn't mean pretend like you couldn't keep up. The only thing that ran through your mind worst then the actual moves was who your teacher would end up being you were hoping for anyone but him. Just thinking about him being in your vicinity made your thighs quiver much harder than usual.

You never did tell anyone what really transpired about a week ago, you told Liyah you went to see a man about a dog and she laughed like you were joking. You ended up giving her a much shorter version only telling her that you and Jabber snuck off to dance which was partially true. Your stomach churned and your breathing speed switched into a higher gear thinking so hard if Liyah did find out, if anyone did!

You drew out a hard exhale coming back up to relax your muscles, mentally getting yourself together to meet Yasmin at Gountess hall, the plan was to arrive a little early so the two of you could scope the scene, little did you know all 100 and something girls had the exact idea with the line boosting out of the door.

"I didn't think half of the damn school would be here! How are they gonna see everybody?" Yasmin bounced, jumping up to try and see the front of the line, from what you could see they had a table inside and they were doing group interviews, the worst kind to deal with.

"I'm about to go home this seems ridiculous.."

"Don't leave just yet we're about to head in!" Yasmin said with a plea, clasping onto your hand. Your turned your head back seeing more women piling in behind you all with that same eager look embedded into their skulls, you peeped back to your friend sighing to ypurse;f thinking about your mother words, there was no way you would be telling her about this event! She wouldn't come there would be no point!

You followed the group of girls inside of what looked like a dance studio were the walls were painted black with one wall decorated from the ceiling to the floor with mirrors. They asked each girl a series of questions to pull out everyone's personalities and their true intentions on why they were doing it in the first place. Jabber was one of the people on the panel with his question being "What's your purpose on being here today?" A question you weren't expecting from him due to the horrid stereotypes about the Omega men. They're loud, big, nasty dogs and some women fail to realize what it takes to even cross over, to even wear the colors. You got to have the GPA, the knowledge and not just the strength to hop around.

After the interviews it came time to see if your stamina could match the energy of an average Que which eliminated almost half of the competition meaning Yasmin got cut in the first big chop. All you had to do was learn the basic steps and copy Devin to the best of your abilities without looking like you didn't understand what an 8 count looks like. Some of the best dancers couldn't keep up once Jabber came in to get a look at the final group of girls, immediately giving you all a simple 16 count with the music.

"Okay okay…they don't look too bad.." Jabber announced, laughing at some of the girls dramatically hitting the floor once the music stopped.

"We got a long way to go.." Devin sighed going over to give everyone a high five.

"Alright ya'll these are gonna be your best friend for the next couple of week and when we pick our groups you'll be even closer than that…uhhh Y/N, Harmony, Taylen andddd LaNiyah?

"It's LaNae.."

"LaNae oh shit my bad, ight yall are on my team. We'll figure out our little group name during our next practice, Devin your pick."

They way he commanded the room to his attention, his voice bouncing off the echoed walls vibrating in your eardrums,Yasmin promised to stay outside while the Ques gave their debrief but her moral support wasn't enough to stop the wedding bells dancing around in your head and the throbbing ones whispering between your thighs. How hard he stomped around, each time his foot hit the hardwood floor, it brought you back front and center to him that night swinging his neck around searching for your eyes to feed off of that carnal energy gnawing inside.

While he was showing everyone how to get the moves down, he waltzed over to your direction eyeing your form and gave you a head nod of approval, even going so far as to test how how your knees went.

There was a sliver of you hoping he would come over to assist like he was doing with some of the struggling girls but there would be no point. You knew how to count, you knew when and where to come in and once the music came on you were in the clear only messing up once when you forgot how many times you were supposed to spin.

Once Jabber cleared the girls for the evening the next stop was your own practice, you secured your spots now it was time to get you into captain position and with the way you were feeling, whatever Coach Mildretta had to offer today was light work compared to what you just did.

"Y/n!!!" You heard a deeper voice call out, rushing over to you as you picked up your bag off of the floor.

"Oh hey LaNae!" You replied, turning to give a quick hug.

"I didn't think you would be here! When he said your name I thought he was playing! This is like my second year doing this."

"I said the same thing when i saw my name on the paper, how you've been?" You chuckled, hugging your freshman roommate once more.

"So good you don't even know! Look I became an RA and I heard about your apartment too I gotta come over for some drinks! But.." She paused, pulling you over to the side. "Does your mama know you out here hopping with these dawgs?" She murmured with a laugh.

"My mama gon kill me if she sees me in these colors." You laughed with her accidentally letting your voice ring out louder than it was supposed to.

Jabber's head to lifted up quick looking towards your direction, locking eyes with LaNae, her eyes softly blinking once then twice before going back to your conversation. He cut his peripherals to you and you felt every second of his gaze studying your features, the tingling feeling turned into internal tension before the swelling pressure died down, you just had to check the temperature to see if he was still staring. Just one quick glance. Your eyes cut across the room, daring yourself to stare right into his face, luckily he was focused

"…Well I'm glad you're here for some good promo, they must've liked your answer."

"Why are you here then? Second year in a row you back for redemption?" "Something like that, you remember that oil spill last week? One of the guys that picked up is right over there and I think he spotted me too.." LaNae giggled, her words sparking your curiosity.

"You went to that party? Why didn't I see you?"

"The real question is what were YOU doing at a Que party?" She asked, her voice riddled in shock.

"it's a long story…"

"Y/N right?" A warm voice singing your name in perfect harmony, sounded just as sweet as your nickname did.

Jabber had walked right up to the the both of you with a heartwarming smile, nodding to LaNae letting his eyes linger on her frame before connecting back to yours, seeming like he was taking a deep breath in.

"Yeah?"

"I went ahead and decided to make you my Ace so I'll be hitting you up the most to make sure you got your group together. Imma hand you my number and text you when the next practice will be so it doesn't conflict with your dance team? You cool with that?"

Your heart battered against your chest, your palms fell damp and your breathing switched into manual mode yet you played it cool, pulling out your phone so he could type it in.

"Bet and can I borrow your friend real quick?" He asked, looking over to LaNae who couldn't stop cheesing if her life depended on it, it made your stomach turn sour, the taste left inside of your mouth felt disgusting. She even had the audacity to wave at you before he took a hold of her hand, pulling her out of the dance hall.

"He's not your boyfriend!"

"Thats a Que Dog you shouldn't be worried about that?"

"Can I borrow your friend?"

"If you didn't do anything with him why does it matter?

"STAY AWAY FROM THOSE OMEGAS"

A endless wheel, thought after thought only adding fuel to the eruption of a once dormant volcano. Your chest burned, your eyes felt like they were daggers staring into the back of her head. There wasn't any time to sit and think! You had practice in 15 minutes. You too a sharp deep breath ain and a quick exhale before walking out of the room and exiting the hall building, not once looking back, not even for Yasmin who was waiting patiently outside.

"How did it go- aye! Y/N! Did you make the finall cut?" "Of course I did, I'm late." "Why you walking so fast? Wait up!"

"I'm gonna be late!"

~

Getting to practice was the easy part, focusing was a whole other problem on its own, just because you made the team didn't mean you were off scot free from being kicked off either, Coach Mildretta ran this this team tighter than her wristband on her watch.

She walked around you and Daija eyeing your formation, you were in the cleaning up process and things weren't looking too good especially if you couldn't keep up with the timing. Luckily you weren't the only girl having trouble but none of that mattered when you were the captain!

"That's fine you can go out there and look stupid. Run it again." She spat, scoffing at Meriege to play the music over.

Despise wasn't the right word to use when talking about your Coach, dislike is a better word. Her harsh words stung hard enough to make you ugly cry in the bathroom but it pushed you enough to get the timing just right, holding a mean mug and all. Daija was known for scrunching up her nose having Mildretta yell "Face!" every so often. She warned you that it was starting to spread, the pink haired woman didn't give a damn what you did as long as those lines were clean, the makeup is spotless and those toes better be pointed.

"There we go, FACE! Smile! Act you want to be here!"

"Damnnnn I can hear her ass over here!" Devin sucked his teeth, wiping sweat off of his face.

"They not even doing enough for her to be yelling like that.." Another boy chimed in.

"You try keeping yo toe pointed in mid air." Onyan breathed, lifting up his shirt to wipe his cheeks. His eyes caught a blurry glimpse of you tossing your arms up, jumping up in the air to roll onto the ground, chuckling to himself seeing your eyes roll at Mildretta's voice.

"He's still salty we caught him in Ballet.." Devin snickered, dodging a heavy hit from the man. "Ahtttt you know Coach Bundus don't want us gawking at them..but..tell me which one, the one in the blue hair or the short thick one in the back?"

"Y'all not seeing the girl with the locs.."

"They need numbers like us.."

"I want ol girl up front, the captain.." Onyan spoke up

"The captain? OHH! That's um.." He snaps his fingers. "Y/N! That's the new captain I saw her at tryouts today! Damn she not tired?"

"Boyfriend?"

"Nigga you grillin me like my name is Y/n go ask her!" The boys joined in to laugh with Onyan covering his face to hide how hard he was smiling. This wasn't the first time he was caught ogling at you during practice, he even found himself running back to the field to watch you perform at half time though he never found the courage to go up to you fearing he would mess you up or worse you'd get into trouble.

The window of opportunity seemingly flung open once Onyan spotted you and the girls stepping out of formation to grab water bottles and bags. Bundus had his back turned with a clipboard in hand rambling to the other coaches so he had this moment to choose, run off with the risk or stay put and listen to his teammates drag him. The first options timer was ticking, so he took off in the next second doing a light jog over to your area of the field, some of the girls having their own opinions about the low cut wearing man.

"Onyankapon sounds like a mouthful.." Ruby hummed.

"I bet he is a mouthful." Daija smirked

"6 foot 4, wearing waves I counted all 8 abs and his skin so silky it makes me mad, i checked his stats he's never seen the bench.." Ruby went on

"Only an Alpha can do something like that.." Asia said with a bite to her lip.

You were on the ground face deep in your water bottle thankful that practice was over but more irritated at yourself for going so hard, one thing you couldn't stand to do was admit when something got too tough. Nothing is too much for you, if you wanted it all you had to handle it all. Its how you've gotten this far! Your advisor was impressed and more so in denial about how you handled your freshman schedule but what she didn't warn you about was the emotional turmoil.

"Y/N Onyan's calling for youuu!" Ruby sung.

"Acting like he's the president, hey Onyan.."

"Don't mind me stopping by, you working hard ain't you?" Onyankapon said with a laugh, showing all 32 of his pearly whites, it would be a straight up lie to say he wasn't a little cute, the small diples poking out of his cheeks and the way his chest bounced when he laughed had you ready to take a bite yourself. He knew he was fine, educated with his name being right up under yours on the deans list and made his way up to be assitant president of his chapter, a much more safer option in your mother's eyes.

The Alphas.

"Apparently not enough.." You laughed, taking his hand allowing him to lift you up to your feet with ease.

"She made you captain for a reason, and Coach Mil don't like anybody."

"She barely like's me, it's bad enough I didn't finish Professor Lock's presentation due tomorrow now I'm gonna be sore and up all night."

"I asked yo hardheaded ass if you wanted to do it together but it's cool, I waited till the last minute too."

"Oh? Mr. I can't hang out cuz I'm studying didn't finish his work?"

"That excuse only worked what? Twice.." Onyan chuckled, earning some giggles from the girls eyeing your entire conversation. "Knew you were up to something now you too cool to talk to me."

"You wanna finish it together then? I know them feet barking louder than them dogs you were hopping with today so I can throw in a foot rub."

"Awww nahhh don't be like that.." Your cheeks tugging upward quick, tossing your arm out to tag him on his chest, your fingers bouncing off so easily while your eyes flickered in amusement. It was the first moment of the day where your smile felt natural and not forced into a doll like state since that's what it felt like repeating those words over and over in that specific cadence.

The sky painted out like mural splashing colors of pink, purple and orange glossing over his skin and yours settling into a perfect golden hour. He grilled you bad for even being at a que party in the first place. Now that people were slowly finding out who was there and who wasn't , word was spreading around like wild fire.

"I'm not rooting for nobody but 1906 got a special place in my heart.."

"It should be the FIRST place..the only one in my opinion." Onyan's eyes soften, flickering towards your lips than staring into each of your eyes individually. You couldn't tell was was thicker, the scent of his cologne blending in with his musk or the tension that bubbled in between the friendly conversation you thought you were having.

"Here you go, you can assist in the presentation if you want, he did say we have the option of teaming up."

"We can help each other out your place or mines?"

~

The evening sky cascaded over the purple dodge letting the lights flash over his car, the pink eyed man pressed his foot to the gas revving his engine as he flew by racing to La'Nae's place, heart thumping in his chest. He didn't know if he wanted to bring flowers, a gift, some chocolate maybe? His thoughts were all over the place but the simple fact that he had ended his wild goose chase cleared his head only for a moment and that was good enough in his eyes.

His blue tooth paused his music to read out Liyah's line name to which Jabber answer with a quickness.

"Is there a reason you were blowing me up like somebody died?" Liyah answered, the sounds of her car door being heard in the back ground."

"You just getting back from your neos?"

"Yeah we just finished round one, i gotta run back out to the park at 11.."

"Ain't fun being on the other side huh?"

"What you call me for bro?" She said with a sigh, sucking her teeth.

"Remember that girl you introduced me to?"

"What girl? N/N?" Liyah questioned, throwing her things into her back seat. She wasn't far off from campus but if he needed her to get anything the closest thing he might get is 20 dollars seeing how tired she was feeling and she wasn't the one on line!

"That must be her nickname, yeah her!"

"What about her? She hit you up? How you manage to get her to call you?" She snickered, her acrylic finger pressing start to her car.

"She did a little more than just call me.."

"Jabari…"

"I'm sorry Liyah! I'll spare the details but I met up with her after practice."

"And she hopping around like you too? Always fingering these girls into psychosis. All you had to do was crack that weird fear she had!"

"She act like she don't remember what she did but I'm letting you know that I'm taking her out and I'll have her home round what? Same time you gotta leave back out. I'm pissed off you don't know how to answer yo damn phone!"

"I was busy, you not the only president in the world!"

"Assistant President.."

"Get technical with the names I don't care, I'm just glad my girl picked a somewhat decent Que."

"Decent? I look pretty good for 22.." Jabber snickered

"Not in how you look…I'm serious Jay don't fuck this up.."

"Ahh don't get sappy on me, she about to get in the car.."

"Tell her I said hey and I'll see you tomorrow lil bro.."

"BIG BROTHER-"

*Click*

After a long day of dealing with freshman girls, Liyah didn't have the strength to handle Jabber's questions even if it did pertain to one of her closest friends, as the car roamed to life she sat back in her leather seat to take a deep inhale, breathing out through her lips before grabbing her phone to selfishly indulge in a little scrolling before she pulled off.

"Well shit.." Liyah mumbles to herself stumbling across that same set of photos, double tapping them with a snicker.

"She knew to hide her face.." She laughed, shutting off her phone, switching the gears with ease. She wasn't expecting them to do anything, she was more pissed that she wasn't the first to know, so she made a mental note to give you a thorough cuss out once you got back enjoying your little date. Part of her couldn t stay mad for too long, she was honestly glad that she had the house to herself for the night.

Liyah hopped on the main road speeding slightly towards you and hers shared home, parking in the same spot you two fight over every week, grabbing her stuff to head to the front door, slipping the key into the lock and pushing inside in a swift motion.

The lights were off in the kitchen once she set her things down to peek in the fridge, closing it to reveal you standing in your bonnet and moomoo combination, face plastered with a skin care mask.

"Shit!

"AAAAHHH FUCK!"

"You scared the fuck outta me-

"Me?? Why you look you've been playing in flour?I thought you were out!"

"Out where? I got classes in the morning!"

"Jabber just said you was- Oh shit.."

I really hope you guys enjoy this little series i put together and i hope Jabber figures out what the hell he got going on! Miss Honey Mondays will be a thing to get me more active and to hang around the playhouse a little more! I can’t wait for yall to see what happens! And as always i will imagine with you in the next one!

(saw how big the tag list has gotten, soo many dolls in the house i love yall)

-MissHoneyBlue

Keeping secrets for a friend is an easy thing to do but keeping secrets from a friend is a entirely different territory especially from a friend group you've known since middle school. It was pointless to keep things put of the loop when everyone was bound to find out anyways and knowing yourself, you couldn't hold water in your mouth so you were the last to find out anything, but that's how the group operated and how you all managed to make it through high school without scandals or rumors breaking you up like all friend groups go through.

Once college came into the picture that's when the group took a slight detour, August went to community college and made his living after forcefully becoming an intern at his favorite mechanic shop in town, Antwan went straight to work at Footlocker at your favorite hangout spot at Remlin Heights and worked his way up to Assistant Manger where he put Jabber on part time while You and him went straight into university with your closest friend Jaida.

