#redemptioninthe4ethers

The music is already shaking the walls by the time you step inside. Heat hits first, then the smell of smoke, sweat, and liquor. Bodies press shoulder to shoulder, and people dance wherever they can find space; others cling to the walls like a lifeline. Someone’s yelling over the music about body shots, a sorority girl is laughing too loudly, and in the darker corners of the house, couples are already latching onto each other, swapping a little more than spit. Homecoming always does this: turns the whole campus into one restless cesspool of drunk, loud, horny twenty-somethings. This party is the one everybody’s been waiting for; the football game against the opposing university had been won with a staggering victory, and now it was time to let loose. Omega Psi Phi always does it big, and this year is no exception.

You stick close to your girls as you move through the crowd, eyes adjusting, taking it all in. The energy bothers you. Everything feels too loud, maybe even reckless. The mess around you isn’t your problem; Jermajesty is. The way he’d been acting all day had pissed you off. Short answers, stuck off in his phone, hellbent on like you were his biggest inconvenience.

You tried to talk to him more than once, wanting to know what crawled so far up his ass and died that he’d call you ‘bruh’ for most of the day. Still, he gave you nothing but annoyed sighs and kissed teeth. Fed up, you decided to go to the party on your own. Since your boyfriend wanted to act like you were such a bother, he didn’t have to worry about you.

Now you’re here, scoping out the scene, almost sure he’s cooled off by now. It doesn’t take long to find him, and when you do, your stomach drops. ‘Off the Leash’ by Gucci Mane blares in the background. He’s locked in on some bitch like you don’t even exist. She’s all up on him, titties nearly spilling out of her cheap dress, laughing and feeling on his arms. He’s eating it up, rolling his head from side to side, tongue flicking out with a smile, moving like he’s a free agent. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it somewhere in the crowd. The chain you got him for his birthday glints in the light against the wife-beater he had on underneath. His large frame hovers over hers. The muscles in his back flex as he moves. You stare for a second too long, and his eyes catch yours, winking before pushing himself back onto the girl.

“This nigga trippin.” You mutter, more to yourself than anybody else. Anger settles in your chest while you watch him, eyes stinging as you take in the scene before you. The longer you stare, the clearer it gets. He’s comfortable embarrassing you. He’s acting like you don’t even exist, like he doesn’t know the only reason you came was him.

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth hurt, but you force your expression to stay neutral. You’re not about to be that girl, pressed, kicking and screaming in the middle of a party just because your man ain’t shit. The two girls you came with scoff, rubbing your back apologetically. Imani, your closest friend since freshman year, speaks first. “Leave that nigga where he is, baby. He’s clearly busy.” Your other friend, Niyah, pipes up next. “Yeah, girl, forget his ass! It’s plenty of niggas here that would kiss yours. Let’s go find em’ and get fucked up like we came to!”

Niyah was right about that, you looked the fuck good. Eyes had been on you since you walked into the cramped space. Your braids are freshly done, the face card never declines, and the outfit draping your frame didn’t help either, leaving very little to the imagination. Nothing extravagant, just a plum colored mini-dress that hugged you tight, coupled with a strappy pair of open-toed heels. Still, nobody does it like you. As you think about all the ways you can get even, the girl fawning over your boyfriend takes his hand and leads him deeper into the sea of people.

You make up your mind fast, and with a single nod to your friends, you let them guide you in the opposite direction, toward something that feels more in your control. As you move through the horde of undergrads, your mind focuses on the way your boyfriend practically disowned you in front of everybody, and it becomes crystal clear that liquor is going to be your best friend tonight.

Shot after shot passes through your glossed lips, slowly but surely numbing the irritation that has settled over your spirit. The hurt is still there, but it’s starting to blur at the edges. As the liquid courage flows through your veins, you get the bright idea to scale the kitchen counter and dance a little bit, hoping to distract yourself from him. Yells of encouragement from onlookers spur you on, and just as you get ready to bend over, your eyes find him again. He’s behind a different girl now, his hands roaming her body, softer than when it’s yours, whispering something in her ear with a smirk. The enthusiasm drains out of you as quickly as it came.  Suddenly, the counter is too high to stand. on. You swallow the lump in your throat.

Before the pain can linger, rival frat Kappa Alpha Psi arrives. The sound of glass breaking rattles from the speakers as Soulja Boy’s ‘Prettyboy Swag,’  begins, changing from Omega's theme to Kappas. The crowd parts just enough, and eyes start drifting toward them. They stroll through, slow and steady. Instead of stepping back and ignoring it as is expected of you, you move fast. You place yourself right where you’ll be seen, with less than pure intentions. It doesn’t take their president long to lock onto you. Ah, Rakheem Jones. Tall, dark, and impossibly charming. An academic beast with a smile that could stop any girl’s heart, someone you’d explicitly been told to stay away from. Oh yeah, you’d hit the fucking jackpot.

He moves through the room like he owns the air around him, stopping the stroll in front of you with an exaggerated swagger. His eyes drag slowly from your face, down your body, and back up again, taking his time on purpose. All you see in front of you is quiet certainty, the kind that tells you exactly what he wants. He isn’t Jermajesty, not by a long shot, but you can’t deny that he’s pretty damn close. Close enough for you right now.

A smile breaks on his face as his frat brothers bounce in step. He spreads his arms out, palms facing up in an open invitation, and you let your body answer for you. Though you are no doubt very drunk, every movement is intentional. Jermajesty’s reaction is now an afterthought. If he could have his fun, why couldn’t you? Your lips curl into something slow and dangerous, the bottom one caught between your teeth as you step forward and spin around. You bend at the waist, hands sliding down your legs and stopping at your ankles, nasty and slow; a move typically reserved for the man making a mockery of you across the room.

As your hips rock from side to side, the dress hugging your frame rides up, showing off your lace panties; it’s retaliation disguised as a proposition, but Rakheem doesn’t need to know that. It’s effortless, the way your ass moves in this dress. It should be a crime. Shouts of approval ring throughout the room. Rakheem steps in, palming your rear like he’s been given permission. He presses into you, testing the waters, and when you don’t pull away, he makes another move. Next thing you know, his hands wrap around the back of your thighs, and you’re in the air.

High above the crowd, sitting on his shoulders, you feel the room erupt because everybody knows what that means. He’s claimed you for the night. Cheers break out all over.

“Ain’t that Maj’s girl?”

“Oh shit–it is!”

One of the other Nupes yells out, “Aye! She with the Nupes now!”

The words spread fast, cutting through the music and the noise. All eyes are trained on the two of you, and you can’t help but bask in it. Someone passes you a cup, and you raise it toward the sky. You toss the drink back, and with a shout, you unknowingly seal your fate for the night. “She with the Nupes now!” Across the room, Jermajesty hears it before he understands it. Ain’t no way he just heard…what he thinks he heard. He tries to ignore the commotion.

Tries to. He’s caught up in his own game of pretending he doesn’t care, but that nonchalant shit flies out the window when he takes a quick glance around the room. Everything stops. There you are. Elevated above everybody else, laughing, moving like you don’t have a care in the world…on another man’s shoulders, practically humping his head. The sight is like a slap in the face, and the shock turns to fury.

And it’s not just any man, you’re too petty for that. It was Kappa Alpha Psi’s fucking president. Jermajesty’s teeth grind together, and his hands ball into fists. The girl in front of him grabs his face gently, trying to bring his attention back to her. “Focus on me, baby. She don’t mean nothing.” When he registers her acrylics grazing his jaw, he nearly growls in disgust, no longer interested in her advances. With an open palm and five fingers, he mushes her back, “Fuck off me.” She stumbles and looks at him like he just lost his mind. She just might be right about that. Jermajesty doesn’t waste any more time and pushes through the crowd, fuming.

By the time he gets close, you’re fully gone, rolling your body, completely unbothered. Then your eyes meet his, and you laugh. Not small or nervous, no, one big boisterous cackle that displays just how little you care. Again, while looking him dead in the eye, you chant, “She with the motherfuckin’ Nupes now!” Your smile stretches ear to fucking ear. Rakheem follows your lead, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Real slow like, the rival Greek plants his hands firmly on your waist and lifts you over his head, guiding your body down until your feet hit the floor. Rakheem then presses a deep arch into your spine, positioning you exactly how he wants you, eyes locked on Jermajesty the entire time. He only has time to roll his hips once. That’s it, the disrespect is too loud for him to ignore.

Jermajesty snaps, shoving you aside roughly, fist already in motion. It connects clean with Rakheem’s jaw, the crack sharp enough to cut through the music. Just like that, everything explodes. Omegas step in immediately, forming up behind their president without hesitation. Kappas surge forward just as fast, not about to let theirs get dropped without response.

