Saturn 🪐🤎

“Bun-Bun, you got everything?” Alamo walked in, Kidd behind him who was packing some other things in Bishop’s car. You answered with a hum, closing your small suitcase just then. “Are you going to pay me for this?” You ask Alamo as you walked out to the car, seeing Bishop stand by it, looking a far. Alamo raised a finger to his face, “Don’t get greedy. I’ve given you enough blessings and privileges with this job. You get paid what you’re worth, it’s up to you to show that.” He finished, poking your forehead.

You don’t fight back, it was too early to put up a fight, and even though you weren’t getting payed you weren’t going to complain when you were going away with Bishop. “Later guys.” You waved at Midnight, Angel and Kidd, making your way to Bishop. He was standing by your door holding it, “Aren’t you a gentleman.” You said, patting his shoulder as you got in. “Right.” He replies, closing it. Taking a quick glance at Alamo, he gets in the car and drives away.

꧂

It was only a two hour drive to San Diego, but that didn’t stop you and Bishop to stop at a diner to eat breakfast. “Are you getting Deja Vu?” You ask Bishop as you ate your breakfast. “Am not.” He replies, reading the newspaper. You nod, looking at his plate, “Can I have your bacon?” Bishop looks up to look at you. Slowly he pushes his plate to you, a small ‘thank you’ coming out your mouth. “I’ve never been to San Diego; can you believe that?” “Yes.” He closes the newspaper and looks at you.

“You weren’t raised in Los Angeles, were you?” Bishop asks, throwing you off at such personal question, I mean he hadn’t ever asked you your favorite color or something. “…No, I moved here when I was a teenager.” “Why?” He asks again. You move your head to the side, “Why are you asking me? What are you gaining from this?” You ask. Bishop stays quiet before giving you a small shrug, “Just wanted get to know you.” You snort at his claim laying back.

“You don’t even know my real name.” But that’s where Bishop proves you wrong, no hesitation he says your full name, followed by your date of birth, and the school you graduated from. “That’s all I know about you.” You wished you could’ve been more shocked about how much Bishop found out about you, but already knowing his work, it was probably common for him. “Thought you’d know more.” You mumble, seeing him stand up and place a tip on the table, “You could change that.” He offers his hand to you again, you accept it, walking away.

The rest of the car drive was in silence, because well, you fell asleep. Bishop didn’t want to bother you; he had taken his coat to put it on top of you. But now at the parking lot of the hotel, he stayed looking at your sleeping figure. Petting your head, he slowly woke you up. “We’re here.” He turns off the car.The hotel was small but nice, it had a pool so that was enough to satisfy you. Your hotel room was two queen beds and a balcony that had a view of the city of San Diego.

“So, what do you wanna do?” You were sitting on your bed, looking at Bishop who was lurking around the room, checking it. “Nothing. Tomorrow morning you and I are going to pick up these guns and leave Monday morning.” Sitting on his bed, he looks at your direction. “B, we have the whole day free, let’s just hang in the pool.” “You can go.” He replied making you groan. “Bishop the point is for you to go with me.” You sit up, being eye to eye with him.“I’m not going to the pool.”

Bishop did in fact go to the pool. He also took some photos of you so you could post them on social media. “You’re not bad at taking pictures.” You had a blunt on your hand while seeing the photos Bishop took of you. You were in the empty pool, beside Bishop, who was forced to buy swim shorts just to satisfy you and your company. You lean to him, “Which one?” You asked about the photos, swiping in between two photos. “Both look fine.” He replied.

You roll your eyes, “You’re no fun on this trip.” “Not supposed to be fun.” Bishop snaps looking at you, “We done?” You look at him, Bishop studying your look, you were getting mad. “You know, you’re just a fucking pervert.” You stand from the pool attempting to make your way out. “And why’s that?” Bishop stands up too, taking your arm, making you turn to him.

“First, you tell Alamo to not put me in privates, then I’m put on some fucking practice private with you.” You push his chest, “You fucking finger me in that private. Then they tell me to not do privates. Did you just want to get off from that? And now—” You scoff raising your arms. “Now I’m here! In San Diego with you. What are we gonna do now? Fuck and then go all quiet on me?” Bishop said nothing, just looked at you.

“You’re a grown woman. You have feelings, you have desire. I passed the line that day, and I didn’t plan this. I don’t know why you act this.” “Why do you act like it’s wrong?” You cut him off. You really didn’t want to cry in front of him, you weren’t a crybaby but, it just felt too confusing, you were upset. Bishop sighs, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention. “…I’m sorry. I’ve made you feel complexed and angry and that was never what I wanted to do to you.”

You take a deep breath, looking down. “It’s whatever.” You were still angry, but you really didn’t want to keep going at it. You had to remember Bishop was nothing to you. You felt his hand sooth your waist, making it’s why to your chin to lift it. “Let’s go to a restaurant tonight. One by the beach.” Your ears perked up at Bishop’s words.

“As a date?”

“No.”

That didn’t stop you from putting a cute cream color two set. Bishop had his blue coat with a white button up. “You look so cute.” You tell him as the two of you took the elevator. He turned to look at you, the smallest smile creeping on his face, “You clean up nice too.” You giggle, a blush creeping on your cheeks.

