18, Nayy

Louisiana heat was something you didn't just feel—you wore it like a second skin. Even inside the lecture halls of LSU, the humidity of New Orleans clung to everything, making the air thick and heavy. You had carved out a sanctuary for yourself in the very last row of the Business Administration grad program, your head down, curls cascading over your shoulders as you meticulously took notes. You liked the invisibility of the back row—it kept the world at bay, allowing you to exist in the quiet hum of your own thoughts. Your own fantasies.

But maybe you were dreaming lucidly, because he couldn’t have been carved out of anything but your dreams.

He didn't just walk into the room; he took possession of it. A mountain of a man he was, standing well over six feet with a muscular frame that seemed too large for the cramped university seating. His skin had that healthy, olive glow, dotted with a constellation of freckles and moles that trailed up his arms and settled along the line of his jaw. But it was the ink that caught your eye first—a dense, intricate sleeve that climbed his arm and crept up the side of his neck, marking him as something far removed from the typical corporate suit in the room. When he scanned the class, those deep green eyes flecked with hazel, landing on the only open seat left. Right next to you. 

“Mr. Yeager. So nice of you to join twenty minutes late."

The scrape of a chair as he—the giant—dropped into the seat beside you.

The professor then cleared his throat—“Well, since we’re all here now—let’s go around the room. Introduce yourselves. What you’re doing here. Why you’re here."

The room droned on, one polished MBA after another rattling off their five year plans like they were reading from the same corporate script. You tucked a loose cinnamon curl behind your ear, eyes glued to your notebook—until a deep, graveled voice cut through the monotony.  

“Eren.” 

Your head turned. He wasn’t even looking at the class—just you, those heavy lidded eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it.  

“Oh—" you blinked, caught off guard by the directness.

“Um. I’m—"

“I know your name," he interrupted, voice low—“‘Professor called on you earlier. Said it real sweet, too. Like he knew you."

Heat flooded your cheeks. 

“…I grew up here. I’m assuming you didn’t?” 

One dark brow arched, “Nah. German roots. Moved down South young enough to know better,” a pause, “You askin’ ’cause of the accent?"

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your notebook, the paper crumpling slightly under your grip.  

“You talk kinda rough," you pointed out, voice so gentle it barely carried over the hum of the classroom. The moment the words left your lips, you regretted them—too forward, too familiar. But instead of bristling, Eren just tilted his head, that dark hair slipping slightly from its bun as he studied you.  

“You talk soft,” he countered, "Real soft. Makes a man wanna lean in."

Heat fully prickled up the back of your neck, spreading like wildfire across your cheeks once more. You ducked your head, pretending to scribble something important—anything to avoid that unblinking gaze.  

Eren didn’t seem to mind the silence. He stretched his legs out under the desk, his work boots scuffing the floor as you couldn’t help but notice how his thighs strained against the fabric of his jeans. 

How does a man like this even fit in these tiny chairs? 

“My old man’s handin’ over the business,” he finally said, low and unhurried. 

“Construction. Been workin’ it since I was a kid. Figured I’d get the degree to make him proud.” 

You peeked up at him through your lashes, lips curving—“That’s good," you offered, “Real good."

Eren didn’t smile back. He just watched you, eyes tracing the bow of your lips, the flutter of your pulse at your throat. The weight of his attention was suffocating—intoxicating. It made you feel seen in a way that left your skin too tight, your breath too shallow.  

“What about you?" he asked.  

"Consulting. After my master’s." 

A slow nod, “Smart."

That was it. No empty praise, no fake enthusiasm. Just that one word wrapped in that voice—dark and rich as Louisiana mud. And somehow, that was the best response you could’ve expected. 

He listened when you spoke. Not the way most people did—half distracted, already forming their next thought. No, Eren listened like he was committing every syllable to memory. Like your words mattered.  

So, he kept sitting next to you every class. Then he started walking you to your car under the sticky southern sun, his shadow swallowing yours whole. Next thing you knew, his rough hands were sliding into your hair, mouth hot on yours, his voice growling “All fuckin’ mines" against your skin like a vow.  

And it was a vow, because yeah—you married him. Of course you did.

Falling in love with Eren was an easy three years. It was the way he built things—homes from the ground up, families from nothing, a life for you both with his own two hands. His construction business thrived under his command, stitching New Orleans back together one house at a time, healing the scars Katrina left behind decades later. And you? You were his consultant, his right hand, his wife. But Lord knows he never let you lift a finger without him hovering like a storm cloud.  

The day you painted over the “Land Purchased" sign, the Louisiana sun bronzed your skin, your pale gold marquise cut diamond flashing like firelight against your finger. Your hair—a wild spill of cinnamon, copper, and black Balayage curls—tumbled past your shoulders, sticking to the sweat on your neck. A white tank top clung to every curve, the fabric stretched taut over heavy tits that sat high and full like some impossible dream. Your shorts, dusted with paint splatters, barely contained the sinful swell of your hips, the tremble of your ass with every step.  

Eren emerged from the half finished farmhouse, shirtless, his olive skin glistening under the sun. His tattoos flexed as he wiped sweat from his brow, those green eyes locking onto you like you were the only thing worth seeing.  

“You love it?"

You giggled, soft and sweet with a nod. That slow, knowing nod—the one that had him crossing the yard in three strides, his large hands finding your waist. A squeak left your lips as he hoisted you up, your legs locking around his hips like they were made to hold him. 

“Let me hear you,” he rasped, his breath hot against your mouth.  

“I love it,” you whimpered, dizzy with the feel of him.

And then? His mouth crashed into yours, deep and claiming like he was sealing the promise of this home, this life, this love—all built by him, for you.

Everything was perfect. Your wedding day draped New Orleans in gold—the kind of afternoon where the sunlight dripped like honey, where the air smelled of jasmine and the distant hum of a brass band. Eren stood at the altar, a vision in his tailored suit, his dark hair pulled back to show off that sharp jaw, those eyes—endless, fixed on you like you were the only thing that mattered. You floated toward him in a dress that hugged every sinful curve, lace whispering over wide hips, the sweetheart neckline cradling your heavy tits like an offering.  

And then?  

He walked in at the reception. 

“Ain’t mean to be late, cherè.” 

Oh, he kissed your hand too. 

“Traffic from Baton Rouge was a bitch.” 

Onyankopon. 

Eren’s best man. His business partner. And good Lord, was he nothing like you expected.  

Dark as rich mahogany, skin gleaming under the fairy lights, he was a mountain of muscle wrapped in a suit that barely contained him. Tattoos snaked up his neck, curling behind his ear where a small NOLA in bold script marked his temple. His cornrows were immaculate, tight against his scalp, leading down to a beard so sharp it could cut glass. But his hands—  

“Big," you blurted, champagne tipsy, swaying in your heels.  

Onyankopon paused mid step, those heavy lidded eyes sliding to yours. A slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips as he took your offered hand, his grip swallowing yours whole. 

“Yeah?" he rumbled, “Yo’ ass got tiny ones."

Heat flooded you—sobering, dizzying. Eren’s arm slid around your waist, his chuckle nowhere near amused against your ear. 

“Behave.” 

From that day on?  

You might’ve been fucked.

No, you told yourself it was nothing.  

Just admiration. That’s all.  

Onyankopon was your husband’s best friend, his business partner—of course you’d notice the way his muscles strained against his wifebeater when he hauled lumber, or the way his deep Creole drawl curled around words like “cherè” when he handed you coffee on sleepy mornings at the job site.  

It was simple stuff, really. He would lean over your shoulder to check a blueprint, his cologne—something dark and spicy—filling your lungs, his tattooed forearm brushing your bare skin. And suddenly your throat would go dry, your fingers fumbling over the keyboard like you’d forgotten how to type.  

So yeah, you lied.  

Because it wasn’t just admiration.  

It was the way your pulse skittered when he looked at you, like he knew the effect he had. The way your skin burned when his fingers—big, rough, capable—lingered a second too long handing you paperwork. The way you caught yourself staring at the flex of his back under his shirt when he bent to inspect a foundation, the way your thighs pressed together when he laughed, deep and rasping, at something Eren said.  

You were careful. So careful.  

You made sure never to be alone with him—linger too long in the office, stand too close in the supply closet. You kept your voice steady when you spoke to him, your eyes politely averted, your body angled away.  

You were married for god sake, what was wrong with you? 

To a man who worshipped you, who built you a home with his hands, who knew you better than you knew yourself.  You’d never do anything to jeopardize that.

…But looking wasn’t bad, right? 

Right. 

Well—that was all until your husband caught you, anyway.

So here you were now. Keys clacked under your French tips as you leaned over the laptop, sunlight filtering through the half renovated lace curtains of a shotgun home. Behind you, the rhythmic thud of hammers and the occasional sharp ting of metal hitting metal filled the air—Eren and Onyankopon moving in that seamless, wordless rhythm they’d developed over years of working side by side.  

Eren’s music blared from the Bluetooth speaker—One Step Closer, Linkin Park. While Ony’s music, Pick Your Poison, Rob49 occasionally overtook it when he cranked his phone volume up just to piss Eren off. It was chaos. It was them.

Then—the familiar click of Eren’s Zippo.  

“Fais pas ça dans la maison du client, chéri," Please don’t smoke in the clients house, love—you murmured, Creole lacing your words like honey—sweet, but firm.  

Eren exhaled sharply through his nose, already halfway to the door.

“J’sors," I’m going out, was a term he often grunted, the cigarette dangling between his lips. Then, as an afterthought—“Wife said she wants white oak now, not maple."

You could feel Onyankopon’s irritation immediately. 

“The fuck she mean now?” 

You didn’t have to look up to know his jaw was clenched, that vein in his temple probably throbbing—“I was ‘bout to start the goddamn window." 

Eren just shrugged, flicking ash onto the porch steps—“Husband’s payin’ double." 

“Ain’t about the money—“ 

“Then quit bitchin’." 

A cloud of smoke hit Onyankopon square in the face.  

“Chill out, nigga," he warned, voice dropping into something lethal.  

“Ain’t nobody bitchin’." 

You finally lifted your head, watching the two of them—polar opposites, brothers in arms, the kind of friendship that thrived on friction. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as Eren’s gaze flicked toward you from across the room—a cocky half wink, the one that usually melted you into putty. This time, you just rolled your eyes.

“And where does she think we’re gonna find white oak for countertops at six in the afternoon?" you asked.

Eren exhaled another plume of smoke, shifting his weight against the doorframe. 

“Not just countertops," he corrected, gruff—“Everythin’. Counters to white granite, cabinets to off white." 

A heavy thud echoed through the room.  

Onyankopon had just dropped whatever tool he’d been holding. He was now leaning back against the exposed studs of the wall, arms crossed, biceps straining against the rolled up sleeves of his forest green shirt. 

“Might as well tell her to sign up for a whole new renovation," he rumbled, deep voice edged with irritation.  

Eren reminded, "You’re the only one complainin’." 

“Ain’t about complainin’. It’s about sense." 

Ony’s jaw ticked, “There’s three more days in the contract. This ain’t some HGTV bullshit where we magically got time and money to burn." 

Eren flicked ash off his cigarette, “It’s about client satisfaction." 

Silence stretched for a beat—then Ony’s gaze slid to you. 

“What ‘you think?" 

You pressed your lips together, suddenly the unwilling mediator. You weren’t a fan of getting between their disputes—mostly because you knew them both too well. Knew Eren’s stubbornness, Ony’s razor sharp pragmatism. A soft sigh escaped you as you tucked a wild cinnamon curl behind your ear, fingers lingering at the shell of it.  

“…Ony’s right, baby," you admitted, “It’s a little late for changes when we’re halfway done with the kitchen." 

Eren’s jaw tightened—just a fraction, but you saw it. The flex of muscle, the way his fingers twitched around the cigarette.  

Then, after a beat—“I’m hearin’ you.” 

His tone was clipped as he turned back to Ony, “You got suggestions?"

“Finish the cabinet setup, make the kitchen white. If she ain’t happy after?", A slow shrug, “She can sign another contract."

Eren took a long drag, exhaling through his nose. 

“Alright.”

Your fingers tapped lightly against the paperwork in front of you, "Think you can grab the maple from Home Depot?” 

Eren took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it out the door, the ember sparking against the gravel. 

“I’ll head there now," he rumbled, already rolling his sleeves higher up his tattooed forearms.  

Onyankopon’s deep voice cut in from across the room, "You goin’ by yo’self?" 

“Why? My other wife wanna kiss n’ make up before I leave?" 

Ony glared, “I ain’t kissin’ yo’ overgrown ass.” 

“‘Soundin’ like a damn kid," Eren muttered, grabbing his keys from the makeshift hook by the door.  

“Cause I’m arguin’ wit’ one.”

You sighed dramatically, swiveling in your chair just enough to shoot them both a pleading look—“’Rennn, can you please come show me some love before y’all start arguing again?"

“You want some love, huh?” 

Your giggle was soft as his fingers tangled in your curls, tilting your head back just enough for him to lean down and rub his nose against yours—his version of affection, sweet and possessive all at once. 

“Don’t be long, hm?" you whispered, brushing your lips against the tip of his nose as he lowly grunted, “Mhm.”

“You love me?" 

Eren sucked his teeth, “Y’know I fuckin’ do," he rasped, before his mouth crashed into yours—hard, demanding, his. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl in your sandals, all rough lips and barely restrained hunger.  

Just as you melted into it, Onyankopon’s voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water.  

“Aight, aight—remember Home Depot ‘bout to close?"

Eren dragged his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling away, “Let me kiss on my damn wife," pressing one last rough kiss to your forehead. 

“Have those consultations ready for me when I get back. Be good.” 

Then, he turned to Onyankopon. 

“You need some shit from the store, hubby?” 

Ony didn’t even look up from his sketches, just leveled Eren with a glare that could split concrete. 

“Just gon’ head ‘fore I beat yo’ ass, Yeager.” 

And with that, the door closed. 

The thing is, you didn’t think Eren would be gone for two hours. 

The sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting the half renovated shotgun house in golden orange hues. You’d texted Eren three times—no answer. Called twice—straight to voicemail. Your knee bounced under the desk, fingers drumming against the wood as your eyes flicked toward Onyankopon.  

He was sprawled on the sofa, his massive frame dominating the space, one boot propped on the coffee table as he sketched out future project blueprints. The muscles in his forearm flexed with every stroke of the pencil, the ink of his tattoos shifting under the dimming light.  

“…Eren text you?" 

Ony didn’t glance up, “Nah, mama. Ain’t answer." 

Your lips pressed into a thin line.  

That’s when he finally looked at you—really looked—his dark eyes scanning your face before he sighed, deep and slow. 

“Nigga ain’t dead, girl," he drawled, “‘Prolly’ all over NOLA tryna’ find the perfect maple oak like he custom buildin’ Versailles."

A small, reluctant smile tugged at your lips.

 “…He’s a bit overzealous at times.” 

Onyankopon smirked—that smirk, the one that made your stomach twist, “You good, though?" 

“Mhm." 

“You sure?" 

“Fine." 

“Need anythin’?" 

“No."

Every question was another lick of fire under your skin. Because why did he have to be like this? Why did he have to notice?

You swallowed hard, forcing your attention back to the laptop. 

“I just wanna finish these consultations." 

“Ain’t gotta overwork yo’self," Ony murmured, that Creole lilt making the words too smooth, too close—“Eren gon’ be out for another minute." 

Your thoughts swarmed, loud and suffocating—until his voice cut through again, sharper this time.  

“You good?" 

You blinked, “Hm?" 

His eyes dropped just for a fraction of a second, before flicking back up.

“You sweatin’."

You looked down.  

Your own forest green baby tee clinging to the swell of your heavy tits was now damp with sweat. Your nipples, hard and sensitive, were painfully visible through the thin fabric.  

Oh. 

An awkward giggle bubbled out of you as you crossed your arms, “It’s just...really hot."  

Onyankopon’s gaze didn’t waver.  

“Yeah," he said, low.

“It is."

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as Onyankopon’s voice cut through the thick silence.  

“Gon’ finish that kitchen window now,” he announced, “You need me?” 

Your brain short circuited.

Huh?

“Hm?” 

“I said, let me know if you need sum’, aight?”

You nodded, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

“Okay.”

Get it together. 

Another twenty minutes. 

Your traitorous eyes flicked up from the screen—just once, just glancing, then—  

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

Onyankopon’s hands. Calloused, rough, knuckles scarred from years of labor—veins thick and pronounced wrapped around the glass pane of the window, biceps flexing under the strain. His stance was wide, thighs like tree trunks braced beneath him, the muscles in his back shifting under sweat slicked skin like some kind of damn art exhibit. 

And then—  

Hell. Actual hell.  

His fingers reached at the nape of his neck as he tugged forward to pull his shirt off in one smooth motion, tucking it into the loop of his belt. Brown skin glistened under the fading sun, sweat rolling down the deep ridges of his abs, all the way to the broad expanse of his chest. He was thick and corded, Adam’s apple bobbing as he grunted, hefting the window into place like it weighed nothing.  

You were dizzy.  

How easy would it be for him to pick you up like that?  

To pin you. To fu—

The door swung open. 

You damn near leaped out of your skin, scrambling upright in your chair as you snatched a pen like you’d been vigorously taking notes this whole time. You scribbled absolute gibberish at the bottom of some poor client’s consultation form, clearing your throat so loud it was borderline theatrical.  

“Baby, you alright?" Eren’s voice was rough, “You need some water?" 

You shook your head quickly, not realizing just how flushed your face was until you felt the heat crawling up your neck. Desperate to ground yourself, you reached for him, palms sliding up his tattooed arms to tug him down closer.  

“It’s Louisiana," you deflected. 

“What took you so long?" 

“‘Damn near had to travel across the entire goddamn state to find the maple,” he grumbled, but his hands were already sliding down, calloused fingers finding the dip of your waist—that spot, the one that made you squirm every time.  A soft noise escaped you, lips parting in a small pout as your back arched instinctively under his touch.  

“Missed you," you whispered against his jaw, your mouth barely grazing his.  

“Yeah?" 

You nodded, but something flickered across your face—something off.   

Your husband was a lot of things, but oblivious wasn't one of them.  

“Eyes,” he murmured, "Need ‘em on me." 

You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile as your hands slid up to rub at his broad shoulders—“M’just tired," you lied, the words slipping out too easily.  

“That’s it?" 

“Mhm." 

Eren studied you for another long second—without another word he dipped his head, his lips trailing hot, possessive kisses along your jaw, all the way down to the column of your throat.  

“Missed you too," he growled against your skin, the scrape of his teeth making your fingers tangle in his hair, head tipping back to give him better access.  