The party morphs into shouting, pushing, and different hues of purple and red colliding with each other. Phones come out, and flashlights illuminate the brawl; the partygoers are having a ball with this, no doubt staring lives and reporting in on Snapchat. The frat's reputation could very well be on the line, but Jermajesty could give a fuck less. All he cares about is bodying the nigga dumb enough to touch his bitch. He’s got Rakheem by the back of his shirt. “Fucked up!” he yells, fist connecting again. “You. Got. Me. Fucked. Up.” Each word lands with another hit. Rakheem tries to defend himself, but he’s outmatched. Jermajesty is bigger, stronger, and fueled by nothing but alcohol and jealousy. The poor Kappa’s licks are as soft as cotton balls.

Your boyfriend doesn’t stop until Rakheem’s limp, no longer able to fight back, and far too weak to hold himself up. He leans in, making sure the Kappa’s president looks him in the eye. Voice low and dangerous, he speaks, “Try that shit again. Watch what I do.” He drops Rakheem and stands to his full height, chest rising fast, and finally looks around. His brothers are still fighting, having dealt out the same kind of damage to the rest of Kheem’s posse. Jermajesty can’t let this get any worse, or he’ll have a meeting with the dean come Monday. He inhales once, then lets out a loud bark. His fraternity falls back, bellowing out their own barks in response to his call. Across from them, the Kappas hesitate, but ultimately decide they’ve taken a big enough loss tonight. They pull away, dragging Rakheem with them, and just like that, it's over. The music creeps back up, loud chatter resumes, and bodies start to move again, like nothing even happened.

When the dust settles completely, and Jermajesty is sure no one else is going to try him, he turns to face you, “Say your little goodbyes, and take your ass to the car.” His voice holds a finality that you really can’t argue with. You stand there for a moment, testing whether or not defiance would fare well for you. When he blows through his nose, you understand the answer is no. Doing as he says, you find Mani and Niyah and offer them quick hugs. “Ooh! Somebody in trouble!” Niyah starts, “Mhmm, little Ms. ‘She with the nupes now!’ Nah, more like she done did it now!” Mani finishes. You roll your eyes. They’re right, you’re in deep shit, but you won’t admit it.

“Shut up. That nigga had it comin’.” They giggle and kiss your cheek goodbye, wishing you luck. As you make your way toward the door, you feel eyes on you again. Some of Jermajesty’s frat brothers cast betrayed glances in your direction. “Fuck are y’all looking at?” They shake their heads and wave you off, “Nothing, Nupe.” You sigh, completely over tonight. The walk to the car is long and uncomfortable as you reflect on how everything unfolded. The thought that you might’ve done too much crosses your mind. Did Jermajesty really deserve that kind of betrayal? Flashes of him caressing someone else with so much care and tenderness replay. Yes the fuck he did.

The sleek, black BMW, which had been given to Jermajesty as a graduation gift, comes into view. It was fully loaded: all-black interior, leather seats, moonroof, and custom headrests with his and your initials. Arms folded, you lean against the door, anxiety washing over your bones. What if he breaks up with you over this? The move you made was bold and not something to be taken lightly in the Greek world. You still love him, but god does he piss you off. While you ponder, his voice cuts through the air as he says his goodbyes. You shift on your feet as an unsettling feeling nestles deep in your gut. He stalks toward you now, aura anything but safe, letterman jacket clutched tightly in his right hand. Jermajesty’s head tilts to the side as he lifts his free hand to his face, brows furrowed, rubbing his jaw as his gaze locks on you. His gait is strong; each step he takes feels like it has the magnitude of a devastating earthquake. He’s pissed.

“The fuck was that? Huh?” Jermajesty asks, eyes hard, voice eerily calm. Your arms unfold, and you stare at him in disbelief. Did he seriously have the nerve to be calling you out right now? “I could ask you the same damn thing, Jermajesty!” He cuts his gaze to the side, trying to keep his composure. “You’ve been pissy all fuckin’ day. I tried over and over again to check up on you, make sure you were straight, and what do you do? Treat me like I’m some regular bitch, that’s what!” Your arms fly around frantically as you speak. His eyes return to yours, daring you to keep going. You accept, and double down continuing the tirade, “And THEN, when I pull up to this fuck ass party, that I didn’t even want to be at by the way, what do I find? You. Snug as a bug in a fuckin’ rug with some random. Get the fuck outta my face with that ‘Fuck was that?’ bullshit, Majesty. Seriously.”

He glances away, nodding a few times before speaking, “You done?” That’s it? That’s all he has to offer you? Having reached a boiling point, a response dripping with venom leaves your lips. “Nah, nigga. We done.” Jermajesty chuckles, unlocking the car and tossing his jacket in the backseat. “Yeah, okay.” He didn’t think you were serious. Sure, you’ve both been through this song and dance plenty of times before, but you always stay. With a huff, you throw your arms up and spin on your heels, starting in the other direction, hoping it’s not too late to catch a ride with Mani. “How the fuck you gon get home, y/n?” He asks, amusement lacing his tone. You growl and turn back around, “I don’t know Jermajesty! Maybe the Kappas will take me in.”

His eyes darken, and in two quick steps, he’s in front of you. “Get your ass…in the fuckin’ car.” You roll your eyes and push his chest, creating some distance. “Fuck. No.” You snarl, “This ain't even the first time you’ve pulled some shit like this. I’m fucking done, Jermaj—” Your words catch in your throat when his right hand wraps around your wrist, and he drags you into him. His other hand comes up to grip your chin as he pulls you into a searing kiss. You curse internally, feeling yourself melt as his soft, plush lips move against yours. The hand holding your wrist moves to your back, pressing you closer as he deepens the kiss. It trails down further, cupping your ass and squeezing. The action makes you gasp, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth.

You both wrestle for dominance, but another firm squeeze to your behind leaves Jermajesty as the victor. When you part, his lips are covered in a thin film of gloss, matching yours. “Ma,” He whispers soft and low, “If you think you leavin’ me…you out yo fuckin’ mind. I’m not gon’ tell your little ass again, get in the car.” This time, dazed, you listen. Slipping into the passenger side and clicking your seatbelt in place. Jermajesty follows suit, starting the engine and peeling out with a quickness. As he drives, you notice the way his large hands grip the wheel, knuckles white as he seethes.

After some time, he pulls into an empty parking lot, throws the beemer in park, and gets out. The back door on the driver’s side swings open, and he slips in. Your boyfriend leans back and spreads his legs wide. You look over your shoulder to find his eyes locked on you. “Strip.” He says, low and dark. Unsure of whether or not he’s serious, you freeze. He lifts a brow, wondering what’s taking you so long. Message received. You shimmy out of your dress in the seat and work on your heels next. Once finished, you move to climb over the center console. “Uh-uh, all of it.” You pause, glancing down at your body, still clad in your bra, and the same panties you were so keen on showing off earlier. Peeking back up at your boyfriend, you see his arms are now resting behind his head as he waits with practiced restraint.

Sitting back, gradually, you peel the last layer of clothing and dignity off your body. Jermajesty revels in your beauty, eyes raking up and down your form twice, before patting his thigh. Now, given permission, you slip into the back of the car and onto his lap. Jermajesty's head is tipped up, and his hands, rough and calloused, hold your waist softly, as if he’ll break you if he isn’t careful. He lets a deep breath out through his nose and looks into your eyes, “You know I love you, right, mama?” Though it didn’t feel like just moments ago, you still nod, big doe eyes peering back at him. “Good, because I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.”

He then reaches for something near him. You hear it rustle before it comes into view. The letterman. He holds it up and only says three words: “Put it on.” Hesitantly, you slide your arms into the sleeves and shrug it the rest of the way on. “Gorgeous.” Jermajesty slides you off his lap gently and pushes you toward the other end of the car, “Lie back.” You ease down, and your legs part in the process. He takes in the sight of your dripping heat and lets out an appreciative groan. Your legs stretch past his face, and your toes touch the glass next to him. In the soft moonlight illuminating the car, your boyfriend notices something dancing on your ankle. Delicate gold lace, adorned with a pendant shaped like a 'J', rests there.

The visual nearly undoes Jermajesty. He takes your leg in his right hand and bends your knee. His fingers curl around your toes as he places soft kisses along your foot. His left hand trails up to caress the rest of your leg. Eventually, the hand holding your toes slides down to your heel. Jermajesty's kisses grow more urgent, less controlled. He moves feverishly, and before you can process what is happening, your big toe is in his mouth. He swirls his tongue, and a deep moan reverberates in your ears. You didn’t expect it to feel as good as it did, and the action earned a soft moan. Maybe it was the sensuality, but your body shakes with need. The slick between your thighs becomes unbearable. While your boyfriend continues his ministrations, you reach down. Your clit is aching, and the soft circles you begin to rub are barely enough to satisfy you.

When a whimper escapes your chest, and before you can pick up the pace, a sharp slap to your hand stops you. Jermajesty pulls off of your toe with a pop. “I didn’t say you could touch my shit, ma.” He then leans over and spreads you wider, wrapping his hands around your thighs and lifting your back off the seat. You look at him in surprise, and Jermajesty holds your gaze, blowing cool air over your clit. Frustrated, you whine out, “Maj, please—” He chuckles and shakes his head. “I can’t admire what's mine, mama?”

