chu!

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

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

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

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

Onyankopon. 

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

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

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

But you know the truth.  

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

A good man with rough edges. Yours.

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

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

Your mind flashes back to that night—the night. 

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

Three months.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soon.

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

Then—movement. 

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

Then—the creak of the front door. 

You left it unlocked. You knew.  

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

And there he is. 

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

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

“The fuck you leave the door unlocked for?” 

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

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

Onyankopon knows you.

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

And right now?  

His dark eyes drink you in all of you.  

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

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

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

And then—  

“You left me.” 

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

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

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

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

This is your routine.  

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

“You missed—you missed everything—"

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

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

“Ony—!" 

“Nah," he growls, “You done?" 

And just like that—you crack. 

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

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

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

Then—his mouth crashes into yours.  

Not soft. Not sweet.  

Claiming.

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.” 

When you do, his eyes burn with something fierce.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait—you got your car back?"

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

“Handled it." 

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

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

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

Your stomach knots. Already? 

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

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

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

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

“…Me too."

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

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

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

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

“Papa—!” 

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

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

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

"Stop it!” 

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

Sigh. Business and pleasure, always intertwined.

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

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

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

Frustration flickers.  

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

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

 “Aight, Imma’ see you in twenty.”

You blink. 

“Twenty minutes? Where?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now?  

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

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

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

“Can we go?" 

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

“Five minutes," he grunts. 

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

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

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

“I ain’t scared—” 

“That’s yo’ first fuckin’ problem.” 

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

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

“Aight, Onyo’. Damn. My bad—” 

“Get the fuck on.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…’Kay.” 

Once again? Under his spell.

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

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

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

He thinks on your words for a moment. 

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

“In your dreams!” 

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

And when he did?  

It was like the sun breaking through a storm.  

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

“Like this, mama—time it right.”

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

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

Onyankopon’s voice cut through the haze.  

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

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

“Hm?” 

“Hm?” he repeats, “Yeah, you."

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

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

“‘You want me to believe that?” 

“That’s what I’m telling you.” 

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

He stands, the chair scraping against the floor.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, soft and genuine. 

“Still prayin’ for you."

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

You tug a curl behind your ear, exhaling softly.  

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

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

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

You roll your eyes, “No, boy." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air between you shifts.  

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

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

“So what you sayin’?" 

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

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

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

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

"Ony—" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question hangs between you, raw and exposed. 

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

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.  

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

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

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

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

“You have to be here, y’know?” 

His thumb swipes under your eye, rough but tender.  

“I’m knowin’, baby.” 

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

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

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

“You can’t leave me like that again.”

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

That’s all it takes.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You reach over, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.  

“Teach me,” you murmur.  

He arches a brow.  

“Creole?” 

You nod. 

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

I love you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Fuckin’ right you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Onyo’—fuhh—!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah—!" 

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

“‘Ain't tell you to stop." 

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

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

“Say that shit again.”

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

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

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

“Show a nigga what he been missin’.” 

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

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

The words hit him like a match to gasoline.  

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

But he doesn’t stop there.  

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

And then he dives in.  

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

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

"Fuck, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mwen renmen w..." 

And just like that? Switch flipped. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, huh? Talk to me." 

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

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

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

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

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

And then he moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, girl—you drippin’ all on me." 

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

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

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

“Ain’t leavin’ you again." 

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

But just like that? The mood shifts. 

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

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

The command is clear.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were never loud like this. 

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

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

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

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

"That’s my muhfuckin’ girl." 

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

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

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

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

Oh God. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Let everybody know I’m back home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where would we go... if we left?" 

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

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

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

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

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

“Where ‘this comin’ from?”   

You swallow, suddenly shy. 

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

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

“Gives more space for Bear to run around."

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

Wait. 

 You turn slightly in his arms, searching his face. 

“You’re serious?" 

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

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

Your heart swells. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your walkie-talkie chirps from your pocket, and you bring it to your ears quickly. You glance around the room with the intention of giving the other ten members of your cell the go-ahead. You expected to receive word that you were all clear to move the device. You expected that the time and location of its detonation had been set. Instead, a shaky voice on the other end shouted, “Code Red! Code Red! He’s – he’s fucking here–”

Instead, full of raw determination, you looked at the men around you and sharply relayed the message. “Code Red,” you bark, voice cutting through the stunned silence. “Get ready!” You readied your own weapon as everyone did the same. You also secured the detonation pad. Superman was coming to you this time. It certainly wasn’t plan A, B, or C, but you wouldn’t squander the opportunity. 

You feel the metal roof shaking from the force of the wind that he brings with him. The next sound is not a crash. It’s much worse. The entire warehouse shakes, and suddenly, the rusted metal of the roof is torn through like paper. A shockwave ripples through the concrete as he slams down. He’s faster than all the debris that begins to fall, landing before it even makes it to the ground. 

You’ve already been thrown to the ground, your body sliding against the ground, before your back collides roughly with a metal support beam. You don’t scream from the pain. For a moment, you’re deathly still. You blink over and over until you can see through the dust. Superman stands in the crater he’s made, red cape moving behind him in slow waves. 

You’d never been in the same room as a God. A realization hits you like a second impact. The impossibility of the task set before you. 

He doesn’t speak when the shooting starts, metal bullets bouncing off his suit. He stands unmoving until his eyes connect with yours. You would swear they were glowing. It’s less than a second, but it feels like five minutes. 

The shooting ceases as your men realize they’ve run out of ammo. Then Superman is moving through the warehouse like a flash of light. You hear bones breaking. The squelching of torn limbs. Wet, choked gaps.  The burning of flesh seared by his heat vision. And then nothing.

It’s your turn now. He’s feet away from you, stalking closer, and you reach down to your side for the detonator. Your hands scramble across the concrete, fingers grazing against dust and blood. You couldn’t feel it. You couldn’t feel much of anything but panic. 

With shaking hands, you grab the gun at your waist and aim it at his face. 

“You looking for something, sweetheart?”

A smile tugs at his lips as he takes in your figure. He’s holding the detonator between two fingers, like it weighs nothing, like everything you’d worked for was worth nothing. He was almost amused. Like the idea that you were willing to blow yourself up and take him with you must’ve been a quirky part of your personality. 

You get one shot off before he roughly snatches the gun from your hands. You grit your teeth as you watch him crush both metal objects in his hands. He throws the debris to the side as he kneels before you. 

“Now what’s a cute little thing like you doing in a place like this?” 

Your face scrunches in disgust, and Clark’s eyebrows raise curiously, “Just kill me!” You groan as you push your back further against the metal beam. He’s close now, much too close for comfort, as if he wants a close look. You feel his body heat and a fraction of the power that radiates from him. 

“Kill you?” Clark questions, “No, I don’t think so. You’re precious.”

His hair is dark and thick, and a precise curl falls forward against his forehead. He is strong. His sharp jaw and his straight nose. His face is carved into confident lines. 

“Fuck you,” You spit at him, and that confidence doesn’t waver. 

“That might be exactly what you need.”

Your instinct is to slap him, and that urge takes over before logic can kick in. It doesn’t faze him, of course; it only makes your hand ache, but something flickers in his eyes. Not anger or surprise. Hunger. Interest. 

He’s delighted by the action. 

The floor of the warehouse disappears beneath you, and Clark’s hands grab onto both of your arms as he lifts you into the air. As you find yourself exposed to the cold, night air, you hear yourself screaming. You can’t look down. Your eyes sting, and your ears ring thanks to the rush of air, “L-let me go!” You’re moving further and further into the atmosphere. 

“This would be a very bad time to let you go, sweetheart.” His voice is calm and teasing. 

“You can’t …p-put me down!”

His lips press into a thin line, his expression unreadable. 

“Have it your way,” He says before suddenly you’re falling backwards. Free-falling. You really scream then, your body twisting, limbs falling. You see glimpses of lights, the city below, and the large figure in red and blue getting further and further away. It’s too much. Your nervous system, in an attempt to protect you, allows your world to go black. 

You don’t ever feel the impact. 

You don’t expect to wake up at all, let alone in a warm bedroom. The heat is pumping through a vent right above the soft bed your body has sunken into. It hurts to open your eyes. Your face feels bruised. As your body awakens, you feel soreness all over. The room is flooded with light, which reflects off tall, white walls. 

You turn your body until your legs are falling off the bed. Knees weak, you collapse onto the carpet as soon as you attempt to walk. You bite your lip to keep yourself from crying out. 

Looking down at your bare knees, you realize that your black clothing is gone. The combat boots and your gun holsters are gone. The tight bun on top of your head had been undone, your unruly curls now falling against your shoulders. 

Someone had undressed you. Completely. 

“Rough landing,” A deep voice rumbled across your bare skin. Your heart stopped as heavy footsteps approached from across the room. You looked up to find Superman himself staring down at your naked figure. Not in his suit. He’s dressed almost cozily – gray sweatpants and a navy blue crewneck. 

“You took me?” Your words are covered in disbelief. You reach up towards the bed to grab a pillow, and you fumble as you try to cover your naked body with it. 

He crouches down as he takes a step closer, regarding you like a skittish animal. 

“I made a last-minute decision,” He admits, the normalcy in his tone making your heart beat quicken, “You have no idea how draining it is protecting Metropolis from evil-doers like your friends. Killing people I don’t want to kill. I just thought that when I saw you, I could make sure that something good came from the situation.” 

He looks for understanding in your eyes but you remain bewildered. 

“I tried to kill you and you … you decided to take me?”

“It was a sad attempt, really. I think we’ll be able to call it even soon.” 

It’s difficult to attach the mercilessness to him without the suit but he conveys his superiority in every form. 

You try to crawl away. 

It’s instinct. Your knees scrape against the carpet, and you barely make it three feet before strong hands are on your waist, lifting you from the ground. You fight harder this time, although you have half your strength, and Clark is an immovable force. He’s not rough as he sets you back onto the bed. “Just kill me!” You try to sound aggressive. Threatening. But even you can feel how close your tone sounds to begging. 

He settles his weight against you, his thick thighs against yours, his hand against your stomach. Heavy as a chain. He shushes you as if you’re an unruly child having a temper tantrum. “Hey, hey, I already told you I wouldn’t. That’s out of the question,” He speaks calmly, and as he starts to part your legs with his knees, your chest starts to heave as the panic settles over you. A strong hand grips the back of your thighs. Your eyes widen at him, fear settling over your features, and he smiles, “You really didn’t realize this was an option. You thought the worst I could do to you was kill you.” 

He was right. You knew he was sick, but you didn’t know he made a habit out of assaulting young women. 

“You’re disgusting, you can’t—” You don’t recognize your own voice as it leaves your lips. You’d felt helpless before, but nothing like this.

Clark clicks his teeth as he looks you over. His eyes wander lower to your exposed breasts. Undoubtedly, he’d already gotten a good look at them, but something in his eyes darkened. “You’re really beautiful, you know that? Gosh. And you’re mine now.”

You shake your head, and he presses himself harder into your hips. Leaning down, he nuzzles his face into your neck. “Don’t, don’t–”

“Call me Clark, please,” His voice rumbles against your neck. His kisses are teasing at first, as if he’s testing your reaction, before his lips move more aggressively. Up your neck and then your jaw. His mouth finds you even as you try to turn your head away. 

Clark? Big, bad Superman had a human name. You couldn’t dwell on that for long. You felt him reaching down towards his hips, lowering his sweatpants. “Please don’t!” You’re begging hard now, “Please stop! I’m sorry … I’m sorry for what I did.”

He keeps his lips on you, and he’s so entranced that you’re not sure if he’s even registering the words on your lips, “Say my name.” He pulls away to stare down at you. You want to say the right thing to disarm him, but you slowly realize your words won’t matter. He’s already decided what he wants. He decided at the warehouse. “Say it again, and I’ll be gentle.”

You groan, your head tilting back in frustration, “Please don’t do this,” He keeps you pinned as he easily uses one hand to free himself from his shirt. His bare chest, hairy and sculpted presses against yours. Your begging continues, and he continues the assault against your neck. Your body squirms as much as you physically can underneath him, but your worst fears are confirmed when you feel him hard against your thigh, “Please!”

“You’re not listening,” He chided you. You can feel how thick he is even without looking. He presses himself against your entrance. You’re not ready, and he knows it. He promised not to kill you, but the alternative is painful. Every survival instinct tells you to give in, to tell him what he wants to hear, but it’s too hard. 

He pushes inside of you, and you whimper with each inch. He lets out a shaky breath, and you see him unravelling. Your warm, unwilling body feels good to him. So good that he has to keep going, pushing deeper inside of you, pinning your hands above your head. “Say it, pet.” He commands. You feel good, but he needs more. You haven’t submitted, not fully. 

When you stare back at him, lips parted in a mix of painful pleasure, his face contorts in frustration. His movements quicken, although the force behind each thrust stays the same. He’s already pressing against your cervix, and he raises his hips to deepen the angle. Your body warms to him, your center becoming wetter and more accepting. 

Minutes pass, and your body begins to feel foreign. You aren’t used to sex lasting this long. He uses his stamina to his advantage. Wrapping his arms around your back, he lifts you off the mattress until you're upright, sitting on top of him as he continues to thrust inside of you. It reminds you of when he lifted you into the air yesterday, although he seems to have no intentions of letting you go now. 

You hold onto him, as if you’re afraid of falling, and he moves your hips down onto his length. You’re shaking now. The position offers more friction against your clit, and Clark slowly coaxes your body into an intense orgasm. “Ah, ah, ah,” You groan, nails digging into his shoulders, “I can’t–please stop.”

“I’m not done with you, sweetheart,” He groans. As your body convulses against him, strong arms lift you again. He lies his back against the bed, leaving your smaller body to tremble on top of his. He holds your hips tightly, making you ride him fully, and allowing him to take in your every feature. You’re mewling, hands pressed against his chest, your own chest bouncing as Clark thrusts beneath you. Normally, a position that would offer you a sense of control, but you felt anything but control in that moment. 

It feels like you’re in that position for hours. You orgasm two more times before it even feels like Clark is ready to finish. He savors you completely, until your sweaty, babbling mess. You gasp as he thrusts slowly, and he cums deep inside of you. 

You watch Clark’s head tilt back, a guttural sound in his throat, his hands still guiding your hips on top of him. Intentionally, he makes you sit there, his cum slowly sliding out of you. When he finally lifts your waist, freeing you from his length, tears start to well in your eyes. 

“You know what?” Clark releases a heavy breath, “I think I will keep you.”

You’re not sure where your next surge of energy comes from, as you’re sure that Superman had just fucked it all out of you, but you attempt futilely to pound at his chest. He grabs ahold of your wrists quickly, smiling lazily up at you. 

“Are you hungry, pet?”

Mustering all the politeness you possibly could for the monster in front of you, you asked for clothes. He declined just as politely. You’d muttered something about that being inhumane. He didn’t need to respond; you could read it on his face. He was Kryptonian, and you were nothing in comparison. 

You never said that you were hungry, although your growling stomach told another story. Swiftly, he carried you from the large room upstairs towards the stairs. You could describe the interior of Superman’s home as cabin-like, but there were too many smooth, sharp edges and luxury finishes. A mix of human design and Kryptonian tech. Doors that opened as you approached. Lights that flickered on as you passed them. Plush carpets and dark, wood floors that were so clean they sparkled. 

He finally set you down in what you could tell was the living room. Huge, L-shaped white coaches created a cozy nook in front of huge, floor-to-ceiling windows. You’d panicked before when you realized Clark had taken you, but your heart sank further at the sight before you. Rolling hills of snow and impossibly tall mountains covered in white stood in contrast to your naked figure. 

“Where are we?” You ask him, feeling smaller than before. You felt changed although the way Clark looked at you stayed the same. Wouldn’t he get tired of you at some point? 

You’d never seen anything so …beautiful. It felt wrong. Although you were sure you were still on Earth, this was a place of dreams. Freshly made. Untouched by humans. 

“We’re pretty far North,” Clark replies with a non-answer and you scoff. He likes that you’re a lost little girl in comparison to him. He wants you to need him. 

“This is … insane.” You can’t take your eyes off the view. The clouds touch the peaks of the mountain range. That’s how far up they are … that’s how far up you are. You sink to the carpet, your heart outside of your chest. 

“You get comfy, and I’ll find us some lunch,” Clark said from somewhere above you, although you’re fixated on how small you are and the infiniteness of the universe. You’d never felt more bare. Exposed. 

Moments passed, and you looked in the direction Clark had left. Undoubtedly, the kitchen was that way. You heard the soft open and close of a fridge and took it as your cue to move in the other direction. 

The smart thing would be to map this place out, to understand exactly where he was keeping you, right? It might take some time, but you could formulate a plan. Your life as you knew it didn’t have to be over. You could stay strong. You could keep yourself from completely crumbling. 

You move towards the arched doorway that leads into the living room, but just as you approach it, two black doors appear and slide shut in front of you. You yelp in frustration as your palms press against the metal. You turn quickly and find Clark standing across the room, a bowl of fruit in one hand and a plate of food in the other. 

“The house is not quite used to you yet,” He says as he walks towards the couch closest to the kitchen, speaking as if his home were a living being, “Come, you should eat something.” 

“I don’t want your food.” Clark slowly sits down, eyes fixed intently on you, spreading his legs to make himself comfortable. You press yourself into the cold door. 

“You’ve been through a lot, and you’re running on empty. It might be easier to plot your escape on a full stomach,” He teases. You hate how he speaks as if he’s an all-knowing being. He pops a grape into his mouth and sighs. You cover your chest with your hands as you realize exactly where he’s staring. He looks hungry, and the grapes seem to be satiating him, but only temporarily. 

“What is actually wrong with you?” 

Clark’s face twists and this time when he smiles at you, it’s forced. 

“Fine, I don’t wanna burst your bubble, little one, but the only way you’re getting out of here is with me. If you did manage to make it outside, and you won’t, you’d be hypothermic in half an hour. That’s if you found something substantial to wear, and that won’t happen either.” 

You pause for a long moment and Clark waits patiently, “So what do I have to do for you to take me away from here?”

He shrugs casually, “I wouldn’t dwell on that. You look good here. I like you here, so this is where you’ll stay.” 

“How many girls have you done this to?” You ask incredulously. 

“How many other little human girls have I commandeered? None. Geez, I know you think I’m a supervillain —“

“What exactly would you call taking over the free world and killing anyone who opposes you?”