Everyone all scattered around doing their own thing yet you all still found time to call each other, set up hangouts at Antwan's spot not too far from campus and the fact that you could confide in everyone about the silliest things and not worry about it tearing the group into shreds.

There was a time Jabber and Jaida tried to date each other in high school which resulted in Jaida coming out and Jabber questioning his sexuality. The group accepted them both simply because you all already had a suspicion, the relationship lasted all of two weeks and everyone forgot about it by the time you all graduated.

Except for August who likes to remind Jabber ever chance he gets.

Now the only issues that seem to arrive the most are time conflicting schedules, Jabber not sliding through for a favor or you doubling down on the money you lent August two weeks ago.

Antwan developing feelings for you? That was something nobody could've saw coming.

"Y/n? You talking bout thick head, bow-legged Y/n with the starter locs?" Jabber snickered, sitting on the kitchen counter eating cereal of the box

"C'mon you being wild.." Antwan groans, throwing up his hands.

"No you not thinking! She cool, nice whatever I just don't see her like that.." Jabber smacks, digging deeper into the box

"What you see her like a sister or something?"

"Nah like a homegirl, like Jaida that's my brother but Y/n? Nigga how that happen?" He questioned, hopping off the counter as Antwan called him over to show him something on his phone.

"She had called the group chat late last night you were slumped on the couch and I had just got out the shower, she needed somebody to you know talk to her while she was driving home so I kept her company."

"Oh nooo this nigga gone tender.."

"No! Man look- she really don't be on anything, this ain't the first time we talked like this either! I've been plotting on this for a minute and I think I might move on her tonight."

"Tonight?" Jabber tilted his head, looking down at Antwon scrolling through your Instagram.

"What you think I should do?"

"Not push up on her heavy! If you "serious" about talking to her like that be cool! Do what you been doing if she's comfortable talking to you like that I'm sure she fucks with you.." He sighed, leaning his head back to pour the rest of the cereal into his mouth. Jabber didn't believe the act coming from his roommate, did he believe that he had a crush 100% but making a move? He knew Antwon to be the type to tell him about a girl he met at work while ignoring the girl he called his wife blowing up his phone.

Jabber wasn't a clean slate himself but with the history the two of you shared he wasn't on the rooting side on Antwon's newest challenge, yet he kept it to himself mentally shaking his head as Antwon showed him a few more pictures of you in college, bringing up old memories.

"Her and Jaida'll be here later you called August?"

"He on the way said he got something new for us to try." Jabber smirked, dusting his hands on his pants as he finished the whole box of cereal.

"Bro that's the 2nd box this week!"

~ You were sitting on the edge of your best friend Jaida's bed rubbing lotion on your legs as she rummaged through her closet to find something to wear. You had your outfit of a light jacket with a fur hood, a cute top and some fitted jeans to go with your your sneakers.

"Okay something simple, we must be coming home."

"I'm not spending the night at Antwans, I talk to him enough.." You chuckle,sliding on your socks. A small silene filled the room with the occasionally click of Jaida hangars smacking together, it wasn;t until you looked up at her giving you a sarcastic look like she was up to something.

"What's that look for?"

"Oh nothing nothing, you seem real excited to see him today." Jaida smirked.

"Who? Antwan? Jaida stop playing what do you know?" You questioned, sliding your pant leg down.

"What are you wearing? I might have something to match that top actually."

"Jaida!"

"I'm not saying nothing!" She smiled, tossing a few shirts onto her bed.

"This is so childish.."

"I think it's funny, hilarious even."

You rolled your tongue inside of your cheek, cutting your eyes at the curly headed asshole still chuckling to herself. Part of you was clueless on who she could be talking about and the other half of you questioned why you were curious in the first place, it felt like high school all over again!

"You and Antwan been talking to each other real often haven't you?"

"Whatchu trying to say?"

"I'm just asking questions!" Jaida threw her hands back, her eyes running around the room as she laughed.

"I talk to Antwan how I talk to Jabber and definitely how I talk to August." You huffed with a small smile only because she kept snickering!

"That's because August can't hear anything when his mouth is open and Jabber's a lost cause, he came through with the answers back in college but a nigga that sells Reggie can't be trusted."

"Me and Jabber wouldn't work I'm sorry, he got too much going on and Antwan? I see him as a friend! Nobody was answering the group call except him so he called me personally!"

"So you don't think Antwan not fine?

"You think Jabber fine? Hmm? Tall Lanky nigga with them thick ass dreads?" You chuckled to yourself with Jaida joining you.

"Fuck you.."

"No more of this Antwan and me mess! Now pick a damn shirt we gotta go, liquor store closes at 7!"

"You rushing over to Antwan's now?? Mmmm…"

The conversation came to a fast halt once you found something to toss at her, missing terribly.

Antwan and you wasn't a thought to begin with, more of a day dream every once in a blue moon when you've had one too many but going past that? He was older by a year and showed some signs of maturity calming you down after a stressful work day at your now old job, it was only these recent calls have the conversations turned into something past just a piece of advice.

You weren't oblivious to the slick remarks Antwan would throw in every now and then, him all of the sudden asking what you're wearing to work and what kinda flowers you enjoy. You've known him for his flirtatious mouth and his ability to get free food at any restaurant he walks in, and you could always spot him out with his hair flowing down his back or his signature ponytail, his brown skin always tanned in the summertime showing off his tattoos each one of telling a story that he could go on for days though you didn't mind his tangents.

Him talking you home shouldn't have changed the dynamic between yall too much and tonight would be no different!

Once you and Jaida made it out of the house, you did your liquor run and set your route to Antwan's place just a few minutes away though you didn't need a GPS, hell your phone automatically asked if you wnted to go to his place which Jaida most definitely pointed out. With your music loud the bass of your car shook your windows as you pulled into Antwan's garage, quickly hopping out to bang on the front door like you were police.

When there was no answer you gave the door another harsh 3 knocks before Jabbber open the door with a cloud of smoke escaping the vents like lost souls trying to go home.

He had on his glasses and wore a burgundy zip up with black rhinestones in an exaggerated pattern decorating the front of it, his locs fell down his back as he pushed a few out of his face, the glint of his silver rings knocking you in the eye. The black and brown bead bracelets on each of his wrists were new since the combo he had were purple and grey the last time you saw him. It' d be a lie if you said you weren't practically staring him down once your eyes traveled towards his custom made letter "J" belt buckle holding up his baggy jeans piling up on his timbs.

The last time you saw Jabber was around a month ago when graduation pics and parties were going down along with a few face time calls of you or August crying about finals so it had been a while since you saw him in person. You always knew Jabber had a sense of style yet so this little ensemble he threw together shouldn't have shocked you the way that it did.

"Damn we don't speak?" He scoffed, mushing you on the arm playfully mean mugging Jaida who ignored him with a smile.

"Since when do I have to check in?" You chuckled to yourself, looking to Antwan with a warm smile.

"What's up Y/n.." Antwan merged his way in, he went in for a full hug and you reached around his neck with one arm squeezing him.

"Hey ya/'ll" You laughed before pushing past both of them to meet up in the kitchen with August and Jaida

"'Twan told me you were coming through! He got all excited and shit." His little comment made Antwan tap him in the chest causing Jabber to suck his teeth.

"Ya'll missed hanging out with us that bad huh?" Jaida hummed, dapping up August who was blowing smoke from a heavy pull on his bong.

"It's all these two dumbasses been talking about and I thought I ran my mouth.." He coughed, holding his hand out to you. You gave August a hug before setting your bag on the counter making your first move into the refridgerator. You've been in this house more than enough to not act like you live there.

"How ya'll been?" Jabber asked, hopping up on the kitchen counter.

"I'm doing goodd I'm all booked next week at the shop!"

"I thought you saved me a spot!"

"With what payment? Free tattoos are over with Twan I got mouths to feed,"

"Furry mouths.." August chuckled, passing the bong over to Jaida.

"And you? Miss daytime television?"

"The local news ain't all of that..but I managed to grab an internship and the leading news anchor wants me to shadow her for a week."

"I can definitely see you on TV, you might actually make me watch the news." Antwan chuckled.

"So what we doing? Chilling here or we going out to eat?"

"August wanted to order in and I granbed two games from the store so yo options are drunk monopoly or Drunk Uno.."

"I gotta work in the morning we not playing Monopoly.."

"Cuz August likes being the banker stealing extra money and shit!"

"Antwan can't count his money!" August spat back

"Drunk Uno it is, i'll keep the rulles simple. No stacking every plus 2 is 2 shots and a pluck 4 is 4 shots.." Antwan interjected.

"This nigga bugging.." Jabber mumbled, earning a chuckle out of you.

After you all finally agree to a set of Uno rules without cutting each other's heads off, you took a hold of the drinks while August carried his bong towards the living room. The game was simple whoever takes the least amount of shots wins with the player choice of a shot or a hit. Antwan opened up the game and sat on the couch with Jabber and you went to sit on Jaida's lap like usual.

"Woah woah what you doing?" Jaida looked up at you like you were crazy/ "I'm sitting on you whats wrong?"

"Un uh you like looking at cards I'm not getting fucked up because of you, over there." Jaida laughed, pushing you off towards the couch. You had some idea of what she was trying to do knowing that you always sit beside her.

"You can't sit by me I talk too much shit."

"Ain't nobody worried about you Twan.." You chuckled, sitting in between Jabber and him, cracking the bottle of liquor open to pour just a little over two shots to start. Everyone had their cups ready and their lighters by their side as the game started

"Wait wait you said no stacking!" Jaida spat

"That's a plus 2 and a plus 4 that don't make sense!" Antwan groaned

"Now you just cheating!" Your eyes shifting over to Jabber all in your deck

"She only got two cards left nigga think!"

" Uno out!" August cried, resulting in everyone taking a shot.

The first round went easy with August winning the first game and you winning the next two rounds meaning you were playing bartender for Antwan who didn't wanna take his shot and August who kept hiding his shots under the table. Jabber had his own cup and you swore he was taking baby sips judging by the way his cup never needed a refill

"The color is blue.." You hummed.

"Wack ass color.." Twan mumbled.

You felt a nudge from a heavy boot hit your leg as August went to pluck his 4 cards and load up his bong to take his hits.

"Mmccht what you got on you?" Jabber whispered.

"You flashed him a pluck 4 and he nodded his head quick, waiting another round before he dropped it on the table.

"That's on you Twan.." You spoke, laying the your down.

"What you got Twan?" Jaida yelled, a slight slur in her voice holding up a plus four of her own.

"Wait a minute how the fuck y'all do that?"

"That's 8 shots!" You cackled, sitting up to grab the bottle ready to pour.

"Put that down I ain't drinking shit!"

"While he's complaining I played my card it's August's turn!" Jaida blurted as you and Jabber couldn't hold your laughter listening to Antwan lose his mind about rules he made up to begin with. August threw his card on the table sending it to Jabber once again.

"How about this skip you, skip you fuck nigga and Jaida you pluck two now we all take a shot."

Everyone tossed their cards on the table with Antwan cursing at you for not assisting to his side, August felt set up by Jaida and Twan went at Jabber's neck, it was all a bunch of drunk nonsense when the truth was Jabber snuck out a few cards for himself while dealing the deck trying to get everyone fucked up.

"I got another round in me..don't tap now." Jabber laughed, throwing his cards on the table

"Yall got that shit I'm going to bed..y'all can crash here.." Antwan chuckled a yawn shortly following after.

"I'm about to take Jaida home, August you sure you don't wanna ride with us?" You asked, watching him get up and pat around to find his jacket.

"Nah! My girl she- she should be outside actually!"

"Tell Phoenix I said hey!"

You said your goodbyes even going so far as to stepping outside to speak to his girlfriend and making sure August himself made it in to the car. You waved them off, heading back inside to a sleeping Jaida, Jabber cleaning up the messy table and Antwan making his way over to you.

"I'm finna take a shower, you staying over?" Antwan mumbled, giving you another hug before trotting his way up the stairs.

"I gotta work in the morning remember? Plus I gotta get Jaida home before it's gets too late.."

"Alright alright, if you still here when I'm done I gotta talk to you bout something.." The room fell silent which meant Jabber had stopped cleaning or you were a little higher than you thought.

"Just tell me now drunkie " You blinked, crossing your arms from the cool breeze coming from the screen door

"It's something serious so between us alright?"

**

"Okay.." You scrunched your face in slight confusion as he trotted up the stairs. You closed the door and sat back down on the couch with Jabber placing the Uno cards back in the pack, tossing them on the table.

"You sure not spending the night? You can't be driving like that un un give me them keys.." Jabber mumbled, patting you down to find your keys stuffed in your pocket. You weren't putting up much of a fight due to you not having the strength to contribute to his antics.

"Nigga…this ain't the first time.."

"C'mon, I'll let you have the couch come finish Happy Feet with me." He smiled nodding his head towards the TV before picking up a left over blunt in the ash tray, grabbing the lighter laid out on the table to light it smoothly

"Hmm” Jabber hummed, tapping your hand with the lit blunt, blowing smoke in the other direction.  You took his offer holding it up to your mouth to get as much as you could before it burned your lips, thick yellow clouds of smoke surrounding the two of you.

He had his glasses pushed up on his forehead and his jacket unzipped exposing the baggy black shirt laying on his lap covering his belt buckle, you could see his chest softly rise and fall from how still you were, from how long you staring in his face, hard enough for him to swing his head in your direction. He’s not supposed to look like this, you’ve smoked with Jabber before, plenty of times, spent the night at this exact house sleeping on this exact couch. Nothing had changed! He still talked to you the same, there was no subliminals you were missing right?

“You good? Need a blanket? I’m serious about yo ass not going nowhere. You can leave in the morning.” “Yeah Antwan always got the AC blowing..” You spat, partially being honest about being cold, you just needed an excuse to snap you out of whatever you were thinking about. You ashed the blunt in the ash tray, scrolling on your phone to distract your mind. This is the same Jabber who clowned you for months after you started your locs saying you wanted to be him for the longest. The same Jabber you got greased up with early in the morning before getting on the bus, the same Jabber that made you laugh on your  worst days and somehow getting through all four years of college hell you graduated with him. What was so special about him tonight? “Here..” Jabber spoke, tossing a thick comforter from the closet underneath the stairs over your head, closing the door to return back to the couch snatching some of the cover with a playful smile. The movie played on as the high consumed the both of you, you were trapped in your own thoughts and Jabber? His eyes were glued to the movie but the way he was nodding off proved just how bad he lost the Uno Game. “You not sleeping in your room?” You spoke, tapping him on the head. “I can’t lay with you? I’ll leave you alone once the movie over my bad..” He said with a snicker “I’m playing Jay i don’t want you falling asleep on me..” “You don't remember me falling asleep while your mom was yelling at us? That night we broke your bedroom door playing?” “Oh my god, i woke you up out of your sleep i threw what was it?” “A big ass bucket of cold water! Yo mama was pissed! had her floors all fucked up!" “I aint sorry.” You giggled. “That ass whopping ya mama gave you made you sorry.” “That’s my cue to leave, hand me my keys..” You scoffed, rolling your eyes before a laugh snuck its way out of your lips. Jabber paused for a moment watching you giggle while adjusting yourself on the couch, pulling up the blanket to completely cover your lower half. His glossy eyes glazed over your overgrown locs sitting on your shoulders, carefully watching how you rubbed your lip gloss in and how your nails clacked against each other every time you hit him in his arm or his chest. He liked to stick his finger right underneath your nose just to get you to pop him somewhere on his body. A favorite pastime of his. He rubbed his head, pushing a few locs out of his face as he leaned back, grabbing the keys off of the end table holding them over his head. “Oh these?” “Jabari I'm not in the mood to move around, give me my shit.” “Come get em..” He chuckled, leaning back as far as he could jiggling them up in the air. You rolled your eyes and indulged yourself into playing with him, reaching up to make the futile attempt to grab your keys.

You looked down at him, the comfortable silence engulfing you two. You studied his piercings, every indent in his skin, every tattoo you thought you knew about analyzing his features and little did you know he was doing the same. Eyeballing your lashes batting so slowly to him, how your perfume and your natural scent of warm amber, honeysuckle and incense it filled his nose with every breath he took.

His pink pupils peered down to your lips then back to your heavy, red eyes then back to your plumps lips cursing himself in his mind. Jabber never imagined seeing you like this, the TV being the only light illuminating the room. You knew the weed had your cunt throbbing like it was the only thing it could do, that had to be the reason Jabber looked this fucking good, the strain, the amount of THC any excuse to justifying borderline eye fucking your best friend.

Soon it became too much. Jabber leaned in deciding close the heavy thick air surrounding the both of you. His lips tasted sharp like the blunt you smoked settling to something sweet as it mixed in with your gloss and the concoction he was drinking during the game. You quickly pulled back, your eyes red and wide looking to Jabber just as bug eyed. “I didn’t mean to-“ “I’m sorry-“ You both stammered over each other. “Y/n-“ “It’s okay, it’s ight I kissed you back it ain’t like that..” “I wasn’t supposed to- I wasn’t thinking..” “I liked it..”

