𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆 ♡

sukuna scoffs from where he’s sprawled back in the beach chair, one arm lazily hanging off the side.

“i don’t burn”

“yes you do”

“i literally don’t”

“your nose got pink last time”

his eyes narrow immediately, “it did not.”

“you then complained that it itched and brooded about it the whole time”

“i don’t brood”

you hum ignoring his offense entirely and pat your thighs.

“c’mere”

he stares at you for a long second before clicking his tongue and leaning forward anyway because despite all his dramatics, sukuna has never once denied you when you used that tone on him.

you snort as sukuna settles in front of you. his massive frame blocks the sun completely and he smells like saltwater and heat already despite barely having stepped into the ocean.

you squeeze sunscreen into your palms and rub it across his shoulders.

his muscles flex beneath your hands while you smooth lotion over the dark markings curling along his skin, careful and thorough despite the way he eyes you.

you drag your fingers over his neck and jaw, rubbing sunscreen into the bridge of his nose while he looks deeply inconvenienced by affection.

“look down”

“this is humiliating.”

“look down, so i can get the back of your neck.”

he grumbles under his breath but tilts his chin downward anyway. his previously bored, half lidded eyes, dilate at the sight of your cleavage, right. in. his. face.

how blissful.

yuji bursts into giggles. you had spiked up sukuna’s hair to stand up in a funky way.

“you look funny papa”

sukuna grimaces.

“want me to throw you into the ocean?”

“yeah!”

“…”

you laugh so hard you nearly smear sunscreen into sukuna’s eye.

you take turns, with sukuna now applying sunscreen onto your back.

eventually yuji tears off toward the shoreline with a plastic bucket in hand, sandals abandoned somewhere behind him.

you lean back into your chair with a satisfied sigh while sukuna sits beside you, one arm draped lazily behind your head.

for a while the two of you simply watch.

yuji jumps over tiny waves, yelling triumphantly every single time he successfully crosses one.

he crouches to collect shells with complete seriousness only to abandon them three seconds later because another wave has appeared.

his little laugh carries over the water. your chest feels warm.

“he looks like you when he gets excited,” you murmur, nuzzling against the base of sukuna’s neck.

“poor kid”

you elbow him lightly, “it is cute sukuna, you are cute”

before sukuna can mull over your words, yuji suddenly turns around spotting the two of you immediately.

“papa!! come here!!”

sukuna pretends not to hear,

“papa!!”

you mouth a slight ‘go’ as your husband sighs dramatically before obliging as per usual.

the water reaches just beneath his knees when yuji grabs his hand excitedly and starts dragging him around with all the strength a six year old could possess.

you pad in after them enjoying the waves and the feel of soft sand beneath your bare feet.

you smile to yourself. it is almost absurd seeing sukuna getting ordered around by a child carrying a neon orange shovel.

yuji points toward a lopsided sandcastle near the shore, “help me make it BIGGER” he sticks his arms out to act out how big he wanted it to be.

sitting back down on your chair you try not to look too amused as sukuna crouches down into the sand.

his large hands awkwardly shape wet sand while yuji gives deeply unnecessary instructions beside him.

“more tower”

sukuna looks over at you, pleading for an escape. you wave him off.

“it’s a sandcastle not a fortress” he mutters back.

“more tower” yuji runs about, sometimes gathering sand and sometimes water. most of the time being largely unhelpful.

sukuna clicks his tongue and adds another tower.

hours later the sky begins softening into gold.

yuji’s exhausted enough now to become clingy, dragging his feet through the sand while holding onto sukuna’s hand.

“i need to wash my feet” you brush sand off your legs with a tired groan.

before you can even move, sukuna bends down and scoops you into his arms effortlessly.

you yelp, “kuna—”

he pats you lower thigh,“stop squirming”

people nearby glance over briefly before immediately looking away once sukuna glares in their direction.

you hide your snicker against his shoulder while he carries you toward the rinse station near the boardwalk.

the water runs cool over your feet as he holds you securely against his chest, an arm around your waist like you weigh nothing at all.

yuji stands beside him sleepily rubbing his eyes.

once your feet are clean, sukuna sets you carefully onto the bench.

then without a word, he crouches down.

you blink.

“..what’re you doing?”

he grabs your sandals from beside the bench.

“your feet’ll get dirty again.”

years of loving him and your heart still stutters stupidly.

sukuna slides the sandals onto your feet one by one with mild annoyance etched across his face, but you know better. his love language when it came to you, was acts of service.

meanwhile yuji watches with narrowed eyes, “papa..?”

“what.”

“that’s sooo romantic” he smiles ear to ear.

sukuna immediately flicks water at his forehead.

yuji screeches dramatically while you laugh loud enough that people turn to look again.

“where did he even learn that?” sukuna asks, a mild smile overtaking his usual harsh features.

you shrug, in a dream-like trance, the domesticity of this moment making your heart soar.

and for once, sukuna doesn’t care at all.

firefly; you guys wanted longer fics so hehe i hope this was good

more like this

You glanced at Connie, smiling shyly as if he were a stranger and not your boyfriend of several years. It was a shame your overprotective brother was in the room; you would have loved to get down on your knees to kiss the tattoos on his stomach and take his pierced dick in your mouth, turned on by his dark streetwear outfit, contrasting with your pink one. He looked like a bad boy, but the only bad guy here was Eren; Connie was a loverboy. He returned your small smile by discreetly patting the spot next to him. You sat down next to him, pleased because you thought he was looking at the drawings you were making on your tablet, but the truth was that Connie was staring at your thick thighs, which had tripled in size in your seated position. He remembered what it felt like to have them trembling around his head and adjusted his sweatpants so his erection wouldn't be noticeable. He took out his phone. You had to know.

“I want to be inside you.”

Concentrated in your digital art and oblivious to the tension, your stylus stopped drawing, your eyes rereading the message in confusion.

‘In a food, stabbing, or sexual way?’ You sent.

Connie giggled softly when he received the notification. You and your autistic brain that takes everything literally. Dirty talk was a pain in the ass with you.

“All three. Your beauty stabs me, I want to eat you up to have you inside me, and I want to fuck you.”

“That’s something Chikage from Hakuouki would have said.”

“Who is this nobody from another otome?”

“Speak of my husband with respect.”

“Your real future husband is right here, princesa,” he whispered in your ear. You shivered at the sensual intonation of his voice, as close as you were, your body overheating at the thought of tonight. You checked that no one was looking in your direction so you could sign “I hope so, but you know it’s not possible.”

Connie didn’t lose his sweet expression, still a playful glint in his eyes. He placed his hand on your thigh to grasp the soft flesh. “Ony will have to kill me with his own hands to prevent our future together. Even my spirit will haunt him. He can’t do anything to me.” 

You quickly brushed his hand away, heat rising to your neck and burning your cheeks.

Your relationship consisted of three things: acting like goofy fools together, him playing the hero of forbidden romances, and him making love to you passionately and tenderly.

Being with Connie was like living a real rom-com, even though he was a drug dealer.

You were writing a new message. “I’m going to leave you, you make my head boil.”

He laughed softly. “Since when does my girl understand metaphors like that?”

You playfully punched him and signed “I’m not a walking autistic cliché.”

“Yes, you are. Look at what you sent me a few minutes ago.” 

You ignored him and went back up to your room and once at the top of the stairs you gave him the finger and he just gave you his stupid smile with his red eyes because of the weed.

  ──────── 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭,

Connie walked into your room, immediately ripping off his hoodie and t-shirt and throwing them on the floor, revealing his fully tattooed chest and abdomen. Filled with designs you'd done, like the rose that started its stem on his hip and whose petals touched his ribs, the soft style of the tattoo contrasted with the harsh lines of the ink. But Connie loved it. It was like having you and him inside him, on him, for him. 

'Heaven or Las Vegas' by Cocteau Twins played softly in your room as you sat at your vanity. The dream pop song made Connie, who was stoned out, drift even further into the psychedelic atmosphere. You detangled your hair with hair milk, separating it into four twists—two in the front on each side, two in the back—so it would be easier to manage tomorrow when you went to get your hair braided by your favorite braider, who didn't charge an entire month's salary for long knotless braids. Connie admired the goddess who was his girlfriend for a long time, licking his lips as he noticed you were wearing that Savage X Fenty pale rose nightgown, which was sheer, with a ribbon bow at the center of your chest.

“Mami, I missed you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around your neck and burying his face in your scalp, inhaling the scent of rosemary mint from your Mielle hair oil, castor oil, and shea butter from your Skala leave-in conditioner. He bought that one for you after seeing a TikTok about a Brazilian influencer with the same curl pattern as you recommending it.

With your hands manicured in a French manicure, you used sign language to communicate “We saw each other earlier,” with a roll of your eyes.

“I know, but I’m obsessed with my princess.” He kissed the back of your neck, his cuban accent adding charisma to his voice. 

His desire, love, and passion for you, dripping from his voice, made you feel all giddy and fuzzy in your stomach. You smiled shyly at him in the mirror of your heart-shaped vanity.

“Don’t smile like that,” he said softly, almost desperately, his red eyes and dilated pupils even more affected by your little smile. “You’re so gorgeous in this.” He played with the thin straps of your nightgown. “But I’m sure you’re even prettier without them, aren’t you, baby?” 

Shyly, you ignored his compliment and finished styling your hair before protecting it with your satin bonnet, the same color as your wardrobe, before getting up to hug Connie. Thinking he wanted to make love now, you led him toward the bed, but Connie spun you around.

Chuckling, you understood he wanted to dance and followed him, as the dream pop song stopped to make way for “Punch Drunk” by Sade. A wordless jazz track, purely instrumental, that made you feel like you were in an old jazz bar with your secret forbidden lover. 

His hand on the small of your back, Connie made you dance, roaming around your room, laughing when you bumped into furniture because the space was small, kissing you when the saxophone was more intense than ever. He took advantage of the kisses to move his hands up and caress the voluptuous curves of your chubby body. Your fat ass, which he gripped even though you tried to push him away, the pudginess of your belly that he loved to feel under his fingers, and your ample breasts that rose and fell rapidly before him because of your barely concealed desire.

“Use your voice, what do you want?” he teased, knowing damn well you had nonverbal autism.

You glared at him and tried to push him away, but he threw you onto the bed.

“Aww, I’m such a bad boyfriend, I have to make amends for my crimes.”

He removed the rest of his clothes, keeping his black boxer briefs on for now. He stayed on his knees on the bed as you lay there, resting on your elbows.

You nodded at what he said and lifted your legs to place your French-manicured foot on the center of his collarbones. Connie smirked, knowing what you wanted.

He took your foot in his hands and kissed it all over, from heel to toe, appreciating the softness of your skin as you had just come from the shower where you had exfoliated. He wrapped his tongue around your toes, then sucked on them, his gray eyes fixed on you, a fire igniting from your core and spreading through your body.

You wanted this, you needed this. You gave him your other foot where he did the same, little shivers running through you at the movements of his tongue on your skin. Your breathing quickened as his lips moved up your leg, venturing under your nightgown. You couldn't see Connie because of your chubby belly, so you lay fully on your back, staring up at the ceiling. Not being able to speak or see him should have made your sex life difficult, but it was quite the opposite. Connie regularly checked for your consent and comfort; your nonverbal communication wasn't an issue. You tugged at his hair to let him know you liked what his tongue was doing, and you patted his shoulders to tell him to pause because the wave of overstimulation was near. As for the details—how fast or slow to use his tongue, which spot to lick—Connie paid close attention to your breathing and the way your thighs clenched around his head to gauge whether he was doing a good job.

“I’m gonna keep this on you,” he breathed, liking the lacy pink panties you were wearing. He pushed it to the side, his warm breath on your cunt, in need for attention.

The music switched to “Iceblink Punk” by Cocteau Twins, and the combination of the psychedelic sound and Connie’s tongue plunging into you was surreal. You felt like you were floating high in the sky.

Connie was truly gentle, slow, and calm when he was eating you out. Eating pussy was an art, and he was the Mozart and Shakespeare of the field. He took his time pleasuring you, smiling because even when you couldn’t speak; you didn’t fake your panting. The warm metal ball of his piercing kept rolling around your throbbing bud, just to feel your legs tremble, but his tongue explored every corner, collecting your arousal in his mouth. He was even disappointed you'd just showered, because it lacked flavor. He was a perverted loverboy like that, yeah.