You let out a huff and try to sink back down. Big, veiny arms keep you steady, though. Jermajesty tuts at your bratty behavior, “Fuckin’ spoiled.” As you go to make another complaint, his lips wrap around your clit, sucking hard. “Oh, fuck— Maj!” He eats like a man starved, slurping like you’ll run dry if he stops. The sounds of your sins echo in the confined space. His tongue trails down to your ass and back up. He pushes the wet muscle deep into your pussy, earning a high wail from you. He stays there for a moment, savoring your taste, before moving back up toward the bundle of nerves hidden in your folds. Stars form behind your eyelids when two fingers dip in, making up for the empty feeling.

It’s all too much, too fast. You feel yourself careening toward the edge as he pumps them into you. He quickens his pace, knowing your body like the back of his hand. The digits buried inside of you press into that spongy spot over and over again. “Give it to me.” He murmurs into your heat. As if your body were waiting for his command, euphoria crashes into you. You tense as your eyes roll back, and his name slips off your tongue as you ride out your high. Jermajesty doesn’t stop, drinking your juices like he’s found the fountain of youth.

Overstimulation racks through your body, and you push him off your center. He leans back, breaths labored, chin glistening with your essence. You’re breathing just as hard, unsure if you’ll be able to withstand what else he has in store for you.​ “Baby—” He shushes you while pulling the wife-beater over his head. His jeans come off next, then his shoes, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The outline of his arousal leaves your mouth watering. No matter how many times you fuck him, you never get used to it. “Turn around f’me. Arch my shit the way I like it.” Itching for more, you do as he says, sinking into a sinful arch. Your pussy is on full display, and that beautiful, round ass has him thanking whichever god sent you down to him.

Your ears pick up on his movement, sure that he’s slipped out of the last layer between the two of you. You feel his heavy cock against your inner thigh, pre-cum smearing against it. The feeling leaves you clenching around nothing. Jermajesty leans down, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, “When I’m done with you…you gon remember you ain’t fuckin’ with no little ass puppy.” With that, he lines himself up with your heat. The tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you to the point of tears. In one long, slow thrust, Jermajesty bottoms out and has you split wide around his length.

Your mouth opens, and a loud moan tears from your chest. It burns so fucking good, he’s filled you to the brim. Your boyfriend waits for you to adjust, and when you nod, his strokes begin slowly, dragging along your sopping walls with deliberate patience. His cock is covered in your slick, and it takes everything in him to hold steady. He wants you to beg. “You forgot who I am, ma?” He asks, while still digging you out. Already too cockdrunk to speak, you shake your head with a muffled “Mm-mm.” Not satisfied with your answer, Jermajesty switches gears, picking up the pace. He feeds you harder, faster strokes, hips slamming into your ass roughly, “Nah. Tell me, baby.” He breathes out, “You forgot?”

Your breath hitches, and you throw your head back, drool sliding down the corners of your mouth. “Noo— Neverrr,” you drag out, surprised by the sudden change in tempo. Jermajesty catches the underside of your chin in his right hand, pulling you up as he props up his left leg near your side for better leverage. Again, he speeds up, driving mean strokes into your already abused pussy. A series of grunts leaves his lips before he lets you drop back down against the seat. The same foot he has propped up comes to rest on the side of your face as he reaches new depths in your core.

“Which frat you with— Shit!” The new angle leaves both of you weak. You search for the right words, but his fat mushroom tip bullying into your g-spot has you stupid. “I don’t know, Maj!— Fuck, I can’t—” He presses more of his weight into you, a ‘Thwack!’ rings through the air, and you struggle to catch your breath. “You don’t know? Sure you do, baby girl.” The strokes are heavy and slow now, grazing over your pleasure center again, and again. “I don’t, I swear.” Jermajesty laughs then, rich and smooth. “You really don’t? Guess I gotta stop then huh?” He says, still stroking deliciously slow. Panic washes over your blissed out face, “NO!— I just… Maj, give me a hint!”  

His shoulders bounce as he realizes he has you right where he wants you. Too fucked out and stupid to think about anything but his dick, “What jacket you got on, baby?” Hell, if you know, all you're worried about is the heat pooling in your belly. “Majesty. Please, baby— I don’t know!” He grips you by the waist and pulls you off of him. A cry rips from your body, and tears form in your eyes. Jermajesty flips you onto your back, “It’s okay, pretty girl, don’t cry.” He utters mockingly,  "I'm gon’ give you what you want.” he finishes, leaning down to lick away your tears.

 In one swift move, Jermajesty pulls back and enters you again. A chortled gasp reaches his ears, and he smirks. He holds himself there for a moment and then decides that he wants to wreck you completely. He folds you in half, your knees almost touch your ears, and the tips of your toes touch the window behind you. The filthy mating press leaves your faces just inches apart. Jermajesty breathes out slowly to ground himself, “Omega. Psi. Phi.” He whispers, voice sweet like honey. Your face contorts in ecstasy as he punctuates each Greek letter with heavy, relentless blows to your pussy.

“Those are the only words I wanna hear.” He leaves no room for you to process and begins pounding into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against your cervix. “Ughh! Maj!— Fuck- Slow down!” Your boyfriend ignores your plea, driving into you harder. “Who. You. With? Hm?” Your brain is sent into overdrive, and instead of answering, your hand comes up to push against his stomach, hoping to slow down the brutal assault on your pussy. “Move it,” He grunts out, head dropping to watch where the two of you are joined together. His hand shifts up to squeeze your right tit, moving yours out of the way in the process.

The sensation makes your body twitch. Everything feels like jelly, and it’s hard to keep your eyes open; with them half-lidded, the only thing you’re able to see properly is the gold chain that dangles over you, thumping against his chest with every stroke. He presses delicate kisses across your chest before moving up to that sensitive spot on your neck. He sucks harshly, and a deep purple mark forms there. “I’m not askin’ again, you better tell me before I stop.” He says, nipping at your neck as his girth bullies into your g-spot, “Omega— Fuck! Psi Phi!” You yelp. Not yet satisfied, your boyfriend leans up, steadying most of his weight with one hand on the back of your thigh. “Louder.” He growls out, cracking his other hand down on your dripping snatch. Repeating the name is a feat you’re only able to accomplish by the grace of god. It still isn’t enough for Jermajesty.

“Again.” He orders, thumbing at your abused clit. Tight, fast circles send pleasure shooting up through your spine. “Omega!” He nods along in encouragement, “Mhm,” he groans,  “Give it to me, baby”, eyes still focused on the way your warm, wet hole swallows his length. His hips hammer into yours at an impossible speed, sweat beading on his forehead. “Psi— Ooh Shit!” He moves to nuzzle his face in your neck, now struggling to hold himself together. His hand leaves your clit, and presses down just above your mound, adding to the whirlwind of stimulation. “Come on y/n— Fuck! Almost there. Give it to me!” With a piercing scream, the final letter tumbles from your throat. You feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin. “There it is. Shit, that’s so fucking good.” His praise adds to the familiar warmth settling into your core. You feel it coming hard and fast, “Maj, wait! The seats—” His heavy body drags against yours, “Fuck the seats. Gimme my shit.”

It only takes a few more seconds of him pistoning into you before you fall apart. Your vision goes white, and your toes curl, and your jaw drops with a silent cry. Violent streams of pleasure spurt around your boyfriend’s dick and across his abdomen. Jermajesty is right behind you, grip so tight you’re sure it’ll bruise. “Fuck! Gonna cum.” His stills as his balls tighten, and a loud groan rips from his chest. Thick globs of his spunk coat your insides. He stays put until he’s sure you’ve taken all of it.

You both breathe heavily as you come down from your highs. Your boyfriend slides out of you gently and moves to look at the mess he’s made of you. As your body twitches, completely and utterly spent, his eyes flicker to your half-lidded ones, and a smirk creeps onto his face. “A Nupe, can’t fuck you like this. Remember that.”

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Cool January air nipped at your skin as you exited the limousine hand in hand with your prospective husband. You and Michael were the picture of perfection. A dark pin-striped blazer cloaked your upper body and accentuated the curves you’ve been blessed with. The tie around your neck was simple, a deep black that drew eyes toward you. Plain black slacks adorned your legs, and a matching pair of close-toed stilettos pulled the outfit together.

Your hair was styled beautifully for the event: blown out, meticulously parted, curled, and incredibly dangerous. A set of pearlescent earrings rested in your lobes, and a few spritzes of the Chanel perfume your fiancé picked out wafted in the air as you passed by.

And Michael? Well, he looked like Michael. Regal and almost excessively flamboyant. Red sequins gleamed in the light as he moved, waving at the cameras with an award-winning smile. His eyes were hidden beneath the aviators he never left home without. Gold accents in his jacket emphasized his status as American royalty. Black dress pants covered his lower half, and those signature white socks and penny loafers cradled his feet.

Your eyes darted around, blinded by the constant flashes of light in your direction. Incessant shouts filled the air, as expected when accompanying the world's biggest star: “Michael! Who’s the girl?” one of the paps asked. He wasted no time answering, “Her name is y/n,” not quite elaborating on your role in his life.

