Black Girl Joy

One cheek pressed to his chest. One knee hooked over his thigh. One hand loose against his ribs, nails resting there like punctuation. Your curls spilled over his shoulder, his arm, the pillow — dense and wild from his hands and the hours neither of you had spent sleeping.

Toji turned his face and spat the curl away.

“Menace,” he muttered.

You made a sound into his chest. It was not a word. It had too much gravel in it to be a word, and too much attitude to be sleep.

His mouth twitched.

Morning had not done either of you any favors.

The fitted sheet had given up sometime before dawn. The blanket was twisted low around your hips, the rest kicked halfway onto the floor. The glass of water on your nightstand sat dangerously close to a paperback you would have mourned for three days if it got wet. The air carried the warm, ruined smell of sweat, skin, stale coffee from the kitchen, and the clove-and-smoke candle you insisted was subtle.

It was not subtle.

He liked it anyway.

That was the problem with most of your things.

He liked them.

The dark green curtains you bought after telling him his old blinds had “the emotional temperature of a parking garage.” The brass dish where your rings lived at night. The bad lamp that buzzed when the apartment got too warm. The blankets draped over the couch because you claimed every room needed an emergency soft thing. The plant on the kitchen counter that looked dead to him but apparently was “dramatic, not deceased.”

His boots were by your door, his watch in your ring dish, his spare shirt on your floor.

His duffel sat under the chair in the corner, half-swallowed by one of your sweaters. He had not packed it in weeks. Maybe longer. At some point, you had cleared the bottom drawer of your dresser and shoved his clothes into it without looking at him.

“You keep leaving that ugly bag where I can trip over it,” you had said.

“Don’t trip.”

“I’m giving you a drawer, asshole.”

He had stared at you.

You had stared back, one hand on your hip, curls piled high on your head, mouth set like you were daring him to make it sentimental.

He had not.

He had only said, “You got room?”

You rolled your eyes so hard he almost smiled.

Now his socks were in that drawer. His toothbrush was in the bathroom cup beside yours. His razor lived under the sink. His cash was in the old tea tin because you found loose bills in his pockets before laundry and told him, with real disgust, that money did not belong in the washing machine.

He had moved into your life the way he did most things: without announcing himself, and too late to pretend he had not.

You shifted against him.

He felt the wince before he saw it.

His hand loosened at your hip, his fingers easing away from the marks he had left the night before. He did not press. He only let his thumb pass close to the darkening shape of his grip, careful around the tender places because careful was not the same thing as soft, and he had learned the difference with you.

Every time your breath had changed wrong, he stopped.

Every time he tried to ease up and you dragged his hand back where you wanted it, he listened to that too.

Now you lay limp across him, warm and wrecked, breathing slowly enough that his own body kept trying to follow.

He should have gone back to sleep.

Instead, he stared at the ceiling and let the apartment give him evidence.

Your mug on the windowsill. The black one with the chipped handle and the little gold moon painted on the side.

His mug in the kitchen. The brown one with the bear on it. A stupid mug. An ugly mug. A mug he used every morning because the handle was good and for no other reason.

Your books.

His knives in your kitchen drawer.

Your candle.

His shirt under your thigh.

Your apartment.

His side of the bed.

A direction, whether he liked naming it or not.

Your fingers twitched against his stomach.

“Stop thinking so loud,” you mumbled.

His mouth curved. “Didn’t know you were awake.”

“I’m not.” You shifted again, then went carefully motionless. “I have passed away.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. Tragic.”

“You sore?”

One of your eyes opened. Slow. Accusing. “That is an insane question.”

“Can you walk?”

“Unclear.”

“Good.”

“Good?” You lifted your head enough to glare at him. Your curls fell forward around your face, one side crushed from the pillow and the other doing whatever it wanted. “Do not sound proud of yourself.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

He let his hand settle at your hip again, lighter this time. “Need anything?”

The glare gentled before you were ready for it. He saw you try to stop it.

Failed.

“Water eventually.”

“Now?”

“In a minute.”

He grunted.

You dropped your cheek back to his chest but kept your eyes open. Your gaze moved lazily around the bedroom, taking in the same things he had been staring at. The ruined bed. His watch in your dish. His duffel under the chair.

Your mouth curved.

“What?” he said.

“You live here.”

“Do I?”

“Toji.”

“What.”

“You have a drawer.”

“One drawer doesn’t mean shit.”

“You have opinions about my dish towels.”

“They’re bad towels.”

“You replaced my showerhead.”

“Water pressure was pathetic.”

“You know which mug is yours.”

His eyes narrowed.

“The brown one,” you said, smiling wider, “with the bear on it.”

“That mug’s ugly.”

“You use it every morning.”

“Handle’s good.”

“You like the bear.”

“Don’t start.”

“You are the bear.”

“I said don’t start.”

Your laugh came out low and rough, and the sound moved through his chest before he knew what to do with it. It settled somewhere behind his ribs. Stayed there. Made itself comfortable with all the other things you kept putting inside him without permission.

You pressed your face into him as if you could hide your smile there. “You are so easy.”

He snorted.

You touched the bite mark on his chest, the one you were absolutely going to deny later even though it was shaped exactly like your mouth.

His brow lifted.

“You were being annoying,” you said.

“That why you bit me?”

“You laughed at me.”

“You looked funny.”

“I was naked.”

“You were still funny.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then you groaned and dropped your forehead to his chest. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your hand went slack against his stomach. “No,” you admitted, quieter. “I don’t.”

The words should not have landed like that.

You said it often enough. Usually after he ate the last of something you wanted. Usually after he moved you out of the way by your waist instead of saying excuse me. Usually after he made you laugh when you were trying to stay mad.

This time, the apartment heard it too.

The refrigerator kicked on in the kitchen. The lamp gave its faint electric buzz. Outside, a car door shut, and the rest of the world continued without knowing that his whole life had just narrowed to the weight of you breathing against him.

Toji looked past you, toward the nightstand.

The drawer was not fully closed. It never was. One of your charging cables was always getting caught in it.

Inside were the usual things. Receipts. Lip balm. A book light. Two batteries that might have been dead. A loose packet of painkillers. A lighter he was not allowed to use in the bedroom. One satin scrunchie. His pocketknife.

And the small box pushed to the back.

He had bought the ring three weeks ago from a man who talked too much.

The man asked about cut and clarity and setting and budget until Toji considered whether murder in a jewelry store would be worth the inconvenience. Then he saw the ring in the corner of the display case and pointed.

“That one.”

The man hesitated. “That’s a less traditional choice.”

“Didn’t ask.”

Warm gold. Hammered lightly so it caught the light without looking polished to death. A small dark stone set low into the band, deep enough that it would not snag on your sweaters, your pockets, or your hair.

Practical.

Pretty without begging for attention.

Sturdy enough for daily wear.

You, basically.

That had pissed him off.

He bought it anyway.

For three weeks, it sat in your apartment, in your drawer, under your things, because he had no better plan. He considered restaurants and dismissed the idea in six seconds. He considered asking after dinner one night, but you fell asleep on the couch with your head tipped back and your mouth open, and he decided he was not proposing to a woman drooling on herself no matter how much he liked her.

He considered saying it during sex.

Even he knew that was a bad idea.

Mostly.

Now you were here, warm across his chest, your hair in his mouth, your body carrying the proof of him because you had wanted him close and made him believe it. His things were already inside your life. His side of the bed had become a fact. He had been living here without saying so because saying it made the thing real enough to lose.

You let him not say it.

That was the part that got under his skin.

You made room for him without making a spectacle of the room. You bought the extra towel and never called it his. Added his coffee to the grocery list and never watched his face when he noticed. Cleared a drawer, insulted his duffel, and moved on. You folded him into the apartment like staying could happen quietly, if nobody scared it off by naming it too soon.

His hand moved before he finished deciding.

You felt it immediately. “Where are you going?”

“Drawer.”

“Why?”

“Need something.”

“If it’s a cigarette, I’m throwing you out the window.”

“Relax.”

“I am very relaxed. I have no bones.”

“Noticed.”

“Toji.”

He reached past you and pulled the nightstand drawer open.

The charging cable caught, as always. He yanked it free with more patience than it deserved, shifted the lip balm aside, moved the lighter, and found the box.

You went still against him.

He knew that kind of silence.

Not frightened. Not wrong. Just aware.

He brought the box out and set it on the mattress between you.

