Rowan💁🏽‍♀️🪽

Didn't even interact apart from fleeting glances during your performances—that he once deluded himself into believing were reserved for him and him alone. Unfortunately, all that did was make it sting a little more when he saw the beckoning smiles you'd flash to other people as well.

If you asked him, Hiromi would have a little trouble pinpointing when seeing your attention elsewhere began to spark jealousy in the pit of his stomach, but if he had to guess, he'd say it started on that fateful night two years ago. 

He dreaded going to Satoru’s bachelor party and throwing himself into work in hopes of delaying the endeavour did fuck all to help.

Bit by bit, the date drew near until it crept up on him. Sweeping him right out of his office chair, warping time and space until he landed on a leather couch that squeaked gratingly every time he moved.

The dark-haired man sat motionless on it. The whiskey glass in his hand clasped so tight it was a miracle it hadn’t given way and broken into a million pieces yet.

He clearly wasn't having fun, but his friends didn't seem to share the sentiment.

The very man who was getting married in a couple of days took the liberty of buying a money gun before coming to the club. 

Satoru’s round rimmed sunglasses were perched so low on his nose, they seemed to be seconds away from falling off, and he stood over a woman who dropped onto her knees.

She arched her back, rear perking up, and the ivory-haired man erupted in a shout then pulled the trigger. As paper notes shot out of the barrel, feathering down in a thick downpour, Hiromi decides there and then that he’d be more than happy to represent the man’s future wife when she finally grew tired of his shit and filed for divorce.

It was only a matter of time.

Looking over to his right, Suguru was posed like he was about to pounce on the dancer that was on stage, and one look at her as she slithered down the pole and held his stare told Hiromi that she wouldn't be at all opposed to the idea. 

Just further from him, Shoko let out soft giggles. Smiling wider than he had ever seen as she spoke to the scantily dressed man on her one side, and a curvy woman playing with her hair on the other. 

Hell, even Nanami was smiling lazily at the woman giving him a lap dance, eyes low and breath heavy as he watched her.

Jesus Christ he needed a new friend group. 

That had to be the only solution because how could they be having so much fun?

The bright fluorescent lights hurt his eyes, and when he tried to avert them, he was met with multicoloured LEDs that only did more damage. The smell of too many perfumes filtered through the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and, a little fainter, something muskier. Raunchier. He refused to imagine what it could be.

The AC was set too low, and while it had him shivering, all the dancers who were wearing far less than him didn't seem to mind. They walked by in slips of lingerie. Some satin— lined with feathers at the seams, others cotton peppered with bows or frills and–

Shit.

Lace.

The ear-splitting pop music that was laden with auto-tune is replaced with the heavy thump of some RnB song that had him sitting upright. The beat of it rumbled between his ears with odd familiarity. Something like the rhythmic pounding of a judge’s gavel against the wooden block. 

It made his head swirl. 

Then his eyes latched onto you, and he downed the rest of his drink in one go, gaze never straying away. 

You wore a red lacy number that popped out against your skin. Scarlet swirling thinly to cover your nipples, bra pushing your bust up and the tops of your tits peeking from the edges. 

Your tapered waist was on full display. Midriff so sleek, he reasoned, you must have applied a good helping of body oil to it. He wondered what brand it was. Wondered what it smelled like.

A flash of jewellery at your navel dared to blind him, but he squinted against the harsh glare. He couldn’t look away, not when his gaze drifted south and took in the dainty triangle that sat at the apex of your thighs. Red panties so small he wondered if you'd be willing to lay your life down for the trust you seemed to have in them. 

The fabric is held up by harnesses and straps that span around your hips and circle down to your thighs. 

And at your feet, heels so high he couldn't for the life of him understand how you walked on them with so much effortless grace it looked like you were floating. 

A woman stepped off the platform, and you promptly took her place. Bouncy hair fluttering as your hand wrapped around the golden pole. Higuruma willed himself to look around, and it was hardly a shock that he wasn't the only one watching you. 

A sickly feeling threatened to creep up at the realisation that he was part of a larger crowd of men who fixed their lecherous eyes on you, but then you started dancing, and all those thoughts took a backseat.

Your body moved, and curves followed its path. The type that could bring a man to his knees, begging to squeeze and sink his teeth into them. Higuruma knew he’d be at the front of the line. 

He reclined on the couch, and even when Satoru elbowed him, cackling something about “oh, look who’s interested now!” His attention never waned. His legs spread apart a fraction, trying to ease the sudden tightness around his crotch. And of course, it does nothing to help.

Hiromi knows he’s delusional for thinking you were dancing solely for him, but when glittering eyes flicker to him, who can blame him?

Red-stained lips curl up into a knowing smirk as your legs wind around the pole. They’re shapely and insanely flexible. Pulling you further up the bar, muscles working as you spin, heels clacking sharply before your legs spread into a split mid air.

Holy shit. 

From the way his friends laugh, he might have said that out loud. But he can’t bring himself to care.

The clear soles of your shoes glint under the lights. Body lifting, extending and curling as you did your set. And Higuruma watched with rapt attention, even when you got off the pole and tauntingly ran your hands up your curves, eyes momentarily swinging to his. 

Blood roared in his ears, so loud he didn’t hear the music change or the thunder of applause as you gave a somewhat timid smile. You step off the platform, scooping up a couple of bills that are poured at you along the way.

Then you disappear behind the same door you came through—but not before glancing over your shoulder, eyes spearing through him for half a second.

Higuruma didn't know what the look meant, but he made it his mission to find out. And that’s how he ended up in the same club so often, sat at his regular spot right in front of the pole you always danced at. 

He limited himself to two visits a month so he wouldn’t look like a creep, and he only tried to talk to you twice in all that time. Both times you shot him down. Chuckled in amusement when he asked for your name and smiled like you were flattered when he asked for your number, only to give him neither.   

You’d just leave him sitting all alone on the couch, hands raking over his face in both, frustration and a sense of excitement at the game of cat and mouse the two of you played.

But today, he decided to be bold, to make his intentions clear so that if you rejected him again, he'd know to stop trying. 

So he booked a private room. 

Unlike the rest of the club, this room has soft lighting. City lights stretch beyond the windows like an endless ocean, and a…couch is lined against the wall.

Well, it looks like a couch, but it could also pass for a bed with how big it is. Hiromi readjusts for what feels like the millionth time as he sits on it, and just when he’s about to get up and start pacing, the door swings open. 

And there you are.

You’re wearing a silken robe, hair loose around your shoulders, and you step into the room with a lot more calmness than he feels. 

Your eyes meet, and there's no deniability this time. You were looking at him. 

“Hi.”

His voice barely works. “Hello.”

You close the door. The lock clicks, and his breath leaves in a whoosh. 

“I wasn't sure you'd come.”

An airy laugh graces his ears. “Of course, I would. I like to get to know my regulars.”

The tension in his shoulders eases a little, and he allows a laugh to slip past too. 

“I come enough to be considered a regular?”

You don't answer. Only offer him a sexy smirk that disarms him and sets his hackles up all at once. 

“And you are…” You get to the couch, one leg folding under you as you take a seat. 

“Hiromi Higuruma.” Then, because he can't help himself, he holds his hand out for you to shake. 

You barely miss a beat when you put your hand in his, soft and lithe as his thumb unconsciously traces over the back of it. 

He inclines his head at you. “Is this the part where you finally tell me your name?”

“You know my name.” He’s already shaking his head before you finish talking. 

“Your stage name.”

“Still mine.” Your eyes crinkle at the corners, and it could be a sign of you being playful, or it could be discomfort and since he doesn't know you well enough to discern which is which, he lets it go. 

For now, anyway. 

When the silence stretches long enough, you stand up and walk to the audio system. A loud click echoes, then soft music fills the room. Turning around, your hands find the knot of your robe, then look up at him. 

“Do you want me on the pole or would you like a lap dance?”

He didn’t even notice it at first. Glancing to the other end of the room, the dark coloured pole blends with the rest of the skyline and as tempting as it would be to see you on it for the hundredth time, he thinks he wants something new.

Higuruma doesn't trust himself to talk, so he simply pats his thigh. The action is half timid, but with how your eyes blaze, he can tell you liked it.  

You get closer, and he slinks back to give you more room. But you don’t immediately straddle his lap. No, you turn your back to him and put your hands on either side of him, lowering yourself until your ass is inches from his thighs.

Your body sways, scent clouding his space, and he has to keep himself from leaning into you. Most of all, he has to keep his hands to himself. 

They clutch at the rough material of the couch under him when you finally sit in his lap, and you shuffle until your back presses against his chest. 

A soft sigh sends goosebumps along your neck, and you glance back at him, hair framing your face and making shadowy figures fall over it. 

Your eyes are all he can focus on now. He knows you took your robe off somewhere in between, but whatever you’re wearing right now is hardly as dizzying as meeting your gaze head-on. 

“You’re allowed to touch me, you know.” 

In private rooms, there’s a lot more leniency than on the main floor.

Hiromi nods. “I know the rules allow it.” He pauses when you shift on his lap. “Just don’t know if you’d want me to.”

You stand up, and he thinks he said something wrong. But then you’re climbing back into his lap, fully straddling him now. 

“I want you to.”

He stills. Low-lidded eyes track up to yours, and as if he’s moving too slow, your hands reach for his.

You set them down on your thighs, and they instinctively squeeze around the soft flesh. 

“There you go.”

The praise has his cock stirring, and when he tries to pull away so you don’t notice, you’re there again. The smell of burnt cherry perfume and clean shampoo fill his nose. You lean in closer, until the tip of your nose gently bumps against his, and he inhales deeply.

“Please tell me your name,” he whispers, a breath away from your lips. “I’ll do anything.”

He hears you hum softly then you bite your lip as you look him over. 

“Anything?”

A small nod.

Soft hands reach for him, and he sighs as they roam over his body. Teasing, coaxing, searching.

Then you get to his pocket and pluck out his wallet. Your movements slow as you do this. Not because of uncertainty, but more so, leaving room for him to stop you if he truly wanted to. You fish out a couple bills, and you must think it’s too much because you raise your eyebrows at him.

“Take it.” His voice is rough. Gravel against hardwood.

The wallet is discarded somewhere on the couch, and he’s not sure where you put the money you just took. Only that you lean into him and your lips skim over the shell of his ear. 

You say one word. A name. And he shudders like he was just touched by a live wire. 

“Beautiful,” he breathes. 

You don’t pull away fully once you’ve told him, and when his lips part to thank you, you slot your mouth over his. 

You’re not sure what came over you.

On the rare occasion you accepted a call to a private room, you never did more than a cheeky lap dance. Yet here you were, struggling to keep yourself up as the man under you placed a sweet kiss over your clit. 

“Sit on it,” he commands as you hover inches from his face. Shaking with the effort not to put all your weight on him.

To see the man who's been watching you with hungry appraisal in his eyes up close has your heart thrashing wildly in your chest.

It is difficult to not notice the suit-clad man whenever he comes by. Not only because he sat front and centre every time, but he kept his dark eyes on you like he wanted to toss you over his shoulder and take you away from here. 

Short of doing just that, Higuruma asked you to sit on his face instead. Pleaded really. And you started to laugh because you thought he was joking—only to cut off into a less-than-refined snort when you realised he was being dead serious. 

Hands that trembled moments ago became steadier the longer he touched you, as if it grounded him. So when you nodded at his question, deft fingers reached around you, unclasping your bra and slowly peeling the straps off your shoulders.

He moved to hook his fingers into your panties next. Lowering himself to his knees so he could roll them down the length of your legs. 

Once you were bare, Higuruma just stared at you. It was a little unnerving how long he did it. Still kneeling at your feet and looking up at you as if you were some kind of altar he'd happily shackle himself to. Offering devotion, surrender, worship, whatever you wanted as long as you stayed like this before him.  

Slowly, he rose to his feet, taking you in his strong arms as he did so. 

Hiromi lay on the couch, and you crawled up the length of his body with the help of his hands guiding you. He was still fully clothed, a sight that felt you both aggravated and excited to find out what he was hiding underneath. 

Which brings you to the present.

You must be moving too slow for him because he gently cups your thighs. Hooked nose bumping against your clit and sliding between your folds as he inhales your scent.

“Fuck, you're so wet,” he groans against you. Low and pitiful as his breath fans over your cunt. Your hips pitch, but you make no move to lower yourself. “Let me taste you.” 

Your lips part when you see the slimy trail of your arousal coating his nose. Low-set eyes lift to your face, peering up at you. 

“Please.”

That word was your kryptonite because when he pulls you closer again, you let him. 

The first lick he delivers has your breath leaving you in a loud gasp, but clearly not loud enough because he hauls you further onto his mouth, smothering himself in your pussy. He hums unintelligibly under you, fat tongue lolling out to lap at every drop of slick that dribbles onto it. 

“Higuruma,” you force out when he parts his lips and slurps the pearly nub of your clit into his mouth. A wet pop sounds as he releases it.

“Hiromi,” he corrects.

And that’s the last time he comes up for air.

Hiromi lets you bear all your weight onto him, and his hands latch around your waist as if he wants more. Muffled moans are hummed into your cunt, vibrations only adding to your pleasure and making your vision blur.

Until then you hear the soft clink of a belt unbuckling and a zipper opening which have you willing your eyes back into focus. One look over your shoulder has you closer to the edge in a matter of seconds. 

Higuruma pulls his cock from his briefs and starts bopping his hand over it in long, hard strokes. His hips rut, veins on his hands bulging as he fists it until precum wells at the tip. It beads white, leaking thickly only to be smeared over the rest of his length.

“Oh, fuck,” You moan as his tongue thrusts into your cunt, and you jerk so hard you would've been thrown off balance if you didn't weave a hand into his hair.

The dark brown strands tickle your palm as you use it for leverage, and when you sharply tug as an orgasm crashes into you, he grunts—falling over the edge right behind you. The warm spray of his cum over your lower back has you needily rolling your hips, trying to drag out the last dregs of your release as long as you could. 

And it's only when he makes a choked sound that you immediately lift off him. 

“Shit, sorry.”

Your skin was warm all over, but your cheeks feel a little hotter than everything else. The man merely smiles.

“Don’t be. That was amazing.”

Your smile is a little sheepish as he sits up.

Higuruma starts to undress. The white-collar shirt is undone one button at a time, opening to reveal his broad chest. Hard muscles stand rigidly under his tan skin, but you have a feeling it's soft to the touch.

So you reach out to confirm, and thick pectorals quiver under your palm. You were right.

He kicks his leather shoes off and steps out of his slacks. The couch sinks under his weight, and he reaches for you again. Warm hands find your waist as he comes up behind you, and you moan, instinctively lowering yourself on all fours. 

His cock nudges up and down your slit, and your breath catches. 

“You want this?”

You hum in response, ass inching back, and it seems that’s all he needed. Hiromi pushes into you, and you grunt against the achy stretch of your walls struggling to accommodate him. The girth of his cock has you trembling and he slowly surges forward, hips angling to bottom out. 

Your body tenses, and he forces himself to pause. 

“Too much?” he asks softly. You shake your head.

Not enough.

Higuruma does tease you. Doesn't edge you or try to make you beg for more. 

No, he just holds you down and fucks you like he’s been possessed.