He paused like you uttered something forbidden, like this was the last possibility, Jabber thought he was dreaming.

"Huh?"

"Don't make me repeat it.."

"So if I did it again?"

His question almost didn't make sense, yet nothing felt real in this moment, like white noise filling in your ears. Your heart spoke so loud but something else screamed at you instead.

"What if we get caught Jaida's right there-"

"Who gotta know?" His voice in a hushed tone.

"Nobody.." You whispered, taking a small glance back at Jaida slumped on the recliner, before returning back to him licking his lips, his arm extended out across the back of the chair. The eye contact felt like pressure swelling between the two of you and not just from your thighs tossing each other back and forth to stop that pulsating feeling forming deep within. You always told Jabber he had a pretty ass face and you'd always get a corny response but now it had a whole new meaning, you couldn't hold yourself together.

You leaned back in and Jabber's finger fell right under your chin like he knew you'd give in first, pressing his lips against yours hard, trying with all of his might not to make a sound. His head tilled off to the side to deepen the kiss while you grabbed the blanket to keep your bottom halves covered, hiding his already twitching tip in his jeans.

His bottom lip found it way between your lips and you managed to feel his snake bites softly pinch you as you snuck a bite, earning yourself a satisfied groan. Jabber returned the gift, biting your bottom lip with a soft pull, feeling the coldness of his rings curl around your neck.

Your hand snuck underneath the blanket around his clothed shaft, cupping your hand around his warm dick as he softly huffed air out of his nose to fight the moans but you shushed him quickly by shoving your tongue into his mouth, feeling his hand guiding yours up and down his semi hard length.

"Mm- damn.." Jabber's voice just above a whisper, feeling a soft jerk of his hips trying to get your attention, tightening his grip around your neck. If the sounds of your lips smacking over and over weren't loud enough the noises of the couch of you and him fumbling to get each other pants off almost took the cake. Just as you felt Jabber's fingers trailing up to lift your shirt, a loud shift in the recliner shook the both of you still as Jaida in the recliner turned her body in the opposite direction covering herself with her own cover.

The thudding sound of your heart shattered against your chest and your body began to shiver, snapping your neck back at Jaida before Jabber took your focus back on him, holding his finger to his lips trying to hold back a laugh.

"You don't know how to keep yo voice down.." You whispered, covering your own mouth to keep your high giggles to minimum while he grabbed the remote off of the table still covered with uno cards and half empty cups of liquor to turn up the TV.

"Hadn't even touched you yet," Jabber sucked his teeth leaning back on the couch as he pulled the cover up. "Keep that same energy."

"Yeah?" Your eyes shuffled around your head, tugging him closer to you by his shirt giving him the green light.

"I don't wanna hear shit come out your mouth." He huffed, taking off his glasses and going in for your neck, returning back to his spot of yanking your shirt up to play with your nipples already hard to the touch.

"I promise you won't.." You pursed your lips, leaning your neck to the side to give him more access, feeling his pierced lip lazily leave kisses, distracting your mind with his tongue licking you before taking a chunk out of your skin like he was trying to get you to scream right off the bat. You bit your own lip hard, allowing the sharpness fade into adrenaline pumping straight to your cunt, pounding in between your legs.

His fingers played and tugged on your hardened buds as he repeated the filthy technique, kissing you to soothe the pain, licking to distract and taking any chance he could to sink his teeth in so deep you felt two or three of them break skin, yet you didn't want him to stop.

The smallest whimper escaped while Jabber soothe another bite mark with his lips, snickering to himself as he peppered kisses up to the shell of your ear and his fingers traveled further down to the top button of your jeans.

"What was that? Nah nah come on..I wanna hear what you sound like y/n…" His voice sent a chill down your spine and a stream of your own juices trickling down your leg. You helped him undo your jeans and slipped them off just enough to give him room to keep his promise. Your thumbs were tucked into the sides of your underwear nearly about to pull them down before the palm of his hand slid past the waist band using the pads of his fingers to tease your soaked clit.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, rubbing your lips together to prevent any more sounds to leave you. You didn't want to give him any reason to talk yet you were so close to cumming on his hand from barely anything. His fingers swiped your clit side to side before he slid them up and down, applying pressure on your clit drawing tiny circles. You weren't worried about your moans waking her up and neither was Jabber, you were both focused on the slight slippery sounds of your cunt and his fingers playing with each other.

"Oh my fucking..god…you wetting up the couch.." He huffed, pulling his hand back still coated in your slick, lifting up his shirt with your help. You flung his dick out of his boxers watching precum dribble out of his tip, small semi white beads dripping down his still growing shaft. Your heavy eyes widen at his girth as you stroked him, pasuing your movements to lick your fingers, staring back into Jabbers low lidded pink eyes.

Something clicked, maybe it was the weed or the fact that you couldn't blame any substance for what you were doing. There were no plans of shoving your tongue down your best friend's throat yet you showed no signs of stopping either once you spat on your hand, returning it back to his sticky tip to stroke him carefully, occasionally squeezing tighter in hopes to give him just a glimpse of what you felt like.

The colors of the TV danced on his skin keeping your eyes on Jabber as he leaned back in to peck your lips, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from cursing your name. The air surrounding the two of you grew so heavy and the way your nails damn near looked like decorations on his dick bouncing up and down, it was a shame only you and him could see the sight. Jabber popped his fingers into his mouth to clean the residue stuck on his hand before reaching over back into your underwear, playing with your swollen clit so hot to the touch, he had to suck in air like he burned himself.

You kept your movements at a steady pace up until the sneaky bastard slipped his two fingers past your pussy lips, dipping inside of your slick cunt with no hesitation. Your jaw fell open, slightly dropping as you inhaled sharply, immediately focusing on the meaningless words talking out of the screen as he went deeper.

"…fuck." You breathed, taking your thumb to play with his tip.

His hips snapped upwards, humping into your slippery hand like a sex toy, purposefully leaning closer to your neck releasing heavy breaths and stammers all in your ear while his fingers pumped inside of your pussy, curling up to tease that spot hitting it over and over. It was ridiculous how close you felt your orgasm creeping in, your walls stuttered around his digits and the slight cold pang of his rings brushing your clit ever so often drove your mind insane.

"Get that nut out for me, stroke that…ssssfuck.." Jabber whispered, taking his head from the crook of your neck eye balling you playing with his dick. Your hand sped up and you took the free one to place your finger over your lips, slowing your movements down to see him release more shots of pre staining your nails. His balls were full and his tip twitched with each stroke, it was obvious that he was close yet the more you pumped the faster he moved his fingers inside of your quivering walls.

You turned your head to the side, facing away from him to let your poker face fall, scrunching up your face as you felt that pressure about to burst, slamming your legs together to prevent a bigger mess than then one you already had on Jabber's fingers.

"S-shit..I'm cumming.." You mumbled

"All over my fingers…paint these rings for me ma…don't stop." He smirked against your skin, sliding his nasty fingers out of your cunt to play with your clit, rubbing messy circles to pull more noises out of you.

"Give it to me baby, you like how I'm playing with this pussy..cum for me.."

It was like a command the way your body follow instructions, your legs trembled and your eyes snapped shut as a soft stream of juices leaked out of your throbbing cunt. Your free hand cupped your lips to stop your own gasps feeling Jabber's pace pick up speed, finger fucking your through that harsh orgasm and making you lose focus on his dick at full length twitching in your hand. The thought alone triggered another ball forming inside of your lower stomach.

"Feel..too damn good.."

"I know I do.." His face painted with a smug smile.

Now it was too obvious what the two of you were doing under the blanket with Jabber slamming his knuckles deep inside of your pussy and you pumping him in rough, smooth circles. He took his finger out of your slimy mess one inch at a time, swearing to himself watching you fight to keep him inside. Your juices dribbled down his palm and he couldn't help to sneak a taste before adding to the mix your hand already had, helping you stroke his thick tip.

Jabber tossed his head back and moved his hand to let you finish the job, his dick felt so painfully hard that each throb felt like a cramp. His lower stomach tighten up causing his muscles to flex, prominently showing the sticky mess of your spit and slick staining his skin.9

Your clit shivered and your walls clamped around thin air yearning for something to stuff it full, how could he look this good? Did you miss something after all these years? The way his adams apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, fighting the urge to spill his nut all over your hand, his eyelashes fluttering each time you squeezed his tip it all felt so surreal.

"Where you want it? Where you wanna cum?"

"Ou shit…all over your face.." He whispered back, a tiny laugh trapped in his breath.

"Jay you not finna mess up my hair.."

"I won't I won't…ouu fuck please. Please?" His head popped up to lock his eyes with yours, begging softely without speaking a word. You knew if you went so much as a centimeter closer to his dick it would end up being more than just a quickie, his soft whimpers made the situation no better.

"Shhhh cum on my nails like you promised.." You hummed to him, leaning in to close the heavy air between the two of you. You swirled your tongue around his, releasing one too many moans sending shocks right to his dick. His veins rubbed up against your slick palms as you squeezed your fingers around the tip.

Jabber bucked his hips faster, practically fucking your hand and the only thing you could do was imagine your body riding his dick up and down. You pictured his tip puncturing your cervix and couldn't help but to bite down on his lip harsh to stop yourself from whining into his mouth.

You heard him groan out, swallowing up every syllable he gave feeling his hips stiffen up. You continued your fast movements focusing more on his tip, breaking away from the kiss to keep your eyes on his dick before warm heavy beads of cum spilled out coating your nails just like you envisioned.

"Oh fuck!" You slammed your hand over his mouth not letting up still pumping at full speed and what made matters worse was the flicker of a light upstairs followed by a few footsteps walking around fueling your already anxious thoughts.

"Shit!"

"Bari you sleep?" Antwan's voice boomed from upstairs

"Nah Y/n and nem bout to leave.." He blurted, feeling your hand snatch away. You licked off any evidence on your nails, rubbing your lips together to savor his taste. Without hesitation, Jabber pecked your lips just to sample what you and him would taste like, pulling back to stuff his painfully hard dick back into his pants.

The faster you tried to shuffle, the more you struggled to put your legs back inside of your own pants, you pushed the button through and immediately moved the blanket off of you to sit up straight, hoping the thudding sounds in your head were coming from heart pounding out of your chest and not Antwon walking down the stairs.

You snuck a look behind you before returning back to Jabber rummaging in his pockets for his phone. It would be a lie to say that you wanted to end the night off here. If Antwan wasn't awake, if Jaida wasn't sitting just a few feet away just how far were you planning on going?

He found his phone and went to grab the comforter to place it back into the closet door, tapping away at his phone.

"We still good right? I don't wanna-"

"We cool n/n, get her home I'll see you.." He whispered.

You nodded your head grabbing your keys on the table. You got up and walked over to Jaida in the recliner shaking the piece of furniture to get her up before shaking her body.

"Jai…get up we bout to go.."

"Mmmm!'"

"Un uh! We gotta go home!"

"I'm up I'm up!" She groans, pushing the blanket off of her, placing her feet into her shoes. You watched Jaida prep herself to go while sneaking glances at Jabber trying to shush your cunt from making noise every time you moved your thighs.

"Alright, come on.." She mumbled, rising up out of the chair.

"Get her mean ass on…" Jabber chuckled.

"Night Twon!" You yelled upstairs.

"I'll see you Jabber.."

I’ve seen the requests and i’ve been lurking trust, did not realize it’s been THAT LONG without some Jabari and i do formally apologize, does this make it a little better? (This has a high chance of being a series🤏🏾) Until next time and as always i will imagine with you in the next one

-MissHoneyBlue

Greek life swarmed around you at a young age whether you liked it or not. From the time you could walk on two feet you were draped in red with the highest hopes from your mother to continue her legacy. So when you broke the news that you had no interest in crossing you could only imagine how many times she swore up and down she'd disown you but you knew the jokes were out of love. Partially.

Attending college was out of the question in your household whether you went to an HBCU online or on campus you were going to do something for the next four years. As one mom would do to any child of hers going to her old college, she prepped you with all of your supplies, ran her mouth over the college tour guide and gave her own rendition of what went down in each hall and last but surely the most memerable part of her grand speech before sending you off, she simply asked, no begged you to stay away from those Ques.

Your father must've been one the way she battered that statement into your head, all through highschool, all through middle school, warned you in front of the Que plot at the college!

"I don't wanna see you near it!"

"Mama, they leaving us behind!"

"I got people that work out here, they'll tell me!"

You swore to her not to interact, to breathe, let alone think about anything in purple and gold, don't even wear the color. She made it seem like you were signing yourself for a horror movie but you kept up your promise and skated through two years of straight A's, too many sleepless nights and managed to have a decent party life without ending up on anyone's hit list.

Another semester appeared on the campus of Canvas Town University and you snagged one of the best apartments right across the street with your roommate Liyah. You and her had the idea to move in after she had crossed into her sorority so the two of you wouldn't lose touch with one another due to her newly found sisters. Her heart was smashed once you told her you had no interest but you fully supported her during her presentation and went all out decorating her room.

Did you go to the party afterwards? Absolutely not. Why? When there's Delta's there's Ques and even a whiff of one can cause enough damage to fuck up your mental and you didn't wanna take any chances. Liyah couldn't understand what was so dangerous about them, during freshman year she would crack up watching you turn in the opposite direction anytime you heard a bark or seen anything in the color purple. At first she thought it was a joke but once she saw how serious your face was when you were impersonating your mother, she understood why you couldn't make it.

"I think she's just worrying you'll make the same mistakes she did, you gotta let that go.." Liyah snickered, tying up her shoes.

"I'm only staying for a song maybe two! If i stay too long one of them might scoop me up."

"What's wrong with that?" Yasmin yelled from the bathroom, taking pictures in the mirror. "I haven't had any problems!"

"You cried for the first 2 weeks he disappeared what are you talking about?" You spat back.

"Mind you Jaden hasn't even crossed yet, you just getting started." Liyah giggled to herself, putting on her red jacket. "You don't have to go to the probate but I'm coming back to take you to the party, you get the best videos of me."

"Oh that's all I'm good for? You not worried for my well being?"

"Don't stare too hard then, you made it this long right? Oh and what's your name for the night since you going undercover.." She snickered, waltzing over to the door to wait for Yasmin.

"N/n like usual.."

"I can't believe you still using that knowing you on the dance team, captain at that!" Yasmin rolled her eyes with a scoff still posing in the mirror.

"N/n got you into Sho's place last year! Unless you wanted to pay 60 to get in!"

"I'm not dealing with ya'll silly asses, I gotta be there early. Yasmin I'm in the car!" She shouted, grabbing her collection of keys to head to the door. Your friends knew this routine down to the youtuber you would throw on your TV, you laid back at the dorm while they had the time of their lives at Oil Spills, pool parties while you avoided the yard every chance you got, however tonight Liyah and Yasmin had better plans for your itinerary this year, starting with your 'first' Greek party.

By the time they were on the way back, you'd finished the last details on the dress you were sewing together made out of a really cute top you thrifted. It hung off of your shoulder and you made a few extra pieces of clothing to go along with it including a (f/c) you customized on a whim and a purse you crocheted. You topped the look off with some wrap around heels hearing the door unlock once you finished tying them off.

"You ready?"Liyah called to you.

"Let's go before I change my mind.." You scoff, wasting no time to scurry out of her way before she made any slick comments.

When you arrived to the house you were expecting the place to be packed with people filling up the lines but the most you saw were a few folks hanging around outside. You forgot to pregame at the house which meant spending an arm and almost a leg to get a buzz although you set a mental limit. A drink and a shot to celebrate Jaden, that's it and that's all. The short car ride over didn't make it any better, you were sober and paranoid that your mama had older friends specifically watching you like a hawk!

Your nerves were shot hearing your heels clicking on the pavement, a few men draped in purple and gold were heading towards their car slowly walking past your group earning some jeers and a couple laughs.

"Ease up girl, got your knees locked up please don't pass out in front of these people.." Yasmin said with a tap on your shoulder.

"I'm not! I should've brought a jacket or a liquor coat at least. Did you get any pictures of Jaden?"

"Nah I got videos and I'm screaming in every one of them, his head is so damn big-"

"Jabber shaved him clean it look like his work.." Liyah snickered, inching closer to the front where ladies got in free and the men had to pay so getting inside was the easy part. You walked past at least 10 of them without any issues, keeping your head up and following Liyah who had to greet everyone and find her sisters, leaving you and Yasmin to find where they were selling the liquor.

Pregaming should've been the decision once you saw what they were charging for the drinks, you were kind enough to buy the first round for the girls but your refund wasn't about to spent on cheap liquor.

"40 lovebug.." The girl tapped on screen.

"Well shit.." You scoffed, tapping your card on the reader, looking over to Yasmin grabbing her own drink, pausing a moment before putting it up to her lips.