The apartment did not rearrange itself for the moment. The bad lamp kept buzzing. Your hair clung to his shoulder. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loudly for the hour. His chest still carried your teeth. Your hip still carried his hand.

Nothing gave the moment permission to be important.

It was important anyway.

“Marry me,” he said.

You stared at the box.

Then at him.

Then back at the box.

Your voice came out careful. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I have your handprints on my hips.”

“Yeah.”

“And I can’t feel my legs.”

“You’ll live.”

“This is when you’re asking?”

“You busy?”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

He watched you process it, which was worse than getting shot in several places. Your eyes sharpened first. Then softened. Then narrowed, like you were offended by your own softness.

Your fingers flexed once against his chest, directly over the bite mark.

“Are you serious?” you asked.

His jaw shifted.

That was all.

The smile left your face.

That was the trouble with you. You knew when his mouth was being useless. You knew when his body had started telling the truth without asking him first.

“Toji,” you said, quieter now.

He looked at the ceiling for half a second because looking straight at you was going to make the apartment too small.

“Been carrying it around,” he said.

“In my drawer?”

“Wasn’t carrying it the whole time.”

A breath escaped you. It might have been a laugh if it had not been shaking.

“You hid my engagement ring in my own nightstand?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

“I use this drawer every day.”

“Bad hiding spot.”

“Terrible hiding spot.”

“You didn’t find it.”

“Because apparently I trusted the drawer.”

“Your mistake.”

You pressed your lips together. Your eyes were bright now, but he was not stupid enough to mention it. You reached for the box, then stopped before touching it.

“Why now?”

That question landed harder than the proposal.

He had three jokes waiting in his mouth. All of them bad. All of them safer than the truth.

Because your hair was in my mouth.

Because you look like hell.

Because I keep waiting for a better version of me to do this, and that guy’s not coming.

Because I woke up here.

Because I keep waking up here.

Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t know which way home is.

His throat worked once.

You saw that too.

“Got tired,” he said.

You waited.

He hated you a little for that.

He loved you more.

“Of what?”

He looked back at you. Your curls were a mess around your face. The sheet had slipped low enough that he reached for it without thinking and pulled it higher over your back because the morning air had cooled and your skin had pebbled under his hand.

You noticed.

Your face did something he could not stand.

He finished roughly, “Of acting like I’m not already here.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The apartment sat around you in small, damning pieces.

Your mug. His watch.

Your lamp. His shirt.

Your books. His boots.

Your drawer. His ring.

You swallowed.

“You are already here,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“You live here.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re asking me to marry you because you finally noticed?”

He gave you a look. “I noticed.”

“Did you?”

“Woman.”

“No, I’m asking.” Your voice stayed soft, but the edge was there, the stubborn line he had learned to respect because it held. “Did you notice, or did you wake up with my hair in your mouth and panic?”

His mouth twitched despite himself.

“Could be both.”

A sound broke out of you then, half laugh and half sob, and you covered your face with one hand.

Toji stopped moving.

He did not reach. Did not crowd. Did not make the moment easier on himself by trying to take the answer before you gave it.

He let you have the breath.

When your hand dropped, your eyes were wet.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

“You’re terrible at this.”

“Yeah.”

“You couldn’t ask over breakfast?”

“You’re not standing long enough to make breakfast.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’ll make it.”

That did it.

Your face crumpled into a smile you tried to bite back and failed. He watched the heat gather under your skin, deepening through your cheeks and throat until you looked alive with it. Wrecked and wild-haired and sore and staring at him like he had handed you something too heavy to hold alone.

He wanted to look away.

He did not.

You reached for him.

He leaned in, then stopped when two of your fingers touched his sternum.

Light pressure.

Wait.

So he waited.

His jaw tightened. You saw that, of course. You saw what it cost when his whole body wanted to close the distance and put his mouth on whatever answer you were about to give.

Your fingers slid up his chest, over the bite you had left, then curled into the chain at his neck.

You pulled.

He came down carefully, one forearm braced beside your shoulder, his weight held off you even though your hand in his chain told him you wanted him close. He lowered himself only as much as your body allowed, close enough that your curls brushed his mouth again.

“Menace,” he muttered.

You laughed under him, breath catching around it.

“You proposed to me while I’m naked and one bad movement away from seeing God.”

“Dramatic.”

“Toji.”

“You remember your name?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you said, softer now. “I really don’t.”

His breath went uneven once.

Just once.

You lifted your left hand between you.

He looked at it.

Then at you.

“Yeah?” he asked.

One word. Low. Rough. The closest thing to trembling he had ever let touch his voice.

Your eyes held his.

“Yeah.”

His hand moved to the box.

For all the things those hands had done, all the damage they knew how to make cleanly and without hesitation, he was almost absurdly careful opening it. The hinge resisted. He scowled at it.

You laughed again. “Please don’t fight the ring box.”

“Thing’s cheap.”

“You bought it.”

“Still cheap.”

“It is not cheap.”

“You haven’t seen it.”

“I know you.”

He gave you a look, but the edge had gone out of it.

The box opened.

Your breath stopped.

That was enough to make him watch your face instead of the ring. He saw the exact moment you took it in: the hammered gold, the low-set dark stone, the warm glint of it in the weak morning light. Nothing too clean. Nothing too delicate to live in. Nothing that asked you to become another woman to wear it.

Your fingers touched the edge of the box.

“Toji,” you said.

He braced himself for something soft and unbearable.

You looked up at him. “Did you ask whether it would catch in my hair?”

His expression flattened.

You stared.

He stared back.

Then your mouth fell open.

“You did.”

“Shut up.”

“You asked.”

“Didn’t ask like that.”

“Oh my god, you asked.”

“Woman, you want the ring or not?”

You were laughing now, fully laughing, and it made your whole body shift under him. You winced immediately.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“I am experiencing joy.”

“Experience it without moving.”

“You are so romantic.”

“Put your hand out.”

You did.

The laughter thinned when he took your hand in his. His palm dwarfed yours, rough and warm, his thumb dragging once over your knuckles before he could stop it. Your nails caught the light, dark and glossy, and the ring slid over your finger with slight resistance that made something in his chest go settled and strange.

The ring fit.

Of course it did.

He had taken one of your rings from the brass dish two months ago and brought it back before you noticed.

Mostly before you noticed.

You stared at the dish for a long time that night, then looked at him with narrowed eyes.

He had said, “What?”

You had said, “Nothing.”

You had known.

He had known you knew.

Neither of you said a word.

Now the ring sat on your hand like it had been waiting there longer than either of you had admitted. Warm gold against warm brown skin. Dark stone catching the morning in one small, stubborn spark.

You looked at it.

Then at him.

“Hi,” you said, very quietly.

His brow creased. “Hi?”

“I don’t know. I panicked.”

He huffed once, almost a laugh, and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

Your hand came up immediately, fingers sliding into his hair. Holding him there. He went because you pulled him and because he wanted to, because honest requests from you were the one thing he did not resent answering.

His mouth found the mark on your shoulder and stopped just shy of it.

For once, he did not put his teeth there.

He only breathed.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Does this mean I can officially throw away your duffel bag?” you asked.

“No.”

“Toji.”

“Bag’s fine.”

“The bag is a biohazard.”

“It’s not.”

“It has blood on it.”

“Not fresh.”

You made a sound of deep, exhausted disgust. “We’re engaged for thirty seconds and already I want a divorce.”

“Can’t divorce me from engaged.”

“Watch me.”

His mouth dragged against your skin. This time, he did laugh, low and private, the sound pressed into your shoulder because he did not know how to hand it to you any other way.

You went quiet again.

Your fingers moved through his hair more slowly, less teasing now. The ring touched his scalp, cool for a second before your warmth found it. He closed his eyes.

There were things he could say.

Maybe.

Things other men would know how to arrange.

I love you.

I want to stay.

You are the first place that has ever made leaving feel stupid.

But the words were too clean. Too easy to ruin by saying them wrong. His body was better at this than his mouth, so his body did what it knew.

He kept his weight off you.

He left his hand open on the mattress where you could take it.

He breathed against your shoulder until your breathing matched his.

After a while, you touched his hand.

He turned his palm up.

Your fingers slid between his, ring and all.

“Breakfast,” you said.

He groaned. “Now?”

“You offered.”

“You said eventually.”

“I’m hungry now.”

“You can’t walk.”

“You said you’d make it.”

“Should’ve known the ring would make you bossy.”

“I was bossy before.”