꧂

It was a nice restaurant that Bishop took you to. In the dimmed room and view of the beach, you and Bishop were drinking wine. “I wonder how the club is right now.” You spoke after some minutes of silence. “Do you miss it?” Bishop asked, making you think. “…Not really no, I would’ve if I wasn’t with you.” You smile at him. Bishop looks across the restaurant, seeing all the other tables, most being couples. “I can’t recall the last time I was in a restaurant.” Bishop said, getting your attention. “Really? I used to be a server— well, a hostess but a restaurant doesn’t feel unfamiliar to me.” You had your hands resting on the table, copying Bishop’s observations.

“My dad would bring me after school ended, before he passed.” Bishop for the first time brought up a very personal fact about him. You stay quiet for a while, trying to test out your luck of the night you had with him. “What was your family like?” Bishop’s eyes find yours, studying your face, “I had a brother.” Your eyebrows furrow at what he said, had. “B, I’m sorry.” You mumble reaching your hand to his wrist, caressing it. Bishop didn’t move his hand away, just looked down at it before looking back up. “Don’t worry.”

You and Bishop had a silence comfort between the two of you. It lasted 10 minutes before you cleared your throat, “Bishop what are we going to do?” You asked. “Go to the meeting tomorrow, then go back.” He answered not bothering to look at you. You sigh, playing with the end of your skirt underneath the table. “Bishop, I mean us.” That gets his attention. “I mean, it’s no secret there’s something more than a mutual feeling. I think about you a lot, and I know that we kissed for the first time last week but before that whole night I wanted you. I just want to say that, there was always something when I met you, like, properly met you.” You confessed to him.

Bishop, although for most his life kept his words to himself, was speechless. He never imagined that it would come to this. To developing feelings to a woman like you. “You don’t have to say what you feel right now, I know how you are.” You speak again before he could. “Just tell me what you want from me.”

Bishop stretches his hands out on the table, asking you to hold them, and you do. The moment your hands touch, he leaned to kiss you, a true kiss. It felt like you were receiving his feelings, his thoughts, you’d even dare to say his love. Pulling away, he meets your eyes, “Let me know who you are.” And that’s when you knew how to let Bishop know you are.

꧂

Back in the hotel room, Bishop sat at the end of the bed, coat off facing your standing figure. You looked at his hands that held his beads, his gold watch shining. “Don’t be nervous.” He whispered, pulling you in front of him. Slowly he slid down your skirt, revealing your white bralette panties, next your shirt, with the revealing matching bra. “Beautiful.” He whispers, leaning to kiss your stomach, your heart fluttering.

He laid your body on the bed, wondering hands all over you. “It wouldn’t be fair for you to be fully dressed and I’m just here. Naked. Again.” You mumbled. Bishop looks at you, his hands hanging by your waist. “Do the honors.” He said almost in a sarcastic tone. A quick smile and you sit up to kiss him, hands finding his bolo tie and undoing hit. Next his shirt, each button removed would make your hands touch his toned abdomen. Final were his pants, the sound of taking off his belt making you look down.

Standing now on underwear, you took in Bishop’s figure. “Didn’t know you were kinda ripped.” “Kinda?” Bishop asks, taken back. You giggle at his reaction, making him push you back to the pillows and lay on you, quieting you with his mouth. “Bishop.” You moan when you feel his familiar fingers touch your clothed cunt. Didn’t last long once his fingers went to hook your panties down, your cunt feeling the coolness of the room. “Can I?” He whispers down your neck, looking for your eyes. You nodded, a little too quick, starting to feel the desperation kick in. “Yes, Bishop.”

Bishop kisses down your body to your entrance, giving you a quick look, he goes down to kiss your cunt. More kisses were left on your cunt, his long hands grasping your thighs. Bishop eats you out like if you were a dessert, making you get wetter each lick on your clit. “Bishop…” You moaned making your hands go down to his head, feeling all the pleasure take over your body. “So good.” You heard him mutter underneath, leaving soft kisses before sitting up.

Bishop gets off bed and finds his wallet, looking for a condom. You took time to take off your bra looking towards him. Seeing Bishop’s tall body was making you feel unbelievable things. You saw him pull his boxer briefs and your heart dropped to finally seeing, it. His dick was long, like really long, standing hard and proud, you catch the smallest drip of precum come out. Your body won over your patience, crawling to the end of the bed, where Bishop stood, you lean to kiss him.

“Let me taste you.” You whisper, making your hand go down his crotch. It felt so heavy on your hand, it didn’t stop from giving him slow strokes before putting him on your mouth. Bishop shudders at the warmth of your mouth, holding his moans with the view in front of him. Your eyes closed, sucking not even the half of his dick because of his size, your manicured hand stroking what couldn’t even fit, low gags coming out of you.

“Too big, huh baby?” Bishop pets your head, his chest feeling tight. You nod, pulling out, strings of saliva connected between your mouth and the head of his dick. “I’ll make it fit in me.” You whisper. Bishop is gone. Pushing you back to the pillow, he pulls you to him, opening the wrapper on the condom and putting it on. You grab his face, to kiss him, tongues gliding. But Bishop wanted to look at you when he finally made his way in. “Are you nervous?” He whispered, hands on your waist, you just shook your head.

Your eyes roll back the moment you feel him push in. “Oh my God—” You exclaim feeling his dick push in until he was all the way. Bishop was groaning, he basically forced himself in you despite how wet you were, you gripped him hard. “So good, you’re doing so good.” Bishop whispers on your neck, pulling out all the way to push back in, making you whine. His thrusts got quicker, hitting that spot that curled your toes and made you grip Bishop’s forearms.