"Forty dollars?! We could've gotten a bottle for that.." She grumbled, walking off with her face scrunched up from the bitter taste. The building was packed full to the brim, people were shoulder to shoulder watching all of the other sororities stroll while the others mingled and partied. You waved over to the DJ who you knew from freshman year. The crazy blonde nodded back at you while you sipped the sharp contents in your red cup.

"You seen Jaden yet?" The frantic woman asked, hopping on her tiptoes to see above the crowd.

"He should be over there like every other bald nigga in here I'm sure.." You snickered, taking a small gulp out of your cup, clinging onto Yasmin like a lost puppy through the crowd towards the front where you found Jaden and his new brothers showing off.

The ground shook as the boys hopped around in sync, spinning around tossing up their hooks to their heads, a sight you knew all too well. That's when then music lowered and one od the new initiates calmed the crowd down so they could show everyone the information they had learned.

Yasmin pulled out her phone immediately the flash hitting him in the face though he didn't budge, the boys shouted and sung their hearts out, not once messing up a single word and somehow got a laugh out of you. Once they were finished, your cup of tequila ran dry and your social battery wasn't far behind it seeing the room flood not just with new initiates but older Ques as well.

Song 1

The color pink glanced over your vision and of course you assumed one of the LED's has switched over or one of the AKAs took over the lighting department either way it bothered you enough to the point where you turned your head around to find where it was coming from, not that you wanted to explore a que party. It was bad enough you heard your mother's voice screaming at you to leave but you knew that if you came as a group then you left as a group. That rule went out of the window once you realized Yasmin left you to find her boyfriend, you turn in the other direction towards where Liyah was strolling her ass off with her sisters, there was no excuse to go off and record since she wasn't leading it.

The obvious choice here would be to push off to the bar, grab a refill and wait for somebody you recognize but with how jam packed the crowd of women became you were damn near frozen in place as all of the shaven heads disappeared from the floor, making room for the Pros to showcase what they've been doing for years.

Girls were bumping into you parting the dancefloor all dramatic like it was the red sea earning a few scrunches to your face. The DJ mixed in a slower song and the loud shrills of women slowly erupted hearing the gruff sounds of barks coming from the back, a long line of purple and gold pooling in. Some were wearing their letters, some of them weren't wearing anything at all! You were standing next to a group of girls recording a tall man with a fresh taper fade smile towards the camera, another one with waves, it was like you were being attacked from all sides of the field! He continued on with the rest of his brothers and soon enough a widely known chant thundered through the room.

The woman in there knew the chants better than they did!

You couldn't lie and say some of them weren't nice to look at but the only thing you could hear in this moment was your mama making you swear to never set foot on Que property let alone be at a Que party! All you had to do was walk off but a commotion of noise, a nicely mixed DJ set and a glimpse of what looked like pink caught your attention.

Long, thick locs swung near your peripherals decorated in gold jewels glimmering off of the cameras flashing in his way. He was dipped in sweat due to the intoxicating heat swelling up in the building and the one suddenly forming between your thighs. A small shudder scorched down the spine of your back eyeing the gold chain sitting around on his neck, they scanned his tattoos on his right arm leading up to his chest. That signifying branding marked his left shoulder. You found out that the source of the pink was coming from him once you noticed his eyes heavy lidded and fuchsia pink like a laser beam. His hands were veiny and thick covered with rings wearing camo pants with the waistband of his boxers showing up just above his belly button. He carried a hefty happy trail along with his v line not too sharp but just enough to imagine laying your own tongue on it.

The way he moved not only did it call your attention, you felt like a snake being hypnotized by a purple and gold flute. A big, locced purple and gold flute.

He hopped closer, stomping the ground so hard with his boots, you even watched his shoe tongue flap with each movement you didn’t wanna miss a single detail, yet you were missing the biggest red flag of the evening. You go to lift your head to see that same pinkish glow connect instantly to your vision and your body ran hot.

The line paused right in front of you, holding the gaze for what felt like minutes. The sweaty bastard had the nerve to lick his grills showcasing a silver piercing sitting right in the middle barking at you with a smile. A sharp, gold plated smug smile. All of the women around were hollering his name and soon enough a chant had started again due to the man of the hour swinging his neck in your direction, like he was speaking directly to you.

Everyone knew the words. You knew them too.

You knew them yet your lips never parted, fearing that this was how they caught their prey, yet you didn't look away. You didn't want too. Keeping up a safe face, the pink eyed stranger moved along with his brothers down the line and you kept your eyes locked onto his frame, blinking yourself back to normal and few girls bumping into you to follow them along. You had one mission only, find your friends and get the hell on. You weren’t supposed to be here especially in the front row like a buzzard! 

"Over here Y/n!" You heard your friend call with her arm covered in bracelets waving around in the air. You used her noisy arm to guide you to where they were, going to the man of the hour who finally had a moment to breath.

"Aye Congratulations! You made it out!" You exclaimed, giving your friend a big hug, wiping some of the sweat off of his bald head.

"I appreciate it.." He said with a sigh.

"You tired ain't you?"

"And the night's not over yet.." He said with a chuckle receiving a large pat on his back from a familiar face.

"Yeahhh That's right Ace!" A voice barked.

"Oh yeah, N/N this is Jabber! He's the president of this chapter." Her eyes narrowing in a way.

"We've met.." His voice cutting through the music.

"Have we?"

"Excuse me where are my manners?" He snickered holding out his tatted hand to give you a proper introduction. His demeanor was lighthearted with a sense of goofiness wavering over you causing your face to painfully pull into a smile.

"I'm Jabari Wonger, president of this chapter of Omega Psi Phi Fraternity Innnncorporated majoring in Chemistry with a minor in Psychology.." He spoke proudly, recognizing the cadence of his words. You were silently wishing you could launch the back of your hand right into Liyah's snickering face knowing she had something to do with this.

"Nice to meet you Jabari..I'm N/n.." You said, skipping over the details hoping to end this interaction so you could make your way to the door.

"Alright n/n now we've met properly, what you babysitting in that cup?" His accent thicker than the humidity.

"It was tequila."

"Oh nah nah come with me I got something for you, ever had a cup of oil?" Jabber smiled, flashing those grills once again.

"Oil?"You questioned while Yasmin and Liyah giggle to themselves eyeing your reaction. You knew a few things about Greek life but clearly not enough if everyone else wasn't as clueless as you.

"It's good we promise, I'll get some with you." Yasmin said, walking closer to hold onto your arm.

"One cup.."

"That's all you'll need.." He said with a smirk, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen. He held out his hand earning shocked looks from the girls, they swatted their hands at you to take it and you shook your head no before he looked back.

"You coming?"

~ Song 2

Walking into the kitchen like area people were standing around what looks like a big ass cooler sitting on the island filled with black liquid and various fruits floating around the mixture. People had their cups out waiting for one of the Ques to pour them a cupful, just once glance at the intoxicating mix made your stomach churn, it had enough alcohol into it to convert Wiz to be an alcoholic.

Jabber dapped up the man pouring the drinks, moving him out the way so he could take over grabbing you a fresh cup from the stack to dip it inside, filling its contents almost to the brim. You looked at the tatted man handing you the cup immediately looking back to your friends waiting patiently to get theirs with eyes that said "What the fuck do you have me drinking?"

He poured the girls some and like magic they disappeared back into the crowd once again leaving you in his presence. It was one thing to be a wing woman and leave you alone to do your thing but it's completely different when the thing you were trying to do wasn't working and that was to LEAVE!

"Here I'll take a sip with you.." Jabber said knocking you out of your long continuous train of thought. You watched his adam's apple bob up gulping it down like it was ice cold water, peering back to you taking a full sip, pursing your lips to mask your face from the kicking you in the mouth.

"This shit taste like.."

"Like juice I know.." He paused. "Where yo letters at?" He spoke up, his eyes scanning your physique looking around for any paraphernalia or anything attached to your bag with a sorority on it.

"I ain't affiliated I'm not in that life, strictly GDI.. You snicker, your pupils locked onto the black liquid as you sipped its contents.

"In that life.." He chuckles. "Indecisive or you focused on something else?"

"I don't wanna see you near 'em! It's nothing but trouble with all of 'em! Promise me Y/n!"

"Indecisive, my mama's a Delta and she's pushing for it.."

"Okay future Legacy..I saw them eyes don't think I forgot about that.."

"About what?" Your cheeks pulling at a hard smile.

"You know what I'm talking bout, yo jaw still out there.." His slick gold plated smile making another appearance in the low lit bar area. "One of yo boyfriends made the line or-

"I'm here for my friend it ain't even like that I don't mess around with 1911.." You shut him down quick chuckling at your own joke

"So I've heard.." His hot pink eyes dancing from your lips to your pupils, licking his own to stop him from biting them. The colors of the LEDs flashed on his skin as he talked and it would be a lie if you said you weren't following his every movement, the way he swayed leaning his back on the kitchen counter peering down at you. You weren't tiny but his figure made it seem like he could swallow the entire room with his energy alone, there was no way you could keep up the eye contact yet Jabber had his ways of keeping you focused on him. The air was thick and sharp due to the liquor you were standing right beside, the music was loud but not to where you couldn't hear yourself think but what would be the point? Words didn't make sense in this split second of a moment, your mind was flooded with images of him slinging his tongue around and that was enough to convince you that his powers were working.

"…but I promise you I've seen you somewhere else.." His words coming through like your ears has been unplugged.

"I'm not even on campus enough for you to see me you can't use that on me.." You laughed with him, his long locs moving along his body as he swayed.

"It's hitting you like that?" You joked.

"Oh I'm two cups down you gotta catch up lil mama..wait I ain't get your na-"

Song 4-7

Another song queued up in the atmosphere as Jabber's question fell on silent ears once his head leaned back knowing he had to find his brothers. You peered behind him to see a few of the organizations line up and in the crowd you spotted Liyah front and center knowing that this was your escape route to get out but a strange part of you wanted to linger around in his presence. Whether it was the liquor or not you hated to admit he was clever with his words and corny enough to make your sides hurt.

"You gon keep an eye on me?"

"Not this time..but you'll see me somewhere."

"Imma get that dance." Jabber smirked, creating an inside joke and knife deep tension in the air.

You only gave a smile at him, walking off into the crowd towards Liyah letting out a deep breath of relief. You did the deed! You spoke and had a conversation with a man in purple and gold and didn't die. Part of you knew it was silly and kinda corny to be this paranoid but the other part had it's reasons

It's stupid, outdated reasons.

You pushed through the neos and made your way to the Pros with your phone out ready to record on the sidelines still sipping that oil in your cup suddenly tasting like sharp juice.

A familiar voice made your skin jump once you heard Jabber and his brothers coming from the other direction, you kept your camera steady on Liyah throwing her elbows hard enough to crack a nostril, you learned your lesson real good last year when she crossed not to get too close.

Step by step, one hop after the other he inched closer, it was starting all over again but this time you were determined to get your footage and move on with Liyah right out the door. You quickly got back in the line of people saving all of your clips looking down a second too long seeing the sea of red fade into a pool of purple and there he was right in the middle throwing his hook in the air and shaking his neck as his locs flung around. It was impossible to look away especially when that comforting color of pink filled the atmosphere.

One of the men stepping along the room went in the crowd and swooped a girl right off her feet, hopping her to the groove of the song and then another followed by a quick yelp each time, now that comforting color of pink blared into a fiery red, your heart changed up it's pattern thudding in your chest like a beat up fan.

Jabber had set his target in stone.

One second you were on the ground and the next you felt weightless watching the angle of all the cameras change. Your legs wrapped around his waist like it was an instinct and you didn't know if you wanted to shield your face from all the eyes or focus on him but Jabber made that choice for you.

The way his voice rattled in your chest as slung his tongue around his lips, saying the words with a growl tucked in his throat. It didn't help that your heat was pressed up against his toned stomach and every time he jumped you went right along with him slightly grinding against him.

His sweat marked your dress like a souvenir and that same smoky scent covered your lungs like you were being hypnotized by a baked good. You wanted to see if he tasted just as sweet, the oil was doing exactly what it was supposed to do, lubricating your walls and allowing that glossy look to wax over you.

Your arms nestle around his neck and you couldn't contain your own giggles and smiles any longer and soon enough he sat you back down on your two heels at the end of the line but some of his brother kept their girls in the air toting them around like trophies.

"Told you I'd get it.."

"That ain't funny! And it doesn't count we wasn't dancing."

"Show me what we 'posed to do.." His eyes flickering up and down.

Everyone in the room ha spread out and went off into their own worlds with the all of the fraternity's colors covering the living room floor. You had a feeling that Liyah was somewhere near the front door and hunting for Yasmin became a lost cause, alarms were ringing in your ears or what you heard from the bass of the speakers knocking your eardrums. People surrounded the two of you enclosing the both of you into your own bubble, Jabber took a hold of your hand turning you around your ass connected to his hip pushing up against you while you gave him a little taste of what you could do.

His tatted hand rested on your cheeks as you bent over to get a better feel of what was poking you underneath the material of your dress. That's when you felt Jabber's hands grip your waist fully, pulling you back to slow your movements before releasing you to move faster. A moment you were glad nobody had their cameras on to see.

You were being so thankful about your dress covering that slick sound of your other set of lips starting up a conversation you were urging to have, with the way he was slightly humping your hips to the beat of the song you didn't know how much restraint and resolve you had left in you. Although, you were having too much a good time to think about what your hips were doing, you didn't make a commotion in the crowd but to Jabber all eyes were on you grinding back on him while your ass moved.

A cold shiver ran up your spine as Jabber's hand snaked up your back to wrap around your throat, turning you back in his direction. His pink eyes peered down at you squeezing your neck like he was trying to stop himself from sliding his tongue in your mouth. He pulled in his bottom lip releasing some of that pressure off your neck turning his head to the side smiling hard.

"Quit playing with me.."

You stepped close to his frame, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath hesitant with your words, fighting a war in your mind and the oil was winning

One kiss wouldn't hurt right?

It was a miracle the way you didn't slip on your own feet walking up the stairs although you spoke too soon seeing Jabber stumble a bit in the unfamiliar hallway. Tiny giggles filled your ears as his little mishap ended with his back pressed up against the wall and your tongue shoved into his mouth earning a satisfied groan from his lips.

His hands shuffled from your hips down to your ass poking out of the small material underneath, cupping and squeezing with a firm grip, laying a heavy smack causing you to gasp into his mouth. You took this opportunity to pull on his bottom lip, taking a small second to look at his tongue piercing before going back in to decorate his face with sticky glossy kisses.

Before you knew you it your back slammed against a nearby wall, lips were smashing together damn near clashing with his grills. Soft heavy hands carefully explored your body as you sucked in a breath from his rings gliding over your ass, sent adrenaline to your mind as he gives it a sloppy squeeze followed by a heavy smack which left you moaning in his mouth.

"Un uh c'mere.." He smirked on your lips as the two of you stumbled back and forth.

"Come get me.." You murmured.

Your arms attached around his neck inching deeper into the kiss. Your little grunts and whimpers only fueled Jabber ego knowing his touch had you ready to melt at merely nothing. He hooked your leg around his side, daring to pick you up like he did in front of every camera in the building, the sinister giggle he left on your lips gave you just strength to do it again! In one swift motion he scooped you back into his arms, pushing your thighs up further than they were supposed to go.

"W-where you- Jabari!"

Jabber placed you up onto his shoulders, your thighs resting perfectly around his neck face to face with your cunt radiating heat and like the nasty dog he was he sniffed you out, moaning to himself before going in to peel the thin material to the side with diving head first into your leaking pussy.

All you could do while the bass of the music boomed through the walls was catch your breath in the palm of your hand. Your other hand dug deep into his locs forcing his warm lips to kiss her first and he was quick to grant your wish. Jabber's tongue soothed your sensitive bud with a long nasty stripe quickly lapping at your juices letting it run down his chin. Like he gave a fuck about making a mess.

He shook his head side to side smearing your slick around, hands gripping on to your trembling thighs oh so tight they left indents on your skin and your back was trapped on the wall, elevated in the dark atmosphere.

"Oh…shit.." Your voice only coming up to whisper as your mind wondered just how high he had you in the air. Quickly, your eyes scanned the dark room ahead of you noticing the ceiling just a few feet away and a pink eyed que dog drooling all over your cunt. Soft subtle moans could be heard from him seeing his eyes shoot up at you and the bastard had the nerve to smirk against your clit, flashing those gold grills while his tongue teased that hole aching for something to fill her. A long mewl later and Jabber's lips wrapped around your now swollen bud aiming to drain that orgasm sitting heavy on your lower stomach.

"D-don't let me…fuck. I don't wanna fallll.." You whined, ignoring your own thoughts by bucking your hips into his mouth, feeling him flatten his tongue so you could grind on the ball of his tongue piercing.

"Mhmmm I wont baby.." His voice muffled by your folds and the sounds of your pussy playing with his tongue. He found his way inside of your heat, pressing past that first ring of resistance earning a harsh gasp from you and a pleasing groan from the nasty dog.