But your eyes—unfortunately for you—might’ve flicked to Onyankopon just one more time. 

Later that night, dim glows of your vanity lights cast a honeyed halo around your reflection as you pressed your fingertips into your cheeks, tracing the warmth lingering there. Your face was still flushed—too flushed, the heat creeping from your temples down to your collarbones like a slow burning fever. 

You dragged your gaze over your own features in the mirror. Your full, heart shaped lips, naturally dark like they’d been dipped in mahogany, the sultry slope of your almond eyes lined with those impossibly long, fox like lashes. Even on your softest days, your face carried something sinful—something that made your husband’s grip tighten when other men looked too long. The oversized DEFTONES tee you’d thrown on swallowed your curves, but it couldn’t hide the stubborn peaks of your nipples, still stiff beneath the fabric.  

God, were you ovulating or something? 

The steady drum of the shower cut through your thoughts—Eren was in there, steam fogging the glass, water sluicing down the hard planes of his body. You bit your lip, willing the image to overwrite the one still scorched behind your eyelids; Onyankopon’s thick neck glistening with sweat, his hands flexing around that window frame like it was weightless. 

“Meine schöne Frau.” 

Pretty girl.

Eren’s voice—rough, sweetened by the German endearment—snapped you back. The bathroom door creaked open, a wave of steam rolling out as he stepped into the bedroom, his massive frame barely contained by the towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the ridges of his abs, the kind of carved definition that looked like he’d been sculpted by some vengeful god. And there, thick and heavy against the damp fabric—the outline of him made your mouth water.  

He dragged a second towel over his dark hair, slicking it back as his eyes met yours in the mirror.  

“You finish up those emails earlier?” 

Your fingers froze mid reach for the vanity drawer. Shit. 

“No,” you admitted, rifling through the contents with sudden urgency—“I’ll get it done before bed.” 

Eren stilled. You could feel his gaze sharpening even before he spoke.  

“What happened?” 

“Got distracted with some calls.”

A beat of silence. 

“You seem distracted now,” His tone was deceptively light, but his eyes weren’t. 

“Can’t even look at me straight.”

“Maybe ‘cause you’re so handsome, hm?” 

Eren huffed. 

A sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like the click of a puzzle piece snapping into place. His stare burned into the side of your face, heavy enough that your skin prickled. You gave him a wobbly smile, turning back to the drawer like your bonnet was the most fascinating thing in the world.  

“Let me ask you somethin’.” 

Your pulse kicked into a rabbit's quick rhythm the second those words left Eren’s mouth.  

"Onyankopon." 

A beat.  

“You like him?" 

Your fingers stilled against the vanity, brows lifting as you blinked at him—once, twice—before forcing out a nervous laugh. 

“He’s your best friend, why wouldn’t I like him?" 

He dragged the towel over his hands. Slowly. 

“That’s not what I’m askin’.”

“Then what are you asking?"

“Truth," he said simply, green eyes pinning you in place—“So I’ll ask again. You like him?"

“I don’t—" 

The second those words slipped out, his stare cut through you, silencing the lie before it could fully form.  

You swallowed hard, shifting tactics.  

“…That’s a weird question to ask, Eren." 

“Nah,” he countered, tossing the towel aside—“It ain’t."

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip as you studied his face—searching for anger, jealousy, something. But his expression was unreadable, carved from stone. And maybe that’s why the truth tumbled out before you could stop it.  

“... I do." 

You then rushed to add, “But it’s not like that. It’s just—a fantasy, you know? I’d never act on it."

Your voice wavered, “You know that, right?"

Silence.  

“Your fantasy," he said finally, voice rough. 

“Talk me through it."

“What?" 

“Actin’ like you don’t understand isn’t gonna change my question.” 

Your face burned, toes curling against the plush rug. 

“It’s silly." 

“You think I’m mad at you?" 

“Are you?"

“I’m not. ‘Shit ain’t silly if you’re blushin’ like this."

He then repeats, “Tell me.” 

You swallowed, “You’re sure you’re not—?"

“Baby," he cut in, impatient, “C’mon." 

A shaky exhale. 

“It’s seeing him do masculine things. How sweet he is. It’s…a turn on. But—" You hesitated, voice dropping to a whisper, “The idea of both of you together is…more.”  

“You think about him fuckin’ you?" 

“‘Ren—!" 

“You think ’bout him fuckin’ you while I watch?" 

You shrieked, rushing over to slap a hand over his mouth. 

“Eren, Jesus—no! I just—both of you—that’s all!" 

Panic sent you scrambling into his chest, clinging to him even as he stood unmoving, his lack of reaction only making you whimper harder. 

“It’s stupid, I know. I’d never—I’d never—" 

“That’s somethin’ you want?" His voice was dangerously calm, “Me an’ him? You wanna take that?"

You squeaked, burying your face in his chest with a mortified groan, “Baby! Stop it!” 

A low chuckle rumbled through him as he finally moved, his hands finding your hips, dragging you flush against him.  

“Schüchterne Frau," he murmured against your ear, rough and warm.  

Shy woman.

Eren's massive hands then circled your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing. The world tilted as he deposited you onto the bed, his towering frame caging you in like some predator playfully trapping his prey. e.  

“You're insane,” you exhaled, fingers twisting around his arms—“How aren't you mad? Why aren't you mad?" 

“Nothin’ to be mad about."

“I’ve been feeling crazy all day.” 

“I’m knowin’,” he mused, “Shit was kinda cute to see.” 

You flicked his nose. Hard.  

“Ouch.”

Before you could argue more, his straight teeth caught the hem of your oversized tee, dragging it up with a slow, deliberate pull. The fabric slipped past your waist, your ribs, and then—there—your swollen, heavy tits spilled free, nipples already pebbled and aching.  

A rough groan escaped him as his mouth descended, sucking one peaked bud between his lips with a greedy, wet drag. You yelped, slapping his bicep as pleasure shot straight to your core.  

He pulled off with a filthy pop, gaze heavy lidded. 

“You done with your lil’ tantrum?”  

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“My husband just made me admit I fantasize about a threesome with his best friend. I’m validated in my tantrum.”  

His lips trailed hot, open mouthed kisses up your sternum, between your breasts, along the column of your throat—each one leaving fire in its wake. 

“Ain’t nobody said all that, huh?”  

You shuddered, “Can we stop talking about this? Can you just say I’m pretty and that you love me?”  

“You’re the prettiest thing in the fuckin’ South.”

When you huffed unsatisfactorily, he then cradled your face, forcing your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, his voice dropping to that possessive growl that made your toes curl.  

“I love you so fuckin’ much, woman. You’re mine." 

You puckered your lips in demand—and Eren obliged, peppering them with teasing, playful kisses until you sighed, melting under him.  

“Mkay," you relented, “All is forgiven." 

Then, with mischief sparking in your eyes, you poked his dimple and wiggled your brows.

“Wanna get freaky?" 

“Yeah," he hummed, "Let me just call Onyankopon first—" 

You flicked his nose again.

The next few days had been nothing short of perfect—your off days filled with the kind of lazy, indulgent bliss that made your heart swell. Sleeping in tangled limbs, slow mornings spent cuddling under thick blankets while rain pattered against the windows. You watched Eren move through the house like a restless storm, fixing things he’d been too busy to touch for months—tightening cabinet handles, oiling hinges, his muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his shirts as he worked.  

But the real highlight came when Eren closed a high paying deal he’d been chasing for months. You’d screamed, silent but full bodied, jumping up and down on the bed like an overexcited kid while Eren gripped your ankle to steady you, trying—and failing—to hide his grin behind a gruff, "Relax." 

Overall? It’d been a damn good weekend.  

…Here’s when shit got weird. 

Sunday football was a sacred ritual between Eren and Onyankopon—one you usually tagged along for out of sheer love. The routine was always the same ; morning games, the gym, then a home cooked meal—something indulgent, now a fancy spread to celebrate the big contract.  

But today?  

Today was…different.  

You padded downstairs in your Def Leppard tee, voice still thick with lingering drowsiness as you murmured, “Bon matin, mes gros bêtes,” good morning, my big beasts.

They were already planted on the couch, the glow of the TV casting shadows over their faces. Normally, they’d be shouting at the screen, arguing over plays, or tossing crude jabs at each other between sips of beer. But today? Silence. Heavy, charged, unsettling silence.  

They returned the greeting—Eren with a low “Mornin’, baby,” Ony with a slow, “Sleep good?”

 But their voices didn’t match the tension in the air. It was thick, heady, pressing against your skin like a touch you couldn’t shake.  

Eren broke the silence first.  

"Ony’s stayin’ for dinner."  

Onyankopon’s dark eyes followed the words, followed you—“If that’s aight with you.” 

The way he said it wasn’t really a question.  

You smiled softly, "Bien sûr, of course it’s okay." 

You tilted your head, “You guys okay with what I’m making?" 

“I’ll eat anything you put on a nigga tongue, girl.” 

Your pulse stuttered, your mouth suddenly dry, and you could only nod stiffly before turning toward the kitchen, face burning. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Maybe you were losing it. 

But if that wasn’t weird?  

This was.  

By noon, the energy shifted again—this time, louder, looser. Beer bottles clinked as Eren and Onyankopon tore into each other over the Saints vs. Cowboys game, their voices rough with playful aggression.  

“The hell you mean ’he’s washed’? Brees could out throw Prescott in his goddamn sleep!”

“Man, shut yo’ delusional ass up—Prescott got legs and an arm, yo’ nigga was throwing ducks by ‘18.”

You curled into Eren’s side, half listening, half reading a book you’d pulled from the shelf—until the warmth of his body and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you into a drowsy haze.  

And then?

Touch. 

Onyankopon’s rough fingers grazed your hip—just once, featherlight, barely there. A whisper of contact that could’ve been an accident. Eren’s hand then clamped down on your ass, pulling you deeper into him…closer to Onyankopon’s touch.  

You froze.  

“That’s a bullshit ass call and you know it!” Eren barked, his grip on you tightening as he leaned forward, jostling you. 

“Fuck outta’ here!” 

Their voices blurred into white noise. Your heart pounded so hard you swore they could hear it, your skin burning where both their hands lingered—Eren’s possessive kneading, Onyankopon’s fingers tracing slow circles near the hem of your shirt.  

You squeezed your eyes shut, playing asleep, but your body betrayed you—arching subtly into Eren’s chest while your thigh brushed Onyankopon’s. The scents of them—Eren’s cedar and leather musk, Onyankopon’s deep spice—wrapped around you like a fog, dizzying.  

Eren shifted again, his arm sliding behind you, guiding you until your ass was right there, nearly in Onyankopon’s lap.  

You inhaled shakily. 

The gym was supposed to be your sanctuary—iron clanging, weights thudding, the sharp scent of sweat and cleaning solution filling your lungs as you worked off the restless energy coiling in your stomach. But today?  

Today, nothing felt right. 

You stood behind both men, watching them switch off reps with the kind of effortless, predatory strength that made your mouth go dry. Eren’s tattoos flexed under the harsh overhead lights as he powered through a set of deadlifts, his low grunts sending an embarrassing shiver down your spine. Onyankopon’s back muscles rippled with every controlled pull on the cable machine, his deep voice growling something about “Weak ass form,” at Eren between breaths.  

Tugging your sweat damp curls into a messy clip, you tried—tried—to focus on your own set, but the air between the three of you felt charged, thick with something you couldn’t name.  

“Arch yo’ back more, lil’ mama,"  he murmured, his voice rough and too close, too warm against the shell of your ear. His hands slid down to your hips, adjusting your stance with a firm grip that sent heat spiraling straight to your core.

“There you go—good fuckin’ girl." 

You nearly stumbled.  

Eren—you husband—was right there, watching with those dark unreadable eyes, Onyankopon’s fingers lingering just a second too long.  

SMACK!

Eren’s palm connected with your ass, the sharp sting making you yelp as the flesh jiggled under his touch. 

“Schau nicht so verloren,” he growled—don’t look so lost—before giving you another rough tap, fingers flexing possessively.  

What the fuck was happening?

Everything had led into the night. The warm glow of the kitchen lights cast a soft halo around you as you moved gracefully between the stove and the counter, the rich aromas of garlic, thyme, and smoked paprika swirling through the air. The wine had done its job—easing the tension coiled in your shoulders, smoothing the edges of your nerves until you hummed along to the sultry jazz playing low in the background.  

A buttery pale yellow ruched set hugged your curves like a lover’s hands—the fitted capris accentuating the flare of your hips, the halter top cinching your waist just right, delicate white lace bow at the nape of your neck teasing against skin. Your heavy tits pressed together, nipples taut against the thin fabric, the pale gold jewelry at your wrists and ears catching the light with every movement. Delicate gold heels clicked softly against the hardwood as you swayed slightly, seasoning the pot before you with practiced hands.  

Then—that feeling.  

The weight of eyes on you through the patio door. 

Eren leaned back in his chair, white wifebeater stretched tight across his broad chest, open flannel shirt framing his thick arms. The silver chain around his neck glinted as he tilted his head back, exhaling a slow, deliberate stream of smoke from between those deep, full pink lips. His dark hair was tied back in that low bun hidden under a backwards cap, loose tendrils framing his sharp jaw as he murmured something to Onyankopon. 

And Onyankopon—god—his cornrows were fresh, edges crisp, the deep brown of his skin glowing under the dim patio lights. His beard was neatly trimmed, the scent of that new shea butter you’d noticed earlier clinging to him. His laugh, deep and rich, was muted through the glass, but you knew that sound—knew the way it rumbled through his chest.  

Their gazes locked onto you with an intensity that made your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon. Eren’s hand rubbed absently at his jaw. Onyankopon lifted his chin slightly, a slow, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he gave you a lazy, two fingered wave.  

Out of pure nerves, you lifted your hand in a sweet, awkward little wave back, your dimple popping as you forced a smile. 

The moment they stepped back inside, the air in the kitchen thickened. You felt it before you even turned around, the weight of their presence pressing against your skin like a physical touch.  

Eren loomed behind you first, his broad frame blocking the light from the hallway as he peered down at you with those damned eyes of his. His gaze trailed over the gold crucifix hugging your ankle, his nostrils flaring slightly before he rumbled, low and rough, “Missed you.”

Before you could respond, Onyankopon’s deep voice cut in from the doorway. 

“You lookin’ real pretty, girl.”

Eren stepped closer, his large hand tangling in your loose curls, tugging—like a child demanding attention. You humored him, turning to press a sweet, absentminded kiss to his cheek before gently pulling away, your voice a soft murmur.

“Just wanted to look pretty for you guys tonight—It’s a celebration, right?"

But Eren wasn’t having it. His lips found your jaw instead, rough and insistent, his tongue flicking against your skin in a tease. You let him, your hand coming up to rub at his shoulder in a weak attempt to ground him—or maybe yourself. 

“You guys hungry?" you managed, voice barely steady.  

“Starvin’," Eren growled against your throat before claiming your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss. His tongue slid past your lips without hesitation, your body responding before your brain could catch up.  

Onyankopon watches, “You always lookin’ good, mama. You know that?" 

Overstimulation prickled under your skin. Your laugh came out awkward, breathless as you cupped Eren’s jaw to gently break the kiss, holding him in place. 

“Thank you, Ony," you hummed, your exhale shaky as you forced yourself to focus—“Dinner’s almost ready, okay?" 

Eren nuzzled into the vanilla scented crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point as he finalized, “Don’t be long." 

Then—SMACK—his palm connected with your ass once more, the sharp sting making you jolt, “Can’t keep my fuckin’ mouth off you," he grunted, like it was your fault.  

Onyankopon’s voice was really the final blow, smooth as whiskey. 

“Yeah. We waitin’ on you." 

We waitin’ on you. 

You tried to rationalize it all—told yourself both men were just a little high, that’s why the energy between you had shifted so drastically. That’s why Eren had been so possessive, why Onyankopon’s compliments felt heavier than usual.  

Eren had disappeared upstairs to find another lighter, leaving you alone in the kitchen with Onyankopon while you put the final touches on dinner. The rich scent of beef stew filled the air, the buttery cornbread golden and steaming in its cast iron skillet. You focused on plating everything just right—garnishing each dish with a sprinkle of fresh parsley, making sure each portion was even.  

The silence stretched, but this time, you refused to let it be awkward. You glanced over at Onyankopon—seated at the table, his massive frame relaxed yet imposing, forearms corded with muscle as he crossed them over his black wifebeater.  

“How’d you spend your days off, Ony?” you asked, blowing a stray curl from your face absentmindedly.  

His dark eyes tracked the movement before he answered evenly, “Shit was aight. Mostly caught up on sleep.”

A pause, “You?”

You smiled, stirring the stew gently.

“Just mushy couple stuff. Slept in, cooked, let Eren drag me around like a backpack.”  

Onyankopon huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head slightly.  

“So, how do you feel about the new contract?” 

“Blessed,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair—“Yo’ husband been on my ass ‘bout expanding outside Louisiana. Nigga be givin’ me a hard time when it come to this job.”

You shake your head, “It’s not like that. Eren’s just particular, like his father was.”  

“I’m knowin’.” 

Onyankopon asks, “How you put up with him?”

Your smile softened, “The same way you do. I love him. Regardless.” 

He chuckled lowly at that, the sound vibrating through the space between you. 

“Aight. I feel that.” 

And just like that, the conversation lulled into comfortable silence again.  

A few minutes passed, the quiet only broken by the clinking of dishes as you arranged the last of the food.  

Then—  

“Ony?”

The words hovered on your tongue, carefully weighed before you finally spoke.  

“…I just wanna thank you for coming back home and partnering with Eren."

Your voice was soft, “After his father’s passing—he needed you, you know?" 

Onyankopon’s face shifted—solemn, the usual playful edge in his eyes dimming. His lips pressed together before he answered, “A nigga like me even more grateful to have somebody like him in my corner. Nothin’ to thank me for." 

You turned back to the cutting board, but his next question made your hands still.  

“What about you? You happy to have me around?"  

“Of course.”

“Ion’ make you feel a type of way?" 

“No?” 

His brow arched. Like he didn’t believe you.  

You swallowed, “You’ve been sweet to me since the beginning." 

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he leaned back in his chair, manspreading—thick thighs stretching the fabric of his cargos, abdomen flexing beneath the black wifebeater.  

“Sweet, huh? You think I’m sweet?" 

Heat pricked at the back of your neck, but you nodded anyway. 

“I do." 

“Nothin’ else?" 

Your fingers curled tighter around the knife as you shook your head, turning back to slice the last piece of cornbread.  

Then—  

“I see how you be lookin’ at me." 

The blade slipped.  

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as steel bit into skin, blood welling instantly along your fingertip. You dropped the knife with a clatter, clutching your injured hand as your face twisted in discomfort.  