Lapping through wet folds, he groaned every time he felt the pulse of your pussy in his mouth. His hands gripped your thick hips, making them grind against his face, to guide you, to show you it was okay to do that, because your autism sometimes made you a motionless robot during sex.

“You’re okay, baby?” he asked softly, reassured when you stroked his scalp to say yes.

After a comfortable rhythm of hip movements settled in, he removed his hands and sank his fingers inside you, all the while sucking your clit. A searing, burning sensation in your lower abdomen, almost setting your whole being ablaze, as you pulled at his short hair that had grown since his buzzcut to indicate to him that the combination was perfect.

When you reached your peak, there were no dramatic expressions or noises, just Connie nearly choking as you pushed your pelvic floor into his head and painfully squeezed your thighs around him.

“Still in a hyposensitivity mode?” he whispered, as he managed to pull away from your grip.

You nodded, catching your breath. Connie was always attentive to your autistic sensory needs, especially when you were in a sensory-seeking mode, or a mode where your sensitivity was low and you needed a lot of stimulation, like now.

He removed his underwear, nudging your entrance with his pierced tip as he laid down on you, putting all his weight on you. You were crushed by him, but it was perfect. To further satisfy your sensory needs, he wrapped his hand around your neck, squeezing comfortably. It was the perfect combination of pressure for you.

“No tits touching?”

You shook your head. Sometimes, you needed a lot of stimulation while simultaneously hating stimulation somewhere.

He leaned down to kiss your neck. “Okay, mami. Gonna take of you, now. Do you feel my piercing?”

He slid his pierced dick through the folds, still not entering for the moment. Your hands caressed his back, digging your nails into it to communicate that yes, you feel it, and you like it. He groaned, placing more passionate open-mouthed kisses on your skin. He pushed his hips, your warmth welcoming him like a king. He smiled against your skin hearing your usual gasp when his full size was inside you.

“Can’t handle these inches, huh?” he teased, sucking your earlobe. “You’re gonna take this dick anyway. Too bad for you, princesa.”

He leaned back to see your eyes widening every time he penetrated you. He moved his hips backward to let you breathe and pushed back in.

“Why is she wetter than usual?”

He looked at your slick cock, which covered his face with awe.

You pointed at his red eyes. His smile widened.

“Are you turned on by my stoner self? You’re so cute.” He kissed you, his tongue entwined with yours. You breathed softly into the kiss, overwhelmed by him, his dick, his affection.

He slipped his hands under your bent knees and placed them on his shoulders. The position you were in made it impossible for him to hide your belly rolls under your sheer nightgown. He looked terrifying with his low groan and his eyes dilated by weed and your beauty, staring at your curves as if he wanted to devour you whole. He wrapped his hand around your neck again, to your great pleasure. He increased the speed of his thrusts, panting above you, obsessed with the sight of your eyes rolling back when he touched a sensitive spot inside you.

A fever rose in your belly; you were embarrassed to come so quickly again, but every movement of Connie's was precise and deep, so he chuckled when he felt your legs clench his head once more.

He kissed your forehead.

“My baby is needy tonight.”

You nodded, cuddling him, pleading with your eyes to go even faster and harder.

He gladly spent the whole night taking care of you like he always does. Because that’s the thing about Connie: when his princess wants something, he’s going to give it to her. Even if his best friend, your brother, would kill him if he knew.

You were wearing a new dress that you had bought the day before. It hugged your chubby body perfectly, stopping halfway up your thick thighs. The pale pink fabric brought out the luminous glow of your brown skin. Made of satin and molding to your curves in the most exquisite way, with thin straps that barely supported your breasts, the ribbon bow at the center of your chest made your sexy outfit cute. Your long braids was tied in a low bun held by a ribbon bow at the back, leaving your pretty round face uncovered. Your eyelids were enhanced with glittery pink eyeshadow, your long false eyelashes made your gaze so seductive, and your lips were glossy, looking so delicious. A literal angel. Eren, Ony, and Connie would eat you up if they could.

Eren adjusted his bulge in his black sweatpants and tried to look away so as not to worsen his erection by staring at you, while Connie and Ony were still staring, completely unashamed of looking like creeps. Your Mary Jane heels clicked on the floor as you walked around the restaurant taking orders from your little notebook, and when you arrived at the three men's table, your eyes lit up, happy to see them.

They were your favorite customers. They'd been coming to eat at the restaurant three times a week for at least a year. You didn't know how they'd managed to always be there during your shifts—Connie had threatened your boss to give him your work schedule—but it was always a pleasure to see them. They always complimented you and were so sweet to you, nothing like the old men who had wives and looked at you with lust in their eyes.

The most intimidating one was Eren. He was always dressed in black with a hood over his head that hid his face, but you could glimpse his neck tattoos peeking out from under his hoodie. His eyes were always hald-lidded and red from weed, staring intensely into your soul when you took his order, sending shivers down your spine. He was known as the university's plug; you'd never used his services, but his deep voice spoke to you so sweetly that you considered buying from him so he could talk to you privately.

The friendliest was Ony. Compared to Eren's dark appearance, Ony exuded light. You would have to be a psychoapth to not to like Ony's intelligence and kindness. He loved fashion and taking care of himself, you both always talked about skincare and clothes. He played basketball on your university team, making him the most popular of the trio. You loved learning about his sport, and hear the passion in his voice when he talked about Lamelo Ball. He was a bit of a star on campus but was the least arrogant man you'd ever met, always smiling softly when you talked to him, making you feel so safe and care for.

The most flirtatious was Connie. You could never look him in the eye when he called you ‘princesa’, joking about how you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. You never knew if he called you ‘mami’ just because it was normal for latino men, or if he was actually trying to flirt with you. Like Eren, he often wore his hood up, hiding his eyebrow piercings, but he wasn't as intimidating. He always had a teasing glint in his eyes that made you flutter.

“Hey,” you said shyly, approaching their table.

As always, Eren was stoned out, his pupils dilated as he looked at you, making your spine tingle. Ony’s lips curved into a smile, clenching his tattooed hand to bump his fists against yours.

You didn’t have any friends because of your social anxiety, only Jean as a boyfriend, so it always made you happy when they treated you like one of their own, even though they were just regular customers you sometimes ran into at university.

“The usual?” you asked, already knowing what they were going to order. A cheeseburger with fries for Ony (don’t tell Reiner, his coach, that he loves that), a steak with fries for Eren, and a salad for Connie.

“No, I want something sweeter today,” Connie replied, leaning back against the back of his chair. Eren smirked, understanding perfectly what his best friend really wanted.

“You just want dessert today?” You tilted your head.

Ony’s eyes softened; you looked so cute with your head cocked to the side.

“Nah.” Connie’s voice grew seductive. “Just you.”

Your autistic brain, which didn’t quite grasp irony and sarcasm, made you wear a confused expression. “Hm, what do you mean?”

Connie just licked his lips, his gaze lingering on your fat thighs. “Nothing, mami.”

“Is that a new dress?” Ony asked, tugging at the hem. “You always wear frilly dresses.”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, enthusiastic and all smiles. You loved fashion so much; you were happy that Ony, who was also a fashion boy, noticed your new clothes. “My boyfriend said frills were childish, so I’m trying out a new style.”

The trio frowned and looked at each other, silently saying, “We should kill that motherfucker.”

“Break up with him,” Eren advised, his face hard.

You shook your head, your heart squeezing painfully at the thought of leaving the only man who accepted your autism without judging you. “N-No, it’s okay.” You looked at your feet, your lips trembling as you realized that the only reason you were with Jean was because he didn’t make you feel different from other girls, not because you actually loved him. You needed so much validation from others.

Ony caressed your thigh, sliding his hand up under your dress to grasp the plushness.

“Hey, it’s okay, baby. ‘Ren is kidding.’”

“I’m dead serious, man.”

Ony's gentle caresses on your skin relaxed you, and your autistic brain didn't really grasp that this was inappropriate contact between friends. You just thought he was being kind. Your face softened, and Ony took a perverse pleasure in exploiting your lack of understanding of social cues. 

After the chef prepared their meals, you brought them. As you placed the tray on their tables, you dropped a glass, which shattered. You apologized and bent down to pick up the shards, the skirt of your dress lifting up. Eren glanced at your ass, now visible to everyone, lingering on the way your panties molded your folds. His gut twisted in arousal.

“Connie, take a picture,” Eren whispered.

“I’m your lapdog or something? I only like orders from her, idiot,” Connie muttered but silently took a picture of your body under your dress. They had a whole dossier like that. Photos of you smiling at other customers, photos of you space-outing, photos of you studying in the university library… They were perverts. And stalkers. They didn't really care that it was wrong.

When you finally picked up your mess from the floor, you gave them a shy smile that accentuated their secret erections before walking away.

What a cute angel. You had no idea these men were devils.

────────

'I saw Jean with a girl at a frat party, I'm so sorry sweetheart I think he's cheating on you :((' 

Your stomach dropped when you saw Sasha's text message, your world crumbled in minutes. 

It wasn't possible. 

You and Jean had been together for two years. You'd experienced all your firsts with him. He was the first boy who didn't think you were too much, the first boy who didn't seem to see your autism as a burden, the first boy who made you believe that a weird girl like you could finally be loved. He couldn't have cheated on you. Jean loved you. He told you every day. You weren't too much for him. Please, you hope it was a misunderstanding. 

You got out of bed, where you'd been studying your botany books, and went to your closet. You'd never been to a frat party because your social anxiety made it difficult for you. Places where there were too many people scared you too. You preferred to stay safe in your apartment, in your bed with satin sheets and stuffed with plushies.

You slipped into a pink denim skirt, a matching bustier top, and your white Naked Wolfe platform boots. You let your long pale pink goddess braids cascade down your back, hoping your outfit was cool enough for a frat party and people wouldn’t overdose with all the pink on you.

Sasha sent you the address, and you left your apartment with a knot in your stomach.

A two-year relationship couldn't end like this. Jean loved you, right? You weren't some unlovable woman who was going to end up alone for the rest of her life, were you?

You clutched the strap of your bag, looking at the floor as you entered the frat house. You didn't want to see the sea of ​​students; it would trigger a panic attack. Rap ​​music blasted from the party's big speakers; maybe a Big Boogie song. People laughed and yelled along to the lyrics. The smell of alcohol, tobacco, and marijuana were everywhere, and you felt like you were in hell. There were too many stimuli all around you, enveloping you and making your brain confused, unable to function properly.

You raised your head, your heart pounding. You had to look around to find Jean. You inspected the ground floor, trying to ignore how your body stiffened when you brushed against the sweaty bodies of the dancers. You hated physical contact because of your autism; you needed to be in a comfortable environment to be touched because of your sensory issues. Sex needed to be gradual.

And then, as you climbed the stairs, reaching the first floor, you saw him. 

Pressing Mikasa's body against the wall, his head buried in her neck, his hips grinding into her.

You stood paralyzed, watching them, your heart aching.

You knew Mikasa well. She was a goth girl who was in the same major as Jean. You'd already seen them hanging out together, and Jean had told you she was just a friend.

You didn't yell that he was an asshole. You didn't try to separate them.

You turned around, went downstairs, and left the fraternity house to sit on the sidewalk.

Was it because she understood sarcasm and didn't need the same jokes repeated to her to get the humor?

Was it because she knew how to be quiet when she was passionate about something instead of yapping for hours about a topic nobody cared about, annoying everyone around you?

Was it because she didn't shut down when she was upset?

Was it because she knew how to recognize her feelings when she experienced strong emotions instead of being unable to speak and explain what she felt?

Was it because she didn't need childish things like plushies for comfort?

Was it because she was interested in grown-up things instead of being obsessed with dolls?

You wrapped your arms around your knees and let the tears flow.

As always, because of your autism, you never knew what you were feeling and struggled to identify your emotions. Was it heartbreak? You weren't even in love with Jean. He was just a boy who gave you attention when everyone else rejected you.

No, it was failure.

Failure because you were both not enough and too much. You just wanted to curl up in bed, hug your plushies tightly, and forget that you were an unlovable woman.