Both of his hands smack onto your ass, pawing at the flesh, then spreading so he can see his cock disappearing inside of you. He groans at the creamy white ring that forms around his base as he pumps into you, juices mixing to make an obscene mess that connects you to each other.  

“Fucking beautiful,” he whispers, mostly to himself, but it still has you clenching around him. “I've been thinking about this for so long.”

The deep craving in his voice as he says that has your body tipping forward into the fluffy cushions, but he makes no move to pull you up. The man just plants a heavy hand on your back, making you arch deep as his thrusts become quicker and harder.

You’re already writhing, but when his free hand snakes around you, finding your clit with practised ease, your body goes stock-still. Sensation explodes, and with your cheek plastered to the pillows, the best orgasm you've ever had racks through you. So hard and fast it almost hurts.

Gummy walls spasm around him, and he chokes on one of the huskily deep groans pouring out of his mouth. His thrusts turn messy, uncontrolled, and the arm around your waist draws you up towards him. 

Your back meets his chest, head tipping back to lull onto his wide shoulder. His fingers never leave your clit, and your ass rocks back against him, grinding down onto his pelvis as overstimulation makes you delirious. 

“One more. Please,” he huffs against your dewy skin, and your head bops in frantic nods.

“Cum inside.” You demand.

Sex made you crazy. Clearly. 

And apparently, the madness was spreading because a soft whine that sounds nothing like him escapes. His hand around your waist skates up to your jaw, turning your head and slanting his mouth over yours in a sloppy kiss.

Hiromi only manages two hard thrusts, teeth nipping at your lip in an effort to stay quiet. Then you’re cumming together. Cursed groans panted against each other’s lips, and shaking long after the last shocks of pleasure run through you. 

Higuruma draws you into his arms, touch soothing as he pulls you into his lap.

Hands turn soft once more as they trace over your skin, and he keeps you there until you both catch your breath and the mind-numbing haze of sex subsides. 

Your head rests in the crook of his neck, and it's only when you feel yourself becoming sleepy– and a little too comfortable– that you pull away from him. 

“I should get back,” you inform him once your eyes meet, and he nods, warm embrace meeting away when he lets go. 

“Right, sorry.”

You forgo putting the bra and panties back on and opt to shrug on the long discarded robe instead. You’d need a quick shower before getting back to work.

Cash in hand, you’re fumbling with the robe’s knot when Higuruma calls out to you. 

God, did your name always sound that sexy?

Your eyes lift to his, and he moves to sit at the edge of the couch. 

“Can I see you again?”

He always saw you. What he truly wanted was another chance to see you, like this. Some desperately pathetic hope inside even believed he might get lucky one day. That you may give him your number. And that maybe a fleeting hookup in the shadowy backrooms of a strip club could spark something real.

Fuck, he hoped it would. 

A radiant smile graces your lips. “Of course.” 

Then with a flick of your hair as you turn on your heel, you’re gone. 

You didn't hate the idea of seeing him again, and Higuruma supposed that was as good a start as any. 

He’d take “of course” over a hard no any day. 

He could work with of course.

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Even now, they’re smushing you between them on the couch, manspread thighs against your own, you never get any space with these two.

“Hah, i’ll throw your ass right off rainbow fucking road,” Sukuna’s grinning like the psycho he is when he nudges your cart, your cute little Yoshi flying off.

“Ugh, you dick!”

“Sukuna,” Choso sighs and shakes his head. “Stop throwing her off.”

“Stop throwing her off,” you smack him with his mocking tone, getting back onto the road and speeding up. “Hah!”

“Not again!? You’re such a jerk!”

“I’ll avenge you angel,” Sukuna rolls his eyes when Choso runs Sukuna off the road, and his bowser goes flying, you snicker in laughter as Sukuna crashes out.

“Choso, my hero!”

“I’ll come fucking get the both of you,” Sukuna’s locked in, brows lowered – far too close to you now as if the couch isn’t big enough for him, his biceps flexing in a concerning ass way that makes you stop driving. “What brat, ya done?”

“I um…” you blink and focus once more, in time for Choso to lean forward, his elbow resting on your bare thigh so casually.

Casual.

You’re ovulating and losing mario kart!

“Mnh…”

They both look at you and you cover your face in embarrassment, slick dribbling down your inner thighs – you’re always wet around them but today is too fucking much, how many times a day can you change your panties? You could swear they keep coming up missing too.

“You all right angel?” Choso asks softly, tilting his head and looking at you far too closely, hand on your cheek. “You’re warm! Do you have a fever?”

“N-no,” Sukuna scoffs and yanks the remote from your hands, feeling your head for himself.

“You are warm, brat, better not be sick,” he tilts your chin up and smirks. “You lost big time, hah you suck.”

“Ugh!” You shove at him once more. “You suck! I’m fine!”

You three play another round and Sukuna won’t stop knocking you off, sending your car into a tailspin, you get so damn mad at him you toss the remote on the floor. Sukuna snorts when you cross your arms.

“Looking like a little spoiled brat.”

“I am not! You’re just rude!”

“Tch, can’t even lose a game,” you’re so irritated and so horny you can’t think right now, just glaring at the pink haired menace. “Don’t feel bad, I beat you at every single game, don’t I?”

“Sukuna stop,” Choso sets his remote down, wrapping a protective arm and tugging you against him. “Leave her alone, you’re really being a dick over it.”

“I am competitive, she’s the sore loser.”

“You’re not competitive, you’re being an ass,” you snuggle to Choso now and he blushes, your lips against his neck, tickling his skin.

“Thank you Cho,” you murmur, pressing a kiss, he sucks in a breath, hand tightening at your waist, Sukuna glares at the sight, smacking Choso’s hand right off you. “Hey!”

“You’re mad she’s snuggling to me.”

“Hah, right,” Sukuna stands up now, yanking you off Choso like the big brute he is, you kick at him and he smirks, yanking your ankle. “Think ya can hurt me, brat?”

“You’re the biggest brat there is, Ryomen Sukuna!”

“Wow, my full name – really,” you stick your tongue out and Sukuna bars you with his arms on the couch, making your breath catch. Just because he’s a dick doesn’t mean he’s not hot and ruining you with his proximity. “Admit you’re trash at Mario cart and I’ll make you feel real good, won’t have to fuck yourself tonight with your dildo collection.”

“Invasion of privacy! No, I won’t admit I suck,” you smack at his arm and then climb right onto Choso’s lap, he sucks in a breath at the action.

“Oh… Oh! Oh,” he’s gripping your waist with those big hands, dragging your heat against that bulge underneath his pants as you move your hips, his eyes darkening. “Hi.”

You giggle a bit at that, moving again, feeling Sukuna tense behind you. “Hi.”

“Get off his damn lap,” Sukuna turns your face towards him, just to get Choso smacking his hand away this time. “I’ll beat both your asses.”

“No you won’t,” Choso murmurs, turning your face to him now, thumb brushing little circles on your hip, making you even wetter. “I’ll make you feel good without you having to say you ‘suck’ at Mario cart. You don’t suck.”

“I can suck,” you whisper, leaning forward and giggling, Choso moans when you kiss his lips, and everything in your living room shifts.

It’s a desperate kiss once Choso gets a taste of you, moaning into your mouth and working your body against him, sucking in a breath, eyes fluttering shut, sucking your tongue in his mouth and rutting up against you. You whine out at it, you could almost cum from just feeling him, one of his hands entangling in his hair.

“Are you really gonna leave me out?” Sukuna asks, flipping you before you can think, now your back is pressed on Choso’s hard chest, Sukuna is kneeling, his hands pressing against your tits. You’re ovulating so bad they’re full and aching, your nipples sensitive when he brushes his thumbs on them. “You’re needy, huh brat?”

“Not for you and your Mario cart cheating tactics, mnh!” He uses a hand to tug up your shirt, your tits spilling out, earning his moan.

“Don’t want my mouth on them?” You can’t say no, not when Choso’s biting your neck, his fingers slipping up your shorts, making your thighs tremble, back arching for more of Sukuna’s touch. “Answer.”

“I am still mad at you, but I’ll let you do that,” he smirks as if he’ll get to fuck you – little does Sukuna know you take Mario Kart very seriously, and you’re planning on making your giant, pink haired roomie pay. “Mnh!”

Sukuna presses you back against Choso, grabbing your tit and wrapping his lips around the little bud, sucking it into the hot recesses of his mouth, tongue ring clicking against it and earning a soft moan. You move against Choso who whines out in response, cock licking so much sticky pre it’s drizzling against your inner thigh, his finger running over your panties.

“Ngh,” soft moans escape your lips as Sukuna sucks one nipple, the other toyed with by his thumb and forefinger, Choso’s running up and down your slit until you’re dripping wet. “Choso…”

“Even now?” Sukuna scowls and you grin, earning a sharp bite on your tit, leaving glistening teeth marks, you gasp in shock and he grins. “Marked you.”

“Freak,” you grumble, but he’s sucking your other nipple, and your hand finds its way in his pink silky hair, it’s so soft, you tug hard and he grips your tit hard, sucking it in his mouth as Choso toys your clit. “F-fuck… mnh…”

“You’re soaked baby,” Choso whispers, tilting your face to his and kissing you, messy with your tongues dripping saliva. “Like that?”

“Y-yes, ow!” Sukuna bites the fuck out of you again, earning your attention, you yank the fuck out of his hair and make him moan.

“Where’s my attention!?”

“I’m still mad, I already told you,” Sukuna tugs your shorts to the side, seeing how soaking wet you are, panties drenched.

“Already fuck yourself today?”

“Maybe,” he smirks. “Why?”

“Nothing – just that’s my cock.”

“What!?” You shove him hard, he’s chuckling and Choso’s damn near about to bust with how you wiggle. “You did not seriously? Psycho!”

“Bet you loved it,” you did, fuck him. “Could you take it all?”

“No – I mean!? Yep, hah wasn’t that -”

Before you can finish your petty lie, Sukuna’s kissing you, messy and mean with it, tongue ring clicking the roof of your mouth, you’re rocking back and forth, dying for them inside you. If you weren’t such a petty girl, maybe you’d let Sukuna slide his cock inside your cunt, where Choso’s running circles against your slick entrance – but you’re still mad about Mario Kart.

And now he’s making his cock your dildo!?

“You’re batshit insane,” you’re still kissing him though, Choso’s got your clit twitching and Sukuna’s pinching your nipples and rolling them, the simultaneous play is too much to handle. “You c-can’t just… mnh, d-do that.”

“That’s not fair, I wanna make you one,” Choso pouts as he sinks two fingers in your messy, needy cunt, you’re soaking them and quivering, sucking them up so damn easy. “Do you want one of me?”

“I do, stop biting, you dick!” Sukuna’s furious – how dare you give him all the attention when Sukuna is right there, he slips his finger down and Choso pulls his out with a wet pop, sucking on them and moaning.

Fuck he’s hot.

You’re a little lost when you realize Sukuna’s shoving two fingers deep, scissoring them in and out of your hole. “Hah your cunt is already fucked out, you must love my dick stretching your messy cunt out.”

“You w-wish,” your thighs are held up by Choso for Sukuna’s mean fingers to rock in and out of your cunt with loud squelches, your nails press into Choso’s forearms when he grips your tit, squishing it in his hand and rutting that leaky cock right on you. “Close, close… Sukuna!?”

“You thought,” he yanks his fingers out, smirking at the obscene amount dripping, slipping them right in your mouth. “Suck.”

You bob your mouth up and down his knuckles, cheeks all flushed and your eyes dazed, Sukuna moans at the sight, picturing how well you’d suck his cock, as you slip your tongue between those digits. Choso’s already fingering you again, your cheeks hollowed, eyes rolling back.

“I’ll let you cum baby,” he murmurs, Sukuna scoffs – Choso was always trying to ‘please you’ and this was no different, you’re sucking Sukuna’s fingers as his hand grips under your chin, Choso’s fingers making a mess between your thighs as you clamp down. “Go ahead, cum for me.”

“Mmph!” You’re drooling as Sukuna’s fingers go deeper, damn near choking you with them, orgasm making you squirt all over Choso’s lap, drops smacking against Sukuna’s pants, he groans at the sigh.

“Messy lil slut, look at ya, can’t handle a couple fingers?”

“Fuck off, was cummin’ for Choso,” Choso grins, his fingers easing out of your cunt with a messy pop as she keeps spasming, gushing arousal down onto the couch you’re sitting on. “Cho, come on.”

“Come where baby?”

“My room,” you stand and push past Sukuna, whose cock is so hard you can see it pressing out, he winces and has to adjust it when you’re crooking your finger. “You can watch.”

“Watch!? The fuck?”

You drag Choso – dopey grin on his face and all – giggling as you rush him to your room. “Yep.”

“I’m not just gonna watch you…” You’re stripped down right in front of them in moments, and both the boys have open mouths.

Listen, you’ve been waiting to fuck them, and cucking Sukuna seemed apt enough punishment after the shit he was pulling today. Your tits bounce when you turn to Choso, slipping off his shirt and running your fingertips across his tattooed chest, he snatches you up and kisses you, surprising you by how needy he is, you thought he may be shy.

He’s so not shy when he eagerly steps out of his pants, and you see all that white dripping through his boxers. “I am not watching.”

“You sit right there,” you point to your bright pink gaming chair, a big ass flower cushion and a plushy on it, Sukuna’s red eyes narrow – for a moment he does scare you, but not when he throws your plushy and pillow on the ground. “Hey!”

“Fuck off,” he sits in the chair and it creaks under his heavy weight, crossing his arms now. “Well, put on your little show – you’ll beg me to join.”

“You think so?”

“I know it, want all your holes filled,” his eyes drift down the curves of your body, his cock aching so badly he unzips his pants, watching your fucked out little gaze. “Like what you see?”

Who wouldn’t like that thick, veiny cock with the pierced reddened tip? Drooling white as he strokes it in front of you. Your throat goes dry as you consider if you can give him such a punishment, but you smile all mean.

“Admit you cheat at Mario Kart.”

“I don’t you brat!?”

“Then no,” you press Choso down on the bed, he’s tugging his boxers off, his pretty cock smacking his belly button, pre just dripping against that black strip of hair over his cock. “Oh… You’re so ready, aren’t you Choso?”

“Please,” he’s tugging you on him, giving Sukuna a view of your ass, your cunt gliding along Choso’s cock and dripping all over. “Oh pretty…”

He’s got a piercing too, right on his pretty pink tip, you’re running your slit right along it, hands braced on his chest, Choso's mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth. You’re whining out when he plays with the other, holding them both in his hands as you move.

“Your titties are so pretty,” he whispers, one hand slipping down to your waist, god he’s dreamed of you but not like this – gliding your cunt right on him? He could lift you and slam his cock so deep, but he also wants to let you tease him, edge him till he can’t help himself. “F-fuck… you’re so wet…”

“Rub it in,” Sukuna earns your laugh, peeking over your shoulder and arching so he has a look of your hole from the back. “I’d fuck you right in your ass first.”

“You would not!”

“Sure would, Choso can have your cunt..”

“I’ll take any hole,” you giggle again, kissing your roomie, his lips plush underneath yours, your nails press into his shoulders as his tip bumps your needy clit. “Ah! Choso…”

“Do you l-like it baby?” You nod eagerly, he’s sucking your tits again, dragging you down hard, his cock leaking more pre – so much he worries he did cum, but it’s still thickening against you. “Wanna fill you up with all my cum. Eat it out of you.”