“I call it my purpose. We all have one. Mine just happens to be greater than yours.” Again, his tone implies that this is a normal situation and an ordinary conversation. It’s as if he’s playing devil’s advocate. As if human rights are something to be debated. “You’ll thank me later for showing you your true purpose.” 

Trembling, you find yourself maintaining eye contact just to maintain a sense of control. The blood beneath your skin is boiling. You’d never felt so angry, although another emotion began to cloud your thinking. Failure. You thought of all the work that had gone to waste. All the efforts of thousands of humans just to have a small chance at defeating him, and you were the one left alive. It had all meant nothing. 

All your friends were dead. He’d killed them without a second thought. He could kill you just as easily but you’re more frightened of living at this point. 

“M-My purpose?” Your voice is weak. Shaking. 

“You’re exhausted. Please, c’mere,” He waves you closer. The “please” he offers is a peace offering. It’s the only reason you can convince yourself to move. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Again,” You added for good measure. 

“I won’t hurt you again,” He concedes, and you stalk closer. You know it’s wrong, that your mind is playing tricks on you, but in this warm house in the middle of a frozen kingdom, he’s the closest thing to human. He reaches out to take your hand, and you let it fall limply in his grasp, “Kneel, little one.”

You swallow. Hard. He looks at you expectantly for a long moment. 

It’s a punch in the gut. The large room offers many places to sit, but he intends for your place to be at his feet. It’s intentional. 

He squeezes your hand, more gently than you thought he was capable of. Before now, he was a flying speck in the sky. Up close, in his normal clothes, he really does look human. 

Sinking slowly, you maintain your expression. Empty. Unimpressed. At least, that’s what you hope you’re conveying. Your knees brush the carpet as you settle in the space between his legs. He’s quiet as he leans forward and brings one of the grapes to your lips. 

It’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Better than the rations and dehydrated food at the rebel camp. You hadn’t realized how much you missed real, fresh food. 

You eat each one from his fingers. In between each bite, he lets his hands wander. Brushing curls from your face and tucking strands behind your ear. 

“Good girl,” Clark hums. He’s a God, but he gazes at you as if you’re worth something. “My parents saw little to no value in humans. They didn’t get the chance to live among them, obviously, so maybe that would have changed their opinion. But I think if they were alive today, they’d think I was soft.” 

Your eyebrows raise curiously, and Clark appears amused at your reaction. “No, really. They wanted me to rebuild the Kryptonian empire. To take as many lovers as possible,” He adds, and you hang onto his every word. “To be honest, I think the most human thing about me is that I want a real family.” 

The implication is there. He doesn’t need to verbalize it. Something twists in your stomach as you realize he may have already gotten his wish.

reblog with your thoughts to be added to my clark taglist :)

Krypto tilted his head at the sight of you and whined.  

Inside the basket were at least a dozen eggs, each wrapped in straw. “Pa said to bring these to you …he’s, uhm, sorry about what he said last night.”

It clicked then, who your father was, and then who you were. Last time he’d laid eyes on you, you were lining up with your older brothers at the bus stop just at the end of Maple Street. They always ran ahead of you, tackling each other to get on the school bus, not paying any mind to how your small legs could never keep up with them. Clark didn’t pay much attention either, always home visiting from college, with his intentions of spending all his free time with his parents, who’d gone months without seeing him. He remembered how fragile you always looked. 

Even now that you were a young woman standing in front of him, that hadn’t changed.  Clark didn’t take the basket from your hands for fear that you’d turn and run once you accomplished your mission. He let the door swing open, kneeling lower until your eyes had to meet his. He kept one arm around Krypto, holding him steady, as he continued to whine. 

He wanted to play with you, clearly, but Clark feared he’d break you in half if he got too excited. 

“Your Pa sent you?” Clark asked, and he watched you shiver at the sound of his voice. 

You nodded, “He said to bring these to you. He’s sorry about, uhm, what he said last night,” You repeated the rehearsed line. 

“So it was your Pa who wanted me to have these. Not you?”

“Uhm, I-I …I want you to have them, too. Please take them.” 

Your father was a violent drunk, and your three older brothers were even rowdier. Last night, Clark was walking back to his pickup truck from inside the gas station when your father quite literally ran into him. Clark knew he had blacked out simply by the fact that he tried to pick a fight with a man three times his size. Some resentment had built between Clark and your Pa after Jonathan and Martha’s passing. Jonathan never charged your father a cent when your family needed to use the larger farm’s equipment.  But after his parents were gone, Clark couldn’t afford to keep giving things away. The act wasn’t meant to be cruel. It had taken Clark a full two years for the Kent farm to turn a profit again after his parents passed away. 

Your stomach growled, and Clark’s blue eyes locked on yours. 

“Have you had breakfast, Y/N?” Clark asked, and your eyes drifted down to the basket of eggs you were holding. The basket of eggs was undoubtedly meant to be your family’s breakfast. 

“I’m okay,” You said quickly, “My Pa wanted you to have these.”

You set the basket down, and Clark quickly reached towards you, his strong hand wrapping around your wrist. He kept you from flying away. 

He watched your chest rise and fall rapidly. Your lips were plump, your eyes big and sad, and the curls of your hair were barely restrained by the white ribbon you used to tie them from your face. Your grey sweater was not nearly warm enough for the cool, November air, and your feet were dirty and bare. 

“Will you come inside and warm up?” 

“I can’t–”

Clark had kind eyes. Even when he was being firm, his face was gentle. “I’ll accept the eggs and your father’s apology if you come inside and warm up.” 

Your tune changed as you realized Clark wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I can’t stay long. I have chores.” 

Clark could only imagine the reaction your father would have if he were to send you away and turn down his offer. You were painfully aware of what your father’s reaction would be. Maybe it was manipulative, but Clark had already decided that he needed to see you up close. 

“I won’t keep you long,” Clark assured you, his deep voice rumbling. Things were easy after that. The way he stood, taking the basket in one hand and pulling you inside with his other hand. You stared at him like the giant he was. 

Clark expected you might pull away from him, but you only stepped closer as you realized he was the only one protecting you from Krypto. For a girl who grew up on a farm, you appeared skittish around Clark’s dog. 

Clark pulled you along, through the living room, and towards the kitchen, which overlooked the backyard. Surprisingly, Krypto remained cautious, keeping his distance. It was as if he recognized how fragile you were, too.  “Sit,” Clark insisted, grabbing one of the wooden chairs tucked into the kitchen table. Your body no longer felt like it was yours to control. He guided it so easily that it felt like you were floating. He let you go as soon as you lowered your bottom down onto the seat, “Coffee?”

You watched him, muscles straining through his white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, which made him look even more All-American. 

Your lips parted to answer, although your brain was still trying to compute that you were in an unfamiliar kitchen with your neighbor, one you’d only admired from a distance. You didn’t have to answer. Clark was setting a hot cup in front of you and taking the seat adjacent to yours, “I’m assuming you like cream and sugar.” You nodded shyly, “Lots of cream and sugar?”

You nodded again, your eyes fixed on your hands as you fidgeted in your lap. The warmth creeping through you had little to do with the coffee and everything to do with Clark’s steady gaze.

Clark reached toward the center of the table, where the basket of eggs sat next to a blue-flowered cream and sugar set.

“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” You whispered as Clark poured cream and sugar into your drink. 

Clark waited patiently as you stared at the cup of coffee in front of you. He leaned back in his chair, finally taking a sip of his own. He sensed how overwhelmed you were. Your nervous system had yet to let your body know that you weren’t in immediate danger. 

Your dress was a faded pink paisley, the nicest one you owned. Undoubtedly, your father had chosen it for you. Your lack of shoes, though… maybe it had been a while since he’d bought you a new pair.

When you finally did reach out to take a sip, Clark let the silence stretch between the two of you. A reprieve from your loud and moody household. It felt necessary, not awkward. 

He decided not to ask if you were hungry. He used two of the eggs you’d brought him and scrambled a plate of eggs for you. “Those eggs were for you.”

“These eggs are for you,” Clark insisted, “Not fair they made you give away your breakfast. C’mon, I won’t tell your Pa.”

Clark waited for you to work up the courage, and you eventually did. 

“Are you in school?” Clark asked after you’d taken a few bites. The thought did cross his mind that he didn’t know exactly how old you were. If the lustful thoughts in his head were to continue, he should at least establish what rules he was breaking. 

You shook your head, “No.”

“You graduated?” Clark pressed further. 

“I couldn’t go anymore. Had lots to do at home. Still do.”

“Your Pa didn’t make sure that you graduated from high school?”

You gave him a look of confusion. “It’s not like I was gonna go to college.”

“Your Pa told you that?” Clark watched as you shrank into your sweater and realized he’d pushed too far. “Sorry, I’m just trying to understand. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I really do have chores. Thank you for having me for breakfast, Mr. Kent.”

“Let me drive you home.”

“It’s just a mile down the road–”

“You’ve got no shoes on, Y/N.”

“I really don’t mind.” 

“Of course you don’t.” 

You didn’t fight him on the topic for long. Just as you didn’t fight back when it came to your brothers and father, you would shrink into yourself eventually. You reminded him of the petrified women he was used to saving from runaway trains and falling skyscrapers. Except you seemed to be in a constant state of anxiety. 

Clark drives you in his Pa’s old pickup truck the short mile down the road. Much to your satisfaction, your brothers weren’t hanging around outside smoking and roughhousing like usual. “Thank you,” You whispered, and you moved so quickly out the passenger door that Clark and his superhuman speech almost missed your hand when he reached out to grab it, “Mr. Kent–”

“You come over anytime you want, you hear me?” Clark's eyes narrowed sharply at yours. Your chest rose and fell as you took in shallow breaths, “If you don’t feel safe or if you just want some quiet. You’re welcome at mine. You understand?”

“I’ll be okay.” You’d made it to this point, hadn’t you?

“But are you listening to me?”

You nodded quickly, “Yes, anytime I-I want.”

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Clark released his grip, although it took more strength than he anticipated. It felt wrong as he watched you skitter across the gravel road and head inside your family’s double-wide. It felt even worse knowing how much more he wanted to see… to feel. 

The next time Clark heard from you was two weeks later. Friday. Payday. The roughest nights were when your Father had enough money to be drunk for the entire weekend. He’d come home from the bar a little before one in the morning. You could usually sleep through the chaos and stay hidden behind your locked door. This time, for some terrible reason, your father had gotten into it with your oldest brother. You tucked yourself into the corner of your bed and tried to ignore the crashing glass plates and the holes being punched into the walls.

Smell the flowers, you reminded yourself, blow the candles out. The panic only gets worse when you don’t breathe properly. The method works until your Father starts beating at your door. You can only make out your name as he slurs his words. It won’t be good if he breaks down the door. Not at all. You have to make a decision. 

You could open the door now. He might be less angry if you do exactly what he wants and when he wants. If he beats down the door and you’re still inside, he’ll be pissed at you. But he already sounds pissed? What had you done? The house was spotless when he got home. There were plenty of leftovers in the fridge. You hadn’t asked for anything. 

You chose the third option. You grabbed your robe hanging on your twin-sized bedpost and made your way over to your window. It’s a short jump down to the dirt patch in the backyard, but somehow you land funny. You wince, biting down on your bottom lip. Hard. The pounding continues. Your heart beats even louder in your ears. 

It’s adrenaline that sends you limping into the woods. Although you move quickly, more air fills your lungs the further you get away from your house. Half an hour later, the Kent farm comes into your view, and for some strange reason, you feel relieved. 

You can’t bring yourself to knock on the front door. It’s almost two in the morning. You limp through grassy fields, mosquitoes bite at your bare legs, and you head towards a tall, red barn. It sits a little apart from the Kent house. That will be warm enough for the night. And you won’t have to bother Clark. You just have to wait out your father’s tempers. In the morning, he’ll act like nothing happened. 

It’s Krypto who notices first that the Kent farm has an intruder. His head snaps up, ears pricked, before his muscles go rigid. He awakens Clark roughly, practically stomping his paws against the Kryptonian’s chest. 

“All right, all right.” There’s no chance he’ll fall asleep again anytime soon. He follows the unruly beast outside to investigate, but Krypto flies in the direction of the barn as soon as he steps outside. 

“Krypto — hey!”

Clark shouts, but the super dog continues to disobey him. Clark sighs before he launches himself after him. He lands gently in front of the barn doors that Krypto has already broken through. He hears a woman shriek, and Clark's heart fully stops before he barrels inside the barn next. 

Krypto is on top of you, his front paws on either side of your head, as he laps at your cheek. Your shrieks have turned into giggles, but Clark is still panicking. Luckily, the dog hadn’t put his entire weight on you; he’d known better, but if you continued to encourage him, Clark knew he’d lose control. 

“Krypto, off!” Clark hurried forward, wrapping his arms around the dog’s torso before lifting him away from you. Clark has to hold his collar to keep him from tackling you again. “Bad boy! No!”

Clark looks you over. Although your face is delighted, Clark realizes you’re in a thin camisole and pajama shorts, cold skin only covered by a flimsy robe. He noticed your right ankle next, and the way it was starting to turn purple. 

“He flew!” You shout, and it’s the most animated Clark has ever seen you, “I swear, he-he flew!”

“Krypto–look what you… Oh gosh. Stay!” Clark commands, and the dog whines but keeps his place, far from you. Your face falls. 

“He’s okay,” You add as you realize Clark has noticed your ankle, “He didn’t hurt me, Mr. Kent!” 

“Your ankle–” Clark starts as he hurried to kneel by your side. He’s already taken your leg in his hand, lifting it gently. 

“I fell,” You add, trying to ignore the way his touch was making your body feel. His hands were firm, careful, and his touch felt far too intimate. “I fell, it wasn’t him.”

“You fell?” Clark’s eyes darkened, “Your Pa did this?”

You think for a moment about lying. What if he tried to get your Pa in trouble? You needed your Pa. Things got bad when he was home, but it was even worse when he was locked up. You find you don’t have any energy left to lie. “I jumped out of my window. My Pa…he was trying to get into my room. He was drunk. I was scared.”

He’s still angry, you can read that much, but he remains calm. He lifts you swiftly, careful to avoid putting any extra pressure on your ankle, and starts to carry you outside. 

“You did the right thing,” Clark states, his voice deeper than before. He carries you towards the house, and Krypto follows obediently behind the two of you. He doesn’t specify exactly what the right thing is that you did — jumping out the window? Coming here? Telling the truth? You assume he means everything. It’s praise, but it feels so foreign that it’s hard for your mind to process. 

He takes you to the main bedroom and lays you down on the bed. It smells like him. The sheets are soft and plaid. The comforter is a quilted pattern that looks handmade, and there are so many knick-knacks that decorate the shelves and family photos on the walls. It’s a happy and lived-in room. 

Clark works methodically, propping your leg up on a pillow, applying an ice pack, and bandaging up your bruised skin. 

“I think it’s sprained.” He says, concentrated, almost to himself. 

“I’m okay, really,” You tried, but he’d only shush you and tell you to lie back down. “At least it’s not broken.” 

Clark grits his teeth at that. You worry that you’ve upset him. 

“You won’t tell on him, will you?” You ask quietly, and your eyes are hopeful. 

Clark sighs and pauses for a long moment, “No, if that’s not what you want.” The words sound almost painful as they leave his lips. His curly hair falls gently against his forehead as he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows against his thighs. 

You nodded, “Thank you.”

“But I don’t think you should go back.”

“What?” 

“I think you should stay here.”

“I can’t–”

“Don’t decide now, okay? Either way, I’ll find a way to handle your Dad.”

“Handle him?” You ask cautiously. 

Clark doesn’t answer, not directly, but his face says it all. He’s struggling with the thoughts in his mind. 

“I’m sorry for all this.” Tears prick your eyes, your head tilts back against the pillows, and you cover your eyes, “It’s my fault. It’s always my fault.”

Your tears start to fall as the bed dips beside you. He’s heavy, and your body tilts in the direction that his body weight pulls you. His hands are impossibly warm when they touch yours. Gently, he moves your hands from your face.  

“I’m sss-sorry, Mr. Kent.”

Maybe your vision is blurry from your tears, but you almost swear Clark licks his lips as he looks at you. It almost doesn’t register that you’re lying in his bed with him, your older neighbor. As soon as it does, you feel a lump in your throat. You swallow. Hard. 

“Don’t be,” he says, his warm breath fans over your nose, your mouth. Your heart beats in a strange pattern. “I don’t like that you’re hurting, but I think you were meant to be right here. Right at this moment.” 

You try to blink your tears away, “You … think so?”

“Mhm,” Is all he manages, and suddenly, you feel his hand on your waist. He feels the exposed flesh there, “Are you … are you hurting anywhere else?” 

“Just my ankle…” He’s just concerned, you know that, but it also feels like … his fingers dance against the thin waistband of your pajama shorts. They’re covered in faded butterflies. “You’re not mad at me?”

You already know that deep down, anger is the last emotion he’s feeling as he moves his hands over your skin. It takes everything in you not to squirm. It feels strange. “I could never…have you … have you ever …”

Your brows furrow as you search his face. His expression is almost painful. “Have I ever what?”

He pulls his hands away suddenly, almost ashamed. Once again, you feel like you’ve mistepped. “Nothing,” He smiles sadly, “I’ll go get you something for the pain. And then I want you to sleep. It’s late.” 

You nod solemnly. “Okay, thank you, Mr. Kent.”

“Call me Clark, please.”

“Thank you, Clark.” 

You wake to a whining Krypto. He lies beside you, his tail wagging furiously, and as your eyes blink open, he licks your face. You groan and laugh at the same time, wiping your cheek. You reach out to pet behind his ears. You’d gotten the best sleep you had in a while, even given the sprained ankle. You pulled he comforter away from your body, attempting to move your foot, only to find it still sore. You could see your ankle swelling even from beneath the bandage. 

Slowly, you pulled yourself up. You lifted your ankle from the pillow, grimacing, as you tried to move both your legs to the side of the bed. “Hey, hey, hey,” As if he’d sensed your movement, Clark appeared through the bedroom door, “You gotta let me help you.”

Shyly, you looked up at him. A kitchen towel was tossed over his shoulder, like he was in the midst of cooking. The smell of bacon and pancakes wafted through the open door, confirming your suspicion. He stood in front of you, blocking your exit, and you continued to wince as you gently placed your right foot on the ground. 

“I’m okay…” You strained to say through the pain, “Please, Clark.”

“I’ll lift you. Grab onto my shoulders.”

You hesitate. “I … I have to pee. I swear I-I can make it on my own.”