To make matters worse, a torrential downpour soaked your clothes, making them wet and sticky, sending shivers of discomfort down your spine. You hated it when your clothes felt too tight because of your sensory issues; it almost hurt and could cause meltdowns.

A flashback of Jean telling you he loved you in the missionary position and that you were his favorite girl intensified your tears.

Could you really blame Jean?

Who would want a girl like you?

A shy girl who was scared of eye contact, never spoke in public, and barely managed to hold a conversation without getting distracted.

You wished you were a normal girl. You wished you were better at hiding your symptoms. You wished you fit in more easily in society.

“Who stole your smile, mami?” A deep voice boomed in front of you, and someone flicked your forehead. You lifted your teary eyes and met Connie's gaze. Next to him, Eren had his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, his hood still pulled up, but you could see his concerned expression. Ony held a coat over you to keep the rain from soaking you even more.

You parted your lips, trying to speak, but no words came out. You felt so many emotions that your brain couldn't function anymore. You were happy to see them; they always brightened your day, but tonight, you were so depressed. You failed at love. You were unlovable.

The combination of your clothes clinging to your skin, the loud music blasting from the frat house, and your pain—you just buried your head in your thighs, ignoring everything around you.

Several muscular arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground, and when you raised your head, you were sitting in a car with them.

They drove for a good hour on purpose so you could calm down and refocus on your bodily sensations. The silence of the car calmed your distress for a moment, and you remained silent until they drove you to their apartment.

You were so depressed that you followed them without a word to their place, instead of asking them for a ride home. When you entered their living room, you sat on their couch, staring at the floor.

Eren casually slumped down next to you and put an arm around your shoulders.

“Where is my bubbly girl?”

“Dead,” you muttered.

He chuckled lowly.

“Don’t say stuff like this, I would be very heartbroken if you died.”

“I doubt it.” You were playing with the bottom of your skirt. “You will replace me easily like my boyfriend did when he cheated on me.”

Eren glanced at Ony, seeming to say ‘emotional stuff is for you, man’, and Ony sat down next to you. He placed his hand on your thick thigh, squeezing the plushness, his voice gentle.

“He cheated on you?”

You nodded, silently. There was nothing else to say.

“You don’t feel like you can change him and the need to go back to him like some abused women do?” Connie asked, standing with his hands in the pockets of his pants.

“Not really. I think it’s clear I wasn’t the right woman for him.”

“You mean, he wasn’t the right man for you,” Eren corrected.

“No.” You shook your head. “I don’t blame him.” 

Connie tsked.

“Princesa, you talk like those abused women.”

“Yeah,” Ony joined the conversation, “I don’t like how you’re talking right now, mama.”

 Your eyes watered again as you thought of all the reasons Jean was right to cheat on you.

“You don’t understand,” you sniffed.

Eren leaned against you, his warm breath caressing your neck as he spoke into your ear, his deep voice making you shiver.

“Then explain, sweetheart.” 

Ony kissed the tears that were running down your chubby cheeks, and you suddenly felt strangely cared for. Like a warm blanket over your bruised heart. Wrapped in gentle warmth. In the light of affection, not the darkness of rejection.

Maybe they'll understand if you explain? Maybe you weren't really alone in the world?

“I was homeschooled because I had school phobia,” you said shyly. They all listened attentively without saying a word. “I didn't understand the children around me, so it created anxiety. I didn't learn how to mask my autism because I was never in contact with the outside world and my parents were overprotective. So, I just… live my life without hiding my symptoms.”

“That's actually a good thing, you're sincere,” Connie commented, kneeling down to rest his head on your lap. You ran your hands over his bleached buzzcut, your autistic brain fascinated by the feel of his short, freshly shaved hair. Heat rushed to your cheeks when you realized you were the center of attention, making you even more timid than you already were.

“Not really,” you hesitated, “you need to mask your autism to fit in. Only people who want to be outcasts don’t mask it.”

“I’m an asshole, I don’t try to soften up for people, and I have a very good social life,” Eren grumbled, absolutely disagreeing with what you were saying. You didn’t need to perform a personality that wasn’t yours to be accepted; just being yourself was enough.

“That’s right, Eren is the worst person I know.”

Eren glared at Ony who had said that, his brown, lidded eyes shooting daggers, but Ony smirked at him.

“What’s your point, mami? Are you saying Jean cheated on you because you’re not masking your autism?” Connie ignored these two best friends, focused on your suffering.

Your breath hitched when you gazed into his eyes and saw only care, concern, and affection.

“I’m just saying… Maybe if I was a normal girl, maybe he wouldn’t—”

“You know what to do when a boy cheats on you?” He cut in.

You shook your head.

“You show him you’re wanted elsewhere.” He lifted the hem of your skirt to place kisses on your plush thighs, his lips soft against your skin.

“W-Wait,” his kisses made you tickle, “Connie, you’re—”

“Get revenge on that bastard with us.” Eren buried his head in your neck, and your body warmed as you felt his hot tongue on your flesh. Ony slipped his hand under your top to knead one of your breasts. His hand was so large it enveloped it perfectly, making you flustered.

Your brain was in overdrive. Just seconds before, you had been crying because you were suffering from your disability, and now three hot men were kissing and touching you intimately.

An hour ago, you would have pushed them away because you had a boyfriend, but now?

Your freaky side had awakened, your cunt throbbing at the thought of letting yourself be manhandled by three men.

“How do I get revenge?” You whispered, your voice sounding innocent as if you weren't squeezing your thighs together to hide the smell of your arousal from Connie.

“You know damn well, sweetheart,” Eren chuckled before catching a piece of your skin between his teeth and sucking it vociferously. A wave of heat snaked through your lower abdomen and up your upper body, warming your entire being.

Your cheeks burned, feeling slutty for even liking the attention the three men were giving you.

Connie took his phone out of his jeans pocket, turned on the camera to record a video. He spread your legs and lifted your skirt, filming your clothed pussy where a wet spot resided.

“You’re gonna show that dumbass that if he doesn’t want you, other men will take good care of you,” he asserted, rubbing his fingers on the darker part of your panties, making you shiver.

You didn't think Jean would really care if you were getting laid by other men; he'd already shown enough that he didn't give a damn about you. But you said nothing, because part of you was thrilled at the idea of ​​a foursome.

When you were 18, you had a list of things you wanted to experience once you were cured of your social anxiety. Group sex was one of the things on the list. You were a freaky girl, what can you say? It was time to make one of your dreams come true.

“You’re not gonna eat her out before me,” Eren pushed Connie’s head from between your legs.

“Nobody likes chubby women more than me, so yeah, I’m gonna eat her out first.” Connie bit Eren’s hand before nibbling at the inside of your thighs. “Right, baby? Nobody likes your body more than me?” He looked up at you, his voice sultry.

Before you could answer, Eren’s hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you closer. You gasped, your breath coming in the tightness of the pressure, and when you turned your head toward him, his intense eyes made you swallow hard. There was something terrifying about him in that moment.

“Don’t even answer his question, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I love you more than him.” He crushed his lips against yours, forcing his tongue into your mouth. An electric current pulsed beneath your skin. You closed your eyes, enjoying the intensity of the kiss. There was something about Eren's intimidating aura that made you want to be an obedient girl, fulfilling his every desire and simply pleasing him. You moaned into the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours, kissing you as if he had something to prove. His hand tightened around your throat, making sure you knew who was in charge.

When he pulled away, your eyes fluttered open. His gaze was burning hot, and you almost wanted to tell everyone to leave so he could kiss you like that all night.

Ony's eyes narrowed when he saw the interaction between you and Eren. That bastard. Eren had always been possessive; it didn't surprise him that he was trying to monopolize you.

There had always been a kind of tension between the three boys. As many people said, there was always a duo in a trio, and that was the case with them. Ony and Connie always teamed up to annoy Eren, ragebaiting him and provoking his anger issues.

Now that they were in love with the same girl, it was a race to see who would be your favorite. Ony could no longer count on Connie to beat Eren; he had to assert himself.

While Eren was dominant, Ony was the gentlest man alive. Most of his exes had left him because he was too nice, but he wasn't heartbroken. He didn't want to become a bully like Eren to be appreciated for who he truly was. He was going to find a girl who would find comfort in his kindness, not get bored by his loving caresses, and be satisfied by his gentle side. He was determined to make sure that girl was you.

“Stop choking her, that's not how you treat the girl of your dreams.”

“I touch her however I want. She seems to like it, doesn't she ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚?”

You looked back and forth between Eren and Ony, silent before giggling softly.

“I like you both.”

“Nah, you need to choose someone.” Eren’s hand around your throat moved down to caress your pudgy belly beneath your top, and he sucked on your earlobe. Ony lifted your top to just above your breasts before leaning down to take your nipple in his mouth. You didn't even think about sucking in your stomach or trying to position yourself in a way that would lessen the sagness of your breasts. You were comfortable, felt pretty under their hands and lips, your body hot all over.

Connie slapped your thigh.

“Stop focusing on these useless men, mami,” he muttered.

He caressed your clothed core, making gentle back-and-forth movements that transformed into circular motions around your clit. His hot breath on you, his intense gaze, and his calloused fingers against you were an explosive cocktail that already had you trembling.

“Sensitive as fuck,” he chuckled. “Autism or you’re just needy?”

“Both,” you breathed shyly.

The wet patch grew larger as Connie played with your clothed pussy. A frenzy took hold of your body. The atmosphere was perfect, the touches were intentional and tailored to your needs; you didn't feel overwhelmed by the sensory stimulation. Ony's mouth on your breast, Eren's teeth on your lob, and Connie's fingers pressing against you… It was so simple, yet perfect.

You rocked your hips against Connie's hands. “I want more, please.” Your neediness was barely concealed in your voice.

Connie smirked. “Yeah? What does my girl want?”

"Um… You know what I want," you whispered, feeling so shy you would have hidden under the sofa if you could. Being a shy, introverted girl in a freak body was a nightmare. You wanted to be slutted out so badly but struggled to get there.

"You have no game, Connie," Eren mocked, his hand still gently caressing your stomach. His petty laugh was hoarse and sent waves of pleasure into your center.

Connie ignores his best friend and slowly took off your panties. You hated thongs and very thin panties with your sensory issues, you were glad nobody made fun of your plain pink cotton underwear.

When he looked at your bare pussy, he had the same glint he had when he called you a ‘tremendo mango’ at the restaurant. For many weeks, you thought it was a cute way of showing appreciation with a fruit metaphor before googling and realizing it was a compliment on your looks in Cuba.

“So pretty.” The tip of his fingers wandered over the gossy folds just to feel your wetness and touch your cunt swollen with desire and expectation.

“Do you like sexual stimulation?” Ony asked gently, his tongue curling around your other brown nipple.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” You said, clueless, shivering again at Eren’s open-mouthed kisses on your neck.

“I mean sex toys and temperature play.”

Your lips parted in anticipation.

“If it’s gradual and we stop when it’s too much, I think it’s okay,” you smiled.

Ony was jealous of Connie at that moment because he would have eaten you for days for that cute expression.

Ony left the room, already missing his tongue on your body. But Eren’s on your neck was divine. He wasn’t ashamed to devour your neck, sucking on the bits of skin he had caught between his teeth, making you dizzy.

Connie set up his phone so he could film you and have his hands free. He sank his fingers between your lips, parting them, and the way he inspected your flesh made you nervous, but the sensation was so good, he chuckled every time you clenched your thighs too much.

“Focus on the top, please, Connie,” you said, trembling with longing to feel his touch on your clit.

“Nah. You’re not dominant enough for my submissive side, I’m bored.” 

You widened your eyes as he withdrew his fingers and, in a panic, you grabbed his head, pressing it against your pussy. The vibrations of his laughter against you sent waves of electricity through your body, and when his tongue lapped through the folds, you saw stars. Ony returned with mysterious toys in his hands and glared at Connie, who had the chance to taste you first. You thought Ony was going to use the objects on you, but he sat down next to you and resumed sucking your nipples greedily, as if preparing you and testing waters. One hand on Connie's buzzcut, pressing it against you, the other on Ony's short black hair—with a fresh new fade because he doesn't play about his appearance, just like you (#besties)—you felt like a queen with her loyal maids existing to please you.