“Mnh,” you’re leaning up now, gliding faster, watching Choso lose it, bruising your waist, his cheeks dusted with pink.

“You really gonna do all this for MARIO KART!? You’re such a petty little annoying brat.”

You glare and turn around, reverse cowgirl right on Choso’s cock, he’s whimpering and Sukuna’s stroking his cock, his lips parted as he takes in your body facing him. “You’re petty! And annoying, you never give me privacy!”

“Neither does he!?” Sukuna stands, his cock so heavy it’s just hanging, dripping on the pink fluffy rug.

“You’re making a mess, Kuna, all over my rug.”

His jaw sets, Choso’s fingers are pressing harder as he drags you up and down, gasping out. “Like you didn’t squirt on me!?”

“Can I put it in please?” Choso’s completely ignoring your spat – how can he think when he’s so close to being able to slide his cock inside your cute, soaking wet hole?

“Y-yes,” you let him lift you and grab his cock, wrapping his hand around the base, tip slipping in your hole. “Mnh!”

“Oh my god,” he drags you down in one stroke – deep inside – so much your tummy bulges for Sukuna to see, he groans at the sight, Choso lifting you and that mess of slick glistening. “You’re so f-fucking wet, god you feel so good.”

Sukuna’s gripping your hair and bending down as you ride Choso’s cock, ass bouncing up and down, nails pressing into his thighs to keep balance, he lifts your ass up and groans, fingers dimpling the plump flesh of your ass. “Making a whole show, aren’t you?”

You take your hand and swipe your thumb over Sukuna’s tip, licking it off and watching him lose it, only to rock on Choso’s cock more, feeling him hit your cervix, making you gasp out desperately. “You’re so deep, mnh!”

“Swear to god,” Sukuna’s stroking his cock when Choso sits up and puts you on all fours, slapping his heavy cock against your ass, you moan and arch, face precariously close to Sukuna’s cock. “Come on, fuck… just lemme…”

“You can jerk off near me,” You gasp out, a broken little moan spilling from your lips as Choso slams right back in, heavy balls kissing your clit, your head falling back. “You’re lucky to even get that.”

“Fuckin’ brat,” Choso’s groaning as you grip him with your gummy walls just fluttering, he can’t even focus on anything but the curve of your ass like this, the way his tip is pressing your cervix, how full his balls are.

Your thighs tremble, hands gripping the blanket, looking back at him all pretty as he splits you open on his cock. “Ch-choso… f-feels so…”

You break off talking when he shoves in hard, pinning you to him and rolling those hips – god Choso could fuck, you didn’t think he couldn’t exactly but you sure didn’t expect that. He slams again harder, pushing your face until your mouth is almost brushing Sukuna’s needy tip, just that has the six foot five man whimpering.

“Fuck… slutty lil brat,” you’d scowl or stick your tongue out but Choso’s hitting it too good, stretching you right out to his shape with messy strokes. Your mouth is open with your gasps, every stroke of Sukuna’s hand on his cock making your tummy clench any more.

“Y-you’re gonna admit you cheat,” you whisper, sucking in a breath when Choso grabs your shoulder and fucks in so deep it hurts. “Ah!”

“Stop fighting,” he whines out when you pulse around him, leaning over you and gripping your chin, turning you to him. “Just cum, lemme feel it milk me.”

Oh fuck.

You kiss him and let him rail you, as Sukuna has to watch the girl he’s jerked off to fuck his roomate – all because he just had to make her mad. He wishes it wasn’t so sexy hearing the skin smacking and your messy cunt squishing with every thrust, already about to bust like a pathetic loser.

“I’m s-sorry, fuck,” he mumbles, you pull back and Choso chuckles, slamming against you again, pushing you to arch more. “All right!? Shit you’re mean.”

“You’re s-sorry, really? Mnh!” He moans and grips your hair, jerking right in front of your face as Choso snaps his hips hard.

“Perfect cunt just gripping me, god jus’ like th-that,” he’s pussy drunk off you, he can’t help but be happy he’s inside and not in your bright pink cuck chair, or jerking it like Sukuna.

Not that he wouldn’t enjoy that too, but he’s been fisting his cock to you since the first day you met.

“M’gonna cum,” you whisper now, looking up at Sukuna and moaning, breath tickling the tip of his cock. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes, god just… can I just… cum on your tongue, fuck – I’ll let you win, n-next time just…”

You suppose you’ll take a little pity on him, opening your mouth with your little pink tongue out, letting Sukuna jerk it even closer, strings of puffy cum splattering all over your tongue, your mouth, your chin. It’s fucking filthy having it all over you as your orgasm hits, making you swallow all him up.

“Want me to cum inside your pretty lil hole?” Choso asks, you’re still swallowing Sukuna’s cum when he brushes it on your lips, stroking it so even more oozes from that little slit and decorates your lips.

You nod and arch, your nails now pressing into Sukuna’s thighs, Choso busting deep inside your cunt and all he can get is his tip grazing your damn tongue, he’s so desperate he’s happy for that. He’s groaning as he watches you get filled by Choso’s cum, your fucked out face and your crossed eyes.

“Wanna be inside next,” he mumbles, pulling back and groaning, your nails pressing into the tattoos on his muscled thighs as you tremble.

You’re flooded with Choso’s warmth, coating all your walls as he pulses, thickening even more, tip dragging on your spot over and over, making you both sensitive. “Took all that, so greedy.”

“Mhm,” you whisper, licking Sukuna’s cum off his thumb when he gathers it from your cheek, off your chin, slipping it in your mouth. “You came so much, Choso…”

“What about me you brat!?”

You grin and give him the tiniest kitten flick of your tongue on his tip, watching him jerk from just that. “I’ll maybe forgive you.”

“Maybe? Tch,” Choso pulls out of you with a messy pop, watching all his cum flood out of your hole, pushing it right out and dripping on your blankets.

“Look at all you took,” he plays with the sticky mess, fingering it right back inside and smirking at Sukuna. “I think she likes me more.”

“She does not, she’s just sadistic,” he’d be lying if he didn’t say that turned him on more. He helps you up on your knees, tilting your chin up and kissing his own cum off you, Choso’s kissing up your neck, as you feel him slipping out of you. “Evil little brat. You liked that dildo.”

“Maybe I’ll let you use it on me,” his brows lower as he glares again, Choso snorts against your neck, tugging you closer.

“Use my own dick on you!?”

“Then you can fuck me. If you’re nice.” You turn and straddle Choso again, kissing his mouth, he flicks his tongue and gathers the little bit of Sukuna’s cum off your mouth, moaning.

“Can I at least finger you, or am I still in trouble?” Sukuna pouts kind of cutely, you admit, so you nod, and let him kneel on the bed, fingering Choso’s cum back inside you.

Sukuna won’t knock you off rainbow road again.

Broad shoulders stretch against his black tee, tattoos snaking up his thick arms, all the way to his neck where a small cross rests just under his left eye like some kind of divine warning label. His Cane Corso trots beside him on a heavily chained leash—a beast just as intimidating as its owner—tongue lolling between sharp teeth as it pants eagerly at something unseen down the block.   

Kimora’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.

“Oh?” 

Lola blinks like she’s trying to reboot reality itself, and Ruya? Her mouth drops. Her jaw literally unhinges so hard you hear it creak, she whisper’s, “Who the hell is that?”

His skin glows under the streetlamp, deep brown and smooth like aged whiskey, stretched taut over thick muscle that flexes as he adjusts his grip on the leash. The cross tattooed just beneath his left eye winks when he turns his head slightly—dark eyes scanning lazily ahead while those full lips press into a hard line. The rest of him is a canvas—black ink crawling up corded forearms, disappearing under rolled-up sleeves, only to resurface along the column of his neck where veins sit prominent against artful chaos.  

And then there’s his hair—tight cornrows braided straight back from a sharp widow’s peak, each plait gleaming like polished onyx before disappearing at his crown; neat enough for church, but dangerous enough to make you wonder what those hands could do if they weren’t occupied with pounds of pure canine muscle beside him.

Intimidating? Undoubtedly. 

Your throat goes dry. 

Ruya peeks over the balcony, “Damn. That’s the type of nigga your husband would get mad at you for just lookin’ at.”

“That’s the type of nigga you have an affair with,” Kimora blinks, leaning towards her friend as she also watches him.

“Y’all shut up,” Lola whispers, “Girl—do you know him?”

"Girl….that’s the neighbor I told y'all about," you murmur, voice lower like he might somehow hear, “He moved in a month ago. I see him walking that monster of a dog sometimes when I'm leaving for work."  

Ruya's eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into her hairline.  

"Wait—this is the new neighbor that’s kinda cute?!” Her whisper is practically a screech at this point, hands flying to grip the balcony rail like she might vault over it if given enough incentive, “Oh my god. You lied!” 

Kimora chokes on her wine mid sip, coughing into her hand before wheezing out—“Hollon’—You never said he looked like that!” 

“I didn’t think it mattered!” you hiss back defensively, still keeping your voice low. 

Lola just shakes her head slowly, disappointed but not surprised by this critical omission of detail. The four of you crouch like naughty children as you and your friends peer over the edge of the balcony—staring. 

He mumbles something low to the dog, voice seemingly deep even from afar. But that’s when it happens—he pauses when the animal suddenly sits and lets out a low warning bark, ears pulled back as its eyes narrow—its gaze fixed on the unit you lived in. 

The man follows the dog's gaze. And then? They lock right with yours.

Ruya, Kimora, and Lola immediately drop to their hands and knees, flattening against the ground as they hide like their lives depend on it. Your eyes go wide as you look down at them, “Don’t be weird—get up!”

“No, now you have to go say something! He caught us!”

“Me?!” you whisper yell, “I wasn’t the one stalking!”

Ruya grabs your ankle and yanks—suddenly you're on your knees beside them, wine glass clutched like a lifeline as all four of you huddle like spies behind the railing. 

Kimora peeks through the gaps, her whisper frantic—“Oh my fuckin’ hell, he’s still looking.” 

And oh god, he is. One thick eyebrow arches slowly over those hooded eyes, the dog letting out another chuff, tail thumping against pavement while its owner’s lips twitch. 

Ruya pinches your thigh under the table, “Go!” 

Lola shoves you inside the house, “You’re the one that lives here!”

“I don’t even have clothes on!—“

Sometimes? You hated your friends. Now, you were scurrying down to the ground level of your apartment, the squeak of your bunny slippers patting along the concrete—you can already feel your nerves getting the best of you as you get closer to that broad frame of his, the dog immediately turning to recognize your presence first. 

“Excuse me?”

Those dark, hooded eyes drag from the sidewalk up your frame. And God, standing this close? You realize just how huge he is—towering over you with shoulders that block out the streetlights behind him, tattoos peeking from beneath his rolled sleeves as thick fingers flex around the dog’s leash.  

The animal sniffs toward your bunny slippers first, wet nose bumping against fuzzy pink fabric, then letting out a low huff of approval.  

But unlike the dog? His gaze doesn’t stop at your feet.  

It lingers on your hips barely hidden beneath those sweatpants, traveling up past the curve of your waist where caramel skin disappears under a long sleeve white tee. The outline of full breasts were impossible to ignore as his eyes flicker there for half a second too long—freckled cheeks dusted in brown tones and lips painted deep pink by nature alone; glasses catching moonlight when you nervously adjust them atop flushed cheekbones, dotted with brown constellations across smooth skin.

His nostrils flare subtly at bergamot laced vanilla curling off heated flesh. Finally, he meets your almond-shaped eyes blinking back at him through round frames, onyx curls draping all around your face and body as you tilt your head. 

Looking at him closer, your brain short circuits.

So you say—

“Does your dog bite?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. 

That one little movement makes your stomach flip. The way that small shift in expression cuts through all that heavy stoicism makes you realize he’s got a dimple on one side.  

A single, deadly dimple.

The dog huffs again, licking its jowls as it sits obediently at his side—still eyeing your slippers with vague interest.  

His voice comes out deep; gravel scraping velvet, “Depends.” 

One thick brow arches higher as he lets the word hang between you two, “You plannin’ on pissin’ him off?”

Your mouth parts a bit. Then, movement catches above you. Three heads pop up from behind porch rails only to dip back down immediately when noticed again—your friends are literally spectating this train wreck instead of helping steer this conversation away from disaster. 

Traitors, all of them.

“No! I—um,” you try to think of words to say, but you could only think about the way this man could probably see your nipples through the fabric of your top. You then manage to get out, “I just—I thought your dog was pretty, ‘wanted to know what breed it was. I have a dog—I mean, no I dont—I want a dog.”

That dimple deepens—just for a split second—before his face smooths back into that unreadable mask. The dog, sensing your nerves, lets out a soft whine and nudges your hand with its massive head.  

His eyes flicker to the porch where your friends are now failing spectacularly at pretending they’re not eavesdropping—Kimora’s shoe is visibly sticking out from behind the railing—Then back to you.  

“Cane Corso,” he says finally, voice low like it’s some kind of secret just for you, “Italian mastiff.”

“Oh,” you nod, “Right. He’s um—he’s a cutie,” you smile a bit, “Can I pet him?”

“Gon’ head, been tryna’ teach him to be more polite around strangers.”

Your fingers smooth over the tip of his head, rubbing both palms against the side of the animal's face—you lean in, “People are scared of you, hm? But you’re a sweetie bean.” 

Why was it easier talking to a dog than a man?

You realize this as you scratch under its chin—you clear your throat to ask, “What’s his name?”

"Bully."  

That one word rumbles out of him like thunder cracking over the bayou—low, inevitable, and somehow amused beneath all that stoicism. Bully immediately flops onto its back at your feet—exposing a belly speckled with pink scars and thick muscle, it kicks its legs in the air like some overgrown puppy begging for rubs.  

You blink down at the beast currently acting like a glorified teddy bear before slowly dragging your gaze back up to his owner’s face—his goatee wafts a fruity scent, seemingly oil, you assume. 

“Why’d you name him Bully?”

“‘Nigga got an attitude most of the time.”

The seriousness in his voice somehow makes you a bit amused—it garners a real giggle from your lips, your fingers splaying over Bully’s stomach to pat rubs onto it—you then murmur, “Well, I’d hope your owners name isn’t as scary as yours, hm?”

His chest shakes with a silent chuckle. A deep, barely-there vibration that makes your fingertips tingle where they're buried in Bully's fur.  

"Onyankopon.”

Your nose scrunches before you can stop it, “That’s long." 

The corner of his mouth twitches again—dimple warning, “Call me Ony, then."  

Bully chooses that exact moment to roll onto his side and nearly crush your bunny slippers under pure muscle, tail thumping against the pavement as if approving this entire interaction.

You catch his eyes as you stand, the invitation of his name somehow making you more nervous. You tug a curl of your hair, adjusting your glasses reflexively as your cheeks flush—you nod, “It’s nice to meet you. You um—live here?” 

Girl.

“I mean—you live in this unit? Did you just move here? Oh god, I sound like a stalker—I just meant, do you like it?”

That dimple breaks free again, before his face smooths back into something unreadable.  

“Moved in ‘bout a month ago,” he confirms. His thumb flicks toward the unit across from yours, “Quiet over there. 'Cept for Fridays.”  