Onyankopon was on you in seconds.  

His monstrous height dwarfed you, his large hands swallowing yours as he assessed the wound—rough fingers cradling your delicate palm with surprising gentleness.  

"I—I wasn’t paying attention—“

Oh god.

Oh god.

He was sucking your finger. 

Your lips parted as the warmth of his tongue swept over the cut, slow. A shiver wracked your body—every nerve ending alight—as his lips sucked gently, coaxing the sting away.  

When he pulled back, his voice was a rough rasp against your skin.  

“You got a taste on you, girl." 

He didn’t let go. Just held you there, his grip firm, eyes burning into yours as he murmured, “You gotta be more careful.” 

You could’ve died right there.  

 Eren’s heavy footsteps descended the stairs, walking into Onyankopon still holding your hand—his gaze flickered between you both, lingering for just a second before he simply asked, “What happened?" 

"She cut herself.”

Eren—your fucking husband—barely reacted. 

Just grunted, “Gotta watch them hands, baby.”

That’s when it clicked.

You weren’t crazy.  

Not now. Not this morning. Not days ago.  

This hadn’t been coincidences. This was a hunt. 

Dinner had been a blur—conversations ebbing and flowing around you like distant radio static, your thoughts drowning beneath the weight of their presence. You weren’t delusional anymore, weren’t in denial.  

You were just…waiting. 

“Yo’—remember when we went to Velvet & Vixen on Bourbon? Niggas was weird.”

Eren’s low chuckle vibrated through the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his whiskey glass.

“That one guy told me he wanted to be a dog,” he smirked, “‘Wore a collar under his clothes at work.”

You tapped your wine glass absently as they laughed, the sound thick, indulgent—like they were savoring something deeper than the joke.  

Then, Eren’s eyes slid to you.  

“Last time we went there together was a couple years ago, baby?”

You blinked, the memory surfacing—dim neon, crowded aisles, the heat of his hand on your lower back. 

“Yeah,” you giggled, swirling your drink, “We did.” 

Eren’s grin looked to Onyankopon. 

“She had me in there for hours.” 

“No I did not!” 

Onyankopon mused, “For what? Applyin’ for the job or sum’?” 

You toyed with your fork, a flush creeping up your neck. 

“We went in there for a—”

You bit your lip, laughing nervously. 

“It’s a little TMI.” 

“C’mon, girl. I ain’t gon’ run off.”

You looked between them as you exhaled, “…Okay. I went in for a d—a dildo.” 

You hesitated, “But the ones they had were too big for me. All over six inches.” 

Silence.  

The kind that hummed, electric.  

You saw it—the way Eren’s pupils swallowed green, the way Onyankopon’s jaw clicked, his knuckles whitening around his glass.  

Then? 

Onyankopon laughed.

A deep, rolling sound that sent a full body chill straight down your spine. Your breath hitched as you looked at him, really looked—the same way you had the first time you met him.

Fear.

Intimidation. 

…Arousal.

And when he said this?

“She ain’t gon’ be able to fit me.”  

Your body froze. 

Eren’s voice cut through, low and possessive, “Nah. She be takin’ every inch of me real good now.” 

Were you going into shock? You had to be. 

“Meine hübsche Frau. So verdammt schüchtern.” 

My pretty wife. So fuckin’ shy.

Your skin burned—like you’d been doused in gasoline, like a single spark would ignite you.  

Onyankopon leaned forward, “What’s wrong, mama?”

His voice dropped to a graveled rumble—“Youn’ want me no more?” 

Your lips parted—pouting, pleading, “Ren—” 

“Nuh uh,” Eren tsked, tilting his head. 

“None of that poutin’ shit. Use your words.” 

“C’mon, girl. Lemme’ hear that pretty ass fuckin’ voice.” 

You’d never felt so cornered in your life—trapped between their heat, their hunger, the unspoken promise in their eyes.  

And from that point on?  

You were absolutely, positively, fucked.

So here you were now. The air was pure sex, the dim glow of lamplight casting shadows across your trembling body as you knelt between them—caught in the electric tension of their hunger.  

Your back arched like a bowstring, spine curving as you pressed your cheek into the sheets, curls framing your curves like molten fire. Your palms barely covered the stiff peaks of your nipples, but it didn’t matter—their eyes burned through you, stripping you bare.  

Eren stood at the foot of the bed, his cock heavy and hard, flushed a soft pink against his olive skin. Long, veined, demanding. Onyankopon stood beside him, thick thighs bracketing his hips—his own arousal a brutal contrast, wider, darker, bigger, the deep plum tip glistening as it bobbed inches from your ass.  

“Show us how pretty your shit is, baby."

Eren’s voice was rough velvet, scraping over your nerves. A command, not a request.  

A whimper caught in your throat as you obeyed—spreading your thighs, fingers parting your glistening folds with shaky reverence. Your pussy was already flushed, slick, begging, the plush folds gleaming under the low light.  

Onyankopon lets out a rough sound—something between a curse and praise—as his thick fingers grip the supple flesh of your thighs, kneading. SMACK! A sharp sting of his palm made you jerk, your folds fluttering around nothing.  

“Fuck," Eren exhaled, his knuckles whitening around the base of his cock as he watched your slick drip onto the sheets. He stepped closer, his grip bruising as he wrenched your legs apart further.  

"Look at that," he growled, slapping the thick head of his cock against your swollen clit.  

You jolted, a low whimper breaking free as your hips chased the fleeting pressure.  

“Which one you feelin’, huh?” 

“…’Ren," you trembled, voice breaking. 

“Feel you, baby.” 

"Just me," he snarled, grinding his tip against your desperate entrance—“Always mine. Ain’t she?" 

Onyankopon’s agreement was dark, “Yours entirely.” 

Your spine arched, a silent fight to swallow the second needy whimper threatening to spill from your lips. Cheek pressed into silk sheets, your lashes fluttered—half lidded, drunk on the weight of their stares.  

“C’mere,” Eren demanded, “Come show me some love.” 

Your favorite phrase. It meant either the sweetest affection—or this. His cock, thick and heavy against your lips, the musk of him flooding your senses as you nuzzled into his hip.  

Your lips parted the moment you turned—the broad head of his cock pushing past them, the salt of pre cum bursting on your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks.  

“Fuck,” His groan was ragged, hips jerking forward—“Watch them teeth." 

You mewled around him, the warning making your cunt pulse. His fingers twisted in your curls, yanking your head down until his tip hit the back of your throat. Tears pricked your lashes as you gagged—soft, wet—your nails biting into his thighs.  

“I know you’re excited, baby," Eren rasped, rolling his hips deeper—“Careful.” 

Onyankopon watched, his own dick palmed in a brutal grip, veins standing stark against brown skin. A string of saliva dripped from your swollen lips as you pulled back, lips circling your husband's shaft with a filthy schlick. 

“‘M sorry,” you whined, “‘Didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.” 

Eren’s chest rumbled—half growl, half muse—“‘Know you ain’t mean it."

His thumb swiped your jaw, smearing gloss and spit.  

“Tongue out." 

A dark command, “Show me how good my girl is."

You obeyed instantly—mouth slack, tongue lolling, pink and used beneath his cock. You took him deeper, throat fluttering as his tip breached it. The sounds were obscene—gagging, moaning, the slick slap of his pelvis against your chin.  

“She ain’t stoppin’ no time soon," Eren taunted, fingers tightening in your hair.  

“You doin’ a good job, girl."

Onyankopon’s voice was thick as he continued, “Goddamn.” 

“She’s doin’ a good job, huh?” Eren repeated, his free hand raking into your hair again, “You see that? My baby’s givin’ her all right now.”

“I’m watchin’,” Onyankopon replied, his neck flexing from how he held himself. His fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his length, “I see you real good. Pretty ass bitch.” 

Your face was a mess at this point. The makeup you had on earlier was smeared all across your mouth, your eyes still holding Onyankopons’ while Eren continued to move your head with his strong, large fingers. 

“She gettin’ better?" 

Onyankopon’s jaw flexed, “Yeah. Mouth good as hell—I’m tryna’ feel that shit."

His dick, monstrous in his grip, twitched. 

“You gon’ let me?"

Your mouth slows around Eren—tongue dragging one last, filthy stripe up his length before your eyes flicker to Onyankopon. To it. 

His dick is a monster—thick, veined, the deep plum head glistening, twitching just inches from your lips. Your throat flutters at the sight, a whimper catching in your chest. But it’s not just the size that has your pulse spiking.  

It’s the look in Onyankopon’s eyes.  

Like he’s already imagining you choking on him.  

Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips as you glance up at Eren—seeking permission, seeking reassurance.

“…Can I?”  

Eren exhales through his nose, jaw clenched, before giving a single, sharp nod.  

"Go ‘head." 

You don’t hesitate.  

Your lips part, tongue flattening against the underside of Onyankopon’s dick, tasting him—musky, salt-bitter, addicting. Your fingers dig into his quads, nails leaving half-moons in dark skin as you suck at his tip, moaning at the sheer fullness of him in your mouth.  

“Fuck—" 

Onyankopon’s voice is ruined, hips jerking forward. 

“There you go—that fuckin’ mouth." 

Eren watches the way your lips stretch, the way your cheeks hollow, the way you whimper around Onyankopon’s girth like it’s the best thing you’ve ever had.  

You’re sloppier with him. Needier. Drool slicks your chin as you bob, tongue swirling around his shaft, sucking like you’re starved. 

“Keep talkin’ to her," Eren growls, fingers tightening in your hair. 

"That’s the shit she likes." 

Onyankopon’s hands find your face—rough, claiming—thumbs pressing into the dip of your cheeks, forcing your mouth wider.  

"Pretty ass face, Mama," he rumbles, eyes locked on yours. 

“Suckin’ me up like a fuckin’ pro.” 

You moan around him, the vibration making his thighs flex.   

Eren grunts, “Keep takin’ that shit, baby." 

Onyankopon pushes deeper, the schlupp of your spit slicked lips echoing as your throat convulses. His thumb drags over your stretched mouth, feeling himself inside you.  

“Tastes so good.” 

You were mewling, mindlessly at that. 

“Yeah? How it’ look?" 

You pull off with a pop, tongue lolling, lips swollen and shiny. 

“'Looks so good. So handsome, Papa." 

Onyankopon growls at the pet name—low, animalistic—before yanking you forward again.  

Eren’s voice returns, "Look in her eyes." 

Onyankopon’s gaze burns into yours—dark, unrelenting—as you take him back, deeper this time, until your nose brushes his pelvis.  

“Always keep them’ eyes on her." 

Your vision blurs, tears spilling as you gag, but you don’t look away. Can’t.

Because then—  

Onyankopon yanks you back and spits between your parted lips.  

You moan, tongue darting out to catch it before he’s kissing you—deep, possessive—fingers tangled in your curls as he licks into your mouth like he owns it.  

And when you drop back to his dick, slapping it against your tongue with a wet smack—  

You hear your husbands, “Don’t be fuckin’ cute," drag out in a warned grunt. 

You giggle, high and breathless, taking Onyankopon’s balls into your mouth, sucking.

“Just wanted to taste him, baby,” you whined. 

Eren graveled, “Yeah?” 

He then grunts, “Quit playin’. Lay on your back, missin’ your pussy in my mouth.”  

Your back hits the mattress. The moment you're down, Eren’s hand grips your thigh, spreading you open with zero hesitation. 

“Come hold her legs," he commands, voice thick with hunger—“She be squirmin’ too much when I eat this shit."

Before you can even process the command, Onyankopon is there—his massive frame caging you from behind, hands wrapping around your ankles like manacles. He drags you back, exposing you completely—no hiding, no modesty, just open.  

The first swipe of Eren’s tongue is fire, molten and possessive, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. You jolt, back arching, fingers flying into his hair and pulling. His groan vibrates against your flesh, sending sparks shooting up your spine.  

His tongue swirls around your clit, savoring the way you twitch beneath him. Each lick is torture—calculated, teasing—until you're writhing, thighs quaking in Onyankopon's unyielding grip.  

“Stop movin'," Eren growls, pressing a heavy palm to your pelvis, forcing you still.  

But you can’t.  

You’re too sensitive, too wound up, and when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking—  

“F—fuck, baby. Missed your mouth so much.” 

Your back bows, head thrashing against Onyankopon’s chest as pleasure rips through you. 

“Look at the way he devourin’ that pussy," he rasps, voice curling within your ear like smoke—“Bouta’ have a nigga drownin’ in this shit.”

“Pussy messy as fuck,” Eren groans against your folds, lapping at your slick like a man starved.  

Onyankopon’s grip tightens, spreading you wider, forcing you to take every second of Eren’s relentless tongue. 

“Goddamn," he mutters, voice rough, “Yo’ shit look so fuckin’ edible."

Then your husband grunts, burying his face even deeper, nose pressing against your clit as his tongue plunges inside you.  

“Oooh!”

“Look at him," he commands, “Look at the way he eatin’ you."

All you can do is tremble. Whimper. Shake. Watch. 

Onyankopon’s tongue wraps around your ear, “Missin’ yo’ fuckin’ mouth, babydoll." 

His fingers tangle in your curls, yanking your head back, forcing your lips to part as his dick slaps against your tongue—thick, heavy. You moan around him, the vibration making his hips jerk, the tip hitting the back of your throat in one brutal thrust.  

“Shit,” he growls, watching your throat bulge around him. 

All while, Eren’s tongue devours you from below, lips sealing around your clit, sucking until your thighs clench, until your vision whites out once more—but Onyankopon doesn’t let you escape. His grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to take every inch, every pulse of him fucking into your mouth.  

Eren’s voice is a dominance even as he worships you, “Look up at him."

Your lashes flutter open, meeting Onyankopon’s hooded, predatory gaze as he owns your throat.  

“You ready for me?” he rumbles, thumb smearing spit across your swollen lips.  

Your answer is a whimper—high, broken, desperate.  

“That ain’t how you beg." 

“Please, Ony. Need it. Need you." 

And only then, Eren pulls away. 

Your cunt clenches around nothing, a pathetic whine tearing from your throat at the loss—  

But then Onyankopon’s mouth is there, his tongue flattening against your clit, laving over you with a roughness that has you squeaking.  

He doesn’t let you adjust. Doesn’t let you breathe. His tongue spears into you, fucking you deep, mimicking exactly what his dick was about to do. Eren’s hands replace Onyankopon’s on your thighs, spreading you wider, his voice a growl in your ear.  

“You look so fuckin’ good.” 

Your head falls back against Eren's shoulder, seeking his mouth like a lifeline. His lips crash into yours, swallowing your needy little noises, his tongue claiming every inch of space as if marking you—reminding you who you belong to. 

“I love you," you pant between kisses, trembling against him. 

“Love you so much, 'Ren." 

He growls against your lips, “Ich liebe dich auch" I love you too, “I fuckin’ know you do.” 

Onyankopon's tip then drags through your soaked folds, spreading you so slowly you feel every ridge, every pulse of his veins against your clit. 

His forehead presses to yours, dominance radiating off him in waves. 

“Now I need you to keep them eyes on me.” 

And then he pushes in. 

The stretch is blinding—thick, relentless, carving into you inch by torturous inch. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body arching, toes curling as your pussy drips around him, already struggling to adjust.  

“Fuhhhhhhhck.” 

Then, deeper. 

Your back bows, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your body betrays you—gushing around him in a sudden, shocking rush. Onyankopon curses, his hips jerking at the flood of your release, his grip bruising on your thighs.  

“Pussy tryna’ fight me," he grits out, mesmerized as your cream spills over his length. 

“Ain’t even fuck you yet. This how you cummin’ f’ me?”

Eren’s grunt is dark against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse—“Goddamn. Good fuckin’ girl, baby.” 

“Ony,” you gasp, "It’s—it’s so much.”

His fingers tug at your chin, "You gon’ open up for me?" 

You nod frantically, lips parted, “Uh-huh.” 

His dick gave a slow, brutal drag out—then back in, punching the air from your lungs. Your mouth falls open, your eyes roll, and your hands scramble—one clinging to Onyankopon’s neck, the other clawing at Eren’s arm, anchoring yourself between them.  

Onyankopon’s pace is merciless, each thrust stretching you wider, each snap of his hips dragging a new sob from your throat.  

“Talk to me, Mama," he growls, grip tightening on your jaw—“I’m hurtin’ you?"  

You shake your head, dazed in the pleasure. 

“Feels soooo good.” 

Eren’s thumb swipes your tears away—one’s you didn’t realize you had—his lips brushing your ear.

“Du machst ihn so hübsch.”

You’re takin’ him so pretty.

“Stretchin’ shit open for him like a pretty fuckin’ slut.” 

You melt at his words, arching into Onyankopon’s next thrust, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.  

“Fuckin’ hell," Onyankopon grunts, hips stuttering—“This pussy made for allis’ dick." 

Eren grunts, “Nah. Made for me.” 

Two men with a dominance neither of them could shake, tossing up your brain to mush with every sense of pleasure. You thought your body couldn’t take more—But oh, they had so much more to give. 

And maybe you did too. 

You now crawl across the sheets, hands gliding up Eren’s chest; nails dragging over ink and muscle, relishing the way his abs clench beneath your touch.  

“Missed my ‘Ren.”

“Missed this fuckin’ pussy.” 

A smirk curls your lips as you grind down, letting him feel just how wet he makes you—his cock slaps against your folds, leaving a glistening trail along your skin.  

“You wanna put it in me?” 

Eren’s growl vibrates through you, “Ärgere mich nicht.” 

Don’t tease me. 

Onyankopon’s hands slide up the back of your thighs, claiming as you whimper and press Eren’s palm to your lips. His finger slips between them, and you suck, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue—  

“Fuck," Eren’s hips jerk, his cock twitching against your ass. 

“Gonna make me lose it early, woman.”

Keeping your husband's attention below—you lean over and wrap your mouth around Onyankopon’s dick, dragging your tongue against the entirety of him as you grind Eren’s cock between your thighs.  

But suddenly? It seemed like he wasn’t the biggest fan of sharing anymore. 

One hand fists in your hair, yanking your mouth down. His other grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

“Eyes on me ‘fore I show him how you really get fucked.” 

You whimper—obedient. 

“Now bounce.” 

You sink down, taking him to the hilt, your little cry splitting the air as your walls clamp around him.  

“There you go,” Eren grunts, watching your tits jump as he tugs down greedily—every slap of skin on skin infiltrating your thoughts—if you even had any left. 

Onyankopon’s hands guide your hips, helping you move, his lips hot on your neck.

“Takin’ that dick like a muhfuckin’ champ.” 

You mewl, fingers scrambling for purchase on Eren’s chest as pleasure crushes you.  