You were practically sucking his tongue inside the way he spread it out made your eyes cross over themselves yet Jabber still pushed on, sliding his wet muscle in and out.

"Oh my god..how you…shit right there right…" You were mumbling tipsy nonsense while you were humping this random man's face and you couldn't stop a thing if you wanted to due to you dangling in mid air. You took both of your hands tangling them into his hair as your walls quivering around his tongue ready to make his grills shine so fucking bright with your slick.

"Gimme that shit.." He pulls back to spit a long drabble of spit on your already glistening cunt, diving right back in lapping up your clit as he slurped to clean up his mess and create a new one at the same time.

"C-Cumming J-ja..I"

"Jabber baby..Jabber.."

"Fuck! Jabber!"

Your felt your body slip off of the wall just an inch watching Jabber pull you in closer to savor your taste, sending a shock wave of nerves across your body only aiding in your building orgasm ready to burst. However, you came oh so close to the top just for Jabber to snatch his jaw away right at the last second causing your thighs to quake around his neck. His dick throbbed at the sight of your dripping cunt oozing all for him, he couldn't catch his breath!

"Taste like juice.." He hummed diving back into your heat with tongue extended layering long heavy licks causing all of your nerves to come undone into his mouth satiating his hunger.

"Y-Yessss.." His filthy lips wouldn't stop, he sucked your orgasm right out of you and continued his sloppy uncoordinated movements, groaning out loud as he slobbered all over your twitching clit

"Oh my god..pussy don't want me to leave do she?" He growled, teasing your hole with the tip of his tongue before flicking up towards your clit then back down to plunge inside tasting your slick walls. His nose nestled right on the mound of your cunt lightly brushing the hood of your clit causing your eyelids to glitch and your legs to squirm on his shoulders fighting that pressure rising once again.

Your thighs closing in on his jaw wasn't enough to make Jabber lose his focus, instead he laid a heavy ring filled smack against your flesh, grunting into your cunt while his fingers left indents in your skin. It didn't matter if your thong was in the way or not he felt the ball of his piercing roll over your clit again and again, holding your clit in his mouth feeling your hole leak more of your juices on the side of his face.

"Fuckkkk…"

"Jabarrrriiiii..ohhh shit!' You cried out, slamming a hand over your mouth while your body convulsed, your eyes dancing around the dark office like room.

Jabber slid your legs off of his shoulders, listening to your heels clack and stagger against the hard floor. You felt like a fresh baby deer the way your knees knocked together though the moment lasted mere seconds before you dropped down to your knees, head woozy from the mysterious oil. It didn't matter if it was your own doing or the help of the alcohol the only thing that lingered in your mind was figuring out what he tasted like, Jabber was on the same page.

"See what that mouth talking bout.." Jabber unbuckled his belt, the clicks of the metal ringing in your ears revealed the rest of that happy trail you envisioned earlier, the way your mouth drooled you felt like a dog in heat yourself. When you were mindlessly hopping around in his arms and felt his semi poking you underneath your dress, your mind instantly pictured your lips wrapped around the head of his dick never did you think you would have a chance to showcase your imagination

His natural musky scent filled your nostrils as his dick sprung free from his boxers tapping his ridiculously carved stomach, the main reason he stopped your climax from crashing down was to prevent his own from sneaking up on him. He winced grabbing his own length, spreading the nasty white liquid with each stroke squeezing out semi clear beads of pre.

You groaned at the sight, sliding your wet pink muscle out decorated in spit lines, taunting him, silently begging him to cave in and do his worst yet he only inched inside of your warm mouth, coating his shaft as he pumped into your throat at an agonizingly slow pace. Lewd sounds of him hitting your uvula over and over drove him insane, thank god for the music or else the entire party would've heard his steady grunts or your throat filling up with spit.

Your acrylic hands wrapped around his slippery shaft stroking him into your mouth, moaning on his dick as you swirled your tongue around his tip, neck bobbing up and down

"Ahhh fuck! No hands..no hands give em here.."He huffed, grabbing at them rather than swatting them away so he could intertwine his fingers with yours keeping them steady on the wall. His hips rolled further into your mouth producing nasty globs of spit to fall on the sides of your chin, easily sliding in and out with no resistance. You were breathing manually through your nose, eyes shut prickling with tears forced to listen to his drunken praises and low gutteral moans leaving his body due to your throat tightening up on him.

"There you go there you- oh my god! That's a good girl take it..slobbering on my dick like this look at you making such a pretty mess mama.." He cooed, hesitant to keep up his movements as his knees buckled underneath the hot and heavy pressure rising in his lower stomach. Your spit muffled moans only made it worst! Your eyes flutter open gazing up at Jabber's illuminated eyes peering right back at you with his bottom lip tucked in, his breathing hitched in his chest fighting off those loose whimpers escaping his own throat.

"Mhmm you want me to cum all on this face don't you baby? Keep that throat open for me gahhhh- fuck!" He slurred, confused in his own mind why his balls were tightening up so quick, it felt foreign to him. His thrusts became sharp, powerful and sloppy hoping to ruin your voice not just from you screaming his name. Jabber plunged back and forth each time grunting harder to keep himself steady, running his mouth through gritted teeth. He squeezed your hands tighter as you felt his balls hit your chin at a faster pace, they tignten up and the cramp in his lower stomach became too much for him to handle.

"It's like that? You gon make me cum like that? Imma give it too you ma..Imma- shhhiiiitt!" You felt his tip jump in your mouth followed by a sharp savory taste staining your tongue before he abruptly pulls himself out of your mouth to spray your lips with the rest of his seed like he was painting you with fresh lip gloss.

"Ho my god you done made me nut off some head?"

You only moan in response swallowing every drop trying to finally catch your breath, if being held up in the air made your legs tremble you weren't prepared for what Jabber had in store as he stood there still stroking himself to spread the sensitivity, what you were about do next definitely took the que dog once he saw you stand back into your feet hiking up that homemade dress up to expose your aching cunt spilling and spitting up your juices.

"Put it in me.." You murmured, the muffled bass of the music thumping in the room.

"Thats what you want?" He grinned, inching closer to plant his hand right beside your skull on the wall, taking the other to draw lazy patterns on your thigh, cupping the fleshy material to wrap it around his waist. He tugged on that thong nesting so perfectly between your cheeks tossing them on the floor. Jabber leaned into the side of your neck and you swore you heard that signature bark in your ears but instead the slick bastard laid a nasty lick on your skin angling the tip of his dick to line up with your entrance carefully sliding your slick up and down on his shaft.

"All night you've been giving me that look…uh huh that look right there.." His voice melting like butter as your eyes locked on to each other. "I gotchu mama he gon get you right.." He taps your clit 3 times, being so polite to knock before he enters leaning his hips forward allowing him to ease his way inside of your tight cunt sucking him into your warmth. The both of groaning at the point of connection.

"Ouuu fuck…"

"Let him stretch you out…"

"Y-yesss J-jabber…"

"Louder baby they can't hear you.." He smiled, keeping his position steady rising your thigh up once again to hook on his shoulder to give him the deepest angle watching your face fall apart with each stroke. Your words couldn't be processed the only noises that could be made out where broken slurred syllables of his name. Your hands rested on his shoulder digging your nails into his skin as you rubbed on his body, your fingertips ran over that branding sitting on his shoulder and it drove your mind into pieces feeling his muscles tense up underneath you.

Your sopping wet cunt became the star of the hour as he pushed up inside of you, eyes focused on watching your every movement. The veins of his dick rubbed up on your creamy walls puncturing that gspot he found in no time sending black and white stars to your vision with the color pink dancing around in your mind.

“Over the music? Huh? Yeahhhh You want everybody to know what i’m doing to you.. I knew…you were…a slut…”

He slung his dick deep inside of your core with each word, grinning to himself as the color white stained him like a brand new paint job. You growled and drooled onto the wall with joyful tears staining your face as your swollen cunt spat out more of your sticky fluids, dribbling down your thighs.

“You tightening up on me? H-Hah…shhhit! Yeahhhh I know, this dick fucking you stupid? Already?” He laughed, stuttering on his own moans as he felt your sloppy pussy clamp down on his length, tugging him in like a warm hug.

“Deep, long strokes is what this pussy needs? Listen to this shit." He trailed off from the feeling of his dick slowing it's pace to watch you swallow him up

"So...thick...fuck!"

"Keep talking bout it." He smirked.

"I feel..so fucking full.." You whined, plopping your hips back to keep you with his ridiculously slow thrusts. You felt his hand creep up by the side of your face, whimpering as his fingers slipped in your mouth allowing you to suckle on them muffling you further as his hips picked up speed You drooled like a bitch in heat with your eyes rolling back in pure drunken ecstasy,.

"Jab-berr!!"

"That dick got you drunk mama?" His voice came out almost like a growl, breathing so hard against your neck. There was no way in hell you were about to stare him down while he slung his dick in you like this, yet Jabber didn't give a fuck what you wanted in this moment. He grabbed your chin with no hesitation, forcing your eyes to peering to his pretty pink orbs as he drug his dick in and out, his cheeks pulled into a ridiculous smirk seeing you go in and out of that subconscious trying to stay in the moment instead of going to la la land.

"Where you at?" He lays a few taps to your face, slowing down just a bit to get a good look at you.

"I'm good I'm good…please…don't stop.." You whined to him, your words still coming out coherent enough for him to keep going, that was all the consent he needed to pull out of your soul sucking cunt to turn you around to face the wall. Your hands held on to the surface as Jabber spat right on the crack of your ass spreading it with the tip of his dick right before he pushed back inside of your heat, a long cracked out moan leaving his lips.

"Pussy so….ssssfuck!" He winced as he stood there remaining still letting that pressure build up, you took your hand to spread your cheeks open just so you could push back on his dick with slow, calculated bounces. You felt his skin clap against yours and your juices coat his dick disappearing inside of you over and over. It was like something in your mind had switched over, that searing hot feeling of his dick pressing past that barrier hit like crack, spreading yourself wider so you could take every inch not realizing you were giving him more access to fuck you up how he wanted to.

"Take this pussy from me.." Your own lustful thoughts failing you due to your words being spat out loud. You slammed your hips down with a much harder force

"This my pussy?"

"Oh fuck…yessss."

"Stop lying.." His dick sliding in and out of your pussy at a steady rate as patches of white cream covered his shaft. "Fuck why you creaming on my dick like this?"

"You stuffing me so fucking good.."

"Gon make me cum in this pussy, you gon let me cum in this pretty pussy?" he lays a heavy smack to your ass, slamming into your squeezing cunt that much harder, knocking the wind out of your lungs, there was no where to run! He had your head pinned against the wall with his ring covered hand, pussy spread open taking every inch he promised to give.

You paid his question no mind not giving a fuck about the repercussions in this very second, he could cum in your mouth, buss one on your face and damn sure cum inside of you if he kept laying that thick length inside of your creamy walls the way he did. How could Jabber keep his composure with your ass swallowing him up? Your pussy choking him out like he owed you something? You could tell how close he was based on how his hips slurred with his sloppy non-calculated thrusts. He was no good.

Jabber removed his hand from your back popping his thumb into his mouth coating it with spit laying it back on your puckering hole gazing back at him, he teased you with the tip of his thumb testing the waters as he popped it inside with ease, groaning at the sight of his dick entering you and him pulling you back like a cock sleeve.

"Hooo my fucking god…" Jabber growled shoving his free hand to the side of your face, mushing you into the wall as he pumped his dick inside of you, playing with that hole pushing it in further. His gold cover smirk illuminated the room as his threw his hips into your stomach watching the recoil on your ass ripple time and time again.

"Im gonna cum if you keep—fucking me—like….like ohhhh Jabber!" Your mouth was clamped over by Jabber's cool ringed hands turning your wild outlandish screams into muffled bass just like the music still bumping from downstairs. Jabber should've covered his own drunken lips since his moans were just as broken as yours. His heavy warm breaths along with cracked out whimpers mixed into the air, his hips ricocheting off your ass.

"Please..please mama cum all over this dick..oh fuck! Let me cum in this pussy please? Move yo fucking hand!" He barked, grabbing a hold of your wrist to keep it in place, slowing his strokes down creating a mind numbing pace coaxing more of those sweet juices to drip on the floor.

The pressure of his dick hitting your inner core over and over swelled up like gas in a balloon, you felt like you had to pee yet he didn't stop digging so deep inside of your pretty pussy, he was determined to pull everything out of you and then some, the bright idea to push him back became a futile one as he slipped his thumb out to pick your body off of the wall like a rag doll placing you on a nearby dark wood desk. His arm shoved the papers, pens and pencils all to the ground just to place your body on the surface returning his painfully pleasurable pace holding your ass cheeks open to lay another line of spit on your ass watching it dribble down

"Such a nasty lil bitch.." He grumbled

"You a…nasty….fucking…dog…"

"Say it again…say that shit again!"

"You a…fucking…dog…..jabber…fuck!" A sharp cry echoes throughout the dark room as your juices trickled down your legs making a small puddle on the floor. Your thighs convulsed together and your stomach cramped from how deep he was punching your guts. All of your moans mixed in with Jabber's strung out groans feeling his dick twitch so deep inside, you didn't have time nor the energy to notice your phone going off the hook in your bag that fell on the floor moments earlier.

Your arms stretched out over the hardwood gripping onto the edge of the desk while you drooled, letting your eyes bounced along with your body as Jabber crumpled up the bottom of your dress using it as leverage to bring you back on his dick every time.

Heavy smacks stung your skin feeling his thrusts becoming sporadic and hungry, he leaned forward to sink his teeth into the back of your neck, using his whole hand to grab you up by the neck to sling you down on his dick, regaining a second wind listening to the lewd sounds of your pussy gagging on him.

PLOP PLOP PLOP

"Stuff this pussy..I can't take this…I- Yessss Jabber!" You turned your head around like a dunce to try and get a glimpse of him, drilling his length so deep.

"Yeah you can baby…oh I know…" He whined, his eyes widened once he locked eyes with you, gazing at your mouth being agape from his dick throbbing inside of your walls

"Bark for me.." He snickered, changing up his rhythm to hit your core spot on shoving his dick in and pulling it out to his tip to repeat those long, deep strokes inside of your stomach.

Your throat only let out a low guttural growl before Jabber left a hefty hand print on your ass from smacking it in the same place over and over.

"Bark for me." This time sounding more like a command then a request and just like that a small bark left your lips followed by a mewling growl of the next orgasm settling in.

"Yeah baby…like you want it…Bark like youu…oh fuck I'm cumming baby I'm finna nu-gahhhhh damnn..!" He exclaimed, immediately pulling out to layer thick shots of his cum all over your ass in nasty heavy spurts. His hands pumped his dick coating in your mixture squeezing the remnants out of his swollen tip. Your screams were silenced by your own hands slamming over your lips once more to muffle the blow as a stream of your juices cleaned his dick off in seconds.

The both of you were dripping in sweat, breathing hard and almost as drunk as his neos outside of the room partying.

Sitting in the after glow, the coolness of Jabber's rings rubbing your ass to soothe you felt just as intoxicating as his dick, the foggy clouds settled over your mind feeling your legs tremble in place like a muscle spasm.

"FIND LIYAH!" Your mind yelled at you, the longer you stayed around in this room, the longer you would have to sit in the overpowering guilt of knowing what you just did. It was supposed to be just a few kisses! How the hell did you stumble upstairs into this office in the first place? You stumbled around the room looking around on the ground to find your buzzing purse and to quickly do something about your hair sweating out. A spare hair tie did the trick once you put your style in a quick half ass low ponytail. There no getting rid of the evidence but the main goal your body focused on was to move.

"W-where you going lil mama? Aye- easy-" You scurried out of the room before he could even finish his sentence, rushing down the dwindling staircase in your heels careful not miss a step. You made it to the bottom and began to fumble through your purse to find your phone only to look up to see your friend yelling at you from across the building with her phone to her ear.

"Y/N! Over here!

"Y/n where did you go?!" Liyah said in a worried tone.

"I went to see a man bout a dog..we gotta go.." You stammered.

Jabber emerged from the same door moments later adjusting his pants making that same journey down the steps only to find that same thong on the steps quickly picking it up and slowly hesitated before he took a deep sniff with the thong he had collected off of the floor, looking around to see if he could spot the logo of that dress, your eyes in the crowd anything. He had to at least see the girl that just took his virginity one more time but you were nowhere to be found.

One of his brothers came up to him, patting his shoulder knocking him out of his drunken train of thought.

"Yo we were looking for you! The cooler running low and one of the Neos throwing up bad in the back- " He paused looking down at Jabber's hand still holding the black thong.

"You bagged?!"

"I smashed…" Jabber joined his brother in a goofy ass mini celebration following him to the back to help out his neos while you sat in the passenger seat of your friend's car replaying the events over…and over….and over. Classes would start back tomorrow, tryouts for the CT Majorettes began the week after meaning you were about to be too busy and you would never have to see his face again let alone another Omega plot on campus.