“Yeah.” He lifted his head and looked down at you, your curls spilled everywhere, your eyes tired and bright, your mouth swollen from him and smiling anyway. “I noticed.”

Your expression softened again, and this time he looked away before it killed him.

He pushed himself off the bed carefully. You watched him stand, your gaze moving over the scratches down his back, the bite on his chest, the sweatpants he dragged off the floor and pulled on without bothering to find underwear. He caught your eyes in the dresser mirror.

“What?”

“You look like shit,” you said sweetly.

His mouth curved. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He bent, picked up his shirt, and threw it at your face.

You caught it badly because your arms were apparently still not working. “Rude.”

“Put that on before you get cold.”

“It smells like you.”

“Then don’t.”

You pulled it on.

He watched for half a second too long as the shirt settled over you, loose and worn soft from too many wash cycles in your machine, the collar slipping off one shoulder and leaving his mark visible above the fabric. The ring flashed when you pushed your curls out of your face.

His ring.

Your hand.

Your choice.

The difference mattered in a way he would never be able to explain without sounding like someone else.

He went to the kitchen.

It was small and badly arranged, though you insisted it was “efficient if certain large men would stop standing in the way.” He knew where everything was. The good pan on the left. Coffee in the tin with the broken clasp. Mugs on the second shelf because you had once said the top shelf was ableist and he had not known whether you were joking. Bread in the drawer. Eggs in the carton, with one cracked one he should use first.

The brown bear mug waited at the back, handle turned toward him.

He took it down without thinking.

From the bedroom, your voice floated out, hoarse and pleased.

“I saw that.”

He looked at the mug in his hand.

Then toward the bedroom.

“Go back to sleep.”

“You love the bear.”

“You want breakfast or you want to talk shit?”

“Both.”

He shook his head and filled the kettle.

The apartment moved around him in its usual small sounds. Pipes. Floorboards. The spoon against ceramic. Your lamp buzzing in the other room. The city waking badly outside the window. Nothing special. Nothing clean enough for a wedding story your family could hear without clutching their pearls.

Good.

He did not need clean.

Clean could be packed in ten minutes and left behind.

This was better.

The ring was in the bedroom. You were in the bed. His boots were by the door, and he had no plans to put them on.

‹ · ✦ · ›

“ What are you doing here ? I thought you had an event at noon . “ You inquired. Two fingers held the cotton pad you were using to rub off the heavy make up you wore for today’s filming . Vanessa had been fond of make over, looking good, neat, presentable . . But that funky make up you was forced to use to look decent on screen always bothered you more than the creepy men you had to film with from time to time . 

“ I still do .” From the mirror you watched him rise from his seat with a grunt . He strode his way , wrist twirling the brown liquor sitting at the bottom of its glass . “ Told them to go fuck themselve . I’m not a fucking preacher .”

“ Oh .” Was all that exited your lips . Many religious associations had been built off from normal people, choosing supes as the faces of many . Of course, the skilled PR team engaged by Vought America thought it was a good idea, and pressed many supes into accepting even though many of them didn’t care as much about God as they pretended to . Ben wasn’t a pretender . This was useful in many ways but so bad in so many others . 

You could feel him stand tall behind you thus even with the wedged sandals in your feet . 

“ Smell good, babydoll.” 

“ I smell like a kid who played too much in the mud .” Vanessa easily brushed off the compliment . Who knew pretending to have sex and enjoying it could be more exhausting than the real thing ? “

A hand grasped your hip and soon enough his lips met the behind of your ear where he pressed a kiss. “ Forgot you were a fucking slut .” He huffed and released your hip to roughly get a hold of your tits . A hum escaped from your lips, your hands reached for his, helping him to feel your breast through the layers of fabric .

“ I don’t really have sex with them . It’s choreographed , it’s more . . aesthetically pleasing . We actually have standards to respect-”

“ Same shit as a stag . Shit gets it done because you’re cock hungry . Hm ? “ He sets down his glass and forces you to look up at him . His grip tightens slightly where he holds her under your jaw . His hand squeezed your tit hard and you let out a small whimper that made him smile and he bowed over to press a kiss to your mouth . It wasn’t soft , sophisticated . It was rather messy ; his mouth swallowed yours and his tongue found itself entangled with a confusing and sloppy dance you weren't one to ever refuse . It turned you on , your cunt throbbed furiously in the panties that soon clung to your lips due to the wetness already soaking the lace . When he parted away he gave you an abrupt jolt as he released you free from his grasp . The voluminous lashes battled at him through the looking glass and you dramatically fanned yourself with your hand .

“ Jesus, I’m already hot. You aren’t helping.”

“ Stop fucking whining.” He spits harshly and you're quick to give him a tap on the arm while he settles next to you and examines the make up scattered across the vanity with indifference. He doesn’t look at you but he knows you’s still looking at him as if he’s a fucking puzzle.

“ Why are you here ?  I’ve had a busy day . I just wanna go home . ”

“ I can call someone and ask them to drive us to your place .” He said it so casually you almost thought he had already done it before . With other girls . Her eyes followed every move of his .

“ No . I’m good .” You turned around and grabbed the hem of your dress to pull it over your head _ while also making sure your slicked back hair stayed impeccable- and threw it over the back of the chair. His eyes immediately went to your butt , his tongue darted out to swipe the alcohol from his bottom lip . “ You’re gonna walk home ? ”

“ I have my own chauffeur and I bet he’s as impatient as me to drop me home so he can go about his evening . “ Ben admired both your backside and the bit of attitude you were giving him . Women would throw themselves at him , eyefucking or sweet talking him into falling in his favor which always worked because he liked being liked . He was a fucking national treasure . Whenever you refused him , that made him hard . Painfully hard . He lifted a brow at the sight of you stepping into a yellow dress . Your hands went behind your back and You managed to zip it up. You flipped your ponytail in place and faced your counterpart again .

“ I don’t like that dress on you.” He comments . 

“ I . . . don’t really want you to like it ? ” 

Like the spoiled kid he secretly was, he rolled his eyes and walked to you . 

“ When will your movie even come out ?” He asks and you blinks a few times.

“ Oh , somewhere about November .” Ben huffed and quietly walked towards the exit without adding anything else .

𓂅 ⠀next part ༝ other soldier boy works ༝ general masterlist .

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————————————————————————

The argument started like it always did. Over nothing, and then everything.

You stood in the middle of his downtown condo, arms crossed, heart pounding as Dillon paced in front of you like he was still on the court, jaw tight, eyes flashing with that same intensity he brought to every game. The man was fire personified: passionate, driven, and so damn aggressive in everything he did. At first, you loved it. The way he claimed you, the way he fucked like he played — hard, relentless, all-consuming. But months in, it stopped feeling like passion and started feeling like pressure.

“You’re always pushing,” you said, voice cracking. “In bed, out of bed, everywhere. I told you I needed you to slow down last time and you still—”

“I’m not soft,” he snapped, stopping to face you. His broad shoulders were tense, arm shifting with every breath. “This is who I am. You knew that when we started.”

You swallowed hard. “I know who you are. But I can’t keep feeling like I’m in a war zone every time we touch. I love you, Dillon. But I don’t love how this feels anymore.”

The breakup was ugly. He didn’t yell, but the silence after you left was worse. You moved your things out the next day, crying the entire drive back to your place. Weeks turned into months. The texts stopped. The late-night calls ended. You threw yourself into work and friends, trying to forget how his hands felt when they weren’t bruising, how his voice sounded when it wasn’t edged with frustration.

Dillon, on the other hand, spiraled quietly.

He threw himself harder into the season, earning every “villain” headline like armor. But at night, alone in that too-big condo, he replayed your words on loop. He watched old videos of the two of you — laughing in the kitchen, slow dancing in the living room after a win, you curled against his chest while he played with your hair. He saw it then: the way you’d flinch sometimes when he grabbed too hard, the way your moans turned into winces he’d ignored in the heat of the moment.

For the first time in his life, the aggressive fire that made him great on the court felt like poison in his personal life. He started therapy — real talk, not the surface shit. He learned how to sit with his anger instead of letting it control him. He learned what gentle even meant. And every session, every late-night journal entry, circled back to you.

He missed his girl. The one who made him laugh until his ribs hurt. The one who looked at him like he was more than the villain the media painted.

Four months after the breakup, you were back in Memphis for a friend’s wedding. The city brought everything rushing back: the streetlights, the scent of barbecue, the echo of his laugh in your memories. You told yourself you wouldn’t reach out. You lasted three days.