Eren had practically become a vampire with all the little bites he'd made on your neck.

"I could eat you up," he whispered, nuzzling you. "Why do you smell so good?" 

“Well, to make perfume last longer, it’s recommended to start with a cream and then layer it with oils, butters, mists, and even Vaseline so it lasts longer. You also need a perfume with a high concentration, not just an eau de toilette—” 

He bit you so hard you let out a pained moan.

“Nerdy ass.”

“She’s right, though,” Ony joined the conversation, leaving your nipples alone. “Men need to stop with cheap cologne and buy pure perfume. They buy Savage by Dior and are still surprised they don’t have game.”

“Not everyone is a self-care nerd like you, Ony,” Eren chuckled. “Opinion on Maison Crivelli?”

“You’re trying too hard to be niche, just buy Creed Aventus or some Armani stuff.”

“It’s $300, dumb ass.”

“You’re a rich plug, ‘Ren. But I would buy it for you if you weren’t the ban of my existence.” 

“Is this… What they call ‘bromance’?” you added to the conversation in a frail voice because the way Connie was eating you out… You tried not to make a fool of yourself by whimpering like a dog in heat.

“More like rivalry,” Eren said, mock-disdain in his voice.

“He’s jealous because I’m taking care of you while he’s hurting you with his teeth,” Ony teased, clipping a nipple clamp to your little finger to check if the intensity of the fixed pressure and tension wasn’t too overwhelming. After receiving your blessing, he clipped them to your nipples, the silver chain connecting them contrasting with your princess-like appearance.

It felt a little painful… but the pain was exquisite, a sensation you hadn’t experienced before. You were discovering a masochistic side to yourself today.

“She looks so pretty like this,” Eren murmured, staring at your body. “I feel like I’m going to ruin her if I touch her more.” He put a little distance between you to unbutton his jeans and free his heavy erection.

Connie stopped eating you out for a moment. He collected a lot of your arousal on his hand to spread it on Eren's dick, making masturbation easier. You looked at Eren, amazed that he wasn't bothered by his best friend touching his cock. He smirked.

"Brotherhood, baby." 

You burst out laughing but ended up moaning as Connie went back into business.

Ony and Eren glanced at each other, both captivated by the way you arched your back on the couch, your chest rising and falling, your lips agape.

Ony kissed your arm, along the length of it, as Eren shamelessly stroked his dick while staring at you.

"Ony, you need to fuck her first. I'm going to overwhelm her, I'll save my turn for last," Eren proposed, his voice raspier as his hand worked itself over.

"I like the way you're thinking," Ony smiled against your skin, happy to be the first. Connie's tongue traced around your clit. He was having fun. Sometimes he pressed the tip of his tongue against your clit without moving, to make you whimper; sometimes he made circles over it to make you tremble; or most of the time he avoided touching it so as not to overstimulate you and lapped through the folds. The combination of Ony's kisses returning to your neck, the nipple claws, Connie's tongue, and the sounds of Eren's hand rubbing together made you feel like you were overheating, until you finally exploded. It wasn't spectacular; your autism made you struggle to show big emotions on your face, but Connie and Ony caught the way your body was wracked with spasms and your lip was bitten.

"Now get out of the way." Ony pushed Connie aside, who was laughing at his best friend's excitement.

Connie got up from the floor and picked up his phone to be the cameraman again. Ony laid you down on the couch, resting your head on Eren's lap. Eren smirked at you, looking down at you, his erection just next to your shy face.

“Are we going to do double penetration at some point? Because I need to be prepared, it can hurt,” you said softly, anxiously. Your autistic brain needed to know all the preparations and plan everything in advance so you wouldn't be surprised when it happened. You constantly needed clear instructions and reassurance.

The three of them let out a quiet laugh.

Eren used the hand that didn't touch his length to stroke the top of your head.

“You are prepared, don't worry.” 

Ony removed his clothes, and your jaw dropped at the sight of all the tattoos that adorned his dark brown skin, making him look intimidating and even sexier now. He lay on top of you, the hard planes of his body pressed against your soft curves. You felt the definition of his muscles against you, the proof of his dedication to his sport.

His head above you, his beauty and his handsomeness made your cunt clench.

“Hey,” you whispered softly.

“Hey.” He smiled wrapping your thick thigh around his waist. “How do you want it, love?”

You wrapped an arm around his neck, pressing him against you. “Slow and deep.”

“I’m gonna give you that.”

“I’m not this filming this sappy shit,” Connie grumbled.

“Yeah, they are acting as if my dick isn’t aching right now. The fuck you mean slow?” Eren added.

Ony and you ignored them. He kissed you as he lined his dick to your entrance and pushed his hips in. Your eyes widened at the size difference with Jean, and glanced at Eren, who also had a large one. Feeling full, you had trouble breathing as he bottomed out, and then being able to do it again when he moved his hips backward.

Ony felt Eren’s jealous glare in the back of his head and chuckled.

“Take care of my friend, baby,” he commanded.

With your free hand, you jerked your wrist to jerk Eren's cock, while Ony fucked you. Eren let out a groan of relief at the contact of your hand.

“Such a versatile girl,” Connie teased, making you flustered.

Ony was a precise man. He hated jackhammering during sex. All his thrusts were calculated to please his partner, not just to ejaculate. He was gentle, but incredibly intense. Slow thrusts didn’t mean no hard thrusts. So he angled his hips perfectly so that every time he hit the depth of your pussy, he struck a sensitive spot that made your chubby body tremble even if his pace was slow. The way your curves jiggled with his every move was mesmerizing, and all three men’s eyes in the room were fixed on you.

Your hand ran along Eren’s length, squeezing sometimes, stroking most of the time, as you moaned because of Ony fucking you. His hips slammed so hard against you, feeling so good, while still being gentle; this man was crazy. How was that possible? You hugged him more, wanting to make love with him forever.

Eren’s hand twitched at the top of your head, his breathing ragged. He didn't even contain his arousal for long and let himself cum on your face. You let out a chuckle at the surprise of the action. Ony leaned down to lick some of it on your cheek.

“Why are all of you so gay?” you asked, confused.

“Shhhh,” Ony pressed his lips against yours, continuing his slow love making

“Okay, Ony your time is up,” Eren muttered, punching Ony in the shoulder. Ony groaned, not even that close from release but agreed to withdraw from you. Eren cleaned your face with a tissue before placing a kiss on your forehead.

You let them manipulate your body into whatever position they wanted. You were now sitting on Connie, who had given the camera to Ony, with Eren positioned behind you.

You knew Eren was aggressive. You could feel it in his aura and the way he spoke to people. So, as both dicks slid inside you, your heart pounded with the excitement of being manhandled. It took a little while to adjust to the two cocks inside you, but once you were comfortable, Connie murmured, "Kiss me." You leaned down to give him what he needed.

You rocked your hips, Eren's and Connie's hands on them for the moment. Eren was dangerously calm as you rode Connie, and didn't give him much friction. The sweat that had accumulated on your back intensified as you thought about when Eren would snap and show his true colors. 

“Boring,” he finally snapped, grabbing a handful of your braids and pulling them back, making you gasp.

On his knees on the couch, his hips moved back and forth at a punishing pace. Absolutely no attempt at a gradual rhythm to get you used to it; he didn’t care about your whimpers. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it.

Connie kept his hands on your hips, guiding them to gyrate on him. Sometimes, his hands moved up to touch your love handles, kneading your softness.

“The way we don’t need any lube,” Ony joked, moving closer to the trio, nudging his dick against your cheek while filming your flustered reaction. “You think you take three dicks inside you, baby?”

You nodded softly, wanting to please him. Eren released your hair to let you lean down to take Ony’s dick in your mouth. But Eren picked up the pace even more, hand on your back.

You almost choked on Ony’s dick with the aggressiveness of Eren’s thrusts, and the worst part was that Ony pushed his hips anyway. You looked up at him in surprise and he gave you a little smirk, zooming in on your betrayed expression.

“What is it? Your mouth is full of dick, you can’t tell me how betrayed you are that I have a bit of Eren in me. Poor you.”

Ony’s tone became more petty and you moaned on his dick, turned on by this new change of event. You hoped he would still have mostly his gentle side, but you don’t mind his mean side sometimes.

“Bounce that ass, bitch. You’re not doing enough for me,” Eren muttered.

Eren’s frantic pace made you gargling with Ony’s dick, the sound of it making the three men growl. Ony fed you his cock with quick snap of his hips, hitting the deepest spot you can take him. Connie played with your breasts and nipples clamps as he lifted his own pelvic floor to penetrate you deeper. Eren still stroked your braids even though he fucked you like he hated your guts.

The video continued to play, filming the spectacle.

But the camera will never be enough to understand the pleasure you were currently feeling. Hearing Ony groan because of you made you feel powerful. The fact that Eren fucked you like an animal made you let go. And Connie, who was a mix of both but in a submissive way, made you feel understood, since he saw your lack of confidence.

Everything was perfect.

But as always, your disability ruined everything. 

Maybe they'll get tired of you like Jean did because of it. You patted Ony's thigh to let him know you wanted to stop, and when the boys realized you were overstimulated, they stopped everything, including the video.

It was like you had needles everywhere, and even the touch of a feather was unbearable. Anxiety and discomfort paralyzed you. You couldn't speak until the sensory overload dissipated, and you just sat on the sofa staring at the floor, extremely embarrassed by how you felt in front of them.

────────

𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫…

They weren't making fun of you. They understood what was happening and turned off the lights to reduce sensory input and did breathing exercises with you. You begged them never to mention it again, it was so embarrassing and you felt bad about ruining everything, but they always reassured you that they didn't care.

Now, you were in a polyamorous relationship with them.

It happened so naturally. The day after they sent the video to Jean, you were bombarded with messages from him, but you ended up blocking him on Eren's orders. Sad about your breakup, Ony took you shopping with him, and Connie made you Cuban dishes that catered to your autistic food obsessions to comfort you.

After a few days, you had stopped thinking about Jean because you were always spending time with your new boyfriends.

They were all diametrically opposed, but all perfect for you.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

This should have stayed private between you and Sasha.

When she asked you who your favorite boyfriend was, you told her you loved them all equally for different reasons, but that Ony was the one you felt the most cared for with.

One day, Eren was on your phone for some random reason, and Sasha sent you a TikTok about couples, saying, "That's so Ony, no wonder he is your favorite boyfriend."

You never saw Eren so angry.

No matter how much you explained the nuance of your opinion, he wouldn't listen and was deeply hurt that you were had a favorite in your relationship with them.

Connie was nonchalant, so he couldn't care less, but he wasn't helping to ease the tension in the apartment because Eren had been in a constant sour mood since the incident. During the week you made love individually, and on weekends you had foursomes, but Eren had stopped participating in anything.

Eren always played the bad boy, but he was one of the most emotional men in the world.

But, thinking about it, you understood why he was so hurt.

You and Eren had a somewhat special relationship. It had taken you weeks to get used to calling him by the word he wanted to hear from you, because it was new to you. But he deserved it. He lived up to the word. He had punched a guy at a frat party who had made fun of you for not talking much. He was the one who knew the signs of your sensory overload best. He gave you advice on how to earn more respect. He was all about making yourself respected, protected, and taken care of. A dad.

Of course, he was hurt that you felt more cared for by Ony than with him, just because Ony was gentler. It made him feel bad about his personality, about himself. He didn't want to be the favorite, but he didn't want to be one of the least liked of your quartet either.

“Eren, you're such a child,” you pouted when he continued to ignore you while he played Final Fantasy XV on the big TV in your apartment.

“You literally have stim toys,” he mumbled, not an ounce of gentleness in his voice, his jaw clenched.

“A real daddy wouldn't act like that.” 

That's when you annoyed him. He threw his controller onto the couch, abandoning Noctis character, and ran after you. You screamed as he charged toward you and started running all over the apartment. Instinctively, you went into his room—big mistake. Eren locked the door and grabbed your braids, pulling you against his muscular chest. Eren had a sleeper build, thin from the outside, a greek god once naked.

“And a daddy wouldn’t fuck his daughter so what is your point, huh?” Eren mumbled.

You nuzzle his hard chest, not finding the comfort you can find in Connie’s body which is less muscular and softer. “Connie is better for hugging, like a real daddy,” you teased him.