You swore to yourself to never look back but a certain someone was just about to start his search.

I can't lie this one is a new personal favorite and I hope it becomes yours too! Who knows where this may go it all depends on you guys but you know the rules love. As Always I'll imagine with you soon until next time dolls!

-MissHoneyBlue

Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.

You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.

You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.

To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.

But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.

Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.

He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.

Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.

You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.

Satoru was late. Again.

And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.

Tired of what, you’re not sure.

You, perhaps.

He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.

But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”

And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.

You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.

This had become a pattern. 

He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

But now he barely looked at you.

He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.

You believed him. Of course you did.

But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.

It happened in a moment of weakness.

The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.

It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.

You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.

Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.

But the messages were right there.

And what you saw made your stomach drop.

Gojo: Shio, I need your help.

Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.

Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.

Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.

Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~

Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.

You blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.

You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention. 

And it made you sick.

Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.

He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.

You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.

Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.

The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.

When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”

You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.

It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you. 

Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.

“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.

Satoru grinned.

“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”

Your stomach dropped.

Kyoto. 

Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.

“I’m not hungry.”

You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.

He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.

But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.

“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.

“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”

“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”

You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.

A silence stretches between you.

Shoko picks up on it. She always does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. 

Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.

When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”

There’s a pause.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”

Another silence. This one lands heavier.

“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”

You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.

“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”

“Shoko… you don’t get it.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not yet, but—”

“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”

You sigh and lean back.

 “I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”

Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”

You’re quiet. 

“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”

“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”

You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.

The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.

Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.

“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”

You blink, startled.  “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”

Something in you snaps.

“Don’t you dare make this about you.”

He stares, stunned.

“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.” You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.

You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.

“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.

He flinches.

“What?”

“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”

“[Name], it’s not what you think—”

“Then explain it!”  Your voice breaks.

 “Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”

You yank your hand back.

“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—” You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”

Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.

You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.

You step back.

“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Desperate. “Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”

He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”

You stare at him, your heart in your throat.

“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”

You blink.

“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.” His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”

You suck in a breath.

He steps closer, eyes pleading. “I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”

His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”

You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.

“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—” He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”

You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

“You should’ve just told me.”

“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.

“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”

You breathe him in, your voice shaky. 

 “So… you want kids?”

“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”

You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“That sounds like heaven.”

 He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.

When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.

“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”

“Nine.”

“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.

“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”

You smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Can I bribe the jury?”

“With what?”

“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

You lean in close, breath brushing his ear.

“Hmm, two months… and a foot rub every night.”

Claudia released a quiet, contented sigh as she lay beside him, her body turned toward his beneath the soft spill of moonlight that slipped through the hotel curtains and painted the room in shades of silver and blue. Michael’s afro, freed from the careful shaping demanded of him beneath stage lights and cameras, spread wild and untamed against the pillow, while his face remained bare before her, every fading blemish and shallow acne scar exposed without apology. There was no powder softening him, no dazzling costume transforming him into the boy the world believed it knew, only Michael as he truly was—eighteen, exhausted, newly married, and looking at her with such open devotion that Claudia felt as though she had been entrusted with something more sacred than any temple offering.

Her own face must have reflected his, stripped of performance and guardedness until nothing remained within her eyes but love, tender and almost unbearably full. She reached for his hand where it rested between them and began tracing the long lines of his fingers with her own, following each knuckle and crease as though they were roads laid down by the Fates themselves, paths she had been destined to learn by heart. These were the hands that held her when the world became too loud, the hands that rested at the small of her back whenever he feared she might drift too far from him, the hands that had been entrusted not only with her body but with her heart, her secrets, and every soft, vulnerable part of herself she had never offered another soul.

Do you know what I would do for you, my love? she wondered, her thumb passing over the new band encircling his finger.

Michael’s brown eyes lifted to meet hers, warm and luminous beneath the moonlight, and for a moment neither of them spoke, because there were some truths too large to survive being reduced to language. Their wedding rings touched when he curled his fingers around hers, producing the faintest click of gold against gold, a tiny sound almost swallowed by the grandeur of the suite surrounding them. The hotel had given them marble floors, gilded mirrors, velvet drapery, and a view of Las Vegas glittering below like an earthly imitation of Olympus, every street blazing beneath neon light as though the gods themselves had spilled their jewels across the desert, yet no amount of luxury could conceal what they had done.

They had married.

They had stood before a stranger beneath artificial flowers and promised themselves to one another with trembling voices, their youth still visible in their faces even as the vows settled upon them with the weight of eternity. Michael had wanted it from the moment he understood that adulthood might finally place their lives within their own hands, had counted the days until neither family, manager, nor disapproving elder could claim they were too young to choose. He had turned eighteen exactly one month earlier, on the twenty-ninth of August, and had waited through each passing day with the restless devotion of Orpheus standing before the gates of the underworld, convinced that love itself ought to be enough to bend every law keeping him from her.

Then September twenty-ninth had arrived, bringing Claudia’s eighteenth birthday with it, and before the candles upon her cake could properly cool, Michael had taken her hand and carried out the plan he had guarded inside himself for months.

Now they lay together as husband and wife, the words still so new that Claudia could scarcely think them without feeling her heart swell against her ribs. She was no longer merely the girl he loved in private, nor was he only the boy who slipped into her room to whisper impossible dreams about the future; before Juno, before God, and before whatever capricious Fates had first knotted their lives together, they belonged to one another by choice.

Michael lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her wedding ring, his gaze never leaving hers as though he understood the question she had not spoken.

Claudia would have crossed the Styx for him, would have stolen fire from the gods and endured Prometheus’s punishment merely to place warmth into his hands. She would have followed him through every darkened corridor of fame, stood beside him before crowds that demanded pieces of his soul, and guarded the tender boy beneath the legend with the ferocity of a vestal priestess protecting an eternal flame.

There was nothing she would not have done for him.

And perhaps the frightening beauty of it was that Michael, staring at her as though Venus herself had descended into his bed, already knew.

Truthfully, the list had not been his own invention at all, but something he had acquired from Marlon, passed between brothers like contraband after Marlon married Carol in secret and somehow managed, however briefly, to outwit the entire machinery of the Jackson family.

Michael remembered the day with embarrassing clarity, remembered standing outside Marlon’s bedroom at seventeen with his heart beating so violently it seemed determined to betray him through the walls. He had knocked first, timidly enough that the sound barely carried, then again with greater insistence when no answer came, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while anticipation and terror pulled him in opposite directions. He had felt like Mercury lingering at the threshold of some forbidden temple, eager to steal divine knowledge yet terrified of what the gods might do once they discovered his hand inside their treasury.

When the door finally opened, Michael had nearly forgotten why he had come.

Marlon and Carol had still possessed the unmistakable glow of newlyweds attempting to pretend nothing had changed, their private little world sealed behind that door until Michael’s interruption cracked it open. He had burst their bubble only momentarily, standing there all nervous limbs and wide brown eyes, lowering his voice as though Joseph might somehow hear the question from across the house.

He needed to know how they had done it.

Not why, because Michael understood the why too well, understood the hunger to take something sacred and make it yours before family, fame, or duty could reach in and claim it first, but the practical mechanics of it all: where to go, what papers were required, what names had to be signed, how much money to bring, and how two young people could stand before the law and leave belonging to one another before anyone thought to stop them.

Only a few doors away, Claudia lay across Michael’s bed entirely unaware of the conspiracy forming on her behalf, one knee bent beneath the other while her algebra work rested forgotten upon her chest. The lamp beside her cast a soft pool of gold across the room, illuminating the pencil still caught between her fingers and the loose curls spread over his pillow, while equations waited patiently beneath her hand as though numbers could compete with the future Michael had already begun arranging around her.

She looked impossibly young like that, suspended somewhere between girlhood and the woman he loved, and perhaps that was what frightened him most, because the Fates had already wound their thread around them both, yet adulthood remained a narrow gate neither of them could pass through quickly enough.

So Michael stood at Marlon’s door and listened as his brother gave him the list, committing every detail to memory with the solemn concentration of a priest receiving sacred rites, while just beyond the walls Claudia remained in his bed, unaware that the boy she loved had begun collecting the steps required to make her his wife.

“A’ight,” Marlon said once he had managed to fasten the final button of his shirt, though one side of his collar remained folded inward and the faint red stain at the corner of his mouth had only been smeared farther across his cheek by his attempts to remove it. “What you want?”

Michael remained within the doorway as though crossing fully into the room might implicate him in whatever he had interrupted, one hand still wrapped around the brass knob while the other worried anxiously at the seam of his trousers. Behind Marlon, Carol had drawn the bedspread more securely around herself and was watching him with an expression caught between affection and amusement, her lipstick slightly faded and her hair no longer arranged with the precision it had possessed earlier that morning, when she and Marlon had slipped out believing they had fooled everyone beneath the Havenhurst roof.

They had fooled Joseph, at least for the moment, and that was the miracle Michael had come to study.

The house beyond them remained deceptively peaceful, filled with the ordinary sounds of an afternoon that had no idea a mutiny had occurred within it. Somewhere downstairs, dishes shifted in the kitchen while Katherine spoke quietly with one of the girls; a television murmured from another room, its laughter track rising and falling through the halls, and from behind Michael came the faint scratch of Claudia’s pencil moving across paper whenever she remembered that she had algebra to finish. The domestic softness of it all seemed to gather around Marlon’s secret like velvet drawn over a blade, because Joseph was somewhere beneath the same roof, perhaps speaking on the telephone or studying rehearsal schedules, completely unaware that one of his sons had crossed a line no amount of discipline could uncross.

Michael glanced once more into the hallway before finally entering and easing the door shut behind him, careful not to allow the latch to click too loudly.

Marlon watched the excessive caution with growing suspicion, then folded his arms across his chest and asked, “Why you creepin’ around like you got somethin’ tucked under your coat?”

“I ain’t creepin’,” Michael whispered, although his voice remained so low that Marlon had to lean forward to hear him. “I just don’t want Joseph comin’ up here.”

“That’s creepin’.”

“That’s bein’ careful.”

“That’s what folks say when they creepin’.”

Carol gave a quiet laugh from the bed, and Michael looked toward her before immediately lowering his eyes again, the colour returning to his cheeks when he remembered the state in which he had found them. Marlon noticed and made an impatient sound, stepping sideways to block Michael’s view as though modesty had not arrived several minutes too late.

“Quit lookin’ all scared,” Marlon told him. “Ain’t nobody gon’ jump out from under the bed.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Your shoulders nearly touchin’ your ears.”

Michael forced them downward, which only made Carol laugh again, and after a moment she took pity upon him, telling Marlon, “Leave him alone, baby. He came in here for somethin’.”

“Yeah, and he still ain’t said what.”

Michael’s gaze moved from Carol to his brother and then toward the closed door, behind which the whole weight of the Jackson household appeared to be listening, even if reason told him no one stood there. He had rehearsed the question during the entire walk down the hall, had arranged the words so carefully inside his mind that they had seemed almost sensible, but now that Marlon stood before him as a husband rather than merely his brother, the thing Michael had come to ask felt enormous enough to alter the room.

“How’d you do it?” he asked at last.

Marlon stared at him.

Michael swallowed and clarified, “Get married.”

The teasing left Marlon’s face by degrees, replaced first by confusion and then by a slow understanding that sharpened his attention. Carol’s smile faded as well, though hers became something gentler, and the room seemed to grow quieter around them despite the continued murmur of the television downstairs.

“You came bustin’ in here to ask me that?” Marlon questioned.

“I knocked.”

“You keep sayin’ that like it makes the door stay closed.”

“I said I was sorry.”

Marlon studied him for another moment before asking, “Why you wanna know?”

Michael’s fingers resumed their restless movement against his trousers, tracing the same small section of stitching again and again while he searched for an answer that would not expose too much. It was a useless effort. Marlon had grown beside him, had shared bedrooms, stages, punishments, hotel rooms and long bus rides, and he knew Michael’s silences too intimately to mistake one for emptiness.

“Just curious,” Michael said.

Marlon’s expression flattened.

Carol tilted her head and asked softly, “Does this curiosity have anything to do with that pretty little girl doin’ homework in your room?”

Michael looked toward the wall separating them from Claudia, and the involuntary tenderness that passed over his face answered before he could construct another lie.

Marlon followed his gaze and gave a long, knowing exhale. “Man, I knew it.”

“You ain’t know nothin’,” Michael protested, though his voice remained carefully hushed. “And don’t say it so loud.”

“She right through there, Mike. You got her laid up in your bed, and now you in here askin’ how to get married. Ain’t exactly one of them mysteries folks gotta study.”

“She ain’t laid up,” Michael corrected, affronted by the implication. “She’s doin’ algebra.”

“On your bed.”

“She likes my room.”

“She likes you.”

Michael’s mouth twitched despite his efforts to remain serious. “I know.”

The quiet confidence of the answer softened something in Carol’s expression, but Marlon continued looking at his younger brother as though he were attempting to determine how much of this belonged to adolescent fantasy and how much had already hardened into intention.

“You seventeen,” he reminded him.

“I know how old I am.”

“And Claudia ain’t even that yet.”

“She will be next month,” Michael replied immediately, because he knew the distance between their birthdays down to the day, as though the calendar itself had become something he kept beneath his pillow. “She turns seventeen September twenty-ninth, and then next year I turn eighteen first, and she turns eighteen one month after me.”

Marlon blinked. “You done counted it out.”

Michael looked almost offended. “Course I did.”

Carol pressed her lips together, trying unsuccessfully to contain another smile, while Marlon reached up and rubbed one hand over his face, carefully avoiding the remaining lipstick stain. “Lord have mercy, you ain’t come in here curious at all. You got a date picked already.”

“I ain’t say all that.”

“You ain’t gotta.”

Michael shifted beneath his brother’s scrutiny, caught between embarrassment and the stubborn refusal to retreat now that he had finally forced the question from his mouth. In the adjoining room, Claudia turned a page, the sound barely audible through the wall, yet it drew Michael’s eyes as faithfully as a hymn called a believer toward an altar.

He could picture her without seeing her, stretched diagonally across his bed because she never understood why anyone slept straight when there was room to turn sideways, her algebra book resting upon her chest and one sock slipping from her heel. She would be chewing the end of her pencil, frowning at a problem she understood perfectly well but resented being required to solve, while the evening light gathered across her curls and turned their edges gold.

She had no idea that he stood only a few doors away trying to learn how to marry her.

The thought made his heart strike hard enough to frighten him.

Marlon noticed the expression that passed across his face and lowered his voice, asking, “You serious?”

Michael’s gaze returned to him. “Yeah.”

“Naw, I mean serious, Mike, ’cause marriage ain’t just takin’ somebody to a chapel and puttin’ a ring on her finger. That girl gon’ wake up beside you when you sick, when you mad, when money funny, when everybody in this house got an opinion ’bout what y’all oughta be doin’. You don’t get to change your mind soon as it stop feelin’ like a song.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

The answer came sharply enough that Marlon’s brows lifted, and Michael drew a breath to settle the defensiveness rising in him before continuing more quietly.

“I ain’t talkin’ about marryin’ her next week,” he explained. “I know we gotta wait, and I know it ain’t gon’ be easy, but I want to know what we need before the time comes. I don’t wanna be standin’ there on her birthday and find out we forgot some paper or gotta wait on somebody’s permission. I want everything ready.”

Carol looked at him with open surprise now, because this was not the dreamy declaration of a boy imagining flowers and cake; Michael spoke with the concentration he brought to music, each detail already being arranged somewhere within him, rehearsed until chance could no longer interfere.

Marlon heard it too.

“You plan on takin’ her to Vegas?” he asked.

Michael hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Probably.”

“Boy, you came in here askin’ for instructions to do the exact thing I just did, and you gon’ sit there talkin’ ’bout maybe?”

“I ain’t decided which chapel.”

That silenced Marlon for a beat.

Carol covered her mouth, shoulders trembling as she tried not to laugh loudly enough for the sound to travel beneath the door, and Marlon turned to look at her as though Michael’s audacity were somehow her responsibility.

“He done picked the city, the day, probably know what colour socks he wearin’, but he ain’t decided which chapel,” Marlon muttered.

“I don’t know what socks I’m wearin’,” Michael replied.

“Good. Glad there’s still some mystery left.”

A smile tugged at Michael’s mouth, though it disappeared when Marlon walked past him and pressed his ear briefly against the door, listening for movement in the hallway. Once satisfied they remained alone, he turned the lock and lowered his voice further.

“You know Joseph gon’ lose his mind.”

The words settled heavily between them because none of them needed to imagine what Joseph’s anger looked like. It had a sound, the heavy rhythm of his steps approaching through a corridor; it had a posture, shoulders squared while his belt shifted loose through his hands; it had a silence that could be worse than shouting because silence meant the punishment was still being selected.