“I don’t want you to stop— Baby, please, don’t stop.” You whine, feeling Bishop groan against you, “Yeah? You like how I’m fucking you?” You nod, not being able to answer, just moan. Bishop pushes your knees to your chest, this way his dick feeling even more deeper inside of you. You became a mess, not being able to quiet down with the new position he put you in. “You hear your pussy? You hear how good you take me, princess?” You nod at Bishop’s questions, “I wanna be good— please, please, B.” You begged him to not stop, feeling your climax getting close.

“Won’t. Fuck— I won’t.” He looks down seeing where the two of you met. A low groan once he started seeing a white cream coming out of you, spreading on the base of his dick. “Creaming all over me. What a slut.” Bishop muttered, looking at your fucked out expression and your reaction to the name. “Yours…” You moan to him, “I wanna be your slut.” Bishop pulls out, making you turn to your stomach and push himself back in.

Harder thrusts were going into you, having the bed creak with the headboard hitting the wall. “Gonna be the only one to get you this stupid, make sure you feel me even when we get back.” Bishop groans, having his hand push your head down to the pillow. He smacks your ass, “Is that what you want?” “Yes! Please, oh— Bishop that’s what I want.” You sobbed onto the pillow, “Uh, I’m gonna cum!” Bishop could feel it, the way you were getting weak and the tightness of your walls around him.

“Cum, baby. Cum all over this dick, get it real wet for me.” Bishop mutter, pulling you up to see your expression better. Your legs shake, ongoing moans and whines coming out like a prayer as you came. Bishop followed along, cumming inside the condom, low moans against your ear. “Don’t stop.” You whimper out, pushing back to ride out your high. Bishop lays on top of you, his cock still pulsing. “I’m in so much trouble.” He whispers, slowly pulling out.

You turn once you hear the rubber of the condom snap, seeing Bishop sit at the corner of the bed. “Bishop, can we shower.” You said softly. He nods. He stands up towards the bathroom, you hear the shower being turned on. Bishop comes back for you, offering to carry you. Once in the bathroom, the two of you enter. A true gentleman as you claimed. Bishop washed your whole body, even your hair. All you wanted to do was kiss him, which he allowed. Fresh pajamas and wet hair, you waited for Bishop to step out. “Wanna get dessert?” You ask.

Bishop takes it all in, you had sex with him. You were now going to get dessert and would then probably sleep on the same bed despite having to queens. It was a relationship, and he was fucked if Alamo truthfully found out. For a minute he wanted to just say fuck it and run away with you. Start a life with you and die by your side. He wanted to be yours just how you’d be his. But he knew it wasn’t easy, not with Alamo being overall alive. Alamo not being dead meant no free life for Bishop. It meant not being with you ever.

“Sure.” He answers your question.

.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲

Bishop didn’t want to overthink anything, he overstepped a line he shouldn’t have even touched in the beginning. You were very nice and kind as a person, never put up a fight unlike Angel or insurance troubles like Magick. To him, you were perfect. You were the last thing he would see before going to sleep and the first thing he thought of when he woke up. It’s like you were a drug to him, he knew he shouldn’t keep doing it, but he did, it made him feel good.

Some weeks passed where you would do things differently. You started to pay attention the days Bishop would come to the club, with Alamo or alone. You bought brand new lingerie, two pieces and bikinis in all colors and designs. Three new heels and an ankle bracelet Tish gave you because it wasn’t her style. When you would perform you made sure you did everything correct, not a single mistake. You were flirtier with the customers, nicer with the bartenders, overall you were going for employee of the month.

Bishop could’ve cared less, at least he wanted to.

He was growing impatient; you were driving him crazy. He would subtly see your performances in the club, looking away if you made eye contact. He would also see the men that asked you for dances on the booths, feeling his heartbeat faster when they would grope your tits and waist, made you move how they would want to as if you were a toy. He hated it when they spanked you when you walked by, all the time. Seeing those hands grab the fat of your butt just filled him with rage. But it’s not like he couldn’t do something about it. You weren’t his. At least not yet.

꧂

Thursday afternoon, Bishop was at Alamo’s mansion in his usual corner while he had a meeting with Big Eddy, G in a corner counting some money. “Honestly this a real good line up of girls we’ve had in a while.” Alamo’s desk was splattered with photos of the dancers from Silver Slipper, including you. “This one a real winner.” Alamo raised your photo, a picture of you smiling with an orange bikini, facing it to Bishop, “I bet this bunny loves to bounce bounce bounce!” Alamo erupted with laughter.

Fucking pig, Bishop thought to himself.

“She’s been good, I’ve had guys tell me they’d pay the double to get a section with her.” Big Eddy talked while taking some notes. “Bishop suggested to have her do more dances with the snake, maybe by the end of the month.” Alamo answered taping a photo of Tish. “She need a boob job.” He muttered.

“Should check if she’d be good doing a private, like a test run.” G spoke up, “And why the fuck would I do that?” Alamo asked, thrown off at G’s request. “Listen, I’m not gonna throw none of the girls under the bus, but some of these hoes just don’t got the love in when it comes to doing private dances. No coordination, no charisma...Magick is the less that gets asked that’s all I’m going to say.” G responded, his last sentence being the quickest to push out. “I won’t mind checking on Bunny tonight.” Alamo chuckled, “I’ll check on her real good.”