Your phone buzzed on the hotel nightstand.

Dillon: I heard you’re in town. Can we talk? Just talk. Please.

Your thumb hovered. Then you typed: Coffee tomorrow. Public place.

He met you at a quiet café near the river. He looked… different. Still tall, still built like a weapon, but the sharp edges in his eyes had softened. No designer chains trying to prove something. Just a simple black tee and sweats, hair a little longer, that familiar intensity now tempered with something quieter.

You sat across from him, hands wrapped around a latte you barely touched.

“I’ve been working on myself,” he said without preamble, voice low. “Real shit this time. Therapy. Reading books on emotional stuff I used to laugh at. I was too rough with you. In every way. I pushed when you needed space. I took when you needed me to give. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You blinked back tears. “I needed to hear that. But sorry doesn’t erase how it felt.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t expect you to take me back. I just… needed you to know I heard you. And I changed because of you. Not for the game, not for the image. For the man I want to be when I’m with you.”

The conversation lasted hours. Coffee turned into a walk along the river. He didn’t touch you once unless you initiated, and even then it was careful — a brush of fingers, nothing demanding. By the time the sun set, the pull between you was undeniable. That old spark was still there, but it felt warmer now. Safer.

“Come back with me,” he said softly outside your hotel. “Not for sex. Just… let me show you I can be different. If you want to leave after, I’ll drive you back myself. No pressure.”

You went.

The door to his condo closed behind you with a soft click. The space looked the same, but it felt different. Calmer.

Dillon turned to you, hands at his sides. “Tell me what you need tonight. I’ll follow your lead. Slow, fast, nothing at all — you say it, I do it.”

Your heart raced. You stepped closer, sliding your hands up his chest. “I need you to be gentle. Like you actually see me. Not like you’re trying to win something.”

He exhaled shakily and nodded. Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like before. No crushing grip, no frantic rush. Just warm lips moving slowly against yours, tongue teasing gently until you opened for him. His hands cupped your face like you were delicate, thumbs stroking your cheeks as the kiss deepened with aching tenderness.

He walked you backward to the bedroom without breaking the kiss, stopping every few steps to pull back and check your eyes. When the back of your knees hit the bed, he lifted you carefully, no tossing, no manhandling, and laid you down like you were made of glass.

Clothes came off slowly. He kissed every inch he uncovered: the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the inside of your thigh. When he settled between your legs, he looked up at you, eyes dark but patient.

“Can I taste you?” he asked, voice rough with want but controlled.

You nodded, threading your fingers through his curls.

He took his time. Long, slow licks that made your back arch. Gentle sucks on your clit that had you whimpering his name. Two thick fingers sliding inside you carefully, curling softly against that spot until you were trembling. No rushing. No demands. Just worship.

When you came on his tongue, he groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, working you through it with soft kisses and soothing strokes until you were boneless.

He moved up your body, kissing a trail to your mouth. “Still okay?” he whispered.

“More than okay,” you breathed, pulling him down.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The stretch was familiar but the feeling was brand new — deep, full, but without the edge of pain or overwhelm. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing with you.

“You feel like home,” he murmured.

Then he moved.

Long, rolling strokes that hit every sensitive spot. His hands roamed gently — cupping your breast, stroking your side, intertwining fingers with yours above your head. Every thrust was deliberate, passionate, like he was pouring months of missing you into every motion. He whispered against your lips the whole time: how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he’d never take you for granted again.

When you came again, clenching around him, he followed right after with a low groan of your name, burying his face in your neck as he spilled deep inside you.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out immediately. He rolled to his back, keeping you on top of him, still connected, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go. His hand stroked slow circles on your back while your head rested on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.

“I love you,” he said quietly into the dark. “The gentle way. The patient way. The way that keeps you safe and wanting more. I’m never going back to who I was with you. You deserve this every single time.”

You lifted your head, tears in your eyes, and kissed him softly. “I love you too. Welcome back, Dillon.”

He smiled against your lips — that real, unguarded smile you hadn’t seen in months.

The aggressive fire was still in him. It always would be. On the court, in his drive, in the way he protected what was his. But with you, in this bed, in this life you were rebuilding together, he was learning how to let the fire warm instead of burn.

For months, the internet had been trying to find Ceedee a girlfriend.

It started as jokes at first. Harmless posts after games, clips of him walking through tunnels in sunglasses and designer jackets, edits of him smiling on the sideline, comments under videos from fans who had entirely too much time on their hands.

Somebody get this man a wife.

CeeDee looks like he needs a soft girl at home.

Why is he always outside looking single?

At first, you thought it was funny.

Mostly because you were usually watching those comments while sitting on the couch in his hoodie, your swollen feet tucked under a blanket, your baby kicking against your ribs while Ceedee moved around the kitchen trying to cook something that was supposed to be dinner.

He would glance over when you laughed at your phone, already suspicious.

“What they saying now?”

You’d read one out loud, barely holding back your smile. “They said you need a wife.”

Ceedee would look over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised, cutting board in front of him and a dish towel thrown over one shoulder like somebody’s fine uncle at a cookout.

“They late.”

You would hold up your left hand, the small diamond on your finger catching the kitchen light. “Very late.”

That was the part nobody knew.

Not the fans. Not the blogs. Not most of the internet. Not even some of the people around the league.

Ceedee Lamb was not single.

He had not been single for a long time.

He had you.

And more recently, he had a son.

A tiny, warm, sleepy little boy with his father’s eyes, your nose, and the incredible ability to turn one of the most confident players in the NFL into a whispering, emotional mess at three in the morning.

You had agreed to keep everything private for as long as you could. Not hidden, exactly. Ceedee hated that word. He had never made you feel like a secret. He took care of you loudly in the ways that mattered. Your family knew. His family knew. The people closest to you knew. You were in his house, his heart, his plans, his prayers.

But the public?

That was different.

The public wanted ownership. It wanted details before it offered respect. It wanted faces, timelines, names, captions, speculation. Ceedee had seen enough of what happened when athletes gave too much of their private life away. One picture turned into a headline. One headline turned into opinions. One opinion turned into strangers speaking on a woman they did not know.

And once you got pregnant, he became even more protective.

“Baby don’t need all that noise,” he said one night, his palm resting carefully against your stomach while you lay beside him in bed.

You looked over at him. “The baby or me?”

“Both.”

His voice was soft, but there was no room for argument in it.

So you stayed quiet. You enjoyed your pregnancy in peace. You went to appointments with him sneaking in through side doors when he could, his big hand wrapped around yours, his eyes going wide every time he heard the heartbeat like it was the first miracle the world had ever produced. You watched him build the crib himself even though it took twice as long because he refused to admit the instructions were confusing. You watched him fold tiny onesies with a concentration he normally reserved for game film.

Then your son was born.

And for a while, the world outside your little house simply stopped mattering.

Ceedee cried when he held him.

He tried to hide it at first, turning slightly away like you hadn’t already seen the tears in his eyes. But when the nurse placed that tiny bundle against his chest, something in him gave way. His shoulders lowered, his face softened, and he stared down at his son like every loud thing in his life had finally gone quiet.

“Hey, little man,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m your daddy.”

You were exhausted, sweaty, emotional, and so in love with both of them that your chest hurt.

From that day forward, Ceedee became even harder to recognize to people who only knew him as number 88.

At home, he was gentle. Careful. Ridiculously clingy with the baby. He learned how to swaddle, how to warm bottles, how to support his head, how to walk slow circles around the living room at night when your son refused to sleep anywhere except against his chest.

Sometimes you would wake up in the early morning and find him sitting in the nursery chair, shirtless, baby asleep against him, one large hand covering nearly the entire little back.

“You were supposed to wake me,” you’d whisper from the doorway.

He would look up, tired but peaceful. “I had him.”

“You have practice.”

“I know.”

“You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

And that would be the end of it because Cee, despite what fans thought, had already decided fatherhood was not something he was going to half-do.

Still, as the season went on, the rumors got louder.

It seemed like every week there was a new post. Some model liked one of his pictures. Some influencer posted from Dallas and suddenly fans had them married. A woman sat near the cowboys family section and the internet zoomed in like the FBI. Teammates started joking too, mostly because they thought his private life was empty.

“You need somebody, man,” one of them said in the locker room after a game, tossing a towel toward his stall. “You too quiet after wins. Go celebrate.”

Ceedee looked down at his phone where you had just sent him a picture of your son sleeping in a little Cowboys onesie.