Michael’s body responded before his pride could stop it, his back stiffening and his fingers becoming still at his sides.

“I know,” he said.

“Do Claudia?”

“She knows how he is.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

Michael looked toward the wall again. Claudia understood Joseph in the way any person allowed near the Jackson family eventually understood him, through doors shut too firmly, rehearsals stretching too long, and the way Michael’s laughter altered whenever his father entered a room. She had seen bruises he claimed came from dancing, had watched him recoil once when she raised her hand too quickly near his face, and although she did not push when he became quiet, her eyes carried the knowledge he was unable to give her in words.

“She knows enough,” Michael answered.

Marlon shook his head. “Ain’t no such thing as enough with him. When he find out Carol and me got married, he ain’t just gon’ fuss ’cause he think we too young. He gon’ see it like I made a move without him, like I took somethin’ he was supposed to control and put it where he can’t reach it.”

Carol’s gaze lowered briefly, and Marlon’s expression softened as he looked toward her, the agitation in his face giving way to a protectiveness so instinctive it seemed older than their vows.

“That’s why we did it first and told folks later,” he continued. “Once it’s done, it’s done. He can holler, threaten, call lawyers and tell me I done lost my mind, but he can’t make Carol not my wife just because he don’t like how it happened.”

Michael absorbed the words with an almost frightening attentiveness.

There it was, the secret beneath the secret, the reason Marlon’s marriage had fascinated him from the moment he learned of it. A wedding was not merely a promise; it was a door that closed behind you, one Joseph could beat his fists against without forcing it open. Michael had watched each older brother’s adulthood arrive through rebellion, watched marriage create households and loyalties that did not place Joseph at their centre, and some tender, desperate part of him had begun regarding matrimony not only as devotion but as sanctuary.

Carol seemed to recognise where his thoughts had gone, because she leaned forward and spoke with a gentleness that did not soften the warning beneath her words.

“Don’t marry Claudia just to get away from your daddy, Michael.”

His eyes lifted to hers immediately. “I wouldn’t.”

“I’m not sayin’ you don’t love her,” Carol assured him. “Anybody with eyes can see you love that girl, but gettin’ out from under somebody and buildin’ a life with somebody are two different things. If you take Claudia with you, you gotta be sure you runnin’ toward her and not just away from here.”

The distinction entered him quietly.

Michael looked down at his hands, at the long fingers he had spent years training to obey him upon microphones, piano keys and stage movements, yet could never keep from trembling when his father’s anger drew near. He imagined those same hands wrapped around Claudia’s at a chapel altar, imagined gold settling over one finger while she smiled at him beneath cheap flowers and neon light, and the image did not feel like escape.

It felt like arrival.

“I’d choose her even if Joseph was the nicest daddy in the world,” he said.

Marlon released a short breath through his nose. “Well, now we know you serious, ’cause you imagining impossible things.”

Michael gave him a look, but Carol’s eyes remained fixed upon him.

“I don’t want Claudia because she can get me out this house,” he continued, his voice softening as the truth found its proper shape. “I want her because when I’m with her, I don’t feel like I gotta get out of my own skin. She don’t want Michael from the records or Michael Joseph keeps tellin’ what to do. She just wants me, and I want her to know I’m choosin’ her too, not ’cause somebody arranged it or thought it would look good, but because I did.”

Marlon’s teasing finally disappeared.

For a moment, he saw not the little brother who had trailed after him through childhood, nor the nervous boy standing in a room he had entered at the worst possible time, but a young man already carrying desires too large for the life constructed around him. Fame had made Michael visible to millions and known to almost no one, and Claudia, somehow, had found the private boy beneath all that light and treated him as though he were enough without it.

Marlon understood why he wanted to bind himself to that.

He also understood why Joseph would consider such a bond dangerous.

“You tell her any of this?” he asked.

Michael’s eyes widened slightly. “No.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I’m not askin’ her till she can say yes and mean yes without nobody else’s permission.”

Carol smiled then, a slow, tender expression that made Michael look away in embarrassment.

Marlon watched him another moment before crossing the room toward a small writing desk, where he pulled open the upper drawer and moved aside a stack of envelopes, a comb and several loose photographs. Beneath them sat a folded piece of hotel stationery covered in his hurried handwriting, the paper creased enough to suggest it had been opened and checked repeatedly during the days leading to his own marriage.

Michael took an instinctive step closer.

Marlon placed one hand over the paper before Michael could reach for it.

“You gotta keep your mouth shut,” he warned.

“I know.”

“I mean it, Mike. You don’t go showin’ this to La Toya, don’t leave it sittin’ in your pants for Mama to find when she doin’ laundry, and don’t let Randy get ahold of it, ’cause that boy can’t keep water in a cup, much less a secret.”

“I won’t.”

“And you don’t tell Claudia yet unless you ready for her to spend a whole year worryin’ ’bout it.”

Michael glanced toward the wall. “I ain’t tellin’ her.”

“Then why you need the list now?”

“Because I need to know.”

Marlon searched his face, perhaps hoping to find enough uncertainty to justify refusing him, but Michael’s fear and eagerness existed beside one another without cancelling each other out. He was terrified of Joseph, of adulthood, of marriage, and of the possibility that Claudia might not want the future he had already begun building inside himself, yet beneath every fear lay a purpose that would not move.

Slowly, Marlon removed his hand.

Michael unfolded the paper with the care of a priest opening a sacred text.

The list itself was plain enough to be almost disappointing, containing reminders about identification, proof of age, money, transportation, a marriage licence, an officiant and a witness, along with the address of the place where Marlon and Carol had gone and the name of a man who had helped them avoid unnecessary questions. 

Michael read every line twice.

“Both of you gotta go in together,” Marlon explained, standing close enough to point over his shoulder. “You need proof of your age, and you make sure every name is written right before you leave that counter, ’cause you don’t want no trouble later. Carry cash in more than one place, keep enough put away for gas, and don’t trust that car to behave just because you in love.”

“I’d have a different car by then.”

“Then don’t trust that one either.”

Carol rose from the bed after straightening her clothes, joining them at the desk as she added, “Bring something nice for Claudia to wear, but don’t make it so fancy somebody remembers seeing you. And have shoes she can walk in, because if anything goes wrong, you don’t want that girl trying to run through a bus station in heels.”

Michael nodded solemnly, committing even that to memory.

Marlon glanced at him. “You know she might say no.”

The paper stilled between Michael’s fingers.

“I know.”

“You really know?”

His throat moved as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

“What you gon’ do if she does?”

The answer hurt before he gave it, revealing how often he had already asked himself the same question while Claudia lay beside him or laughed with her head upon his shoulder.

“I won’t make her,” Michael said. “I’ll bring her home.”

Carol’s expression warmed.

Marlon nodded slowly, seeming to accept that answer more than any declaration of eternal love Michael might have offered, because wanting someone was easy, while loving them enough to survive their refusal required a different kind of courage.

“You can keep that,” he said, gesturing toward the paper.

Michael looked up. “For real?”

“For real, but if Joseph finds it, you never got it from me.”

“I’ll say Jackie gave it to me.”

Marlon’s mouth fell open. “Why Jackie?”

“Joseph already mad at him half the time.”

“That ain’t right.”

“It makes sense.”

Carol laughed, and this time even Marlon’s outrage could not stop the grin spreading across his face. He reached out and caught Michael by the back of the neck, pulling him into a rough, one-armed embrace that threatened to crush the carefully folded list between them.

“You a sneaky little something,” Marlon muttered against his afro.

Michael smiled into his brother’s shoulder. “Learned from you.”

“That ain’t a compliment.”

“It is today.”

When Marlon released him, Michael tucked the list deep into the inner pocket of his shirt and pressed his palm over it, feeling the stiff outline resting against his heartbeat. It contained no poetry, no vows, and no assurance that Claudia would accept when the day arrived, yet it seemed to him more precious than any love letter because it transformed an impossible dream into a sequence of doors that could be opened one after another.

Carol reached over and repaired the side of his collar, smoothing it down with the easy tenderness of someone who had known him long enough to treat him as family even before the law made it so.

“Just be good to her,” she said.

Michael looked through the wall again, toward the room where Claudia remained unaware of the future being whispered into existence only a few yards away.

“I will.”

Marlon’s expression turned serious once more as he unlocked the door, but before allowing Michael into the hallway, he caught his arm and spoke in a voice low enough that even Carol had to lean nearer.

“And Mike, when the time comes, don’t hesitate halfway through it. Fear’ll have you thinkin’ every car behind you belongs to Joseph and every telephone ring means somebody knows, but once you take her hand and start, you keep goin’ until both your names are on that paper. You understand?”

Michael felt the list against his chest and thought of Claudia in his bed, of her birthday arriving one month after his, and of the entire year standing between them like a sea he would have to cross without knowing what waited upon the opposite shore.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Marlon held his gaze. “You sure?”

Michael nodded, the frightened boy and determined young man within him speaking through the same quiet answer.

“I’m sure.”

The moment the clock struck twelve and September twenty-ninth slipped quietly into existence, Michael appeared at the Dubois residence with the restless brightness of Mercury arriving to steal something precious from beneath the watch of older gods. Claudia had barely finished laughing at the candles Genevieve had arranged upon her cake before he caught her by the hand and began drawing her toward the front door, his excitement too large for his narrow frame and his grin so poorly concealed that even Lance, who regarded every young man near his daughter with the suspicion of a Roman sentry guarding the gates, could not help but narrow his eyes at him.

Michael promised them he would bring Claudia home in one piece, delivering the assurance with both hands raised as though standing before a tribunal, while Claudia lingered beside him in the dress she had worn for her birthday dinner, one brow lifted because she knew him far too well to believe the entire evening had been improvised. He explained that he merely wanted to celebrate the two of them finally being eighteen somewhere lavish, somewhere grand enough to make adulthood feel real, somewhere the lights burned brighter than the stars themselves and the night refused to end simply because the sun had gone down.

Las Vegas, he said, with a casualness so studied it became immediately suspicious.

Genevieve looked from Michael to her daughter, then toward Lance, her expression carrying the quiet amusement of a woman who had already understood more than either young person realised, while Lance remained beside the doorway with his arms folded over his chest, studying Michael beneath the porch light as though searching for any crack in the boy’s sincerity.

They had known him too long for ordinary suspicion to survive intact.

Lance and Genevieve Dubois had met Michael when Claudia was ten and he was eleven, back when his afro appeared almost too large for the rest of him and his fame had not yet taught him to guard every unplanned expression. Claudia had introduced herself by shoving him from a swing at the park because, in her opinion, he had taken entirely too long and showed no intention of surrendering it voluntarily. Michael had landed in the dirt with wounded dignity, staring up at the small girl standing over him as though she had personally challenged him before the Senate, while Claudia had simply climbed into the vacated seat and ordered him to push her.

He had.

From that afternoon onward, he seemed to appear wherever she did, first as the shy boy trailing behind her with scraped knees and questions, then as the friend who spent so many evenings beneath the Dubois roof that Genevieve began setting another place at the dinner table without asking whether he intended to stay. Lance had taught him how to hold a fishing rod, how to knot a tie properly, and how to look a man directly in the eye when making a promise, offering the patience Michael rarely received from the father whose approval governed his own home.

Lance had been Claudia’s father by blood, certainly, but over the years he had become something of a father to Michael as well, a steady presence who corrected without humiliating and protected without demanding fear as payment. He had watched the awkward little boy grow taller, had seen Michael’s affection for Claudia deepen from childhood loyalty into something warmer and far more dangerous, and although the realisation had once stirred every territorial instinct inside him, he could not convince himself that his daughter was unsafe with the same boy who still called Genevieve before every tour to ask whether she needed anything brought back.

That trust was the only reason Michael had been permitted to stand upon their porch at midnight asking to carry their only daughter into the Nevada desert.

“You said somewhere lavish,” Lance reminded him, his gaze dropping briefly toward the overnight bag Michael had attempted, without success, to conceal behind his leg. “You didn’t say anything about taking my baby across state lines.”

Claudia groaned immediately, leaning her head back as though appealing to Juno for patience. “Daddy, I am eighteen now.”

“You been eighteen twelve minutes.”

“Still counts.”

“To you.”

Michael squeezed her hand before she could begin an argument that would consume the first hour of their carefully planned escape, then looked at Lance with an earnestness that softened every playful edge in his face. “I’ll take care of her, sir,” he promised, and beneath the porch light, with Claudia’s fingers threaded tightly through his, the words seemed to carry far more weight than the trip alone required. “I swear.”

Lance’s attention lingered on their joined hands.

Perhaps some fatherly instinct warned him that Michael intended to do more than take Claudia dancing beneath neon lights, that the boy’s nervous energy was not merely excitement but the terror of someone carrying a secret large enough to alter several lives. Yet he also saw the same eleven-year-old who had once stood in their kitchen dripping rainwater across the floor because Claudia had forgotten her coat and Michael had given her his, choosing to walk home soaked rather than allow her to be cold.

“Bring her back the way she left,” Lance said at last, stepping aside only reluctantly.

Michael nodded too quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Genevieve’s mouth curved. “And call when you arrive.”

“We will.”

“Not at noon tomorrow after I’ve spent all night wondering whether you two drove into a ditch.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Michael?”

He paused with one foot already descending the porch steps.

Genevieve crossed the distance between them and straightened the collar of his jacket, her fingers lingering there as she searched his face with eyes too perceptive for comfort. “Whatever it is you have planned,” she murmured, low enough that Claudia could not entirely catch the words, “you make sure my daughter has every opportunity to choose it for herself.”

The colour rose slowly beneath Michael’s skin.

For one terrible moment, he wondered whether the marriage licence hidden inside his coat had somehow begun glowing through the fabric like stolen fire in Prometheus’s hands. Genevieve only held his gaze, neither accusing nor granting permission, yet the warning beneath her tenderness was unmistakable.

“I will,” he whispered.

Only then did she release him.

Michael ushered Claudia toward the waiting car before either parent could reconsider, opening the passenger door with exaggerated ceremony while she looked at him as though he had lost what little sense fame had left him. He bowed deeply, one hand sweeping toward the seat as if presenting Venus with her chariot, and Claudia rolled her eyes even as laughter softened her mouth.

“What are you up to?” she asked, pausing before she climbed inside.

“Nothin’.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

“You brought luggage for an evening out.”

Michael glanced toward the bag protruding from the back seat, then returned his eyes to hers with a smile so innocent it would not have deceived a child. “We might wanna change clothes.”

“In another state?”

“Vegas gets warm.”

“It is nighttime.”

“The desert holds heat.”

“You have never cared about desert temperatures a day in your life.”

He laughed, gently guiding her into the car before closing the door and circling toward the driver’s side, his heart battering against his ribs all the while. Beneath his jacket, the folded list Marlon had given him rested beside their identification, the address of the chapel, enough cash to carry them there and back, and two modest gold bands wrapped carefully inside a velvet pouch.

When Michael settled behind the wheel, Claudia was still watching him.

He turned the key, and the engine stirred beneath them while the porch lights painted her face in warm gold, illuminating the suspicion in her eyes and the affection she had never learned to conceal from him. Through the windscreen, Lance and Genevieve remained framed in the doorway, Genevieve lifting one hand in farewell while Lance stood beside her like an anxious emperor watching his daughter depart in the company of a young Orpheus who had promised to guide her safely through the dark.

Michael reached across the space between them and took Claudia’s hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips before easing the car away from the kerb.

Ahead of them waited the long desert road and Las Vegas glowing upon the horizon, its neon temples blazing more brilliantly than any mortal constellation, while inside Michael’s coat rested the secret that had occupied his heart since the day he stood at Marlon’s door and learned how two young lovers might steal their future from the hands of everyone determined to govern it.

Claudia leaned toward the window, watching her home recede behind them before turning back to him with narrowed eyes.

“You better not be takin’ me to some wild party.”

Michael smiled toward the road, his thumb passing slowly over the back of her hand.

“No party, beautiful.”

The lie came wrapped so tenderly that she almost believed him.

He did not know how to describe it without making it sound profane, because every word that came to him seemed either too small for the feeling or so enormous it bordered upon blasphemy, yet as Michael lay beside Claudia beneath the pale Vegas moonlight, watching her fingers travel reverently over the lines of his hand, he knew that he wanted to be wrapped in her—not merely held for the night, not merely wanted while youth and beauty made wanting easy, but enclosed within the whole of her existence until there was no clear place where his life ended and hers began.

He wanted Claudia in the manner Scripture spoke of covenant, as something written not simply upon paper but upon the heart, something carried within the body until it became indistinguishable from breath and blood. He wanted to cover her in every tenderness he possessed, to place his name around her not as a chain but as shelter, to love her through sickness and health, through abundance and want, through the mornings when affection came effortlessly and the nights when loving one another would require patience, forgiveness, and the deliberate surrender of pride. He wanted the triumphs, certainly, but he wanted the wilderness too, the lean years and the frightened ones, the seasons when they might have nothing to offer each other except two tired hands clasped beneath a kitchen table and the stubborn promise that neither would let go first.