His eyes cut pointedly up to your balcony, three pairs of hands clearly gripping the railing as they eavesdrop. Kimora’s wine glass nearly tips over—ice clinking violently as she jerks back out of sight again with an audible “Shit!” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even blink, “Y’all do this every week?” 

You bury your face in your hands, caught in your entire plan. Your freckles practically go pink as you nod, “Yeah, we do.” 

Bully whines sympathetically, licking your ankle through one bunny slipper.

Onyankopon hums like he’s filing that information away somewhere. Something about him scares you. He’s quiet, observant.

You sigh, “I’m sorry. My friends are the most annoying people on the planet, we weren’t trying to seem creepy. They…thought I should introduce myself,” you briefly explain, “I really thought your dog was cute though, I don’t have enough time to get one of my own.”

He studies you for a long moment. Those hooded eyes trace the nervous way your fingers twist together before landing back on your face.  

“You work nights,” he says suddenly—not a question, an observation. 

Your brows knit together, “How did you—”

“I be hearin’ yo’ lil’ ass sneakin’ through the gate ‘round three in the mornin’.”  

That single sentence lands between you two with all the subtlety of a grenade, his voice casual while your mouth drops open slightly. It takes everything in you not to whip around and glare up at your friends who are definitely losing their minds listening to this right now.

“I, um—Yeah,” you admit, voice dropping an octave like you’re sharing classified intel, “I work at the funeral home on Chartres—‘Embalming right now, but finishing up my Mortician license soon.”  

You brace for that familiar flicker of discomfort in people’s eyes when they hear about your job. Or worse—invasive questions about corpses like you’re some walking encyclopedia on decomposition.  

But Onyankopon? He just nods. 

He glances down to his dog before muttering, “Mortician, huh? That’s why I ain’t never smell no food cookin’ when I walk by?”

That gets another small smile from you. 

You pull a curl behind your ear, “I’m not the best cook,” you admit, “Definitely not the first thing I tell on a date. But um—since you see me coming in from work, I’ve seen you leave for work a couple of times—either you’re a secret agent, or you’re the first person I’ve met to also be an Embalmer.” 

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh—just once, sharp and deep.  

“Firefighter,” he corrects, jerking his chin toward the faded emblem on his left pec where NOLA FD sits half-hidden beneath taut fabric, “Station 7.”  

Bully huffs like even he’s judging your terrible cooking confession, flopping onto his side again to expose more belly as if trying to derail this entire conversation back into petting him instead.  

Onyankopon watches you chew your bottom lip. He then asks, “So what you be sayin’ on dates, then? ‘Sides the fact that you can’t cook.”

Another dumb giggle bubbles up—partly from the wine, partly from the way his eyes haven’t left your face since you walked up. You adjust your glasses again, a nervous habit.  

“Well,” you sigh, “I don’t lead with how I spend my days elbow deep in formaldehyde.”  

That gets another rumble of laughter out of him—richer this time, vibrating through his chest like distant thunder. Bully’s tail thumps approvingly against the pavement between you two.  

“What? That ain’t romantic enough for ‘em?”

You muse, “I’ve literally had men ask if my hands smell like embalming fluid on a regular basis. You can say it scares people off.” 

“Ain’t never met nobody who could scare off weak niggas just by tellin’ ‘em what they do for a living,” that dimple flickers again—brief but deadly, “Shit sounds efficient.”

It takes everything in you not to visibly swoon at the compliment. The combination of his voice doing that gravelly rumble thing and his unapologetic honesty? It's intoxicating in a way you can't explain. Of course, now that you’re over the shock of him not completely recoiling in horror over your profession, you really start to notice how ridiculously attractive he is.   

Those tattoos on his arms, that sharp jaw and those perfect teeth behind his plush lips—

“I—I mean yeah! Yeah, it um—” a nervous laugh slips out as you straighten up too fast, nearly tripping over Bully’s sprawled legs, “Definitely filters out the losers.” 

Somewhere above you comes Kimora’s muffled “Oh my god!”, followed by Ruya violently shushing her. 

Onyankopon’s gaze flickers down to where your fingers play with your hair, lingering on the curve of your bottom lip for a second too long.  

“Might wanna tell yo’ friends they ain’t slick.”

You glance back up, before looking back to him. 

“I might need the fire department after I’m done with all three of them.”

He snorts—a quiet, barely there sound that makes you realize you've actually managed to catch him off guard. But then, he does that thing again where his expression goes back to carefully blank. It's somehow even more dangerous because of the intensity of his eyes—dark and focused as they watch you fidget like a cornered animal. 

“Well, I’m gonna go. Yeah, I um—need to—do something.”

Onyankopon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink, just lets you drown in your own flustered words while Bully whines pitifully at your feet, like even the dog knows this escape attempt is pathetic.  

“Do somethin’,” he repeats slowly, voice dropping to that rough timbre again. 

A beat passes. Two. Then—  

“Aight.”  

That single word shouldn’t feel like a challenge, but it does. Especially when paired with the way he steps back just enough to let you flee—knowing full well you’re gonna have to walk past all six-foot-whatever of him to get away while your friends silently cheer from the balcony above.

You give Bully one last scratch behind his ears—“Bye, Bully,” you coo, voice an octave higher than normal. Then, turning to Onyankopon with what you hope is a casual smile—but probably looks more like a grimace—“Nice meeting you.”  

“Nice meetin’ you too.”

You pivot on your heel—immediately tripping over absolutely nothing, catching yourself before face-planting into the pavement. You don’t dare look back to see if Onyankopon’s dimple made another appearance at your expense.

You just scurry forward, locking your eyes back towards your terrace as your friends freak out, in which you yell from below, “Oh my god, that was horrible. Imma’ kill y’all!”

And that dimple? Did in fact reappear. 

The next week of your life hadn’t changed by much. If anything, it was a little more interesting. Ever since you’d had that conversation with Onyankopon, you were finding yourself running into him, seeing him, stumbling over your words each time you talked to him. It wasn’t your friends to blame now, you were just—shy.

That first time you passed him was in the hallway on your way to work, his uniform stretched taut over those broad shoulders, NOLA FD emblem gleaming under the fluorescent lights as he adjusted his duffel bag. He’d paused when he saw you, dark eyes dragging from your freckled face down to the textbook clutched against your chest like armor. You’d offered a shy little wave—all fingers wiggling awkwardly before tucking a curl behind your ear.  

And Onyankopon? Smirked. That dimple carved into his cheek for half a second before he nodded back and kept walking—leaving you standing there feeling like you’d just been branded by that look alone.

Then came the gym incident.

You hadn't meant to spy, but when you glanced out your kitchen window while washing dishes one evening, there he was across the courtyard; shirtless and glistening 

as he worked through reps with weights that should've been illegal in size. Every muscle in his back flexed with movement—tattoos rippled over sweat slick skin, cornrows perfectly intact despite exertion.

You'd dropped an entire plate into soapy water loud enough for him to freeze, head tilting slightly toward where the sound came from—

Your curtains snapped shut so fast they nearly tore off their rod.

But worst of all? The patio debacle. 

 After another grueling embalming session where formaldehyde clung stubbornly beneath fingernails, you stepped onto the balcony hoping fresh air would clear that lingering chemical scent—you froze when you saw him.

There he was, framed within his own apartment window tugging a black tee over an ink-streaked torso, defined abs leading down to a deep v-line, hips disappearing into low-slung sweatpants hanging dangerously loose. And from the thin material? It’s big, girthy, long.

Was this man orchestrating your downfall? 

It didn’t help that friends won't shut up about him either— Just give Big Daddy your number already! 

Giving him your number might’ve solved all the issues of your short circuiting each time you saw him, but you just didn’t want to make a fool of yourself if he wasn’t interested. So, you played it cool. 

Well, not cool enough.

The universe was absolutely conspiring against you.  

Three days after your last humiliating encounter with Onyankopon, you’d decided—against all better judgment—to attempt cooking real food for once. No more microwave meals, no more takeout. You were going to make jambalaya like a proper New Orleans girl if it killed you.  

Which apparently, it nearly did.  

You had your laptop propped up on the counter, an instructional video playing at full volume—“Now add the holy trinity—bell peppers, onions, celery—” while your Mortuary Science textbook sat open beside it, chapter on arterial embalming glaring up at you in stark black and white. Between frantically stirring what was slowly becoming charcoal in your pot and trying to memorize which vessels required the most pressure during fluid injection? Disaster was inevitable.

One second you’re squinting at a diagram of the brachial artery—

The next? Flames. 

Not just a little kitchen mishap either; orange tongues licked hungrily up toward your cabinets as oil spattered violently from an overheating pan of sausage links. In true dramatic fashion, your brain short circuited into full-blown panic mode. 

"FIRE! FIRE! OH MY GOD. I'M GONNA DIE LIKE THIS?”  

Between sobbing into your hands and desperately fanning smoke toward open windows with anatomy flashcards, the fire went out, leaving behind mildly charred cabinets. But oh—the blaring smoke detector overhead now screeched like a banshee straight from hell itself, warning the entire complex about the crime you’d just committed.

Peeking through the blinds, your stomach drops like a stone. The entire apartment complex is outside—neighbors in robes, pajamas, even one lady clutching her cat carrier like she’s prepared for Armageddon. The flashing red lights of the fire truck paint everyone’s faces in alternating pulses of panic as your manager scurries around with a clipboard, visibly doing headcounts.  

Then you see him. 

Onyankopon steps out of the truck—fully geared up in his NOLA FD uniform; thick suspenders strapped over broad shoulders as he speaks into his radio. His partner—a shorter but equally serious-looking guy with salt and pepper hair—nods toward your building just as the apartment manager throws her hands up mid-count.

You duck away from blinds so fast they rattle—but that knock comes exactly three minutes later, firm enough to shake the doorframe.

You consider pretending death for half a second. 

And there they stand—Salt and Pepper looks mildly concerned, while Onyankopon wears an expression of sheer disbelief once he gets a full view of the disaster zone behind you. Smoke curls the ceiling lazily around that still screaming detector; charred remained jambalaya clinging to the pot pathetically, your textbook splayed graphic images of embalming diagrams right beside your laptop currently blaring— “And that’s how you make the perfect Roux!” 

“Ma’am,” Salt and Pepper starts gently, “We had reports of smoke coming from this unit—”

“‘Manager says you were the only tenant unaccounted for,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly, “What happened in here?”

You're standing there in oversized sweats with a headful of messy curls, soot smudged cheeks and an expression like a puppy that's gotten into trouble—hell, you're pretty sure your nose is even twitching from holding back tears. But instead of cackling like the universe seemed intent on making you endure? Onyankopon's face remains perfectly impassive—just quietly studying the mess around you like he's trying to make sense of the situation.

You nearly sob then and there.

"I was just—I was cooking! I was trying to cook and study and—I—I didn't mean to—"

To your surprise, Onyankopon's voice softens. 

 "Hey, Mama. Breathe. You know you can talk to me, stop allat’.”

“You know her?” Salt and Pepper questions.

Onyankopon doesn’t even glance at his partner, eyes locked on you as he steps forward—just enough to block the full view of your disaster kitchen from Salt and Pepper’s prying gaze. 

His voice drops lower, rough but steady like he’s talking someone off a ledge—which, given the way your bottom lip is trembling? Might actually be necessary.  

“Ain’t nobody hurt,” he mutters, “Building still standin’. You put it out yo’self?”  

You nod frantically, wiping at your face with the back of your hand only to realize it’s covered in flour and something suspiciously sticky, “I used baking soda, learned that in one of my classes.”

For one second, Onyankopon's expression does something complicated—like he's fighting six different reactions at once.

“Good.” 

That single word shouldn't feel like absolution—but it does. Especially when paired with the way his thumb brushes over your wrist when he hands you his handkerchief, “C’mon, let us do our job so we can clear this alarm.”

Still trembling a little, you clutch the handkerchief in your hands and look up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.  

"Did I actually almost burn down the building?" you ask weakly, your voice barely above a whisper, “Because it really felt like I did."  

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—almost like he's holding back a laugh but doesn't want to set you off again. He tilts his head just slightly, and that damn dimple makes an appearance as he murmurs, “Nah. But if it'd been worse? ‘Coulda carried you out over my shoulder,” a beat, “Dramatically.”

The unexpected humor catches you so off guard that a giggle bubbles up before you can stop it—which only makes him smirk harder.

Salt and Pepper looks between the two of you like he’s witnessing some kind of code red workplace violation. He clears his throat pointedly, motioning towards the smoke detector still wailing overhead, “We should probably—”

“Right,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly without breaking eye contact with you, “But next time? Maybe stick to orderin’ takeout.”

You press the handkerchief to your face in mortified defeat as they finally step inside—leaving Salt and Pepper to handle technicalities while Onyankopon lingers just close enough— and, for his low chuckle to ghost over your ear when he adds—

“Or call me.”

The next few days were painful. 

After your apartment manager gave you a strongly worded lecture about fire safety—complete with pamphlets and an emergency evacuation plan shoved into your hands—you went full hermit mode. Only leaving for work and coming straight home, avoiding eye contact with every neighbor who may or may not have witnessed the Great Jambalaya Incident.  

You had an exam coming up, so burying yourself in embalming fluid ratios and cranial sutures was a decent enough distraction—except when your mind would inevitably wander back to him. 

Today was also Sunday. Saints game day, football being your one true love outside of mortuary science. Your two-piece set clung in all the right places, gold and black Saints logo stamped across shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass, long sleeved top hugging every dip of your waist before plunging just low enough to tease your full cleavage. Your curls were pulled back by a headband while still cascading past your hips; lashes thick from extensions, catching sunlight as your freckles glowed against caramel skin. 

You're bent over checking the mail when his shadow falls across yours—

“Headin’ out?” 

You jump, mail scattering as you spin around to find Onyankopon standing there. He also wears a long sleeve—football logo large on the material—molding around his muscular frame like it was painted on him, durag and cargo pants making him attractively relaxed. 

“Uh—” You scramble for words while gathering fallen envelopes, “I was. But Ruya has food poisoning, Lola got caught up with her husband, and Kimora just ghosted. So—I’m just gonna’ watch upstairs, do some studying too.” 

His gaze flicks pointedly towards your textbook sat atop of the mailboxes, Embalming & Restorative Techniques Vol 2.

Onyankopon tilts his head, dark eyes scanning over your figure with a slow—almost lazy—appreciation that makes you feel seen in a way that's unfamiliar. 

"’Saints’ colors look good on you," before his gaze drifts pointedly to your shorts, "Even got allat’ ass pokin' out.”

Your breath catches, cheeks flooding with heat as you straighten up—too fast, nearly dropping the mail again. His smirk deepens at your fluster, that damn dimple making another appearance.  

“You um—watching the game too?” You blurt out, desperate to deflect from how his words just made your brain go blank. 

Onyankopon hums in affirmation.

 He then questions, “You got’ a headache?” 

You blink up at him like a deer in headlights. You then remember you had been rubbing your temples before he walked over, “Oh—Yeah, probably from studying too much. I’m always squinting, even with my glasses on.”

"Nah," he murmurs, "’Headache probably came from suckin' allat’ smoke in." 

You swallow as his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer. Then, he nods towards the stairs, "You said you finna’ watch the game?”

Onyankopon doesn’t wait for your answer—just adjusts the strap of his durag with one hand, while the other gestures toward the stairwell like this is a foregone conclusion.  