“Strip.”

“Uh?”

“You’re going to learn who is really taking care of you in this house.”

── .✦ 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫…

“I’m so sorry!” you cried, but it didn’t matter since Eren had pushed your face into the pillow. All your pleas, screams, and cries were muffled now. The only thing that could be heard was Eren’s ragged and your flesh bumping against each other. The backshots were crazy, and he wished he could send this to Connie.

“Sorry for what? Disobeying dad? Making fun of me? Be specific because you’ve been a really bad kid lately and it pissed me off,” he panted, picking up the pace, if that was even possible. 

Your tears soaked the pillow and intensified as he thrust into you. It felt so good; before Eren, you didn’t know you could have sex like this because of your sensory issues. But it was perfect. Eren didn’t change much. He would always be dominant, and you would always be submissive. He would always choose positions where he was in control, always slap you, choke you, and spank you. It was very brutal, but it was so comforting for you, autistically. You loved routine. Eren's brutality was comforting.

“I love you, I'm sorry for saying Ony was my favorite,” you sniffed, lifting your head as best you could so he could hear you.

“You're only sorry because I'm fucking you to make you say it.”

“No, I—”

“I love Ony. He is the smartest man I know. People only care about his athletic performance, but he has a brilliant brain, very strategic. However,” he grumbled, “my kid can't love him that much.”

“You're right, I'm sorry,” you repeated like a robot because you wanted him to turn you over quickly so you could kiss your favorite angry boyfriend. “You're perfect for me, Eren.”

“Uh,” he smirked, his pace slowing down, “I don’t remember being called this.”

“Stop trying to make me embarrassed. Our relationship is already very weird,” you whispered.

“Ah, you're a hypocrite now? It's just because Connie came back from college a few minutes ago that you're whispering. When he's not there, you easily shout “i feel it in my belly daddy”. You think I'm stupid?”

“Shut your damn mouth, oh my god!” you screamed, mortified that Connie knew what you and Eren had as a dynamic. Connie was a bastard, he was gonna make fun of a dynamic that is deeper than just sex.

A deep chuckle rumbled in Eren’s chest. He pulled your thighs back so that you were lying down and in a prone bone position. He nuzzled your neck. “I accept the apologies of my daugther.”

“Ewwww.”

“Acting you’re not into that shit.”

You laughed and he kissed your skin, making you shiver.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[messages from ‘princess’s harem 🎀 ’ group chat]

goofiestcubandick69 : i just heard our girl call eren daddy in bed ??????????

lamelo’s left ball : wdym daddy that boy can’t even handle his own emotions 

lamelo’s left ball : how he is gonna handle a kid

goofiestcubandick69 : thats what im saying

[...]

you : ummmm can yall forget this okay…….

worstpsychiatricpatient : im actually her dad tho

worstpsychiatricpatient : do you even know what is hyposensitivity in autism

lamelo’s left ball : you’re acting like that’s a fatal character flaw to not know

lamelo’s left ball : admitting you don’t know something is the first step to be smarter 

goofiestcubandick69 : no but do she knows you ate your own shit when we were at the nursery 

[worstpsychiatricpatient has left the chat.]

goofiestcubandick69 : yeah thats what i thought 

you : WTF ????????????????????

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐨𝐧𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Studying for exams was torture for your autism.

Exams disrupted all your routines; you now had to care about things you didn't care about, and you didn't dare complain to your boyfriends because you felt like you complained all the time. As if you had a monopoly on suffering. They suffered from exams too, and you didn't want to bother them with your usual autistic complaints.

You were trying not to burst into tears in the university library because of all the academic pressure and the sheer amount of material you had to study.

As you were reviewing your lectures’s notes, someone sat down next to you. A familiar scent of men's cologne made you stiffen as you looked at the person.

"Not sucking three dicks?" Jean smiled, but there was nothing warm in his expression.

“I’ll do what I want, you cheated on me,” you muttered, unsure of yourself, but like Eren and Connie had taught you to be more confident in your comebacks.

“You weren’t exactly the ideal girlfriend. They’ll leave you eventually and realize it too.” You looked away from the brown-haired man to your textbooks, your eyes welling with tears.

It was your biggest fear.

Being a burden to others. That’s why you tried not to complain too much about your autism so as not to bore your boyfriends.

You wanted your boyfriends to be able to talk about your personality first. About your love of pink. About your collection of perfumes and platform boots. About your knowledge of cosmetology. About your rare vintage clothes.

No, they had to tell all their friends during parties that you were autistic so no one would be mean to you because you didn't talk much because of not understanding the world around you and struggling to read the room.

You were chatty with your boyfriends because they had become routines. But anything new was difficult for you to understand, so you struggled to be yourself.

You shouldn't be ashamed of your disability, but a disability did what it did: it handicapped you in life.

"Many autistic people are happily married. My boyfriends are happy with me. You're the only idiot who can't leave me and prefers to be unfaithful," you said in a trembling voice before leaving the university library. You hoped your boyfriend were proud of you for standing for yourself.

────────

When sadness strikes, always turn to Ony. It should be a famous saying.

“Point in my life” by Gucci Mane was playing in the gym, accompanied by the sound of bouncing basketballs. You cheered Ony on as he made baskets for his practice. With each basket, you yelled, and he turned to look at you, laughing. The other people in the stands looked at you as if you were the male-centered protagonist of a romance novel, but you didn't care. Your baby, your man was surely going to be drafted this summer; he deserved all the praise!

When he finished his practice, you went to the locker room with him. You innocently watched all the men getting dressed in front of you, giving you strange looks, waiting to be alone with your lover.

Once alone, Ony d led you to the showers so you could get undressed.

 “What’s on your mind? I know these eyes cried, ma’. Don’t fool me,” Ony murmured, kneeling before you when you were finally naked under the shower spray.

“W-What are you doing?” 

He pressed your back against the shower wall and lifted one of your legs to his shoulder.

“You don’t know? Pussy eating therapy session.” 

You burst into laughter at the absurdity but quickly panted when he buried his nose and mouth deep into wet folds.

“I… I feel like I’m going to burn out from the exams. It’s just too much. I can’t sleep because it stresses me out so much, and on top of that, I’m not doing my usual routines anymore, so I’m not myself anymore,” you paused to let out a moan as his tongue caressed a particularly sensitive spot. “I cry all the time when I study, and I didn’t want to seem like an attention whore by talking to you about my problems.” 

Indulging in your arousal, he groaned at the scent of you; it made him lose his mind. He moved his tongue deeper, lapping at you, twisting it inside.

“I’m scared you, Connie and Eren will leaving me because of my autism.”

That made him stop completely, and he looked at you in horror.

“The fuck?”

Thinking about what Jean said made your eyes water, and fed up, you sobbed. Sometimes you laughed, sometimes you cried; these days you didn’t even remember yourself.

“Mama,” he said softly, rising from the floor to embrace you, kissing your cheek wet not from the shower but from your tears. “Who put these shitty ideas in your head?”

“M-My ex…”

“And what did I tell you about that motherfucker?”

“That he was stupid to look at any other woman but me.”

“Exactly, so why do you listen to him?”

“I don’t know, he was as loving as you all, and still cheated.”

“Being loving doesn’t mean shit. He never helped you during a meltdown. We did. A lot. I hope he dies.”

You widened your eyes. “Don’t say that!”

“What are you gonna do with your socially anxious ass to make me stop, huh?”

You pouted. “Nothing…”

“Right, now let me fuck you good, you need it.”

He lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, as he stood pushing you against the wall.

He kissed you as his dick slid in, all his affection communicate through his tongue, his kiss, the way his hips slammed again you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your hands stroking his short hair under the shower jet which dampened it into tight curls.

“I feel so safe with you, Ony. Sorry for what I said, I trust you. I’m a bit tired because of school, I think,” you whispered against his lips.

“Yeah? You’re not gonna listen to this dumbass again?”

You shook your head.

“Proud of my sweet girl.”

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐨𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[messages from ‘princess’s harem 🎀 ’ group chat]

goofiestcubandick69 : are yall into public sex 

you : NO!!!!!!!!!!

worstpsychiatricpatient : yea

lamelo’s left ball : hell no 

lamelo’s left ball : nobody looks at my girl like that

goofiestcubandick69 : then why there is a rumor on the campus about our girl looking at naked men with you

worstpsychiatricpatient : thats even gayer than when he licked my cum

lamelo’s left ball : we masturbated together in middle school eren

[worstpsychiatricpatient has left the chat.]

goofiestcubandick69 : man you’re a child 

goofiestcubandick69 : and gay

goofiestcubandick69 : ony i didnt forget 

goofiestcubandick69 : you put MY girl with naked men 

goofiestcubandick69 : tf is wrong with you

lamelo’s left ball : why are we focused on ME when SHE was in my male locker room ?????

goofiestcubandick69 : mi princesa can do no wrong

goofiestcubandick69 : soy su perro 

you : exactlyyyyyy

[worstpsychiatricpatient is back in the chat.]

worstpsychiatricpatient : two dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyyyy’

[worstpsychiatricpatient has left the chat.]

goofiestcubandick69 : this man is true to his @

goofiestcubandick69 : don’t call mi princesa a bitch u motherfucker

goofiestcubandick69 : but call me a bitch if you want to i’m into that

you : ????????

lamelo’s left ball : he has the nerve to call eren gay

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

If Eren was your angry boyfriend, Ony your gentle lover, Connie should be your sexy latino man?

That's what everyone thought about Connie.

On campus, the girls with a latino men fetish are interested in him because of his accent. His tattoos. His piercings. His immigrant status. He knows these white american girls well, girls who see latin America as a land full of sexy men, who think latin culture is just about aesthetics. So he created three phases to find the right people for him.

First, phase number 1, which attracts all the girls: The laid-back latino.

Sweatpants. Tattoos. Laid-back persona. Stoned out a lot. Hanging out with the university's plug Eren and the university's star, Ony. Calling any girl 'mami'. The girls love it, adore it, and can't get enough.

Then, he reveals a little bit of himself, and that's when things get out of hand. 

There's his "goofy" phase, when he shows how weird and funny he can be, even if it makes him less of a stereotypical latino man.

99% of the girls leave or get the ick.

That's how he knew you were the one because you never thought much of his goofy behavior sometimes and just went along with him. He feels so normal with you; he doesn't have to perform some racist stereotype with you, you just accept him with all his facets.

Now, he can finally show his final layer: his submissive side.

────────

Being the dominant one in the relationship was so much fun.

Of course, you liked being manhandled by Eren, or being praised by Ony.

But it was just as exciting as getting what your submissive man wanted tonight.

“Do whatever you want to do to me in my sleep. If I don’t wake up with you fucking me, I’m gonna blow up the apartment.”

You and Connie looked at each other during dinner, even when you were on Eren’s lap or in Ony’s arms. You both knew you were going to have fun tonight when everyone was asleep. You were going to have fun when he was asleep.

You crept into his room so as not to wake him. You climbed onto the bed and noticed he wasn’t wearing a blanket or a shirt. You chuckled; he was really waiting for this.

You leaned down to kiss all over his chest and abdomen, your tongue flicking around his navel piercing and all his tattoos.

His body shivered, but he didn't open his eyes.

You stripped him of the rest of his clothes and spat on your bare breasts, then smeared the saliva on the inside of your breasts. Your mouth watered at his hard pierced dick that reacted to your kisses. Big. Thick. Exactly the type of dick you wanted to rub your tits around.

You gently palmed his cock before placing it between your breasts. You added more saliva to your mess as you kneaded your breasts around him. The situation was oddly stimulating sensorially with the softness of your chest and the humidity of your saliva.

“Mami, I missed you,” Connie murmured, voice still sleepy as he rubbed his eyes.

You gave him an affectionate smile. “What do you want tonight?”

“Uh, you never learn? My body belongs to you. You’re the one who chooses everything.”

A fire snaked through your belly, igniting your insides.

You stopped what you were doing even though you saw disappointment in his eyes, but they lit up when you sat on his pelvis, sliding down his dick.

“Oh hell yeah,” he moaned, his hands coming to your hips but you slapped him.

“I didn’t say you could do that, Connie,” you chided him. “Put your hands above your head, I’ll slap you if you move them.”