He smiled to himself.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”

Another teammate laughed. “That’s the problem. You always good. Somebody gotta humble you.”

He locked his phone and slid it into his bag. “I’m plenty humbled.”

They didn’t understand.

How could they?

They didn’t see him at home trying to change a diaper without waking the baby. They didn’t see you half-asleep in bed, curls wrapped up, wearing one of his old shirts, whispering for him to come lie down because he had been standing over the bassinet for ten minutes just watching the baby breathe.

They didn’t see how fast he came home.

That was the part that started bothering him.

Not the jokes. Not really.

It was the way people kept painting him as available when he knew exactly who he belonged to. It was watching strangers flirt openly online, watching fans talk about him needing a woman, watching blogs attach his name to people he had never even met while you sat quietly in the background recovering from childbirth, loving him, raising his son, protecting his peace.

The breaking point came from a podcast clip.

One of his teammates was guesting, laughing about how Ceedee was “too single for his own good.” The room laughed. The host made a comment about women lining up for him. Somebody said he needed to settle down before he got caught up.

He watched the clip once.

Then he watched your face as you pretended it didn’t bother you.

You were sitting on the couch with the baby curled against your chest, one hand rubbing slow circles over his back. Your expression barely changed, but he knew you. He knew when something landed. You didn’t have to cry for him to understand that it stung.

He took the phone from your hand and set it facedown on the coffee table.

“Dee,” you said softly, “it’s not that serious.”

He sat beside you, eyes on the baby first, then on you. “It is to me.”

You sighed, shifting carefully so your son stayed asleep. “They don’t know.”

“They about to.”

Your eyes lifted to his. “What?”

He leaned back against the couch, jaw tight, gaze serious in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“I’m tired of everybody speaking on my life like you not in it.”

Your heart softened immediately. “I’m in it where it matters.”

“I know that.” He reached over, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek. “But I don’t like you having to sit there quiet while people act like I’m out here looking for something I already got.”

You looked down at the baby, his tiny fist curled into the fabric of your shirt.

“We said we wanted privacy.”

“We can still have privacy,” Ceedee said. “But privacy don’t mean I let people play in your face.”

His voice stayed calm, but you could hear the emotion beneath it. Protective. Frustrated. Certain.

You studied him for a long moment. “What are you thinking?”

He glanced toward the baby again, and the tension in his expression softened. “Family tunnel walk.”

Your eyebrows rose.

“Dee.”

“What?”

“With the baby?”

“With my son,” he corrected gently. “And his mama.”

The words slipped into the room and settled there.

His son.

His mama.

Your throat tightened. “That’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“Once people see him, they’re going to talk.”

“They already talk.” He leaned closer. “At least this time they’ll be talking about the truth.”

You wanted to argue, but there was something in his face that stopped you. Ceedee wasn’t asking to show off. He wasn’t trying to make a headline. He was tired of letting the world create versions of his life while the most important part of it stayed invisible.

Still, he softened when he saw the worry in your eyes.

“If you say no, we don’t do it,” he said. “I mean that. I’m not putting you or him out there unless you’re okay.”

That was why you loved him.

Because even when he was protective, he never confused protection with control.

You looked down at your son, sleepy and warm against you, then back at the man who had loved you quietly for years and was finally ready to love you publicly too.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ceedee’s face changed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled gently. “Let’s pop out.”

The slow grin that spread across his face was dangerous.

“Pop out?”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

He laughed, leaning in to kiss your forehead first, then the baby’s.

“Too late.”

Game day arrived colder than expected.

You stood in the bedroom wearing a fitted cream sweater dress, long coat, and boots, turning slightly in the mirror while trying not to overthink everything. Your hair was styled soft around your face, makeup warm and pretty, jewelry simple except for the bracelet Dee had given you after the baby was born. Your son was dressed in a tiny custom denim jacket with LAMB stitched on the back.

When Ceedee walked in and saw both of you, he stopped.

He actually stopped.

You looked over. “What?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes moving from you to the baby and back again. “Y’all look too good.”

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It is.” He walked closer, already dressed for the tunnel in dark jeans, a designer jacket, chain sitting against his shirt, looking entirely too fine for someone about to stress you out. “Now I gotta share y’all with the world.”

“You started this.”

“I know. I’m starting to regret it.”

You laughed softly while he reached for the baby, cradling him against his chest with the kind of practiced gentleness that still made your heart ache.

“You ready, little man?” he murmured.

Your son made a tiny sound and settled against him.

Ceedee looked up at you. “He ready.”

“I’m glad one of us is.”

He stepped close enough to wrap his free arm around your waist. “You nervous?”

“Yes.”

“You look beautiful.”

“That doesn’t answer the nerves.”

“No.” He kissed your temple. “But it’s true.”

The stadium tunnel was chaos when you arrived.

Cameras, staff, players, security, people moving in every direction. You had been around the team before, but never like this. Never visible. Never walking beside him with your baby in his arms and his hand at your back like he was introducing his whole heart to the world.

The first person to react was one of his teammates.

He was mid-conversation when his eyes landed on Ceedee, then on you, then on the baby.

His mouth fell open.

“Hold on.”

Ceedee’s face stayed calm, but you could see the amusement in his eyes.

The teammate walked closer, pointing at the baby. “Bro. Is that—”

“My son,” Ceedee said.

The tunnel seemed to pause around you.

“Your son?” another teammate repeated from nearby.

He adjusted the baby carefully against his chest, pride written across his whole face. “Yeah.”

Someone shouted from behind them, “Dee got a baby?”

Then it was over.

The whole group erupted.

Players crowded around in disbelief, some laughing, some yelling, some genuinely offended that he had managed to hide an entire family. One of them looked at you with wide eyes and said, “You real?”

You laughed despite your nerves. “Very.”

Another pointed at Ceedee. “This man had a whole wife and baby at home while we were calling him single?”

Ceedee shrugged. “Y’all loud.”

“You secretive!”

“Private,” Ceedee corrected.

Then he looked at you, and the teasing around him faded from his face. He reached for your hand and brought it to his lips briefly, right there in front of everybody.

“My family,” he said simply.

The cameras caught that.

Of course they did.

The internet had the clip before kickoff.

By the second quarter, your phone was unusable.

You didn’t check it until you were settled in the family suite, baby asleep in your arms now while Ceedee’s family laughed over the chaos unfolding online. The first post you saw was a slow-motion tunnel clip: Ceedee walking in with your son in one arm, your hand in his other, looking calm as ever while half his teammates lost their minds behind him.

The caption read:

CEEDEE LAMB JUST WALKED IN WITH A WHOLE FAMILY????

The comments were worse.

The internet been trying to find him a girlfriend and this man had a BABY.

That baby jacket with LAMB on the back. I’m sick.

He been going home to peace and a newborn this whole time.

She’s gorgeous. He hid her for a reason.

You scrolled for a few minutes, overwhelmed but not unhappy. Most of it was shock. Some of it was sweet. Some of it made you roll your eyes. But beneath the noise, something in you felt relieved.

No more rumors.

No more pretending.

No more watching strangers invent women for a man who came home to you.

After the game, Ceedee found you before doing anything else.

Still in uniform, eye black smudged slightly, adrenaline bright in his eyes. The second he stepped into the family area and saw you holding the baby, his whole expression changed.

Softened.

Came home.

“How my boy?” he asked, walking straight to you.

“Sleepy,” you said. “A little overwhelmed. Same as his mama.”

He bent to kiss the baby’s forehead, then yours. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, the noise of celebration moving around you, cameras still somewhere outside, the internet still exploding.

“I’m okay.”

His eyes searched yours. “For real?”

“For real.”

Only then did his shoulders relax.

A teammate passed by and shouted, “Family man!”

Ceedee didn’t even look away from you. “Been that.”

Your chest warmed.

Later that night, after the game, after the posts, after the family calls, after the baby finally went down, you found yourself in bed beside Ceedee while he scrolled through his phone with one hand and held yours with the other.

“They’re still going,” he said.

“You surprised?”

“Nah.”

You leaned against his shoulder. “You regret it?”

He locked his phone and set it aside.

“No.”

His answer was immediate.

He turned toward you, face softer in the bedroom light. “I don’t regret showing the world I’m loved.”

Your throat tightened.

“And I definitely don’t regret showing them who I come home to.”

You looked down, emotion rising faster than you expected. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“You been emotional since the baby.”

“You have also been emotional since the baby.”