Reaching down, tucking one of his arms beneath your knees, and the other around your back, he lifts you easily. He leaves no room for argument. You’re not one to argue, anyways. You should feel embarassed as he sets you down in front of the toilet. There’s an awkward moment where you’re afraid he’ll try to help you further but he say, “Shout when you’re done and I’ll help you to the sink.”

You nod quickly, silently. 

Throughout the day, you get used to Clark being a little bit too close for comfort. He brings you to the breakfast table, to the couch, and that night he helps you to the shower. He figures out a solution that offers you the most privacy but it still involves him being on the other side of the shower curtain. You plan to undress and dress inside the confines of the shower. “Be careful, please,” Clark warns you and halfway through trying to bathe yourself, you realize you’ve overestimated your abilities. You’re basically forced to hop on one foot on the slippery shower floor and after almost falling twice, Clark decides he can’t risk you hurting yourself further. 

You yip when he pulls the shower curtain back, “I won’t look, I promise,” He assures you as your eyes widen. It’s futile. You reach out to grab onto his arms. You use him for balance as you finish rinsing the soap from your body. You’re shaking and you wish he couldn’t feel how nervous you were. You don’t know if he takes a peek at you because you’re averting your eyes from him out of embarrassment. “You’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” You say although you’re not sure what for. He clearly finds some satisfaction out of helping you. 

You’re surprised when he lifts you easily from the tub, his arms tucked underneath your armpits, and you marvel for a moment at his strength. He continues to promise that he’s not looking as he helps you into one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers. 

“Clark, you should really take me home tonight.” 

“You know why that’s not happening.”

“My father will be expecting me–”

“He won’t.” Clark says. “I already talked to him.” 

“What?”

“He’s not gonna get mad at you. He’s not going to do anything to you, do you understand that?” Clark steadies you, his hands tight against your waist as he stares down at you, “All of that is over.” 

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing a lady needs to hear,” He insists, “I want you to stay. You’re not a burden to me. You look good here. In my clothes and with me.” 

“Whatever he agreed to, he’ll go back on it, he won’t keep his word. He never has.” You respond, your anxiety growing, knowing how angry Clark must’ve made him. Clark lifts you again, this time settling himself on the bed, and then setting you next to him. Your legs crossed over his lap, his hand against the small of your back. Your hand finds his hard chest as you try not to squirm, to not show your discomfort, “I-I’m serious. He’ll show up her and he’ll do something stupid.”

“You don’t think I could handle him?”

“I don’t want you to handle him. This is my fault, not yours–”

“Oh, sweet girl,” Clark’s head dips as he tucks his head into the side of your neck. He squeezes you and pulls you closer. “I don’t think you’ve ever done anything wrong in your life.” 

“What are you doing?” Your hand presses harder into his chest, “Clark, that feels… weird.”

“Weird, huh?” 

He kisses you on the sensitive skin there, and now, you can’t help but squirm. You feel warm in places you didn’t know could feel warm. He moves your right leg carefully, spreading your legs, and you panic inside. His hand travels up your leg and then moves to your inner thigh. Jesus, this is wrong. So wrong. 

“Has anyone ever touched you like this?” Clark asked, his voice husky and deep. The kind stranger who’d taken you in had taken another shape. “Tell me no one has.”

He massages the meaty flesh of your thighs, grabbing you like a stress toy, and there’s a groan in his throat that’s animalistic. “Wait, please–”

“You’ll like it, I promise,” When he reaches into the fabric of the short, something flutters in your core, and his strong fingers start to run over your sensitive folds. He makes long strokes, up and down your center. He wants to feel a part of you no else has ever seen. 

And the sad thing is, you like it more than you thought you would. The attention. No one had ever paid you this much attention. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been held. You were undiscovered. Uncharted territory. And so painfully innocent. 

You feel warm and wet now. Clark’s icy blue eyes meet with yours and your cheeks heat from embarrassment. He kisses you softly as he massages your center. He’s right. You like it. You’re moving your hips weakly against his fingers. Your lips part and he presses his lips against yours. He takes the lead and you try to move your lips in sync with his. 

“You like it, don’t you?” He asks against your lips.

You nod although you hate that he can see you like this. 

You’re so wet now. He easily slips the tip of his finger inside of you, “Clark–” You gasp, “More.”

“You can handle more, can’t you?” You nod as he pushes his finger deeper. You’re grinding against his finger in weak circles. “Good girl. Sweet girl. I’ve got more for you.”

His finger goes deeper, curling against a spot that has you shaking. It’s so slow. Torturous. “You gonna cum on my finger, Y/N?”

“I-I…” You moan, “I feel like I have to pee.”

Clark’s chest rumbles and you feel mortified knowing that he’s amused. “That’s okay. Don’t run from it.”

You turn your face into his chest, shyly, as you do your best not to run from the feeling. “Let me make you cum, baby,” It’s a slow building and then it happens all at once. You’re screaming into his the fabric of his shirt, hips shaking, but he keeps holding onto you even as his finger slips from inside you. 

You feel empty without him. 

He takes the opportunity while you’re dazed and mumbling incoherent to move you from his lap. He lays you down beneath him. Gently, he sets your right leg down on one of the bed’s pillows. He grabs onto your left leg as he settles between you. He lifts the fabric of your shirt, settling his face between your breasts, he takes each one into his mouth, licking the buds of your nipples. 

You feel the sensation is what sends him over the edge. Its quick. How he tears the fabric over the boxers and presses his hard length at your entrance. He holds your leg, keeping you spread wide open, and presses further. It’s his turn. You see it in his eyes. The lack of control. He stares down at you, watching your face contort with pain as he takes you for the first time. 

He’s more than appreciative, grunting your name, as he makes the first, shallow thrusts. He goes deeper as your body adjusts, squeezing tightly around him. He knows how lucky he is. You’re perfect and he never has to let you go. He could keep you tied to this bed and use you over and over again. You’re so polite that you’d thank him for it. 

“You’ll stay with me,” Clark grunts, moving your hips into him, “I’ll look after you.”

“Clark, I can’t stay–” His eyes darken at that and he positions himself to go even deeper. His hand wraps around your throat and he turns your head roughly so he can growl into your ear. 

“I wasn’t asking, sweet girl. I need you too bad. You see that, don’t you?” Clark asks although it’s rhetorical. He’s against your cervix now and you’re not sure he’s even registering how much you’re screaming, “I’m going to take you for hours.” 

“Please,” You gasp, “Oh my —”

Another orgasm rushes through you, forceful and unyielding. He continues his pace and as you feel your body growing impossibly tired, you wonder how he can keep going. You don’t even feel him sweating. 

You never really imagined for your first time but you thought you might be awake enough to remember most of it. It’s like a dream. You lose consciousness and awake to find him still inside of you. When he finally finishes inside of you, you’re stretched, and completely empty. When you awake again, you’re fully naked and tucked into the sheets. He lifts your head to feed you a glass of water. He pets your head and tucks your hair behind your ears. He runs his fingers all over you, down your back, over the curves of your hip and soothes you back to sleep. 

And you sleep for days, safe and cared for. 

reblog with your thoughts to be added to my clark taglist :)

jungkook gripped your hand softly and stood, bringing you up with him. “that would be me, she’s just here for support,” he gave your hand a tender squeeze, not bothered by the pda he was showing you in the slightest.

that was one of the things you loved about jungkook.

he was never afraid to show his affection for you no matter who happened to be in the room. friends, colleagues, strangers—it didn’t matter who it was. jungkook was still gonna kiss, touch, and hold you to his hearts content. and who were you to even complain about such a thing?

so he held your hand the entire time.

he held your hand while the piercer perfected the placement, while he rinsed his mouth out with a minty mouthwash, and once the needle finally went through his tongue, he held on even tighter.

he preened at your praise, his heart rate increasing tenfold when you whispered a sweet, ‘you’re doing so good, babe!’

jungkook winced as the piercer screwed in the tiny, silver balls on the bar, but you just squeezed his hand in reassurance. before he knew it, he was finished.

“how do you like it? placement okay and everything?” the man had asked, and with three slow blinks, jungkook nodded. the feeling of it in his mouth was foreign, but that was to be expected, and as for the way it looked? he loved it.

“s’great. thank you, thank you so much!”

you watched in complete adoration as your boyfriend admired his fresh piercing in the handheld mirror he was given. those big, brown boba eyes of his were so wide in awe you were sure they’d pop out if his skull. he was too cute.

“here, rinse your mouth with this again,” the piercer instructed jungkook, handing him another small cup of mouthwash. as jungkook swished the liquid in his mouth the man went over a few, simple instructions on how to properly care for the piercing.

“i would recommend soft foods the next couple of days, nothing too spicy or else it’ll get irritated, and this’ll probably be the hardest rule to follow but absolutely no kissing. swapping spit with someone, even your girlfriend, is the quickest way for it to get infected and reject, but other than that you should be good, man.”

jungkooks lips parted then shut. fuck.

the thought of not being able to kiss you whenever and wherever he wanted hadn’t crossed his mind. not even once. fuck. fuck. fuck.

“how—um, h-how long am i gonna have to do all that for?” and as soon as the words ‘ten to fifteen days’ left the piercers mouth, you could see jungkooks shoulders visibly deflate.

how will he ever go over a week without kissing your soft, pretty lips? your cherry gloss was like heroine to him. he loved swiping it off with his tongue, and letting the subtle cherry taste coat his tastebuds. and not to boast, but jungkook was the biggest munch he knew! how on gods green earth is supposed to go a whole fifteen days without tasting your cu—!

“hey, you alright? feeling lightheaded?”

jungkook blinked rapidly, and with a low hum he shook his head no.

“don’t know how i’m gonna go so long without kissing her . . . or eating spicy foods,” he chuckled, throwing his his back so dramatically you didn’t know whether to laugh or scoff.

“please excuse him. now pay this poor man so we can go get you some ice chips for your tongue,” you smirked, linking your arm around his muscular one. he glanced down at you, and fuck. he already wanted to give you a smooch.

you looked so cute in your pink, oversized sweater and miniskirt. not to mention you were trying out a new blush and lip combo that just made you look so sweet, he could’ve ruined you right then and there.

“why don’t you go hangout over there while i pay him, hm? maybe one of those pieces you see will inspire your next tattoo” he spoke lowly in your ear, giving your side a soft squeeze before sending you on your way.

as jungkook talked to the man about his form of payment, you stood to the side, wrapped up in your own little world. you nibbled on your bottom lip, manicured fingers playing with the hem of your skirt as you thought about how much of a pain in the ass jungkook will be for the next two weeks.

your sweet bunny of a boyfriend required physical touch on a daily basis, so to take out such a key part of it left both of you feeling less than thrilled. at least you had a tad of self control, jungkook on the other hand . . . need i say more?

he was the most impulsive person you’ve ever met, not to mention the neediest boy in the fucking world. underneath the leather jackets, tattoos, and piercings—jungkook was as soft as the strawberry crème cakes you made him on a daily when it came to you.

a hand squeezing your hip broke you out of your thoughts, “you ready to go, sugar?”

when you nodded, jungkook laced his tatted fingers with yours, bidding everyone in the shop a farewell before leading you out the exit and to his car.

it was a beautiful day out; a cool seventy eight degrees and the sun shone brightly above you. a perfect day for running errands and a late lunch!!

a little squeal slipped past your lips when jungkook lightly pushed you against the side of his car, his front pushing ever so softly against yours. “so what’s on the agenda for the rest of the day, hm?” he spoke softly, encasing your hips in his large hands.

you placed your hands on his hard stomach, blindly tracing the ridges of his abs over his shirt. he was so manly . . so masculine . . . and so all yours.

“well . . .” your voice trailed off, head innocently cocking to the side, “i wanna go to t.j. maxx, and get that hello kitty vanity chair. i also wanna head to that herb store and get more raspberry leaf—if i run out before my period comes i’m a goner!”

jungkook’s smile only faltered slightly at the mention of your awful period cramps. sometimes during that time of the month for you, he’d find you in your shared bathroom, head tucked between your knees as your body racked with sobs. he never minds it truly, but it shatters his heart every time he kisses those little tears streaming down your puffy cheeks away.

he tenderly rubbed your lower belly, forehead knocking against your gently as he nodded. “mm, don’t worry. we’ll get your herbs n’ your chair. maybe something to eat too?”

he was absolutely speaking your language.

“yes, that sounds perfect,” you grinned, scratching lightly at the hairs on the nape of his neck. jungkook practically purred at the contact, damn near forgetting you were out in the open. not that he really cared.

he wanted to swoop in for a kiss. just a tiny, little kiss. but the moment his head ducked down, his lips were met with the smooth skin of your palm.

he frowned, a noise of disapproval rumbling in his chest that was soon hushed by little kisses on his jaw. the feeling of your lips running over his hot skin had him shivering, brain nearly short circuiting.

you looked up at him through your freshly done lashes, “m’sorry for doin’ that, but you heard that man in there! no kisses for kookie for at least ten days.”

jungkook wanted to just collapse to his knees, and cry, and be as dramatic as possible—but chairs nodded to be bought, and herbs needed to be collected so he’d have to save the dramatics for another time.

he let out a small puff of air from his cheeks, his tongue already starting to sting from swelling, “you’re right. you’re always right, my smart girl.” he squeezed your sides gently, and nudged his nose against yours, “let’s go get that chair.”

after a short trip, and lots of lingering touches later, your chair and raspberry leaf were secured, and so was your hunger. on the way back home jungkook had made a surprise stop at your favorite taco spot—a small truck ran by two older women who absolutely adored the two of you.

the way home was pretty quiet. while you bashed on your three carne asada tacos with extra lime and salsa, jungkook casually sipped on a small horchata, the cool liquid bringing some relief to his sore tongue.

“it’ll always shock me how you make no mess,” he chuckled, putting his car in park. you dabbed the corners of your lips with a napkin, and did a quick check in the mirror to make sure no cilantro was in your teeth before giving him a small smile. “only because i know i’ll get an earful from you if i do.”

and right you were!! jungkooks mercedes amg was his pride and joy (right after you).

“need me to carry anything, honey?” you hummed, watching as jungkook balanced your bags and the small box containing the parts to your new vanity chair in his arms. he, of course, shook his head no, and instead gave you the job of unlocking the door.

before you even set your purse down, jungkook was already kicking his shoes off and ripping at the box, an obnoxious tearing sound echoing throughout your apartment. building furniture was a random favorite hobby of his, and he always looked damn good doing it.

“lemme get these outside clothes off,” you muttered, using your socks as little skates to slide into your shared room, little giggles slipping past your lips as you did so.

“you’re going to bust your behind one of these days if you keep doing that. hardwood floors hurt y’know!” jungkook called out to you, his boyfriend voice turned all the way on.

“yeah, yeah, whatever. are you gonna need your tools?” you called back, slipping off your skirt and sweater. your bra was the next thing to go, and after little to no thought, you settled on wearing one of jungkooks t-shirts.

the fabric smelt just like him. a citrusy, vanilla scent that made you sleepy every time you smelt it for too long. it also made your cunt feel tingly, but due to certain circumstances, you decided to keep your horniness at bay for jungkooks sake.

you’d be lying if the urge to kiss him hasn’t hit you once or twice, but who could blame you? your boyfriend had the most kissable lips ever, and the two lip rings that adorned the left side made you want them against yours even more!

but unfortunately it’d have to wait.

you brought the collar of his shirt to your nose one last time, inhaling deeply before getting on your knees and shimmying over to jungkooks side of the bed. now he did say which tools he needed, but you weren’t exactly a handy woman, so you just decided to bring his entire tool box.

when he heard the obnoxious sound of metal clanking together his eyes darted to the direction of the sound. his lips broke into a smirk when he saw you carrying his entire toolbox. you were so precious without even having to try.

you wearing little to nothing around your place wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. in fact, you did it so much that jungkook almost found it odd whenever he would come home from work and see you still fully clothed.

yes, you prancing around in just your panties and a top all the time was pretty distracting, but it was the best distraction a man could ever ask for. you have the prettiest, phattest pussy he’s ever seen, and she looks even more enticing hidden behind the soft cotton of your panties.

with a small grunt you set the metal box down, “here ya go.”

when your hands found purchase on your hips, your his shirt rose up, giving him a nice, close up view of your panty clad cunt. the pair you had on today were hot pink, with ‘juicy’ written in black cursive right on the part where your mound was.

‘i’ll fuckin’ say’ he thought to himself, teeth tugging on his lip ring to surpress the urge to pull you closer to him. it didn’t help. like at all, because three seconds later jungkook was pulling you two steps closer by the backs of your thighs.

your nose scrunched up, a giggling bubbling in your chest. “you know . . . you could at least try to be a little more discreet with your staring.”

jungkook groaned at your words, nosing at the inside of your petal soft thigh. “nothing fun about being discreet, babe,” he sighed giving your thigh a light peck.

you were out of his grasp a millisecond later, your head cocking back and forth. “watch those lips mister!”

“it was just a peck, it won’t do any harm, babe!” he pleaded, pulling you closer. his ring clad fingers held rather tightly onto your flesh, preventing you from moving an inch.

“mm, sure, but a peck with you always leads to something more,” you spoke softly, ruffling his jet black locs.

a drag of air got caught in your throat when his nose nudged against your cunt. “h-hey, that’s enough, mister! get back to work before i thump you.”

and with that, jungkook released his hold on your body. his fingers lingered for a second or two before letting go completely, his lips jutting into his signature pout.

“mean . . . very mean,” he muttered, turning his back to you to give your unbuilt chair his undivided attention. he knew he was being unfair, but shit, this entire thing this was unfair!!

it was dumb to say aloud, but truly, the thought of not being able to kiss you or any part of you didn’t cross his mind in the thought process for getting his tongue pierced—not even once! it was a cruel, sick, joke that was one hundred percent preventable, and now you both had to deal with it :(

you let out a little puff of air from your cheeks, and knelt behind your pouting boyfriend. “you say mean . . . i say responsible,” you whispered in his ear, kissing the shell of it before placing another soft kiss on his neck.

“don’t be sad, ‘kay? it’ll go by before you know it.” you knew your man, and you knew him well. you knew if he was challenged to do something, he’d do it and he’d do it well.

he whined at your words, thick brows scrunching together, “it can’t go by fast enoughhhh.”

seven hours later . . . .

jungkook felt as if he was going to combust into a million pieces. the urge to have his lips on yours didn’t curve in the slightest, and to make things even more difficult, he was now sporting a painful boner.

you were sound asleep on his chest, little snores leaving your slightly parted lips every so often. you were still wearing what you had on earlier, the only difference being a lavender colored, silk scarf wrapped securely around your head.