Bishop really didn’t want to interfere, he wanted to promise himself that you were nothing but another dancer. It was known that Alamo would take advantage of these women, he was practically a pimp. But the back of Bishop’s head kept telling himself that you were different, you were worth something.

“You’ve said that with each dancer, you only end up fucking them.” Bishop said with that monotone voice of his, making the three men look to him, Alamo visually angry. “And what the fuck do you want to mean by that?” “We test the girls for the public, not for us. Not every man that comes in the club is coming for a fuck, some just simply want a private dance.”

And everyone knew Bishop’s point was right. Alamo would do it based off his own personal interests, not for the public, which is why G suggested to really test the girls out. Alamo grunted, not having a comeback or an excuse for Bishop’s observation. “Let’s have her do a private with you then.” Alamo faced to G, who started laughing at Alamo’s demand.

“Nahh— have Bishop do it, she’s got a little crush on him.” Bishop’s heart dropped, looking directly at G, “Does not.” “Does too! She always bats her eyes in such a way, changes the tone of her voice, she’ll be like— Hello Bishop, how you doing?” G mimicked you, having Alamo and Big Eddy laugh with him.

“Bunny with a little crush, she’s adorable.” Big Eddy said wiping a tear out his eye. “I don’t wish to receive a private dance from Lola.” Bishop replied, he knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do, especially when he’s trying to push down the emotions, he’s had building up for you. “It was your idea, B. Put it to the test, or we can go back my way.” Alamo responded, standing up fixing his attires.

“Make Tish, get earlier than usual to talk about driving her for a boob job, and tell Lola Bunny she’s doing a private dance.” Alamo assigned Big Eddy while making his way out, “Bishop, call that bitch Laurie to do some orders for a party I’m planning soon.” Alamo added before heading out. Bishop took a deep sigh, glaring at G who was still quietly giggling, then looking to Eddy, who held your picture towards him. “10:30, be there or be square.”

꧂

“Could it be his birthday?” “That man is not a Aries, Tish.” All the girls were surrounded by the board, you included. On your schedule it was written quite big, ‘PRIVATE: BISHOP 10:30PM’ and you had no idea why, but it wasn’t that you weren’t excited. “Y por qué yo tengo nada? The fuck?” Magick scoffed, her schedule being just one performance at 9pm. “At least you can just relax around.” Midnight, one of the dancers, laughed, her hand resting on your shoulder, she taps it. “Damn, Lola the chosen one this month.” You laughed, hiding your nerves, “I don’t know why.” You softly answered.

“And why Bishop? Is he like retiring?” Angel asked from her seat, counting money. “Nadie sabe, Eddy’s stupid anyways.” Magick said, clearly upset that her schedule was so clear. Tish walked in, stepping hard on the floor, “I’m getting my boobs done.” The room erupted with squeals and cheers, Angel standing up to hug her. “Yeah, yeah say your goodbyes cause this girl going to Mexico.” Big Eddy said, making his way to the office before being stopped by a whistle from Magick.

“What’s this schedule? You hate me? Why the fuck is your Babadook friend getting a private? Para qué?” “You talk too much.” He muttered resting on his office doorway. “We doing a new thing, gonna test out how you girls do on private dances.” Big Eddy explained, for once having many of the girls’ attention. “This just a draft, Bishop doing it cause Alamo nor G available tonight. Lola was our pick.” “Lola can dance on a stick, and it would even have more emotion than that man.” Angel said, having the girls giggle.

You hadn’t said anything. You were trying to place if it had something to do with the conversation you had with Bishop at the diner. “Y’all barely know this fool.” Eddy spoke, “Do you even know this fool?” Magick mimicked, still very, very pissed. Big Eddy just grumbled, taking a quick look at the girls before going to his desk, “No bullshit tonight.” He yells.

You sat at your chair looking at your reflection. Your pupils were huge, you could see goosebumps forming on your arms, your heartbeat so loud it was coming out your ears. “You’ve done privates before, right?” Angel asked you. You sure had, it wouldn’t be professional of a strip club to not serve that in their job. “Here and there, extra money with some blowjobs or handjobs.” You weren’t proud, but money was needed on some certain nights at your old place.

But Silver Slipper was different, you felt like a princess. And tonight, you could prove that you were an outstanding dancer, not just for everyone, but for Bishop.

꧂

Bishop rarely drank, like ever. Only at his house or surrounded by his close peers. But tonight, he needed to not let anything get to him, especially you. Sitting on the bar, Tylenol in hand, he shoved it down his mouth, followed by an Old fashioned. “You acting like a hippopotamus giving you a dance.” G was beside him, having a cold whiskey and eating peanuts. “I do not know what she wants from me.” Bishop said, looking down at his drink.

“She’s beautiful though.” G looked around the club, looking at Bishop, he whispered, “You should find out how tight that pussy is.” Bishop shoved G off him, hearing his cackles grow loud. Settling down, G patted his shoulder getting off his sit. “What’s up, doc...here come the girl of the night.” G walked away, making Bishop turn around, looking for you. And you were hard to miss.

Flirting with a table, you stood proudly in your red glitter six-inch heels, a blood red lingerie set, the side of your panties being this decorative golden chains. Your bra was fully bedazzled accompanied with fringe, the lights of the club making you shine with every movement. You had gemstones on your eyes with a light gold eyeshadow. A red lip. You were unbelievable to Bishop, a walking angel from the sky.