“You can study at mine,” he says simply, “‘TV loud enough that you can watch from the couch while I cook.”  

The offer hangs between you two—heavy and loaded despite how casual he makes it sound. His eyes flick down to where your teeth worry at your bottom lip, voice rough around the edges, “Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout burnin’ my place down either.”

“Funny, but—I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

Onyankopon doesn’t budge—just arches a brow, stepping closer until his shadow swallows yours whole.  

"You ain't askin'," he corrects smoothly, plucking your  book right out of your grip, “I'm tellin'."

His apartment was immaculate—modern, open, almost minimalist. The kind of space you'd find in an interior decorating magazine, but with a distinctly masculine feel. Dark wood, black and brown furnishings. Art pieces and family photos adorn the walls. The only spots of color come from the vibrant pillows and blankets strewn across the sectional, Saints jersey hung in a frame next to a mini bar that looks stocked to the gills with top shelf liquor. The TV plays the pregame, volume low. 

You're too busy staring around the place to notice Bully bounding up until he all but knocks you over—you giggle as you nearly stumble back.

Onyankopon scolds the dog with an amused shake of his head, "Bully, goddamn,” as he reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, “You can't just jump on a woman like that, boy. You gon' hurt her."

“It’s okay,” your murmur softly. You place your other textbook on the table, tugging him down to lay on his stomach—“You missed me, sweetie bean? I missed you too.”

Bully rolls onto his back like he's never seen better days, tail thumping against the floor in ecstasy. He whines, tongue lolling like he's smiling. His tail thwacks the floor. 

“Don’t be givin’ that nigga too much attention, he already spoiled.”

“‘That right? Papa spoils you, hm?” You coo, “That’s okay. You deserve all the love and kisses.”

Onyankopon stands there watching you, eyes darkly amused as he murmurs, "I'm startin' to think you only came over for the dog."

“Don’t listen to him,” you murmur, “He’s just jealous.” 

You grin up at him without thinking, sunshine-bright and unguarded, before realizing how close he is. How domestic this all feels. Your smile falters slightly as heat creeps up your neck.

Onyankopon notices immediately. That smirk returns full force as he pushes off the door, “Sit down ‘fore you start petting him like y’all married or some shit.”  

Bully whimpers when you stop scratching him, trotting after you like a shadow while Onyankopon moves to the fridge.  

“‘You drink?” 

“Did you forget I’m tryna’ study? I can’t be giggling over my textbook.”

You take a second to think though, “Unless you have Stella Rose in there.”

His chuckle is low as he pulls out a chilled bottle of Stella Rose: Black, “You’ in luck,” he murmurs, pouring with practiced ease, coming over to hand you the glass from where you sit. The deep red liquid swirls as he taps his glass against yours, “‘To not burnin’ shit down this time.” 

“Funny.”  

You can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips, Bully immediately plopping his heavy head onto your lap like he owns you now.  

“Game starts in’ ten,” Onyankopon gestures towards your textbook, “Better hurry up with allat’ studyin’. Saints don’t wait for nobody.”

He settles into the sectional beside you—all casual, spread legs, one arm stretched across the back of the couch, body angled toward yours like he's got all the time in the world. Even Bully gives up his spot on your lap to circle around you and collapse on top of his owner's feet, huffing contentedly when his big hand starts scratching under the dog's chin without looking away from you. 

You sigh, “It’d speed up the process if you were a genius—you know anything about Pathology?” you slide your textbook along your lap, tucking your legs on the left side of your body.

“Depends,” he rumbles, “You talkin’ forensic pathology or just general shit?”  

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Smart man.”

“Firefighter EMT certification had us studyin’ some wild shit,” Then, quieter, “Plus, my lil’ sister a’ pre-med.”  

“Seems like the whole family wants to save the world. You’re like Superman,” you hum, “What part of New Orleans are y’all from?”

He chuckles at that—low and deep, “9th Ward,” He nods, watching your eyes go slightly wide. 

He adds, “What, you thought a nigga was gon’ say Uptown?” 

“No, I just—“ 

He cuts you off with a shake of his head—not mad, “Relax,” he mutters, leaning back slightly, “Ain’t shit wrong with being from Uptown if that’s where you at,” His thumb brushes against the fabric of the couch near your shoulder, like he's resisting touching you outright.  

“We moved out when I was ‘bout sixteen after Katrina fucked up everythin’,” The way he says it is has no pity expected—before shifting gears smoothly, “But yo’ turn now. Where’ you from before this apartment tried killin' you?"

You shake your head, swirling the deep red in your glass before taking a sip, “Born and raised Uptown—whole family’s still here.”  

“Explains why you walk around like you own everythin’ but can’t boil water.”  

“Rude!” 

“Just sayin’.”

You both look at Bully who's now flopped between both of your legs, paws up like roadkill, “He agrees with me." 

The dog yawns. Traitorous animal.

Before either of y'all can retort though—the game starts blaring from TV speakers loud enough to make you jump, the crowds roar filling the apartment as the Saints run onto the field.

You try hard to focus on your notes, highlighting key terms, murmuring definitions under your breath—but it's impossible not to peek up every time Onyankopon leans forward, cussing at the TV like the players can actually hear him.  

"Man, what kinda bullshit call was that? That’s a flag! Throw it, blind ass nigga!” 

Bully barks in agreement like he understands every word, pacing before plopping down dramatically when a play resumes.  

Somehow though? The chaos is weirdly comforting. You find yourself smiling into your textbook whenever he gets particularly animated; his deep voice growling obscenities one second, then booming with celebration next as Saints score their first couple of touchdowns.

Halfway through the second quarter—and three glasses of Stella later—you've given up pretending to study entirely, leaning back against cushions while watching the game from over Onyankopon’s broad shoulder.

“‘Thought this nigga ‘boutta graduate,” he mutters without turning around, “Now she watchin’ the game instead.”

“This class is kicking my ass,” you stressfully admit, “Imma’ just stay an Embalmer at this point.” 

“Aight.”

 He reaches for the remote, lowering the volume slightly before twisting fully toward where your legs tuck; he notions, “Tell me what ain't stickin'.”

You hesitate for half a second before sighing, flipping open your notebook to the most confusing section, “Okay, so—putrefaction. The stages keep tripping me up.”  

“Aight. Think of it like this—” His finger taps against your notes as Bully rests his head on your thigh again for moral support, “Stage one? That’s when shit first start lookin’ wrong but ain't smellin' yet. Them’ gases build up, and the body gon’ look like a microwaved balloon.” 

You giggle a bit, “Sounds extremely gross when you put it that way.”

“Stage two? Now we get stank,” He gestures loosely with his free hand, "Skin slippage, blistering—like when you leave chicken out too long and it turns green. Except this chicken used to be yo’ uncle."  

“Onyankopon!” 

“What?” 

His grin is unrepentant, “I’m teachin’, ain't I?”

“You are, Professor. Continue.”

“By stage three? Everything meltin’. Liquefaction got fluids leakin' everywhere—” 

“Okay! I got it now,” you giggle once more, “Thank you.”

“Thank me in yo’ valedictorian speech,” he stands from the sofa, “You hungry now?”

“After you compared spoiled chicken to a decomposing body? Sure,” you muse, “What are you making, chef? Since I’m apparently the worst cook on the planet.”

He shrugs off the playful insult like it's nothing, already stalking toward the kitchen with Bully following behind, “Not just a chef. Culinary King, baby.”  

He then says, “Gumbo. Real gumbo,” he tosses over his shoulder, "Ain't gon’ need no YouTube video for this either." 

You watch from the couch as he moves around the kitchen, graceful for a man his size. His tatted arms flex as he chops vegetables with quick precision, sleeves rolled up to reveal more ink along his forearms; bold black lines weaving stories you can only guess at.  

One tattoo in particular catches your eye—a small, intricate design near his temple. 

“That’ one mean something?” 

His hand pauses briefly on the pot. 

“Yeah.”  

A beat passes where the only sound is sizzling roux. Finally, “Got jumped in at fourteen,” he murmurs, “Took my face tat’ the same night.”  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s good, shawty. You jus’ wanna know.”

He then continues, “Lost my lil’ brother not too long after,” The words come out rough-edged, “Wrong place, wrong time type shit. Made me realize ain't no glory in that street shit either way.”

The confession hangs heavy between the both of you. 

“‘Moved Uptown right after," His voice gentles, “I finished school, got into the fire academy straight out. ‘Wanted do somethin' that mattered more than colors onna’ block."

You exhale, absorbing the weight of his answer. 

A few beats pass before you venture, “I think you matter. Firefighter sounds much more cool than some nigga inna’ gang anyway.”  

He huffs out a soft chuckle at that, “You think I don’t know I’m cool?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips, “No, mister humble. You really don’t know just how cool you are.”

You expect a retort—maybe that cocky smirk you've come to find weirdly endearing—but he surprises you with a genuine expression instead. It's softer, less guarded than his usual demeanor; the kind that makes you realize he isn't used to taking compliments.  

Something about that makes your heart skip a beat, but he recovers quick enough—that smirk is back in full force as he murmurs, “You know what is more important than allat’? Food. This gumbo ‘boutta be straight fire, too.”

“Lawd, here he go’. I’m judging like Gordon Ramsay.” 

“That’s cool. We gon’ see.”

The fourth glass of Stella has definitely done its job—loosening your limbs, flushing your skin, making every thought move slower.  

Your textbook lays forgotten on the coffee table as you lounge against Bully like a makeshift pillow, fingers lazily stroking his fur while your gaze lingers on Onyankopon with newfound boldness.

Onyankopon checks on you as you’re silent—he turns to see your low eyes, thick lashes locking onto him from across the kitchen island. 

“Yo’ headache gone?”

You swallow hard around sudden dryness in your throat, managing a weak nod followed by mumbled agreement, “Mhm.” 

You don’t realize, but you’re smiling a bit.

"Uh huh," he rumbles, “You definitely feelin' that wine."

He wipes his hands on a towel before rounding the island toward you—each step deliberate, unhurried—until he’s towering over where you’re slumped against Bully.  

"You good?" his thumb brushes your chin to tilt your face up toward him, "Or I need to cut you off?"

"I'm fine," You murmur—a little too breathless for someone who's supposed to be studying, “I thought you were feedin’ me?” you mindlessly pout in his palm, not realizing how you look beneath him.

He tuts softly, thumb tracing just under your chin, "Now why’ you lookin’ at me like that?" 

"Like what?"

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—half amusement, half something far more dangerous as he leans in, “You gone, shawty. Imma’ get you some water.” 

There’s a sharp, unwelcome pang in your chest when he pulls away—one that sobers you up faster than any water ever could. You straighten yourself out quietly, adjusting your top and clearing your throat as if that could erase the way his touch lingered. 

Bully whines when Onyankopon snaps his fingers twice toward the hall—“Go on,” The dog obeys instantly, throwing you one last glance before trotting off toward his play room. 

He returns with two steaming bowls of gumbo, perfectly dark roux, plump shrimp glistening on top. His large frame settles beside you with far more distance than before. Now you really felt rejected.

You take a few bites of that gumbo and have to resist a reaction. It's perfection—thick, rich, brimming with spices as it slides down your tongue. You can't help but hum in utter satisfaction, eyes nearly drifting shut as you murmur, "Hate to say how good this actually is.” 

Onyankopon chuckles softly at the sight, a low rumble that resonates through the space between you two.

“Told you it was gon' be fire."

You roll your eyes, taking another bite. Your head's spinning from the alcohol, but it's nothing compared to the dizzying rush you feel under his gaze whenever you look over at him. You swallow thickly.

"Listen, I'm sorry if I’m a little too tipsy," You apologize, “It’s been a while since I drank without eating.”

He shakes his head, watching you with that same quiet intensity as he leans back against the couch.  

"You ain't gotta apologize for nothin’," he says simply, voice low, “I wasn’t tryna’ make you feel bad. ‘Long as you’ good? That’s all that matters to me.” 

His words settle over you like a blanket—warm, reassuring. 

After a beat of comfortable silence between bites and faint commentary from the game still playing, Onyankopon tilts his head toward your abandoned textbook on the coffee table, “So why embalmin'?" 

He asks this casually—like it's normal dinner conversation, “Ain’t many people wake up one day thinkin’ they wanna drain bodies for a livin’.” 

The question catches you off guard enough that laughter bubbles out. You compose yourself again, “It sounds bad when you put like that,” You admit with a slight shake of your head.

Your fingers trace the rim of the bowl while gathering your thoughts. You then sigh, “I’ve always been fascinated by death. Not in a morbid way, but—“ you search for the right words—“More about how we treat it? Honor it? My grandmother used to tell me stories growing up about how they’d wash the dead themselves before burial, and sit with them the whole night so the spirits weren't alone.”

Then quieter, you almost become shy about the subject matter. 

“I wanted to do work that meant something even if nobody ever thanked me for it.”

You pause mid rambling, a shy giggle releasing your lips. Onyankopon encourages your words with a quiet, “Keep goin’.” 

He is so goddamn attractive like this—focused on you completely while his food goes ignored, “I'll listen all night."

The warmth of alcohol and his attention makes you soften. You lean your head against the couch, studying him with a lazy, appreciative smile.  

"Sweet," you murmur, "Even though you look like you could break me in half."  

Onyankopon's smirk is instant—sharp and knowing as he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees again. But he doesn’t deny it; just lets that statement linger between you like a challenge. 

"When was the last time somebody had all this?" Your fingers gesture vaguely at his whole existence, "Don't lie either."

He blinks, expression unchanging for a beat before shrugging—almost too nonchalant, “Couple months." 

You raise a skeptical brow, "Couple months,” you echo mockingly, "That’s all?" 

"Why?" He returns, "You got a nigga or sum’?"

Your expression deadpans, “Don’t be funny, nigga. Why would I be here if I did?”

"Ain't tryna’ be funny. Just askin'."

When he speaks again, his voice is much rougher than before. 

"When was the last time you been’ with somebody, then?"

You exhale slowly, swirling the last of your wine before finishing it off. The admission feels heavier now that it’s out in the open—floating between you two like something tangible.  

"A year," you admit with a slight shrug, "Not for any big reason. Just felt like breakin’ the streak wasn’t worth it.” 

Your fingers trace the rim of your empty glass absently before adding quieter, "Especially not when I got school and this career to focus on."  

His gaze remains steady on yours; a silent, almost dangerous intensity as he murmurs, "Ain’t nobody had you inna’ year?”

You swallow hard, thighs clenching involuntarily as you force yourself to keep your composure. But as you go to part your lips—the game roars within the room, catching your attention and cutting the tension you’d felt before.

You giggle a little awkwardly, suddenly needing to do something—anything to shake off the lingering heat between you two. Washing dishes sounded pretty excusable. 

“I got these.”

Onyankopon watches you for a beat as you make your way to the kitchen, only a beat. He then pushes off the couch with a quiet chuckle, following you into the kitchen anyway. You feel him before you see him—his broad frame crowds behind you, reaching around to rinse his own bowl under the sink water. 

“Thought I was doin’ those?” You question halfheartedly—eyes flicking over your shoulder to eye him, “I told you I had it.”

He doesn’t answer right away—just turns off the faucet and places his dishes aside without breaking contact with your body once. It happens so subtly—strong arms snake around waist from behind, pulling you gently against him in one slow motion until there is no space left between.