“Y/n! Over here!” You weren’t even sure which way ‘here’ was. What you were sure of was that Michael had bickered with you about wearing his sunglasses at night for a reason. He shielded your eyes quickly. “I told you,” he rasped as you shuffled into the venue.

These events have always been so exhausting: filled with endless small talk, cameras clicking, questionable singing, and poorly written speeches. That’s all that was waiting for you at this year’s American Music Awards ceremony. When your eyes finally adjusted to the low-light setting surrounding you, one sweep across the room let you know that it was going to be a long night. Roughly three thousand people filled the auditorium.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go find our chairs,” Michael mumbled. You nodded and followed closely behind him, keeping your focus on the path ahead. Several attendees greeted you both in passing, until one in particular stopped the pursuit for seating dead in its tracks.

“Mikey!” a shrill voice rang out. Your fiancé came to a complete stop, and you nearly crashed into his back. He looked over his shoulder with a knowing smile. As if you were a ghost, the woman, wrapped in what seemed to be a gold…tablecloth, brushed past you with open arms. Michael turned fully, eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and stepped into her tight embrace.

“Diana!” He exclaimed, squeezing her just as hard.

The two of them remained that way for a moment, gently rocking side to side. You didn’t miss the way his hands moved to rest on her hips, and how hers trailed up his back as if it were second nature. “It’s been so long!” He beamed, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. You watched, irritation already bubbling in your chest, as your fiancé cradled her like a long-lost lover. Well, I suppose that’s what she was, which made the encounter all the more intimate. In front of god and everybody, Michael made a show of just how much he missed her.

Regretting your decision to come, you folded your arms, hoping that your ever-attentive fiancé would have gotten the hint. When he didn’t even cast a sideways glance in your direction, your face fell flat. The sound of your throat clearing had both heads snapping in your direction. The man you came with glanced between the two of you and stepped back from the older woman. Now, it was his turn to clear the discomfort in his chest.

“Uhh, Diana.” He muttered nervously while picking at the hem of his jacket, “This is my…friend, y/n.” You glared at him incredulously, not believing what you’d heard. Her thin eyebrows raised as she studied you, “Friend, huh?” All thirty-two of your teeth flashed at her as you bit out a response. “Oh, yes.” The words dripped slowly from your lips, “Such good friends that he brought me as his plus. one. Can you believe it?”

Internally, Michael had gone into full panic mode. He wasn’t sure why he referred to you as his friend; you’d been engaged for a year, and together for five. The look in your eyes shook him to his core. He’d only seen that stare once, and it didn’t end well for him. Before he had a chance to correct his mistake, Diana began the turf war.

“Oh?” She cut her eyes to meet his while rubbing his bicep. “Well, Michael,” Diana started, tone sultry, “If you needed a date, why didn’t you call me? You know I’m always available…for you. I’d hate to see you trapped with someone who isn’t from your world.”

The man before you must certainly be an idiot; what he sputtered out next proved that. “I— well, yo-” The older woman waited expectantly. “You’re just so busy these days, I didn’t want to bother you, and y/n is always available.” Your arms uncrossed, and you looked to your partner in disbelief. He avoided your gaze but remained aware, feeling like a prey animal being observed by an apex predator.

Michael knew that it would only be worse for him if he faced you right then. It was her turn to flash a smile. “Nonsense, you didn’t have to settle.” Her eyes flickered across your frame once before returning to his. “I would’ve gladly accepted the invitation, and I certainly wouldn’t have shown up in…that.” You skimmed your body, and then hers.

“Apologies. I didn’t know I was supposed to steal my mother’s curtains for this event,” you snarl. The anger resting in your belly was going to reach a fever pitch soon. “Hm. I take it, raiding your father’s closet seemed like a better choice?” Michael wished he could disappear as the catfight grew more intense.

The passive-aggressive comments flew back and forth, and began to teeter more toward hostility. Two very important women in his life were clashing right in front of him, and it was his fault. He didn’t want to choose a side, fearful of hurting either, but things were dragging on, and the show was starting to begin.

“Ladies, the announcer is going up to speak in a few—” Diana held her hand up, eyes still burning into yours. “Listen here, wench. Michael is delicate. He shouldn’t be with a woman like you.” Your mouth opened in shock. This bag of bones really had some nerve. A rebuttal didn’t have a chance to make it past your teeth.

“He needs someone that cares for him…inside and out.” She finished with her eyes on Michael, batting her lashes. “He needs me.” He stood there, stunned that she would say something like that to you, but he didn’t open his mouth to correct her. No, instead, he became fascinated by the auditorium's ornate detailing. His eyes were everywhere but on the two women in front of him.

As Michael tried to calculate his next step, a defining slap reverberated through his ears before all hell broke loose. A high-pitched “Bitch” was all he could make out between your violent swats at the elder. One hand clutched tightly in Diana’s mane while the other landed wherever it could reach. The older woman wailed as you continued your assault. “I don’t know who you think I am!” Once the initial shock passed, your fiancé made quick work of prying you off his first love.

“Okay…Okay!” He yelled as arms caged around yours, “Y/n, that’s enough!” He pulled you back, lifting you in the process. Your feet kicked toward Diana, heels threatening to cut her night short with a trip to the emergency room. They didn’t have a chance to connect as the man holding you back twisted his body. The hag, trying to catch her breath, moved to speak again, “Michael..” she grunted, “Keep that bitch on a leash!”

You wriggled in your captor's arms, itching to show her how much of a bitch you could really be. His arms squeezed you tighter, forcing you still. You heard him gulp and felt his head nod frantically. Was he serious? Diana kissed her teeth and stormed off to find her seat, no doubt embarrassed by the shape of your hand branded into her skin. When she made it far enough not to be dragged back, Michael finally let you go. You shrugged him off roughly, fixed your hair, and smoothed out your jacket.

Your fiancé glared at you, as if the commotion were your fault. He then grabbed your hand and started weaving through the auditorium, hoping to find a place out of view from the others. When he happened upon an empty dressing room, he threw you inside and closed the door behind him. You stumbled with a squeak, catching yourself on a nearby chair just before you fell.

“Why the hell would you do something like that, y/n?” His normally soft voice was filled with a bass that rubbed you the wrong way. What the hell was he talking about? Your head snapped up, and you rose to your full height. The look of disappointment and annoyance on his face pissed you off more than she did.

“Oh! I am just soo sorry, Mikey,” you started, feigning concern, “Was I a bad friend?” He flinched at your remark, moving further into the room before going to speak. “Yes!” Michael yelled as he threw his arms up. Your eyes were the size of saucers; the nerve this man had baffled you. He thought for a moment before continuing to dig himself into a deeper hole.

“Well— Not, a friend, but—”

“But what?” you mused, curious as to what his explanation for your impromptu demotion could have been.

Michael sighed while rubbing his forehead. He was growing frustrated as he tried to explain his slip-up to you. “I just didn’t know how to tell Diana that you’re my fiancée, okay?” You scoffed and brought your fingers up to rub your temples.

“And why the hell not? Hm?” A sort of choked sound escaped his body as he tried to form an answer. Patience for him had stretched incredibly thin, and you weren’t sure how much more of this you could take. The night had formed into the biggest shit-show, and its main character refused to take any responsibility. “Was it too hard to tell your ex— Whatever the fuck! That you’re getting married?”

Michael’s face warped, offense clear as day across his soft features. You’ve never spoken to him like this, and he didn’t appreciate the sudden abrasive tone you had taken. “Y/n, you don’t have to use that kind of language.”

Your shoulders dropped, and the only thing you could offer him in response was a long, cold stare. Language, really? A deep inhale through your nose is the sole thing keeping you steady. You thought for a moment, about when you first arrived. How he didn’t make it clear who you were from the start. Michael knew better than anyone who would be in attendance; these were his peers.

A lump formed in your throat as it dawned on you that he cared more about what she thought than about letting the world know you belonged to him. You needed to leave before you pounced on him next. “You know what, Michael?”

He gazed at you curiously, as if his statement held incredible merit that you shouldn’t have been questioning.

“Whatever.”

Michael's hands came to rest on his hips, and a brow quirked up, unable to believe you’d actually thrown in the towel. “Whatever?” Michael mirrored. You rolled your eyes, exhausted with him now.

“Yes, whatever. I’m not about to play second fiddle to that woman all night.” He huffed and looked around in disbelief. “You aren’t—” Before a lie could slip past his teeth, you cut him off. “I am, and you know it.”

His mouth closed, and for the first time since the catastrophic fallout, his eyes met yours, and his arms fell to his side.

What he found in them was a defeated kind of hurt. He’s let you down, and there wasn’t anything he could do to fix it now. Still, he tried, “Baby,” his voice came out soft, in that tone that would normally make it all better, as he moved toward you. Your eyes stung, and tears brimmed in your waterline. You took a step back, not wanting to be touched by the man who had all but betrayed you.

A hand came up to stop him, leaving no more room for conversation. You shook your head as a single tear fell, “Just...find Bill and let him know I want to go home.” With that, you turned, pulled the door open, and made your way to the building’s exit.