His gut twisted with arousal, he absolutely nodded and obeyed with enamored eyes.

You couldn't say no to people but were able to slap your man, the duality of an autistic freaky woman.

You leaned down to stabilize yourself on his shoulders. Lifting yourself off his cock, you slid down again brutally, making him gasp and whine for more. When he whined too much, you slapped him and told him to stop. He almost cummed and bit his lower lip till it bled not to.

You did everything you wanted to Connie. A slow pace when your legs were tired. At fast pace, fucking yourself on his dick. Sometimes, you turned over and he thanked God women existed just to see your ass gyrating in front of him.

When you were the dominant one, you experienced less sensory overload during sex, that’s why you loved having sex with Connie so much.

You rode him, rocking your hips against him, your tits bouncing, looking like a voluptuous succubus who haunted him at night. It made him lose his mind, and spouting nonsense, his brain going dumb.

“Yesterday I genuinely cried because I wanted to eat you out but it was Ony’s day, so I ate so many sweets just to feel you on my tongue.”

Your heart fluttered and you leaned down to kiss him. “You’re so cute and weird, Connie.”

He forgot about the rules and just hugged his favorite girl ever.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[messages from ‘princess’s harem 🎀 ’ group chat]

worstpsychiatristpatient : how do you cope with the fact that your girl is a rapist

you : WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

you : ???????????

goofiestcubandick69 : she cant rape me since i am her slave 

goofiestcubandick69 : my body is her propriety

worstpsychiatristpatient : not only my girl is a rapist

worstpsychiatristpatient : but she uses mind control

goofiestcubandick69 : exactly

goofiestcubandick69 : my mind is controlled by her

goofiestcubandick69 : i always think of my girl

lamelo’s left ball : i’m employed what happened

you : eren discovered somno

[lamelo’s left ball is now offline.]

goofiestcubandick69 : thats why i love ony

goofiestcubandick69 : he knows how to mind his own business

worstpsychiatristpatient : just so you know i called the police

worstpsychiatristpatient : mind u i’m the only one who have a real job and a dangerous one at that

worstpsychiatristpatient : so fuck u lamelo wannabe

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬  ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“Ma’, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Ony took the star you were trying to put on top of the fake pink tree Connie had found on some niche website. He placed it where you wanted it.

“There is no way, it’s really the only color we will ever see at Christmas,” Eren grumbled, rummaging through the Christmas decorations you and Connie had bought weeks earlier, appalled by all the pink in them. “Christmas is green and red!”

“Well, it’s my girl’s world so I don’t care about Christmas rules,” Connie mumbled, taking a drag of his blunt, sitting on the couch.

“And you guys also have pink Christmas pajamas to wear!” you said excitedly, pulling out the pink pajama sets with snowflake patterns.

Eren winced, Connie gave a thumbs-up, and Ony chuckled. But they wore them all, just for your beautiful eyes.

It was going to be a fun Christmas, but you wouldn't trade places for anything in the world.

Because you were with the three loves of your life. In no particular order. Just the trio of your heart.

it’s his pet names that linger instead— sounding all soft and familiar, worn warm from use. the ones he returns to without thinking, like second nature. schatzi. simply sweet. ever so precious. the word curls from his mouth with an ease that feels almost absentminded, yet never careless. and liebling, his favorite, his darling. it’s usually spoken quieter, closer, like it belongs to you and him alone.

those are the few words you come to know. not by translation, but how they’re given. by the way his voice lowers around them, the way they brush against your skin like something tangible.

mixed by blood, eren's heritage lives in the small details about him more than anything else; his cadence, his features, his mannerisms. he doesn't necessarily talk about it. his tongues, german and turkish, live elsewhere. like in fleeting moments on the phone with his family, voice softened with a familiarity different from the kind he shows you.

it's admirable, how effortlessly he slips into the rhythm of home when catching up with his mother and father. you hear it only then, in fragments and tones, something distant. you try to glimpse into that part of him, but he leaves it unshared. 

it isn't that your boyfriend withholds any aspects of his life, or his culture, from you. rather, he lets untranslatable words fall as they come, shaped more by his feeling than intentionality. there's a certain intimacy in that. he thinks that you don't have to understand every syllable to feel the weight of it.

because with him, it's about how it lingers in the space between you long after the words have fallen away.

you know eren doesn’t make much use of deutsch in his everyday life, no. it remains tucked away as the one thing he doesn't reach for, but something that exists all the same. and maybe, that's what makes it all the more enticing, when it surfaces in the moments his control finally begins to slip.

it’s in those instances, when his breath grows uneven and composure frays at the edges, that something from deep within him begins to rise unbidden. words he doesn't consciously choose, tones he typically wouldn't shape, leaving him in a low, broken lilt. there's nothing intentional about it, just the rawness of instinct when the sensation is so overwhelming that he can't help himself any longer.

and in that unraveling, there's something disarmingly sensual. not just the act itself, or the hot slide of his hands when he touches you, but a side of him that can't be hidden away, revealed only when he's too far gone to hold it back.

"scheisse!"

it slips out of him without warning. his mind’s so muddled by the way your dewy walls squeeze his cock that he doesn’t even think to translate. he’s drawn fully into the hilt of your gushing pussy, his presence heavy both in-and-outside of you. he's got you splayed out on your back, displayed ever so beautifully, soft textured hair fanning out on the pillows, like that of a halo. how fitting, for his precious angel. 

eren has you tucked under the breadth of him and slovenly folded into missionary, your body immovably pressed beneath the heat and heaviness of his imposing frame. his attention narrows on you, you, you, until nothing else seems to exist outside of it.

your trembling leg is held in his left palm, secured at the pit of your knee as he guides it up against your shoulder as a means to fucks deeper into you. his other hand rests hot upon your waist, grip tightening whenever you react, kneading at warm brown flesh whenever you clamp down on him. he's unrelenting with how he draws out, plows in, does it again, again, again. dense clapping resounds in hollow echoes throughout the dim-lit bedroom of his paradis-city penthouse.

"e—ren! eren, erennn,” his name falls fractured from your lips, each syllable hitching as it leaves you. he hears it, and something in him shifts. a slow, unmistakable reaction that pulls at the corner of his mouth before it fully settles into a smile. it spreads wide, brazen and sharp in a way that looks as feral as he feels; all teeth, cutting sharp and boyish across his face, features drawn tight with ardor.

pleasure has already taken hold of him; face flushed, sweat gathering and rolling in narrow paths down his skin. his dark manbun sits slightly undone at the base of his head, loose strands slipping free to cling to his temples and the nape of his neck, his tattooed body damp with the same heat that coats him. his brows, thick and dark, knit tightly together, while his bright-teal eyes stay intense and wild, fixed on you with a look that doesn’t waver. you’re his maker and weakness alike, the only thing holding his focus together as he unravels for you.

"komm schon, engel," eren dips low, his large frame folding over yours, shoulders rounding as he closes the space between you, brushing the plush of your lips with his own. "hngh, wha—?" you whine against his mouth, needing of clarity. his breath is warm and close when he murmurs, earnest for a taste of your lips, "küss mich."

you don’t fully comprehend him, but eren closes the gap regardless, until there’s nowhere left for your voice to go but into him. his large hand lifts up, cups your jaw nice and steady, tilts you upwards just enough to meet him as he presses his lips to yours. firm at first, then deeper, more claiming than it is gentle. when he pulls back, it’s only by a breath’s width, enough for the curve of his smile to linger against your mouth. 

his hips take to a slow roll, grinding into yours so sweetly. the rounded end of his hard cock nudges the inner pudge of your softest spots, with the lean ridge of his pelvis brushing over the sensitive peak of your clit. the both of you hold no inhibitions, breaths pouring into each other's mouths in uneven waves, panting and moaning with not a sound refrained.

him and you, you and him, him in you. all sense becomes lost in a heated slew of sloppy strokes and the wettest kisses. he's making such a mess of you; stealing your breath, bruising your flesh, fucking stirring your insides.

for eren, countless sensations begin to merge. your velveteen walls are clamping down, tight, on his pulsing dick, dripping and sobbing all over the length of it. then there's the way you cling to him, just ferocious. the powder-white arch of your fresh nails do well at drawing fiery marks down the broad plane of his tatted back. his olive skin is warm and damp under your palms, glowing sheen with a film of sweat. 

your breath brushes against the reddening shell of his pierced ear, sounds uneven and soft in a way that makes him grow impossibly harder. eren responds in kind, groans amplified, his hold at your waist tightening just enough to keep you anchored to the you-shaped dip in his king sized mattress. you're so pretty, so perfect; behaving so well that all he wants to do is just give you more. 

so he does. 

"shh, lass mich einfach . . stillhalten." eren’s hands span down your shaking thighs, dancing around around your calf until they close around both of your ankles. his fingers wrap fully, thumbs rubbing circles while the rest of his grip adjusts you without effort. he translates what he knows you didn't catch, "don't move." 

eren shapes the physical space between you, and he continues to bend you at angles until the right silhouette is captured. he brings your knees toward your shoulders, folding the form until thighs press firmly against the core of your tummy. shifting his weight low, he transitions into a deep squat, strong thighs flexed as he assumes the position of sitting on his haunches, all without pulling out of you.

with the new vantage, he drives forward and plunges into the tightness of you with sudden, intense momentum that draws the sharpest, most involuntary cry from your lungs— a sound that brings a knowing smile to his face. eren frees self-satisfied laughter, for he always manages to pry out the very reaction he sought to provoke. he finds your body familiar. so easy to mold, too easy to play with.

"ffuuuck! p-please, papaaa, please—"

his response comes rippling out as an unintended growl, sourced from the depths of his chest, and the bass of it makes you clench helplessly around him. with every surge, every thrust forward, he loses another piece of his restraint. an especially taut squeeze of your soaked pussy is all it takes for his snark to dissolve into total surrender.

"fuck . . du bist so eng," his words grow reckless to match just how you undo him. he rambles on about just how tight you are, freeing terribly desperate praise and german incoherencies. he's too far gone to realize he'd even switched languages. frankly, eren doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, and you sure as hell don’t either. it’s hard to follow when he’s digging you out like that; hips slamming down, the fat of his balls clapping against the seam of your ass with every thrust.

more foreign words tumble from his lips— dark, guttural, yet somehow melodic, leaving you in a haze of both lust and confusion. despite it, your body understands the intent perfectly. the way you arch into him, cunt swallowing every known inch of his dick whole, slick walls clamping around him like a desperate vice, tells him everything he needs to know. 

eren finally seems to be returning to himself, eyes clearing as he grows aware; and with that, comes the teasing. another predatory smirk pulls at his mouth as he realizes just how cockdrunk he’s made you, sensitive even down to the veins that drag within you. and so, he draws out the friction, slows his pace to an agonizing crawl, buries himself into you with impossible depth.

each heavy thrust knocks at your cervix and prods at the very limit of you, blunt and demanding, as if he’s trying to leave his mark on your very soul. he's so all-consuming that the heady scent of his skin and the licking heat of his salt-slicked body fills your lungs. you’re crying, you think, unsure as to when it started. all you know is you’re breathing him in, tasting the raw, primal edge of him with every gasp and tear you choke on. 

"aww, poor baby,” he croons, tone darkened with condescend, “macht dich das an, schatzi?" he murmurs, the grunted slew of german humming against your skin. he’s asking if it turns you on— the suddenly rough shift into his mother tongue, and though the meaning of his words escape your mind, you can only nod helplessly, teeth sinking into the swell of your spit-streaked lip as a flush burns across your chest.

"feels good, yeah? i'm fucking you so deep, aren't i? mm, c'mon, angel . . . talk to me, talk to daddy." he eases more of his weight onto your pressed frame, feeding you deep, languid strokes so slow you can hear the wetness sloshing.