Accepting the money from the man you were talking to on top of your bra, you made your way to Bishop, who was already looking at you, standing by the entry. You focused on his wardrobe, a white button up with stripes paired with a dark red tie, dark brown pants, and dark blue trench coat. As always, he carried his prayer beads, he never let go of them. Finally, the two of you were face to face. It almost felt like it was just the two of you in the whole world.

“Bishop.”

“Lola Bunny.”

“Are you ready for me?”

“It’s 10:27.”

“I won’t charge the extra minutes.”

“…Lead the way.”

꧂

The private rooms were all different, for different usages. You led Bishop to your assigned room. It was spacious, a pole in the center with a small platform. In front of the pole was a couch pushed against the wall that was a mirror. A mini bar facing the left side of the room, another couch on the right side.

You turned to Bishop, the biggest smile on your face. “I’ll make you a drink!” Heels clacking their way to make him a drink. Bishop didn’t say anything, instead he placed his beads on the doorknob, and took one of the chairs from the corner, dragging it till he reached the security camera. Placing himself on top, he took the tape he had out of his pocket, biting a piece of tape, he covered the camera. He wasn’t going to let Big Eddy see this humiliation ritual they did to him.

“What are you doing?” You hadn’t turned your head, making him a vodka soda, a vodka cranberry for you. “Don’t worry about it.” He replied, dragging the chair back to its place. Feeling his presence on your left, you looked at him, you were practically the same height with the help of your heels. Holding both drinks in your hands, you kept that sweet smile. “You smell good.” “Make it quick.” Bishop replied, grabbing his drink, and making his way to the couch. You rolled your eyes, taking a quick chug of your drink, you made your way to the platform, squatting down to the speaker.

Bishop took off his coat, taking his gun from his back, he unloaded it and placed it on the small coffee table in front of him. “Would you like grade this?” You asked from the stage, holding onto the pole. “Yes,” He crossed hands between his legs, “just dance like you do outside, Bunny.” You cleared your throat, a quick nod to yourself. Showtime.

You were a true masterpiece when it came to pole dancing. You displayed all the techniques you knew with your performance; every step was perfect with the beat of the music, Bishop was engaged. He watched your every move, not a single mistake. He barely blanked every time you twirled around the pole, your knees hooked to the back of the pole, you looked so care free. Bishop wanted to ignore the erection he has growing between his legs. He was too grown to be getting a boner from a pole dance.

“Are you enjoying it?” You asked, so innocently, as if you weren’t dancing barely dressed with a pole with a Rihanna playlist playing all for him. “I am.” “You’re such a liar.” You mumbled, sitting on the edge of the stage. It was Bishop, what was he even going to do with your performance? “Is that all?” He asked, you shrugged, getting shy out of nowhere, looking down. “This is the part I give you a lap dance.” You looked up; Bishop hadn’t moved a muscle. He straightens his back, “I’m not stopping you.” You felt your cunt flutter, you were actually doing this.

You stood up, getting a glance of yourself though the mirror. Strutting your way to Bishop, it’s like your footsteps got louder, your breathing got shorter. Shaky but firm hands grasped on Bishop’s shoulders, straddling him. He slowly dragged his hands to your hips, making you shudder at the touch of his cold hands in your warm body. You moved your hips in slow circles, moving your hands to his chest. Bishop couldn’t believe he was letting this happen. Feeling your cunt through his crotch was heaven, he wants to believe this is the closest the two of you will get on an intimate level.

“I can feel you.” You whispered so low, so low Bishop almost didn’t catch what you said. But you both knew; you both knew Bishop’s cock was poking hard through his pants. “Don’t get excited.” Bishop whispered back, looking up when he heard you giggle. “I shouldn’t get excited? You and your bud—” You pressed down harder, making his breath hitch, “...would be leaving me alone.” You have no idea what came over you, you felt like you were on top of the world.

Moving your hands on top of Bishop’s, you leaned to his face your mouth grazing his, “You wanna see them, B?” Bishop didn’t even have time to analyze what you asked him. He did see how your hands reached for the center of your bra, a quick clasp and you were taking your top off. Bishop couldn’t hear his thoughts to this point, everything was happening so fast.

He moved his hands to your abdomen, his eyes not leaving your now exposed breasts, nipples perked up because of how cold the room was. God you were so beautiful. “You’re doing really good.” Bishop said, trying to remember this was overall a test, that he wasn’t feeling any type of pleasure from this. “Yeah, I’d figured.” You stood briefly, not a single moment had Bishop’s hands left your body.

You sat back down, having your back facing him, sitting directly on his growing erection. It didn’t even feel like you were doing a lap dance anymore. You grabbed his knees spreading them even more, having your butt grind right against him. “Fuck—” Bishop muttered under his breath, hoping you didn’t hear him. You were creating a friction in such an intense way, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from you.

And then you moaned, that’s when Bishop realized how your movement changed from a sensual dance to you grinding yourself against his cock, chasing pleasure. A professional act would’ve been for Bishop to tap out, hand you his money, thank you for the dance and leave. But Bishop also knew he had time left, and that testing out your private dance was the only thing Alamo had asked him to do for the Thursday night.

Would it hurt to add more fuel to the fire?