When you settled into the limousine, the weight of the night came crashing down on you. There was no need to save face anymore, no cameras watching your every move. Only you, and the thought that Michael couldn’t ever love you as much as he did her.

Your shoulders shook slightly at first, with only small whimpers leaving your lips. But as the car pulled off and your mind ran faster, those whimpers devolved into full-blown sobs. Bill offered the best comfort he could without making you recount the details, but all you could do was cry. By the time he’d pulled into Havenhurst’s driveway, the loud wails that filled the space had morphed into sniffles.

“Ms. Y/n, we’re here.”

You nodded, not trusting your ability to speak just yet. As you slid out of the car, the ring that decorated your finger had been left in the backseat, along with any respect you had left for the world’s biggest star. You marched through the house and up to your and Michael’s shared room. Sadness had gone, and in its place, anger and disgust settled. If he wanted to be single so badly, you’d grant him his wish.

The first thing you did when you made it up was grab a suitcase and rip it open. The second? Clearing any sign that you’d ever been there. You cursed and huffed as you threw your clothes, shoes, perfumes, and even your toothbrush into the luggage haphazardly. Then, you zipped it and headed for the door leading to the stairs outside. The thing nearly came off the hinges with how fast you tore it open. Without much of a second thought, you sent the suitcase careening over the railing, and it landed on the concrete below with a loud ‘Thud!’

That was thirty-four days ago.

Thirty-four days since Michael had embarrassed you.

No, he hadn’t done just that. That would have been forgivable. He had forsaken you and made it clear that it was intentional. When you’d arrived at your mother’s doorstep with your head hung low, she welcomed you with open arms and a copy of some tabloid that detailed Michael’s eight-time win at the award show…and your encounter with Ms. Ross. You begged her to spare you the speeches, but with her being your mother, it was almost as if you’d said nothing.

For the first two weeks, the phone rang tirelessly, no doubt your fiancé trying to right his wrongs. You stopped paying it any mind after day three. On day seven, you just took the receiver off the hook. Then began the letters. The post doesn’t move fast enough to deliver one every day, so you knew he was having them dropped off. They all said the same thing: how sorry Michael was, how he just wanted you to come home, how he loved you. Hell, there were even a few marred with tear stains.

How fitting, the man who made you weep, was crying out for you to stay by his side. Still, you stood strong, and after another five days, every letter made its way back to him. Across the front of each one, painfully bright red ink marked “Return to Sender.”

After the letters failed, it became apparent that Michael had grown desperate. Ridiculously expensive gifts graced your mother’s doorstep next. Bags you had no use for, shoes that didn’t fit in your closet, clothes that you would’ve only worn by his side, and even jewelry that you knew cost more than a few limbs. Just as before, you tried to get rid of it, wanting nothing to do with Michael’s theatrics.

On day sixteen, the almost endless display of gift boxes that littered her countertops had pissed you off. The longer they sat there, the more they mocked you. Michael sincerely thought he could sweet-talk or even buy his way back into your good graces. By no means would a blank check grant him redemption.

You rounded everything up and hauled it outside. Your mother came into the kitchen, yelling about something you had forgotten to pick up at the store, and noticed the empty spaces. She’d been robbed, that was her first thought.

She flew out the front door and down the porch steps with a quickness someone her age should not have. “What the hell?” she muttered as she approached you. The older woman had caught you, jumping up and down, trying to stuff everything into the garbage; that’s where she drew the line.

“Uh-uh!” She hollered while trying to pull you away from what you considered to be an expensive heap of junk. You huffed and pushed harder, already knowing where this would go.

“Mama, I don’t want any of this. It’s all trash to me.” You fussed.

“Oh, girl, stop it!”  She yelped, attempting yet again to pry you away. Your mom succeeded this time, but not without some serious effort. The look she gave you while catching her breath could’ve put you six feet under. “Mama!” You breathed out, “I don't. want. it.”

“You don’t!” She yelled, fed up with your theatrics. “Just because y’all are in a little spat, that don’t mean good stuff should go to waste!”

You let out a frustrated groan as she sifted through the items. “It ain’t a spat, mama. He chose her, right there in front of me!”

The older woman rolled her eyes and waved her hand, having had enough of the melodrama stirred up between two twenty-somethings. “Y/n, he didn’t choose her. You just didn’t like that your name wasn’t plastered on his forehead.”

You froze and turned to look at her fully as a sour feeling began to rest on your tongue. “Mama, how could you say that?” You uttered, voice barely there.

The older woman paused and sighed. “Because, baby. That boy is scared of his own shadow.”

Your brows knitted together, and you threw your hands up, not understanding what that had to do with anything. Your mother could sense your confusion and continued,

“What he said was foolish, yes. I’ll give you that. But baby…knowing Michael, it could have been an honest mistake.”

You shook your head and scoffed out a laugh. Honest mistake? She couldn’t be serious.

“I’m more than serious, y/n.”

Oh, you said that out loud. Doesn’t matter. What she was saying still didn’t make any sense. How could his adamant refusal of your engagement be “an honest mistake”?

You tried to walk away, having lost all patience for the conversation, but the woman before you grabbed your arm and held you steady.

“Little girl, mind yourself. I wasn’t done talkin’.” Her tone cemented your feet where they were. She let go as she finally pulled away from the bin, and looked you in the eye.

“Y/n. Michael is a perfect idiot. And if that ragged woman was right about one thing, it’s that he is delicate. He didn’t mean to cause as much damage as he did, I’m sure.” She rambled, rubbing your arm in an attempt to soothe you.

The silence that fell between you let her know that you didn’t believe a word she said. He was a grown man after all. Delicate or not, something had to give. Your mouth opened, ready to refute everything this woman said, but she beat you to it.

“Now, I’m not saying that what he did was right. What I am saying is that before there was you, there was her. She’s all he’d ever known about women and relationships. As wrong as she was for going after a boy like him… honey, scars from claws like that don’t just vanish. He loves you, and he’s never done anything before now to suggest otherwise.” She said, voice stern.

You hated to admit it, but the older lady was right. Michael really didn’t have much experience outside of you and Diana, and anything he did have was short-lived because of her. It was hard not to be upset about it, though.

You’d spent so much time breaking down his walls and showing him what real love looked like, and all it took for that work to crumble was a few words exchanged with the very woman who had broken him. You wanted to hear your mother out, you did, but what he had done wasn’t excusable in your book.

This woman knew you like the back of her hand, which meant she could tell most of what she had said fell on deaf ears. Still, she gave you enough to think about, and before this could drag out any further, she finished her spiel. “Give him some grace. At the very least, talk to him.”

Your lips folded inward, and you gave her a single nod before turning on your heel and leaving her to pick through the discarded treasure.

Twenty-seven more days have passed since that conversation with your mother, and you still haven’t talked to Michael. Haven’t even tried. But when a formal invitation for the twenty-sixth annual Grammy Awards made its way into the mailbox, you accepted, silently, of course.

Your mother tries her hardest not to smile as you tell her. You know that she’s been updating him on what you’ve been doing, so you stress to her that he can not know that you’re coming. She nods and immediately begins planning your outfit. You laugh and tell her you want to do it big, something that catches and keeps eyes on you. Your mother nods excitedly as she finds a pen and paper to jot something down.

“She won’t run her mouth this time. We need to go down to the fabric store so I can start on this dress.”

The last day of February rolls around quickly.  You stand in the small living room as the older woman you’ve plagued with your antics adjusts the gown framing your body just one last time. “Mama, the dress is begging you to leave that spot alone.” You jest, trying to get her to let you leave.

She cuts her eyes toward you and huffs with a smile, “Oh, hush! I haven’t gotten to do something like this since your prom, leave me be.”

You giggle as she stands back and grabs her camera. “Mama, seriously? I don’t have time—”

She quirks a brow and cuts you off, “The hell you don’t, much time as I spent on this dress. I’m gon’ get a damn picture. Be still!” You roll your eyes and pose, smile shining bright as the diamonds in your ears. After a few shutters of the lens, and a kiss on your cheek, your mother pushes you out the door with a few parting words, “Don’t you dare come back to this house single, little girl!”

The car sent for you wasn’t from Michael, you made sure of that. One of your mutual friends agreed to keep your secret and have you transported like precious cargo. The ride to the venue rattles your nerves as memories from before seep back in. You wonder if this is a bad idea. If showing up would lead you to the same fate. But the wrath you’d have to face if you turned back now was enough to steel the thoughts. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from your mother's.

In that time, you shift your focus to what you’ll do when you see him. Will you cry? Maybe you’ll yet. Might even jump into his arms at the first chance. As much as you hate it, you miss Michael deeply. He’s been your everything for half a decade, and being without him has been pure torture.

You’re so lost in thought, you don’t realize right away that you’ve arrived. A long, deep breath escapes from your lips as you peer out through the glass. The door opens, only this time, there’s no fiancé to shield your eyes. You step out, and for a moment, the flashes stop. Everyone holds their breath as the woman before them walks forward.