“Ony.”

“Ion’ wanna hear my name right now. Fuck him.”

Your whine was a complaint, of course it was.

Eren’s grip tightens around your throat, his gaze searing into you like a brand—green eyes dark with something between lust and possession. His thrusts slow to a brutal, punishing grind, forcing your back to arch as his cock stretches you obscenely wide.  

“Say you fuckin’ love me.” 

“I—I love you,“ you gasp, pitching forward to litter his neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses, “Love you so much, 'Ren.” 

His snarl is vicious, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.  

“Made you too fuckin’ greedy." 

SMACK! 

“Gave you everythin’,” he growls, snapping his hips up hard, “Still beggin’ for him like a thirsty lil’ slut.” 

Onyankopon’s hand fists in your hair as he yanks your head back—his spit thwapping on your tongue. 

“Papa heard you ‘was thirsty.” 

Your body betrays you again, gushing around Eren’s cock in a sudden, shameless flood—your thighs quake, a broken squeak tearing from your throat as your body releases throughout Eren’s repetitive smacks on your ass. 

“Fuckkk,” Eren groans, watching your pussy drip down his length as he tugs himself out. 

Even with your legs shaking, even with your body throbbing—your chest still presses into Eren’s chest anyway, ass in the air, presenting yourself to Onyankopon.

“Put it in me.” 

Onyankopon’s hand lands on your lower back, “Next time Imma’ teach yo’ ass how to wait." 

He doesn’t slam into you—no.  

He makes you feel it.  

Every.  

Inch. 

Onyankopon’s dick parts you like a blade through silk—slow, stretching you so wide you feel your own heartbeat in the walls of your cunt. Your moan shudders through the room, high and broken, fingers digging into Eren’s shoulders as you arch, your ass trembling with every glide deeper.  

Eren just keeps smacking your ass, “Nimm es.” 

Take it.

Onyankopon’s hand fists in your hair, forcing your spine into a deep, sinful curve. His breath is hot against your ear, his teeth nipping at your pulse as he grinds deeper, making your thighs shake. 

“You loud as hell,"  he rumbles, “Whole fuckin’ city know you gettin’ dicked down.”  

“Ony—please, please, I need—“

“Now you need me, huh?” 

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! 

“Nah. Yo’ ass just want. And I’m givin’ it to you.” 

You sob, tears streaking down your cheeks, your body burning with overstimulation—but you don’t stop. The thrust just keeps coming, coming, coming. 

“You gon’ cum for us, baby?" 

You nod, “Yes.” 

Onyankopon’s groan is filthy, his hips snapping into you with a punishing precision. 

“Then cum.” 

Your body locks as your back arches, your mouth open in a cry—Your pussy squirts, gushing around Onyankopon’s dick as pleasure electrocutes every nerve for one last time. Eren groans, his own release painting your stomach as he watches you—watches the way your eyes roll, the way your lips tremble, the way you fall apart between them.  

Onyankopon follows, his thrusts turning uncontrolled—his cum filling you, marking you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he growls your name.  

And then, silence. 

Just the sound of heartbeats, and flesh drinking into one another. Your body collapses onto Eren’s chest, exhausted, ruined—his arms wrapping around you, lips pressing against your sweat slicked forehead as you now feel the entirety of what’s just happened. 

“You did real fuckin’ good” he murmurs, voice soft and somehow still rough. 

Onyankopon grunts behind you, his hand stroking down your spine. 

“Mhm. Real good, Mama." 

You shiver, burying your face in Eren’s neck, your flushed whimper muffled against his skin. 

Eren’s thumb traces the delicate shell of your ear, his lips curving into that smug, knowing smirk as he watches you hide your face against his chest—your cheeks burning, your body still trembling from the aftershocks.  

“My baby," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “Shy now, after all that? Tch,” he sucks his teeth, “That ain’t fair.” 

“Ain’t no way,” Onyankopon rumbles, “Not after all that noise you was makin’. You ain’t shy—you just full.” 

“Or she just knows she’ll get it again.” 

A shiver ran through you. 

Eren’s palm cups your face, his thumb swiping away the remnants of your tears as he leans in, pressing a slow, claiming kiss to your lips.  

“Love you,” he growls, the words rough, real. 

You giggle against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair, kissing him back like you mean it—like you could drown in him, in this. 

Onyankopon’s hand lands on your hip, squeezing—a silent promise, a question, maybe even a threat.  

Would this happen again? 

You didn’t know. 

But the way they look at you—hungry, amused, and owning—tells you all you need to.  

The screen read, “Cracking every time we agree,” over a smiling couple. The audio listed fast food places, and every time they opened their eyes, the video cut to them in bed, seeming discombobulated.

After watching it, he nodded. “What does cracking mean?” His eyebrow lifted. You smacked your teeth, “Sex.”

A gasp left his mouth, “They were having sex this whole time?”

“Only when they agreed.” You laughed. “Let’s get to it then.” He shrugged.

You sat next to him, pressing the audio to record the both of you. You both closed your eyes, “Taco bell.”

You opened your eyes, and Jaafar opened his making you both giggle.

•••

“F-fuck.” You whimpered as Jaafar sucked on your clit. He let out an airy laugh at the shake of your legs near his head. His warm, heavy tongue felt heavenly on you, already on the verge of your orgasm.

“You taste so good.” He muttered, suctioning his mouth across your entire slit, sucking and releasing. Your eyes rolled back, fingers lacing through his curls.

Your body vibrated as you the knot in your stomach unraveled, cumming in his mouth.

•••

Your hair was now ruffled and Jafaar had a big smile on his face as both of you were in frame and your eyes were closed. “Burger King.” The audio said, you kept your eyes closed and Jaafar opened his.

“Mcdonalds.”

You and Jaafar opened your eyes.

•••

“Just like that, baby.” He cooed, holding your waist as you bounced on his lap. The clap of skin meeting sounded through out the room, mixed with your moans from his tip kissing your g spot.

“You’re so big, shit!” You cried, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “Look at how you taking it.” He bit his bottom lip, watching the cream foam around his dick.

He was practically in your stomach, using his hips to meet you halfway. “I’m ‘bout to cum.” You dropped your head into the crook of his shoulder. His hands grabbed your ass, forcing you to the base of his dick, making you take him fully.

Your second orgasm washed through you with a loud moan.

•••

You couldn’t even sit up properly, you laid down as you recorded, showing Jaafar sitting up next to you. Both glazed in sweat.

“Chili’s”

You and Jaafar both looked at each other, and you couldn’t help but let out a groan.

•••

“Go slow, I’m sensitiveee,” you whined, head dropping back down into the pillow. Jaafar was behind you, hips pounding against your ass. His hands tightly gripped your waist, tugging you back with every thrust.

“Shhh, you got it.” He whispered under his breath, too caught up in the way your ass rippled against him. His dick stretched you out, making you hold on to the pillow as your eyes rolled back.

“F-fuck, let uppp.” You whined, attempting to inch forward for a breather. You don’t even know why you bothered. “Stop running, take that shit.” He muttered, palms finding your upper back.

He pressed down and your back naturally arched, pushing your butt up more towards him. Your mouth dropped open as drool began to spill from your mouth, absolutely in bliss.

“I’m ‘bout to cum, want me to fill you up?” He asked. You could barely answer, nothing but moans coming out. His fingers laced through your hair, gently tugging you upwards.

“Answer me, baby.”

“Y-yes.” You cried, “please fill me up.”

He groaned, speeding up his movements, sending both of you into an orgasm.

•••

You were splayed out out, sweating, lashes off, still trying to catch your breath. Jaafar held the phone up, shirt off, curls sticking to his forehead, and still a smile on his face.

The comforter was buried to your neck, covering your naked body from the camera.

“Wendy’s.” You would’ve opened your eyes but that ache between your legs told you otherwise. Unlike Jaafar, whose eyes quickly opened.

“Domino’s.”

You cracked one eye open, seeing Jaafar already staring at you wide-eyed and an airy laugh spilled from you.

•••

Your legs were tossed over Jaafar’s shoulders and his hands were beside your head as he thrusted into you. Your pussy was throbbing, but you couldn’t help but moan.

“You feel so damn good.” He groaned, breathing on your neck. “So deep.” You whimpered. Your hand gripped at the sheets, taking everything he’s giving you.

His curls tickled the side of your face, and his natural scent hit your nose making you clench around him. Your toes curled and your body began to shake.

“How you feeling?” He lifted his head to look at you. His eyes were blown out in lust and half-lidded. “I ca—I don—p-please.” You moaned, you felt yourself getting closer and closer, babbling even thought your mind was blank.

“Give it to me, baby.” He kissed your cheek, your jaw, and then met your lips. You cried as you squirted around him, waves of liquid spreading. “Just like that.” He said, sitting up to watch you make a mess.

He continued to pound into you, carrying you through your orgasm. Moments later, he stilled inside of you, letting his warm cum spill inside of you.

•••

You were knocked out. Dead to the world. You did not think this through clearly. Jaafar finished the recording by giving you a kiss on the forehead.

All he put was a shrug emoji and posted it. He wouldn’t mind doing this challenge again.

At first both of you obediently looked straight into the cameras like professionals, but after weeks of doing it together, it became impossible not to accidentally laugh.

You’d glance toward him because another photographer had called his name, only to discover he had already looked over at you first.

One of you would smile.

The other would immediately mirror it.

The resulting photographs spread across entertainment pages within minutes, people commenting you two still had that chemistry even after all the filming was done.

One premiere in particular became memorable for a reason neither of you could have possibly prepared for.

The interview itself had been perfectly ordinary at first.

The host enthusiastically welcomed both of you over, microphone in hand, someone filming from an Iphone a couple feet away, and you smiled politely as usual while Jaafar buttoned his jacket before leaning slightly toward the microphone. Then the interviewer spoke.

“FIRST OF ALL…”

The voice that came out was astonishingly gravelly.

“…HOW DID IT FEEL BRINGING MICHAEL AND MRS. JACKSON TO LIFE?”

For one dangerous second, both of your expressions completely froze.

Your lips instinctively pressed together.

Jaafar blinked, his ears dropping.

You very subtly looked down at the carpet, biting your lower lip as you listened to the interviewer as the cameraman for some reason unexplained kept filming you two at an awkward upward angle.

He looked at you at exactly the same moment.

Both of your cheeks visibly puffed slightly as you trapped a laugh before it could escape.

“It’s…it’s an honor, really.” Jaafar said.

You nodded. “Yeah, like we said it’s been such a spiritual and amazing experience and journey.” You somehow responded without laughing.

The interviewer, blissfully unaware, continued speaking in the same unmistakably raspy enthusiasm.

“THE CHEMISTRY BETWEEN YOU TWO HAS BEEN ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC.”

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt.

Jaafar cleared his throat into his fist.

“I…” he started before stopping to compose himself. “Uh… thank you very much.”

His voice cracked ever so slightly from holding back laughter.

You quickly picked up the answer before either of you completely lost it.

“We’re just… really grateful people connected with the story and the love Mrs. Jackson and Michael had…”

Your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

The interviewer enthusiastically nodded.

“WONDERFUL!”

Neither of you dared make eye contact.

The interview somehow continued for another four minutes, both of you answering every question as professionally as possible while silently praying the other wouldn’t laugh first.

By the time you finally thanked him and walked away, you had barely taken three steps before Jaafar quietly whispered, “Don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You looked at me.”

“I looked because you looked.”

That was enough.

The two of you burst into helpless laughter halfway down the carpet, both bending over slightly as security and publicists looked on with amused smiles.

Several cameras caught the entire exchange.

Naturally, the clip became another fan favourite. With people commenting:

Hello?? 😭 Why is cookie monster interviewing them?

What’s up with the angle 😂

The interviewer kinda sounds like Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World…

They’re so strong for this, I would’ve laughed in the interviewer’s face 😭😭😭

———————

A few weeks later, the promotional schedule briefly slowed long enough for both of you to attend a Prada fashion presentation in Milan.

Compared to movie premieres, the atmosphere felt entirely different—quieter, impossibly elegant, every guest somehow dressed as though they had stepped out of an editorial shoot.

Jaafar arrived wearing a forest-green knit sweater with white oversized cufflinks, while you appeared moments later in a coordinating green ensemble that prompted another chorus of excited whispers from photographers.

“They matched again.”

“I told you they would.”

“Get them together!”

The two of you laughed as you stood shoulder to shoulder for photographs before heading inside.

Before the show, another interviewer caught you both.

“I have to ask,” he smiled, “social media keeps calling you two the definition of ‘looksmaxxing.’”

Silence.

You and Jaafar exchanged identical expressions of confusion.

“…The definition of what?” you asked.

“‘Looksmaxxing.’”

Jaafar tilted his head.

“I…”

He looked at you.

“You know what that is?”

You slowly shook your head. “I’ve genuinely never heard that word before.”

The interviewer laughed. “It’s basically internet slang for looking your absolute best.”

“Oh!” Relief immediately spread across both your faces.

“I thought it was something serious,” Jaafar admitted, laughing.

“So did I,” you agreed.

The interviewer smiled.

“Well, people online keep saying the two of you haven’t aged since filming started.”

Jaafar laughed.

“I appreciate that because my knees definitely disagree.”

“We’re getting close to thirty,” you smiled. “We aren’t really well-versed in online slang, sorry.”

“Maybe we can ask Juliano to educate us.” Jaafar joked.

The two of you dissolved into laughter again.

———————

Whenever the cameras disappeared, life somehow became quieter.

There were afternoons where you and Jaafar escaped the chaos entirely, meeting up with Juliano, who had portrayed young Michael so beautifully in the film.

The three of you wandered museums, visited little cafés hidden away from busy streets, and occasionally rented out small venues where Juliano could play games or simply enjoy being a kid without photographers shouting his name every few minutes.

More than once, paparazzi managed to capture the three of you leaving restaurants together, Juliano happily walking between you while chatting animatedly about school, movies, and football.

One particularly popular photograph showed Jaafar crouching to tie the young actor’s untied shoelace while you stood beside them holding Juliano’s jacket.

Another captured all three of you laughing so hard outside an ice cream shop that none of you noticed the cameras until afterwards.

Fans affectionately joked online that the two lead actors had somehow slipped into their roles so naturally that they looked like they were co-parenting the youngest member of the cast whenever they were together, though those who knew the two of you personally simply recognised how protective you both had become of the boy throughout filming.

Not long afterwards, another photograph quietly melted the internet for an entirely different reason.

Jaafar’s stepmother shared a collection of casual family pictures from an afternoon gathering, most of them filled with relatives chatting in the garden or children running across the lawn.

Hidden amongst them was one photograph that immediately captured everyone’s attention.

You stood beneath the shade of a tree smiling warmly at the camera while comfortably holding Jaafar’s baby brother against your shoulder.

The little boy’s tiny hand rested happily against your cheek while you gently supported him with both arms.

Beside you stood Jaafar, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, smiling just as softly as he looked not at the camera—but at you holding his little brother as his eyes shimmered.

Fans noticed immediately.

They also noticed the expression on his face.

He’s looking at her like she’s already family! ❤️❤️❤️

OMG she’s already being invited to family gatherings YESSS

Wait—do y’all see the vision of Dad Jaafar and Mom (Name)? 😍😍😍

Dada and Mama fr 😍

Some comments were more thirsty than the others.

———————

Awards season arrived soon after, bringing another red carpet, another round of interviews, and another coordinated wardrobe that immediately became the evening’s talking point.

For the BET Actor Awards, Jaafar stepped out in a muted navy suit with understated tailoring, while you wore a darker navy silk gown that caught the lights every time you moved.

Standing together beneath the photographers’ flashes, the colours looked almost intentionally paired.

“Closer together!”

“Jaafar, look at her!”

“(Name), look at him!”

Neither of you could help laughing.

When you finally turned toward one another, it wasn’t some dramatic Hollywood pose.

It was simply a shy smile that lingered a second too long with your hand against his chest before both of you instinctively looked away again.

The cameras adored it.

Halfway down the carpet, another familiar pair approached.

“Nia!” you exclaimed.

Nia Long opened her arms immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart!”

She hugged you tightly before wrapping Jaafar in another warm embrace.

Colman Domingo followed close behind, grinning from ear to ear.

“There are my kids,” he laughed.

After hugs and greetings, the four of you stood chatting as photographers eagerly snapped away.

Colman looked from Jaafar to you and back again with a knowing smile.

“You two are still dressing like scene partners.”

“We don’t mean to,” you laughed.

“Mm-hm,” Nia teased with a playful look. “That’s what you’ve been saying for months.”

Everyone laughed.

Colman folded his arms dramatically.

“I swear, every premiere I go to…” He pointed between the two of you. “…someone asks if you coordinated.”

Jaafar rubbed the back of his neck. “It just kind of…” He shrugged sheepishly, “…keeps happening.”

Nia laughed. “You’ve become the easiest duo to photograph.”

“The photographers love you.” Colman added warmly, placing a hand on each of your shoulders. “You make people smile. That’s a beautiful thing.”

Both of you thanked them quietly, your cheeks noticeably warmer by the time another interviewer called you away.

———————

Not long afterwards, a brief break in the schedule allowed both of you to attend Wimbledon.

There were no movie costumes, no microphones clipped to jackets, no emotional questions waiting around every corner.

You were both just there to watch tennis, and of course, the photographers fixiated on your two cream-coloured outfits that once again had everyone asking whether matching had become intentional.

Throughout the afternoon, the broadcast cameras repeatedly found the two of you in the crowd.

One clip showed both of you leaning so far forward during a rally that you looked ready to step onto the court yourselves.

Another caught Jaafar reacting to an impossible passing shot with his mouth hanging open while you clapped excitedly beside him before turning to him with a look that silently said, Did you just see that?

One clip showed Jaafar laughing with you as he dropped his sunglasses, you both bent down to try and grab it but seemingly you two couldn’t find it so you just gave him yours.

He then put his hand over your eyebrows to help your eyes adjust to the sunny light across the court as you two watched the match with excitement.

Social media spent the next twenty-four hours making compilations titled,

“Jaafar and (Name) forgetting they’re famous while watching tennis for 15 minutes.”

“(Name) & Jaafar’s Full Reactions to Wimbledon Match”

“Compilation of Jaafar & (Name) laughing at Wimbledon”

———————

By July, however, everything became surprisingly quiet.

The whirlwind press tour finally ended.

The premieres stopped.

The interviews became less frequent.

For the first time in months, people realised they hadn’t seen either of you together or separately in weeks.

Speculation naturally followed.

Then, without warning, photographs began appearing online from Italy.

Not paparazzi photographs.

Fan selfies.

One after another.

One showed the two of you outside a tiny café.

Another outside a bookstore.