He laughed quietly. “Fair.”

For a moment, you both listened to the monitor beside the bed, your son’s tiny breathing filling the silence.

Ceedee reached over and touched your ring finger gently.

“They can know now,” he said. “But they don’t get everything.”

You nodded.

That was the balance.

The world got a glimpse. A tunnel walk. A headline. A photo of a baby jacket. A man proud enough to walk into a stadium with his family and silence every rumor without saying a word.

But it did not get the late-night feedings.

It did not get the way Ceedee sang off-key lullabies because he claimed the baby liked them.

It did not get the quiet kisses in the kitchen, the tired laughter, the soft arguments over who needed sleep more.

It did not get the full story.

That belonged to you.

He pulled you closer, his hand settling warm against your waist.

“You know they’re probably calling you my mystery woman.”

You smiled against his chest. “I’m not mysterious.”

“Nah.” His voice lowered, affectionate and certain. “You’re mine.”

The baby made a tiny sound through the monitor, and both of you went still.

When he settled again, you and Ceedee looked at each other and laughed softly.

There it was.

Your real life.

Not the rumors.

Not the internet.

Not the league.

Just the two of you in the quiet, listening to the little boy who had changed everything.

Ceedee kissed your forehead and held you close.

“Already had everything they thought I needed,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, smiling into the warmth of him.

And he was right.

The world had spent months trying to find him love.

The whole time, love had been waiting at home.

--

taglist ~

The day started off great, just as any other day would. You woke up to an empty bed, which was normal considering you were married to a damn lark. Terry always rose before the sun for whatever reason, but that never stopped you from getting your full eight hours worth of beauty rest.

You’d entered the kitchen to see your usual morning sight: Terry, shirtless and sweaty after his morning run. Though you tried to keep your footsteps soft, Terry and his super marine hearing sensed you coming from a mile away. He peered over his shoulder with his cloudy green eyes and flashed a rarely seen smile— well, rare to everyone but you— before scooping up the fresh cup of coffee he’d always have ready for you whenever you decide to grace the world with your presence.

Silently reminding yourself that it was too damn early to be horny, you kept your eyes above the neckline and accepted your cup of joe and one of many morning kisses. You spent the next ten minutes of leisure time as you normally did: Smiling at the sweet and expected gesture, giggling at the compliments and complimentary kisses that came along with your coffee, and squealing when Terry’s hands would roam and squeeze at some of his favorite parts of your body.

You’d left home some time later with a smile on your face as Terry always made sure you did, but just when you thought the exceptional morning meant your day would be perfect, here came your fucking boss.

Rude, loud, and disrespectful. Commanding and demanding the most ridiculous things as soon as the damn office opened. You’d always tried your best to stay respectful and hold your tongue when came at crazy, and today was no different. You’d just constantly remind yourself that this was your boss, and as much as you couldn’t stand her ass, you still loved your job and didn’t want to risk losing it over a boss doing what bosses do.

Then came your coworker Sandra, who also happens to be the bosses daughter. Rude and entitled much like her mother, Sandra always knew how to push just about everyone in the offices buttons, but for some odd reason yours were her favorite to push. You’d trained yourself not to give her the reaction she so desperately tried to get from you, but that still didn’t mean she didn’t get under your skin from time to time.

By the time the end of the day rolled around, Sandra and her mother had worked together to make today the day from hell. Two caseloads, another cup of coffee, and three near blowups later, you’d finally made it back home. The smile you once had on your face when you left was long and gone when you returned, and Terry noticed immediately. From his spot on the couch, he watched you toss your keys onto the kitchen counter and kick your shoes off much harder than necessary. Though your shoulders should’ve relaxed after the long breath you released, they remained tight and tense, telling Terry more than he knew you probably would.

You tended to shut down when frustrated, a bad habit that Terry had both picked up on and learned to remain patient with. However, knowing this wouldn’t stop him from coaxing as much information as he could out of you.

Terry pushed himself up from his seated position and began his path toward you. His long legs got him there in milliseconds, standing tall and protective in front of you. The crisp new wife beater he wore clung to his torso like you did when you would hug him and the dark grey sweats he wore hung low on his hips just how you liked it. His unintentional sexiness almost made you forget why you were mad. Almost.

He remained silent for a moment, watching intently as you looked everywhere but at him. Then, his left hand raised to your hip giving it a double tap with his index and middle fingers. You took that nonverbal command for what it was and finally looked up at him, his stormy eyes already meeting yours halfway.

For a second he still said nothing. He just stood still and examined your expression as much as you’d allow him to. The slight pout on your lips and semi-wet eyes told him enough, prompting him to finally speak.

“Talk to me.”

The words were simple, but when you have a day like you just had, it’s enough to damn near cause a break down. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from crying and lowered your head, shaking it just enough for the gesture to be noticeable.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

But you should’ve known that wouldn’t be good enough for him. You did know it wasn’t good enough for him. That’s why it was no shock when his hand came to cup your chin and gently forced your head up to meet his gaze again. There was silence once again from him as he scanned your face for another read. This time your mood was clear. Your face held a plethora of emotions. Frustration, anger, and a hint of sadness all at once.

“You’re not upset for nothing, Peach.”

The patience he had with you was evident in both his tone and the use of your pet name. He’d given it to you when the two of you had just began dating many years ago. He said the name reflected your personality and common mood. As sweet as could be. An alternative meaning for that nickname came a bit later in the relationship when the two of you had been intimate for the first time. He said the chosen name was perfect because you in the bedroom mirrored a Peach perfectly: sweet, sticky, thick, and pretty. But that was beside the point. The fact of the matter was that right now, your mood was anything but sweet.

A sigh slipped past your lips as you once again averted your gaze from his, afraid that he’d read too deep into you and cause you to break down in the middle of the living room. “It’s just work, T,” you muttered a tad bit lower than before. “Nothing serious.”

“I think it is serious if it’s got you this upset,” Terry argued. Not in an ill intended way. Just in a way that let you know he wasn’t buying the watered down story you were selling. Hand still cupping your chin, Terry nudged upward just a tad bit higher in an attempt to get your attention back on him. “Look at me.”

You reluctantly obliged and once again locked eyes with Terry, only this time, there was no reading. He’d already put it together. “Your boss?”

Just the mention of that bitch had you fighting the urge to roll your eyes, but to answer your husband’s question, you nodded.

“She frustratin’ you again?”

You mimicked your earlier action once more, nodding as you again bit down on your cheek. “Yeah, Sandra, too.”

Though your voice was barely above a whisper, Terry heard you loud and clear. He kept his stance just a few moments more before relaxing, his hands falling unoccupied at his side before they snaked around your waist. His thumb rubbed soothing circles around your lower back in an effort to get you to relax even a bit. Yeah sure, your boss and her gnat of a daughter pissed you off today. But you were home now, with him.

“You gotta stop doing that, Peach,” Terry murmured, arms wrapping tighter around you as he pulled you closer.

Now chest to chest, your dainty hands came to rest on his biceps. “Doing what?”

“Shutting down,” he elaborated, index finger drumming your hip. “You always shut down when you’re upset and you leave me out the mix. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s goin’ on.”

You nodded in response, head lowering in shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Mm-mm, don’t do that,” Terry hummed, immediately following up with a kiss to your forehead, then one to your cheek, then one to your jawline, then multiple to your neck as you giggled lowly. “I’m not mad at you, baby. I just want you to be happy. And I want you to be comfortable telling me when something is botherin’ you. Even if it’s not me, alright?”

With a nod and a muttered agreement, you took the time to appreciate Terry’s effort at getting you to open up. Although you appreciated it, that still didn’t remove the effects of today’s ware and tear from your body. You were still frustrated. Still annoyed. Still tense. But that wasn’t a problem for Terry. All he needed you to do was tell him what was bothering you. He was down to handle the rest.

And that’s what got you to where you are now.

Bare and hot on top of him, knees working overtime to keep you upright as you bounced up and down at the same breathtaking pace. Not too idle. Not too brisk. It was somewhere perfectly in between. Terry watched comfortably beneath you, hands folded and tucked behind his head as he remained still, careful not to disturb your rhythm.

Your bottom lip had to be tired of you biting it, but that seemed to be the only way you could keep your sounds under control and keep the two of you from receiving a noise complaint in a few hours time. Your hands assisted in keeping you steady with their resting spot being on Terry’s abdomen, fingers dragging through the creases of his abs when you felt them flex under the pressure of you repeatedly landing in his lap.