She is elegance personified. A beautiful ball gown, fit for a queen, really, covers her body. Her bodice accentuates her form. It’s all-black, embellished with precious stones, and finely detailed lace. The skirt of the dress is fashioned similarly and reflects the light beautifully. The young woman's shoulders are cloaked with a white shawl. Her arms are exposed up to the elbows, the rest covered by dark, sheer gloves.

Between her breasts rests an eight-carat pendant dangling on a silver chain, and in her ears are smaller gemstones, still blinding as they catch the light. As a final touch, a delicately ornate tiara sits gracefully on the crown of her head, no doubt worth thousands.

Almost as quickly as they stopped, the clicks began again, accompanied by shouting. The paparazzi here nearly topple over one another trying to get to you.

“Y/n! Who are you wearing?”

“Is the dress custom?”

“Are you here alone tonight?”

All you can spare is a gentle smile as you make your way past them. Inside the building, loud chatter fills the space from wall to wall. As you move through the room, the volume dwindles. Eyes cut toward you from all directions, joined by a few gasps and whispers of who you might be here with.

The tiniest grin forms on your lips, mission accomplished. The men at the event show little shame in offering their company, promising a good time, but you politely decline.

After a bit of searching, the table with your name card comes into view. One of the women there helps you lift the back of your dress so you can sit comfortably. When she moves away, you look around, feeling a little defeated. You haven’t seen Michael at all, which means he hasn’t seen you. The outfit you chose for the night almost feels foolish as you settle further into the chair. Just as you prepare to give up hope and chalk this up to a loss, the namecard resting across from you catches your eye. Fuck’s sake.

You shake your head and stifle a giggle. Of course. Your mother couldn’t hold water, this was no doubt her fault. As you ponder all the ways you absolutely will be chiding her for not following directions, a voice cuts through the air, announcing your ex-fiancé’s arrival. Your eyes find the source of the noise, and meet his producer waving across the room.

“Smelly!” Quincy shouts, beaming as he greets the younger man. They hug briefly and engage in a bit of small talk. While they do, you take advantage of the lack of attention.

Michael is dressed similarly to the way he was the last time you saw him. The only real difference is that his jacket is a deep blue instead of a bright red. A symbol that tonight would be different, that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Even though you aren’t all that happy to see him, you can’t deny that he looks good. That aside, over a month without your lover has left you a bit…needy. Your stare intensifies as you rake over his body. He always looks good, and the way he commands a room without even trying really does something to you. His hands move as he speaks. God, how you missed his touch. Your thighs clench together in an effort to steady yourself.

Mid-drool, Q points a finger in your direction. Your eyes flit away, and you give an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be interested in the fabric of the tablecloth. Someone has to be listening to your prayers, because right then, one of the male attendees slips into Michael’s seat. He offers you a drink, and you take it embarrassingly fast.

As you sip, he tells you all about the ways he could make you happy, what kind of night he can give you, and, of course, how he could spoil you better than any man. You chuckle and look down. Uninterested, sure, but entertained nonetheless. Before you can respond, a set of loafters fall under your gaze.

Michael's words come out pointed and impatient. “Get out of my seat, and stop talking to my fiancé like that.”

The poor man in front of you freezes and turns his head slowly. He stands to his feet fast and utters a series of apologies that Michael certainly doesn’t hear. All he does is tilt his head in some other direction, and the poor fella gets the picture, scurrying off before upsetting Michael any further. Once alone, the American royal turns to you, and a tender smile graces his features.

“Y/n?” He breaths, almost certain you might be a figment of his imagination. “You came?”

You bring your eyes up to meet his, with an unamused look on your face. “Cut it out. I know my mother told you I would.” Michael laughs softly, nodding his head. “Okay, she did. But I couldn’t be too sure, I know how quick you can be to change your mind.”

You assure him that you almost did as he takes his seat. In true Michael fashion, he makes a show of it, scootching the chair across the wood floor so that he is placed right next to you. He holds your stare for a moment, searching for the right words.

“You look…stunning,” He whispers, with admiration shining in his eyes. After being in your absence for six weeks, your ex-fiance is breathless. When all he receives in response is a light hum, he tries a different approach.

“You sent my letters back,” Michael mutters.

You nod, “I did. There wasn’t anything you could say to make up for that night.” The lights dim as the show gets ready to begin.

Memwhile, the man across from you blanches, his mouth feels dry, and his hands are clammy. He sits back and groans. Michael practiced speaking to you in the mirror all night. And now, he can’t think of a single thing to follow up that kind of response. This is uncharted territory; he’s never had to win back a fiancée before, and none of his previous attempts had worked.

There’s only one thing he can think of that he hasn’t tried, and it would be tricky to pull off. Still, he needs to show you just how much you mean to him. Michael glances around a few times, making sure that all eyes, including yours, aren’t trained on him right now. You, along with everybody else, are focused on the presenter speaking. Good

He picks up the namecard resting on the table, and lets it fall from his fingers and onto the ground. His foot finishes the job, kicking it under the table. Michael makes sure you’re still oblivious and slithers under next. He kisses his teeth at your skirt, which is incredibly inconvenient right now.

You feel the rustle against your skirt. You look over to check and find that your impromptu date is missing. The feel of his hands caressing your calves warms your body. There’s no way. You attempt to push him away with a nudge of your heel, but his grip tightens and holds your legs steady. Your eyes dart around the dark room, hoping no one else has noticed his absence. When you relax, his hands soothe your skin again. They move reverently. Up your shins, and over your knees before coming to rest on your thighs.

Your cheeks burn as warmth settles deep in your belly. His thumbs rub circles into the meaty flesh of your legs under the dress. Your slick forms a damp spot in the center of your panties while he continues to massage your skin. You shift in your seat, hoping to ease some of the pressure. Michael's fingers then find the waistband of the fabric separating you from him. Your ass remains firmly planted in defiance. If he wanted this, he would have to work for it. Your refusal doesn’t deter the man between your legs. He simply rips them off, balling up what’s left of the fabric and stuffing it in his pocket. You jump at the feeling, earning a few puzzled looks. A polite smile is enough to throw everyone off your scent. For now.

Michael’s breath fans against your pussy, leaving your body buzzing with excitement. Your fist finds itself between your teeth as Michael presses featherlight kisses to your clit. He continues teasing until your hand comes down to cradle the back of his head. A sign of surrender. He smiles against your center and sets to work. The first lick is tentative and has you biting back a loud moan. The next few are stronger, applying just the right amount of pressure to that bundle of nerves. Two long fingers prod at your weeping hole next, entering slowly and curving upward.

You cough, trying to appear as if you aren’t falling apart in your seat. Michael pulls your clit into his mouth, sucking hard as he swirls his tongue. Tears from the pleasure form in the corners of your eyes as you try your best to hold on.

As if this couldn’t get any harder, the man from before returns, asking where Michael has gone. Under the table, at the sound of his voice, Michael grunts and presses his fingers into that mushy spot deep in your walls. A choked noise tears from your chest, and the only thing you can do is sputter out a rushed “Bathroom!” The gentleman in front of you asks if you’re okay. You are not, far from it. Still, you nod your head and manage to tell him he should go before Michael gets back. He nods with an incredulous look on his face and walks away. Thank god.

The digits driving into your cunt move faster, and you double over with your hands coming to grip the edge of the table. A low moan leaves your lips before you can stop it. Michael pinches your thigh in response, reminding you where you are. He continues to eat as if this is his last meal, rolling your bud over his tongue, and bullies into you harder. The pleasure builds faster than you could’ve anticipated. The honey on his lips is bountiful, a product of his devotion. His apology is bliss, and with one more harsh suck and a few more strokes, the band snaps. Searing white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine, your body tenses, and your head hits the tabletop as the high consumes you.

Michael doesn’t let up, making sure his redemption is guaranteed. The licks you through the aftershocks, cleaning up the mess he’s made, on both fronts. He only stops when he feels your body slump, letting him know you can’t take any more. He kisses both of your thighs before leaving your heat. A silent promise made to be kept later. When he comes up to face his lover, what he finds makes him giggle. You face down, breathing heavily and twitching, a true sight to see.

By the time you find the strength to pick yourself up and look over at the man who has ruined you, the presenter is calling his name for the first time that night. You give him a once-over, making sure there's no evidence of his penance. His chin shines with your essence, and if you didn’t stop him, he would surely wear it like a badge of honor. You take a napkin and dab it away quickly so you can send him up to the stage. Michael kisses you, slow and deep, before he goes. Cheers erupt around the room. That doesn’t have your focus, though. The taste of yourself on his tongue does. You pull back and plant a kiss there on his cheek, leaving your mark.

When they call his name for the eighth time that night, he walks across the stage on a mission. He arrives back at the podium and grips the edges tightly before speaking. “I know I’ve said most of my ‘thank yous’, but, uh, well, there’s one more person who deserves one. The biggest one, really. My fiance, y/n.” He points you out in the crowd before continuing. “Thank you. You’re the reason I’ve been able to get this far. I can’t think of any other way to repay you than by being by your side and caring for you as your husband for the rest of our lives. I love you, always.”