Another posing at an amusement park as you two wore baseball caps and casual clothing.

Every fan who met you said the same thing—that you had happily stopped to chat, signed whatever they had with them, and thanked them for supporting Michael.

A few mentioned that the atmosphere felt especially celebratory, with several people quietly wishing Jaafar a happy birthday.

Only then did everyone realise why the two of you were there.

A few days later, after returning home, Jaafar finally posted again.

His Instagram story appeared without warning, the first one he’s posted in weeks.

The first photograph showed a quiet Italian street at dawn.

The second captured two cups espresso sitting on a little marble café table and someone’s hands—that looked suspiciously like yours—folded on their lap, holding a purse.

The third was the coastline stretching endlessly beneath a brilliant evening sky.

The fourth showed a simple birthday cake with a single candle still smoking after being blown out. Fans smiled.

Then they reached the two final stories.

The second to last one was a simple photograph.

You stood wrapped in his arms on a quiet overlook above the water, both of you smiling—not at the camera, but at each other.

His chin rested lightly against the top of your head while one of your hands remained tucked around his waist, the sunset casting everything in warm shades of gold.

There were no elaborate captions.

Just one simple sentence.

Happy to have spent my 30th with you. ❤️🇮🇹

And the last one…was of the same scenery, the sunset still the same beautiful golden color behind you two.

But this time, Jaafar was grinning as he held you closer, with you kissing his cheek—holding his face with your other hand cupping his cheek.

The caption was simple yet it drove people insane.

Finally got a kiss back! 😆❤️

Within minutes, screenshots spread across every platform.

Fans noticed your smile.

The relaxed way the two of you looked together.

How different the photographs felt compared to every carefully posed premiere image.

And the kiss??? The shippers were having a field day!

Fans who had spent months insisting there was something undeniably genuine between the two of you collectively lost their minds.

Edits appeared before the hour Jaafar just posted those photos was over.

The photograph became profile pictures, phone wallpapers and fan art almost overnight.

For almost twenty-four hours after Jaafar’s birthday story, the internet had convinced itself that there couldn’t possibly be anything else.

His quiet photograph of the two of you embracing on an Italian balcony had already become one of the most shared celebrity posts of the year.

Fans had turned the image into phone wallpapers, watercolor paintings, edits set to romantic songs from the Michael soundtrack, and lengthy threads comparing the way the two of you smiled at each other to old photographs of Michael and Mrs. Jackson.

Even entertainment outlets had begun reporting on it, carefully wording headlines that danced around the obvious.

“Jaafar Jackson Shares Heartwarming Birthday Photo with Co-star, (Name) (Last).”

Naturally…

Everyone assumed your own social media would remain quiet.

It didn’t.

Late the following afternoon, everyone who was following you suddenly got a notification.

(Name) added 2 Videos and Photos to her story.

The first slide…was absolutely not what anyone expected.

Instead of another picturesque Italian landscape or a sweet birthday photograph of Jaafar—it was an aggressively unflattering picture taken midway through a roller coaster drop.

Your hair had been blown completely out of place by the wind, one hand desperately gripping the safety bar while you smiled excitedly despite of the crazy drop.

Beside you, Jaafar looked absolutely terrified, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open in the middle of what looked like a scream.

His sweater had ridden up slightly from the force of the drop, and somehow the official ride camera had captured the exact moment both of you were bouncing several inches off your seats.

Across the bottom, you had simply written:

he said this wasn’t that scary 😐

People immediately commented on the public comment section of your story:

PLS JAAFAR IS FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE

HOW IS (NAME) STILL SERVING FACE

Jaafar also commented with a simple:

Delete this 🙄

The second upload was a short video.

It began inside a small private restaurant tucked away somewhere in Italy, reserved only for…just you and Jaafar, seeimngly.

Warm string lights stretched across the wooden ceiling as someone near the speakers suddenly changed the music whilst Jaafar filmed the entire restaurant.

Jaafar’s own song, “Got Me Singing,” began playing.

The second the unmistakable opening started…you looked directly at the camera.

Then at Jaafar.

He immediately knew. “No.”

You burst into laughter.

“Oh, absolutely.”

He pointed accusingly. “Don’t.”

You were already standing.

You dramatically pointed toward him the second the chorus arrived.

Then—At the top of your lungs—

“DUM DUM!”

Several staff instantly started laughing.

Jaafar covered his face.

“No…”

You continued anyway, dancing dramatically around the private dining room with completely exaggerated choreography while enthusiastically singing every famous “dum dum” that had somehow become one of TikTok’s favourite memes.

“GOT ME SINGING—“

You pointed toward him again.

“DUM DUM!”

Jaafar slowly slid lower into his chair. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

You marched directly over to him.

“Oh, birthday boy! GOT ME SINGINGG—DUM DUM!”

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his phone.

“You know every word?”

“I know the important parts.”

“The important parts?”

“The dum dums.”

The room dissolved into laughter.

Eventually, after enough encouragement from everyone else, Jaafar finally stood up, shaking his head with an embarrassed smile.

“Fine.” He sighed dramatically.

“You win.” He propped up his phone on the wall, recording the two of you.

The two of you spent the rest of the chorus doing the dance from his music video together in the middle of the restaurant while everyone around you applauded and laughed.

The video ended with Jaafar pointing at the camera and breathing out. “I don’t know this woman.” He laughed out.

The comments said:

THEY KNOW THE MEMES

DUM DUMM 🦋🦋🦋

Jaafar just commented:

I don’t know you. 😒

The third upload then came.

It was clearly filmed in the mirror of a quiet and empty hotel lounge.

Jaafar stood several metres away, holding his phone as he recorded himself.

“So…” He adjusted the lapel of his jacket. “Jermajesty picked this outfit.”

He slowly turned toward the mirror.

“I think he actually cooked with this one.” He thought for a moment before laughing to himself. “Did I use that right? Cooked? Anyway, I kinda—”

Before he could finish—

You silently appeared behind him.

Tiptoeing.

One hand dramatically reached toward the camera.

The other suddenly wrapped loosely around his neck. “Gotcha!”

Jaafar startled for approximately half a second, then immediately burst into laughter. “I knew you were there!”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I absolutely did!”

“You are lying!”

Still laughing, he effortlessly hooked one arm beneath your legs before lifting you completely off the floor as though you weighed almost nothing.

You squealed.

“Jaafar!”

“What?”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

“You started this.”

He adjusted you slightly before casually throwing you over one shoulder as the camera tilted.

You laughed so hard and squirmed that the recording became almost impossible to watch as the camera shook wildly. “I’m sorry!”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m a little sorry!”

“You are not sorry.”

He began walking away through the lounge with you still over his shoulder like you were a sack of potatoes.

“Help!” you laughed dramatically to absolutely nobody. “This is kidnapping!”

“Nope.”

Still laughing, he carried you several steps across the lounge while you lightly tapped his back in exaggerated protest.

“Put me down!”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Jaafaaaar!”

The story ended with both of you laughing too hard to say anything coherent.

The comments read:

WITH ONE ARM IS CRAZYYY WORKK

They look so good together…too good together 👀

It’s either this or NOTHINGGG

Girl they’re never beating the dating allegations I fear

Jaafar just commented:

Why is no one commenting about my outfit though 🥲

Then came the final slide.

The internet collectively lost all composure.

It was an aggressively close selfie.

Both of you had pushed your chins forward in the most exaggerated “mewing” expressions imaginable, brows slightly furrowed as though trying far too hard to look mysterious as you two had your index fingers on your jawlines.

The result was so profoundly ridiculous that it was impossible to take seriously. Jaafar looked like he was seconds away from laughing, while you were already visibly failing to keep a straight face.

Across the bottom of the image, your caption read:

We finally know what looksmaxxing is, thanks @JulianoValdiOfficial 😆 Happy 30th, old man!

Comments flooded in by the tens of thousands.

Jaafar’s comment appeared beneath the post.

jaafarjackson: Old man is crazy when you’re about to be the same age as me 😭

Your response came less than a minute later.

(Name): Don’t worry, you’ll always be young at heart… just not in your knees anymore ❤️

His reply was immediate.

You'd both suddenly remember you were just two embarrassingly shy actors in your twenties standing far too close together. One of you would clear your throat.

The other would suddenly become fascinated with a nearby prop. Sometimes you'd accidentally make eye contact, immediately smile out of instinct, then both look away at exactly the same time while the makeup artists tried not to laugh.

One afternoon, after everyone had broken for lunch, you wandered through one of the empty sound stages searching for your water bottle.

Most of the lights had already been switched off, leaving only a few pale beams shining across the unfinished ballroom set where tomorrow's rehearsal would take place.

The silence was comforting until you heard someone quietly murmuring to themselves.

"...No... too much."

A pause.

"Smile with the eyes first."

Another pause.

"No... that's for the fans."

You frowned slightly before following the voice.

Jaafar stood completely alone in front of one of the decorative mirrors leaned against a wall. He hadn't noticed you. He was staring intensely at his own reflection, smiling, then dropping it, then smiling again.

One smile was dazzling and bright.

Another was gentle.

Then one became almost bashful.

He stopped, shook his head and tried again.

You couldn't help yourself. "...What are you doing?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin. "Oh!"

His hand flew to his chest. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry." You said, embarrassed.

"No, no, you're okay."

You stepped closer, trying very hard not to laugh.

"Were you... practising smiling?"

His ears immediately turned pink.

"...Maybe."

You finally laughed.

"You were."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I know it sounds weird."

"It sounds very weird."

He let out an embarrassed laugh before looking back at the mirror. "It's just..." He hesitated. "My uncle smiled differently depending on who he was looking at."

You blinked.

"What do you mean?"

He turned back towards you, suddenly becoming incredibly serious. "I've watched hundreds of hours of footage." He folded his arms thoughtfully.

"When he's talking to fans... his smile is really bright."

He demonstrated.

"When he's with little kids..."

The smile softened almost instantly.

"It's... warmer."

Then another.

"When he's joking with his brothers..."

A mischievous grin appeared.

"And..."

He sighed.

"When he was with my Auntie..."

He looked back into the mirror.

"It's different."

There was a silence.

"It isn't as big."

He smiled again.

"It's quieter."

Another attempt.

"It almost looks like... relief."

He frowned. "I don't know how else to explain it." He ran a hand through his curls.

You watched him carefully.

"So I've been trying to find that smile."

"You've been practising smiles because your uncle smiled differently at his wife?"

"...Yeah."

A tiny laugh escaped you before you could stop it. He looked over.

"What?"

You covered your mouth. "Nothing."

"No, what?"

You shook your head.

"It's just..."

You laughed again. "You're kind of silly."

His eyebrows lifted.

"Silly?"

"A little."

He let out a dramatic sigh. "I spent three hours studying how to smile..."

"I know."

"You think that's silly?"

"I really do."

He stared at you in mock offence before you laughed properly this time, the sound filling the empty stage. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. Just warm. Genuine. Completely unguarded.

Jaafar forgot to answer.

Instead...

He simply looked at you. His shoulders relaxed without him noticing. His eyes softened.

And a smile slowly appeared. Not rehearsed, not measured, not studied. Just...genuine.

You stopped laughing. "...There!"

He blinked. "What?"

"That one."

"What one?"

"The smile."

He frowned. "What smile?"

"The one you were doing just now."

He looked completely confused. "I'm smiling?"

You nodded. "That."

You pointed directly at him.

"That's the smile."

His expression froze.

"...Really?"

"Yeah. You look handsome when you did that smile—" You immediately paused, catching yourself as Jaafar was equally, if not more flustered than you.

Neither of you spoke for several long seconds.

The silence somehow felt louder than any conversation.

Eventually one of the assistant directors poked their head inside.

"There you two are."

Both of you practically sprang apart.

"We're ready to rehearse!"

You and Jaafar answered at exactly the same time.

"Coming." You two awkwardly stepped out of the break room.

The assistant director looked between you both, shaking his head. "So obvious."

———————

It was the filming of the first meeting scene.

The beginning of one of the sweetest, real love stories in Hollywood.

The moment that would establish why Michael and Mrs. Jackson fell in love, and how Michael's life would change in that one moment forever.

The set had been transformed into a lavish 1983 after-party celebrating the impossible success of Thriller.

Gold chandeliers reflected against polished marble floors.

Champagne glasses sat untouched across velvet-covered tables while extras dressed in shimmering evening gowns and immaculate tuxedos drifted around the room in slow choreography.

A live jazz quartet rehearsed softly in the corner, their music blending into the quiet chatter echoing throughout the ballroom.

Outside the enormous balcony windows, the lighting crew had built an artificial sunrise that would gradually brighten over the course of the scene.

The director, Antoine gathered everyone.

"Remember," he said. "This isn't love at first sight. It's recognition. Two shy people who somehow find one another in a room where neither feels comfortable."

You nodded. Jaafar nodded too. Neither of you looked at each other.

The slate clapped.

"Action."

The room immediately came alive.

As Michael, Jaafar wandered through the crowded celebration with polite smiles that never quite reached his eyes.

People congratulated him. Shook his hand. Praised Thriller.

Yet despite the overwhelming attention, he looked oddly isolated, quietly slipping away toward the balcony for fresh air.

That was your cue.

As Mrs. Jackson, you had been standing near the refreshments, nervously adjusting the sleeve of your dress before wandering outside yourself.

Neither character expected company.

Then your eyes met.

For a long second...nothing happened. No dramatic music. No instant romance. Just two painfully shy people caught looking at one another.

Jaafar gave the tiniest, almost apologetic smile.

"...Hi."

You looked away before smiling back.

"Hi."

"You... um..."

He laughed nervously in character.

"I don't actually know what I was going to say."

You couldn't help laughing too.

"That's alright."

"I just thought... everybody else seems to know everybody."

"They do."

"And..."

Another awkward silence.

"...I don't."

"I don't either."

A tiny laugh escaped both of you.

"So..." Michael scratched the back of his neck. "Would it be alright if... maybe... we didn't know everybody together?"

The crew behind the monitors smiled.

The dialogue wasn't even particularly romantic. It just felt... honest. The scripted conversation carried on for several pages. You both spoke about music. Childhood. Books. How strange fame was. Michael admitted parties exhausted him. The latter confessed she'd nearly gone home twenty minutes after arriving because she hated crowded events.

"I thought I was the only one."

"Oh, definitely not."

"You really don't like parties?"

"I like leaving them."

He laughed. "So do I."

The laughter became easier.

The silences became softer.

By the time the artificial sunrise slowly painted warm orange light across the balcony, neither character wanted the conversation to end.

The script should've ended very simply.

You checked the time.

"I should probably head home."

Michael smiled sadly. "Yeah."

She walked away, fade out. That was what was written.

That wasn't what happened. You delivered your final scripted line.

"I should probably head home."

You turned.

One step. Two—suddenly—

"Wait." He called out so softly, with a hint of desperation.

Um...what? That wasn't in the script.

Your heart skipped. You turned around instinctively.

Jaafar looked equally surprised by what he'd just done.

As Michael, he stood frozen for a second before slowly walking toward you. Then...he reached forward. Very gently. His fingers wrapped around your hand.

The crew collectively held their breath, mouths open in shock.

"I..." He swallowed.

His voice became almost painfully quiet. "So..." Michael asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Um... would you... maybe want to see me again?"

Nobody moved.

The director didn't yell cut.

Everyone simply watched, you hadn't planned anything either, your brain emptied—Then instinct took over.

You thought of what she would've done in that moment if Michael took her hand. Instead of answering immediately...you stepped forward, and wrapped your arms around him.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't passionate. It was simply... grateful. Comfortable. Like she'd already found home. You rested your head against his shoulder.

"...Definitely."

Jaafar visibly stopped breathing for about half a second.

Then, almost automatically—

He hugged you back.

When you finally separated, he looked at you with the kind of smile that said Michael himself couldn't quite believe someone had just chosen him. You smiled too, seeing him smile...that's the one he practiced.

Then, without warning—

He leaned forward.

Placed the gentlest kiss against your cheek. A tiny one, barely there.

Your eyes widened in genuine surprise.

Michael—no, Jaafar immediately looked just as shocked as you did. "Oh...um..." He laughed awkwardly.

"Sorry." Then, completely flustered—Michael gave the most bashful wave imaginable.

"...I'.."

He laughed again.

"...O-okay, bye."

And before Mrs. Jackson could answer—He practically ran away down the hallway, grinning to himself like an embarrassed teenager—definitely what Michael would've done in that moment if he was that bold.

You stood there, touching your warm cheek, unable to stop smiling. "...See you."

Silence. Then—

"CUT!"

The entire set erupted. Crew members clapped.

Someone behind the monitors shouted,

"KEEP THAT! KEEP THAAAT!"

Antoine stood up from his chair, his face riddled with amazement and confusion. "You two...are—wait, Jaafar!"

Jaafar was still running off, too embarrassed from what he improvised as he locked himself in his dressing room. You had your hands up to your face, flustered as well.

"Jaafar, come back! You guys did amazing! Keep it up with the improv!" Antoine yelled out.

A muffled, clearly embarrassed voice responded from behind the door. "Thank you!" The door didn't open for a couple of minutes as the crew laughed whilst you hid in your own dressing room.

Both you and Jaafar leaned on the door, sliding down.

Was that really for the movie??

———————

2026.

The cameras rolled only a few seconds after the countdown ended, though it felt much longer than that.

Bright studio lights bathed the stage in a warm glow that almost mimicked the golden lighting from the film's premiere, the cream-coloured sofa looking deceptively comfortable despite the nerves quietly settling in your stomach.

Rows upon rows of audience members sat only a few metres away, many already smiling excitedly before a single question had been asked.

Behind them, enormous LED screens displayed the Michael logo, intercut with stills from the film—Michael performing on stage, intimate family moments, and one particular image that had somehow become one of the most recognisable promotional photographs: Michael and Mrs. Jackson standing together, foreheads nearly touching, smiling in complete silence.

You sat with your hands neatly folded on your lap, smoothing the fabric of your outfit every few seconds without even realising you were doing it. It was an old nervous habit.

Beside you, Jaafar looked remarkably composed from a distance, but anyone who had spent even five minutes around him during filming knew otherwise.

His knee bounced ever so slightly beneath the coffee table. He adjusted the sleeve of his jacket. Then his watch. Then the microphone clipped neatly against his lapel. Then he quietly cleared his throat. Then, almost instinctively, he reached up to smooth hair that didn't need smoothing at all.

You noticed.

He noticed you noticing.

For exactly one second your eyes met.

You both smiled awkwardly, then immediately looked somewhere else. The audience didn't miss it. An entire section of the crowd let out a collective, "Awww."

The interviewer hadn't even introduced the programme yet.