He sat up, and pulled you closer, having you gasp. “Bishop—” “Don’t freak out and I won’t freak out.” He whispered against your ear. It felt like a movie, a very soft porno movie if you will. Bishop’s right hand made its way to your panties, going upward until it connected to your right boob, instantly you placed your hand on top of his. “Would you let this to happen?” He asked so slowly, making his left hand make the same movement, your hand following.

With Bishop’s hands on top of your breasts, you were still grinding on top of him, not once did you think about stopping. “I don’t know...” You whimpered, “it- it feels good.” “I know baby.” Bishop said. Baby. He had never called you that, your heart was fluttering. “You haven’t answered.” Bishop placed a light kiss on your shoulder. You knew his question was about the men you would dance to if you did private dances, if you’d allowed them to place you in such a vulnerable position like the one you were in right now.

“Nu uh...” You answered, fastening your movements. “No? Then why are you doing it, Bunny?” Bishop kept leaving small kisses all over your shoulders and neck. You were so lost in the feeling of your grinds that made your clit bump against Bishop, you hadn’t noticed how he traced his hand down to your panties, this time making his fingers go inside you. You gasped loud when you felt him on your cunt, lightly placing his fingers, doing the smallest circles since the movement of your hips were already giving you that pleasurable sensation. Two of his fingers made his way inside your tight cunt.

“Bunny…” Bishop spread his fingers slightly, ignoring your whimpers. “You’re so wet...who let you get this wet?” Whimpers and moans were the only thing coming out of your mouth. You turned your head back, facing Bishop. With little patience inside your body, you finally crashed your lips against his. And it felt so fucking good.

Bishop was fingering you, slowly dragging them to your clit, he would then grope your boob and kiss you, swallowing all your moans and whimpers with his mouth. You couldn’t stop pushing back against him, you were practically begging for Bishop to push you to the couch, pull your panties and shove his cock inside of you and destroy you.

A loud bang was heard from outside the room. You wanted to gasp— you did gasp, but Bishop was quicker to put his hand over your mouth. The two of you stayed still, in this very intimate position, waiting to see of something was to occur. Hearing yells and ruckus outside, you whimpered, making your hips circle on top of Bishop again.

“Bunny…” Bishop whispered in a tone that was telling you ‘We should stop’, yet, his fingers were still rubbing your folds, and you were getting so close. “Please B…I don’t want you to stop.” You whimpered going faster than before. He groaned, placing a hand on your hip, he kept the your clit with his other hand.

“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” He whispered, “You know Alamo could kill me if he saw what you’re letting me do to you?” You moaned, feeling your climax get closer. “He’d be furious to know I got to you first, that you’d be this easy to break.” You felt it just then, your coil snapping. You had no idea how to react with the combination of Bishop’s words and his quick fingers on your cunt.

“Bishop—!” You moaned while you came, his free hand quickly covering your mouth. Even though the room was soundproof, you were quite loud. I mean who are you to blame? He was working unforgettable movements and the last time a guy made you cum must’ve been ages ago. Your moans turned into whimpers, turned into deep breaths. It hits you now, it hits you hard. Bishop made you cum, on his lap, while you were supposed to just give him a lap dance. What the actual fuck?

Bishop moved quicker than you, pushing you out his lap, he stayed still for a moment. Looking down at his hands, one covered in the wetness of your orgasm and the other one with slight lipstick marks from your mouth. He turned to look at you, bare chest heaving and that scared look you always tend to give him. Like a person that was caught doing something wrong. “Get dressed.” Bishop stood up, throwing your bra at you while he put his gun and coat back on.

You were still processing basically everything, but you knew Bishop wasn’t going to pillow talk you from just fingering you. Once the two of you got dressed, he made his way to the door, taking his prayer beads in hand, you behind. “What are you gonna tell Alamo?” You finally spoke up, before he could get his hand to open the door. He slowly turned to you, a look in his face that told you he didn’t have time for this. But he wanted to tell you, he wanted to just talk to you and stay with you for the rest of the night.

“Go make money, Lola.” Was all he said.

But you couldn’t just accept that, like you really couldn’t accept that. You knew these feelings weren’t just some tension you and Bishop were building up. You know this had to be something more. It’s why you the moment he reached to the doorknob, you put your hand on his, and leaned in to kiss him. Your soft lips crashed against Bishop, and that’s when he kissed back. Grazing his fingers slightly at your stomach, he pushed you against the door so softly.

You pull away, looking for a new expression. Bishop’s eyes had softened, looking more tender at you. “I think you’re gonna be a problem for me.” He whispered. The door opens making you walk backwards till you got outside. “I’ll make sure I won’t be complicated, B.” You smiled. Bishop’s name was being called out there, God knows for how long. Slowly he made his way out, his eyes never leaving yours. Standing alone you felt like coming back from a roller coaster.

Would it hurt to go for a second ride?

.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲܀.𓈒𓂂𓏲

You were dressed in lavender, nails painted white, kitten heels resting on the floor by the foot of the bed. Your hair was pulled into a semi-messy ponytail with a bow clipped to the back for extra cuteness. You almost doused yourself in this new pina- colada perfume you recently bought and took hours to pull off this soft makeup and chocolate lip combo straight from YouTube.

After doing all that, you were the only one who showed up on time.

“Do you always stare?” You finally spoke, barely looking up from your phone.