 His chin rests atop of your shoulder that it makes you giggle, the sound breathless as you let your head tilt back against him. He rests atop your curls while the both of you sway gently—like there's some slow song playing only the two of you can hear.  

"’Thought you were supposed to be watching the game, Ony.” 

"Game borin’.” 

Then? 

"Been tryna' be good all night,” He admits gruffly into your skin—his fingers tighten their grip ever so slightly at your hips when he feels the way they tremble, "Ain't workin’.”

Your breath hitches when his lips press against your neck—warm, soft, teasing. You can’t help but hum nervously, squirming slightly in his hold. 

“Ony.” 

You giggle playfully, but it comes out more like a whine when he drags another slow kiss just below your ear.

His hands rub soothing circles against your waist like he’s trying to calm you down, even as he continues trailing those maddeningly light kisses along the column of your throat.  

"Stop actin' scared,” He murmurs, “Ain’t gotta’ run from me.”

You lean back fully against him, tilting your head up just enough for your nose to brush against his. Another giggle, met with a low chuckle both filled with heat. Onyankopon’s breath fans over your lips—warm—before you close that tiny distance yourself, pulling him down into a slow, deep kiss.  

His grip tightens on your waist as soon as your lips meet, the sound of soft sucking filling the kitchen between shaky exhales. You can feel his tongue slide against yours in lazy strokes—no rush, just pure indulgence—each press of his mouth making the heat coil tighter in your stomach until you’re panting between kisses.  

Your heads tilt opposite ways naturally every time he pulls back slightly before diving back in; noses bumping playfully, locking together again even deeper than before. That’s when you stick your tongue out, fully stroking it with his. 

Onyankopon breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur, "Goddamn,” before he grabs your face and yanks you back up against him with a hungry grunt—tongue licking into your mouth immediately.  

He’s sucking your bottom lip, tugging it between teeth before slipping between your open mouth again; that’s when you feel a smack on your ass—you squeak breathlessly, giggling as you tug your mouth away—“Bully’s barking, Ony.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch at the sound of Bully’s distant barking. He just slides one hand up to cradle the back of your neck, tilting your face back toward his with a low, throaty growl.  

“Fuckin’ hell, Bully.” 

His mouth crashes into yours again—hotter this time, hungrier, tongue sweeping past your lips before you can even process the curse. You finally manage to think, pulling away long enough to murmur, “You gotta—“ you swallow hard when the words come out in a hoarse exhale, “‘Gotta feed him.” 

It takes a beat for his breathing to even out—a rough exhale as he leans forward, chasing your mouth for a second kiss that you manage to evade with a breathless laugh. He exhales roughly, “You’ tryna’ kill a nigga.”

“You can show me to your room first,” you hum, “Carry me?”

Onyankopon doesn't hesitate—his hands slide under your thighs in one smooth motion, hoisting you up effortlessly as you wrap your legs around his waist.  

"Greedy.”

He’s stealing another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours as he walks backward through the apartment without looking away from you once.  

His bedroom is exactly what you’d expect—dimly lit sunset LED strips running along the ceiling, casting shadows over sleek black furniture. The walls are adorned with bold, striking paintings; splashes of color against dark canvases that look like they cost a fortune. A massive king-sized bed dominates the space, neatly made black satin sheets practically gleaming under the glow of those lights.

Onyankopon carries you straight to it without breaking stride—barely managing to kick his door shut behind him before dumping you unceremoniously onto that sea of silk. You bounce once before he’s crawling over you with slow precision; one hand already tugging at your waistband while his mouth finds yours again in a kiss so filthy it should be illegal. He’s dropping his tongue in your mouth, snarling against your lips like he’s hungry for you. 

“This whatchu’ wanted?” 

You stifle kisses through giggles, fingers tracing along his sharp jawline. He groans into your mouth—low and guttural, before you break the kiss to teasingly murmur, "Go feed Bully," against swollen, reddened, lips. 

Onyankopon exhales heavily, "You can’t keep playin’ wit’ me.” 

Your tongue runs across his mouth, “I’ll be here,” sucking on his lips, making that your promise.

Another groan, this time even darker than the previous one. He reluctantly pushes himself off the bed, eyes flashing dangerous when he looks down at you.   

"Behave, girl.” 

You hear him murmuring to Bully in the other room—low, affectionate growls of “Yeah, yeah—eat,” The sound of kibble hitting a bowl follows as you glance around his space again, eyes catching on the small tray tucked neatly on his nightstand. A half-rolled blunt rests atop it alongside a lighter and some rolling papers.  

Before you can investigate further, the door creaks open again—Onyankopon leans against the frame with eyes only on you.

“Nosy.” 

You’re like something out of his fantasy. Your freckles dance beneath the lights of the room, curls draping around your curvy frame at the position you sit along the bed. You sit along your knees as you lean forward, “‘Missed me?”

He’s tongue in cheek—big hands already working at the buckle of his belt, expressing pure hunger as he locks onto where you’re sprawled across his sheets. 

"I did. I’m done playin' nice with yo’ ass too.”

Your lips curl into a slow, teasing smile as your eyes rake over him—tatted arms flexing as he undoes that belt, that hungry glare in his gaze fixated. 

“So…Firefighter Onyankopon,” you purr, “They don’t drug test you?”  

His smirk deepens as he stalks closer, knees pressing into the mattress where you lounge. One hand grips your ankle to drag you firmly towards him, “Nah,” then, “You tryna smoke?”  

You bite down on your lower lip, “Mhm.” 

Onyankopon stands at the edge of the bed, blunt already rolled and sealed between his lips as he flicks the lighter. The flame hisses to life, illuminating the sharp planes of his face for just a second—cheeks hollowing as he takes that first deep pull. Smoke swirls around him when he exhales slowly, eyes locked onto you like prey through low lids. He holds it out between two fingers—taunting as he curls his fingers towards himself.

“Come get it,” His voice is rough with smoke and something darker; command laced beneath amusement.

And at his words? You crawl.

Knees pressed into satin sheets, your hips sway with each deliberate movement until you’re close enough to smell that rich, earthy sweetness clinging to him. His free hand grips your chin at the last second—holding you back from taking it, leaning down so his next exhale coats your parted lips in hazy warmth.

“‘Thought I told yo’ ass not to tease no more,” he grunts, letting go, “Open.” 

You lean back just enough to take a deep pull from the blunt, holding the smoke in your lungs before exhaling slowly—right into his face with a wicked grin on your full lips.

Onyankopon doesn’t flinch. Just watching, those dark eyes tracking every shift of your mouth—every taunting breath out. He finds a grip on your throat, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver.

"Told you,” he murmurs lowly, voice roughened by smoke, “Play too fuckin’ much.” 

You slide your palm beneath his shirt, rubbing the sculpt of his tatted abdomen. 

He grunts, “‘Gon' learn today.” 

Your teeth dip into the plush of your lip, tugging your hands along the hem of his pants—your lashes flutter, “Lemme’ put it in my mouth, Ony.”

His grip on your neck tightens. Onyankopon’s head tilts slightly, eyes going dark enough to match the room, those muscles jumping against your skin in anticipation.  

“Gon’ head.”

The moment you tug his tip from beneath his briefs? It nearly smacks you in the face, bigger than you imagined it to be. It’s veiny under your tiny palm, and the size of it makes you horny. You drag your tongue against the entire length of him, wrapping your lips along the tip as you immediately begin sucking.

“Fuck,” he groans—low and rough—you’re so crossfaded that you’re already stroking him up and down with your hand and tongue together before pulling up—sloppy as saliva drools from your lips, dragging until he falls free. You look up at him through your own reddened eyes, pupils blown wide, just a moment before he grabs onto your hair, guiding you back down.  

 “Look at me wit’ them muhfuckin’ eyes.” 

You do, mouth open and tongue out. He grunts, smoke spilling from between his own lips.

The sight of your mouth wrapped so perfectly around him was like a dream, poking through your cheek from his size. Even the taste of him is dark and rich, mixed with the sweet burn of the blunt—that scent and smoke swirling in the air as he takes another pull.

You move faster to make him moan, sucking him deep. He drops the blunt somewhere to grab your head with his free hand—thick fingers digging into your curls in ways that make you whine as he guides you against him. You’re taking him as deep as you can—throating him, your mouth tugging back as you whimper, “‘Dick so pretty, baby.”

The air fills with the sounds of your moans and his deep grunts, the scent of weed and smoke still lingering. He’s using your mouth like it was made for him, like your mouth was made to take him, “Mouth so fuckin’ soft, Mama. You suckin’ this dick.” 

You try to respond between wet, rough sucks— all you can manage are slurred whimpers that somehow make him fuller in your mouth. You pull back once more, “Spit on it.”

He obliges, of course.

Onyankopon lowered his mouth, dropping spit on his own dick. It’s dirty, sloppy. But seeing you like this? Mindless, pliant— was like no other. You grip the base in your fist and drool onto him, coating those veined ridges with your own mess before swallowing him again.   

You don’t stop—you stick your pink, slippery tongue out, drooling down the length of him—slicking it up good. He makes a sound in his chest that’s almost animal, thick fingers holding you still while he strokes it against your tongue—you just moaned. 

 It’s rough and delicious as you slurp and drool, taking him down while sliding your hands up and down over what you can’t reach—your eyes nearly flutter shut as you slur out, "Taste sogood, baby.” 

He’s all you can taste.

Your pretty eyes are a haze, curls draping through his fingers like sable oceans. You’re lazily stroking him now as you pull your mouth back—you run your tongue along your lips as you whimper, “So big, Ony. Not gonna’ fit in me.”

His smirk is cocky as you salivate on him, eyes half-lidded but laser-focused on the way your mouth moves along his shaft. He’s too big to take, and he knows it.

“Nah, ain’t gon’ fit you,” he agrees, voice gruff, “Gon’ make you fit me.”   

You give him that dazed look again, eyes muddled—drunk off his smell, his taste— your hands grip him again and start stroking him back and forth. His hand cups the back of your neck once more—firm but careful, holding you still as he strokes himself into your mouth over, over and over again. 

Maybe pleasuring him was distracting your own thoughts of having to take him—but it seems you’ve been caught, as Onyankopon yanks you by your curls, tugging you back in a way to lock your lips with his own. You’re both greedy as you push your head deeper when you kiss one another, tongue sliding against his like you’d never kiss him again.

It’s as if you didn’t just have him bulging within your mouth. The moment his fingers slide down your stomach, dipping beneath your shorts as your legs spread open beneath him—your body tenses, dragging your fingers along the back of his neck as you kiss him shyly.

The sight of your pussy was mesmerizing—already soaked, flushed pink and twitching beneath your shorts. 

“Yo’ shit prettier than a muhfucka’," Onyankopon murmurs—half to himself, half a rough compliment aimed at the way you shudder when his thumb drags through your slick folds. You tremble, hips jerking up off the mattress with a small gasp—your grip on his neck tightens all at once, all while those thick fingers begin working slow circles over your clit.

It’s no words, just a high pitched whimper escaping your swollen lips.

You pout along his mouth, spreading your legs just a bit more—your voice is so soft, begging as you mewl, “Put em’ in me.” 

He grunts, “Imma’ slide them in slow.”

You nod, shuddering. That’s exactly how you want it. 

Onyankopon’s thumb stills at your clit—the roughness of his fingers drags down, sinking inside so slow—he presses forward, burying nearly to the knuckle with a single push.  

You don’t expect the reaction you give—but a year of no sexual activity in fact leaves you tight, two fingers nearly being the death of you in this moment. It feels so good, you’re creaming on his fingers, tears glistening within your eyes as you sob in pleasure, “Oh my god, Ony.”

“Why’ this shit so fuckin’ wet already?” He grumbles through his own parted mouth—his palm grinds over your clit, dropping his fingers in, listening to your folds squelch in return. It doesn’t help that Onyankopon’s grunting into your mouth every time his fingers sink in. 

You tug your mouth inches from his—you mindlessly pant, “I needed that so bad,” it’s soft, breathy as he adds another finger in even slower. 

“Keep talkin’ to me.”

“They’re so big,” you softly whimper, “Stretchin’ me.” 

When his fingers curl, you gasp—your mouth pulls back from his, palm reaching for his fingers to tug them out—you feel his other hand grip you by the throat, yanking your mouth back onto his. 

“Ion’ do that runnin’ shit,” he grunts, “You gon’ take me.”

His fingers slide right back in, spreading you wide as he sinks down to the knuckle once more. It’s hard to catch your balance when he’s rocking you onto his fingers like this—your hands find his wide shoulders to grip onto, head spinning at this point. 

You’re shaking—trembling beneath him as he growls into your kiss, those big hands clenching harder against your neck before sliding down. He licks your lips, “Goodbaby. Watch my fingers just goin’ in.” 

And you do. In and out, they’re just going. 

Maybe he was just good with his hands—in seconds, your shorts are removed, back fully hitting the soft comforter—your clit is being stroked by his tongue, all while his fingers still plummet in and out of you.

He’s so rough—hungry as his mouth feasts on you, eating you out like a man starved of oxygen. Your moans get lost in the sheets, every sensation sending you into a spiral as you’re trapped beneath him, fingers still stretching you out just right. And the noises, they’re getting wetter and messier each minute. 

You’re panting, “Fuck, baby.” 

“This bitch drippin’,” he murmured against your clit, another lick as you mewled helplessly, hands clenching the sheets beneath your fingers, writhing against his mouth that was eating you messily. Your legs are shaking, thighs attempting to close around his head.

“Hold ‘em back.” 

He’s reaching for your thighs in that warning voice. His tongue flattens over your clit, sucking. 

That’s when your vision starts to fade, head spinning as you desperately try to stay present with him. You nod your compliance though, pouting as you hold your thighs open by the tips of your nails, spreading your pussy open. 

You mewl to him, “Wanna’ watch your tongue go in me, baby.”

His tongue plunges in with a grunt of, “That’s a gooood fuckin’ girl.” 

Your back arches off the bed, head tilting all the way back. It’s just too much, being filled like this—every nerve lighting hot and sensitive with so much of him all at once. 

“You’ so wet.” 

He sounds lost—voice disappearing between strokes of his tongue, “You. So. Fuckin’. Wet,” sinking inside—his fingers take over again, pumping thick and slow, “You taste good everywhere, girl. Goddamn.”  

He’s eating you faster, moaning as his mouth works at your clit again—his tongue slips in between your spread folds, lapping like a canine. You’re shaking beneath him, head in the clouds with nothing but gasps to give. 

Your hand reaches down to grip the back of his head—and he doesn’t resist, just allows you to guide his mouth right where you need him most. Your legs shake on either side of his head as he buries his face into your clit, “I’m goin’ all in, baby. Keep droppin’ yo’ shit on my tongue.” 

You were gonna blackout if you let him keep going. You pull him up by the coil of his goatee, sliding your tongue into his mouth with a moan. Hands grip your waist under your shirt as you both share another messy, nasty kiss. You feel his hands pushing your top up, freeing your huge, heavy tits—and then, his mouth is on them. 

Something about your nipples being sucked always made you infinitely more horny—you breathily giggle as you whimper, “Ooh, baby. I love that.”

His mouth was insistent—taking turns with your stiff nipples in his mouth, suckling and licking as they hardened more. He was rough as he grunted, “Pretty ass fuckin’ titties,” tongue circling them in the best way, teeth tugging just right. 