He lowered the cue cards in his hands, looked between the two of you with an amused smile, then slowly turned towards the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen..." he laughed. "We've been live for approximately eight seconds."

The audience burst into laughter.

"And they're already blushing."

Your shoulders instinctively curled inward as you covered part of your face with one hand, laughing softly into your fingers while shaking your head. Beside you, Jaafar leaned back against the sofa cushions, letting out a quiet, embarrassed groan as one hand rubbed across the back of his neck.

"Oh, man..." he muttered under his breath, though his smile betrayed just how amused he actually was.

The interviewer chuckled warmly.

"This..." he gestured between the two of you, "...is going to be a very enjoyable interview."

The audience applauded.

Only then did everyone properly settle.

After the opening introductions and congratulations surrounding the success of the film, the conversation naturally drifted towards the experience of making it. The interviewer rested one ankle over the opposite knee, glanced down at his notes before looking back up with genuine curiosity.

"I think one of the reasons people have connected with Michael so deeply," he began, "is because everyone involved treated these people with so much care. This wasn't just another biopic—it was incredibly personal for a lot of you. So I'd love to ask... what was the hardest part?"

You took a quiet breath before answering.

"Hm..."

Your eyes briefly wandered upwards as though searching for the right words somewhere among the studio lights.

"I think..." you smiled thoughtfully, "...the emotional scenes."

Your voice remained soft enough that the audience naturally leaned in.

"You can rehearse crying."

You lightly shrugged.

"You can practise the dialogue. You can work out exactly where the camera is going to be, when you're supposed to breathe, when you're supposed to look away."

You paused.

"But that love.."

You glanced briefly towards one of the still photographs displayed behind the audience.

"...you can't really rehearse that kind of love."

The room became noticeably quieter.

"There were days where we'd finish a scene and..." you smiled sadly, "...nobody really wanted to say 'cut' had happened."

You looked down at your hands.

"The cameras would stop rolling. The crew would start quietly packing equipment away—some of them would be crying...and..."

You laughed gently through your nose.

"...sometimes nobody spoke for five or ten minutes."

Your fingers absent-mindedly intertwined.

"It felt wrong to immediately go back to normal."

The interviewer nodded slowly.

"Because these weren't fictional people."

"No."

You shook your head.

"They were real. They loved. They laughed. They made mistakes. They had children. They experienced joy. They experienced heartbreak."

Your smile softened.

"And every single morning we reminded ourselves...we're guests. We're stepping into lives that mattered. So we weren't trying to imitate them, we were trying to honour them."

A quiet wave of applause swept through the audience.

You looked down bashfully before smiling in appreciation.

Beside you, Jaafar nodded long before his microphone reached his mouth.

"I completely agree."

His voice carried a calm sincerity that immediately settled across the room.

"There were genuinely days where..." he paused, searching for the memory, "...I'd leave set and still be Michael for another hour."

He laughed quietly.

"Not intentionally. I'd just..."

He gestured vaguely with one hand.

"...still be thinking like him."

The interviewer tilted his head.

"What do you mean?"

Jaafar smiled.

"I spent so long asking myself...'What would Uncle Michael do?'"

The audience laughed as you smiled.

"'How would he respond?' 'Would he laugh here?' 'Would he stay quiet?'"

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees now.

"So after filming...I'd accidentally still be asking those questions."

The audience smiled.

"It became part of my day."

The interviewer grinned.

"And physically?"

Jaafar immediately laughed.

"Oh..."

He leaned back dramatically.

"My body hated me."

The audience erupted into laughter.

"I'm serious."

He lifted both hands.

"I don't think I've ever stretched that much in my life."

More laughter.

"I'd spend six hours dancing, then I'd go home. Then I'd watch rehearsal footage." He listed off on his fingers. "Then I'd watch concert footage, then I'd read, then I'd do vocal exercises, then I'd practice walking."

The interviewer blinked.

"...Walking?"

Jaafar nodded.

"Michael walked differently."

The audience chuckled.

"He'd stand so straight...the way he'd turn corners. The way he'd point. The way he'd reach for something."

He demonstrated one of Michael's delicate hand movements almost unconsciously before stopping halfway through and laughing.

"See? I still do it."

The audience applauded.

"There were mornings where I'd wake up and literally every muscle hurt."

He smiled.

"But honestly...I loved every second."

The interviewer turned towards you once more.

"And portraying Mrs. Jackson?"

You smiled almost immediately.

"I wanted to understand who she was when nobody was watching."

The audience listened carefully.

"We all know the headlines, famous appearances...but I wasn't interested in those." You sat up.

"I wanted to know...what made her laugh, what made her nervous. How she looked at Michael when there weren't cameras around."

You looked towards Jaafar, who was already listening intently.

"So I read everything I could. I listened to stories. I watched interviews. I tried to imagine what her everyday life might've looked like."

You smiled.

"And honestly..."

You glanced sideways again.

"Rehearsing with Jaafar made it easy."

His eyebrows lifted.

"Really?"

You nodded.

"Because..."

You laughed quietly.

"...It wasn't that hard to see how Mrs. Jackson fell for Michael."

The audience instantly reacted.

A chorus of excited squeals echoed around the theatre.

You froze.

Your eyes widened.

"Oh..."

Your hands immediately flew to your cheeks.

"I didn't mean..."

Laughter erupted.

"I mean..."

You laughed helplessly.

"I meant..."

You pointed vaguely at Jaafar without looking at him.

"...his performance."

"I meant how she fell for Michael—not me...."

The audience laughed even harder. Jaafar's ears had warmed at that.

He leaned into his microphone almost defensively. "I know exactly what she meant."

The interviewer immediately leaned forward. "Did you?"

The audience roared.

Jaafar laughed, rubbing both hands over his face.

"Yes." He smiled into his palms. "I know what she meant."

The interviewer looked unconvinced. "Hm."

More laughter. "You answered that awfully fast."

Jaafar looked down at his shoes, smiling to himself as he quietly muttered,

"...Because we've had this conversation before."

The audience practically exploded.

The interviewer took one long look at the pair of you before dramatically placing his cue cards against his knee with an exaggerated sigh, allowing the audience's laughter to settle naturally instead of rushing to the next question.

Every time the room grew quiet, someone else in the crowd would let out another little "aww," setting everyone off all over again.

You couldn't help hiding your smile behind your hand, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as you looked down at your lap, while beside you Jaafar sat with his lips pressed together, unsuccessfully trying to compose himself.

The corners of his mouth twitched every few seconds before another grin escaped, and he shook his head as if silently asking himself how the interview had somehow become this embarrassing less than twenty minutes in.

The interviewer pointed a finger between the two of you with a knowing smile. "Alright," he laughed. "Since we've established that the two of you apparently cannot compliment one another without blushing..." The audience erupted again. "...let's talk about the scene."

An audible wave of excitement rippled through the theatre.

Several people clapped before he had even finished speaking.

Someone from somewhere near the front excitedly shouted, "The balcony!"

The interviewer laughed. "Yes. The balcony."

Behind all three of you, the enormous LED screen slowly faded from the Michael logo into the now-iconic sequence that had dominated social media for weeks.

The audience immediately recognised it from the opening frame alone, cheering before Michael had even appeared on screen. You instinctively glanced upwards, already smiling in embarrassment, while Jaafar leaned back against the sofa cushions and covered his eyes for a brief second with one hand.

"Oh, no," he mumbled, already laughing.

The clip began.

Michael nervously walking beside Mrs. Jackson after spending the evening together. Neither of them saying very much, just comfortable silence after having a talk.

Michael hesitating. Looking down, looking back up.

She was starting to say her goodbye when suddenly she felt his fingers grabbing for her hand.

The tiniest brush of his fingertips against hers before fully intertwining them. The audience collectively sighed dreamily.

Then came the line that everyone somehow knew by heart.

"So..." Michael asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Um... would you... maybe want to see me again?"

Mrs. Jackson looked at him for only a heartbeat before breaking into the gentlest smile.

Instead of answering immediately—she stepped forward, and wrapped both arms around him.

Michael completely froze. His eyes widened just enough to betray genuine surprise before he slowly melted into the embrace, smiling against her shoulder with that unmistakably shy expression.

The audience had already started squealing. Then—Michael pulled back just enough to look at her, without thinking—he leaned forward.

Pressed a soft kiss against her cheek. His own eyes widened the second he realised what he'd done.

"Oh." A tiny, awkward smile.

One little wave. "O-Okay... bye."

Then he turned—And practically fled. Not jogged. Not briskly walked.

Ran.

Straight through the balcony doors. The audience burst into uncontrollable laughter before the clip had even finished.

The interviewer was laughing so hard he had to remove his glasses to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.

"I've watched that scene," he admitted between laughs, "probably thirty times."

More laughter.

"And every single time..." he pointed towards the screen behind him, "...that run gets funnier."

Jaafar dropped his head into his hands, smiling. "Oh, man..."

The interviewer turned back towards both of you. "So." He folded his cue cards together. "I think everyone wants to know...how much of that was actually scripted?"

Silence. You slowly turned your head towards Jaafar. Jaafar slowly turned his head towards you.

The moment your eyes met—Both of you immediately burst into helpless laughter.

The audience cheered. "There it is!" the interviewer exclaimed, pointing dramatically. "That look!"

Jaafar covered half his face. "I knew this question was coming."

"You did?" the interviewer asked.

"I was hoping maybe you'd forget."

"I absolutely wasn't going to forget." More laughter.

Jaafar sighed dramatically before sitting up straighter. "Okay..."

He rubbed his palms together. "So..."

He looked over at you for permission.

You nodded, already smiling.

"When I grabbed her hand..." He demonstrated the movement unconsciously, extending his own hand into the space between you before catching himself halfway and laughing. "...that wasn't scripted."

A collective gasp echoed around the studio. "We were supposed to stop about..." he gestured vaguely, "...here." He pointed towards the paused image on the monitor.

"And then the dialogue was supposed to continue. Instead...I just..." He shrugged sheepishly. "...reached for her hand."

The interviewer blinked. "You just... decided to?"

Jaafar nodded. "I don't know why—I wasn't planning it. It just felt..." He searched for the words. "...like something Michael would've done."

He looked towards you. "And thankfully..." He smiled. "...she didn't pull away."

The audience responded with another chorus of delighted squeals. You laughed softly. "I wasn't expecting it."

You looked down at your own hands as though remembering the moment. "I actually remember feeling his hand before I realised the cameras were still rolling."

You smiled. "And I remember thinking...'Oh...Michael finally got enough courage.'" The audience quietly melted.

"So..." you continued, "...Mrs. Jackson would've noticed."

The interviewer nodded slowly. "So the hug?"

You smiled. "Also wasn't scripted." The audience applauded.

"I just looked at him..."

You laughed to yourself.

"...and he genuinely looked terrified."

Everyone laughed.

"I thought...'There's no way she'd leave him standing there looking this nervous.' So...I hugged him."

You looked towards Jaafar again.

"I completely surprised him."

"Oh, absolutely," Jaafar laughed immediately.

"I had no idea she was about to hug me. I remember my brain completely shutting off."

The interviewer laughed. "So your reaction......was real?"

Jaafar nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. One hundred percent."

"I completely forgot there were cameras. I completely ignored Antoine. I completely forgot there were about a hundred crew members standing behind us."

The audience laughed. "It was just..." He smiled awkwardly. "...me being embarrassed."

The interviewer leaned forward. "And the kiss?"

The room instantly fell quiet again. Jaafar laughed once, then sighed. "I don't know."

The audience laughed.

"I'm serious." He shook his head. "I wish I had some kind of explanation—I don't. I just hugged her back..." He paused.

"...and then I looked at her. I thought..." He smiled to himself. "'Michael would probably kiss her cheek.' So...I did."

He looked down at his shoes. "And then about half a second later..."

His ears visibly reddened as everyone watched. "...I realised...'Jaafar, what have you done?'"

The audience exploded. "I panicked." He covered his face again."I literally panicked."

You were already laughing before he continued.

"I turned around...I walked through the balcony doors—I made it maybe three steps, and then I actually started running."

The interviewer was nearly crying with laughter again. "You genuinely ran?"

"I genuinely ran."

"Off the set?"

"Off the set."

"Past the crew?"

"Past everybody."

The audience laughed louder with every answer.

"I ran straight into my dressing room. I shut the door. I locked it. I sat on the floor."

The interviewer laughed. "Locked it?"

"I didn't want anybody coming in!"

More laughter.

"I remember somebody knocking." He mimicked the sound against the arm of the sofa.

"'Jaafar? Everything okay?'"

He buried his face in one hand. "And I yelled..." He laughed before finishing the sentence. "'I need five minutes!'"

The audience erupted into thunderous applause and laughter. You could barely breathe from laughing yourself.

"I remember wondering where he'd gone," you managed between giggles. "I thought maybe he'd forgotten one of his lines or maybe something technical had happened. So I walked over to one of the assistant directors and asked, 'Has anyone seen Jaafar?'"

You paused, already smiling.

"He didn't even look up from his clipboard."

The audience leaned in. "He just sighed..."

You lowered your voice to imitate him. "'He's hiding.'"

The studio exploded once more.

"I said, 'Hiding where?' And he goes..." You started laughing again before finishing. "'Dressing room.'"

"'Why?'"

"'Because you hugged him.'"

The laughter took several moments to die down, the audience still chuckling amongst themselves as Jaafar hid behind one hand, shaking his head with the kind of embarrassment that only made everyone adore him more.

You were wiping at the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard, taking a sip of water before setting the glass back down with a quiet breath.

The interviewer smiled at the pair of you for a long moment, allowing the atmosphere to settle naturally before his expression softened into something much more reflective.

"You know," he began quietly, resting his cue cards on his lap, "this film carries a different kind of weight for you, Jaafar."

The audience immediately grew still. He turned fully towards him. "You're not just portraying an icon." He paused.

"You're portraying your uncle."

Jaafar's smile gradually faded into something gentler. His fingers loosely wrapped around his microphone as he nodded once, his eyes dropping towards the floor for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. When he finally looked back up, there was a sincerity on his face that immediately changed the mood of the room.

"It was..." he exhaled softly. "...honestly, one of the most spiritual experiences of my life."

The room became silent enough that even the cameras moving around the stage could be heard.

"I don't really know how else to describe it." He smiled faintly.

"I spent almost every day asking myself what Uncle Michael would've done."

His thumb absent-mindedly traced circles around the microphone.

"I'd study concert footage until my eyes hurt. I'd practise dancing until my legs were shaking. I'd repeat little things over and over again—how he tilted his head, how he smiled when he was nervous, how he'd laugh when something genuinely caught him off guard."

He laughed quietly through his nose.

"There were nights I'd get home and my shoulders felt like they were on fire."

The audience smiled.

"But then I'd remember why I was doing it."

His expression softened.

"I read his handwritten notes, journals. I read little things he'd written down that weren't meant for cameras. I listened to people who knew him. And every single day before walking onto set..."

He paused.

"I'd tell myself...'Don't try to become Michael. Just understand him.'"

A ripple of applause spread through the set. Jaafar smiled gratefully before continuing.

"I wanted people to see the man behind the legend. The uncle I knew. The brother my family knew. The father his children knew. The husband my auntie knew."

He glanced towards you for only a brief moment before looking back to the interviewer. "And honestly..." He smiled. "...I just hoped he'd be proud."

The audience applauded much louder this time. Several people stood.

You quietly reached over without thinking, gently resting your hand against his forearm for a second.

He looked down at it, then at you.

You smiled. "I'm sure he is." You mouthed to him.

His eyes softened. "Thank you." He mouthed back.

The interviewer allowed the applause to fade before asking one final question.

"Was there ever a specific memory of your uncle that stayed with you throughout filming?"

Jaafar nodded almost immediately.

"There was."

He smiled to himself, as though watching the memory unfold somewhere only he could see.

"I kept remembering 2001. The 30th anniversary celebration of his career. I was still a kid. I remember standing backstage, I remember hearing everybody cheering. I remember watching Uncle Michael walk off stage."

His smile became impossibly fond. "And then...I watched him find Auntie..."

The audience smiled.

"He hugged her. They kissed. They laughed. They weren't performing for anyone. They were just..."

He searched for the word.

"...happy."

He chuckled softly. "I don't know why that memory kept coming back—I'd be filming a scene...and suddenly I'd remember seeing that as a little boy."

You had been listening intently. Your brows slowly knitted together.

"...Wait."

Jaafar turned towards you. "What?"

You blinked. "...I was there."

Silence.

The interviewer stared. "...You were what?"

You nodded, almost laughing in disbelief. "I was invited."

"There were a lot of children backstage. I remember because we were all lined up near the side of the stage waiting to meet everyone afterwards."

You looked towards Jaafar.

"I was watching the exact same moment."

He blinked. "No way."

"I swear." You said, putting a hand over your chest.

The audience immediately began murmuring amongst themselves. One of the producers behind the cameras suddenly lifted a finger. "Hang on."

Everyone looked towards him. He quickly disappeared behind the curtain.

The interviewer laughed. "I have absolutely no idea what's happening."

Neither did you.

About half a minute later, the producer hurried back onto the studio floor carrying a tablet, whispering something into the director's headset.

The interviewer's eyebrows shot upwards.

"...Apparently..." He laughed in disbelief. "...our team found archive footage."

The audience gasped as the enormous screen behind you slowly faded to grainy footage from 2001.

The date appeared briefly in one corner. "September 10, 2001." The audience applauded before the clip had even started.

Michael stood smiling beneath the stage lights and beside him stood Mrs. Jackson, both of them laughing together after the performance had ended.

The camera panned, children gathered behind them. Someone paused the footage.

"There," the producer called. The image zoomed in. A collective gasp swept through the whole set.

Little Jaafar. Standing quietly near one side of the stage.

Only a few feet away...

...was you.

Neither of you were looking at one another.

Neither of you even acknowledged the other's existence.

You were simply two children watching the same married couple embrace after an unforgettable performance, completely unaware that twenty-five years later you would be entrusted with telling their story together.

You covered your mouth with both hands. "Oh my goodness..."

Jaafar stared at the screen in complete disbelief. "...No."

He laughed quietly. "No way."

He stood up from the sofa almost instinctively, taking a few slow steps closer to the screen as if getting physically nearer would somehow make the footage easier to believe.

One hand rested on his hip while the other covered his mouth, his head shaking over and over in amazement. You stood beside him a second later, your eyes fixed on the paused image, unable to stop smiling.

"We were..." You laughed softly. "...right there."

He nodded. "We were literally standing beside each other."

The interviewer walked closer to the screen himself, looking from the footage to the two of you standing in front of it.

"I don't usually like throwing words like this around..."

He smiled. "But..." He pointed first at the image of the two children, then at the two of you standing before it. "...I don't know."