"yeahhh, it's good, er-en . . hnn, feelssogood, d-daddyyy," his name tears out of you in a pulled shudder, the syllables breaking over one another. it’s the type of sound that invites his wolfish grin, curled with a special kind of satisfaction. his smile is purely predatory when he gets to hitching your leg up higher, rocking into you faster. the lewdness of unfiltered noise begins to swell throughout the room.

before long, you're both trembling over the pace he’s taken; his fingers twitching along your pushed-up thighs, while you're left grappling for purchase along his bulging, corded biceps, your fingers digging into the sinuous centipede inked across his firm rounded muscle. frantically, you cling to one another as the world outside seems to fade away.

eren leans in, ink-dark strands escaping his hairtie, feathering your neck, and cascading over his shoulder to curtain your faces. overzealous, he captures your lips with his own once more, silencing your soft sounds with a deep kiss that tastes as saccharine as love itself, wettened by the salted twinge of adrenaline. his moans tumble out of him helplessly once you get to licking at his tongue. he juts it out for you to suckle on.

the tension brews to a fever pitch. you’re close, and so is he.

"komm und hol mich," he wants—no, needs you to cum for him, pleads in breathless sounds so gritty that you can feel them pass through your bones. those bright-teal eyes, glassed over with brimming tears of pleasure, desperately lock onto yours. his touch is just as urgent.

eren brings the calloused pad of his thumb to your clit, each deliberate rub a targeted press that sends fresh jolts of heat spiraling through your tummy, makes your hips buck up into the onslaught. his breath comes out in ragged puffs as his fleshy, kiss-bruised lips meet your ear, grazing the shell, words unfamiliar yet sweet all the same. “komm auf meinen schwanz, bitte.” the vulnerable rawness of his voice is a love language all in its own. something in you knows to follow his command, even if the meaning is a mystery. 

that building pressure low in your gut begins to coil, tightening into a concentrated knot that demands release. it’s a heavy, mercurial ache that pulses in sync with his movements, making your vision swim as you reach the precipice. your every nerve-ending screams for the sweet, sweet release that only his next deliberate strike can provide.

as for eren, his focus is simply fractured; hands moving with a restlessness that betrays how close he is to the edge. he lifts his free hand to knead and possess the soft weight of your right breast, his grip firm and demanding, before his fingers lift to heedlessly lace around your neck, as a means to keep you pinned in the middle of the storm of his movements. 

that same grasp trails away from pressing your artery, slinks down, and squeezes a big, greedy handful of ass into one palm alone. he delivers one smack— two, three. the fourth leaves red in its wake, blooming faint along warm-brown flesh. he merely smiles when you mewl at him. 

the combination he grants you is far too much, too fucking frantic; the stinging heat of his palm against your skin and the possessive weight of his hand at your throat leaves you feeling hazy and unmoored, your thoughts dissolving into a thoughtless, honeyed fog.

a few more of those slowed, plunging thrusts, paired with how nicely he toys with your puffy clit, is what finally shatters the dam and sends rolling waves of your orgasm to crash right through you. it washes over, heavy and thick, the feeling purely electric as it zips through the base of your spine all the way down to your tightly curled toes. your quivering legs lock around his lean waist as he fucks you through the height of it, dark-chestnut hair swinging over hunched shoulders.

"don't you let go yet— m'not done." eren rasps against your agape lips, voice a broken wreck. he taps your soft cheek in two firm pats when your eyes begin to flutter shut, peers at you through hooded eyes, forcing bitten words out through grit teeth, "look at me, schatzi," his fingers tangle into the soft, dense curls of your hair to tilt your head his way. "you came so fuckin' hard, tell me you felt that—shit! mm, p-please, baby . . tell me you’re mine."

you manage to open your mouth, try for an answer, but every brutal impact of his hips knocks the air from your chest, splintering your voice into meaningless little sounds. the rhythm of his pounding, loud and heavy, turns shaky and imprecise as he utterly loses the battle for control. you can see the strain in the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his breath hitching as he teeters on the edge. 

eren frames your face with a sudden tenderness, his large hands encompassing either side of your head as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth itself. he pulls you in until your foreheads touch, eyes locking in a feral, heavy-lidded stare that teases at his release. you babble out his name with every sloppy knock of his hips.

your inner walls clamp down in a steady, involuntary pulse around him, and the friction becomes too much for him to bear. then comes a guttural sound, ripping straight from his chest, followed by a smaller, vulnerable whimper that echoes out, almost like a plea:

"scheisse, ich komme— fffuuuck!"

he jolts forward with an almost animalistic force, burying himself to the very hilt as the first warm, heavy spurts of his release spill free from his cockhead and into your awaiting womb. you feel him throbbing deep within your silken walls, the pulsing erratic as he stuffs your cunt with thick loads of his cum; emptying himself, filling you.

a hushed stillness sets over eren's thirtieth-floor apartment. all movement drifts to a weighty pause; until, eren eventually collapses his full weight onto you with a long, shuddering sigh. the solid, unyielding mass of him drives a soft huff out from your throat, pinning you into the charcoal sheets in a way that feels strangely grounding.

his inked forearms bind around you like vines, pulling your bodies flush-tight until there’s no room left between you. in turn, you drape your arms over the broad expanse of his back, your thumbs tracing soothing circles over the angry, reddened lines of the skin you tore. 

"ugh— rennie, you're heavy."

"mmn." is his heedless response. you both lie there in a tangled, breathless heap of afterglow, your lungs working for shallow air as the adrenaline begins to recede. after threading through the dark, damp silk of his long hair, weaving and undoing braids in the same sitting, your arms finally loosen their hold around his nape. eren nuzzles his face into the soft swell of your breasts, the tip of his nose grazing the sensitive bone of your sternum as he seeks out your warmth.

a small, balmy laugh escapes you, the sound light and surreal against the dense, syrup-thick atmosphere. the air is heavy, saturated with the salt-sharp scent of skin, the musk of his cologne, the lingering sugar of your arab perfume, and the sweet, pungent tang of your collective release— a sensory memento of every orgasm you just shared.

"damn . .” the silence breaks around his voice, low and winded, “didn't think y’had a kink for that."

"hmm," you blink slow, the wisps of your curled lashes fluttering. "for what?"

"uh-uh, don't play dumb now," eren noses your jugular, tickling your neck with a nudge so fleeting you can’t help but break, a shy giggle bubbling up and out into the open. "could've just told me you wanted me to switch languages, princess."

“i didn't even know it was something i’d enjoy that much," you bite down on a drowsy laugh, manicured fingers lifting to idly twirl a stray, dark lock of his hair. you’re secretly glad his hair-tie snapped under the pressure.

"i like the way your brain just . . . shorts out when you hear it. makes you so . . ." a kiss, breaking the pattern of speech, is pressed to your upturned lips, so pink and soft.

“—much more," another, then a suckle to your jaw, "—responsive." there's a gravel-like texture to the sound of his teasing. "i don't think i've ever heard you get that loud before, baby.” eren hums aloud onto your skin, a low rumble of pure satisfaction that thrums low in his throat and vibrates against your chest.

he shifts his weight just enough to pepper wet, uncoordinated kisses along the sensitive expanse of your throat, his every movement sluggish with pleasure. 

“verdammt gut,” he murmurs against your skin, testing the effect he has over you, simply wishing to witness how tightly you’d pulse around him in response. sure enough, he smiles to himself when you do, walls clamping down where he remains stuffed inside you. a whispered moan falls from you, eyes screwed impossibly tight. 

his lips latch to your pulse as he mouths praises you don’t need to translate to understand. the meaning sounds as sweet as his kisses taste. “du bist so gut, liebling.” even though his brain's misted over with lust, and his dick is still warmly nestled deep inside you, he can’t help but nip playful marks into your flesh. you find yourself cooing at his affections, your fingers tangling in the deep-brown spill of his hair as you shallowly rock your hips onto his softening cock. 

he mumbles more foreign little nothings into the damp, sweat-slicked crook of your neck, the tone so tender it feels like a physical caress. 

“ich liebe dich so sehr, angel . . .” he breathes, the confession soft and embracing against your skin. it’s meaning is devotional, so unmistakable; he loves you, he loves you, he loves you. 

the ardency of the past hour's lovemaking seems to evaporate, leaving only the two of you sinking in the cooling sheets. from the crevice of your chest to his broadened one, your hearts beat heavy against one another in a synced tempo.

with one last, lingering kiss to your collarbone, eren lets his heavy eyelids fall shut. the silence that follows isn't empty. instead, it’s full and warm, smelling of salt, sandalwood, and the raw fragrancy of his adoration.

the darkness of the room feels like a protective veil. in the stillness, with his warmth still grounding you and his scent filling your lungs, you finally let your own eyes close, drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep cradled in the arms of the man who loves you more than he has the words to say.

© 𝒫𝐼𝑁𝐾ℳ𝐼𝑅𝑇𝐻.ᐟ ⸻ all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. reblogs are highly appreciated! please and thank you! ❤︎

Silence. Just the heavy, frantic sound of his breathing. Then a broken, self-deprecating laugh. "Yeah. M'sorry. Can’t stop. Not when it’s you."​

Your breath stutters, a prickle of heat blooming low in your belly. "You’re getting off to me? On the damn phone?"

​"Every time," he admits, his voice rough and needy, but with a sudden edge of raw honesty. He wants you to know. He wants you to feel the weight of it. "Think about you all the time. That mouth. Those tits. The way your ass looks in those shorts." His pace picks up, the slick, lewd sounds of his hand working his dick filling the line. "Fuck, I’d do anything to see you ride me, just once. Just to see what that look on your face is like when I’m deep inside you."

​You bite your lip, your pulse kicking against your throat. "That’s disgusting. Using my voice to get your nut. You’re nasty."​

He groans like you’ve just blessed him with a touch. "Yeah, I know. But you're all I think about... you’re the only thing that gets me this hard."​

"That's nice, honey. But you really shouldn't think of me like that... you know we're just friends," you murmur, your own hand sliding down to rest heavy on your thigh, the silk of your shorts cool against your palm.​

"Don’t say that." His tone cuts sharp now, all the nice playfulness you've come to love is gone. "I’m not your fucking friend. You call me every day. You tell me you love me. I told you from the start—I’m not your friend." His breath hitches, the wet sounds of his fist speeding up, becoming more frantic. "You let me talk to you like this. And you let me—You let me be in your life knowing how I feel about you."​

Your acrylic nail drags slow across your bottom lip. "Maybe. But I can't give you what you want, and I do love you, but don't throw it in my face," you drawl, a cruel, satisfied smirk pulling at your mouth.

"It’s kinda sad. Stroking your dick to a girl you’ll never have. We'll never be together. I’ll never let you fuck me. All you get is your hand."

​He chokes out a moan, his hips snapping up into his fist with a raw, mechanical rhythm. "Yeah? Then give me something else. Show me. Facetime me, ma. Please."​

You hesitate, the heat pooling heavy and agonizing between your thighs. Then, you click over.​

The screen flickers to life. His camera is shaking, his breath filling the dark room. Sweat beads at his temples, his face flushed a deep, beautiful bronze, his lips parted. You know that tremor in the camera—it’s the force of his fist moving fast.​

"Thank you," he exhales, the word almost reverent as he takes in your appearance.

​"Hi, baby. Let me see your face," you don't ask it like a question. You order it.​

He obeys instantly. His face fills the screen, his jaw tight and corded, his sharp fade a bit messy from the heat and the friction.

​"You look good," you compliment, but the little laugh that follows makes it sting.

​"Keep talking." He’s close, you can hear the strain in his voice. "Don't stop."​

"I want to see."​

He blinks, his eyes glazed and dark. "What?"

​"I'm not repeating myself."

​He lets out a breathless, desperate laugh, knowing your patience is thin. "Take your shirt off then. Let me see what I'm working for."​

You narrow your eyes at the audacity, but you reach down and tug the pajama top off anyway. Your lace bra catches the light, the fabric straining against the fullness of your breasts. You don’t cover yourself; he’s seen you in less, and you want him to see exactly what he’s missing.

​"Fuck," he groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain. He flips the camera.​

Your breath catches. Your mouth goes dry. His dick is a complete mess—his fist is working tight and fast, the dark, veined length of him glistening with pre-cum. White streaks of cum are already dried tacky over his thighs from previous rounds, and his stomach is flexing with every pull. His abs are glistening, his skin slick with sweat. His thumb smears a fresh bead of precum over the flushed, velvet head until it gleams, dripping onto his knuckles.

​You bite your lip hard, heat twisting through your belly, your shorts already sticking damp between your thighs.