‘hells paradise’ played quietly on the tv, and the ac was on full blast giving jungkook the perfect background noise to fall asleep to. but he couldn’t. his mind was racing.

his legs felt stiff, begging to be stretched, but he knew if he moved even a muscle, you’d stir in your sleep and switch positions. when he held you like this he could feel the heat from your pussy right against his thigh, and as sick it sounded it made him feel so at ease.

with the way his tongue throbbed in pain, jungkook could use all the comfort he could get.

he slowly craned his neck to look down at your sleeping form, and fuck. you were the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. even when you were deep in sleep.

the semi-bright glow from the tv gave him just enough light to see that your eyes were moving every so often. he wondered to himself what you could possibly be dreaming about. selfishly enough, he hoped it was him.

“aish . . .” he muttered, shifting his leg the tiniest bit. you made a small noise in your sleep, and this had jungkook freezing in his spot. his heart pounded against his ribcage as you nuzzled closer into his side. and then you moved again . . . and again . . . and again, until jungkook was questioning if you were really asleep or not.

the dull throb against his thigh had his pierced brow twitching.

should he wake you? should he leave you be? should he just cut his losses and jerk off in the bathroom?

a gentle squeeze pulled jungkook out of his thoughts, and when he looked down, he was met with the sight of his sleepy girlfriends’ scrunched up face.

“mm, kook . .”

your voice was whiny, and laced with sleep. if only he was able to kiss away that tiny furrow between your brows.

“what’s up, baby?” he spoke softly, pulling your body impossibly closer to his. you breathed out a small hum when he cupped your ass, gentle fingers gripping the soft flesh.

goosebumps rose on the dark haired mans skin when you nuzzled your face in his neck. your lips brushed against the sensitive spot below his ear, “can’t fall back asleep . . . need your help, please.”

and there it was.

jungkooks hands shook as they ran up and down your body, squeezing and fondling any part of you that he could. “y-yeah? what do you need me to do for you, baby—i know you’re sleepy, but try to use your words for me.”

he heard a small sniffle and then, “fuck me back t’sleep, kook. pleaseee.” your hand lazily rubbed along the length of his covered cock, saliva pooling on your tongue at the thought of having him inside you.

without a second thought, jungkook maneuvered your body on top of his with ease. his dick was pressed snugly against your pussy—hot, hard, and ready to put you tf back to sleep!

jungkook’s breath fanned over your face, still minty from when he brushed his teeth. “really wish i could kiss you right now,” he grunted, lifting your body up just enough to pull his briefs down.

“i-i wish you could kiss me too,” you whined, back arching when he rubbed his leaking tip over your panties.

he didn’t take your panties off, instead he just pulled them to the side with two fingers, and slipped his cock right between your soaked folds. wet was an understatement—you were drenched. small pearls of your essence began to drip down his cock, already creating a mess between your bodies.

“ngh—put it in please,” you sniffled, bottom half slowly moving up and down the length of his dick. jungkook didn’t need to be told twice. he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, tatted hand gripping the base of his cock before slowly pushing the tip through that tight ring of muscle that greeted him so sweetly every time.

his free hand cupped the back of your neck, smushing your forehead against his. “so wet, princess. slipped right in like you were made for me,” he groaned, planting his feet in the bed to push more of his cock into your tight heat.

with a sloppy kiss to the corner of his lips you whispered, “because i was.” this nearly killed jungkook of course, his hips stuttering the tiniest bit.

he throbbed all around you. every protruding vein caressed your sensitive walls, and it didn’t make things better when his spongy tip started knocking obnoxiously against that spot deep inside you that had your toes curling.

you mewled at the stretch, grabbing onto his shoulders as you found your place in his neck once again. every moan, whine, every hitch of your breath—he heard it all, and it was driving him fucking nuts.

he wanted to talk you through it, whisper dirty praises and promises in your ear, but alas his tongue was just too fucking sore. he knew you liked him to be vocal, so he settled with matching your volume in moans.

jungkook’s hands roamed all along the expanse of your back. your skin was hot to the touch, his cold hands bringing you some sweet relief.

you wanted to melt into him. let your minds and bodies become one forever, but for now this would have to do.

“lemme take this off,” you muttered, sitting up to remove his shirt from your trembling from. the new angle had his cock hitting deeper, and this had you tightening up, forcing a hiss from the man below you.

he wasted no time fondling your breasts, a whine bubbling in his throat from lack of them in his mouth. you always made the prettiest noises when he sucked on your nipples. they were always so sensitive—even as he softly ran his thumbs over them.

“k-kook—”

“i know—shit, i know.” his voice was raspy from lack of speaking. his throat felt so dry, like someone had stuffed cotton down it. jungkook had a thirst, but not for a beverage of any kind.

as you began a steady rhythm moving back and forth, jungkook thumbed at your swollen clit. his jaw clenched, a groan rumbling in his chest at how wet you actually were.

sucking your clit into his mouth would definitely fix him right now—why, oh why did he have to get this stupid fucking piercing.

your hips stuttered slightly when he pulled his thumb away, and without a second thought he brought the digit to your lips. it wasn’t hard to find his eyes in the darkness of the room, and once you did you sucked the digit between your lips, humming at the sweet, yet tart taste that coated your tongue.

all your nerve endings felt as if they have been set ablaze. you could feel everything. you didn’t know what it was, but these intimate moments with jungkook always made you so beside yourself.

“what’s it taste like, hm? describe it for me,” he rasped out, pressing down lightly on your tongue before removing his thumb entirely.

your movements halted, but not for long, because jungkook’s hands were on your hips seconds later, resuming your slow paced grinding. “don’t make me say it, babe,” you whimpered, feeling your cheeks get hotter than they already were.

he couldn’t help but chuckle. you were still so bashful—even when getting split open by his thick cock.

it was silent for a few beats, and then without warning, jungkook cupped the back of your neck and pulled you back down to his level. his feet planted into the bed, and with that he began a slow, steady rhythm of thrusts.

“was is it sweet? i bet it was, you’re always so fuckin’—ngh, sweet,” he panted against your lips, making you whine veryyyy loudly.

your cunt started to became rather noisy, an obscene squelching sound becoming louder and louder as the minutes went by. but it wasn’t quite loud enough for your boyfriend.

your once warm body was suddenly met with a chill, goosebumps rising over the entire expense of your back. jungkook had also taken this as an opportunity to go faster—harder. the sound of his balls slapping against your ass echoed noisily throughout the room.

“love that sound,” he grunted, tucking your face in the warmth of his neck to shush your whines. between being overly drowsy, and jungkook fucking you like his own personal toy, your brain had turned into a complete pile of mush.

not a sentence, nor thought could be formed in your head. the only thing you could even think to do was kiss him—well kiss his neck specifically since his lips were off limits.

your lips latched onto the spot below his ear, sucking feverishly until he was squeezing the back of your neck in sensitivity.

“y-yeah, mhmm. keep kissing me. i need it,” he whispered the last part directly in your ear while also delivering a particularly harsh thrust. you made a noise between a sob and a gasp, and for a second you could’ve sworn you saw white.

both of his hands gripped your ass cheeks, spreading them only slightly so he was able to fuck you deeper.

a never ending chorus of ‘ah ah ah’s left your drooly lips, and soon, it wasn’t long before you were whining in jungkook’s ear about how you were about to cum.

you lifted your head slightly, “i’m *pant* i-i’m—!”

jungkook shoved your face back in his neck, the pace of his thrusts increasing to a speed so fast it had you seeing spots.

“i know, baby. i know. fucking do it.”

your ears started to ring, and your back arched, a beautiful symphony of moans following seconds later. jungkook fucked you through it all with one hand still securely on the back of your neck, and the other now grabbing onto your hip so roughly you were sure to feel it in the morning.

his toes curled when he felt you gush around him. your pussy was practically suffocating his cock, convulsing around him so harshly it was almost difficult to continue moving.

you heard a few curses in korean, follow by one more hard thrust before a sudden warmth flooded your lower belly. jungkook ground into you from below, milking his orgasm for all it was worth—which was a lot.

without even thinking he pressed a quick peck to your shoulder, his lips lingering for a few seconds before pulling away.

“ . . . you okay? was i good?” he whispered into your ear, but the only response he was met with was a small snore. your body was completely limp, occasionally twitching in his arms.

jungkook hummed contently, nosing at your cheek. his hands ran slowly up and down your back, tracing random hearts and shapes as he did so.

he was gonna have to wake you up soon so you could pee, but for now that would wait. he just wanted to bask in this moment for as long as he could.

it’s been nine days since then, and you two have been fucking like rabbits everrrr since.

morning, afternoon, midday, the middle of the night—it didn’t matter what time it was. if jungkook was in the mood, he had to have you.

the urge to kiss you hasn’t lessened. in fact it only grew stronger and more unbearable as the days went by. his cock leaked pathetically with pre every time he thought about your lips against his. he craved the feeling of biting into the plushness of your bottom lip, and tugging just enough to have you whimpering.

when his tongue became less swole the first thing he tried to do was kiss you, only to be met with the petal soft skin of your cheek. ‘it’s only been three days, kook!’ you had scolded him, breaking his heart for what felt like the hundredth time that week.

you being the sweet, amazing girlfriend you were, fucked the sadness out of him every single time though hehe.

the situation always ended up the same way. jungkook would be underneath you, brown eyes the size of saucers while you rode him into a blissful oblivion. you rewarded his restraint to kiss you with sloppy pecks across his neck and throat, your tongue tracing random shapes and lines into the sweaty skin.

he felt like a fucking teenager with the way he was so quick to jump your bones.

it was now day ten, and jungkook has surely lost his mind by now.

he was currently home alone, scrolling mindlessly on his phone as he waited to hear the familiar click! of the door unlocking.

you weren’t home, obviously. you had picked up an extra shift at the bakery you worked at, leaving jungkook all by his lonesome.

you’d been gone for seven whole hours, and to make things worse, you only texted kookie a handful of times before it was silence on your end.

he thought about going up there to visit you—maybe even partake in a sweet treat, but that would only end up doing him more harm than good. so here he sat, scrolling through your social medias for the umpteenth time.

fuck, you were so pretty. how did he end up with such a gorgeous girlfriend, hm? how did he manage to have the literal embodiment of perfection land in his lap?

he usually asked himself these questions when he was missing you really bad, or while he watched you sleep. is that creepy? eh, maybe, but who even really cares?

his eyes flicked up to the corner of the screen reading the time. it was fifteen minutes till five, and he still hadn’t heard from you since you last texted at noon.

“hope she isn’t working herself too hard . . .” he sighed, slumping back against the plush, gray couch cushions.

you were a bit of a perfectionist, and although he admired how much time and effort you put into your craft, he didn’t particularly care for how hard you were on yourself if the outcome wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

when you told jungkook baking was a ‘fun hobby’ of yours, he expected you to laugh off your minuscule mistakes, and enjoy the sweet treat. boy was he fucking wrong.

* cue super cute flashback *

“one more, one more!” jungkook chuckled, his tatted fingers gripping onto your chin to bring you in for another slow, nasty kiss. before you could even protest, his lips were against yours—soft and swollen from your previous kisses.

you giggled against his lips, a small gasp getting caught in your throat when he grabbed a handful of your ass over your pajama shorts. “mm, babe. i gotta get the cookies out before they burn,” you hummed, cunt clenching around nothing when he tugged on your bottom lip with his teeth.

the sweet smell of brown sugar and chocolate wafted into your nose, and you knew soon enough the enticing smell would soon turn burnt and bitter if you didn’t act quickly.

jungkook gave you one last peck before releasing his grip on you, a lazy smirk lifting at the corner of his lips. “alright, alright. i’ll leave you alone . . . for now. now lets go check on those cookies,” he grinned, showcasing those oh so cute dimples that made you swoon every time you saw them.

he let you lead the way to the kitchen— why you ask? so he could fondle and smack your ass to his hearts content. you didn’t bother to say anything, allowing the giggling man behind you to continue his antics.

when you opened the oven your lips pulled into a thin line, already dissatisfied with the slightly burnt smell that greeted you.

while you were screaming in your mind twenty seven different ways, jungkook was behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for you to pull the tray out. he was so blissfully unaware of how homicidal you were over these damn brown butter cookies.

he leant over the pan, taking a deep inhale of the sweet treat. “shit, these look incredible, baby,” he muttered, mouth now beginning to water.

all you could do was sigh, your brows pulling together in a deep frown. jungkook noticed this and it had the cogs in his brain turning. what could possibly be so wrong? these were the most perfectly baked cookies he’s ever seen!

without saying a word you slowly lifted up a cookie with a thin spatula. just as you thought—they were burnt. the bottom was entirely too dark for your liking. once they cooled they were going to be hard instead of soft. this just broke your heart.

jungkook noticed the cloudy look in your eyes and stood up straight. he turned your body towards his quickly, but gently. “hey, hey, what’s wrong? why do you look like you’re about to cr—i mean, um—”

it was too late. two fat tears were already rolling down cheeks, waiting to be wiped away by jungkook.

“ugh, why would you ask me thatttt? you know i always cry when you ask me that,” you sniffled, blinking away more tears. jungkook puffed air through his cheeks, and cupped your face with both hands. this made you want to cry even more, but you managed to pull it together with a slow, but shaky breath.

you tried to look everywhere besides in front of you, but it was painfully hard to avoid your boyfriends’ intense gaze.

“why are you crying? your cookies look perfect . . . i’m sorry, but i don’t—i don’t understand,” he spoke softly, sliding his hands from your jaw to your shoulders.

your eyes flicked to the tray beside you, and then to the floor. “i’ve . . . made these cookies so many times . . but the one time i wanna make them for you, i fucking burn them. what kinda sick joke is that?”

“but baby they look perfectly fine to—”

“uhn uhn!” you grabbed one of the now cooled cookies, and showed him the dark brown bottom. “they’re not moist! they’ll be hard—inedible soon enough,” you sighed, pulling apart the cookie to reveal the steaming inside.

jungkook was completely stumped. burnt cookies were a very dark brown, blackish color, and they usually left a foul stench in the air . . . yet these were a perfect golden brown, and smelt so sweet he could’ve gotten a tooth ache. was he missing something?

“hmph, i don’t know what went wrong. maybe i cooked the butter too long? maybe they weren’t cold enough? i don’t know . . . will you try, please?” you pouted, holding one half of the cookie in front of him. without a second thought, jungkook scarfed down the entire thing, along with the other half.

the still warm chocolate chips melted on his tongue, making him hum in content. you watched with an intense glint in your eyes, waiting for any sign that he disliked the cookie.

his tongue slowly ran over his bottom lip, and without saying a word he grabbed another cookie, devouring it in only two bites. your eyes softened, tear stained cheeks now feeling extra hot from embarrassment.

“shut up . . there’s no way they’re that good,” you muttered, hiding your face in his obscenely large pecs. jungkook only chuckled, his hand coming up to pet at your hair softly.

“i think you’re being entirely too hard on yourself, no? they may not be as soft as you want them, but they’re certainly edible, babe.” his words were so sweet, and so gentle, it made you want to start crying all over again.

when you didn’t say anything he continued, “you could serve me flour on a paper plate, and i’d still eat it because it was made by you, and i’m so serious.”

when he heard you giggling into his chest it made his heart clench, but in a good way! your laugh sounded like the finest of symphonies to him, a sound he could hear on repeat for all his days to come.

“there she is, there’s my girl. no more crying, ‘kay? makes my heart hurt to see you so sad,” he spoke lowly, giving the crown of your head three gentle kisses.

your eyes slowly shut, the sound of his heartbeat making you drowsier by the minute. you could’ve fallen asleep right there, standing and all, but the sudden smell warm brown sugar had your eyes fluttering back open.

“try it,” you heard him ask, although it sounded more like a demand. your lips parted, and with a little hesitation, you took a bite of the cookie. the taste of brown butter and vanilla had you humming in delight, and this brought a smirk to jungkook’s lips.

“good, right?”

you hummed a small ‘mhm’ in response, and took another bite. “still kinda dry. they’re decent at best, and i’ll never get hired at ‘the sweet spot’ with decent cookies.”

your body went stiff when you heard jungkook let out a particularly loud sigh.

he wasn’t bothered that you were talking about working at your dream job again, no, never that. what bothered him so damn much was that you really didn’t believe your baking was good enough to get the job.

jungkook cupped your jaw firmly, forcing you to look up at him. he muttered ‘stop that’ in korean. two words that you were very familiar with (due to you being a massive brat), and like every other time it made your cunt feel tingly.

“stop what . . .” you murmured, clearly acting clueless to what he was talking about.

he breathed out a small laugh, and tongued at the inside of his cheek, already caught on to your little game. “i believe my girl is smart enough to know what i’m talking about—”

with little to no strength he lifted you by the backs of your thighs, and set you on the counter. the cold marble had goosebumps rising all over your skin, and you’d be squealing right now if his lips weren’t smushed against yours to keep you quiet.

he kissed the corner of your mouth, and then your jaw, and then the shell of your ear before whispering, “but if you need me to help spell it out for you, i really don’t mind.”

jungkook could’ve popped a boner right then and there at the way your pupils blew out at his words.

that’s how you ended up on the couch, knees pushed allll the way to your shoulders while jungkook edged you with his mouth. his tongue caressed your clit for what felt like hours, and you weren’t allowed to cum, let alone even move out of his grip, until you were screaming out affirmations about how you were going to get that job at the bakery.

two days later you woke up bright and early to prepare some sample pastries for your interview, and to no ones surprise (not even your own) you got the job! that same night you rewarded jungkook with his favorite apple and brown sugar strudels, and some mean head to thank him for encouraging you so much. <3

* end of cute flashback *

when jungkook had zoned back in from reminiscing, his jeans felt five times tighter than they did before, and his hands felt clammy. he needed you. all of you.

he needed to feel the soft bud of your nipple graze his tongue as he sucked on it. he needed to feel the pressure of your thighs squeezing against his head as he devoured you like you were his last meal. and most importantly; he needed a fucking kiss god dammit!!

he could barely even remember what it felt like to suck your tongue into his mouth. shit, he could hardly even remember the taste of your cherry gloss!

damn, that lip gloss you wore always looked so pretty—especially when you would suck him off and leave remnants of it all along the base of his cock.