He laughed. "That feels like destiny."

The audience rose to its feet almost as one.

A standing ovation filled the studio.

Neither of you quite knew where to look. You looked at Jaafar. He happened to look at you at exactly the same moment. Both of you immediately looked away again.

The audience squealed so loudly that even the interviewer laughed. "Oh, come on." He shook his head. "You two really aren't helping yourselves."

You both laughed helplessly, cheeks flushed pink.

As everyone settled back into their seats, the interviewer smiled warmly, taking one final glance at his notes before folding them closed.

"I only have one last observation."

He looked between both of you with a grin that immediately made you suspicious.

"Oh, no," Jaafar laughed.

The audience giggled.

"I think everyone here..." The interviewer gestured around the audience. "...and everyone watching at home can agree that the chemistry between the two of you is extraordinary."

He shrugged innocently.

"On screen." He looked from you to Jaafar. "And, if I'm honest...off screen too."

The audience erupted into deafening cheers. Several people wolf-whistled.

Someone shouted, "Just kiss already!"

The entire set dissolved into laughter.

You immediately buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking as you laughed in complete embarrassment.

"Oh, my goodness..." You could barely get the words out.

Jaafar leaned back against the sofa, covering his face with both hands this time as he laughed so hard his microphone slipped slightly from his grasp.

"You guys are unbelievable," he said, his voice muffled behind his hands.

The interviewer only laughed harder. "So..." He pointed at the pair of you. "Anything you'd like to say?"

Jaafar slowly lowered his hands, revealing a face that had turned unmistakably red. He looked towards you for barely a second before instinctively looking away again, laughing under his breath.

"Um..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...thank you."

The audience cooed. You smiled shyly beside him, your own cheeks warm.

"Yeah..." You nodded. "Thank you."

Neither of you tried to explain yourselves.

Neither of you denied anything.

By the time the interview came to an end, clips were already spreading across the internet faster than anyone in the studio could have imagined.

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.

You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.

You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.

You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.

Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.

Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.

"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."

Bioweapon.

Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.

"Nothing concrete yet?" Price snaps incredulously. "Goddammit, Kate!"

"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.

"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."

Apparently?!

You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.

"That is correct, sir. She won't die."

Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.

"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."

A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.

"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.

"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.

When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.

It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.

And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.

What the hell is happening?

Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.

Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.

"What kind of bloody toxin?"

"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."

The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.

"The reports say it turns men—"

Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Turns them what, doc?"

It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."

The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.

"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."

Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.

Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.

"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.

"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"

Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.

Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"

A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.

"I feel weird."

You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.

Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.

Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.

"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.

Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.

The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.

You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.

And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.

Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.

"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.

In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.

Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.

"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.

Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.

"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.

"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."

Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.

It's his.

"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.

"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.

Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.

"Cap'n! What do we do?!"

You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.

Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.

Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.

All that matters is someone touching you.

Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.

"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."

"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.

"I'll call the senior consultant."

Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.

Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.

Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.

"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.

Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.

"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"

Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."

Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.

"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"

Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.

Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.

"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.

"She can't consent!"

It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.

"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"

John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.

"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."

His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.

"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.

He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.

"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."

Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."

"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.

"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.

"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."

The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.

Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.

"But sir—"

Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.

"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."

Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.

The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.

Not asked, ordered to.

He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.

He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.

This doesn't feel like any of those things.

He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.

"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.

"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.

Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.

This is not how he'd imagined it.

He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.

He hadn't planned any of that.

Fucking liar.

You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.

"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."

He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.

You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.

He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.

Upper receiver. Charging handle. Bolt carrier group.

You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.

Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.

"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.

Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.

You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.

Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—

"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.

"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.

He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.

His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.

You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—

No. He's not going there.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."

He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.

His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.

You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.

"M-more, Kyle, please!"

Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.

Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.

He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.

"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."

He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.

Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.

"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."

You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.

Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.

He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.

When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.

"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"

He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.

"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."

"Please—"

"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."

He drops to his knees instead.

The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.

The sound you make is devastating.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.

Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.

He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.

But he doesn't stop.

Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.

"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."

Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.

But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.

He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.

"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."

You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—

And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.

"Soap!"

The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.

Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.

"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"

Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."

"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.

"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.

"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.

Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.

"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."

Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.

Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.

He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.

Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.

There is no need to.

Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.

He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.

By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.

It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.

"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."

And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.

That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.

Christ, you're beautiful.

He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.

He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.

He's thought about it a lot.

But not like this.

"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.

Close enough.

"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."

He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.

He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.

"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."

He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.

Let them hear.

His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.

"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."

He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.

He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.

His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.

But he doesn't stop.

He is physically incapable.

You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.

"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"

He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.

The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"

"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"

He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.

Inside his combat pants.

His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.

"MacTavish."

Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.

Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."

"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.

"Get yourself sorted. Now."

Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.

"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.

"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.

You don't notice the shift at first.

One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.

You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.

A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.

"Don't."

One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.

Ghost.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.

Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.

You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.

He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.

Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.

"Simon…"

His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.

"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.

"Don't want—"

"Wasn't bloody askin’."

He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.

Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.

Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.

Trust.

You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.

Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.

"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.

You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.

"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.

You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.

You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.

"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."

"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.

He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.

You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.

Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.

Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.

But.

His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.

Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.

You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.

"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.

"Yeah."

"It hurts."

He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.

He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.

Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.

Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.

Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.

It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.

So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.

You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.

He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.

Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.

Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.

In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.

"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."

Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.

"It's not enough, is it."

It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.

"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."

The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.

"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.

"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.

"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."

He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.

"And we tell Ghost."

Ghost doesn't agree.

He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.

And then: "No."

Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"

"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."

Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.

Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.

"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."

No one dares to argue.

Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.

The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.

You look small.

That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.

You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.

But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.

He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.

"Sergeant."

You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.

"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"

"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."

He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.

You'll keep hurting. Under his command.

He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.

"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."

His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.

This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.

He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.

This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.

He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.

"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."

He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.

Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.

You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.

It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.

Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.

He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.

Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.

He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.

"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.

"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."

You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.

He lowers you onto him slowly.

The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.

You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.

Almost.

He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.

And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.

He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.

Hates that he doesn't want to stop.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"

His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.

You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.

For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.

Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."

You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.

Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

"Garrick. You're up."

Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.

Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.

The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.

Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.

He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.

"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."

He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.

He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.

"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"

The condoms run out after Soap's first round.

Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.

"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."

Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.

"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."

It should be simple, and it’s anything but.

Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.

"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"

He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.

Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.

"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."

"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."

And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.

Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.

The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.

The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.

You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.

Ghost enters the room without being asked.

He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.

He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.

He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.

You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.

You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.

"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."

Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.

In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.

Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.

How is she?

He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.

Handled. Debrief in the morning.

He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.

Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.

The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.

The third thing is the balaclava.

You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.

Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.

You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.

The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.

And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.

Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.

The shower. The water. Voices.

John.

Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.

You lie very still.

The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.

You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.

Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.

"How do you feel?"

You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.

"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."

His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.

Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.

You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.

“It says to curl your fingers until you feel something spongey like.” Jungkook reads from the glowing device in the low lit dorm.

Your back is pressed to his chest, slumped slightly as he cups the underside of your caramel thigh. Practically sandwiching you in place between the bodies of your two best friends.

Jimin follows the instructions.

His fingers curling inside your drenched, velvety cunt. The both of them mesmerized as your syrupy wetness seeps out the deep pink of your inner flesh, coating Jimin’s pale fingers.

You whine around your panties stuffed in your mouth, feeling shy by your exposed position.

If you would have known the night was going to play out this way you would have shaved, slightly insecure of the bush sitting atop your mound. But Jungkook, nor Jimin, seem phased by the coarse, dark curls decorating your pussy.

Both clouded by lust, eager to bring you to climax.

“[+], be quiet,” Jungkook snaps, angling the phone closer toward Jimin so that he can read the instructions for himself. “Or I’ll stuff your mouth with something else. Jimin needs to focus.”

Jimin’s finger curl deeper inside you, causing your head to lull back in pleasure.

This is so wrong…but it feels so right.

The three of you were supposed to be studying. Exams are less than twenty-four hours away and you all had an Organic Chem midterm that could quite literally make or break your grade.

But of course, the two men had to get distracted. Jungkook jumping down a rabbit hole on the “harrowing” (in his words) statistics of female ejaculation.

The both of them completely surprised at the low demographic of women that can actually squirt.

And when you revealed how that statistic rang true for you as well, their interest in studying went completely out the window.

You’ve convinced yourself it’s the three hours of sleep you’re running on that got you in this predicament. Your critical thinking skills shot to shit.

But even on a good day, with eight full hours of sleep, there was no going back and forth with two regional debate team champions.

So, eager to shut them the fuck up and get back to studying, you caved.

But it appears your decision could potentially have detrimental consequences to your sheets.

Jimin’s pace is slow, clumsy at first as his fingers thrust into you. His middle and ring gradually sinking deeper, knuckle by knuckle, until they’re snug in your warmth.

Forced to watch, you fidget against Jungkook’s chest as Jimin’s digits collect a creamy ring of your arousal. The lewd, sticky smack of your unison raising hair bumps on your skin.

“Fuck, she’s fucking drenched already Kook,” Jimin preens thrusting his fingers inside you faster now, his confidence building as your body positively responds to his undoing.

His fingers make a “V” inside you, stretching you out before they come together, curling slightly as they brush the spot that has your spine liquifying.

You’d be outright lying to deny it feels good.

It feels beyond good.

It is euphoric.

Like all the stress and tension that coiled itself up tight in your body is finally unraveling in the most sinful way possible.

Jimin adds a third digit and you can’t help the loud whine that spills from around your gag. Nails digging crescent moons into Jungkook’s muscular thighs as you struggle to stay still.

While Jimin’s fingers may be short, it doesn’t take them long at all to find your g-spot. The heightened sensation completely foreign to you as your previous partners didn’t care in the slightest about your pleasure.

A pressure like never before begins to build at your pelvis. So consuming you can’t even keep still. Toes curling up, vision dotting as your body writhes in pleasure.

Jungkook plants a reassuring kiss against the side of your head, whispering lowly, “Don’t fight it pretty.”

He pulls your sodden panties out of your mouth, flinging the lace lazily somewhere in the dorm as he mumbles about wanting to hear you.

You tremble desperately in Jungkook’s hold. Jimin flat out finger fucking you now. Drilling his digits into your sopping wet pussy.

The sounds are almost pornographic. Your moans mixing with Jungkook’s heavy breathing, Jimin’s groans, and the repetitive squelch of his fingers inside.

It’s becoming too much.

“Jimin wait—“ you choke. A lone, fat tear breaking free. You could feel the pressure building inside you. The need to release so pressing you can’t help but cry out.

But your tears only turn them on further.

Jungkook reaches down to thumb at your clit, the action sending you over the edge as your body goes lax, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

“Fuck! I think it’s happening. She’s wet as shit down here,” Jimin beams, his fingers practically forced out by a large spray of your arousal, so intense your body convulses as you moan.

Your hips seize up, bucking to a stop as clear liquid gushes out of your urethra. The sensation stunting you from processing anything other than the pure intensity of your orgasm.

It feels never ending.

Completely soaking the bedding beneath you, Jimin’s shirt, and Jungkook’s hand. Which has never left the sensitive nub of your clit, rubbing you into overstimulation.

Jimin flicks his tongue out like a filthy fuck, catching the tail end of your orgasm. And temporarily paralyzed, you watch him slurp greedily at your pussy, eyes locked on your own. Filled with mischief.

You sob against Jungkook’s chest as you grow sensitive. Flinching at every swivel of his finger against your clit until he slows to a stop. Your back vibrates as he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he showers you in praises.

“That was hot as shit,” Jimin barks out, rising up to plant a fat kiss on your lips.

For it to be the first time you’ve ever kissed, he does it so casually, plush lips moving against yours briefly, before he pulls back to stare at you.

“You good, [+]? Happy to no longer be a statistic?” Jimin asks playfully.

To weak to form a response you glare at him, thighs still trembling slightly.

Jungkook, brushes your hair from your face, leaning over you to kiss your forehead.

“Oh, don’t give him that face,” Jungkook teases. “You needed a break from the textbook, [+]. We were seconds away from seeing your brain jump out of your skull.”

Jimin laughs at that, hopping off the bed to peel off his ruined shirt before disappearing down the hall, the sound of the shower cuts on seconds later. Jungkook helps you sit up, rubbing your back soothingly to ease the lingering tremors.

“You’re going to do fine tomorrow, [+]. We all are,” he says, gently grabbing your chin to turn you toward him, his large eyes wickedly sincere. “And hey, really you should be happy. We just unlocked a new way to celebrate once we get our test scores back.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows wiggle teasingly, and you weakly nudge his chest. The half-hearted push only makes him laugh harder, the sound deep and vibrating against your skin before he leans down to press a quick, tender peck to your lips.

When he stands, the sudden absence of his warmth leaves you shivering slightly against the damp sheets. Watching him step away, a strange weight suddenly settles in your chest.

You’d known these boys for years, shared endless late-night study sessions and bad dining hall food, but the air in the room felt entirely different now. The invisible line you’d all spent semesters dancing around hadn't just been crossed.

It had been completely obliterated.

And looking at the easy, familiar smile still plastered on his face, you realize there is absolutely no going back to how things used to be.

Jungkook offers you a hand.

It was 6:15 AM, the sun barely cutting through the thick morning fog over the bleachers, but you were already on your third lap, spikes digging into lane one, breathing locked into that rhythmic click clack you’d perfected since high school.

You were the star of the women’s 200m and 400m sprint squad. Three time conference champion, national qualifier, and the queen of the athletic department. Coaches used your tape to teach freshmen how to drive out of the blocks. The girls on the team walked around you like you were made of glass and lightning. You had the endorsements, the crisp uniform, the slicked back edges, and an undefeated record that stretched back twenty two months.

Until Randy Jackson Jr. transferred in.

He wasn't even supposed to be a threat to your peace. He was on the men’s 400m hurdles and relay squad- a tall, golden skinned motherfucker with dark brown eyes, a sharp jawline, and these thick, ridiculously bushy eyebrows that framed a face that looked like it belonged on a 90s rnb album cover. He was soft spoken. He smiled at the lunch ladies. He held the gym doors open for the athletic trainers. Everyone on the team loved him. Coach Miller practically drooled over his stride length.

"He's just so polite," your roommate, your girl, and fellow sprinter, Maya, had gushed during week two of fall training. "And he's so fine, girl. Like...respectfully fine."

Respectfully my entire ass.

Nobody saw what happened when the crowd cleared out. Nobody saw the slick, psychological warfare he waged the second the locker room doors swung shut or when you two were left alone waiting for the athletic bus.

To the public, Randy was the golden boy. To you? He was a localized, concentrated nightmare designed specifically to test your sanity.

It started at the mid season intra squad scrimmage. You had just run a season best 22.84 in the 200m, cooling down near the high jump mats, taking slow gulps from your water bottle while the rest of the team clapped.

Randy had walked over, towel draped over his broad shoulders, sweat glistening on his collarbones. He offered a warm, blindingly white smile, bowing his head slightly as Coach Miller passed by.

"Great run, man," Coach had yelled out, patting Randy’s back. "Look at her form! That's what I want from you on the curve!"

"Yes sir, Coach," Randy had said, his voice smooth, warm, and modest. "She’s incredible. I’m just trying to get on her level."

Coach walked away, beaming.

The second Miller was out of earshot, Randy’s smile didn't drop, but the warmth completely evaporated from his eyes. He stepped closer, leaning down under the guise of grabbing his track bag from the bench right beside yours. His shoulder brushed yours, all hot and heavy.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, raspy whisper that barely registered over the sound of the stadium speakers. "Breathing all heavy. Pussy probably throbbing right through them tight ass spandex."

Your jaw locked. You snapped your head around to glare at him, your blood boiling instantly. "Excuse me?"

Randy straightened up instantly, his face a picture of wholesome concern, his thick, bushy eyebrows pulling together like he was deeply worried about your health.

"Whoa, you okay?" he said, loud enough for two girls on the distance team to turn around and look. "I just asked if you needed some ice for your shins. You look a little hot."

The distance girls frowned at you, like you were the bitch for snapping at the team sweetheart.

"Don't do that," you gritted out between your teeth, stepping into his personal space, pointing a manicured finger right at his chest. "Don't fucking play with me, Randy."

Randy held his hands up in gentle surrender, offering a warm, apologetic laugh to the onlookers. "My bad! My bad, boss lady. Just trying to be helpful." But as he bent back down to pick up his bag, his face dipped near your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of peppermint and a little bit of weed. "You look real pretty when you look like you wanna kill me," he breathed, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. "Makes me wanna take you behind the bleachers, throw that little leg over my shoulder, and fuck that cocky attitude right out of you."

Before you could smack the shit out of him, he straightened up, gave you a soft wave, and jogged off toward the weight room like he was a goddamn saint.

It had been like that for three straight months. A slow descent into madness. In front of the team, he was the humble transfer who constantly praised your times. Alone? He was a filthy mouthed menace who seemed to know exactly which words made your pulse race, your jaw tighten, and your pussy react in ways that made you hate yourself every time you showered.

He was fucking with your head. He’d stare at your ass while you got into your starting blocks, making a faint clicking sound with his tongue that only you could hear. He’d leave little anonymous notes in your locker with foul, explicit descriptions of what he wanted to do to you, only to walk by ten minutes later asking if you wanted him to save you a seat at the dining hall.

You hated him. You hated his stride, you hated his polite lil "Yes, ma'am" to the women coaches, and you especially hated those thick ass bushy eyebrows that twitched every time he said something that made your throat go dry.

By the time the conference championship meet rolled around in Atlanta, you were a ticking time bomb.

The team was put up at an old, sprawling Marriott near the track complex. The carpets were faded floral patterns, the hallway lights flickered with a faint, low hum, and the air conditioning in the rooms smelled vaguely of stale ice and bleach.

It was 11:45 PM. Curfew had been enforced by Coach Miller at 10:00 PM flat; anyone caught in the hallways or in the opposite sex’s room was getting pulled from the meet, no questions asked.

You were sprawled across your queen bed in Room 412, wearing a tiny grey sports bra and a pair of black cotton boy shorts, staring at the textured ceiling. Maya was already fast asleep on the other bed, snoring softly, her face buried in a pillow.

Your stomach growled. You hadn't eaten since 6:00 PM, a tiny bowl of grilled chicken and brown rice, and your brain was hyperactive, buzzing with pre meet nerves and frustration.

You needed a bag of chippssuhh and a sweet tea from the vending machine on the third floor.

Sliding out of bed, you pulled a grey hoodie over your top, leaving it unzipped over your shorts, slipped your feet into a pair of slides, and grabbed your room key card.

The fourth floor hallway was quiet, lit by pale bulbs overhead. You walked down the carpeted corridor toward the elevator, your slides squeaking softly against the floor.