You ramble, “Imma’ take your dick so good, Daddy.” 

Onyankopom grunts at the name. Your grip on his durag tightens when he slides two fingers back through your folds—just to test you—just to make you whimper. 

You don’t run.

Your legs are spread open wide for him as he holds you, “You gon’ let me fuck you?”

“Promise, baby.”

“Yeah? Gon’ let me take this pussy how I wanna take it?”

You’re nodding, begging, essentially—but that might’ve been stupid on your part. Because when he lays the both of you on your side, yet somehow trapping your legs over his shoulders in a missionary position? You’d never been put like this before. 

One arm rests over your knees, the other sliding along the back of your neck in a way that traps you. Your body tenses the moment you feel his tip slapping amongst your soaked folds, your doe eyes peering through his low ones, needy, vulnerable.

As he sinks in, your folds spread apart slowly. Even with how wet you are, the uncomfortable stretch of pleasure burns your stomach like fire, every inch sinking deeper by the second. 

“You look so small like this, like you breakin’.” 

You try to respond—anything to sound like you have any semblance of control—but your mouth only parts open, eyes rolling at the whiplash of pleasure and discomfort.

“You know you ain’t runnin’, huh?” 

You nod, eyes glazed over as he sinks further inside, “Ughn, shit.”

He’s not even halfway in by the time your legs are shaking around his head, hands fisting sheets in a white knuckle grip as he stretches you out, spreading you wide. You’re moaning so helplessly as he slides in another inch. Your hands reach for his—finding his thick, rough ones so you could squeeze them for dear life. 

His voice is a low groan in your ear, “You takin’ it so good.” 

He’s smacking your ass, spanking again at how good you feel. 

You’d never been filled like this before—not this deep or this girthy. You’re trembling in his arms, eyes glassy as he leans forward, forcing your legs wider by the backs of your thighs, “I told you— keep them’ eyes onna’ nigga.” 

You tuck your face within the pillow as you feel the first stroke—he’s still not even fully in, your face pouting as the first expression you give him.

The second stroke, your whole body clenches, fingers fisting the sheets so hard, eyes rolling at one slow roll of his hips.  

“Ooooohh, my god.”  

Another stroke, deep—“Ughh, fuuuck.” 

“You sound too pretty, girl.” 

You’re whining as he strokes a slow, deep rhythm inside of you, your head tossing between the pillow and his face. Your arms throw around his shoulders, fingernails digging into the back of his neck with a vice grip like you’re trying to keep yourself grounded—anything to make sense of the intensity of it all, curls spreading all across your cheek and pillow. 

He’s still pressing you down onto his lap, holding you in place as he just keeps rolling his hips with a grunt, “Ooh, fuck.” 

You nod so fast, whimpering at that feeling of him in so deep, stroking you open. He’s holding your bottom left thigh up in the air, spreading you in a way that made you ache at how much he was giving you, “You hearin’ us?” This shit sloppy as fuck.”

The air was a chorus of mixed breaths, grunts, your guttural moans and sloppy wet sounds from his strokes splitting you apart. Onaynkopon’s hips move slower than he’d ever thought possible—you were just too tight for anything too hard. 

Squish. Squish.Squish. He’s slow stroking—which means he’s pounding into you—his balls are slapping at the cheeks of your ass, his tip bouncing at your cervix in the meanest way. You lock your mouth around his arm, groaning deeply as your eyes roll back. 

“Ughh… Ughhh… Oh, my god… Ugh.”

It happens—you drench his tip as you squirt on him, the groan sinking into a squeal as your thighs tremble dangerously. You tuck your mouth back onto his arm to calm yourself, moaning helplessly through his flesh.

“That’s so good, Mama. Good lil’ bitch, squirt all on me,” Onyankopon’s voice is an octave deeper when he growls onto your lips, “Make a mess on my fuckin’ dick.” 

He snaps his hips forward roughly, almost punishing that spot he’d found for this reaction. Your gasp is prolonged, a broken cry grunting from your lips—you’re singing, “Ohhhh my god!” 

Your whining was delicious as it spilled onto his arm, his mouth hot on your ear that he began mumbling nasty things into. You feel one hand slide up to grip a fistful of hair at the back of your head, moaning into his chest. Your whole spine was shaking because of that roughness, your legs were shaking—his hips still bouncing brutally between your legs. But his last sentence left you pulverized.

“You think I’m done with you?”

In fact, he wasn’t. 

Your sanity was being held by your fingers weakly pressing against the headboard for leverage—you’re now ass up, face down into the comforter as Onyankopon’s palms grip you by both arms, tugging you onto his dick. Your eyes are rolled back, moaning to him chaotically.

You’d never looked this pretty—this fucked.

You can’t even see the expression on his face behind you, not when your eyes keep watering, or rolling back. All you could feel was the brutal snaps of his hips, that grip he has holding you spread so wide for him. Your ass docks on his skin with every thck, thck, thck of his strokes. Your face is smothered between the sheets as you moan into the space, too lost to even speak, let alone think of anything else.

“Fuck me back,” he grunts, “Lemme’ see this bitch bounce.” 

Your body responds by instinct, fingers fisting the sheets in a white knuckle grip as your ass bounces to that pace he’d set. You can feel the wetness between your cheeks as he slides in over, over, over…

You managed to pull yourself partially up the bed, hands gripping the pillow as your voice cried toward him. 

You clench when you hear him groan behind you—his hands spread your folds to keep you open for him, so far forward that you’re on your elbows as he’s pounding against your spot. Your breath hitches when he groans, “Ooooh, girl. Fuck.” 

Your ass jiggled against his hips, those wet sounds echoing between your legs as he stretched you open with every stroke. The sound of your ass clapping against him was downright pornographic. He’s gripping you by your lower waist to make your pussy grind against him even more, taking you roughly. 

“Bounce on this big dick.” 

You turn to find his eyes, reaching your hand up against his lower abdomen—you’re dropping your ass down to his abdomen, your eyes rolling as you mewl, “‘Balls hitting my pussy, baby. Go slow,” you whimper, “Just pound me.”

His grip was practically bruising against your hips, guiding you into that bouncing pace he’d set. Your body was trembling with it—those slow, punishing strokes leaving your head spinning. Your face was smeared down against the sheets again. 

You’re catatonic at this point. 

His hips were still going—thicker strokes that left you shouting every time he pushed back in. His face was still expressionless, the darkness in his eyes still so intense like the first time you’d met him. You’re barely even coherent at this point, just a mess of moans and words that didn’t make sense.

“You finna’ tap out, huh?”

You can only grunt, too busy trying to hold yourself together as your face pushes further into the mattress.

You were too gone—too gone to even form words right now. You barely had enough control over your body either, your thighs and knees were trembling with every stroke he gave. You felt him in your stomach, your spine, every nerve—he was all you thought about as you moaned into the sheets. He was turning your brain into white noise—your vision was almost blurry. 

That’s when you give a whine—it’s loud, so loud that it drags, squirting all on him once more—you’re messily rubbing your clit, bouncing yourself back through your overstimulating pleasure. You’re a whimpering mess to him, “I love this dick, baby. Fuck me, just fuck me…”  

His eyes darkened as your back arched, spine curling forward as that dazed expression danced across that pretty face. You’d squirted all over him again—his hands pulled away as he sat back, looking down at the way your body was squirming, hips still bouncing against the mattress. 

You’re looking back at him from under your heavy eyes, mouth moving to try and speak but all that came out was another whine,, “Ughh… uh, uh.”  

“You’re so fucked out, huh?” He murmured, hand spanking your ass harder than he’d done before, smoothing it over as he heard you sniffle. 

“Lemme’ give you them’ slow strokes.” 

He gently places you on your back, dragging you under his looming frame to place your legs back along his shoulders. The moment he slides back in, Onyankopon presses his nose to yours, nuzzling it as you did to him earlier in the night. The feeling makes you emotional in a way you hadn’t expected—tears glisten in your eyes, your arms wrapping around his neck as you just take him. 

His head buried itself in the crook of your neck as he murmured, “You’re so beautiful,” sliding out, back in, all the way out, “You good, baby? I ain’t hurt you, huh?”

Your hands slide up to his hair, tugging at his durag as you finally manage to breathe, “Need you, Ony.” 

His face is the closest it’s been to smiling in the night. His hand slides down to grip your knee, holding your thigh in place against him. 

“Need you too, girl.” 

You’re giving him small, broken cries. His face is within your neck as your mouth is by his ear, whining softly as your body trembles like you’d been tased. His mouth kept pressing against the top of your head between his rough murmurs, the words too quiet and jumbled for you to really understand. 

“I’m cumming, Ony…”

“I know, baby.” 

His voice was hushed against your neck, hands pressing your hips down into his to keep you still. Your nails dug into his back, teeth biting down on a shoulder to try and muffle your moans. 

“Ughh…Oh. Oh my god. Fuugghhh. Fuck.” 

Your arms were wrapped around his neck in a death grip, holding him to you as you moaned and mewled through your orgasm. You shiver, sniffling as you nuzzle his nose once more—you hear a low chuckle, a soft kiss being snatched against your lips.

You were crazy, but it was in the moment.

“Cum in me, baby. Fill me up,” you tremble, “Please.” 

And that’s when you hear it—a real moan from Onyankopon.

You didn’t even realize how quiet he’d been in contrast to your moans and pants. But the moment he moaned against your neck, it’s all you could focus on. You hold him tighter as you feel the warmth within your folds, Onyankopon grinding into you, moaning into your ear. 

You felt his face in your neck again when he finally collapsed against you—still connected to you, his full weight falling flat against your chest as his arms locked around your waist. You stroked his hair, his durag ending up somewhere away from the bed—his forehead pressed into your neck as he inhaled deep. 

Almost ten minutes of silence went by. 

“You’re heavy.”

You had murmured this, your fingers running down the ridges on his back, feeling the curve of his mouth pull into a grin. His hands roamed your sides, squeezing at the flesh just under your ribs as he murmured back, “‘Feel good, Mama. I’m sorry.”

Now it was your turn to blush, the words being a sweet surprise—your hands slid up to his cheeks, fingers stroking that dark beard as you giggled once more. 

“You don’t gotta be sorry, Onyankopon.” 

You ran the pad of your thumb over the ridge of his mouth, tracing over the roughness of his lips, “You’re good.” 

You gave a small grin, “You were good.”

“Damn right I was.” 

You huffed a laugh that was more like another giggle, hands sliding up once more to run through his hair. His arms wound back around your waist, his mouth sliding up to suckle a new hickey onto your neck. You shivered as he continued, “You got a cute lil’ laugh, you know that?”

“And somehow you have a boner,” you flick his nose, “Unhand me!”

“Not my fault you’ fine as hell.” 

But he did release you, rolling off of you with some effort. 

Onyankapon watched you closely, able to see the wince on your face from the soreness you began to feel.

“You okay, Mama?”

That’s when you shake your head—you throw yourself back onto his body, wanting his warmth and comfort, “No. ‘Think you scraped my insides worse than a Pap smear,” you murmur, “Cuddle me.”

“Just say you’ clingy, girl.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping back around your waist—this time, pulling you on top of him. Your head rested on his chest, your body splayed out in a tangle of limbs. 

You find yourself reaching up for his earlobe, rubbing comfortingly at the flesh. You then ask, “Is clingy bad for you?”

“Nah.” 

His voice held an honesty that you weren’t sure you were expecting. His hands smoothed over your back, fingers spreading across that soft expanse of skin.

He then confirmed, “I like clingy.”

“Even if I’m a bad cook? You’ll still like me?”

“Especially if you’ a bad cook.” 

You felt the roughness of his beard graze against the crown of your head, “You gon’ be a mess in my kitchen.” 

His voice held a gruffness, but there was an underlying affection underneath it that you hadn’t quite heard from him much tonight—but you liked it, and so did he.

The both of you begin to doze off, his fingers captured in a coil of your curls, your fingers tucked within his chest. But that’s when you hear it—a phone buzzing, loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to ignore.

A second call. This one makes him exhale sharply through his nose, and by the third, he’s growling under his breath as he reaches blindly for the nightstand.  

“Yeah…Yeah…Now?” 

A pause. 

Then a grunt, “Aight. Gimme’ twenty.”  

He hangs up without another word and sits up abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face— turning back towards you, an apologetic frown was already forming on his lips. 

"I gotta go, shawty. Niggas got me on a distress call.” 

That’s all he says at first—but you must have made some kind of face, because he’s suddenly hovering above you, one hand planted next to your head while the other cups your chin firmly.

"Ain't kickin' you out," he murmurs, pressing a hard kiss onto your forehead like a punctuation mark between sentences, "Get yo' ass under them covers."

You heard him, but you were sensitive—he obviously didn’t know that. You tug the covers close to your chest as your eyes watch him go back and forth, a small pout along your face regardless of his words.

He could see the way you curled in on yourself—protecting yourself, even—and it left a strange emotion burning in his chest. That’s when he sighed heavily, running a hand over his face once more as he padded toward the bed, sitting himself on the edge.

"C'mere, baby."

You feel dramatic.

“I didn’t mean to—“

"Nuh-Uh,” he cuts you off, grabbing your wrist to tug you into his lap in one swift movement, legs on either side of his hips. He pulls the blankets tight around the two of you—your head buried into his chest as he keeps you tucked against him. 

"Look at me, pretty girl.” 

You were pouting still, eyes averted from his gaze as you stubbornly kept your lips pursed. That is, until he forced your stubborn eyes to meet his once more.

"I ain't tryin' to kick you out, aight? I just gotta go take care of business.” 

You’re still frowning. 

He leans down to press a firm kiss against your forehead, arms tightening their hold on your waist to keep you against him. 

"C'mon, don't be mad at me now."

Onyankopon's voice drops to that deep, rumbling register—the one he uses to get your attention—you’ve picked up on that. 

"You really gon’ sit here poutin’ while I gotta go handle this?" His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, tugging it down playfully, “Ain't even said you gon’ miss me."  

Then—before you can protest—his mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all tongue, teeth, and promise. It’s messy enough to make your toes curl, his hand sliding from your chin to the back of your neck to keep you locked in place. It’s to let you know that he wanted you, and everything that came with that.

"Stay right here. Keep my shit warm,” a pause, “Or I could bend yo' ass over this mattress one more time

 ‘fore I leave—your choice."

That finally got you to squirm and grumble in his lap—your fingers dig into the meat of his back in a futile attempt to escape him. 

"I was playin',” he grunted, nipping your bottom lip as if to prove a point, "Goddamn, girl. I was playin'.“ 

“Bye, Onyankopon.”

“What kinda ‘bye’, huh? Like you gon’ sneak off once I leave?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. But of course—you smile. 

“Call Bully in here so I can cuddle with my actual man.”

"Forreal?" Onyankopon repeats, looking down at you with one brow raised in disbelief. 

You can tell he's trying to hold back the grin that's threatening to lift at his lips—those dark eyes of his narrowing with mock-offense, "That's what you call yo’ forreal’ nigga? That raggedy ass mutt?" 

You giggled, “Go, Superman. Save the world.”

He gives you one last look, a boyish grin you could find yourself getting used to.

“Imma’ be back, shawty.”