Tongue darting out to moisten your parched lips, you let a whine slip past the barrier you’d tried your hardest to build. “Terryyy…”

He looked up at you, expression stoic and emotionless besides the lust clouding his already piercing eyes. “What you callin’ me for? You doin’ that shit to yourself.”

Brows furrowed and mouth hanging ajar, you looked down to where the two of you connected. You watched your fluids pile up at the base of his phallus in near disbelief. Almost as though you couldn’t believe what you were making yourself do. Like him saying it out loud was what made you realize it. Even still, it was partly his fault. Nobody told him to have all that dick.

Another sound slipped past your lips, this time resembling more of a squeal as the angle of your hips made it nearly impossible for his throbbing tip to miss your spot. “Fuuuckkk!”, you slurred through a moan, head falling backward and eyes rolling to a close.

“Mhm, there you go,” Terry cooed while simultaneously reaching out to you, hand wrapping snug around your throat. “Keep that shit movin’. Just like that.”

The sudden air restriction caused you to gasp, hand coming up to wrap around Terry’s wrist. The grip you had on his hand matched the grip you had on his dick, your walls contracting around his girth at the depth of his voice and commands. There was something about the two of you being in a position where you had the opportunity to be in full control, yet Terry still finding a way to be in charge. Your body’s response to his commands showed exactly how you felt about them, your walls gushing with arousal.

Your internal temperature grew hotter with every passing minute, the aching in your legs contributing to your thermal increase. But unfortunately, that wasn’t stopping shit. You were gonna get your nut even if it meant riding this Harley until your legs gave clean out. Well, your third nut. Terry had already coaxed two out of you with that talented mouth of his, eating away half the frustration you’d returned home with. He left it up to you to ride out the rest.

“Fuck…why you so wet, Peach?” Fingers tightening around your throat, Terry bit down on his bottom lip as his free hand came up to strike your ass cheek. “Hm?”

There were so many answers to that question. Maybe because you had a fine ass man beneath you letting you use him for your pleasure with no consequences. Or maybe it was because you had a big ass dick invading the deepest part of you, pulsing and throbbing against your wetness to cause almost euphoric sensations. Or maybe it was just because you were in love. It didn’t matter which response was most fitting, because you couldn’t even muster up the strength to give him one.

Instead you peeled your eyes open, gaze immediately connecting with his. The two of you watched each other through different eyes: yours soft and submissive, his hard and dominant. “You so fuckin’ pretty.”

You moaned in response, stomach swarming with butterflies at him somehow always knowing what to say and when to say it. Eyes fluttering shut, your head had almost fallen back again before Terry’s hand moved to cup your jaw. “Mm-mm, keep them eyes on me.”

You obliged, eyes opening to find his. You watched as his lip found its way between his teeth again, his thumb stroking your cheek as soft as could be. Then the pad of his thumb found its way to your bottom lip, rubbing across it a few times. “Open…”

Following instructions with a submissive moan, your semi-parted lips opened wider to allow his thumb entry, and you made sure to give it a warm welcome with your tongue and lips. A slick thrust from below had your teeth nearly sinking into the flesh, but you’d managed to hold back before continuing to suck on his thumb.

“So beautiful…”, Terry muttered, watching as your eyes rolled to a close and you moaned around his thumb, the throbbing of his phallus causing your stomach muscles to tighten. “and so fuckin’ nasty.”

How could he say that when he was the one who made you this way? You can confidently say you had never been this nasty until you got with Terry. This motherfucker had you doing shit you would’ve never even thought to do with anyone else, but you’d be lying straight through your teeth if you said you didn’t love it.

He pulled his thumb away and you released it with a ‘pop’, then watched with doe eyes as he used that same saliva covered thumb to rub your clit in slow, sloppy circles. But you were the nasty one? Yeah, okay.

The new sensation caused a buck in your hips, a sound of louder pitch escaping your lips as your eyes did yet another roll inward. “Babyyy…s-shit!”, you whined as you tried to keep your pace through the tightening of your walls and flexing of your stomach muscles. The sensation omitted a groan from Terry, but nothing more than that as he kept his eyes trained on you.

It’s not that he wasn’t feeling good, because he damn sure was. It was just the fact that tonight was your night. Y’all could worry about him later. Right now, it was all about you.

“You look so good up there, Peach. You don’t even understand,” he cooed, tongue slowly protruding to wet his lips as he watched you slowly but surely unravel.

You’d call him a damn lie if you weren’t in your current position. You could just feel that you looked a mess. Hair puffy and wild, lips parched and dry, skin hot and tacky. Terry didn’t give a fuck. “Them hips, them thighs, your face…”, he murmured, the rotation of his thumb staying constant. “Can’t even keep your fuckin’ eyes open. I got you feelin’ good, huh, baby?”

“Yesss, oh my god!”, you squealed, head lolling back as your toes began to curl against the mattress.

Hissing at your sudden tighter grip, Terry’s brows furrowed a tad deeper. “Why you grippin’ me like that? Hm?” You knew the answer, and so did he. But your almost non-coherent words made it hard to give him one. “You finna cum? Is that what it is?”

You nodded frantically, the pace of your bounces starting to increase. “You gon’ cum for me, mama? You gon’ show me how wet you can get for me?”

“Y-yesss, fuck! I’m gon’ cum for you, daddy!”, you moaned, toes curling tighter as you grabbed his free hand and interlocked your fingers. The speed of his thumb started to increase to match the pace of your bounces, your sounds now being full on pornstar moans.

“Chase that shit then, Peach. Show me how wet this pretty pussy can get for me.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice because you already felt it coming. Nails clawing at his chest, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth hung ajar as your walls closed as tight as they could. The groans omitted from him only assisted with your heavenly climax, thighs trembling as you tried your hardest not to wake the neighbors, though both you and Terry were sure you had probably already done that.

“There you go. Get what you need, pretty girl,” Terry cooed, thumb still rotating on your sensitive center even though your bouncing had come to a steady halt. “Let that shit out.”

Chest heavy with pants, you absentmindedly wound your hips against his thumb, riding out your high to its highest potential. When you were done, you and your throbbing center had had enough. Your hand had quickly found Terry’s, grabbing hold of his wrist. “Mm, fuck, okay…I’m tapped out,” you huffed through short breaths, pushing his thumb away from your now sore pleasure point.

You lifted yourself off of his length with a wince before collapsing back into his chest. “You good?”

Fuck no you weren’t good. Your body may as well been filled with noodles. Your legs and back were as good as gone, and don’t even get started on your knees. “Don’t even think about touching me first the next two weeks.”

you glanced at your phone that read 1:47 am. he'd texted you an hour ago, “you good?", and you'd replied with a blurry photo of you and your girls making kissy faces at the camera.

come through

bring your friends.

👀

"soon," you said while grinning. "i told him to bring the guys."

your friends eyebrows shot up. "i thought this was girls night?"

"it was but i miss my man." you shrugged, unashamed. "and i needed an excuse to see him without making y'all feel like third wheels."

"and you still made us the third wheels?" your cousin asked while laughing.

"no, i made them the third wheels. now y'all can focus on jean and them."

"you're so calculating," your friend said but she was already reaching for her compact mirror.

"i'm considerate. there's a difference boo."

a couple minutes later your phone buzzed and you snatched it up so fast your cousin laughed.

outside. coming up.

finally.

you miss me?

maybe.

you drunk?

maybe.

send a pic.

you held up your phone and angled it downward so your body was in the frame and snapped a quick photo— you sitting pretty on the velvet seats, dress hitched up on your thighs, curls wild, and ring catching the light. your smile was drunk and happy as you tried your best to get a steady picture.

hurry up.

damn. on my way.

you tossed your phone on the couch, grabbed the nearest shot glass and downed it.

"he's coming," you announced.

the table erupted.

"finally."

“where's my lip gloss?"

"connie better be with him. im getting us out the trenches tonight."

"you're so weird."

"and you're so single. let me live."

you laughed while watching your girls scramble to reapply gloss, fluff their hair, and fix their dresses. they pretended not to care but you saw the way your sister checked her reflection in a spoon and the way your friend suddenly cared about the arrangement of bottles on the table.

you just sat back, heart racing at the thought of your man coming and you couldn't wait to feel his arms around you.

a hour later, the elevator dinged as the doors slid open and there he was.

ony stepped out first and his eyes found you immediately, his eyes scanning the room before landing on your face. behind him came eren, jean, connie, and some teammates you recognized but couldn't name in your drunken state.

the energy in the room shifted as ony crossed to you in six long strides, ignoring everyone else, and pulling you off the couch into his arms.