When you reached the third floor, you padded down the hall toward the recessed alcove where the ice and vending machines sat.

As you turned the corner, you froze.

Leaning against the glass of the snack machine, holding a bag of peanut m&ms, was Randy.

Because of course it was.

He was wearing a pair of low slung dark grey sweatpants, so low you could see the dark waistband of his boxers and the sharp, v line of his hips, and a tight white sleeveless compression shirt that hugged every ridge of his chest and abs. He had a pair of bulky headphones resting around his neck, his dark curls slightly messy from bed.

He looked up when he heard your slides.

That stupid, infuriating smile spread slowly across his face, his thick eyebrows lifting in mock surprise.

"Well, well, well," he murmured, his voice sounding like warm honey poured over gravel in the quiet hallway. "Look who’s breaking curfew. Coach catch you out here, he’s gonna make you run 800s until you throw up."

"Shut the fuck up, Randy," you hissed, walking past him to grab the edge of the soda machine. "I’m getting a drink."

"Why you always so mean?" He stepped closer, sliding his hands deep into the pockets of his sweats. The heavy scent of him filled the tiny alcove instantly. "I'm just standing here, minding my business, watching the track star sneak around in her little panties."

Your eyes snapped up to his. "They're shorts."

"They look like panties to me," he countered softly, his gaze dropping slowly down the front of your open hoodie, lingering on the curve of your waist, the smooth brown skin of your thighs, before dragging back up to your face. "Cute ones, too. You wear those so it's easier for me to get inside them?"

Your chest heaved. "You are literally the most disgusting person I have ever met."

"And you’re a terrible liar," he whispered, stepping even closer until the toe of his slide bumped yours. "You’ve been looking at me all day. On the bus. During walk throughs. You look like you wanna eat me alive."

"I want to break your jaw," you gritted out, slamming a dollar bill into the coin slot of the drink machine. It spat the bill right back out. You cursed under your breath, flattening the dollar against your thigh, and shoved it back in. It spat it out again.

Randy let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Machine knows a bad girl when it sees one."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp dollar bill, and reached right over your shoulder to slide it into the slot. His chest pressed against your back for a split second, all broad, and heavy, and hot. The smell of him flooded your nose, making your stomach drop through the floor.

The machine accepted his dollar with a loud mechanical groan. He pressed the button for sweet tea, the bottle dropping into the plastic slot with a heavy clunk.

"There you go, boss lady," he murmured, his mouth hovering right near the top of your ear. "Saved your life again."

You didn't reach down for the bottle. You turned around inside the tight space between him and the machine, trapping yourself against the plastic glass, looking up into his face.

"You think you're so slick," you rasped, your voice shaking slightly from the overload of anger and adrenaline. "You act like a goddamn puppy in front of Coach, and then you come around me talking like a dirty ass dog."

Randy’s eyes darkened. His playful smirk fading, replaced by that heavy, dangerous focus that always made your knees feel weak. He didn't step back. He leaned down, placing one big hand on the soda machine right beside your head, blocking you in.

"I talk to you like that because you're the only one here who actually wants it raw," he whispered, his thumb coming up to lightly trace the edge of your jaw. "All them other girls want polite. You? You want somebody to put their hands on you. You want somebody to ruin your little perfect reputation."

"I hate you," you breathed, staring directly into his dark brown eyes, watching those bushy eyebrows pull down into a sharp angle.

"No you don't," Randy said, his hand moving from your jaw down to your neck, his fingers resting lightly against your pulse point, feeling the rapid rhythm beneath your skin. "Room 314. Marcus and Trey are knocked out cold on melatonin and NyQuil. They wouldn't wake up if a bomb went off."

You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a caged beast. "You think I'm going to your room?"

"I know you are," he murmured, his thumb pressing just hard enough against your neck to make you swallow. "Or you can go back upstairs and keep staring at the ceiling, thinking about my mouth on you while you touch yourself under them sheets."

He pulled his hand away, bent down, grabbed the sweet tea from the plastic bin, and tossed it to you. You caught it against your chest.

Without another word, Randy turned around and walked down the hallway toward Room 314, leaving the door unlatched just an inch behind him.

You stood in the hallway for thirty seconds.

You told yourself to go upstairs. You told yourself that this was career suicide, that if Coach found out you were in Randy’s room at midnight before the biggest meet of the spring season, you’d be stripped of your captaincy, suspended from the team, and thrown off scholarship. You told yourself that Randy Jackson Jr. was an arrogant, manipulative prick who was trying to break your mental focus so he could be the sole star of the program.

And then you walked straight down the hallway and pushed open the door to Room 314.

The room was pitch black, save for the faint orange glow of the city streetlights bleeding through the heavy sheer curtains. On the left side of the room, two huge lumps under the blankets; Marcus, the team’s top long jumper, and Trey, the hurdles captain, were snoring in heavy, synchronized rhythms, completely knocked out.

To the right, Randy was sitting on the edge of the second queen bed, his dark silhouette illuminated by the streetlight glow. He had his hands on his knees, watching the door close behind you.

The lock clicked shut with a small sound.

"Look at that," Randy whispered, his voice cut with a low edge that made the little hairs on your arms stand up. "The little track star couldn't resist."

You didn't say a fucking word.

The months of subtle insults, the filthy whispers near the starting blocks, the slick comments, the constant mind games; it all rushed to the surface in a single, burning wave of rage…and desire.

You dropped the sweet tea onto the carpet, crossed the small room in three fast strides, and before he could even stand up to greet you, you raised your right hand and slapped him across the face.

The crack echoed through the room. Marcus snored heavily on the other bed, shifting slightly, but stayed completely under.

Randy’s head snapped to the left, the room going dead silent.

Slowly, Randy turned his face back toward you. A dark grin spread across his features, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek where your hand had landed.

"Oh," he breathed, his eyes flashing with something mean and completely unhinged. "So that's how we doing this?"

Before you could step back, Randy’s arm shot out like a whip. His big, heavy hand collided with your cheek in a sharp, blinding slap that sent a jolt of heat straight down your neck.

Your head snapped to the side, your jaw aching, vision swimming with tiny silver sparks for a fraction of a second.

"Bitch," you hissed through your teeth, lunging at him.

You grabbed him by the throat with both hands, your manicured nails digging into the tough muscle of his neck, shoving him backward onto the bed. Randy let out a rough, breathy grunt as his back hit the mattress, his hands immediately coming up to wrap around your throat, his long fingers squeezing with terrifying pressure.

You were both gasping, eyes locked in the dark, choking each other out on top of a creaky hotel mattress while two of your teammates slept five feet away.

His grip was like iron. He squeezed just hard enough to make your throat construct, cutting your breath down to a tiny, ragged whistle. You squeezed back with everything you had, digging your thumbs into his airway, trying to crush him, trying to make him hurt, trying to rip that arrogant smirk off his handsome fucking face.

Randy’s dark eyes narrowed, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in focus. He rolled his hips up, before slamming his other hand flat against your chest, shoving you down until you were straddling his lap, forced onto his thighs.

"You like that, huh?" Randy rasped, his voice barely a choke as your fingers stayed locked on his throat. "You wanna choke me out, little girl?"

"I want you...to die," you gasped out, your face hot, blood rushing to your ears as his fingers tightened on your neck.

Randy let out an uneven laugh. He released your neck with one hand, grabbed your hair at the nape of your neck, and yanked your head back, forcing your face up toward the ceiling.

"Look at you," he commanded softly, his voice a filthy, velvet threat. "Grinding on me while you strangle me, you crazy ass bitch."

You dragged your eyes down to look at him. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his tight compression shirt, his mouth open, his throat red under your fingers. But his eyes, his fucking eyes were filled with a possessive hunger that made your stomach twist into tight, delicious knots.

You loosened your grip on his neck, sliding your hands down to his broad shoulders, breathing in ragged, heavy lungfuls of air.

Randy didn't let go of your neck. He kept his large palm cupped around your throat, his thumb resting right under your jawline, feeling the beat of your pulse.

"That's it," he whispered, his thumb pressing in lightly, reminding you who held the power. "Be good. You wanna ride this dick or you wanna keep fighting me?"

"Fuck you," you whispered, your lips brushing against his jaw.

"You about to," he smirked.

Without waiting for him, you reached down between your bodies, grabbing the hem of his tight compression shirt, dragging it up over his broad chest and pulling it off his arms, forcing him to release your neck, tossing it onto the floor. His bare skin was smooth, and warm, and mapped with hard muscle, sweat glistening over his collarbones.

Randy’s hands immediately went to your waist, his long fingers digging into the soft flesh above your shorts, dragging you forward until your clothed pussy was pressed against the bulge sleeping inside his sweatpants.

You gasped at the size of him; he was thick, and heavy, and completely rock hard, pressing right against your wet cunt through the thin cotton of your shorts.

"Damn," Randy groaned, his head falling back against the pillow as you rolled your hips against him once, testing the weight. "Sitting on my dick while my boys are asleep...you really are a dirty little freak, ain't you?"

"Shut the fuck up, Randy," you rasped, shrugging off your hoodie, dropping it onto the floor beside his shirt, leaving you in just your sports bra and shorts.

Randy’s eyes locked onto your chest, his hands sliding up your ribs, his thumbs tracing the underside of your sports bra before fully cupping both mounds, squeezing your breasts firmly through the fabric.

"Take 'em off," he commanded softly, "I wanna see everything."

You huffed, rolling your eyes before rolling off of him.

You reached down, hooking your fingers into the waistband of your black shorts and your panties, dragging them down your legs in one smooth motion, kicking them off the edge of the bed. You sat back up, completely bare from the waist down, straddling his waist in the dark.

Randy sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

His hands moved instantly, spreading your thighs wider, his long fingers sliding right up your wet inner skin until his thumb hit your slick, swollen center. He pressed down, rubbing a slow, heavy circle right over your clit.

You bit your bottom lip so hard you almost drew blood, a broken, high pitched whimper escaping your throat.

"Shhh," Randy hissed, his eyes flicking over toward Marcus’s bed. "Keep it quiet, baby. Unless you want them to wake up and see how wet you are for the guy you hate so much."

"Randy..." you warned, your back arching as his thumb kept working you, slick sounds filling the tiny space between your hips.

"Look at this," he whispered, bringing his hand up between your faces, showing you his long fingers glistening wet in the dim light. "Look how soaked you are. You was thinking about this all day, wasn't you? Sitting in them meetings, listening to Coach talk, just waiting to get my dick inside you."

“No.” You replied with a scowl, slapping his hand away.

He shook his head, “You’re such a liar, sweetheart.”

He reached down with his other hand, shoving his dark grey sweatpants and boxers down to his thighs, letting his thick thang spring free.

He was massive and veiny, and hot, and heavy, his pretty tip glistening with pre cum.

You stared down at him, licking your lips. Every instinct you had as an athlete, as a competitive, proud black woman, told you that giving in to this man was surrender. But as he grabbed your hip with one hand and guided his thick head right against the soaking entrance of your pussy, your body made the choice for you.

You lifted yourself up slightly, guiding his dick in.

Randy’s eyes locked onto yours, his bushy eyebrows twitching as he raised his hips, driving himself up into you as you slid down.

"Fuck- !" Randy grunted, his jaw locking hard as your tight, hot walls stretched completely around his thick head, swallowing him down to the middle in one agonizingly slow, deep stroke.

Your head fell back, a choked, silent scream tearing from your throat as he filled you so deeply you felt the pressure right in the center of your gut. Your pussy gripped him like a vice, pulsing furiously around him, completely overwhelmed by the size and warmth of him.

"Goddamn," Randy rasped, his hands digging into your ass, holding you pinned down on his dick, his chest heaving. "You...you feel so fuckin' tight...jesus christ..."

"Don't...don't talk," you whispered, tears of pleasure stinging the corners of your eyes as you began to lift your hips, sliding up his shaft before sliding back down, taking every inch.

Randy’s hands clamped down on your hips like steel bands, controlling your rhythm, pulling you down hard against his pelvis with a wet, heavy slap of skin against skin.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sound was filthy in the quiet hotel room. You clamped a hand over your own mouth, biting your skin, your hips rolling in tight, frantic motions while Randy thrust upward to meet you, his long stroke hitting that sweet, deep spot inside you over and over again.

"Yeah," Randy groaned in a harsh whisper, his eyes wild as he stared up at you. "Ride it. Ride this dick, you cocky ass bitch. Show me how fast you can go."

You leaned forward, clenching your jaw and biting your tongue so you wouldn’t make a sound as you placed your hands flat against his broad chest, your nails digging into his skin as you picked up the pace, bouncing on him with reckless, desperate energy. Every time you dropped down, his dick hit your cervix, sending waves of pleasure shooting straight up your spine, making your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

Randy reached up, his big hand wrapping around the front of your throat again, squeezing firmly, pulling your face down until your mouth was inches from his.

"You like this?" he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "You like getting fucked by the guy who takes all your shine?"

"Shut up– unh– shut up, Randy!" you whimpered against his mouth, your hips going down faster, your body completely consumed by the overwhelming friction.

"Say it," he commanded, his hand tightening on your neck, cutting off your air just enough to send your nervous system into overdrive. "Say you love my dick."

"Fuck you–"

"Say it," he rasped, his hips bucking up violently, driving himself into you so hard the bed frame gave a low, dangerous squeak.

“No–”

On the other side of the room, Trey shifted under his covers, letting out a loud, grumbling groan in his sleep, turning over onto his stomach.

You froze, your entire body going rigid, your chest heaving, Randy’s thick dick buried deep inside you, pulsing against your wet walls making you clench around him.

Randy didn't move a muscle. He stared up at you, his hand still on your throat, a smirk slowly spreading across his face in the dark. He bent his head up, his tongue dragging slowly over your bottom lip, bringing your attention back to him.

"Don't stop now, boss lady. If you don’t keep going, I’m gonna yell…" he breathed against your mouth, his voice a ghost of a whisper. "You wanna wake them up? You want them to see you taking all this dick?"

You bit your lip so hard you felt the tang of copper on your tongue. The thrill of the danger, the risk of getting caught, the filth of his mouth, the feeling of him stretched so thick inside you, shattered whatever sanity you had left.

You began to move again.

Slower this time. Those torturous rolls of your hips that made Randy’s eyes roll back into his head, a low moan escaping his throat that he had to bury by biting down hard on your shoulder.

His teeth sank into your skin, hard enough to leave a deep, bruised mark before he licked and sucked over the ruined skin, his hands grabbing your ass cheeks, pulling you down into the hardest, deepest thrusts yet.

"Ah...fuck, girl..." Randy rasped, his composure completely dissolving, his fuckass persona cracking under the heat of your pussy. "You...you gripping me so tight...shit..."

Your walls were spasming violently around him, contracting in fast waves as your climax approached. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hear anything over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears and the wet, filthy, squelching sounds of your pussy taking his long ass dick.

Randy felt it coming. He grabbed your waist, flipping you off him in one fast movement, throwing your back flat onto the mattress.

Before you could even process the shift, Randy was over you, hovering like a shadow, his dark face inches from yours. He grabbed your left leg, slinging your long, toned thigh right over his shoulder, opening you up completely to the room.

"Look at me," he gritted out, his voice thick and ruined.

The command forced your eyes to his, you blinked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He lined himself up and slammed back into you with a brutal thrust that made your back arch completely off the bed.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

He fucked you like he was trying to erase your name from the record books. Them deep, relentless strokes that knocked the air from your lungs every single time his hips met yours. His big hand slammed down over your mouth, muffling the high, broken cries that were tearing from your throat, while his other hand gripped your waist, leaving red prints in your skin.

"Take it," he said into your ear. "Take every inch of this dick."

Your eyes rolled back as the orgasm tore through you. It wasn't soft nor was it sweet, it was violent, it made your legs shake, your toes curl, and your pussy clamp down on his dick with crushing force. You bit down hard on his hand covering your mouth, tears streaming down your cheeks from the intensity of it.

Randy let out a low groan into your neck, his body going rigid as his own climax hit him. He shoved himself as deep as he could go, burying his tip right against your cervix, his hips shuddering as he filled your wet, contracting hole with spurt after spurt of his nut.

The heavy, ragged sound of two elite athletes trying to catch their breath in the dark filled the room; other than that, the room was dead silent.

Randy collapsed over you, his heavy, sweaty chest pressing you deep into the mattress, his head buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your ribs, all fast and frantic, matching your own pulse.

For two full minutes, neither of you moved.

The smell of sex, and sweat hung thick in the air between you.

Randy slowly lifted his head. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving a little. His eyebrows were slightly relaxed, his eyes looking down at you in a strange way that made your stomach flutter, in a way that scared you far more than his dirty talk ever did.

He didn't make a slick joke and he didn't smirk.

He reached up, his long, calloused fingers gently pushing a curl away from your face, his thumb softly tracing the swollen line of your bottom lip.

"You good?" he whispered, his voice surprisingly soft, and surprisingly sweet.

You stared up at him as though he were crazy, your chest still rising and falling fast, feeling his thick, softening dick still resting inside you.

You hated him. You hated how good he felt. You hated that he had shattered your armor in less than an hour.

Your palms slammed against his broad, sweaty shoulders, the sudden force catching Randy off guard just enough for his weight to shift. His dick dragged out of you with a wet, heavy slide that made your pussy twitch, his nut immediately spilling out over your inner thighs in a humiliating stream.

"Get the fuck off me," you snapped, your raspy voice a furious whisper in the dark.

Randy stumbled back onto his side, his eyes wide for a fraction of a second, his eyebrows pulling together as he watched you scramble off the edge of the mattress.

You didn't look at him. Your hands were literally shaking as you snatched your shorts and panties off the carpet, dragging them up your legs with zero grace. You grabbed your hoodie, shoving your arms through the sleeves, yanking the zipper up to your throat like armor.

"Look at you," Randy murmured from the bed, his voice dropping right back into that arrogant tone. He sat up slow, completely unbothered by his own nakedness, leaning his elbows on his knees as he watched you shove your feet into your slides. "Look how fast you running now. You wasn't moving that fast when you was choking me out."

"Shut the fuck up, Randy," you gritted out, snatching your sweet tea off the floor.

"You leaving my nut inside you, boss lady?" he whispered, a smirk spreading across his face as he gestured down at your legs. "That shit gonna leak all the way up to the fourth floor."

You glared at him with, your chest heaving under the heavy cotton of your hoodie. You didn't give him the satisfaction of another word. You turned on your heel, unlocked the door as quietly as your trembling fingers would allow, and slipped out into the hallway, the latch clicking shut behind you.

You walked back to Room 412 like a ghost, your thighs slick and aching, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard you felt it in your teeth.