The man in question doesn’t flinch. He hums softly, turning the next page in his book that you swore he only took out to act like he was reading when really, it was an excuse to move from the living room to the bedroom under the gist of “it’s too loud downstairs.” and not “Stacks hot girlfriend is here so that means I get to eye fuck her until he comes back!”

“No,” He said, lips curling into a grin, eyes roaming down your body for the twentieth time tonight. “Unless you want me too.”

and still, after being here for approximately 37 minutes , Stack has yet to walk his jolly ass through the door.

you clicked your tongue, “Can you stop it, it’s weird.”

“Weird cause I’m the one doing it? or weird cause I’m Stacks best friend?”

“Both.”

He flipped to the next page of the book he isn’t reading, “why? Cause you know you like it?”

“Ugh, as if.” You took out your phone, thumbs already snapping against the keyboard, typing up full paragraphs of curses and emojis straight to Stack. If you had to converse with his fraternity brother any longer you were going to burn this house and his “bestie” with it.

You: Come get your white boy, he’s scaring me!

You: you told me you would be here in 5 mins and I haven’t seen your ass pull up

You: you promised me you wouldn’t be late! I fucking hate you and this white boy you keep around.

Stack: Remmick just likes you

You: it looks like he wants to eat me! I’m gonna punch him in his stupid face!

Stack: he would probably like that

You: are you dating him or me?

Stack: me obviously, why?

You: Cause ur always advocating for him like he’s your fucking girlfriend! you like em weird and freaky huh? I swear I’m going to gut him when he turns away

“Could you tell Stack we ran out of toothpaste while your telling him your going to stab me,” Comes his grating voice from across the room. “Used the last of it this morning.”

You look up from your phone, narrowing your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

The fucker had the gall to tip his head to the side, unabashedly looking you over the same way cartoon dogs look at steak— mouth wide open, eyes locked in— he was only missing the drool and tongue lolling out. But you were sure it was going to happen in a few minutes if you stayed any longer.

“I can see it in your pretty face,” He flipped to the next page, refusing to look down, eyes baring into you. “When you start ranting about me, you curl your eyebrows and put on that pouty lip thing. Which— fuck me, I find extremely fucking sexy darlin’—

You: that’s it, I’m going to put a pillow over his face and suffocate him!!!!!!

Stack: I’m pulling up to the house

You shut your phone off, throwing it on the pillow beside you. “What is your issue?” You hissed, crossing your arms over your chest and sending him a nasty glare.

“Nothing,” He says simply. Still looking, still grinning, still imagining you like a tasty well-done steak. “Can’t help it when he wants to touch the most prettiest girl in-front of me.”

“Im sorry— He?”

“My cock.”

“That’s it!” You get up abruptly, practically jumping from one bed to the other, hauling him down with your full weight.

You wrapped your hand around his neck, French tips pressing into his skin— all while he laughed and stared up at you with amusement. Hands at your waist, lips pulled back to reveal his crooked teeth.

You were on top of him, straddling him with your ass pressed against his crotch and your chest at perfect eye level for him to feast on.

“Ohhh is this the part where you fuck me mean and nasty—“

“Shut the fuck up! Oh my gosh!”

Stack walks in, right on que, clearly unfazed by the scene in front of him. He throws his hoodie on his bed, kicks his shoes off by the desk and rolls his neck around.

“Remmick, you know she doesn’t like that shit.” Stack commented, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

“I know,” He laughed, “can’t help it when I get on her nerves— reminds me of a scared little wet kitten.”

“Your dying today white boy—oh!” you squeaked when he flipped you over suddenly, his body heavy and unbearable to have hovering over you.

He sat on your legs, hands wrapped tightly around your wrist, pinning them down beside your head. His grin never leaving his stupid face.

“What I tell you about calling me that?” He tutted, “told you to call me Rem or—“

“White boy, white boy, white boy—“

Remmick groaned. “Stack, she’s doing it again.”

Stack takes a few books out of his bag, placing them on his desk where he was currently sitting at. “Baby, you know he doesn’t like that.”

“So! He needs to stop staring at me like he wants to take a chunk out of my neck and leave me alone!” You shake and turn under his hold, his weight not budging, his eyes glued to your face. “When I get out of this, I’m going to shove my foot so far up your ass—“

“Where’d you find this one Stack? She’s feistier than the last one.”

“not answering that.”

You huffed, turning your lips down, hair ruffled around your forehead and neck. “Can you get off me! You’re ruining my hair!”

“You started it.”

“Stack!”

“Alright, alright,” Stack turns in his swivel chair, “Remmick, can you please get off my lovely girlfriend.”

“Not till she apologizes.”

“Your mama.”

“Hmm, love the enthusiasm.”

Stack shook his head, “I swear, you two fight like you like eachother other.”

You gasped, loudly in fact. “Don’t you dare! You think I would be seen with him?”

“Baby, I’m just joking,” Stack teases. “Rem, come on— we got a dinner date in 15 minutes.”

“Can I come?” Remmick asked, but you pinch his arm soon after , earning a small yelp.

“Hell no! You’ll just sit there and drool all over the table like a dog!”

Stack laughed, loud, with his hand covering his mouth while doubling over. “She’s got you there, brother.”

Remmick frowned down at you, one hand coming up to brush a few flayed strands of hair from your face so you can see him clearly. “Keep talking shit about me and I’ll do more than ruin your pretty hair,” he pinched your cheek between his thumb and forefingers, “starting here—“

“Stack!” You whined, kicking your feet.