It was not enough to share a bed with her; Michael wanted to share time itself.

He wanted years threaded together like beads upon a prayer cord, birthdays and arguments, ordinary suppers, illnesses, journeys, children perhaps, and all the small domestic moments no audience would ever applaud. He wanted to hear Claudia moving through rooms they had chosen together, wanted her shoes beside his at the door and her handwriting mingled with his across grocery lists, letters, and the margins of whatever books they passed between them. He wanted to grow familiar with every version of her the future might reveal, even those she had not yet met within herself, and he wanted her to know every hidden incarnation of him, the frightened boy, the restless man, the believer, the doubter, the performer who belonged to millions and the private soul who wished to belong only to her.

Perhaps that was what frightened him most—the completeness of it.

Michael had been taught to regard the flesh with suspicion, to understand desire as something requiring vigilance because temptation had first entered paradise wearing the patient face of a serpent. For years, he had treated his own wanting as though it were an unruly animal prowling behind his ribs, something to be starved, disciplined, and prayed into submission before it lured him beyond the narrow path laid beneath his feet. He knew the story of David allowing appetite to corrupt devotion, knew how easily longing could crown itself love while dragging a man toward ruin, and so he had once believed purity meant denying every hunger until even the body forgot how to ask.

Then Claudia had come close enough to touch him, and all those severe distinctions had begun loosening without a single argument from her.

She had not tempted him away from God, as some fearful corner of his mind had once imagined a woman might; she had made him understand why the Bible contained the Song of Solomon at all, why holy pages would preserve language so lush with longing, why the beloved was permitted to praise the body of the beloved without heaven striking either of them down. Claudia had made him wonder whether the flesh was not always an enemy of the spirit, whether desire, when held within devotion and offered without deceit, might become another form of worship.

There had been no campaign on her part, no coaxing him toward rebellion, because Claudia had never needed to pry his convictions from his hands; she had merely loved him, patiently and without shame, until some of the rules he had mistaken for faith began falling away from him like scales. Lord knew how thoroughly they had fed the flesh within the sanctuary of their union, how eagerly restraint had unravelled once vows made their wanting lawful, yet he could not find sin in the tenderness that followed, nor in the way Claudia had touched him as though his body were not something dirty to overcome but a dwelling entrusted to her care.

The marriage bed did not feel like the mouth of temptation.

It felt like an altar.

Not because Claudia was divine, for Michael would never confuse the creature with the Creator, but because loving her demanded the same virtues his faith had always required of him: patience, humility, mercy, discipline, truth. She could summon desire from him with the slightest movement, certainly, but she also called forth gentleness, made him wish to become a man whose love nourished rather than consumed, whose hands never resembled the hands that had frightened him in childhood. To hold Claudia was to feel the difference between possession and stewardship, between wanting to own something beautiful and recognising that another person’s heart was sacred precisely because it had been given freely and could never truly be taken.

That was what their rings meant to him as they touched between them with the faintest click of gold against gold.

Claudia had chosen him.

Of all the men she might have loved, of all the lives she might have constructed beyond the strange orbit of his fame, she had placed her hand inside his beneath artificial chapel lights and allowed him to slip a band around her finger. She had met him at the altar without coercion, looked into his face while the city blazed outside, and promised herself to him with the calm bravery of Ruth laying her future beside Naomi’s: where he went, she would go; where he lodged, she would lodge; his people would become hers, and whatever earth received him at the end of life would receive her memory beside him.

The knowledge humbled him almost as much as it thrilled him.

It was pathetic, perhaps, how completely she held him without understanding that she possessed any power at all. Claudia did not know that one disappointed glance from her could send him into hours of self-examination, nor that her laughter had become the sound by which he measured the safety of a room. She did not know that Michael remembered every careless preference she mentioned, storing them away as though preparing for some examination in which his entire worth as a husband would depend upon whether he brought home the right flowers or recognised when her silence meant she needed to be held rather than questioned.

She had never commanded him to worship.

That was precisely why he found himself kneeling.

He thought of Jacob labouring seven years for Rachel, only to accept another seven when deceit placed the wrong bride before him, and Michael understood how fourteen years might pass like a handful of days when the promised reward was a lifetime beside the woman one loved. Had someone demanded twice that number from him for Claudia, he would have worked until his hands split and still considered the bargain generous. Had heaven told him that the road toward her required wandering forty years through the wilderness, he would have packed before sunrise, trusting that each grain of desert sand carried him one step nearer.

Do you know what I would do for you, my love?

The question filled him as Claudia continued tracing his fingers, unaware that beneath her touch his heart had become a restless psalm.

She could ask him to jump, and Michael would scale Everest for her, climbing until the clouds lay beneath his feet and the world became nothing but cold air and prayer, yet even standing upon the highest point of the earth would feel inadequate, merely the first rung upon Jacob’s ladder when what he wished to offer her reached beyond the heavens. He would bring down the mountain stone by stone if she desired a path across it, would divide seas with his bare hands if water dared stand between them, and would spend the strength of his entire life building an ark large enough to preserve every dream she had ever trusted him with.

Still, it would not be enough.

No feat could equal the quiet miracle of her loving him back.

Michael turned his hand within hers until their palms met, threading his fingers through hers as though sealing the spaces between them, and when Claudia lifted her gaze, he saw himself reflected inside her eyes without stage lights, screaming crowds, or the terrible distortions of fame. She looked at him and saw no prodigy, no little king, no instrument created to sustain a family’s ambition, but simply Michael—the boy with the untamed afro and scarred cheeks, the young husband trembling beneath the enormity of his own happiness.

His thumb passed over her wedding ring, slowly enough to feel every edge of the modest band.

Set me as a seal upon thine heart, he remembered, the words rising inside him with the solemnity of Scripture spoken aloud, for love is strong as death; many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.

That was what he wanted to become for Claudia: not a flood consuming her, but the seal upon her heart, a love fierce enough to survive every water sent against it and gentle enough never to demand that she drown proving hers.

He brought her joined hand to his mouth and kissed the ring before pressing his lips into the centre of her palm, his eyes remaining fixed upon hers as though he could deliver the entire confession through touch alone.

If she asked him what he would do for her, Michael was not certain language could hold the answer.

He would live for her, which seemed harder and more sacred than dying.

He would wake each morning and choose her again, even when the choosing cost pride, comfort, or certainty. He would meet her joy with gratitude, her grief with patience, her anger without cruelty, and her fear with hands held open enough that she never mistook his love for captivity. He would learn her and relearn her as years changed them both, remaining beside her through every valley until death itself arrived to part what they had joined beneath the blazing lights of Las Vegas.

And even then, some faithful part of him believed he would search eternity until he found her again.

Claudia’s fingers moved over his bare face with the careful curiosity of someone tracing a map she intended to commit to memory, following the faint hollows left by old blemishes, the uneven texture along his cheeks, and every small scar he had spent years learning how to conceal beneath powder, careful lighting, and the practiced turn of his head. Michael lay with his head resting in her lap, his afro spread dark and unruly across the pale fabric of her nightgown, while moonlight poured through the hotel curtains and softened the room until Las Vegas, with all its neon temples and manufactured stars, seemed impossibly far away.

Her touch was light, almost absent-minded in its tenderness, but Michael felt every pass of her fingertips as though she were peeling him open layer by layer, stripping away the performer, the obedient son, the disciplined believer, and every carefully constructed version of himself he had offered to the world. She saw him too easily, and he loved her for it with the same helpless intensity that made him resent the vulnerability of being known, because there was nowhere to hide when Claudia looked at him like that, no shadow deep enough to conceal the parts of himself he still believed were unworthy of tenderness.

When her thumb brushed across one of the deeper marks upon his cheek, Michael turned his face slightly, an old instinct urging him to retreat before she could examine it too closely, but Claudia merely followed him, bending until her lips met the scar.

The kiss was soft enough to hurt.

She pressed another beside it, then another, her mouth moving patiently over every flaw he had expected her to overlook, as though she had mistaken the places he disliked most for sacred ground. She did not kiss him out of pity or offer the exaggerated reassurance people gave when they wished to prove they had noticed nothing; she kissed him because she had noticed everything and loved him without requiring any of it to disappear.

Michael’s eyes closed.

“Claudia,” he breathed, though he could not have said whether her name was a warning, a plea, or something dangerously close to prayer.

She hummed without stopping, one hand settling against his jaw while the other continued tapping a gentle rhythm against his chest, and Christ, did she understand what she was doing to him, how completely she was unravelling him with nothing more than her mouth upon his scars and her fingers moving through his hair?

Did she know that he would have torn himself apart for her if she asked?

The thought did not arrive with violence so much as surrender, a quiet and terrible certainty that there was no part of him he would withhold from her, no guarded chamber of his heart he would refuse to open if Claudia stood before it and requested entrance. He would have split his ribs with his own hands and placed the trembling organ into her palms, would have offered flesh, blood, breath, and bone if any of it could become proof large enough to contain what he felt.

The language frightened him, because it brushed against imagery he had been raised to treat with reverence, and Michael would never have dared place his mortal love beside the sacrifice of Christ as though the two could be weighed equally. Yet some echo of the Eucharist stirred within his understanding, not as blasphemous imitation but as the only language of complete self-giving his faith had ever given him.

At the altar, bread and wine became remembrance, covenant, body and blood offered not to satisfy hunger but to declare that love, in its holiest form, withheld nothing of itself.

Michael understood suddenly why such devotion had been expressed through the body.

Words could promise faithfulness, yet the body was where promise became action: hands that served, shoulders that carried, blood that sustained life, flesh that endured pain rather than pass it onward. The sacrament was sacred because it spoke of a love willing to be broken and poured out for others, and although Michael knew he was no saviour and Claudia required no salvation from him, he recognised within himself the humble, human shadow of that impulse—the yearning to give her everything he possessed until nothing remained hidden behind his teeth or beneath his skin.

Take this heart, some private voice within him seemed to whisper. It is already yours.

Not as worship, because Claudia was not God, nor did she ask to be placed upon an altar; she was simply the woman he had chosen, the wife whose ring now shone beside his beneath the moonlight, and loving her made him want to practice the kind of devotion Scripture demanded rather than merely recite it. He wanted to feed her when she was tired, wash her feet after long journeys, sit beside her through illness, forgive before pride could harden, and allow himself to be known without decorating every wound first.

Perhaps that was the truest offering he could make her.

Not his blood spilled dramatically across marble, nor his heart presented like some grotesque relic, but the daily surrender of the parts of himself he guarded most fiercely: his fear, his shame, his need for control, and the trembling boy beneath the polished image who still expected affection to be withdrawn the moment he ceased performing properly.

Claudia kissed the shallow scar near his temple, and Michael’s fingers curled into the fabric at her hip, holding her as though the tenderness might otherwise carry him somewhere he could not return from.

“You ain’t gotta do that,” he whispered.

Her lips paused against his skin. “Do what?”

“Kiss all the ugly parts.”

Claudia drew back just far enough to look down at him, her expression tightening with such immediate displeasure that Michael almost wished he could pull the words back before they reached her.

“What ugly parts?” she asked.

He glanced away, but her hand followed, cupping his cheek and returning his face gently toward hers.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Claudia replied, her thumb stroking over the same mark he had attempted to hide. “These are yours, Michael. I love your face because it belongs to you, not because it looks untouched.”

Something inside him gave way so quietly that he felt no collapse, only the sudden absence of a wall he had assumed would remain standing forever.

His eyes burned.

Claudia noticed, because she always noticed, yet she spared him the humiliation of naming it, lowering herself instead until her forehead rested against his and their breath mingled in the small space between them.

Michael looked at her and thought again of the chalice raised beneath solemn light, of covenant made visible, and of love becoming sacred not because it was painless, but because it chose to remain present before every wound.

She did not know the power she possessed over him.

She had never demanded it, never tested the boundaries of his devotion or asked him to prove himself through suffering, and perhaps that innocence was precisely why he would have given her anything. Claudia did not want his flesh torn from him; she wanted him whole, breathing beneath her hands, his scars uncovered and his heart still safely beating behind his ribs.

That knowledge humbled him more than sacrifice ever could.

Michael turned his face into her palm and kissed its centre, holding her wrist with both hands as though receiving something blessed.

You could ask me for everything, he thought, his eyes lifting to meet hers, and I would still pray for something more to give.

Michael brought their ringed hands together as he rose from her lap, fitting his palm against hers until the two modest bands met with a faint click of gold, so quiet beneath the distant hum of Las Vegas that no one beyond the room might have heard it, yet to him the sound carried all the gravity of temple bells announcing that some sacred rite had been completed. He looked down at their joined hands for a lingering moment, still half-dazed by the sight of his future made tangible upon their fingers, before drawing Claudia toward him and connecting their lips.

The kiss began gently, almost reverently, his mouth settling over hers without haste as though he had been granted a lifetime and intended to make full use of every second. One hand remained threaded through hers while the other found her waist, supporting her as he guided her backwards into the sheets, lowering her with such care that she might have been an offering entrusted to his keeping rather than the girl who had spent eight years shoving him from swings, stealing food from his plate, and refusing to let the world frighten him into becoming smaller than himself.

The mattress yielded beneath Claudia, the silken bedding gathering around her in pale folds while Michael followed, bracing himself above her so that his weight never pressed too heavily against her body. His afro cast a soft shadow across them both, shielding her face from the moonlight for one private instant, and when he drew back, their mouths still close enough for their breaths to mingle, his brown eyes moved slowly over her features as though marriage had changed nothing and everything at once.

She was still Claudia, still the girl whose handwriting filled the margins of his notebooks and whose laughter could find him backstage through walls of noise, yet she was also his wife now, the word settling inside him with such sweetness that he almost feared thinking it too loudly might wake him.

His thumb passed over her wedding band, tracing the narrow circle as though reassuring himself that it remained there, and then he lifted their hands between them until the gold caught the moonlight.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling beneath the enormity of what he meant, because the sentence felt painfully insufficient for a devotion that had taken root in childhood and grown around his bones. “Claudia Jackson.”

Her new name left his mouth like a vow spoken for the second time, softer than it had sounded before the officiant and infinitely more sacred for belonging only to them now. Michael smiled as he said it, shy and awestruck all at once, yet there was something possessively tender beneath the expression, not the satisfaction of a man who believed he had claimed her, but the wonder of a boy realising that the woman he loved had freely chosen to build her name beside his.

“Claudia Jackson,” he repeated, almost to himself, testing the rhythm of it upon his tongue as though it were a psalm he intended to recite for the rest of his life. “My wife.”

The words nearly unravelled him.

His forehead lowered to hers, and he closed his eyes while holding their joined hands against the centre of his chest, directly over the heart he would have torn out and given her had she ever asked. It beat violently beneath her palm, betraying every feeling he lacked the language to explain, and Michael allowed her to feel it without embarrassment, because there was no longer any part of himself he wished to conceal from her.

“You really married me,” he murmured, a breathless laugh moving through the words as though her consent remained the most astonishing miracle of the evening. “You stood there and said yes to me.”

Claudia’s mouth curved beneath his, her free hand rising to cradle the cheek she had kissed so tenderly moments before. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

“You planned the whole thing.”

“I know, but you could’ve told me no.”

“I could have.”

The simple admission made his eyes open, and Claudia watched something vulnerable pass through them before she softened her touch against his face.

“But I didn’t,” she reminded him.

Michael turned his head and kissed the centre of her palm, closing his fingers around her wrist as though he could hold the assurance there forever. The lights of Las Vegas continued blazing outside their windows, gaudy and brilliant, mimicking a heaven built by men who believed neon could rival constellations, but Michael scarcely noticed them now; every star worth seeing lay reflected within Claudia’s eyes.

“I’m gon’ be good to you,” he promised, his voice losing its earlier wonder only to deepen into solemnity. “I know we young, and I know everybody’s gon’ say we don’t know what we doin’, but I’m gon’ learn. Whatever I don’t know, I’ll learn it for you.”

“For us,” Claudia corrected softly.

His expression warmed.

“For us,” he agreed, bringing her ringed hand to his lips and pressing a kiss against the band. “Through all of it.”

Through illness and health, applause and silence, abundance and want; through every wilderness awaiting them beyond the glittering city, every serpent hidden within the garden, and every angry father who might attempt to undo what had been sealed before God and law. Michael did not yet understand how long a lifetime truly was, but he knew he wanted every uncertain year of his placed beside hers.

He bent once more and kissed his wife, no longer with the frightened urgency of a boy attempting to steal happiness before someone entered and took it from him, but with the steady tenderness of a husband beginning to understand that love was not proved through one grand escape into the desert.

It would be proved tomorrow, and the day after that, and in every ordinary morning they managed to choose each other again.

Still holding her hand against his heart, Michael smiled into the kiss and whispered once more, simply because he could now, “I love you, Mrs. Jackson.”