"hey, mama," he murmured against your hair.

"you took forever," you mumbled as you melted into his chest.

"had to drag these fools out the studio. eren was locked in."

"eren can wait."

"he said the same thing about you."

you rolled your eyes as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. his eyes dragged over your face at your wild curls, your smudged lip gloss, and the drunken slant of your smile.

"you look good," he said.

"i look drunk."

"ain’t no difference."

he kissed you while connie whistled and someone yelled "get a room" and you know that was definitely jean but you didn't care.

you had your man. you had your girls. you had the whole city at your feet and a ring on your finger during a birthday night you'd never forget.

and when ony pulled back, breathless and smiling, he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

"happy birthday, mama," he said softly.

"thank you for coming," you replied.

"ain't nowhere else i'd rather be."

you weren't sure exactly when you'd ended up in ony's lap. one minute you were standing and leaning against the couch while your cousin poured another round. the next, ony had grabbed your waist, pulled you down onto his thighs, and wrapped an arm around your stomach to keep you from sliding off.

"you 'bout to fall," he murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

"i am not," you slurred, even as your body sagged against his chest.

"mmhm."

his hand splayed across your bare back and you shivered, pressing closer. the vip section spun lazily around you, pink and gold lights blurring at the edges. your girls were scattered across the couches now, deep in conversation with the guys.

and you? you were exactly where you wanted to be.

"another shot!" your friend appeared in front of you, holding out a glass. "for the birthday girl!" you reached for it but your hand wobbled and ony plucked it out of the air before you could grab it.

"nah," he said, tossing it back himself. "she done."

"ony–" you started to protest but he was already setting the glass on the table.

"you can barely sit up straight, mama. you ain't takin' no more shots."

"i'm fine–"

"you're drunk." he kissed your temple, soft and firm. "and you're gonna thank me tomorrow."

you wanted to argue but your body betrayed you as you melted further into his chest. his arms tightened around you and you sighed, your head falling back against his shoulder.

"fine," you mumbled. "but you gotta take the rest of 'em for me."

"already planned on it."

and he did.

every time one of your cousins came over with a shot, ony took it. every time someone shouted "birthday girl!" and raised a glass, ony drank it. he didn't even flinch, just tossed them back one after another, his chest rumbling with low laughter every time you whined about it.

"you're gonna be so drunk," you said, watching him down another.

"someone gotta be." he set the glass down while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "can't have you out here actin' up."

"i don't act up."

"you literally tried to climb on the table ten minutes ago."

"i was dancing."

"you were struggling."

you pouted but he just kissed the pout off your lips and you forgot what you were mad about.

somewhere around 2:30, food appeared.

this was drunk food. wings, loaded fries, and mozzarella sticks that stretched for miles when you bit into them. ony must have ordered it at some point because he was the only one coherent enough to use a phone.

"eat," he said while pressing a fry to your lips.

you took a bite, chewing slowly, your eyes half closed.

"'s good," you mumbled.

"eat another one."

"you eat another one."

he shook his head but he was smiling and he fed you three more fries before you turned your face away.

" 'm full."

"you ate like five fries."

" 'm full."

he sighed, setting the plate aside, and pulled you closer. "you impossible."

"you love it."

"unfortunately."

the night started winding down around 3.

your girls were flagging as your sister was arguing with jean about something neither of them would remember tomorrow and your cousin taking mirror selfies with connie's phone because hers had died.

you were barely awake as your face pressed into ony's neck, your breath warm against his skin.

"i'm ready to go," you whispered.

he turned his head as his lips brushed against your forehead. "yeah?"

"mmhm." you nuzzled closer, your nose grazing his jaw. "carry me?"

he laughed low, his chest vibrating under you. "you want me to carry you out?"

"please." you kissed his neck lazily, your lips dragging against his skin. "and grab my heels, they my favorite."

"which ones are those?"

"the ones i was wearin'. under the table."

he looked down and your bare feet were dangling over his thigh, your gold heels kicked somewhere beneath the velvet couch.

"those?"

"those." you kissed his neck again, slower this time. "please, baby."

he exhaled as he muttered, "you tryna kill me,"

"no." you kissed his jaw. "just tryna go home."

he stood up with you wrapped around him like a koala. your legs hooked around his waist, your arms looped around his neck, and your face buried in the crook of his shoulder. he bent down one handed and scooped your heels off the floor, dangling them from his fingers.

"got 'em," he said.

"you're the best," you mumbled into his neck.

"i know."

your girls called out goodbyes as he carried you toward the elevator and shouting "text me when you get home!" you lifted one hand in a lazy wave, your ring catching the light one last time.

the elevator doors closed, muffling the music, and suddenly it was just the two of you.

"you had fun?" he asked, shifting you higher on his hip.

"the most fun." you kissed his neck again, right below his ear, where his cologne was strongest. "thank you for this."

"didn't do nothin'."

"you rented out a whole club."

"that's just money." the elevator dinged as the doors opened to the parking garage. "you happy. that's what matters."

the cool night air hit you the second he stepped outside. ony’s driver had the blacked out suv waiting at the curb. he opened the door for you as you still held onto him, helping you get in because your legs were a unsteady from all those shots. the second the door shut behind him, the world outside disappeared.

it was just the two of you in the dim glow of the interior lights.

“come here, baby.” his voice had dropped that octave that always made you wet. he pulled you across the seat until you were straddling his lap, your dress bunching up around your thighs. his big hands slid up the backs of your legs, squeezing your ass possessively.

“fuck… you really mine now, huh?” he kissed your neck, then your jaw, then your mouth and he was tasting the candy blue shots still on your tongue. “my fiancée. my wife to be. walking around with that ring on your finger while you twerk to city girls. you know what that does to me?”

you whimpered as one of his hands slipped between your thighs, pushing your lace thong to the side. two thick fingers dragging through your already soaked folds.

“shit, you wet as hell,” he groaned, circling your clit with the pads of his fingers before pushing both digits inside you in one smooth stroke. “this pussy been waiting for me all night?”

your head fell back, a broken moan slipping out as he started pumping his fingers, curling them just right against that spot that made your toes curl. the wet sounds filled the backseat, obscene and loud.

“yes–ony… fuck–”

“that’s right. say my name, baby. my pretty baby.” he sucked on your neck, adding a third finger and stretching you open while his thumb worked your clit. “you’re gonna be my wife. carrying my last name. walking around with my ring and my baby in you one day. and you still out here acting like the baddest in the club. you know how proud that shit makes me?”

your hips rolled down onto his hand, chasing the pleasure as it built fast and hot. the driver was separated by the partition, but you didn’t even care if he could hear you moaning like a slut for your man.

ony pulled his fingers out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. he smirked, bringing them to his mouth to taste you while he used his other hand to free himself from his pants. his dick was hard, thick, and leaking for you.

“turn around for me. hands on the seat.”

you obeyed, facing the front, knees on the leather as he pushed your dress up over your ass. he didn’t even pull your thong all the way off, just yanked it to the side again before lining himself up and sinking into you in one long thrust.

“fuuuck, baby,” he groaned, gripping your hips tight. “so tight and wet. this my pussy, right?”

“yes- yours,” you gasped, pushing back on him.

he started fucking you deep, one hand sliding up your back to grab the gold chain like a leash while the other reached around to rub your clit. the car rocked with every thrust, the windows already fogging up.

“look at you,” he praised, voice strained with pleasure. “my fiancée taking this dick so good in the backseat like a nasty little slut. after all them shots and dancing… still creaming all over me. that’s why i’m marrying you. you perfect for me.”

your orgasm hit you hard as your vision blurred. your thighs shaking and moaning his name loud enough that your throat went raw. ony fucked you through it, then pulled out and flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide before sliding back in.

he leaned down, forehead against yours, eyes locked on you as he stroked deep and slow.

“i love you,” he breathed between thrusts. “my beautiful baby. my wife. gonna give you everything. this dick. this ring. my last name. everything.”

you came again with his name on your lips, nails digging into his back. ony followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning as he filled you up, hips stuttering against yours.

he stayed inside you for a long moment, kissing you soft and lazy, thumb stroking the diamond on your finger again.

“best birthday ever?” he asked, smiling against your mouth.

you laughed breathlessly, still pulsing around him. “best birthday ever.”