“Okay, okay— y’all are too much.”

꒰ authors note ꒱ ⋮ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ I wanted to write something silly and I’ve always wanted to write these three together. Happy new years! If Stack seems OOC I’m sorry, first time writing him 💔

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

“Do I gotta get one of these field bitches to drag ya’ ass outta here, Mary?!”

Donna and her group of gals almost choked on their corn liquor.

Delta Slim playing a catchy tune on them keys was the last thing on her mind AND her friends mind.

“You taught me how to fight! I’ll beat any bitch in here and you know it!”

“Ah, hell nah,” Donna shoved her mug of corn liquor into one of her friends hand, “Hold my drank. This disrespectful, nigga—”

“Donna!”

“Donna, don’t go over there!”

“That’s Stack! You gon’ get us put out!”

Her girls rushed behind Donna and when they saw her reach into the pocket of her floral lapel dress and it came up shining.

A switch blade.

They each shared horrifying looks.

“HEY! STACK!”

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore snapped his eyes towards Donna’s direction. Other’s watched, some women glaring at Stack and turning their noses up at him.

“Can I help you, Darling—aye now!”

Donna pressed her blade against Stack’s neck.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOIN?”

Mary, Stack’s disrespectful white girl, ushered forward, attempting to settle the situation.

“Put the blade away—”

“I ain’t talking to you, little girl. Mind yo’ business.”

Mary was ready to get up in Donna’s face, but Stack pushed her away.

“I’ll handle this, go on, Mary,” Stack gave her a warning look, “Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

“If she know what’s good for her,” Donna argued with a death glare.

Mary moved back towards Sammie and Annie who came over to see what was happening.

Donna turned her sharp gaze onto Stack again.

“Field bitches?”

Stack’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath his fedora. He started moving his full lips like a fish out of water.

“Ain’t got shit to say now? How dare you stand up here and disrespect us like that? Over some ol’ white girl? You forget where you come from, nigga?”

Mmmhmmm

That’s right!

Tell ‘em!

“Say it again. Go on. Do it.”

Stack’s eyes bounced back and forth between her and that sharp ass weapon. His Adam’s Apple bobbed and a trickle of sweat rolled down his temple. His fingers itched to snatch her ass up, but that wouldn’t do any good.

“WELL? whatcha got to say for yourself?!” Donna pressed angrily.

Stack licked his lips, “I–I–Listen, now,” Stack put one hand up and the other on his chest, turning on the charm, “Put the blade away, aight? I ain’t mean to be—OKAY.”

Donna scowled at Stack while her blade moved along his throat.

“You think cuz you went up to Chicago and got a taste of the big city you above us? And who taught you to disrespect yours? Without all this shit you’d be in them fields just like us!”

“Okay, OKAY.” Stack exhaled, “My fault. When I get all worked up I say shit I don’t mean. Go on and put that blade away before you do sum’ stupid. All this ova a few words?”

Smoke approached with Delta Slim. Donna caught his eye, but she didn’t make a move to lower her blade.

“Smoke, you better put some sense into your brother before I do.” Donna threatened.

“Smoke!” Stack shouted for his brother, “Get this crazy bitch off me!”

“Still calling me a bitch, huh?! Nigga I outta cut your nuts off!”

Snickering and applause surrounded them.

“She got this gangsta by the balls.” Delta Slim joked.

Stack glared at Donna, “Okay…look, I’m sorry.”

Donna challenged him with her own glare, “Sorry for WHAT?”

Stack kissed his teeth and grumbled.

“I can’t hear you!” Donna yelled.

“Shit, I said I was sorry! Sorry for calling ya’ll field bitches. Won’t happen again.”

Donna’s eyes softened a little.

Annie smirked.

Smoke’s eyes danced between them both. He knew not to interfere because Stack needed to know.

Mary stood uncomfortably between two women that gave her evil looks.

“Now,” Stack’s eyes dropped to her hand, “Get that blade off me, woman.”

Donna swiped Stack’s chin as if she were giving him a clean shave. He leaped back and stroked the spot where the blade had been. Tiny drops of blood painted his finger tips.

“CRAZY ASS!” Stack shouted with fury.

“Calm down, Stack. Ain’t nothin’ but a scratch.” Smoke said.

Stack shoved past his brother with embarrassment.

Donna closes her blade. Her eyes landed on Mary.

“As for you,” Donna pointed the closed blade at Mary’s face, “If I were you, I would be real careful what you wish for. Ain’t smart to talk shit in a room full of women that’ll drag your bony ass across this floor.”

Fear crossed Mary’s eyes for a second. She turned to Annie who gave her a look as if she’d ’told her so’.

Mary rolled her eyes into her head before strutting off towards the bar. Black woman mugged her up and down, ready to show her what a real ass whopping is.

“Girllll, you playing with fire!” One of Donna’s friends said.

“Can’t believe you did that.”

Donna snatched her corn liquor from a friend.

“I ain’t one to stand by and be disrespected. Grow a back bone. I been through too much pain. We gotta return to them same fields every damn day for wooden nickels. Fake money. And he just roll on back to the Delta like he better?!”

Donna shook her head.

“Let’s enjoy ourselves, Donna. Don’t get worked up over him.”

Donna released a sigh.

“You right.”