“aish . . .” the frustrated man huffed out, giving his cock a quick palm over his sweats. his nose twitched, much like a bunny, when a shot of pleasure rushed down his spine at the contact.

his dick throbbed, almost painfully, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he would cave and help himself. he was only human after all!

before he could even process what he was doing, jungkook clicked the phone icon right above your name, and pressed the phone against his ear. as the line rung he was internally pleading for you to answer the phone. all he wanted to do was hear your voice.

suddenly he heard a click on the other line—

“hello?”

“o-oh!” jungkook sat up straight, his lips breaking into a dopey half-smile at the sound of your voice. “i didn’t expect you to answer . . . you never answered my texts—not that that’s a problem. i know you’re busy being the best pastry chef in the world.”

he could hear the smile on your face as you talked about the ups and downs of your day, and shamefully enough, it was making him harder.

god, he hated himself right now. why has this temporary ban on kisses made him to beside himself?

“an’ now i’m just hanging out in the office to take a break. i think i’m gonna head out soon, though. i’ve been so spaced out today.”

“mm, what have you been thinking about?”

jungkook didn’t mean to have that oh so familiar seductive tone in his voice, but unfortunately for him, he practically purred out the question.

there was silence, and then—

“honestly? . . . you giving me head.”

jungkook almost moaned aloud at that, but instead let out a sound that was a mix of a whine and a gasp.

this is why you were made for him, why you were his girl. you both craved each other so much. its always been an ongoing match of who’s the biggest yearner between the two of you.

“you there, babe? too crude for the workplace?”

your sweet laugh only fueled the fire in his lower belly. jungkook was so horny it was almost difficult for him to speak.

“n-no . . no, not at all. i’ve been thinking about the same thing actually. remember that day when you baked those cookies?”

he heard a small, barely audible noise that sounded a lot like a whimper. “mhm.”

with a shaky hand, jungkook pushed himself up using the armrest of the couch. everything was entirely too hot, he needed to feel some kind of relief.

“i remember how you couldn’t stop shaking when i was done. you came for, like, a whole minute. i couldn’t believe it.” as jungkook dumbly babbled about eating you out, he was also making his way to the bedroom.

the first thing that caught his attention when he walked in the room was your discarded panties from that morning. it felt like the peach colored garment was calling out to him. begging to be fucked n’ soiled by his sticky cum.

he was broken out of his thoughts when he heard the airy sound of your voice. “c’monnnn. don’t say stuff like that, or else i’ll look like a total mess in front of everyone.”

“mm, and what if i want that to happen?” he breathily chuckled, swiping your panties off the floor in one swift movement. he tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder, and pulled his sweats down mid thigh before taking a seat at the edge of your shared bed.

“i think you look pretty cute all flustered and shy. i’m sure everyone else will think so, no?” jungkooks tone was very teasing, which was funny because he was honestly one stroke away from combusting into bits.

“mmcht. it might be cute to you, but i doubt my bosses will think it is.”

“hah—yeah . . . yeah, maybe you’re right,” jungkooks head tilted back when he finally wrapped the soft fabric of your panties over his swollen cock. it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy him like you ever could, but it would have to do for now.

an attempt to stay neutral, and quiet was never even made because your man knew just how much you liked to hear him.

“k-kook, c’mon—”

“just fucking come home already, y/n. i don’t mean to rush you at all, baby, but—fuck. just—just listen,” his slurred sentenced trailed off with a moan, and suddenly your ears were met blessed with a wet shlicking sound.

“please—”

“i’m using your panties. the ones you left on the floor this morning to be—ngh, specific.”

jungkook knew he was being sooo mean, and sooo unfair, but unfortunately my mans was fresh out of self control.

“hurry up, and come home so we can ruin each other,” he rasped, letting out one last moan to break you even more.

the dark haired mans eyes fluttered shut, and the first image that popped in his head was you; stark naked, and spread out for him, ready to have your pussy eaten until you cried.

he brought your panties to his nose, and took a deep inhale, while his other hand steadily pumped the thick base of his dick. they sorta smelled of him now, but the scent of you was still overwhelmingly there.

“mm, fuck,” he panted out, poking his tongue out to take an experimental lick at the crotch part. what he was going was disgusting, humiliating, and beyond perverted, but—

“shittt. it tastes just like her.”

his ring clad fingers squeezed harshly at the tip, and when he ran his thumb over the leaky slit, he tried his absolute best to imagine it was you.

time had seemed to go by rather fast, because just as jungkook was about to edge himself for the third time, he heard the door, followed by quick footsteps. there was no point in trying to hide what he was doing because; 1. he was too horny to give a shit and 2. he actually wanted you to see him like that.

your reaction was just as he pictured in his head only moments ago—flustered and intrigued. “oh . . . you’re here. i missed you, baby. so much.”

the evidence of his confession was leaking obscenely in front of you, and all you could do was stand there with parted lips, and clenched thighs.

with a low grunt, jungkook released his firm grip on his cock. “c’mere. ‘wanna touch you.”

your bag was the first to go, the designer accessory hitting the carpet with a soft thud. it was like your feet had a mind of their own, one taking a step after the other until you were nearly in your boyfriends’ grasp.

the moment you were in reach, he was tugging you closer by your flour stained shirt, and burying his face between your covered breasts. “h-hey!” you gasped, hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. “this shirt is all dirty, honey, c’mon.”

“then take it off,” jungkook grunted below you, lifting up your shirt to finally kiss at your skin. he just didn’t give a shit anymore about the piercing rejecting, and if he kept this up, you were going to soon stop caring as well.

he kissed around the curves of your hips, making sure to give each side a cheeky little nibble, before tracing his tongue around your tummy.

“i’ll never get over how cute this is . . . suits you so well, sugar,” he spoke lowly, referring to the baby pink hello kitty jewelry that was pierced through your naval.

a purr rumbled in jungkooks chest when you scratched lightly at his scalp, murmuring a small, but sweet ‘thank you.’

“just—just lemme get these yucky clothes off, and take a shower before we get down to . . um, to business.” words that you were barely able to get out in the first place were quickly washed away, and long forgotten as jungkook suckled at your hip bone.

“you took a shower this morning, i’m sure you’re fine.”

this earned him a scoff, followed by a weak push to his shoulders. “i just worked for almost ten hours. not so sure i’m at my freshest.”

suddenly jungkooks nose was pressed against your lower tummy, “and yet you smell like sugar and . . . mm, strawberries?”

“close,” you whispered, taking his chin between your fingers. jungkook preened at the physical contact, leaning into your touch even further. his eyes widened slightly, patiently waiting for you to finish what you were saying.

“that’s cherries you’re actually smelling. i made a batch of cherry strudels before i left,” you finally spoke, scratching at his chin.

his lips parted, but you were quick to interrupt him, “i already know what you’re going to ask, and yes, there’s some in the kitchen waiting for you. ‘could never make some strudels without bringing one home for my kookie.”

fuck. you were just so sweet, and considerate, it made jungkook feel feral. his neglected cock twitched, begging for some kind of attention.

his fingers fiddled with the button to your jeans, and with those wide doe of his, he silently asked for permission to undo it. you bit your lip, hesitant at first, but after a little thought you slowly nodded.

his eyes stayed on yours, never once breaking contact as he undid the button of your jeans, the zipper soon following. “love you so much,” he whispered into your skin, slowly pulling them down.

you didn’t know what to expect during this very intense moment with your man, but what you certainly didn’t expect was for him to just start eating it through your panties!

his nose nudged against your clit as his tongue caressed the crotch area of your strawberry patterned panties. he could taste you. barely, but just enough. he could’ve passed away right then and there, and would’ve died happy, and content.

you were still standing, knees knocking together as you tried to keep yourself up. “babe, i really should freshen up f-first. h-hah, what about your piercing?”

suddenly a rush of pleasure shot down your back, making your body jolt forward. the sensation felt . . . foreign. this was odd, because jungkook has eaten you out through your panties plenty of times before.

“did you like the way that felt?” you heard the man below you speak, a cheeky smile spreading across his features. “want me to do it again? here—”

that same feeling returned, except it was more sloppy, more wet. it had your head tilting back, and if it weren’t for jungkook holding you up by the backs of your thighs, you surely would’ve collapsed.

you were absolutely speechless. your cunt was doing more of the talking than you were at this point, dripping into your panties, and creating an even bigger mess.

when you didn’t say anything, too wrapped in your own head, he spoke once more. “you like that, huh? like the way it feels on your pussy?”

your eyes fluttered rapidly, and when you peeked down, jungkook’s tongue was shallowly sticking out, giving you a nice view of the silver ball in the center. his tongue cupped your clit over your panties, slowly moving side to side.

jungkook was genuinely surprised he was keeping it together so well, and taking his time with you. before you arrived, the only thing he could think about was tearing these same panties he was kissing and licking on into two.

all you could do was watch in awe, the inside of your mind sounding like nothing but static. jungkook nipped at the inside of your thigh, regaining your attention.

“just a little taste, cutie. i can rinse with mouthwash after *kiss kiss* to make sure it doesn’t get infected.” you could practically feel your heartbeat in your clit as jungkook kissed over your clothed mound.

his fingers looped in the lacy waistband of your panties, and with a gentle tug, he pulled them down low enough just to get a peek at the fat of your pussy. he could see your clit peeking out from between your slicked folds, swollen and looking as tempting as ever.

“before you do that,” you whispered, carefully stepping out of your jeans, “i want a kiss.”

your man wasted no time pulling you into his lap, and it felt heavenly to be able to feel his dick press against your clothed pussy.

his tatted hand cupped the side of your face, “i just might die, and i’m not even kidding.”

this made you laugh, and although he was pleased to have made you smile, he was deadly serious. being denied your kisses had him nearly climbing up the walls!

“mm, you’re so dramatic—”

and that was the last thing that was said before jungkook’s lips were smushed against yours.

soft. that was the first word that popped in his mind. your lips, your skin, the little noises you made as he deepened the kiss—it was all just so soft.

you could tell he was trying to be gentle, and take his time, but it wasn’t long before his thumb was pushing down on your chin to part your lips wider.

the kiss was slow, deep, everything that he had imagined for the past ten days. feverishly, he sucked your tongue into his mouth, and the faint taste of cherry compote had him moaning into the kiss.

you could feel his piercing slide against your tongue. it had you shaking, like it was your first time kissing him all over again.

“hah—shit,” jungkook moaned, greedily kissing his way down to your neck. your skin was a bit sweaty from working so hard, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. “need to taste you now.”

you squeaked, eyes squeezing shut as he flipped you on your back with ease. his face burrowed into your neck, and while he whined apologies into your ear about the sudden roughness, his bottom half was also rutting pitifully into yours.

“oh my . . .” your lips parted in a dreamy sigh, lashes fluttering when you felt his swollen tip rub directly onto your clit. “p-please do something, kook.”

your shirt was pushed up, along with your bra, and seconds later you felt a pair of lips wrap around your left nipple. jungkook wasn’t pretty with it—he slobbered and licked all around your breast, making sure to swirl his piercing around your nipple in between licks.

“i am, baby. i am,” he gave your neglected nipple a wet kiss, “i got you, don’t worry.”

while you made quick work to rid your shirt and bra, jungkook kissed his way down your body, leaving a glistening trail behind him. when he reached your pussy, your thighs twitched making him smirk.

“you may be crying by the time i’m done with you,” he spoke softly, giving you clit one last kiss over your panties. “so i wanna apologize beforehand.”

he took his time removing your panties, his eyes zeroing in at the way your essence clung to the soaked cotton.

the second his tongue swiped between your sopping folds, he was greeted with a taste sweeter than anything you have ever baked for him. there was a slight tang that had him salivating for more, but the sweetness overpowered everything.

you knew jungkook was bound to have his dramatics turnt all the way up given the circumstances, but you definitely didn’t expect him to let out the loudest, most whiniest pornographic moan you’ve ever heard!

“babe,” you breathily giggled, combing your fingers through his hair. you tugged lightly on the strands when he sucked your swollen button into his mouth, the tip of his tongue caressing the pearl ever so gently. “p-pace yourself now, we have all the time in the world.”

jungkook hummed, but you honestly couldn’t even tell if he had heard a word you just said.

with a low grunt he pushed the backs of your knees up, and used his entire mouth to cup your pussy. his tongue slithered all between your folds before the infamous piercing finally swiped against your clit.

your stomach clenched when he did it again, and when he did it a third time, his ears were rewarded with you moaning out his name oh so sweetly.

“mm, you like that, baby? how does it feel? describe it for me,” he purred, circling his tongue around your clit. a shudder ran down your spine, and your cheeks felt as if someone placed hot coals on them.

“babe p-please—”

“do it.”

your lower half thrusted into nothing as jungkook spit directly on your clit. you could feel the saliva trickle between your folds, creating a wetter, even bigger mess between your thighs.

the center of of his tongue circled figure eights onto your clit, and you could feel the silver ball with every movement. your boyfriend was slowly, but surely, pushing you to your limit.

“it feels . . . u-um, like, different?”

“different in what way, baby? c’mon, i know that pretty head can come up with some smart words. you got the smartest mouth i know.” you could feel his smirk in your skin when he finished his sentence.

jungkook cupped your clit with his lips, and dragged his tongue all around the nub. his eyes fluttered shut at the symphony of moans that spilled past your kiss bitten lips.

the more he licked, the more your mind became a muddled mess. “kook—please slow down. i can’t thinkkk!” you whined, weakly pushing at his forehead.

your pleas only made him more feral for you, unfortunately.

the back of your head flew into the mattress when he hiked your thighs over his shoulders, bringing his face impossibly closer to your cunt. the grip he had on your thighs was kinda fucking ridiculous. you couldn’t move an inch!!

he has been hitting the gym a little harder to deal with all his pent up frustration, but jesus, you didn’t think he’d bulk up so quickly. if you were to compare your head to his biceps, you were sure they’d be bigger.

after ogling his physique from above, a pinch to your thigh brought you back to reality.

“i believe i asked you a question some time ago, and you still haven’t answered it.” his words were muffled into your thigh, and once he was done speaking he nipped at the skin just to hear you whine again.

“u-um, it feels hard . . weird, n’ makes her feel extra—ngh,” you tried to shut your thighs around his head from sensitivity, the word you were trying to say before you were interrupted, but jungkook was not letting up.

the sudden intrusion of his tongue in your clenching hole had tears springing to your eyes, but as soon as the feeling was there, it was gone just as quick.

“oh . . did you like that? maybe you should finish what you were saying, and i’ll reward you for it.” his tone was teasing, and just when you were gonna snap back at him, he was slurping obscenely at your cunt.

“i—”

with one final lick to your throbbing clit, you were cumming all over jungkooks tongue with a weak cry.

you couldn’t form a word, nor thought. all you could do was go limp, and let him have his way with you. he didn’t even mind that you came without permission—frankly, you could do anything you wanted, as long as he got to remain between your soaked thighs.

your essence coated his tongue like dribbles of honey, and he drank up every drop until your thighs were twitching against his reddened ears.

with a deep groan, jungkook pushed your knees alllll the way back, and when you wrapped your hands around your ankles to keep them in place, his chest swelled with pride.

jungkook latched on your clit, and hollowed his cheeks, earning a squeak from you. when his head shook back and forth, that’s when the tears in your eyes started free falling.

“o-ohh my,” you cried out, thighs now beginning to shake.

jungkook stopped, and only stopped, when he felt your finger tips tap repeatedly at his shoulders. something you only did when you were way past your limits.

he nosed at your clit, and gave her one more sloppy kiss before pulling away, but only by an inch. he didn’t want to stray too far from he wanted to be most.

it was silent for a few minutes; the only thing being heard were your shaky breaths, and the occasional whimper.

his lips brushed against your thigh, and when he started covering the dewy skin in kisses, you were mewling in protest. “i can’t, kook,” he heard you sniffle from above him.

“ngh—you’re lucky i’m so hard. otherwise i’d make you do it again,” he growled, slapping your pussy with his palm. your body jolted, and when you attempted to push yourself away from him, you were surprised to see you were out of his iron grip.

there you laid at the top of bed; chest heaving and legs shaking, meanwhile jungkook stayed knelt at the edge, eyeing you very intensely.

you felt your heart begin to hammer against your ribcage when he stood at his full height. the new addition to his sleeve tattoo that he had gotten a few weeks prior had him looking intimidating as ever.

he was silent as he removed his shirt, and he was still quiet as he shed his sweats and briefs. his cock was now an angry red shade, and leaking like a damn faucet. it had saliva pooling on your tongue.

“you gonna come down here, and take it? gonna come take what’s yours?” he spoke lowly, brown eyes never once leaving yours as he spit in his hand. he used that same hand to pump his twitching cock, slowly and teasingly.

your lips pushed into a pout, but you nodded, completely disregarding the throbbing between your legs. you needed him in your mouth immediately. even if it was just a taste.

his nostrils flared when you crawled over to him on all fours, and once you were finally in reach, his thumb hooked into your mouth, forcing you to look up at him.

“mm, you want some don’t you?”

his thumb was pushing down on your tongue, preventing you from speaking, so you just nodded. to drive him even crazier, you started sucking on the digit, even going as far as to moan around it.

“baby please,” your boyfriend panted above you, his cock twitching wildly at the action. he was so close to busting a nut, but he had to keep it together so you could have your fun with him.

he truly had you so spoiled.

he took the throbbing muscle in his hand once more, and slapped it against your cheek. “can’t do this for long. i’m already close enough as it is,” he warned, tracing the dribbling tip over your lips.

your eyes flicked from his cock to those big, brown boba eyes, and with a slow lick to your lips, you nodded.

when your lips wrapped around his cock, jungkooks jaw went completely slack. you gave him the same treatment he gave you; wet and messy.

thanks to copious amounts of throat training, you were able to take more than half of his cock in your mouth with ease. when the tip brushed against the back of your throat, his hips stuttered. “shitttt.”

you tried not to get carried away, but the nosies he was making were so pretty :(( you never wanted them to end.

your hand cupped his balls, and this earned you a nice, strained groan from him.

“geumanhae,” he muttered, yanking you back by your hair until only the tip remained between your lips. a shiver ran down his spine when he felt you exhale through your nose, and with one last trace around the head, you were pulling back completely.

you looked at him through your lashes, batting them softly. “stop what?”

jungkook chuckled softly, running a tatted hand through his slightly damp hair. “stop trying to make me cum. you’re not that slick.”

you fake pouted, and leant forward, messily kissing all across his thighs and lower abdomen. “what gave me away?” you spoke softly, trailing your kisses higher up his body.

when you reached his lips, jungkook gave in and gave you a single, slow kiss. “was too wrapped in it to realize anything . . . until you started moaning too. you know that shit makes me cum quick,” he chuckled, bumping his nose against yours.