"head just a spin, liquor spill to the floor!" it was sudden when a warm presence suddenly found it's way to your rear end, crotch meeting your ass. a gasp falls from your lips before you quickly spin around to confront the person who decided to invade your personal space. all the breath inside of you is stolen as you make eye contact with the dark skinned man, his eyes searing into your skin and making your body suddenly grow warm. What nelly said? it's gettin hot in here. standing over you in his whole 6'4 glory, onyankopon jackson glares down at you with furrowed brows and an amused smile. your eyes drop to his bare chest gently tracing over the tattoo that rests above his collar bone that reads 'faith' paired with a gold ankh chain. your body's reaction to his presence is astonishing, thick thighs clenching under the material of your shorts, your skin suddenly tingling under the heavy assessment of his eyes and the hairs on your body standing at attention. it's as if your body recognizes his presence—which it does, even when you first met, you were immediately drawn to him. weird. eye contact has always been something you valued, something that ony knows as he continues to peer down at you with his deep bourbon colored eyes. was it possible to get drunk off of eye-contact? as if he knows what he's doing the god-sent man quirks a thick eyebrow at you, flashing you a small smile and allowing you to glimpse at his pearly white teeth, sharp canines slightly teasing you. begging you to run your finger along it's sharp edges. why did everything about him have to be so perfect? "whatchu doing bending all a that ass over in front of these people?" he finally graces you with the deep timbre of his voice, words falling off of his lips like sweet nectar. your eyes immediately drift to his plump lips, handing on to each syllable that leaves his lips as if they could somehow sate your deep desire. suddenly he leans down so his lips are beside your ear, big greedy palms latching unto the naked skin of your waist. "you showin out?" it takes everything in you not to moan at his sultry tone, a shiver racing down your spine and a new wetness pooling in the seat of your bathing suit. ony draws back, smirking at the way your lashes flutter from the effect he has on you. sucking your teeth you fold your arms over your chest, a way to somewhat gain your composure before looking up at the man from beneath your lashes. eyelids dragged down from the effects of mary-jane and brown irises swimming in pink. you're cute trying to act intimidating in this state. "bending what ass—boy please i'm not even doing too much." he hums, amused by your sassy mouth. a hand comes up to toy with the strings of your bikini top that rests between you breast, slightly tugging on them. "mmm, where that demented ass white boy you got?" he means reiner. it's hard not to give a reaction to the nickname that he conjured up from him, but at the same time you don't blame him. reiner is part of the reason why you two stopped speaking, after one too many arguments that revolved around you and ony's closeness. you remembered the day, reiner gripping you too hard and ony seeing the bruise which ended up in a bloody fist fight. after that you had to sit the dark-skinned man down and explain why the friendship wouldn't work out due to the respect you had for your relationship. granted the blond had an abundance of issues but he had every right to feel paranoid about the ‘friendship’ you and ony had. the multiple stolen glances and subtle touches that you two shared when you thought no one was looking, it was enough to drive the man up a wall.

that’s in the past though. you’re broken up now and the man is in therapy—he also has a sweet caring boyfriend.

you hit ony’s in his chest, not moving your hand from the firm muscle after. “that’s ignorant. he has dissociative identity disorder and he’s bipolar, he is not demented.” ony smacks his lips together while rolling his eyes with a nod of his head, not at all interested in a thing that you’re saying.

“mhm, yeah. crazy-ass. where he at?” the look he gives you after he asks that question makes you know that he knows. he knows that you and reiner broke up—but he's trying to be slick. twisting your lips, you give him a look. sleek eyebrows raised and almond eyes narrowing a bit. the smile that he flashes you, all teeth real pretty, only confirms your assumption. he knows. "don't play onyankopon, you want something ask for it." that's one trait he loves about you, you're bluntness. though it makes you have a bit of a smart mouth, he doesn't love you any less. the grip he has on your hips tighten and he begins to sway you to the music, spinning you around so that your back is to his chest. his crotch in line with your ass. your bodies move in sync, a slow whine slowly turning into desperate grinding. he brings his lips to connect to the side of your neck, trailing kisses up until he reaches the skin just below your ear and sucking. you feel yours knees buckle immediately, acrylic nails pressing into the muscular arm that wrapped itself around your middle, trying your best to stifle the moan that threatens to be released. "tryna love on you tonight, you got let me?" your hips don't stop moving. you can feel how hard he is, how his cock strains against the material of his swimwear, begging to be let free. you push your ass against it deliberately, smiling cutely when you hear his retaliating groan. his hands tighten against your hips—forearms bulging in an effort to hold his composure. "cut that shit out before I bend you over right here. m' not playing with you." it's a threat but you're pussy gushes at the thought, ony knows as much when you look at him over your shoulder. eyes all bright and shiny, and your plump glossed lips parted like the idea of that wouldn't bother you. 'shit she tryna kill me.' he shakes his head with a scoff, grabbing unto your arm. before you know it you're collecting your things from your friends and waving them a shy goodbye as ony drags you to his car. they give you knowing looks with a cheeky grin, knowing that you have been waiting for this for a long time. you can feel the adrenaline and arousal rush into your veins with each step you take. it makes you feel a bit shy. you don't think you've ever wanted anyone as much as you want ony. when you both reach ony's black mercedes, you're hesitant to go inside. suddenly becoming aware about the things you're about to do after yearning for him for so long. you shift on your feet as ony opens the back door, quickly scrambling to get inside so you don't seem weird. you're suddenly sobering up when he enters the backseat, sliding in beside you and closing the door before looking at you with half lidded eyes that roam your figure. "you good?" "mmm, nervous." if ony wasn't so close to you he would have missed the words that fell from your lips. he's quick to grab your hips and plop you in his lap, squeezing your sides reassuringly. "don't gotta be nervous, mama. we don't have to do anything." you're immediately shaking your head, grabbing onto his shoulders with a pout. you need this. "I want to on'. you're just a lil intimidating." the dark-skinned man sighs as you rub the nape of his neck. your body grows warm as he uses his thumbs to rub circles into your hip, both your nose rubbing as you lean closer. he doesn't make the first move, waiting for you to take the initiative in case you change your mind. it takes you a second before you lean in, connecting your plump lips to his plush brown ones. the high that you felt before doesn't compare to this. you push all your love and devotion into his mouth, opening up so that his wet muscle can explore. sighing when he sucks on your tongue and tilts your head so he can kiss you deeper. so that he can make you feel his passion. you kiss until you're out of breath, moving away from each other with labored breaths, forehead connecting as one. you shift on his lap so you can get comfortable unconsciously rubbing your pussy against his cock, which grows harder by the minute.

the groan he lets out gets you wetter and wetter, it makes you feel a little concerned. ony swears you want to kill him when you bite your lips and grind against him, your pretty breast jiggling slightly as you continue to move against him making his mouth water. "yeahhh. hump that shit, baby." he guides your hips, lifting up to meet you halfway sending a pleasurable shock throughout your body. as you continue to rock ony kisses you. they trail from the corner of your lips, to the plump of your cheeks, your forehead and finally to your lips. you grip his shoulder tightly as his cock bumps into your clit, letting out a broken cry. "on, want you." he chuckles gruffly. weren't you the one who was nervous a minute a go? "m'right here mama." you shake your head, curls bouncing as you continue to move in his lap, connecting your lips to his. "n-no, ony. I want you, inside." ony sucks in a breath suddenly becoming weak to you. he's quick to set you beside him, kissing your sweet mouth when you cry out a protest. his fingers find the band of your shorts, sliding them down your legs with a heavy breath. he can only describe what greets him as heavenly. your thighs spread, and in between them lays your sweet fat pussy puckered up in the material of your bikini bottom. with his bottom lip tucked into the top row of his teeth he slides the material to the side, licking his lips when he finally sees your pussy. it winks at him invitingly, sticky residue pushing out of it slowly as he runs a finger through it, his eyes meeting yours when you let out a pretty gasp. toes curling from the simple touch. "this what you been keeping from me?" he whispers, fingers moving up and down along your slit. hypnotizing him. "fuck, you this wet just for me?" you let out a little 'mhm' unable to conjure up any sentence. with a quick move ony has your bottoms off, moving in between your legs so he can have more access in the cramped space. he presses a finger into you and you sigh, body slumping against the seat of his car. your hands move to your breast, removing them from the material of your top to toy with your nipples. "put it inside, ony. please I need it." he's quick to comply, sleeping his finger in with ease and moaning at the warm spongy feeling that greets him. your pussy gushes around his finger as he plunges it in and out, another one moving to rub at your little nub. "you so fucking pretty, shitt look at that." he speeds up all while rubbing your clit, making you let out a breathy moan. the sound causes him to rub at the hard-on that strained against his pants, a raspy groan leaving his lips from how pretty you sound. breaking apart from some simple finger fucking. "you get this wet for that crazy-ass white boy?" he mutters, looking up at you as your face twist in pleasure. if you didn't feel so good you would have smacked him for that comment. a hot mouth find its way to your jaw, nipping at it meanly. "hmm? asked you a question baby." you're shaking your head with a gasp, turning your head so you can kiss him while your fingers twirl your now erected nipples. "mm-mm, only for you on'. p-promise-oh!" you choke on your words, trembling slightly as the brown-eyed man adds another finger to your wet cavern. repeatedly plunging in and out, while his thumb rubs against your clit. instantly your back arches off of the seat. ony feels as if he can cum from this alone. watching you break apart on his fingers, grinding desperately as you chase a relief. his brown eyes darken as he watches the way you squirm, your nipples pulsing under the abuse of your fingers. it makes him smile "mhm. shoulda had you like this when you said that dumb shit about distance. hurt my feelings baby. tell me you sorry?" his name falls from your lips in a whine and gasp, trying to make sense of what he was saying as you feel yourself getting closer and closer. it doesn't help when he manages to speed up his motions again, your hands one preoccupied with your breast now latching onto his arm. "s-shit. ony, please!" a squeak leaves your lips as he br

brings a hand down to swat at your sloppy cunt harshly. teary brown eyes meeting his deep brown bourbon coloured ones as you repeatedly nod your head. “what I say?”

“m’sorry m’sorry m’sorry, baby please!”

you’re body is restless beneath his as you hiccup on moans and grind on his hand. knees knocking against his head as you arch your back the deeper he reaches in your safe heaven, pretty plump lips molding into an ‘o’. it’s beautiful—your beautiful. ony thinks this moment will be stuck in his head forever, how could it not?

a strained breath leaves his lips as he tilts his head down to look at where your leaking all over his fingers. you begin to clench down on them, letting ony know that you’re close. “you there mama, hmm? you so fucking pretty.” his eyes have hearts in them, and his hips twitch against the seat of the car. he needs to be inside you.

“cmon beautiful, know you’re them. lemme see you gush around my fingers.” the heat from his touch burns into you’re skin, almost marking you. you’re desperate to feel it, desperate for him to sink into you and take you.

“I am onya, p-promise you am.” he smiles at that. his beautiful fucked out girl.

it takes one final thrust of his fingers for you to come undone, an addictive moan flying from your lips. broken, beautiful.

you feel as if you could melt into the seat of onyankopon’s car, as if you’re floating away on a cloud of pleasure. your hips lift up into his hand and your nails leave indents in his arm, it’s a wonder they haven’t broken off.

ony moves the curls from your face and leans down to capture your lips in his, breathing you in as he continues to pump his fingers into you. allowing you to ride out your high.

it takes a second for you to recollect yourself, breathing heavily as you come down from your high. you’re suddenly startled when you feel a small tap on your ass, slowly opening your dreary eyes to see ony looming over you.

he’s so beautiful. his forehead shines with sweat as his chocolate eyes meet yours, having you in trance. his gold chain moves with his chest as it heaves and his abs contract with each breath that he takes. “you okay?” your head feels heavy but you nod anyway.

“mhm,” you reach out from him, twisting your fingers into his chain to pull his lips against yours, tapping the back of your foot against his back. “want you to fuck me.” he shivers at that and you smile coyly. blinking up at him through your lashes as he clenches his jaw and exhales through his nose.

with a scoff that sounds dangerously close to a laugh he swats your ass two times which causes you to gasp and giggle. “slow your ass down. this dick ain’t going nowhere but inside you.”

you bite your lip, reaching out your hand to slip it under his swim-shorts until you feel his cock jump against your hands. he says nothing, only watches you through lidded eyes, bucking his hip into your hands.

“you’re so thick, on.”

and he is, you can barely wrap your hands around it. from what you can feel too he’s long, you have to wonder if it doesn’t hurt. will it fit inside you?

your both moving, adjusting your position so it doesn’t feel cramped. ony pulls down his shorts and his dick springs free, slightly twitching when he gives it a pump. you admire it for a second, you're assumptions were right. it is long—but it's pretty. the tip is pink, with angry veins trailing down the pretty brown skin and into a neatly trimmed bush of hair. your mouth salivates at the sight, immediately imagining what he would taste like. before he can catch you quickly avert your eyes, trying your best to hide a smile. he tilts his head against the seat and looks at you. “i don’t have a condom.” suddenly shy from the attention he gives you, look down at your hands in your lap and rub your lips together. “can’t you pull out? i’m clean.”

the man huffs a breath, laughing lowly. he swears that he must be dreaming, there’s no possible way that this could be real. he takes a moment to look at you through narrowed eyes, watching the way your hands twitch as if to reach for him.

“shit…come here.” he reaches for you, smiling prettily at the way your hands eager climb his lap. “ready?” his hands rub your ass comfortingly, deep brown eyes softening as they take you in. you nod reaching for his hand that holds youur waist before you begin to sink down, down. hissing slightly at the stretch.

“fuuuckk.”

pulse racing you look down at the dark-skinned man, his beauty is blinding as his face twitch from the pleasure. your hands latch unto his shoulder to seek some form of solidity before you begin to move, only to be stopped by the firm hand planted on your hip. “gimme a second mama, feel like im bout to nut.” he grumbles, tilting his head back and letting out a deep breath. you giggle at his reaction, watching him smile with his eyes closed and giving you a quick swat to your ass.

“mm, you ain’t gon be laughing when you pop out a baby in nine months.” your giggles cease immediately, and ony lets out a hiss when he feels your cunt clench around him. he opens an eye to look down at you in disbelief. “shit, fucking freak. you like that?” he smirks when you nod your head, leaning down to kiss you at the corner of your lips.

grinding his teeth, ony takes on more deep breath before he shifts his hips, bucking up into you. you’re not given a moment to recover as he holds your hips down and begin fucking up into you. “don’t worry, mama. In due time.” it’s a promise, he’s serious as he seals the deal with a kiss and another thrust of his hips.

your head drops into the junction of his shoulder between his head and neck as you let out siren-like moans and whimpers. you let him know how good your feeling, and claw at his back when he hits a specific spot. “r-right there baby, you feel sooo good.”

his pulse speeds up when you lick his neck, groaning when he feels you beginning to fuck him back, bouncing your body against him. “yeah, making you feel good?”

your tummy clenches with each sharp thrust he delivers, moans never ceasing as he gives you pleasure again and again and again.

“mhm! thank you ony..” you’re babbling now, jerking against him harshly as if you were malfunctioning from all the pleasure you’re receiving. he can’t complain, he isn’t any better with your snug pussy hugging him so tightly.

it was if you were made for him with the way you clamped down on him, allowing him to ravish you the way he pleases. your body is lax in his grip, relaxing under his touch.

he would even go as far as to say it recognizes him.