A tear falls from your eye, but this time, it isn’t because he hid you away.

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Your eyes have been glued to the back of your head for the past hour, and sweat beads against hot skin as you attempt to hold on to your last bit of sanity. The moans that fill the air are hoarse, and your bones have turned to jelly. Bite marks and hand prints are littered everywhere, left by the feral man beneath you. Jermajesty’s stamina is a force to be reckoned with.

His leaking tip pulverizes that gooey spot that melts your brain over and over again. It’s a blissful torture. Overstimulation hums through your body, and drool falls from swollen lips onto his chest as your hips grind down on him. Truthfully, you’d lost focus after orgasm number two. The man pawing at your curves had reduced you to a babbling mess that couldn’t remember her own name.

"Still with me, baby?"  He coos with a wicked smile. How cruel. He really expects a response from you now? The bed creaks softly, not suited for this kind of passion. Disheveled whimpers are pulled from your chest and flow through his ears, like a song he can't stop listening to.

"S’right, let me hear how good it feels." He groans, trying his best not to break underneath you. The way you fall apart stirs something in his belly. It's a primal, all-consuming need to mark you up and show the world you're his. Jermajesty's fingers dig further into your flesh as he turns both of you over. In the process, his cock hits a place you didn't know existed. Stars form behind hooded lids, muscles contract under marred skin, and ecstasy rolls over you yet again.

Jermajesty lets out a fractured groan as you squeal. Your back is arched beautifully, the heat between your legs grips him tight, and all he sees as he looks over you is divinity. The feeling of your devotion, coupled with the fucked out expression on your face, leaves him reeling. "Shit! Pretty girl—." He slows his pace, feeding you deep, languid strokes as you come down again.

Your hair is frizzy, the lashes he just paid for are half gone, fat tears roll down the apples of your cheeks, and your lips are plump from stolen kisses. And yet, Jermajesty has never thought you looked more beautiful. He goes to tell you just how much you mean to him, how he wants to marry you, and stuff you full of his babies. Before he can, a familiar tune cuts through the air. The phone dances on the nightstand, trying its hardest to catch your attention. You're too far gone to register what's happening, but when you get like this, Jermajesty does all the thinking.

He pauses to look over, and a frown immediately overtakes his face. It's your coworker, Tyrone. The one he’s been watching for quite some time. Your boyfriend doesn't consider himself to be a jealous man. Just…cautious. Your boyfriend noticed a few weeks ago that the guy you work with just couldn't stay away from you, and it wasn’t hard to tell the man was thinking things that he shouldn’t be.

Jermajesty's first instinct is to decline the call and continue worshiping you like the goddess you are, but then inspiration strikes. Since Tyrone decided to call so late, your boyfriend couldn't find any reason to stop what he was doing. You were off the clock, and this was his time.

"It's that guy you work with, mama," He says while moving to grab the phone. You roll your eyes and whine, not yet wanting to part ways with nirvana.

"So? Let it ring, Maj. I need you."

He chuckles at that. If there's one thing the man under you knows, it's that you don't care about anything or anyone when he's deep in your walls. That kind of attitude toward the guy who is obviously desperate to speak with you wouldn't be very nice, now would it?

"I know, baby, but it would be rude not to answer." He says, pretending to be concerned as he slides out of your pussy. The loss of contact nearly breaks you, and you whine in protest. Jermajesty shakes his head and tuts, "Look, he's calling so late too. Could be an emergency, ma."

You sit up on shaky elbows while glaring at the device held in his hand. After another moment of contemplating, the ringing stops. A grin forms at the corners of your mouth, "Well, the problem solved itse—"

Again, the little glass box sings, declaring that you've spoken too soon. With an annoyed groan, you hold out your hand. Jermajesty places the phone there and shifts so that you can sit up fully. You answer, properly annoyed. "Hello."

The man on the other end of the line is almost taken aback by your tone. "H-hey, y/n. Um, are you busy?" He asks, rethinking his decision to call altogether.

Jermajesty snaps his fingers, drawing your attention toward him. He gives you a look that says, 'play nice'. You clear your throat, attempting to sound somewhat professional while the man to your left eyes you like dinner.

"Yeah– I mean, I was just um…relaxing. What's up, Ty?" You rush out, trying your best to speed up the interaction that is already taking far too long.

Jermajesty's jaw tightens at the way you say the guy’s name. So sweetly too. ‘Ty?’ Really?

Your boyfriend expected you to struggle with this conversation, to sound as desperate as he knew you were, not like you were actually interested in what another man had to say. He masks his irritation with a deceptively sweet smile as he crawls toward you on the bed. His movements are predatory and deliberate, dark eyes fix on yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

You try to focus on whatever Tyrone is saying about some account, something about numbers not adding up and needing your expertise first thing in the morning, but Jermajesty doesn’t make it easy. He settles between your trembling thighs, broad shoulders forcing them wider, and presses wet, open-mouthed kisses over the skin. Your voice cracks as you attempt to respond to your coworker’s question about quarterly projections.

"Y-yeah, I can look at the files. Just– god, just send them over."

Jermajesty slowly drags his tongue upward, ending in the crease before leaning over to taste where he’d been buried just moments ago. All you can do is bite your lip and pray you can hold steady. He wraps his lips around your sex and  hums. The vibrations are enough to make you dizzy.

You gaze down and watch with wide, panicked eyes, silently pleading with the madman trailing his tongue over your pearl. He lifts his head just enough to meet your stare. The expression he wears tells you not to hold your breath, that he’s just getting started. Your head tips back, and your chest rises and falls in uneven beats.

"Are you okay?" Tyrone cuts in, genuinely concerned now. All he’s able to hear is odd shuffling and heavy breathing.

A high-pitched response is all you can manage, trying your best to sound convincing. "Fine! Just, uh, dropped something."  

Jermajesty chuckles and takes that as his cue to shift gears. He sinks two fingers into you without warning, curling them just how he knows you like it. The sudden intrusion causes the phone to nearly slip from your grip.

"O…kay.” Ty drags out, leery of your tone. He decides to brush it off and get to the real reason he called.

“Well, actually, y/n, I was wondering if you'd want to grab coffee sometime? Outside of work, I mean." Tyrone finishes. His tone carries a sound that your boyfriend can’t seem to stand. Genuine hope.

Jermajesty's fingers still, and for a moment you think he's had enough of this game, that he might let you cut the poor man loose. But before you can blink, he's moving again, fucking into you with vigor. His  thumb circles your clit with devastating precision, and you quickly realize that he was never stopping. He was just sizing up his competition.

Your eyes flutter shut as pleasure builds at the base of your spine. You try your hardest to keep your composure, while Jermajesty tries his hardest to break it.

"Sorry if this is forward, but I really enjoy working with you, and I thought…maybe we could get to know each other better?" Ty continues, oblivious to the fact that you're being ravished by another man a few feet from the screen.

Jermajesty adds a third finger, stretching you deliciously, and you can't help the whine that escapes. You try to cover it with a cough, but Ty’s already heard it.

"Are you sure you're alright? You sound—"

"She's perfect," Jermajesty says loud enough to be heard, and your eyes stretch as wide as saucers. Your body fills with equal parts panic and arousal. He still doesn’t stop. No, if anything, he doubles down. The line goes quiet; it’s clear the man on the other end is processing what he’s just heard.

"Is someone there?" Ty questions, more than sure that he’s tripping.

"Her boyfriend," Jermajesty answers without missing a beat. "And you're calling awfully late, Ty. Can this wait? We’re busy.”

In this moment, there are three things you really want. One, for the mattress to open up and swallow you whole. Two, to cum so bad your vision goes white. And three, to murder Jermajesty.

"I-no. Just, well–" Ty stammers as  his courage begins to evaporate.

You decide to spare what might be left of his pride, "Ty, I really can't talk right now," Your voice comes out breathy and hoarse. With the added context, Tyrone now understands why you’ve been so weird tonight.

Jermajesty's thumb presses down hard on your clit, and you let out a high keen; the sound is unmistakably vulgar. This time, you save yourself the embarrassment and offer up the best response you can put together under this kind of pressure. "I'll see you at work. Bye."

You all but throw the phone and immediately turn to smack Jermajesty's shoulder. Not that it means anything, he has you so close to the edge, too wound up to give a fuck about what just happened.

"You’re—fuck! Maj you’re an ass," you pant.

Jermajesty giggles in return, watching the way your hips chase his fingers. He doesn't answer. Instead, he just replaces his hand with his mouth. His tongue fucks into your sopping hole, and the sensation has your back coming off the bed in a sinful arch. His hands pin your hips to the bed before he shifts focus to the bundle of nerves nestled between your folds. The figure-eights he draws with the wet muscle are all it takes. You fall apart in seconds, chanting his name like a prayer. Your body quivers with the force of your release, and the sheets are clutched in your grip so tight the tension nearly rips them.