“pfft, whatever. now gimme another kiss.”

jungkook didn’t need to be told twice. he squished your cheeks together, and slithered his tongue into your mouth. when you started sucking on his tongue, his chest deflated in a deep breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

you both were as physically close as two people could be, but it just wasn’t enough for him. god, he just wanted to live in your skin all day, everyday.

“how do you want it?” he hummed, kissing his way down to your neck. your chest arched into his, and with a dreamy sigh you said, “on my stomach.”

you heard a small ‘mhm’ and then you were turnt around, and pushed to your tummy. your lashes fluttered weakly, trying to process jungkook’s quickness. you shimmied further up the bed to rest your head on the mountain of pillows at the top.

“oh, baby. you don’t need those,” you heard your man chuckle behind you. you felt the bed dip, and then a sudden warmth against your back. jungkook lifted your head up gently, and slid him arm underneath with ease, allowing your head to rest prettily on his bicep. “not when you can lay right here.”

his bicep was nice n’ strong, but soft enough to rest against. the perfect pillow.

you used whatever strength you had left to spread your thighs apart, you didn’t stop until your knees knocked against his muscly thighs. “please put it in.”

jungkook rubbed the fat tip of his dick between your swollen folds, his nose twitching at the intense warmth that greeted him.

“hah—i’ll try to go slow . . can’t guarantee anything after that.”

he circled his tip around your clit, relishing in the wet noises that he heard, and with a shallow inhale, he finally pushed the first couple of inches inside your pussy.

he heard you let out a tiny gasp, and your body tensed slightly at the intrusion. “d-don’t clench so hard, baby,” he panted in your ear, “s’just me. ease up.”

the warmth that you felt on your back suddenly spread all along your body. jungkook covered you like a blanket, not letting a single sliver of your skin go untouched by him.

that sweet, citrusy smell of his wafted into your nose, and that’s when you finally eased up, allowing him to push more of his cock inside your tight heat. jungkook was careful with it at first; slowly sliding in and out until he was pumping into you with ease.

your brows scrunched together in pleasure, “oh fuck.”

jungkook made a noise in his chest so low at you cursing, it sent shivers down your spine. his free hand snaked underneath your bodies, and pinched at your clit. “w-watch that fuckin’—ngh, mouth.”

“s-sorry, sorry! can you go faster, please?”

you could feel jungkooks cock twitch inside you at your request, and without saying a word, he pulled alllll the way out before slamming back inside you. he moaned into your shoulder when your ass shimmied against his front. “what’re you doing, baby?” his voice was raspy, and strained as if he’d been hurt.

“need—need all of it in me,” you slurred out, too cockdrunk to even care about how stupid his dick has made you already. all you knew in this moment was that you needed every. single. inch of him.

“don’t worry, you got it all. just focus on feeling good for me,” jungkook whispered in your ear, now starting a steady rhythm of deep thrusts. you didn’t need to be told twice, and just completely went limp, allowing him to have his way with you once more.

his rough fingers grabbed at the fat of your hips, pulling you more into him, so he could fuck you harder.

“you like that? like when i fuck you like this?” he growled, wrapping his tatted bicep around your neck. your chin was resting on his forearm, and soon enough drool was dribbling from between your plush lips and onto his skin.

the loud moan you let out was more than enough of a response for him.

being trapped in his arms like this always made you excited, and a little scared. he was just sooo much bigger compared to you, and the fact that he was able to keep you in place or manhandle into any position he wanted didn’t make the obsession any better.

“ah ah ah! o-oh my goddd,” your baby pink, sock covered feet kicked wildly against the bed when his cock hit a spongy spot particularly deep inside of you. “gon—gonna cum soon,” you wept into his skin, the coil in your tummy getting tighter and tighter as the seconds passed.

“i-i know. i can feel it.”

and he wasn’t lying. your walls pulsed around him like crazy, warning him of your nearing orgasm. the loud squelching that happened each time he pushed into you was also a dead giveaway.

jungkooks hand snaked beneath your bodies once more, stopping at your lower tummy. he used three fingers to push down, hard.

this had your eyes crossing, your back arching into his scorching hot chest.

“j-jeonnn—!” you squealed out, limbs having a mind of their own as they twitched and shook violently underneath him.

jungkook tightened his grip around your neck, and fucked into you even harder, milking your orgasm for all it was worth.

“uhn, shit. squeezin’ me so tight, baby. who’s fucking you so good like this, huh?” he grit out, lowering his head to smush the side of his against your own. his tongue darted out to lick at a stray tear falling down your temple.

you couldn’t speak. your entire mind sounded like static, completely useless. that definitely wasn’t sitting right with your man.

“a-ah! jung—jungkook!” you sobbed out, the nerve endings on you shoulder going crazy from being bitten by him. it hurt, like a lot, but it also felt fucking amazing.

jungkooks tongue lolled out to soothe the bite, and each time his piercing swiped across the sensitive flesh you shivered. “there you go, baby. that’s all i wanted to hear.”

his heavy, brutal thrusts were no more, instead he settled for shallow grinding. god, he was so close to cumming, but he couldn’t. not now at least.

“c’mon. wanna— *huff* wanna fuck in front of the mirror.”

you whined at this, shaking your head weakly in protest. jungkook chuckled, sitting back on his knees, cock still nestled snugly inside of you. he spread your ass cheeks, teeth clamping onto his bottom lip at the sight of your cunt hugging his length so nicely.

“ugh, babe. m’so sensitive, please,” you sniffled, brows scrunching together in pleasure once more. this fucker had the audacity to flex his cock inside you, not even bothering to hide the grin on his face.

“pleaseee? i’ll be extra gentle i promise.”

you let out a small sigh when his rough hands began to massage at your lower back, careful not to press too hard.

“you’re such a liar. as soon as you have me bent over, you’ll be rough again,” you giggled, arousal starting slowly to pool in your belly once again.

you could feel the way his cock twitched, the way the thick veins wrapped around the base thrummed against your walls. fuck, you really wanted to feel the warmth of him nutting inside you.

jungkook mumbled a small apology as he slowly pulled his cock out, and wow. you had his shit glistening. streaks of your cream coated the base, and if you weren’t feeling so tired, he’d make you clean up your mess.

“turn around for me, pretty girl. wanna see your face.”

it took a minute, or three, but you finally managed to turn over with a loud huff. jungkook was still sitting back on his knees, eyes now glued to your swollen cunt.

you were so wet.

dribbles of your cum trailed down your ass cheeks and onto the bed, soaking the black cotton sheets even further. he chuckled, “guess i’m gonna have to do laundry . . . again. what a sloppy pussy you got, princess.”

he slapped your pussy once, twice, and when he did it a third time your thighs were closing in sensitivity.

“what’s wrong? thought you liked when i slapped her like that?” he tongued at the inside of his cheek, admiring how phat your pussy looked with your thighs closed the way they were.

“mm, i do. just extra sensitive right now,” you giggled hugging your knees to your chest.

jungkook slowly got off the bed, and with little to no strength, he pulled you down to the edge by your thighs. your arms reached out for him, and he was happy to lean down to let you wrap your arms around his thick neck.

“gonna let me have my way with you again, cutie?” he smirked, lifting your body off the bed. his rough hands cupped your ass, keeping you flush against his chest. the tip of his cock bumped against your cunt, and if he wasn’t so bent on taking you in front of the long mirror against the bedroom wall, you knew he’d fuck you right here, standing and all.

“you may . . . but you better be gentle. i have work tomorrow, n’ don’t wanna be sore,” your nails scratched at the nape of his neck, making him sigh contently. “you’re the best, baby.”

your legs slowly unwinded from around his waist, allowing him to set you down. you heard a giggle, and whipped your head around. “you laughin’ at me?” you smirked, getting on your knee in front of the mirror.

jungkook joined you on the floor, his lips breaking into an even bigger smile. “yes, yes, a little. your legs are shaking so much, i can’t help it.” and there he went showcasing those two, front bunny teeth that had you falling in love with him all over again every time you saw them.

you shifted towards him, your eyes sparkling like the finest of diamonds. “you’re so handsome,” you whispered, resting your hands on his thick thighs. “gimme a kiss.”

it was so nice to kiss your man again, it really was. his lips were always so soft, and plush. he did things with his tongue during kisses that you didn’t even know were possible!

“s-so obsessed with you,” jungkook moaned into your mouth, his hands gripping onto the fat of your hips so harshly, you were sure to feel it for the next couple hours.

your hand wrapped around his leaky, neglected dick, giving it a few slow pumps. jungkooks abs clenched, and his mouth parted, allowing you to suck his tongue into your mouth.

you let out a small squeak when he smacked your ass, tatted hand grabbing onto the soft, jiggly flesh afterwards. “you’re—heh, y-you’re distracting me,” he moaned softly, giving your ass another quick slap.

“m’sorry, baby. just can’t help myself, i missed your kisses so much.”

jungkook could’ve fucking cried. he was so turned on, and in love right now, the shit nearly brought him to tears.

“no, no, don’t be sorry. never be sorry, especially when it comes to men, remember?” he whined into the kiss, sloppily making his way down your jaw, and into the crook of your neck. “you’re everything—a fucking goddess. everyone should be kissing the ground you walk on.”

jungkook wasn’t even sure what he was saying at this point, too drunk on you and your body to even care what was coming out of his mouth.

your head tilted back in a moan, giving jungkook more access to your neck. “don’ say stuff like that. gonna make me an even bigger brat than i already am.”

jungkook didn’t mind that honestly. yes, you can be the biggest, poutiest brat he’s ever met, but you were his brat.

his brat to punish and reward as he see fit. his to fuck, and then take care of afterwards. his to spoil.

and spoiled you were!

after many failed relationships/situationships, jungkook became your first real boyfriend when you reached your early twenties. he took care of you financially, and loved you in ways you didn’t even know were possible, ruining you for any man or woman that could potentially come after him. (there will be no one that comes after him.)

“i don’t give a fuck about that. gotta keep you bratty so you need me all the time. all i wanna do is be needed by you, y/n.”

with one final kiss to your sweaty skin, jungkook removed his face from that oh so comfortable crook in your neck. “now turn around, and arch for me.”

you didn’t say anything. you just peered at him through your lashes, and gave him that look. the look that silently told him you wanted him to fuck you sooo good, and fill you up with his kids.

you turned around, now facing the mirror. you looked completely spent; the light eye makeup you wore to work was now streaky and smudged. the cherry gloss you were once wearing was now nothing but a memory—jungkook made sure of that.

your eyes found his in the mirror, and never left them as you got on all fours. your back arched, and that’s when jungkook was the first to break eye contact, his eyes immediately falling on your pussy.

you looked very enticing from this angle to say the least.

“remember,” you spoke softly, regaining his attention, “go slow.”

he didn’t want to go slow, like at all. his balls felt so heavy, ready to fill up your soft walls. going slow was the last thing jungkook wanted to do.

but you were his princess, his special girl, his reason for still having hope in this crazy world—so instead of fucking you into you floor like he hated you, jungkook took his time. well sorta.

he used no hands to push himself back inside your warmth, something you both very much enjoyed to watch, and slammed all the way in without warning.

you made a noise between a sob and a moan, completely taken aback by the action. your face fell into the plush carpet, your arch deepened, and jungkook could tell you were going to lay into him by the pout on your lips, but he was quick to shush your whines with a few soft kisses on the small of your back.

“so deep like this . .” your voice was light and airy, brain totally convinced that jungkook was almost in your tummy. a whine bubbled in your chest when he pulled your head up by your hair, forcing you to look at him once more.

“keep your head up. ‘wanna see your face while i fuck you.”

sigh, he had such a way with words.

a small, dopey smile formed on your lips, and he could see the hearts forming in your eyes at the demand. “i’ll keep my head up. promise.”

jungkook offered you a small smile in the mirror, and then his eyes slowly trailed to the sight of your cunt swallowing up his dick. your ass was pressed nice n’ tight against his pelvis, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the heat from your pussy against his balls.

he tongued at his lip piercing, nostrils flaring as he slowly pulled out an inch, and then pushed himself back in. he just kept repeating to himself ‘need to go slow. need to go slow. need to go slow for her.’

while jungkook was having an internal battle to keep his composure, you were having your own challenges trying to keep your head up. each time he pushed back in, he went all the way in to the hilt, letting his fat tip knock against sensitive, spongy spot deep inside you.

a pearl colored ring of cream was now forming on the base of his cock, and that just made it all the more harder to keep his slow, steady rhythm going.

“love taking you like this,” he groaned, grabbing a handful of your peachy ass. when he glanced your reflection in the mirror; your head was still surprisingly up, but your eyes were low lidded, and your teeth were clamped onto your bottom lip so hard it looked like you were on the verge of drawing blood.

thankfully you released the plump flesh to respond to him, “y-yeah, me too.”

although you couldn’t see what he did, you could certainly hear it. the sound of his thick cock splitting open your creamy folds was deafening. you were so wet that at some points, jungkook was afraid his dick would slip right out of you.

“stop clenching s-so much,” he huffed, pulling you back by the fat of your ass to fuck into you not faster, but harder.

each time he was a little more than halfway out, you would clench your cunt around his tip, like you were afraid he’d pull out, and leave you high and dry.

“sorry i just—hah! n-need you to go a little faster? please?” you tried to make it sound like a demand, but under your boyfriends’ hungry stare, it was hard to give him any kind of orders. he made you feel so helpless when he got like this.

“yeah? like this?” the pace of his hips increased slightly, but not enough to satiate you. your eyes met his in the mirror again, “um, more like this—”

you pulled your hips forward, and slammed them back. you repeated this action until jungkook began to match your pace while also maintaining how hard his cock was pumping into you.

you thought he was deep before, but this was entirely new—you could feel him in your chest! it hurt a little, but it hurt so good.

“y-yeah—mm, just like that.” your head was starting to droop, obstructing his view of your pretty, fucked out face. this simply wouldn’t do—not when you’ve reached being peak cockdrunk.

your head was yanked up by your hair, and kept in place by jungkooks hand, his grip not loosening in the slightest. “do you even know what your name is right now?” he chuckled, swatting at your ass before gripping the jiggling flesh.

you whined, lips pushing into a pout as you shook your head ‘no’. this made his smile grow wider, and his balls tighten—he needed you cum inside you now.

his hand moved from your hair to your throat, and with a gentle tug, he finally relieved you of holding yourself up by keeping you pressed tightly against his sweaty chest.

“i’m so fucking cl-ose, god. please tell me you’re close, baby,” his words came out slurred from him mouthing at your shoulder.

you wanted to answer him, please him, but you simply couldn’t find the worlds—let alone move your lips to say them. that was until jungkook threatened to pull out if you didn’t.

you knew he wasn’t bluffing by the way his hips started to slow, and you’d be damned if they came to a complete stop.

you turned your head towards him, and jungkooks lips caught yours in a nasty kiss. tongues were sucked, teeth clashed together, and while he sucked on your bottom lip, you muttered out a breathy, ‘i’m close, kook.’

“i love you so much.”

“i love you m-more.”

several bruising thrusts later, and jungkook was cumming inside you with a loud whine, his hand closing around the sides of your throat a bit tighter to keep you in place. he shoved his free hand between your dripping thighs, and with three thick fingers, he rubbed fast circles on your clit.

“o-oh shittt!” your hand wrapped around his tatted wrist tightly, fingernails digging into his heated skin in a weak attempt to stop him.

“i told you to watch your fucking mouth,” he moaned out, pushing your head into the carpet, hard. you barely noticed though, too wrapped up in your quickly approaching orgasm.

he propped one knee up, and began delivering mean strokes. “you’re kinda struggling to listen today *huff* guess i can’t blame you though,” he chuckled, briefly slowing his thrusts so he could let a glob of spit fall into the already excessively wet mess between your bodies.

his cock as completely covered in your essence and his cum, and fuck, he felt so sensitive and raw, but he just couldn’t stop. in this moment, he truly believed that fucking your creamed pussy like this was the closest he’d get to feeling nirvana.

you were completely taken aback by how rough he was being with you. you loved it. you wanted more.

just as you were about to cum you moaned out ‘oh fuck!’ so loud, you were sure your neighbors heard. this only made jungkook smush your face harder into the carpet, his body hunching almost completely over yours as he fucked you at a speed so quick it had you seeing white.

you could suddenly feel puffs of air against your ear.

“if you wanted to get fucked harder all you had to do was ask—don’t gotta disobey me to get me to do it,” you heard him growl into your ear, and that’s what had you cumming with a squeal, your back arching completely into the floor.

jungkook fucked you through the entire thing, and then some more.

“y-yeah, that’s right. get it out for me—f-fuck, you sound so hot,” he whined into your hair, his pace never once faltering. he pressed a kiss to your sweaty shoulder, and straightened up his back. he bit down roughly on his bottom lip as he admired the erotic sight before him.

“p-pull out!” you moaned out, and when your cunt clenched tightly around his cock, he knew what was coming.

jungkook pulled out completely, and a clear stream of your cum followed, soaking the carpet beneath you. your body went limp, slowly slumping into a pile of mush.

you whimpered, tears free falling down your cheeks as jungkook massaged your ass and lower back. you could hear him mumbling praises, but you were entirely too spent to respond.

“c’mon, lets get you off the floor, and into the shower,” he spoke softly, earning a whine of disapproval from you. “you’re all messy, baby. plus, you need to pee,” he said matter of factly. he never failed to wake you up out a blissful post-fuck catnap to pee.

“fine, but you’re gonna have to carry me.”

“don’t i always, pretty girl?”

fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in the shower with jungkook, steaming water cascading down your sore bodies. jungkook had wrapped your hair up for you before you got in, allowing you to enjoy this quiet time with no worries.

he held you tightly against his chest, and hummed lowly, rocking your bodies side to side. after a few moments he whispered, “you think you can stand by yourself while i wash you?”

he was always such an intimate, sweet man.

you pressed a gentle kiss to his pec and nodded. “wanna wash you too when you’re done,” you mumbled, immediately missing his warmth as you detached your arms from around his slim waist.

jungkook was quick to squirt your favorite hemp rose soap into a loofa, and with careful hands, he scrubbed your body. first was your shoulders, and then your breasts where he took his sweet time, and as he scrubbed over your tummy and lower abdomen, a certain feeling had your lower half tingling.