​His moan rips through the line, a guttural, animal sound.​

You whisper his name, your voice low, trembling, and possessive. "... I really want you in my mouth."​

His head snaps back against the pillow, a broken curse ripped from his lungs. "If I had you here? I’d fuck that throat till you cried. Till you gagged around me and begged for air. I’d hold your head and make you take every fucking inch."​

You hum, a low, taunting vibration. "You’re not tough enough for that."​

That pulls a dark, dangerous laugh from him. His hand works faster, the veins straining down his forearm. "Say that shit again. I’d hold your face down and shove my dick so deep you’ll feel me in your chest. I’ll make you swallow every drop."

​Your thighs squeeze together, wetness soaking through the crotch of your shorts. "All talk. You’d fold the second it touched my tongue."​

He groans, deep and pained. "God, you drive me fucking insane." His breath stutters, then—"Take your bra off for me. Now."

​You tilt your head, slow and teasing. "You want a show?"​

"Take it off." His voice is rough, a plea threaded with a hard command.

​You hook your fingers into the lace, slipping it down your shoulders, letting it fall. Your breasts sit full and heavy in the camera’s glow, your nipples tight and peaked in the cool air.​

He chokes on his own breath. "God, look at you. Perfect. Fucking perfect."​

Your fingers lift, tugging lightly at one nipple, rolling it between your fingers. "Like this, baby?"​

His hand drags hard down his dick, the slick sound of it filling your ears. "Yeah—play with them for me. Pinch ‘em. Roll ‘em." His eyes roll back for a second, his mouth slack. "Fuck—I wanna cum all over those tits. Paint you, watch it drip down your stomach. You’d look so good messy with my cum."​

You coo, your voice dirty and soft. "Yeah, baby? You wanna ruin me like that? Wanna cover me ‘cause I’m yours?" You pinch harder, moaning low. "Mmh, I’d let you do it however you want."​

His hips jerk up into his fist, his cock flushed dark, thick, and veined. The head is shiny with slick, and your eyes stay locked on it, transfixed by the weight of him in his palm.​

You whisper, almost reverent. "I can’t stop watching your hands. They're so big and veiny. So strong. You're twitching in your grip—look at you, baby. All that for me."

​He groans raggedly, his fist slapping wetly down the length of his shaft. "All for you. Always for you." His voice cracks, desperate. "Squeeze 'em, touch your tits harder. Let me see you play with those pretty nipples."

​You squeeze your breast, pinch your nipple harder, tugging it until you gasp, your eyes locked on his fist pumping. The sound of it—wet, obscene, skin slapping skin—is the only thing in the world.​

"Fuck," he grits out, his voice frayed. "I’d drag you down and smear every drop over you. I wanna fill you up."

​You laugh softly, mean but sweet. "Yeah? You’d mark me up? Cover me so everybody knows this pussy’s yours? Even though you’ll never get to fuck it?"​

He groans, almost breaking under the weight of the tease. "Stop—don’t say that. I’d fuck you stupid, ma. I’d split you open. Make you cry for me."​

You hum, stroking your breast with slow, deliberate circles. "I bet you would. But right now? All you’ve got is your hand. And me watching."​

His grip tightens, his strokes becoming rough and fast. His stomach flexes, his breath tearing ragged from his chest. You lean close to the screen, your voice low and syrup-thick.​

"Cum for me, baby."​

He moans, a high, guttural sound.​

"Yeah," you coax, squeeze your breast, shifting them again, "make a mess for me. Let me see you shoot it all over yourself. Come on. Show me how much you want me."​

"Fuck—" His hips stutter up into his fist. Precum spills slick down his shaft, his knuckles shiny and wet.

​"Begging you, sweetheart," you whisper, cruel and filthy. "Paint yourself for me. Cover that stomach, those big hands—show me what I do to you."​

He chokes, his eyes squeezing shut, his jaw locked tight as his body begins to coil for the release. "M’close—oh fuck, I’m gonna—"​

"Do it," you purr, sharp and commanding. "Cum for me, baby. Now."

​His whole body jerks. A shout rips from his throat, raw and primal, as thick, hot ropes of cum spill over his hand, his chest, dripping down his stomach in heavy white streaks. He pumps through the release, groaning brokenly, the cum splattering messy and hot across his skin.

​You sigh, watching the way it looks against his skin, your voice turning sweet again. "That’s it. Good boy. Look at that dick, dripping for me. You made such a mess."

​He’s panting, ruined, his hand still twitching around his softening length. "Fuck... fuck, I love you."

​You tilt the camera, watching him still sprawled—sweat dripping, stomach streaked with cum, hand twitching.

​"Mmh," you hum, soft and wicked, "look what you did, baby. Got me all wet."

​His head snaps up, eyes heavy but blazing. "Show me."

​You smirk, slipping your hand under the waistband of your shorts, dragging the damp fabric aside. Glossy, honey-thick strings pull as you spread yourself open, the phone angled just enough to flash him a glimpse of your soaking wet center. "See that? All for you."

​He groans, his chest heaving. "Touch it for me. Play with yourself—please, ma."​

Your laugh is low and cruel. "Not a chance. You already got your show."​

His jaw tightens, his voice rough. "Don't play with me. You don't let me watch, I'll make you beg next time. I'll make you sorry."​

You lean close to the screen, your smirk sharp and triumphant. "Try me. You don't scare me, baby. I said no."​

His fist curls against his stomach, frustration pouring through the camera. "Then... at least—fuck—at least let me listen. Please. Let me hear it."

​You bite your lip, dragging your fingers slow through your slickness, making yourself whimper. "You’re nasty."

​"Yeah," he rasps, desperate. "For you. Only for you."​

You sigh, soft and sweet, pressing two fingers against your clit until your hips twitch. "Fine. You can listen. But that’s it. Just your ears."

​Your moans slip out, low and syrupy, filling the line. His breath shudders at the sound, ruined but hungry again. Your fingers circle your clit, the wet, squelching sounds of your own pleasure bleeding into the line. You bite your lip, letting a whimper slip, knowing he’s eating every sound alive.​

"That’s it," he rasps, his voice still raw from cumming. "Rub that pretty pussy for me. God, I wanna be there so bad—wanna hold your thighs open and eat you till you’re crying."​

Your head tips back, your breath shaky. "Mghn—You talk so nasty, baby."​

"You don’t even know," he grits out. "I’d spread you out and pound that pussy till you scream. I’d fuck you till you smell like me. I'd never let you leave the bed."​

A moan rips out of you, high and breathless. Your fingers circle faster, your hips rolling up off the bed as the tension coils.

​"You like that?" he groans. "Knowing how bad I want you? Tell me you’ll give it up one day. Tell me I’ll get to fuck you for real."​

Your laugh cuts sharp and shaky. "N-No, baby. You’ll never have me like that."​

He curses, a guttural sound of frustration. "Fuck. You’re killing me, ma."​

Your moans rise, sharper now, your body coiling tight. "Keep talking. Don't stop."

​He obeys, his voice a low, gravelly anchor. "I’d hold your hips down. Spit in your mouth while I fuck you raw. Fill you up and make you go for hours."​

That does it—your back arches, your thighs clenching tight as your orgasm rips through you. A sharp cry tears from your throat, your fingers working frantically over your clit as waves of pleasure slam through your body. You gasp his name, shuddering and trembling, your juices dripping messy against your hand.​

He groans raggedly, listening to the sound of your break like it’s gospel. "That’s it—fuck, that’s it. Cum for me. Good girl. Good fucking girl."​

You collapse back, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin. You let out a low, satisfied hum. "Oh, shit... see what you did? You made me cum, handsome."

​His breath hitches on the other end, broken and reverent. "...I’d do anything to see that."​

Your breathing slows, your chest still rising and falling heavy. Your fingers slip from your soaked folds, leaving a wet sheen on your thighs. The line is quiet except for the sound of you both catching your breath.

He’s the first to break it, his voice ragged. "Man... I swear, one day—"​

You cut him off with a sweet, dismissive little laugh, curling back into your pillow and pulling the covers up. "Shh. Don’t start again."

​The silence stretches, thick and heavy with the things he wants to say. You can feel the ache in his voice, how close he is to spilling confessions you aren't ready to hear. So you give him something else. Something cruel, but honest.​

"Thank you," you murmur, soft and sweet. Almost tender. "I love you so much, baby."​

The phone goes quiet. You can picture him—eyes wide, lips parted, his heart clenching around those words. You know exactly what you’ve done to him.​

You smile to yourself, curling the blanket over your bare chest. "Good night."​

And you hang up before he can even find his voice to answer.

★𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈★

Dividers by @sweetparty

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

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

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

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

Onyankopon. 

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

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

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

But you know the truth.  

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

A good man with rough edges. Yours.

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

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

Your mind flashes back to that night—the night. 

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

Three months.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soon.

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

Then—movement. 

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

Then—the creak of the front door. 

You left it unlocked. You knew.  

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

And there he is. 

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

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

“The fuck you leave the door unlocked for?” 

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

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

Onyankopon knows you.

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

And right now?  

His dark eyes drink you in all of you.  

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

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

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

And then—  

“You left me.” 

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

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

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

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

This is your routine.  

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

“You missed—you missed everything—"

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

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

“Ony—!" 

“Nah," he growls, “You done?" 

And just like that—you crack. 

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

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

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

Then—his mouth crashes into yours.  

Not soft. Not sweet.  

Claiming.

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.” 

When you do, his eyes burn with something fierce.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait—you got your car back?"

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

“Handled it." 

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

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

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

Your stomach knots. Already? 

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

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

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

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

“…Me too."

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

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

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

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

“Papa—!” 

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

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

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

"Stop it!” 

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

Sigh. Business and pleasure, always intertwined.

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

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

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

Frustration flickers.  

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

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

 “Aight, Imma’ see you in twenty.”

You blink. 

“Twenty minutes? Where?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now?  

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

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

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

“Can we go?" 

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

“Five minutes," he grunts. 

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

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

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

“I ain’t scared—” 

“That’s yo’ first fuckin’ problem.” 

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

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

“Aight, Onyo’. Damn. My bad—” 

“Get the fuck on.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…’Kay.” 

Once again? Under his spell.

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

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

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

He thinks on your words for a moment. 

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

“In your dreams!” 

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

And when he did?  

It was like the sun breaking through a storm.  

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

“Like this, mama—time it right.”

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

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

Onyankopon’s voice cut through the haze.  

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

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

“Hm?” 

“Hm?” he repeats, “Yeah, you."

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

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

“‘You want me to believe that?” 

“That’s what I’m telling you.” 

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

He stands, the chair scraping against the floor.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, soft and genuine. 

“Still prayin’ for you."

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

You tug a curl behind your ear, exhaling softly.  

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

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

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

You roll your eyes, “No, boy." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air between you shifts.  

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

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

“So what you sayin’?" 

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

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

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

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

"Ony—" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question hangs between you, raw and exposed. 

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

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.  

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

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

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

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

“You have to be here, y’know?” 

His thumb swipes under your eye, rough but tender.  

“I’m knowin’, baby.” 

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

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

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

“You can’t leave me like that again.”

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

That’s all it takes.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You reach over, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.  

“Teach me,” you murmur.  

He arches a brow.  

“Creole?” 

You nod. 

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

I love you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Fuckin’ right you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Onyo’—fuhh—!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah—!" 

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

“‘Ain't tell you to stop." 

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

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

“Say that shit again.”

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

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

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

“Show a nigga what he been missin’.” 

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

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

The words hit him like a match to gasoline.  

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

But he doesn’t stop there.  

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

And then he dives in.  

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

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

"Fuck, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mwen renmen w..." 

And just like that? Switch flipped. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, huh? Talk to me." 

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

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

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

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

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

And then he moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, girl—you drippin’ all on me." 

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

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

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

“Ain’t leavin’ you again." 

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

But just like that? The mood shifts. 

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

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

The command is clear.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were never loud like this. 

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

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

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

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

"That’s my muhfuckin’ girl." 

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

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

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

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

Oh God. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Let everybody know I’m back home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where would we go... if we left?" 

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

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

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

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

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

“Where ‘this comin’ from?”   

You swallow, suddenly shy. 

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

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

“Gives more space for Bear to run around."

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

Wait. 

 You turn slightly in his arms, searching his face. 

“You’re serious?" 

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

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

Your heart swells. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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