The aftershocks don’t even have time to subside. He’s already crawling up your body, guiding himself back inside with one deep thrust that you nearly feel in your lungs. Jermajesty cages you in with his arms, his face hovering inches above yours, all signs of his earlier playfulness gone. "Mine," he growls, snapping his hips forward with enough force to move the bed. "Say it."

"Yours," You gasp, "Only yours."

His girth nearly splits you in two, and the jealousy that sparked this entire encounter fuels every stroke. The headboard knocks against the wall, and a small crack forms where the edges meet the plaster. You're both lost in each other, in the raw ecstasy of one another. He sits back on his haunches and pushes your knees to your chest, leaning in to rest all of his weight on the back of your thighs.

"Shit– m’gonna marry you, mama," Jermajesty rasps. The expression he wears as he fucks you into the bed fans the embers glowing in your belly. He doesn’t stop there though.

"Wanna give you my babies. Want– Ohh, fuck– everyone to know you're mine." His words border on a whine. Those thick brows knit together, and as much as he wants to keep up this dominant act, your pussy just feels too good. He can feel tears of his own welling in his eyes as euphoria washes over his body.

“Please let me, baby. I need it so bad,” he whimpers.

His words are a requisition your body can’t ignore. You clench around him, and your manicured nails claw down his back, almost enough to draw blood.

He knows he can’t hold on much longer. Your heat cradles him in a way that breaks his mind and leaves him intoxicated. His pace quickens as he chases his high, “Baby, where you want it? hm?”

You can’t possibly give him a coherent answer, too lost in your own bliss. The spring that had been so tightly wound snaps, and your ankles lock around Jermajesty’s waist, pulling him impossibly deep. A pornographic moan rips from your throat as you cum, body

Jermajesty wails loudly in your ear as he follows you over the edge with a shattered cry of your name.

His lips crash into yours as he shudders above you. The kiss is hungry, all teeth and tongue, while his spunk stuffs you full. When you two finally come down, trembling and breathless, he pulls away from your lips, leaving a string of spit connecting you before he presses kisses to your temples, cheeks, and the corners of your mouth.

Still nestled inside you, your boyfriend suddenly feels uncertain about his behavior. "Was that too much?"

You laugh, tired and almost delirious. "Never. But I'm definitely going to have some explaining to do at work."

He grins, unrepentant. "Good. Maybe he'll finally get the message."

You roll your eyes but can't stop the smile tugging at your lips. "Asshole."

"Your asshole," he corrects, settling you against his chest and pulling the covers over you both. You don't bother arguing, too comfortable and sated to start anything else tonight. The phone lies forgotten on the floor where it fell. Here, in the dark with Jermajesty's heartbeat steady beneath your ear, nothing else matters.

"I love you, Maj." you mumble, already half asleep. His arms tighten around you, and he lets out a deep breath.

"I love you more, pretty girl. Get some rest. Round five in an hour."

He was my first kiss.

[Date: xx.09.2026. Location: Unknwn. Codename: Saltwater]

If you were to ask me how I felt about Jaafar, I'd tell you I love him. I'd tell you I love him so much it hurts. There's no one quite like him, you know. The sweet boy I met so many years ago has grown into a kind man with the biggest heart. Still, he's cruel. Cruel in a way that doesn't feel fair. 

Can you believe it? 

We were sixteen. It was an unnaturally hot day, spent biking around our neighborhood. He was faster than me, a few feet ahead, laughing as if nothing mattered. My legs hurt from the constant peddling, and I was incredibly thirsty, ill-prepared for the ray beams shining down on me. I didn't want to keep going, but he didn't want me to leave. I'd asked him when this would be over, when we could go inside and enjoy the air-conditioned house we'd been so desperate to escape. Jaafar chuckled and told me I was being dramatic.

I remember my shoulders slumping after realizing he had no intention of cutting the excursion short. A pout formed on my face, and a frustrated huff left my mouth. I went to complain, but the words never made it out. Jaafar had planted both hands on the side of my head and leaned in. The world froze for just a moment when his lips met mine. They were soft, like pillows. His hands squeezed my cheeks just a little bit tighter as he kissed harder. It was messy and inexperienced, but it was ours. This was something I didn't know I needed. My mind began to run rampant. Could this be something? I thought so, and for a moment, it seemed he did too.

We didn't talk about the kiss after that day, too scared to disrupt whatever there was lying between us. But, from then on, whenever he would say something about his "future wife" with a smile burning so bright it put the California sun to shame, I thought he'd been talking about me. I thought I fit the way he described her. There under the palm trees, I'd hoped there would come a day when he'd turn to me and whisper those words I'd been waiting to hear since middle school, that he'd find happiness in me and want to start a life together.

How foolish.

We're nearly thirty now, and that still hasn't happened. 

I mean, he found happiness, but not with me. No, his joy lies with a woman who could give a fuck less about his favorite color so long as he posed for the camera by her side.

Madeline was a wildcard I hadn't expected. We all went to the same school, but I'd never even heard of the girl. Not before she'd been introduced as Jaafar's girlfriend on his seventeenth birthday. The world froze again, but this time it hurt. The ache in my chest was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I remember the party, remember the way his mother had fussed over the cake, remember the way the candles cast shadows across his face when he'd pulled Maddie in for a picture.

She was beautiful in that effortless way that some girls simply are, with honey-blonde hair and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes. I hated her. I hated myself more for the jealousy that seeped into my skin. I spent the rest of that summer watching them from a distance, cataloging every touch, every shared glance, every inside joke that I would never be part of.

That’s when the coughing started. It was minor at first, similar to a head cold. I thought it was just a bug I had caught, until one night, after a long conversation about how wonderfully amazing maddie was, I’d felt something stuck in my throat. No matter how hard I hacked, it wouldn’t budge. It was suffocating. I remember being so scared because I couldn’t breathe. Tears formed as my fist knocked against my sternum in an effort to dislodge whatever foreign object had made its way into my windpipe. I hunched over and pulled in the deepest breath I could before coughing as hard as my body would allow. Out they came, blood stained petals.. The evidence that what I’d felt for the young man on the other end of the line didn’t matter.

Jaafar still looked for me though, and we’d still bike sometimes. The two of us still sat under those palms, drinking lemonade his mother made. But now, there was a third presence between us, invisible and suffocating. He talked about Madeline constantly, with that smile. The one I thought had been reserved for me. After some time, he’d noticed the persistent cough, the fatigue, and the dark circles that lined my eyes.

 Jafaar would ask if I was okay, and as always, I would nod with a tired grin, because what else could I do? Tell him that I'd been in love with him for the past two years? Tell him that I'd practiced saying "Jaafar and I" in front of my mirror until the words felt natural? Or maybe I’d tell him that I was coughing up flowers because he didn’t love me. Give me a break.

The years unfolded like a map I couldn't read. Jaafar and Madeline somehow made it past a few months and moved in together after graduation. I dated other people, nice men with steady hands and honest eyes, men who didn't make my heart race but didn't break it either. I learned to smile at Jaafar's wedding, learned to dance with his brother while the happy couple swayed to a song that had once been ours. The same one I played when we were eighteen. The song he said reminded him of that summer. Now it only reminds him of her.

Here's the thing about loving someone who doesn't love you back, you learn to live with the ache. It becomes a part of you, like a scar you stop noticing until something brushes against it. When it gets hard to breathe, or the itch in your throat won't leave, you just have to swallow it with a smile. The spread was slow. Long and drawn out. My lungs burned, and the petals turned to full blossoms. Still, I couldn't bring myself to stop the torture.

He’s the air that’s missing, and I’ll hold onto it as long as I can.

Jaafar still calls me every week. We talk about his projects, about his dreams, about the baby his fiancée doesn't want yet, but he hopes for. He tells me I'm the only person he can truly be open with, and I believe him. I believe he means it when he says he doesn't know what he'd do without me.

That's the cruelty of it, you see. He loves me too, just not in the way I've spent half my life wanting…needing. He loves me enough to keep me close, to fill my life with his presence without ever filling the space beside me. He loves me enough to make leaving impossible and to make staying unbearable.

He loves me so much it hurts.

Some nights, I lie awake and wonder what would have happened if I'd opened my mouth that day. If I'd pulled him back for another kiss and demanded to know what we were, would I still be in this room, writing to no one, waiting for fate to finish its job? Probably. I’ve seen Jaafar go the distance for the things he wants, and it's clear that whatever was between us wasn't one of them. Maybe that kiss really was just to placate me. I’m not even sure he remembers it, you know?

Last week, he sent me a photo of a house with a wraparound porch and asked what I thought of the paint color. His happiness bled through the screen, it was sickening. I typed back that it's perfect, that Maddie would love it, and that I'm so happy for him. Even though I was watching him give someone else my dream, the words came easily. After all, I've had nearly thirteen years to practice.

God, what a long time it’s been. 

Thirteen years learning to hate the scent of iron mixed with a magnolia’s perfume. Almost a decade and a half pretending I wasn’t doomed from the start and that this wasn't inevitable.

It’s getting hard to see now.

The tears won't stop.

I can feel the branches growing.

I guess this is it.

If there's anything I can ask for now, I just hope he doesn’t forget those palm trees.