“turn around, baby,” he hummed, adding more soap onto the loofa. he washed over your back carefully, afraid that if he added too much pressure, you’d shatter right in front of him.

he had you turn towards him once again, and got on his knees so he could wash your legs. he was very thorough. not a an inch of skin gone untouched by him.

he was eye level with your still messy pussy, and he’d be lying if he said taking a lick or two didn’t cross his perverted mind.

he looked up at you through his dripping lashes, “could you hand me your washcloth, please? gotta, um, clean up between your thighs.”

you brushed dark, wet strands of hair out of his face, allowing you to see those oh so tempting big, brown eyes of his.

“how about . . you use your tongue?” your voice came out tiny at the end, embarrassment flooding your system. you weren’t the best at dirty talk like this freak was.

he smirked at you, “yeah? want me to clean you up?”

he kissed at the insides of your thighs, nipping at the petal soft skin every now again to hear you gasp. your back fell against the cool tiles of the shower wall when you felt his tongue ghost over your slit.

he swiftly, yet calmly lifted your leg up by the back of your knee, and set it carefully over his shoulder. his tongue flattened, and slowly licked between your folds. the taste that greeted him was nothing less than sweet.

because of his great diet, jungkooks cum was on the sweeter side, so he never minded eating it out your pussy, especially when yours was mixed with it.

“keep going s-slow like that,” you huffed out, bucking your hips up. jungkook hummed and continued slowly stroking your clit, with his tongue. when his piercing brushed over it you mewled like a kitten, brows scrunching in pleasure.

his hand caressed the thigh that was on his shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps with each touch.

“good pussy,” he mumbled into your cunt, circling your hole with his tongue before slowly pushing it inside. your stomach caved in in sensitivity, a broken moan slipping past your kiss bitten lips.

his tongue massaged your sensitive walls, curling up just enough to have your thighs twitching. his nose nudged against your clit with each movement, bringing you closer and closer to your umpteenth orgasm of the night. you’d lost count long ago.

you nearly collapsed when you felt a finger prod at your entrance, and jungkook was quick to kiss your whines away with small pecks to your clit. “just one, baby. just wanna get you to where you need to be,” he groaned into your cunt, sucking your clit between his plump lips.

your thighs started to shake, and it wasn’t love before you were creaming all over jungkooks tongue with a high whimper. he laved his tongue sloppily over your swollen button, making you ride out your orgasm for as long as possible.

he licked your pussy clean, not leaving a drop behind to be wasted. “always so sweet for me,” he grinned, kissing the mound of your pussy before standing.

“now let me actually clean you up, needy girl,” he smirked, reaching for your lilac colored washcloth. he was gentle as ever as he slide the cloth over your gooey folds. he would mumble sweet apologies anytime he brushed over your raw clit, and each apology was followed by a kiss.

he was next to be washed down, and trust you took your sweet time running the navy blue loofa over his slicked skin. when you reached his lower half, he just smirked at you the entire time.

“my eyes are up here, pretty,” he chortled, regaining your attention that was previously on his soft cock. even when he wasn’t aroused his cock still looked so enticing.

once out of the shower, jungkook did all the work; meaning he dried you off, covered your body in shea butter, and ‘dressed you’ which was just him putting one of his shirts on you with nothing underneath.

all that fucking made him work up quite the appetite, so you weren’t entirely surprised when he started complaining of a rumbling stomach.

you settled on whipping him up his favorite spicy instant ramen with a fried egg. his body was glued to yours the entire time you cooked, lips occasionally pressing a kiss to your clothed shoulder.

“mm, kook,” you giggled, craning your neck away from his eager lips, “go sit, i’m almost finished. i’ll heat up the strudels while you eat.”

“but you’re so warmmm.”

“well, you should’ve put on a shirt. not my fault you wanna walk around and flaunt your muscles,” you grinned, pouring the steaming noodles into his favorite bowl to eat ramen out of.

it was a red, ceramic bowl that you had made during a pottery class you took with your friend. you were insistent on throwing it away because, lets face it, it could’ve been prettier, but jungkook refused to toss it. he insisted it was one of the most beautiful ceramic dishes he’s ever seen. a lie, but a sweet one.

with a huff, jungkook released his hold on you, and slowly made his way to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. he sat in one of the two chairs, and propped his chin on his elbow, admiring the view of you bustling around the small kitchen.

“there, all finished,” you said to yourself, carefully placing the fried egg on top of the noodles. “here you go, baby. careful, its super hot.”

jungkook didn’t head your words, of course, and took a big bite after blowing on the steaming bowl a handful of times. “s’hot . . . but s’good,” he said with a mouthful of food, brows furrowing together almost angrily.

“i’m glad you like them. i tried to eat some, but they were entirely too spicy for me,” you snickered, placing the strudels on a baking sheet.

“oh come onnn, they can’t be that spicy to you. c’mere give them another tryyyy.” even though you knew you were gonna regret your decision to indulge in the spicy food, you didn’t mind in the slightest knowing it would make jungkook happy.

begrudgingly, you stalked over to where he was sitting, your hands glued to your sides. “come here, pretty girl. got a small bite right here for you,” he smirked, holding up his chopsticks.

you made a small noise that sounded like a whine, and bent down, taking his chopsticks between your lips. sure enough, they were too hot for your tastebuds, leaving behind a painful sting as you swallowed them.

“ack! see, kook! too spicyyyy,” you panted out, shuffling your way over to the fridge.

as you downed a glass of ice cold cranberry juice to soothe the ache in your mouth, jungkook just watched with hearts in his eyes.

man, was he in love with you.

The morning started off well. You ran your face beneath the warm water of the shower, grinning the moment you felt his broad body step in with you, his low grunt suffocating the flush of your throat as he sucked at it.

Your affection for each other might’ve…distracted from his work on the farm. It was four acres far out from the city—cows, pigs, horses, chickens— a domesticated life that you enjoyed as a wife, coming to live within the countryside of Mississippi the moment you eloped.

Back to the point of how Onyankopon’s attitude came to fruition—it was still the day before, your French tips pouring soybeans into the bucket of your piglets Love and Bug’s tin for their lunch. The deep ginger of your curls drape along your shoulder as you bend forward, your hand raising over your freckled face to block the sun as you look across the field. Horse shoes gallop from across the field as he tugs at its reins—you were always watching him.

Riding bareback, the horse beneath him continued to gallop—the cowboy hat atop of his head blocked him from the sun, cornrows tight along his scalp, white tee he wore clinging to his tatted figure. The sun beamed against his shown skin, and you can nearly hear the whistles he makes as he guides the cows back into their barn.

The halter romper you wear compliments your caramel complexion, the picnic plaid of it hugging your body in ways it shouldn’t have—the mound of your hips, the fat of your ass—you dig your boots into the sediments of the ground, giving him a soft wave. 

“Mornin’, baby.”

His voice is deep, full of grit. It makes your body warm.

His boots fall onto the ground the moment his feet dismount the horse, sizing you up with each step that brings himself closer. Onyankopon’s eyes are on your form—drinking in every inch, your hips, your waist, the full of your ass against the tight fabric of your romper, your blush. 

“You know I’m a lil’ dirty, babydoll. My fault.”  

His hands go to grip your face regardless, pulling you into his body. His musk surrounds you, all man.

“That’s okay,” your voice is as soft as your wave, “You okay? MooMoo fightin’ you instead of going back to the barn?”

His lips drop onto yours the moment he holds your face, his kiss full of an aggression that makes your thighs clench.

“Mm,” he pulls away a bit, mouth still brushing against yours as his hand strokes your waist, “She mad ‘cause I ain’t give her ass an apple like everybody else. Should’ve been listenin’ when I said take yo’ ass to the barn.”

You giggle, rubbing your cheek into his palm, “She’s stubborn— Gets it from her Daddy.”

“‘Cept my ass still know how to listen,” his hand grips at your ass, “She get’ that sassy shit from you.”

Your eyes flick back to the field, seeing the cow standing within the same spot as all the others had crowded back into the shed. You peck at his chin, “Don’t be talkin’ ‘bout me ‘cause you can’t get your children in check, farmer.”

“I gets’ shit in check—I be havin’ yo’ ass listenin’ pretty good, don’t I?” 

“Negative.” 

He chuckles at that. 

“Go start dinner,” He exhales along your mouth, “I’ll get done with MooMoo and we can finish watchin’ that show from last night. I’ll rub yo’ feet, give you a lil’ massage.” 

“‘Kay’,” you pucker your lips, “You’ love me?“

“Yo’ ass cuttin’ up,” Onyankopon grunts, his hand smacking at your ass once more, pecking your lips in return, “You know a nigga love you. Gon’ back in the house.”

And you did—you’d showered, slipped into the soft silk of your nightgown, glasses tipping at your nose as your curls hung beneath your claw clip—you’d prepared brunch for dinner, shrimp ‘n grits with beignets for dessert, your giggles traveling all along the house as he kissed the sugar off your lips. Your fingers played with the coils of his beard, Princess cut diamond ring shining beneath the lights of your home as you watched TV with him—You were in love. 

It wasn’t until the end of the night that things changed. He held you as you slept, tattooed fingers splayed along your stomach as he cuddled you to his chest. The fan peacefully strummed a comforting tune into the room—but it was being overshadowed at the moment—a distressed mooing was sounding through the windows, as the only cow that was out of the barn had still been MooMoo. 

She enjoyed stargazing, so Onyankopon allowed her to stay outside for this one time, planning to put her up the next morning. She was more of the silent animal, and you knew that only meant two things—that she was actually in distress, or someone had put her in distress. To make matters worse, the motion detectors around your house were going off outside. 

Your heart stuttered within your chest as you’d both woken up at the same time, your body turning towards him, clinging to his arm as your first response of fear. But you knew your husband—he was already slipping out of the bed, the darkness only allowing you to hear the click sound of him loading his shotgun. 

Your hands cling onto his back as you whimper, “Ony, don’t leave me—“ 

“I’ll be back,” he presses his mouth against yours, “Lemme’ just go check on my girl, see if all this fuss is over a dog or sum’. Don’t get out of bed, aight? Forreal’.”

He kisses you firmly once more—safe, warm, making your heart slow just a bit. 

“Imma’ be back, I promise.”

You could only nod in return. 

It could’ve been five minutes, it might’ve even been thirty. But your body tensed the moment you heard the front door slam shut, heavy boots thumping up the stairs before the door opened. Your body relaxed the moment his silhouette came into frame—but just by his energy, you could feel his irritation. 

“Baby?” you call, “You okay?”

You could hear the thump of his gun being dropped onto the ground, “I’m good. I just put MooMoo back up—she was layin’ on her side.”

The grunt in his voice makes you frown, “What?” 

“Dumbass niggas was prolly’ passin’ through and seen the farm—thought it was funny to be tippin’ cows like some fuckin’ kids.” 

You watched as his tattooed figure moved into the bathroom, his fingers lifting to turn on the light as he began to wash his hands. 

“Muhfucka’s lucky I ain’t catch they ass—“

“You wouldn’t have shot them, Ony.” 

You can feel his eyes narrow at that. 

“They was’ on our property, girl. You thought I wasn’t gon’ shoot on sight if I seen’ them?”

You sigh, “Baby—“

“‘Baby,’ nothin’,” he rubs at his face, “Why you actin’ like you okay wit’ some niggas jumpin’ our property like somebody else out here? Where’ you think we at, girl? California?—ain’t no law out here unless it’s me.” 

You could see the anger in his eyes, the way his jaw flexes as he stares down at you.

“I don’t wanna talk about this.” 

“Aight, well I do.”  

“Onyankopon.” 

“I ain’t askin’ you to be wit’ me ‘on what I said, but I am askin’ you to understand. ‘Can’t be tellin’ me not to do what needa’ be done when it’s for us. For you.” 

“Baby, it’s nearly four in the morning,” you reminded, “You’re making yourself upset—can you come lay down? Please?” 

He stares at you for a moment, his lips tight before he inhales, jaw working as he nods. 

“Aight,” he exhales, looking up to the ceiling, “Aight, baby. You’ right.” 

He slowly eased himself into bed, his arms immediately holding your figure. You can feel the heat of his chest—the thump of his heart. He was worked up. 

So here you were now the next morning—Onyankopon was still on ten, and he wasn’t the best at hiding it. You were back outside feeding the pigs, your eyes narrowing beneath the sun as the gallop of his horse rumbled the ground, his deep voice commanding the cows to move in the direction he needed them to.

“Move,” he shouts, clicking at his horse as he rounds them all up, “Y’all know where yo’ asses s’pose to be! Ain’t no apples today!” 

Even hours later, he was no better. Agitation was the only word you could think of as you stood in the kitchen, eyes squinted as you watched him from the front door— his large body leaned into the hood of his truck, attempting to fix whatever was wrong with it. He’d just bought the vehicle a couple of months ago, and when a gas station worker made the stupid mistake of pumping it with diesel, it’d been acting strange ever since.

And while you know he’s upset, his irritation is something that he keeps in, something that he tries to hide from your eye with a silence, or a short conversation— but you two had been together five years now, and you knew him inside and out. 

“I thought you were gonna’ take it to the shop?” you questioned from inside, raising your voice a bit for him to hear. 

“Nah,” he grunts back, “Ain’t about to spend another eight hours at that place bein’ told the same thing I ‘been hearin’ for a week—Nigga said he fixed the leak in the lining and I’m still hearin’ it. Swear to god if I need a new muhfuckin’ truck imma’ kill that nigga.” 

Okay—there was something you wanted to admit to yourself, although you shouldn’t have. 

Seeing him like this made you kind of—warm?

Okay, fine. It made you hot. Something about the way his muscles flexed to fix the truck—eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his arms—it wasn’t the fact that he was angry—not even that, but instead the deep scowl on his face, grills shining at the flash of his teeth, hefty belt buckle and boots rumbling the ground as he shifted under the hood. 

“Don’t overheat yourself out there, baby!”

His shirt comes off his body, and you can see it tossed aside on the ground by his truck, his pants hanging low along his waist from the heat of the day. 

“Heard you.” 

He doesn’t really bother with looking your way, but he does hear you.

It made you more soft at your core as his tone is gentle. There was no denying the attraction you held for the man—he was your husband after all, and he knew to never focus his energy onto you, especially if he was upset. 

A couple of hours had gone by—you now stood within the doorframe, his deep voice calling from within the hood, “You need somethin’, girl?” 

You slowly make your way closer, the soft click, clack of your brown boots tapping against the driveway until you finally stand next to him, “I just came out here to check on you.”

Your glasses perch at your nose, curls coiled around the flush of your cheeks as the air of outside brushes against your clothing—the white material only clasped shut by thin strings at the dip of your breasts, able to see the curve of your stomach, matching shorts clinging to the poke of your ass.

Your voice is soft, “Baby?”

“Wassup’, Mama?”

 When he replies, his eyes briefly glance at you—then, he’s back into the car, “You lookin’ pretty.” 

“Thank you, baby—um, you wanna come inside for a little?” You suggest, “I made lemonade for you.”

Onyankopon sighs—his palm runs along the back of his neck, muscles flexing, sweat cascading down his body. 

“Lemme just—finish this first, aight? Imma’ keep fixatin’ on it if I don’t.”

“Hey. You can fixate on it later, yeah?” 

Your voice is gentle, hands reaching out and pulling him out of the open hood—his chest is warm. 

“You’re just as hot as the sun right now. Come with me, please? Just come sit by the fan in the living room for a couple minutes while I make you a glass?”

He’s silent—but he listens. When you pull him by his wrist, he follows with no fight. His footsteps are heavy, his frame tall— You knew that he wanted to keep going—but he also knew not to disagree when you asked something of him. 

Onyankopon now sits in the living room, body leaned back into the sofa, eyes closed while air blows through his face and against his chest. The cartoons you had on play a comforting tune next to the box fan blowing from across the room, instantly beginning to cool his body.

“‘Think you should just take another try at takin’ it down to the shop in Tupelo,” you hum, standing on your toes as you reach for a tall glass, moving around the kitchen to grab your heart shaped ice cubes.

He grunts, arm crossing over his face as he exhales,“I might have to, or imma’ head back in Jackson—Just gotta wait it out, see what the rest of the week lookin’ like.” 

You make his glass, the condensation sticking to your fingers—your eyes look towards him now and then as you do so, taking note of how his head leans back along the cushion, eyes closed and mind elsewhere. You can tell that he’s trying to relax, but it’s a hard feat to accomplish after the events of last night. 

“You know,” you gently place the lemonade on the table besides the sofa—you then lightly plop down onto his lap, the scent of you instantly hitting his nose as you wrap your body into him, “We had a lil’ scare last night—but you did a good job of takin’ care of me, baby.”

His eyes open the moment he feels your body press into him, his arms instantly beginning to wrap around your figure. 

“I had to do sum’,” he grunts, “I ain’t mean’ to make you scared—You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?” 

His palm slides beneath your shorts, holding the flesh of your ass in his hands.

“I know.”

Your voice is even softer than before, body shifting upon his lap as the warmth of your skin pressed further into his. Your fingers slide along his beard, caressing his jaw before you finally leaned forward—your lips suck at his, a giggle masking your whimper as you feel yourself grind along his lap.

Onyankopon’s jaw works, his hand gently gripping at your cheek to hold your face to his—your whimper makes his lips drop open in another grunt—his tongue moving into your mouth, along your teeth, deeper.

“Been missin’ you, Ony. ‘Been so distant,” you tug at the weight of his belt, leaning forward as you suck at his lips again.

“I ‘been thinkin’ ‘bout you too, girl. Don’t get it twisted, aight?” His voice is a husky rasp, breath heavy. 

“I know you were still frustrated from last night,” you remind, “But so was I—Could’ve kept you in bed with me, you know? You were so busy bein’ be tough—my tough man. My protector.” 

His eyes follow your form as you lower down onto your knees, “Yeah?” 

He’s gripping at your neck, his thumb rubbing circles on your jaw at your soft voice—you knew exactly what you were doing. 

“This what you wanted?” 

His nose practically brushes along yours as you nod—your eyes lower as you suck his bottom lip into your mouth again, dragging it against your teeth, all while your hands slide up the material of his jeans, reaching your hand under the band. 

“Look at you,” he rasps, “Already on yo’ fuckin’ knees.”

His fingers are tight under the thick curls of your hair, and it’s as if each tug pulls at your senses. You’re parting your mouth onto his, lightly dragging it against his tongue, the feeling making your thighs clench. You breathily pant.

He’d never seen you like this—so needy, it couldn’t have been from watching him all day, could it? 

It’s as if his cologne tickles your stomach, you’re breathless as you give a horny sigh, pulling your mouth back a bit as you whimper in a repeat of, “Missed you, Ony.”

“My baby just wanted this dick, huh?”  

He’s nasty.

Onyankopon’s voice is full of grit as his palm slowly slides down your face, his thumb caressing at the soft of your bottom lip. He watches you—a brief flash passes through his eyes of love before they turn hungry, “Show a nigga how much you missed him. Need you throatin’ my shit.” 

The sight of him—the gold of his grills melting within your eyes, attractive features and jaw clenching at you from below—you’re tugging his dick from his jeans, tip fat as you wrap your lips around him, flattening your tongue along the flesh as you moan. 

“You’re so pretty, Papa.”

He tilts his chin a bit, eyes narrowing. 

“You callin’ me Papa now? Huh?” His voice was thick, pulling your hair back even more, “That’s how bad you miss me?”

Your cat eyes taunt him, nodding as you beg, “Spit on it,” lolling your tongue out your mouth, waiting for him. 

And he does—he tilts your head back more, dropping saliva into your mouth, groaning at the pure arousal along your face. You spit back onto his tip, wrapping your fingers along the base as you slide him to the back of your throat—when you pull back, a string of saliva connects your lips back to his dick, your tongue sticking out as you giggle at the sight.  

Onyankopon glares, his fingers finding your curls as he snatches your head back—his palm slaps your face, “Why you so fuckin’ nasty, girl?” 

He’s holding your cheeks with both palms, fucking your mouth, the schluck, schluck of your throat echoing into the ceiling—the whites of your eyes are shown as they rolled back with each movement, enjoying the groans he gave you in return. 

You climb back onto his lap more impatiently this time, latching your lips onto the skin of his neck and jaw—your hand is guiding his palm to your shorts as you whimper,  “Pull,” still kissing feveredly at his throat.  

Onyankopon’s fingers slide along the back of your thigh as he finds a hold of your shorts, pulling, pulling the material to one side of your ass, your glistening folds exposed to the cool air—your body tenses the moment he’s slapping his dick against your pussy, allowing your arousal to coat his tip. 

It’s hot—the weight of his tip is being engulfed by your folds all at once—you’re sinking down, back arching as you breathily moan against his face, “You’ need me?” 

 There’s a growl that leaves his throat, “Fuck. You know I do.”

Your curls drape in front of your face as your vision locks below, rotating your hips down, too distracted by your own actions—your moans are more soft and whiny this time, face slowly turning to a deep pout as your palms reach at the top of the sofa. 

“Lift up,”  he grunts hoarsely, “Lift up, babydoll.”

You lift up, dropping back down, the feeling making you gasp. Your thighs tremble as you slow down—you take one of Onyankopon’s hands, placing it along the side of your neck, swaying your hips, hair cascading all around your body in a circular flow of curls. 

“Look at you,” He grunts, squeezing your throat, “Already goin’ crazy.”

Your face flushes as you can imagine how you look—feet planted along each side of him, dragging yourself up and down—You’re needy.

You move his palm along your breasts as you plead, “Touch me.” 

He does as told, moving the other along your waist, along your hips. It was like he was worshipping you, hands wandering along your soft curves, squeezing your hips, back, stomach, ass, thighs, everywhere. 

”Pretty ass lil’ bitch.”

It’s like your mouth won't shut. Your aroused haze has you swirling your hips above him, nearly hyperventilating in a high pitched whine, “You feel so good, Ony.”

“You’ so fuckin’ sloppy with this shit,” He grunts through gritted teeth, clutching your throat even tighter, making you look at him, “You’ gettin’ drunk off me, ain’t you?”

Maybe you were—and you loved every second of it. You wanted to blow your curls out your face, but you’re too gone, nearly hitting a sense of delirium. You’re bouncing on his dick, lightly squealing as the skin to skin resounds in claps. 

Your eyes roll back as you groan, “Ughn, Yeah…” 

It gets worse, your mouth trembling out a prolonged moan of, “Onyyy…” 

His head knocks back as he digs his nails into your skin, each sloppy slap of your ass connecting with his abdomen making his jaw clench, feeling the secretion of your folds smearing his thighs. 

“Look at them’ muhfuckin’ eyes,” he mutters, squeezing your waist, “You feel that good, huh?”

You’re frowning that it feels so good. You feel his hand slide back to the nape of your neck, leaning your body a bit closer to his, your forehead’s connected as you whimper, “Ohmygodbaby.” 

“You gone,” he grunts, “Ain’t even hearin’ me.”

You hear him, but your brain is muffled.

His eyes roam the way sweat glistens along the soft mounds of your chest, how the vein along your throat pulsates a little bit quicker, and the way your walls clenched him for dear life. You looked like you craved him, and only him.

His hand tugs more at your neck, tilting you down to his face. 

“You think you miss me?”

“Miss you now,” you whimper in reply, placing your arms behind your back as you beg, “Hold them.”

His fingers are rough, the tips of them digging into your skin as he holds your arms—the veins on his hand are a dark blue, a mixture of his blood pumping with the tattoo of your first initials along his pinkie, symbolizing how much you meant to him, even in these moments. 

Onyankopon’s grunt is muffled by the way his hand smacks your ass, the leverage of your arms allowing him to hold you in place—your thighs are plop, plop, continuously plopping onto his abdomen.

Your mouth is directly leaned into his ear as you shake, “S’good, baby—“ but it’s until you can really hear your skin echoing against his, that your eyes roll as you groan.

“You think ion’ miss you too?” He snarls, “I’ll kill a muhfucka’ behind yo’ pussy.” 

You don’t do a good job at all in responding—you’re loud. His hold on you is tight, moving you up and down in a rough motion, “Oh my goddd, Ony—fuck,” it’s as if you’re irritated with him, your voice had you practically singing.

Your scent is so feminine that he can almost taste it—brown sugar, amber—the way your pussy squelches,  you were the personification of a drug, and he was your junkie. 

His voice is deeper, lower, meaner, “C’mere,” he spanks your ass, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he grunts, “Goddamn, baby. She talkin’ right now.”

You were just lucky that all the land around the two of you was your own property—the cows, chicken, farm—and the door was wide open. He slapped your ass even rougher, your whimper muffling his own grunts of, “You got a nigga lost in this shit.”

“Ony—oohshittt, baby.”

You’re both a mess—your curls are a bit wild, your mouth swollen and wet, the softness of your skin against his hands, his neck, lips.

“You gon’ cum on it?” 

He’s asking a question, but you can’t necessarily answer—cause you are—you’re painting his dick with coats of cream, the sop of it traveling back to his ears. Onyankopon chuckles arrogantly the moment you sniffle through your pouts, trembling whiny cries as you squirt so messily, so prettily. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “That’s my muhfuckin’ baby. You gon’ gimme another one?”

Your little sob is enough to answer—you’re drenching his balls, body shaking atop of his as he’s continuously bouncing you onto his dick that’s still hard as before—it’s when you press your together that he groans, holding you close as a warmth fills your walls, his moan dragging a bit to meet the sounds of yours.

Your face buries into the crook of his neck, your lower body spasming a bit to ground yourself. But that’s when you stop—your eyes flicker to the side of the table, your palm coming along your flushed face as you whimper, “Your lemonade, Ony…”  

He’s snorting.

“I was busy,”  he jokes, kissing at the edge of your shoulder blade, “I’m sorry, aight? Imma’ go grab me another glass.”

When he goes to move, you don’t. 

“You gon’ let me go, or you gon’ hold a nigga hostage?”

He chuckles this time, placing his hands along your sides as he pats you, “Lemme’ up, girl. Can’t even move.” 

“No,” you huff, “I don’t wanna let go.” 

“Aight— lemme’ hold you for a lil’, let you get yo’ mind right before you make dinner.”

Your eyes peek open, “Did I say I was makin’ dinner, or you tryna’ gaslight me into saying that’s what you want?”

“Chill,” He grins, “Lemme’ get another chance—Baby, you gon’ make dinner for me?”

“You knew the answer already,” you kissed his bicep, “You never had to ask.” 

“‘Cause you love me?”

“I always love you.”

“How much?”

You giggle, “More than a country boy loves his farm.”

He’s grinning. His hand is at the soft of your stomach, pulling you against him as his lips find your ears, murmuring, “I can do you better than that,” His nose is now against your skin, “More than a fat kid loves cake.”  

“You’re so lame.”  

“Huh? You ain’t like that?”

“…Maybe.” 

"Sorry, i'm not in the mood to take my clothes off, Toji," you say, your voice a gentle, pitiful excuse for sound. If your voice could be seen, it would be similar to the tragic way that grass blades slowly try to stand up, after being stepped on. If the sound of your voice could be felt, it would be the void-like, almost nauseating feeling in your stomach, that comes with ignored hunger. You sound detached from the bright person Toji knows, and clearly, you're not okay.

"I'm not asking you to undress yourself. I want you to come to me," Toji responds. "You're sitting so far over there, away from me, like I did something to you. For being the most reasonable person I know, this isn't fair, at all." His eyes stay on you as he awaits your response, but he is only met with the sight of you looking down at your hands.

"Be fair. You didn't help me get better at communicating, just to turn the tables on me like this." His tone is sharper, out of urgency. He wants to know what he can do for you, but it's hard to do that when you're there, yet, not there. "Just... come here, ma," Toji tries again, his voice a little softer and understanding. "Please. Let's talk about anything." He pats his thigh, directing you to one of the reserved spots he holds for intimate conversations with you.

You know Toji's stubbornness will not leave you alone. It's impossible to hide anything from him once he's onto you, so you stop prolonging the inevitable and silently do as he says.

You turn off the TV, before walking over to him and settling on his lap. You sit there, with a racing heart, because Toji's attention feels like a spotlight on you. His hands interlock at the small of your back and rest there, as he waits for you to say something. Silence invades the moment while you figure out where to start.

"What's wrong?" He asks, when there is no attempt to speak made by you. Immediately, your throat begins to ache, and your eyes start to sting. It's a question known for breaking people, and you're on the brink of becoming another victim. You think you can widen your eyes to keep them dry or blink away the tears, but the outcome doesn't favor you. Toji's hands shift so that they're splayed out on your lower back. They move up and down in soothing motions, as if he's trying to coax your strong emotions out with the comforting gesture. Like a gloomy sky finally giving in to rain, you cave in to vulnerability.

"Baby?" Toji calls, watching as sadness takes over your features. He sighs as he pulls your twinkly-eyed self into his tight embrace. He hates when you cry. The sound and the sight is the equivalent of pouring acid on his heart. It's torture for him to see that his baby, his sweetheart, his love, has been reduced to streams of tears, but he knows that getting it all out is for your own good. This is the 'alcohol in the wound' part of the process. You don't want to do it, but you'll feel better, afterwards. Just like a real physical wound, Toji will make you get it done. Scream if you must, curl into him like you are trying to go through him, he's not going to abandon you.

"Just breathe, sweet girl," he instructs, when he hears the heart wrenching sound of your stuttered breaths. "Breathe. Give me a good one," he says, rubbing your upper back. You inhale, the act still heavily stuttered, before you exhale. "Good. Again." You repeat the process and get the same trembling breath as a result.

"Fuck," you choke out. Your head feels like it's pulsing, your abdomen burns, your chest feels heavy, as if you have chains tightly wrapped around your torso, and your throat aches. It's all so overwhelming, you feel like there's a disastrous storm ruining you from within.

"Sweetheart, please breathe. You're gonna turn blue any minute now." Toji can't hold you any tighter without crushing you, but he wants to, so badly. This is the lowest he's ever seen you and it's killing him. He has never made you this upset. It's hell to even imagine what you must have endured to get to this point.

"You're safe. I have you," he says, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of your head. "I'm here, baby."

Toji's shoulder is damp from your waterfalls of tears and he can feel an excessive amount of heat radiating from your trembling body. Your crying ceases and all that can be heard are sharp, short inhales and puffs of air, as you try to regulate your breathing. Toji continues running his hands over your back, soothing the tired, tense muscles of your shoulder blades.

"We are gonna have to talk about this later, doll. I know that might not sound like the most fun thing to do, but it'll make you feel better. I want you to feel better."

Toji is mindful of your silence. He knows your voice isn't in the best condition to speak after your surge of emotions, and you're probably exhausted, but this isn't a dead end for him. He'll figure out your needs, and he'll take care of you. Anything to bring your happy, smiling face, back.

Toji allows you to pull away from his shoulder, and instantly takes in the sight of your pretty, ruined face. You don't look at him, and he assumes that your appearance is to blame. Your eyes, they're red and puffy, glimmering in the light with your now contained feelings, and you're still sniffing like you need to blow your nose. It's terrible to see you this way, but he would withstand much more than this, if you needed it.

"How does a bath sound, for now? A bath and then some food? You hungry, mama?" He asks, his expression involuntarily soft, as he runs the pads of his thumbs beneath your eyes, attempting to clean you up a little.

"No," you say, quietly, with the fragility that remains of your voice.

"I'm gonna pick up some food while you relax." Toji almost laughs at the subtle roll of your eyes. "That's my bad. I shouldn't have asked in the first place. You need to eat something."

He doesn't want to put you through any more stress, but when he needs to take care of you, during times like this, he knows what you need more than you do. Your reasoning is clouded by your emotions, and you'll let go of yourself, because your thoughts rewind over and over to what's plaguing your mind. Toji knows you'll be glad he did this for you when you feel better.

"Let's get that bath ready," he says, securing your legs around his waist, before he stands up from the couch. Your face is buried in the crook of his neck, and you breathe in his scent, until you reach the bathroom.

Toji flicks the light on and sets you down on the counter. A chaste kiss is pressed to your tearstained cheek, before he lets you go so he can prepare your bath. You turn your head to look at yourself in the mirror and hate the messy sight before you—the product of your meltdown. You turn on the cold water and splash some on your face, hoping to decrease the puffiness of your eyes, even just a little bit, while Toji is busy. You dry your face afterwards and check your appearance in the mirror, again, to clean up any remaining gunk in your eyes.

When you finish, you turn back, just in time to watch Toji rise from his knelt position by the bathtub. He makes his way back to you and stands between your legs, offering you a contemplative look, and a "hm" to go along with it. No words are exchanged when his hand reaches out to gently cup your jaw, allowing him to turn your head in any way he wants. He leans forward to examine you more closely, to check if anything is "broken". He can see you pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh, as he continues to snoop around.

"Oh," he says, like he found a cable that has simply been disconnected. He turns your head a little, and keeps inspecting the problematic area, building up the suspense for you. You couldn't say it, but him finding something scared you a little, considering you had just looked at your reflection and didn't see anything.

"Don't move, doll. I'll get it." His hand rests on your shoulder, the other on your thigh, as he leans in closer and closer, until his body heat coils around you. He presses a kiss to the side of your neck. It's featherlight, almost like a gentle breeze. Another one lands on the same area, then another, and another, until he hears your little laugh, a sound that brought both of you mutual relief. Your relief came from understanding that Toji didn't actually find anything off, while Toji's came from the miracle of him being able to make you laugh, after what went down not that long ago.

"Two seconds, ma," he says, beneath your ear. He pulls away from you and goes back to the now foam covered, sweet smelling bathtub. He leans down to turn the faucet off, and returns to you, afterwards.

"It's all ready for you," he says. A smile curls on his lips when you raise your arms, signaling for him to pull your shirt off. "You wanna keep your bra and underwear on?" He asks, as he pulls the hem of your shirt up. You nod, just before the material goes over your head. He sets it aside and helps you down, off the counter, so you can take your sweatpants off. You pull your phone out of your pocket and set it on the counter. Your fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants and tug downwards, until they just slide down your legs and allow you to step out of them.

Toji watches you carefully step over the edge of the tub, one foot sinking through the foam and into the warm water, followed by your other foot. You crouch down, slowly, until you are able to sit down and eventually lay back. You close your eyes once you're in a comfortable position and just let the warm water and the pretty smell work its magic on you.

Toji kneels beside you, and observes you in a more serious manner than before. His gaze lingers on those tired eyes of yours, for longer than any of your other facial features. Your eyelids are still swollen and the bags beneath your eyes are prominent. The longer he stares, the more he thinks back to how you were so distressed, to the point where you forgot how to breathe for a few seconds. It scared him. He didn't get a single word about what was wrong, from you. You couldn't say anything other than that single curse, but even then, you sounded like you were being strangled by your own emotions.

Toji knows this is only a temporary fix— this calm sight of you resting in a bubble bath. Your feelings won't be swept under the rug, because he knows that if it were him going through this exact situation, you wouldn't just give him a hug and call it a day. No, when you take care of his mind and heart, you hold him in your arms and don't let go until he's the one trying to cage himself in your embrace when your arms loosen around him. You keep your voice at an intimate volume as you tell him about your day, because sometimes he isn't immediately ready to talk about what is bothering him, but he still wants to hear you. You cook for him, you give his tired body massages, you shower him with love and affection, and when he's finally ready to tell you what's going on, you listen closely to everything he has to say and you offer him your utmost support. You love and protect him to no end, and he has become shamelessly clingy towards you, because of it.

He wants you to feel as loved as he does. He wants you to know what it's like to experience the same level of care you give him. He may not be able to replicate it to a T, but he's willing to try for you.

"Hey," Toji calls, tenderly running the knuckle of his index finger back and forth, over your cheek. You hum, and blink open your eyes, giving him your attention. "I'm gonna go get us some food. Stay on the phone with me and keep me company until I get back, yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah, okay. Can you bring me my phone, please?"

Toji gets back on his feet and takes one large step towards the counter, retrieving your phone, before taking that same step back to leave it next to you, on the edge of the bathtub.

"Be right back, doll. Pick up the phone as soon as I call, okay?"

"Okay."

His hands grip the edge of the bathtub, to prevent him from falling in, as he leans in to peck your cheek once more. His weight shifts onto one arm so he can bring a hand to your face and rub the kiss into your skin with his thumb.

"Love you, ma."

"Love you, too."

With that, Toji stands up straight and heads towards the door. He takes one last look at your pretty face, before exiting the bathroom and closing the door behind him. He grabs his phone from the couch, his keys from the hook on the wall, and messily slides his shoes on, not bothering to put them on correctly, since he won't be getting out of the car, anyways. He secures the inside of the house, before heading out, and once he's outside, he finds his house key and locks the door. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes haste of clicking the phone icon, and then your contact, as he keeps walking to the car. His phone is now against his ear, and he listens as the line rings once... twice...

"Hi, Toji."